If the narrator really did think there was a chance of the two men restarting the Falklands War over a few photos, it would have been somewhat irresponsible to let them meet at all, but reassuringly they did not open fire on each other, and instead sat down for a cheery chat. The speed with which they hit it off only underlined the folly of what had happened 30 years previously: two good men, with everything in common except nationality, forced into murderous opposition by the greed of some blood-crazed Argentine despot.
And what a strange setting for a war. Everything in these tiny uncrowded islands seemed hushed and peaceful. Wind caressed the long grasses. Seaweed glistened in the sun. Little waves collapsed gently up the sands. Seals yawned.
Simon Weston gazed out to sea. “Somehow this makes it so much less painful for me,” he said. “It really does. It makes the injuries so much more bearable, seeing the beauty of these islands. I will always look at it and say, ‘What I went through, this was all worthwhile.’ I didn’t expect this to be such an emotional thing. I have lovely memories now.”