At the time, it probably seemed a good idea for Prince William to perk up his controversial, determinedly reclusive RAF posting in the Falklands by doing a little light shopping and sightseeing in the capital, Port Stanley, late on Saturday morning. Stanley (population 2,500) is often a sleepy place at the weekend. It was half-term. The sun, for once, was shining. And most importantly, perhaps, there were unlikely to be many of the journalists around who have converged here as the 30th anniversary of the Falklands war has approached and Britain and Argentina have refought the conflict rhetorically. The weekly civilian flight leaves early on Saturday afternoons; by the time William walked into the Capstan gift shop on the waterfront, the media were supposed to be at the airport.
But your reporter was still in town buying last-minute presents. As I rushed into the shop to grab Falklands fudge and fluffy penguins, there he was. Tall and slightly gawky, in a bright blue Lyle & Scott jumper, jeans and stained trainers, and holding a half-full Capstan carrier bag, he stood in one of the aisles like some protected species of giraffe, discreetly ringed by half a dozen other browsers with a watchful air and military haircuts.
For several long minutes, he pensively thumbed through books on the 1982 war. Occasionally his eyes flicked round the room. Then, with his entourage, he loped out of the shop and headed on foot along the quayside. He passed the famous wood and corrugated-iron cottages, currently bristling with British and Falklands flags, where Argentinian armoured personnel carriers once rumbled past. But no one came out to greet him. The pavement was deserted. The occasional vehicle passed without stopping. The sun beat down. William, jumper glowing, still holding his carrier bag, loped on.
A request for a word with the prince was brushed aside by a security man: "He's not doing interviews here, especially given the current situation." Who were the other men with William? "He's just out with friends."
After a few hundred yards, he reached the memorial to the British 1982 war effort. He lingered, looking at the long list of task-force vessels. Then he turned uphill, passing the short, highly charged street called Thatcher Drive, and strode towards the hospital built after the war.
A few minutes later he reappeared, still on foot, heading back the way he had come. There was still no crowd: a royal walkabout without one felt both odd and faintly endearing. He passed me without catching my eye, then turned abruptly towards the public bar of Stanley's one hotel. It is called Malvina House. Its website insists it is not named after Argentina's term for the Falklands, but after "an old Scottish name, once popular in the Falkland Islands". But the symbolism for our warrior prince was, perhaps, unfortunate. A request for a posed photograph nearby was politely turned down.
