You want somebody you don't have to speak to

Whilst my physicians by their love are grown 
     Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie 
   Flat on this bed, that by them may be shown 
     That this is my southwest discovery,
     PER FRETUM FEBRIS, by these straits to die,

   I joy that in these straits I see my west; 
     For though their currents yield return to none, 
   What shall my west hurt me?

route of the post

route of the post
Originally uploaded by joguldi.

This is the first time the mail went to this particular island off the coast of Scotland. Before that, a separate world adrift in the Atlantic: after the post, part of a nation. Note how little is yet known about the island. Perfect contours for sailors, generic blobs inland for hills.