Now that is the sort of happiness one would expect from a proper Englishman, in Scott's Hut, during one of the seemingly unending long nights at the Pole.A happiness of fierce determination and frigid resolve.I'd place the moment just after the last leftovers of the ponies had been consumed and there was little left to look forward to but more of the same, to be followed inevitably by less and less of the same, there in the terrible eternal shadow of Mount Erebus.Still one never loses hope for that final fragile touch of human warmth, that frostbitten stranger's chapped paw withdrawn from the fur mitten and extended tentatively through the frozen mists toward one -- even if meant for another, there in that awful obscurity -- still. "Titus Oates, I presume?"
Ah, the blessed relief: stumbling around in the blizzard of the blog trying to find my trusty briar when I found your missive in the ice. Thank you for reaching through the mists - I can go out now. But I might be some time.