I could feel myself brimming with tears this afternoon, looking at this picture in the wonderful exhibition of Antarctic photographs at the Queen's Gallery. (And do look at the magnificent website which is the next best thing to being there.)
It was taken at the South Pole, 100 years ago yesterday - and you can see the utter dejection in Scott's team who have just realised that Amundsen has beaten them to it.
Some of these images are so familiar from books, but it was mind-blowing seeing them for real. When you can see the cut crystal glasses and foil-wrapped chocolates on the table for Scott's final birthday dinner. (I don't think I've ever quite grasped the sheer beauty of Herbert Ponting's photography; no wonder he always referred to himself as a photographic artist.)
But I am a shameless eavesdropper on other people's conversations ... so imagine my excitement when I overheard a snatch of interesting talk, then minutes later found myself shaking hands with the grandson of Teddy Evans, who was Scott's second-in-command; the great-nephew of Bernard Day, who was in charge of the motor sledges; and a younger chap who proved to be a distant cousin of Ernest Shackleton. (I have to confess that Shackleton is my number one Antarctic hero!)
It made my day ...
Before you ask, they all looked like the kind of burly chap you'd be glad to have on board in a crisis.
Then Jules Evans, who is a composer, showed me pictures on his phone of a sound sculpture that he made when he visited Antarctica.
And all the way home I thought of my trip there in 2005, just before the start of the Antarctic winter. And the colours of the ice grottoes, and the breathing of whales at dawn, and the pancake ice beginning to form around our boat ...
And I remembered standing on deck as the last iceberg disappeared from view as we sailed for home.
I think about it so often - because what I want more than anything else in the world is the chance to go there again.