Pondering Longwood’s grandeur

TODAY marks the anniversary of Napoleon Bonaparte’s death on the remote British-held island of St Helena in 1821. I feel a connection with the historical event because I visited St Helena on the yacht Imberhorne back in 1983 and spent a day at the house, Longwood, that was Napoleon’s prison and the place where he died – some claim he died of grief, some say he was poisoned.

One can’t help feeling sad at Longwood. There’s a little path that leads to the clifftop and apparently Napoleon used to walk along it every day and stare wistfully out to sea, possibly watching for a rescue attempt. He wasn’t treated very well by his British captors and missed the three things he loved best, France, power and his empress Josephine.

It is said that the last word he uttered before he died was “Josephine”. It is also on record that on his deathbed he called for a bottle of “sweet wine of Constantia”, so that’s another reason to feel connected to the place. I have sometimes called for a bottle of sweet Constantia myself, even though I am not by any means on my deathbed.

There’s a shady glen where Napoleon was buried near Longwood and the iron railings around an empty grave mark his first burial place. It’s silent and sad.

Today Napoleon’s remains lie in a grand tomb in Paris and the house at Longwood is maintained as a museum by the French government.

When I visited St Helena the only way you could get there was by sea and even then there wasn’t a proper harbour.

We had to anchor offshore and row ashore in dinghies.

There’s an airfield on the island now, and it was given a safety certificate earlier this year. At least one medical evacuation flight has been successfully completed. It’s about a four-hour flight from there to Cape Town, although it took us a week of sailing in ’83.

In a way I am sorry about the airfield. There’s something very special about remote, unspoiled islands. I bet there will be tourist flights before long and the simple island lifestyle will disappear.

I am pleased I also visited the even smaller island of Tristan da Cunha by yacht. There’s little chance of its ever getting an airfield. The settlement houses only about 400 people and consists of a cluster of buildings on the slope of a dormant volcano.

I was enchanted by the place and its charming inhabitants. It’s a real lesson to visit somewhere that’s not spoiled by commercialism. When we left Tristan after a two-day visit the islanders lined up on the jetty and sang to us as we rode off to our boat in the island launch. I had a lump in my throat. Last Laugh A woman appeared before the judge in a divorce court. “Madam,” said the judge, “how old are you?” “I am 35 my lord.” The judge looked surprised. “May I see your ID book,” he said.

After examining it he said: “According to this document you are 60 years old.”

“Your honour,” she said, “for the last 25 years I have been married to this schmuck. You can’t call that living!”