It is cold, hard, and heartbreakingly remote. Connected by an isthmus to Devon, the world’s largest uninhabited island, Beechey Island sits about a third of the way from the Arctic Circle to the North Pole. On one of my recent visits, during one the warmest months, the temperature still dipped below freezing. The wind blew hard. Standing still, you couldn’t hear a sound. No birds. No insects. Just the rusty stones and a fresh dusting of snow.
Astonishingly barren, the most distinctive feature? The graves. Four of them. Three from the infamous and disastrous mid-19th-century expedition embarked on by Sir John Franklin. As I observe the bronze markers and then make my way to Northumberland House, on foot, boots clomping on the rocks. I try to picture this place in the winter of 1845.
