This (non-direct, as I don't have the original to hand) quote from "Stories of Eva Luna" by Isabel Allende has always stuck in my mind for two reasons; first, it is a fascinating example of the power of self-delusion, secondly, it brought home that Southern Patagonia must be a bit of a grim place. And of course it is. Grim, but stunningly beautiful. And lets face it, I used to live in Crookes, in Sheffield, perched on a hilltop where the wild westerly winds came thundering across the barren Peak District moors, and where for weeks on end the streets are enveloped in thick damp fog, with visibility dropping to near zero so that pubs must be placed close together, lest you disappear forever from this Earth whilst staggering from the one to the next. But
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