TANGIER

Friday, 14 October 2011

Did you know that people who live in Tangier are known as Tangerines? A sweet choice, but Tangier turned out to be a bit of a lemon for Rab. It is nothing new for her expectations of a place to fail to match the reality and here was a case in point. Tangier was once regarded as a mysteriously glamorous place where spies met beautiful women and romance bloomed. Maybe it was so back in the day, although I doubt it, but it certainly doesn’t fit that bill now. It is in a word (or three) a Third World City. The buildings crumbling, are chronically short of paint, rubbish lies in the streets, water is supplied to parts if the Medina by way of a hose in a trough of water. There are very few signs of glamour and of course the street vendors….. well, they didn’t bother me any more than flies do in summer in Australia, but they really bugged Rab.

But to start at the beginning: Rab had elected to take a guided tour through the Medina and Kasbah ending with an hour’s spare time in the souk to look for bargains in leather. The predicted temperature was 30C which had me a bit worried because of these damned heart medications of mine, but fortunately as we were coming in a sea mist was developing and blowing in over town. By the time we got off the ship, it was quite nippy as the wind carried the vapour in over us. That eventually evaporated but it left the day somewhat cooler, although it was still muggy and humid as we moved around the town at a fair clip, following Aziz in a long drawn out string of oldies and wrinklies, some limping along, many with canes. Up hill and down dale we went, often travelling in circles. I have a good bump of locality most of the time and I was orienting our voyage by way of a steeple – or maybe a mosque’s tower that pointed skywards in the middle of our travels.

The tour had started a little late because, as ever one of the simple minded aboard the coach hadn’t obtained a ‘visitor’s pass’ – a small square of bureaucratic paper handed out by Moroccan Immigration officials on the ship. We couldn’t see that this slip of card had any value, but they were there and we were told we’d need to hand them in when we returned. These delays are inevitable when travelling with a crowd and although most people are at the coaches promptly when required, there is often a laggard or two who selfishly hold up the rest of the party. I often feel that I’d like to see these people left behind, but I guess there’d be a deal of trouble if that was done. To make matters worse, the bus had a number of the very loud folk who tended at the best of times to talk loudly. Now separated in the bus they shouted their witticisms and collapsed into paroxysms of mirth at what was not funny by any normal standards. Let me give you a small example of their wit. As we walked through the Medina I spotted a photo opportunity – an old man snoozing under a lemon tree. As I took a picture (the shot wasn’t that good in the end) one of these jokers quipped “I ‘ope ‘e isn the nightwatchman.” And all his conies collapsed with laughter. Was I just being a miserable old grump in failing to see the joke? What would be funny even if he was the nightwatchman? And if he was, when would he sleep except during the day?

Having finally loaded our full 35 assorted wags and physically disadvantaged senior citizens we finally set off through the mist and drove through the city. Nothing remarkable really there although we did see the Café de Paris, the centre of all the espionage and monkey business during the War – not very glamorous now it looks like a seedy old run down caff. Traffic regulations wouldn’t allow us to stop at the main vantage point which would have let us look out over town, so we wound our way onwards past the Royal Palace and the house occupied by Malcolm Forbes which is now a museum housing the many thousand toy soldiers which were his hobby. I’d have loved to see them, mainly to try to understand why a grown man should get pleasure from such a hobby, but that wasn’t on the tour.

The coaches stopped at the top of the hill, where the Medina – the fortified area of the city – was situated and de-bussed. Aziz, the guide, set off at a fair clip towards the fort but diverted through the Kasbah which surrounds the Medina. We realised fairly early on that the reference to uneven surfaces and slopes understated the position. The roadways and paths were full of traps and holes and the slopes were steep. At one stage a kid on a bicycle came rocketing down a very steep ramp (what it was doing there, I can’t say) and locked his wheels, skidding amongst our group, luckily missing all the walking sticks propping up so many of the oldies. As it turned out, Aziz was determined to keep to his timetable and route, irrespective of the ability of those who followed him. There were few stops and those that were taken were merely to allow the stragglers to catch up. No photo stops to speak of, so I had to either by-pass what looked like some really good potential shots or stop and catch up. Rab didn’t like that because she is a tripper and faller like her Mom and needed me to clutch on to in the event of a fall coming on. And her knees were playing her up so she couldn’t get into a canter or gallop – or even a fast trot.

I managed to get some shots that may be OK once I have had a good look at them, but I hated losing so many. If only he had shortened the route and moved at a slower speed I am sure that he would have had a happier crew. Thank goodness it was a cool day. If it had been 30C as forecast we would have had some more serious problems I am sure. As it was we were sweating as it was so humid. Actually, now I think about it, Aziz did have one stop – at the tomb of a holy man. His speciality, we were told, was to enable women who were having problems in conceiving to bear children. I wondered, silently so as not to upset Aziz’s sensibilities what the old boy got up to in his rooms to achieve this desired result. Reckon he might have had a bit of fun. At one stage we went through an archway and emerged on a terrace overlooking the ocean – or it would have if the sea mist hadn’t obscured the view. Cut to our clowns: “Not much of a view is it?” – all fall about laughing. How funny is that observation?

