I have watched this island change for longer than most creatures can imagine. When you have seen 193 summers pass over the South Atlantic, you learn to pay attention to the wind, to the people, and to the quiet shifts in the world that others miss. My shell has weathered storms, celebrations, droughts, and the laughter of generations of schoolchildren who have grown up and grown old while I simply continued.
From my favourite patch of sun at Plantation House, I have always been an observer. I have seen young travellers arrive wide eyed, stepping onto Saint Helena’s volcanic soil as though they have stumbled upon a secret. Perhaps they have. Few places hold so much life in such a small space. Thirty percent of the UK’s endemic species live here, plants and insects found nowhere else on Earth. I have seen them all: the spiky yellow woodlouse hiding under stones, the black cabbage trees standing like old sentinels, the last scraps of cloud forest clinging to the island’s windy peaks.
When I was young, no one spoke about sustainability. People took what they needed and hoped the island would recover. But I have lived long enough to see a change. Reforestation teams plant gumwoods. Schoolchildren learn why the wirebird must be protected. Researchers climb Diana’s Peak to check the health of the island’s green heart. Even the government now talks about carbon neutrality, renewable energy, and protecting the island’s natural treasures for the future.
And then there are the whale sharks. Gentle giants that glide past the island each year, their spotted backs moving beneath the water like drifting constellations. I have never seen them myself, but I have heard the stories from those who return from the sea with salt in their hair and awe in their voices. They speak of the sharks’ slow, peaceful movements and how the island protects them through careful monitoring and responsible tourism. I cannot swim, but I do admire a creature that understands there is no need to rush through life.
This year, I noticed a new visitor. A student teacher, carrying notebooks and a sense of purpose. They spent their days in classrooms, learning how to guide the minds that will inherit the choices made long after I am gone. I watched them talk with pupils about the island’s creatures, trace the shapes of endemic plants with curious fingers, and ask questions that showed they understood something important. Sustainability begins with education. They walked lightly and spoke about how future generations must learn to care for places like this. Teaching, I realised, is its own kind of conservation. It shapes the guardians of tomorrow.
I have lived long enough to know that small actions spread outward. A tree planted. A species protected. A traveller who chooses to tread gently. They matter.
And if you have not yet guessed who I am, let me introduce myself properly.
My name is Jonathan, and I have watched over Saint Helena since 1832.
