Those infamous tin cans, relics from Franklins first winter camp, 1845/46, still litter the shoreline of Beechey Island. Of all the sights we saw, this lonely island was the most moving. Perhaps because of my English Grammer school background, steeped, as it was, in the history of British Empire exploits, the fated Franklin expedition seems almost mythic. To stand in this spot, finally, after all these years was quite surreal.