There are clearly no Occupational Health and Safety regulations applied in Tangier. The edge of the terrace was crumbling – the Medina wall leaned at a very dangerous angle over us and of course there were no railings anywhere. An Alsatian dog, looking remarkably well for a Kasbah dweller chased some cats over the rubble. There was a surprising number of cats about, some looked skinny and clearly were living on the garbage that was abandoned in the alleys; others looked as sleek as any other well groomed animal and we saw one sitting on it’s own stool on a cushion.

We finally left the Medina – through the Ali Baba gate – and entered the Kasbah proper. The alleys were slightly wider here and we could see people in their minute houses as we passed – no lights on – perhaps there were no lights to put on. There were very small shops too – tailors seemed to be popular, working in areas not much bigger than a cupboard. All very exotic, but by then we were all tiring badly and were more keen on getting to the end of this odyssey than looking at the curiosities on the way. The final straw as far as Rab was concerned was when we finally emerged – uphill from the Kasbah – into the equivalent of Piccadilly Circus (on a somewhat smaller scale of course, and without the statue of Eros). Dodging the traffic we headed further uphill, walking in the roadway because there was no pavement as cars whirled by hooting at these darned foreigners clogging the road because they didn’t know the rules of the road. When we finally crested the hill, we were almost immediately above the street we had just come out of – and our path took us now back down the hill to the next street. We could have avoided that last trying trek if we had just stood where we were.

At this stage, Rab spat the dummy and sent me forward to ask Aziz when on earth we were going to get back on the bus?????? “No worries”, he said (perhaps he had met some Australians previously), “Just five minutes to the café where you can sit and rest.” And so it was, back we went down the street, through the ‘fresh food’ market – some amazing smells there from ‘fresh food’! and the fruit on show looked a little tired, as if it had made a long trek across the desert from the oasis where it was grown. The Ooohs and Aaahs from the assembled throng made me wonder what their reaction would have been if they had seen Queen Victoria Market in Melbourne. Exiting the market via the ‘fresh chicken’ section with it’s hanging corpses we finally arrived at the seedy run down café which had certainly seen better days and Rab collapsed into a waiting wicker seat to sit out the one hour free time for shopping which was part of the tour. I got her a cold Coke, calmed her down and in the fullness of time suggested gently that it might be an idea to look at the sandals, slippers and handbags in the leather shops. She was still reluctant and the ice was only broken when a vendor who had persistently tried to sell us some of his brassware finally agreed a price for a brass bottle, which was 50% of his first asking of 25 euros, showing that my bargaining skills are very rusty. Cooled and calmed and having recovered her equilibrium, Rab went on to enjoy a bit of shopping, garnering two pairs of slippers, a handbag and a leather purse and by the time we got back to the ship she was her normal cheerful self.

We didn’t want to wait for dinner at eight in the Waldorf, so we headed for the back deck again. It was too cold out there so we ate in the bistro – a really good Caesar Salad, freshly prepared and very tasty. While we were eating the ‘strange bloke’ came in clutching two very large Moroccan stringed musical instruments. I say he is strange because he looks in his late teens or early twenties, with black shoulder length greasy hair and a vacant look in his eye. Four days out – or was it five? – he still hasn’t changed his dirty red T-shirt which he wears irrespective of weather. We wonder if he has weather-proofed himself in some way. He said he hadn’t bargained and had paid €250 for one and €200 for the other. Looked to us as if he’d been done as it seemed one of the instruments is a string short, rather like the purchaser?

– and so to bed.

PS I didn't mention the fez or tarboosh. I always fancied one of those, but Rab sad it was silly! A vendor fancied my old, made in China, falling to pieces Australian cap, so we did a trade!! He complained about the fraying later, but I told him it was too late. The deal was done:-)

LISBOA

Thursday, 13 October 2011

Sitting at a table on the back deck as the sunset paled into night, I watched the lights of Lisbon slowly move by as we sailed out to sea along the River Tagus. Rab had gone down to our cabin to drop off our books and to get some warmer clothes as the sea breeze and the stirring of the air from our passage chilled the warm air of the evening. I reflected, not for the first time, how fortunate we have been in our lives: fortunate to have each other after 44 years; fortunate to be able to still laugh at our corny jokes; fortunate to be still travelling the world; fortunate to have our family and friends. We are not alone in our good fortune. There is a surprising number of couples with longer marriages than ours who seem to be as comfortable with their life partners as we are. Many of them have travelled as much, or more, than we have many; laughingly say they are members of the SKI Club and are enjoying spending their kid’s inheritance. I still remember my dear old Dad, an earier skier perhaps, opening the subject with some diffidence. He explained that he and Lucy, my dear old stepmother, wanted to travel to Italy to meet up with the people who helped him when he escaped during the war. I couldn’t understand initially why he was approaching me, senior son, on the subject. He explained that it would mean cshing in some of his investments and that our inheritance would be reduced. I laughed and said I thought I could speak for all my siblings when I said we didn’t want his money and as long as there was enough for Lucy if he popped off, they should head off into the blue and enjoy themselves – and they did.

