22 May, 1911

I dreamed last night that mighty forces were indeed trying to tell me something but I didn't have the key to decipher what it was. It seemed very important. I woke up in a cold sweat.

I'm writing this from Cape Royds - Shackleton's old hut. Wilson, Bowers, Atkinson, Evans (PO), Clissold and I came out here with a home-made go-cart fashioned out of steel tubing and bicycle wheels. The wheels worked very well indeed on this sea ice - much better than wooden sledge runners.

It took us two and a half hours to get here, and on the way we killed an Emperor penguin just off Cape Barne. The bird was in splendid plumage, the breast reflecting the dim northern light like a mirror.

It was fairly dark when we stumbled over the rocks and dropped down to the Hut. Clissold fired up the cooking range, and Wilson and I walked over to Black beach and round back by Blue Lake. The Hut is damn cold. How wonderful would it be if that old rascal has sequestered away a case or two of Whiskey? It would be just like him to have done so. That would warm our poor bones. Can't find any though. Where would he have put it I wonder?