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February 2025

- On the Strait of Magellan -

My husband Klaus and I love self-determined travelling – always aware that planning and unpredictability go hand in hand.

I of course had a rain jacket in my rucksack when we set off on our 16-kilometre hike along the rocky banks of the Strait of Magellan. Our destination was the San Isidoro lighthouse. But when a fine drizzle set in halfway along the route, it quickly became apparent that my jacket had not earned its name – it was anything but waterproof. Turn back? The thought didn't even cross my mind; I was already soaked anyway. Swap jackets with Klaus? Nonsense, that wouldn't have helped either of us. Fortunately, this Patagonian summer's day was mild and unusually windless. The sea lay smooth and the offshore islands were shrouded in a mysterious haze. We trudged on in silence. Only once did I ask Klaus hopefully whether the lighthouse might be inhabited. His answer was short: "Probably not."

Despite the unfavourable conditions, the hike was beautiful. I had always imagined the Strait of Magellan as a place where cold, strong winds blew incessantly. Above all, I now experienced stillness and solitude. We walked on in silence, ever further, finally reaching the small bay with the lighthouse on the opposite headland. I simply had to paint, now and immediately! With the watercolour box on my lap, I began my little painting under the cover of my pulled-up rain jacket while Klaus explored the surroundings. Suddenly he was standing next to me again. "There are people here," he said. "There's a house just round the corner. We could ring the bell."

A ray of hope! My painting was finished, but the colours weren't dry yet. I held it in my hand, concealed, and we walked to the small building nestled against a hill behind a bend in the path. We knocked – nothing. Klaus pressed the door handle and we simply stepped inside when the door opened. Inside, we were greeted by cosy warmth. A large room lay before us, furnished with a long bar and several cosy groups of cushions. A cosy fire crackled in the brick fireplace and an oversized panoramic window offered a breathtaking view of the Strait of Magellan. There was a clatter behind a swinging door and shortly afterwards a young man appeared. With a matter-of-factness, as if our arrival had been expected, he asked: "Coffee or tea? Or would you prefer soup? Perhaps homemade cake?" Our eyes lit up. This was paradise!

I quickly peeled myself out of my soaked clothes, which I hung up to dry by the fireplace. Wrapped in a thick woollen blanket, I settled down on a sofa and warmed myself with tea and soup. Now the sky was brightening, the islets off the coast were regaining their contours, the sea its depth. The sun was shining and the sky was blue when I later sat outside in the same spot to paint a second picture of the lighthouse.

All's well that ends well? Almost, because the way back also had its pitfalls. The tide had washed over the rocky edge where we had walked on the way there. So we had no choice but to fight our way through the thicket of the primeval forest, which almost reached the sea. We climbed over fallen trees, waded through small streams and were careful not to get our feet caught in the undergrowth.

Shortly before the end of the trail, we came across a family who had ignored a road sign and were now hopelessly stuck in the sand with their car. I thought: that could happen to me too – but never to my husband Klaus. For him, the essence of self-determined travelling is to plan well and stay sensible. Because the unpredictable happens anyway – whether it's a permeable rain jacket or an unexpected paradise at the end of the world.

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