Our visit to Lisbon, or Lisboa as our guide Pedro insisted that the city should be called, was a great success. Although the brevity of the visit precluded us from examining the city, the glimpses we got as we drove around on our way to the Estoril Coast made us add it to the list of places we’d like to return to and examine in greater detail. I know that calling into ports on a cruise and making a rapid foray ashore can be regarded as unsatisfactory – how can you really get a feel for a place in such a short time; surely it would be better to spend longer in one place than to try to see six or seven. That’s true, BUT…surely it is better to taste a selection of cheeses, for example (I use that because I tasted an excellent selection this evening at dinner) and to then try to get a greater serving of the one you like best, than to never taste anything but cheddar? A cheesy example, I suppose, but we’re happy to continue sampling.

We slept in late after going to the show last night – a new act boarded the ship at Tilbury. A singer whose claim to fame is that he appeared in the West End. One of our new best friend’s is Coralee who with husband Chris is at our dinner table. She was not that impressed with the claim. “I’ve appeared in the West End, too,” she said “when I got to London.” As it turned out he wasn’t bad at all, although the volume of his accompaniment was a bit loud and his choice of songs was a bit odd. He included a couple where he encouraged the audience to sing along with him. Rab sat there not singing a bar and I asked her afterwards why she had not done so. “I was there to listen to him,” she said, “not to help him out.” She’s holding back her final judgement until his second show as he hit a few dud notes last night.

So one out of three of the entertainers is OK: the other two are abysmal failures. The crime writer’s second talk was about Jack The Ripper. If ever there is a subject that has been done to death it is our Jack. What on earth could this amateur possibly tell us that had not been covered by books, magazine articles, films and TV documentaries? Nothing, we thought, and so, apparently did the rest of the ship. Coralee said she looked in on the talk and only two people were in the theatre: one was asleep and the other was knitting. And as for the man with his Famous People talk – on Errol Flynn! Useless – he isn’t getting another chance. Don’t know who auditioned these monkeys, but they were clearly not in touch with what any normal person might find interesting or attractive. The rubbish he spouted on Errol Flynn was unbelievable – and badly presented to boot.

Anyway, back to the narrative, when we pulled back the curtains there was a magnificent sunrise on the horizon with a blue cloudless sky above. That augured well for a good day in port and so it was. We saw the first of the Lisbon fortifications at about 10.30 and thought that we might be alongside earlier than the 12.30 planned arrival, but, as was the case in Stockholm we had underestimated how far away we were from our berth. We drifted slowly along the Estoril coastline with a magnificent view of the outskirts of the city and as we entered the Tagus, many of the grand buildings of the old city and the many monuments that dot the foreshore.

I was up on deck for much of the time taking shots, although few will be successful as there was a bit of a mist about – possibly because there was no wind. I cracked my head on one of the beams in a doorway on my way out and later, when I went to open the safe in the cabin to get out some cash, it wouldn’t open and I had to wait for the security woman to come along to help me. I thought there might be a third thing to upset my day, but so far it hasn’t come along.

We gave lunch a miss as our coach was leaving at 13.00 and, as is ever the case, we got caught up in the sloth like progress of the silly old blighters who never have their security cards ready, who block the gangway waiting to be called for their tours, despite the pleas by Richard the Tour Director to stay in public areas until called. I watched an example of this foolish crowd behaviour yesterday ahead of one of the events in the Lounge. Richard came over the tannoy saying that the event would be on in half an hour but asked people to stay away from the venue for another fifteen minutes as there were rehearsals going on. Almost immediately people started heading for the lounge – and to form a queue. Geeeee….it is not as if it is Filene’s sale about to happen. There are enough seats for all who might want to attend. These same people tend to queue up outside the Waldorf ahead of meal times. Maybe they just like standing in line – surely they don’t expect the ship to run out of food?

Again our guide, Pedro, was excellent and we were soon on our way. The older part of the city, near the docks was rather scruffy – unpainted buildings and wiring everywhere on the outside of walls – a rather Third World look. I suppose many dockland areas have this look of neglect, and we wondered how ports like Sydney and Melbourne presented to visitors. Not having been in that position it is difficult to say, but it seems to us that they are less run-down than some of their European counterparts. Once we were through that part of town we entered more salubrious areas and headed up the very pleasantly shaded Avenida de la Liberdade. The trees which are profuse in the older parts of the city lend a lovely soft look to it – it is a pity that the newer suburbs do not have the same greenness. We thought the local claims that this avenue could be compared to grand avenues like the Champs-Elysees to be a little overstated however. After a photo opportunity at the grand Edward VII memorial with it’s magnificent view of the city from high on one of the seven hills (and the most phallic monument we have ever seen – surely not related to Ed as he was said to be less well endowed than most?) we headed on out to Estoril.

This was the first of the beaches we saw during our drive (that's Rab on the right with NBF Jana) – we came back to the ship along the coast road and we were very impressed by them all. Lovely sandy coves, lapped by good looking water – although I suspect it was pretty cold being the North Atlantic. There were quite a few bathers and sunbakers around as the temperature hit 28C. we strolled along the promenade for a while and then headed back to have a bite to eat at one of the sidewalk cafes before boarding the bus for the return trip. It took ages for the sweet young thing to make us our toasted sandwiches, but they were very tasty nd a welcome change from the food on the ship. Not that there is anything wrong with the food. On the contrary it is delicious, but a tuna sandwich on rye, toasted with a bit of Portuguese cheese doesn’t appear on their menu. A nice lazy little taste of the luxury that is Estoril – our visit rather than the sandwich. Our guide told us that many of the deposed Royal families of Europe settled in Estoril at one time.

We had one stop on the way home – at the monument to the Portuguese explorers who opened up the new world. It is a magnificent piece of work and is dedicated to Henry the Navigator, the Portuguese Prince who encouraged the adventurers. I thought it was rather a nice gesture that the design of the sculpture included a representation of Henry’s Mom – Queen Phillipa, who was an English Kenilworth and related to Edward III and IV. There are many long standing relationships and agreements between England and Portugal including the appointment of the first Bishop – an Englishman back in the twelfth century after the Poms had helped drive the Moors aka Muslims out of Portugal. Although Pedro was happy to relate this little anecdote, I wondered how happy the Portuguese were, given the power of the Church at the time. There is a lovely map of the world inlaid in marble of different colours at this site, donated by the South African Government of all people on the occasion of the first voyage of Vasco Da Gama in about 1589. I had to smile as people tried to take pictures of this mp because as the sun was heading downhill, their long shadows wer cast across the map. I suggested to a coule that if they stood on the other side of the map they’d get a better shot. And although it might seem upside down, why it could be turned around fairly easily and appear to be the right way up. They were astonished at this suggestion – and most simply ignored it, moving sideways this way and that trying to move their shadow, which kept following them.

Back on our mobile home we sat on the back deck, cooling ourselves with a beer for me and a shandy for Rab. Chris and Coralee and a couple of others drifted by and we had a good old chat before they went off to get changed for dinner. We decided to use the bistro’s services and had a pleasant snack in the gloaming. A good end to a good day – roll on Tangier tomorrow.

NOTHING DOING: DOING NOTHING

In a first for this trip, I didn’t take a single picture yesterday. My camera remained sheathed. We had a lazy day at sea, eating, meeting some of the new folk, chatting, being ‘entertained’ (of which more later), sipping our drinks, snoozing, reading – in a word relaxing, something that cruising used to be famous for. There is less of this genuine ‘doing nothing’ these days with the frequent of port calls disrupting the idyllic situation. Like many a Grumpy Old Man I put this down to the desire for instant gratification that the young ‘uns have today. Although that argument falls on it’s head when one surveys the average age of the passengers on a cruise like this. Rab and I have a small disagreement on the issue. She believes the average age is in the mid-80s, but I believe that it is less than that – perhaps the mid-60s; it is just that the older, dodderier folk catch the eye more. We will be doing an informal survey this evening as we sip our Mojitos in the Captain’s Club, allocating age into the over and under 70s to try to get a more scientific view developing.

Clearly there are many people aboard who resemble the old folk we saw on the decks of the cruise ships all those years ago when we started to focus our travelling genes. They can barely shuffle their way around the ship, let alone get off onto coaches and wander the cobbled streets and ‘uneven surfaces and steps’ that are such a feature of the guide books we are given describing the various tours. One couple we met up with just out of Tilbury represent a group that really puzzle us. She is inclined to sea-sickness; he is barely ambulant after a heart attack thought to have been caused by a viral infection he picked up on a Nile cruise some time back. Although the passage through the Bay of Biscay yesterday was a little lumpy, the minimal movement didn’t trouble us or the majority of people, who all seemed to be eating and drinking heartily, but she was pale and wan and had to get an injection from the ship’s doctor to perk her up.

Part of the entertainment on these cruises now – it was not the case in earlier days – is the guest lecturer. The MI6 spy on the Baltic end was very good as I think I mentioned, with his off-sider being OK, but the two on this trip…..well, we have our doubts after their initial presentations yesterday. The first was advertised as talking about Famous People. His choice was Laurel and Hardy…Hmmmm…famous, well, in their day no doubt, and indeed in the day of some of the older set on the ship, but….. His presentation was what might be described as pedestrian and he seemed somewhat unsure of his subject on simple issues like how many wives each of these men had. He is doing Errol Flynn today, another Famous Person that is hardly current, so we’ll see if it is worth our while!

The second part of the duo is a crime writer and we thought that he’d be worth listening to as Crime is one of Rab’s favourite genres. His concept was good – presenting evidence from an actual murder case and asking us to evaluate it and decide if the man who was hanged was guilty or not – and then presenting further evidence he had uncovered in his research to demonstrate the view he had developed. Unfortunately, again, the presentation let him down and although only Rab had nodded off in the Laurel and Hardy presentation, this time we both had difficulty in keeping our eyes open. The darkened theatre and the rocking of the boat are even more soporific than television.

Our kindly maitre d’ changed our seats and last night at dinner we found we had two pairs of gentlefolk to share our remaining dinners with. I suspect they may be a little heavy going as they don’t say much (and apparently two of them don’t hear much either – perhaps that’s why they say so little?) but at least the company is pleasant and there are no forks being waved in the air, fingers in the mouth looking for trapped morsels or loud voices with all the attraction of a crow pecking at roadkill. Praise the Lord – and would you be so kind as to pass the sugar. We also picked up a rather curious little phrase – “Do your knees play you up?” a rather about face way of putting things like Kath and Kim’s getting up your goat.

There seem, at first sight to be more gentlefolk than gypsies (although I shouldn’t use that politically incorrect word) aboard on this trip, although I think that may be more perception than reality because we are spending more time up front of the ship than towards the stern, in the absence of any sun or other reasons for getting out on deck. We had a brief foray to the bistro for lunch yesterday (this crowd follow the lead of the last in using the crowded port race instead of the empty starboard one) because we just wanted a light meal and there were some sights to see down there. One Gypsy family (or Traveller family as they are known in Britain now) wandered into the afternoon cabaret yesterday. It was a half hour show and by the time the male of the family caught my eye it was about half way in and he had three beers after that, so who knows how many he had aboard. He was rude and aggressive while his woman and their daughter seemed to be less than sober and ugly to boot, bringing to mind Churchill’s riposte to the woman who accused him of being drunk. “And you are ugly Madam. The difference between us is that I will be sober in the morning.”

There are many curious people to be seen amongst them:

· The fey woman wearing some very unusual combinations of somewhat hippy clothes; layers of gauze and lace sweeping to the floor. One could imagine her gazing in a trance at a crystal ball and farseeing the future

· In contrast to her was Jim, a lorry driver by trade. Built like a red brick outhouse, as the Australian impression has it, shaved bald, he was inclined to wearing items of clothing decorated with the Union Jack to show his patriotism. One could imagine him leading the chants and fights at football and he seemed a most unlikely person to rave about the art in the Hermitage. You truly can’t judge a book by it’s cover

· We couldn’t make out much about The Yeti who appeared from time to time collecting an enormous plate of food from the bistro and melting back into the shadows. Tall, thin and as straggly as a high altitude pine tree, he seemed to have ginger hair sprouting untidily from many likely and unlikely orifices.

· Then there is Mary, dear old Mary. A Polish immigrant to Australia 67 years ago, widowed for 39 years, still talking with a very strong accent but Australia-phile to the nth degree, her memory is going a little so she will tend to pour out her potted life story every time she sees you and frequently expresses surprise that we are also from Australia,

· And what about the odd English couple who couldn’t go down to dinner. On their first and only previous cruise they had an ‘unfortunate disagreement’ with another couple and fled the table, spending the rest of the voyage avoiding these people and never returning to the table. They feared a similar development this voyage so merely avoided the possibility.

Well, that’s it for today folks – today looks just as relaxing as yesterday, but with less lumps in the sea as we are about through the Bay. Lisbon tomorrow should produce more pictures. I’m off to check the photo shop for last nights pictures while Rab proof reads this to keep it up to standard. If there is any battery left, I’ll try to upload.

TROUBLE AT T’MILL

Oh Dear! We asked if we could be seated at a six seater for dinner for the second part of the voyage rather than an eight seater as we found the latter a little crowded. The maitre d’ was only too happy to comply BUT……he also seemed to think it would be a good idea to put us on the same table as the Aussies with whom I had the small contretemps on queuing when we boarded. We have largely ignored each other on the odd occasion that our paths have crossed since then, but here we were last evening, facing each other across the table with the third couple making up the six consisting of a pleasant but rather quiet pair. So instead of the chit-chat and banter we have been enjoying until now there were many rather deathly silences, broken by the sounds of mastication and the picking of Joe’s teeth with the fingernail of his pinkie. Dee is looking forward to shopping in Tangier because they make such good fakes. She has several fake Longines: Joe always collects a dozen or so fakes when he goes to Bali for presents. Tells people to throw the watches way when the batteries run out as the batteries cost more than the watches. I’ll be seeing the maitre d’ about moving tables this morning.

The ship was a little late into Tilbury yesterday. The delay in the Kiel Canal apparently compounded by the strong winds during the night. I must say we hadn’t noticed anything by way of substantial movement of the ship beyond a slight rocking, so perhaps the winds had not whipped up a large sea. The new security cards were issued without any problem, enabling us to get off the ship soon after we docked. I was surprised to see how many people were making their own way off the ship. Normally the crew take off the luggage, the passengers are called off in batches either by class of accommodation or by nationality – we sat for hours on one voyage on a US cruise waiting for all the US citizens and other aliens to be called off before they got down the alphabet to South African!! – but here were people bumping their luggage down the stairs, standing like so many cattle in the passageways, some for more than an hour, waiting for the stampede that would get them off the ship an hour or two earlier. We were allowed to push past them, waving our boarding passes to ensure that we were not subject to a citizen arrest for breaking the queue regulations.

We grabbed a cab and headed to the local Asda to pick up a couple of items – mainly wrapping material for the umbrella Rab bought at Bad Doberman which doesn’t fit into her suitcase and will have to be carried aboard the aircraft. I have fashioned a sling for it from one of my spare straps and it now looks like a rifle slung from her shoulder. Hopefully any troops on duty at Heathrow will not shoot on sight. We had been told the Asda shops, which are owned by Wal-Mart, were like Wal-Mart shops and we had been looking forward to wandering the aisles gazing in wonder at some of the unusual items on display., like the material that I used to fill a tooth in New England when I found that dentists in that part of the world would not see anyone but the patients on their list. When I asked the receptionist at one of the dentists I contacted what I could do, she suggested the Wal-Mart option and sure enough there was a small package with instructions on how to mix the epoxy and pack the tooth. Did me well too for the rest of the trip and my dentist back home had to drill it out! Anyway…back to Asda…clearly the people who compared it to a Wal-Mart had never seen a Wal-Mart. It was not as good as a Coles supermarket back home.

There was a MacDonald’s nearby so we nipped in there to use their free WiFi to download mail and the Australian newspapers to get some idea of what was happening back home. I can’t make out what is wrong with the way my e-mail is set up because once again the reply I tried to send bounced with an odd message. It seems I can get some mail through using my gmail account, but not my main Optus accounts – all very strange.

After having our meal there – it made a change from the ship’s food! – and since they started serving wraps I can avoid those cotton wool rolls they use for their burgers, we headed back to the ship. Our luggage had been moved from our superior accommodation to which we had been upgraded for the first leg down to the accommodation we had booked which is cosier, but still very comfortable. It is a strange feature of cabin choice on ships that the more expensive the accommodation, the more it will move about in heavy seas. We always start the booking process by seeing where the hospital is located because that is usually in the most stable part of the ship and look for suitable cabins in the vicinity of that area. They are usually low down, almost at water level, and more reasonably priced. On the other side of the balance sheet, living down here means a bit of a hike to the entertainment and general lounges etc, although not to the Waldorf trough, which is just one deck above and within easy reach. I must say I prefer being down here in many ways. The cabin we had was spacious, the large windows were nice to have, but we were somewhat removed from the feeling of being at sea. Rather like being in a pleasant hotel room. Down here you can hear the distant rumble of the engines, hear the waves slapping the hull and feel that you are truly experiencing something different. Maybe it is because most of our voyages have been like this – and even on the good old RMS St Helena, although our cabins were somewhat higher up, the size of the ship meant we were closer to the sea.

After unpacking and re-stowing all our goods we had a bit of a nap – we had been up pretty early in the day as cabins had to be vacated by 7.30 – and, excused lifeboat drill, we just lolled around the Captains Club observing our new travel mates and sipping on the odd cocktail. Rab has taken to Mojitos in a big way but regrettably, the mint had not been unpacked yet, so we had to make do with a couple of Amoretto Sours followed in the fullness of time by an Irish coffee.

The weather predictions for the next couple of days are good, so no trouble is expected as we go through the Bay of Biscay today and tomorrow, although looking out of our porthole, the sea looks somewhat rougher than it has been. The long range forecasts are for the sunny and warm clime in the Mediterranean to continue so we’re looking forward to all the new places we’ll be visiting.

PS, The maitre d' was only too happy to change our seating - we're looking forward to meeting the new people on table 76 tonight, although no doubt they'll be dressed to the nines as it is the Captain's Cocktail party again tonight. I'll haul out my tie and strangle myself:-)

ALL AT SEA

Sunday, 9 October 2011

“Is that Blue John?” asked Mike at dinner one night. No, I had not been swimming in the icy Baltic and the questioner was not referring to any part of my anatomy. He was asking about the ring that I habitually wear on my pinkie when out and about. Curiously enough two days later I had the same enquiry from another man. I say it was curious because the stone comes from a very small area of Derbyshire and I wouldn’t expect anyone to recognise it. But these little coincidences happen on cruises demonstrating the accuracy of the theory of six degrees of separation. We had breakfast today with a woman whose grandmother came from St Helena and who wanted to know where she could get more information.

I bought the ring almost 30 years ago as we were disconsolately waiting for the blasted Australian authorities to overcome their anti-South African attitudes and issue our residential visa. Matt had a friend in Britain from Zimbabwe who was at school near Derby, so we took Matt up there to meet up with him. While the boys spent the day together Rab and I went to a nearby town and that was where I spotted the ring.

That long period while we killed time on our way to Australia was one of the most frustrating in our lives. We had completed all the tedious formalities in London – the Australians did not maintain a full diplomatic presence in either South Africa or Zimbabwe where we were living until then. Presenting ourselves and all the relevant documents to the sour presence behind the counter at Australia House we asked when we might expect to receive our visas. “Tomorrow.” was the response. Then Matt’s South African passport was spotted below our British documents. After paging through this it was rejected because there was said to be no space for the visa – Matt had by then done a good deal of travelling. There was no appeal against the decision, so we shot around to the South African Embassy and explained our problem: they responded very well and issued the new document overnight. Back we went to the Australian Embassy and handed everything over. It was taken without a word. “Can we pick up our visas tomorrow?” I asked. “We’ll let you know when they are processed.” – and that was that. It was three months before we finally got the visas and then only because one of my colleagues from Singapore who was on home leave happened to be a personal friend of the Australian Ambassador and interceded on our behalf. Mongrels, to use an Aussie expression.

It has been very interesting observing the British in holiday mode on this cruise. Most of our other sea voyages they have been as a minority in the midst of US citizens, with a leavening of other nationalities. There have been exceptions – the original 1969 Reina de Mar cruise to South America was mainly South African; the White Christmas river Cruise in December last year was mainly Australian as was the Coral Princess cruise from Cairns to Townsville back in 1991, but for the rest, we were the aliens in the US mob.

Many of the current load of passengers seem to be from the northern parts of England and this may be why there is such a positive air about the ship. We have always felt that people from these parts have a very different attitude from their southern fellows. I know that it is regarded as wrong to make generalisations, but our perceptions are our realities and we have met too many unhappy complaining southerners not to draw this conclusion. We have also realised just how much the class system is still in place. We have often been put in mind of the famous “I look down on him” sketch with John Cleese and the Two Ronnies. You can see people sizing each other up in much the way that old South Africans will check out the precise shade of brown when meeting another. There are two main eating options for most meals: the Waldorf Restaurant, where for the midday and evening meal, there is waiter service with a breakfast buffet. Free seating for lunch: assigned tables in the evening. The other option is Mario’s Bistro where there is a buffet for all meals and free seating at small two and four seater tables. People who eat there also sit out on deck if the weather is fine – and there is a small servery there for light lunches – slices of pizza or fried fish or sausages and salads.

We don’t often eat here because I don’t like queuing for food and there is often a bit of a line if you hit the wrong time. Mind you, having said that, the line is usually mainly in the port race with the starboard side almost empty of the sheep who all follow each other. I think this is because the interior door from the ship is on the port side, so people simply join the first queue they see instead of looking for better options. Angelino the maitre d’ there always laughs when I say to him “I see the sheep are still following each other.” He has given up trying to move them. Mind you, it isn’t only the people on the Marco Polo who have these traits. I ran an amusing little experience of my own when I attended a course at Stanford University in San Francisco, but I mustn’t digress down that path for the moment……

What I was starting to say is that there is a distinct difference between the type of people who frequent Mario’s and the Waldorf. In the latter one will occasionally see men wearing ties, jackets and slacks for lunch – at the former T-shirts, golf shirts and jeans or shorts are the order of the day. Of course there are casually dressed people – me included – in the Waldorf but generally speaking there is an air of refinement in the restaurant that isn’t there in the bistro. We had an amusing set of people within the eight at our dinner table, with some palpable tensions observed in accents, dining etiquette and manners. I’ll say no more on the subject because we all got on pretty well and we certainly had no problems – as Colonials we were not really expected to know how to behave. Mind you I do know better than to jump a queue as one old rascal did when I was in line for coffee this afternoon. The bloke behind me and I had calculated that the mugs would run out either when I picked up mine although there might be two left for him, depending on how many mugs the people in front of us used. Turned out his theory was correct – men usually pick up two: women usually pick up one and he was going to get his coffee. Two people away from this nirvana, a little old wrinkled grey man shot in, grabbed two mugs and ran before anyone could stop him. Not done, old boy, not done.

There was a little muttering yesterday afternoon as we sailed across the Baltic from Sweden because people started to realise that we would be transiting the Kiel Canal at night. Why it took so long for them to realise this was beyond me as it was clear from the itinerary that we were due there at 22.30 and that we would exit the canal at 06.30 the following morning. I was somewhat puzzled by the disappointment being registered; the canals and locks we went through on the river cruise in December were nothing to be excited about and I imagined there wasn’t a great deal to see while in the canal. The ‘lady’ in our party rather condescendingly explained to me that if one had a narrow boat, as indeed she did (or at least access to such a boat through a friend, which is really the same thing) one would know that there were many charming little villages and inns one could stop at as one cruised the canals of England. Hmmmm…. I didn’t see the direct relationship – rather like driving through the charming lanes of a country and motoring on the highway I thought. But I forbore to argue as we had already had a difference of opinion on a previous occasion about the dangers of women wearing burqas, for which I had received a kick on the ankle from Rab. Many people stayed up until after midnight to see us finally entering the lock and were up at 5.30 in the freezing cold to watch our progress. I glanced out of our window as I turned in and saw all I wanted to of the concrete mass which constituted the lock and when I woke in the early hours of the morning the mist precluded any views of charming villages alongside the autobahn that is the Kiel canal.

I guess you can’t please all the people all the time – like the sisters I spoke to one evening. The one was a widow and the other was travelling with her sister because her husband wouldn’t get on a ship if you paid him. they said it was quite a nice experience but felt that it would have been improved if there had been a warm indoor swimming pool. By and large most cruise virgins we have spoken to say they have enjoyed themselves and are considering other destinations and voyages. Some are more ambivalent citing the lack of freedom to ‘do their own thing’ as the main reason for possibly not cruising again. Of course there is a balance between all the multiplicity of travel choices and indeed between the larger ships and the smaller ones like Marco Polo. Our personal preferences are to smaller ships with less amenities but more atmosphere – we aren’t into ice-skating or climbing walls, amenities provided on some of the very large ships and although we enjoy driving through countries at our own pace, there is a lot to be said for getting tastes of foreign places while travelling in one’s own home – albeit a temporary one.

We’ve had two days at sea now and should dock tomorrow on time before starting our next leg. It will be interesting to see who we meet on that one.

STOCKHOLM

Pushed under the door this morning was a card wishing us Happy Anniversary from the Captain and crew. A nice little touch in addition to the announcement in the Daily Programme, which had already caught the eye of several other passengers last evening. We reckon forty four years is worth a bit of a celebration. We’re still not sure how they found out because although we have mentioned the anniversary to several people, I didn’t ask for any recognition. We suspect it is our distant relatives, the von Abo family who we bumped into by chance the other day. Did I tell anyone about that? Seems not from a quick search, so I’ll just mention it now.

The second or third day out we wandered into Marco’s Bistro for a light lunch. The place was crowded but two gents were sitting at a table for six, so we asked if we could join them. They said they’d be happy for that to happen. One of them had a very strong accent so I asked him if he was from the Netherlands, “Close, but no prize,” he said with a smile and Rab got that accent – he was South African. We had a good laugh about that and in introducing ourselves we found that the other man was Crawford von Abo. Family members reading this – and anyone else who has accepted my invitation to have a look at the work my brother Steve has done on our family tree (www.southafricanflemmer) would know that is one of our ancestral names. Steve has always said that the Flemmer family (my Mom’s maiden name) are lousy correspondents, but that the von Abo family are even worse, so I leapt at the chance to tell Crawford that he was in trouble unless he could give me good contact information to pass on to Steve. Crawford said he had a very thick file of papers which he has passed on to his son-in-law, so I’ll let Steve have that information. But what a coincidence! Crawford is adamant that the von Abos came from Estonia and was planning to hire a car and drive to the little village about 150 km from Tallinn until the plan was kyboshed by wife Bibi who said it was madness. They also said that they had found the von Abo crest on a building in Tallinn after we had been there but I haven’t seen that yet – apparently it has three doves and not the three balls or the skull and crossed bones which I had thought were a feature until now.

Back to today after that diversion. The mild storm of the night had passed by the time we woke and looking out our windows we could see that it was gong to be a fine day – although we were also aware of the predicted 8C temperature. As the sun came up we could see that we seemed to be in the channel entering Stockholm and by about 7.30 we thought we might have made up the lost time from the storm and be docking on time. What we had forgotten was how many islands there are when entering Stockholm and how far they stretch, because we finally came alongside at 10.30 as predicted. It was a sunny morning and after a brief break of our fast (not eating too much in anticipation of the feast to be provided by Lars and Gerd) we went up on deck to get a closer look at the view. We had light jackets on but they weren’t enough to keep us warm in the very cold wind, multiplied by the speed of our passage, so soon shot down below to get warmer gear. I left Rab down there as she didn’t want to get her hair blown off her head and just sat and watched the passing display, taking some pictures, but not too many. From previous experience, these kind of shots never fully capture the beauty of the scene. For that I need something more than my Pentax Optio. Not that I am complaining about my little camera. It is amazingly versatile and I have over the years managed to capture some sights that I am quite proud of. Carrying this small digital camera certainly beats humping around that old Pentax Spotmatic of mine with all the associated lenses. No doubt the combinations I had could produce better pictures – if I could catch them. Like that old man yesterday – change lenses to get the close-up and the moment would have been gone.

I eventually went back inside feeling quite invigorated by the crisp morning air, to meet up with Rab, Carol and Reg in the lounge to do the morning quiz. The questions are heavily British oriented, but we didn’t do too badly being three off the winner. The ship finally came to a halt and as we expected to be off quite quickly, ahead of the touring groups we went down to pick up our heavy coats. We had an ideal view of the quayside from our windows which are almost directly above the gangway when we are in port. It was amusing to watch the very particular Swedes guiding the ship in from about five feet out. Inch by inch we crept in, but weren’t in the precise spot required. Gestures were made, arms swung and we inched a foot or two to the right. “Not correct”, were the signals, come back a bit this way. And so on for about ten minutes.

It seemed that the Swedes were trying to guide the ship to a gap in some rails on the quay which the gangway might not clear. It also seemed that someone on the ship finally got a bit fed up with all this toing and froing because next thing the offending railing was removed and we were finally tied up. I pulled Lars’ leg about this fine example of the Swedish way of dong things – they simply must be right. No sloppiness allowed. Mind you having said that we were very impressed by the fact that there were three lines painted along the quay. The blue one led to the walkway to the Old City or Gamla Stan about 2.6 km away; the yellow one led to the ferry; the green one led to the tram. How obvious an idea was that – except that none of the people I spoke to when we got back on board had noticed these guidelines.

Gerd and Lars were waiting for us at the entrance to the docks and it was tremendous seeing them again. An amazing amount of talking was crammed into the next three hours – all that the late arrival allowed us. As Rab said, it beats chatting on Skype hands down. We went back to their charming house in Saltjosbaden where we have spent so many happy times and had our usual formal exchange of gifts – small items that will remind us both of this, our latest meeting. Of course they had prepared a splendid meal with gravadlax, shrimp mousse and chicken dishes accompanied by good Swedish and French wines and some of Lars’ very good sourdough bread. But as Lars said, splendid as the meal was, we would probably have enjoyed it as much if we just had the bread and cheese he and I shared in the Seychelles all those years ago when we met. It was the company that was important.

All too soon it was time to think about heading back to the ship especially as it was now pouring with rain in what we swear is traditional Swedish weather. It suckers you in with a beautiful sunny morning, good enough for a picnic or some other outdoor activity and when you get to your destination and set out the tables and chairs, down she comes. Lars said we should leave a little earlier in case of accidents on the road: Gerd said that wasn’t necessary. This little exchange brought to mind the book I am reading right now about how to increase your chances of survival in all manner of predicaments. The relevant chapter is one about luck, so I put to them the rhetorical question from the book: If you were in a bank and a robber entered, fired one shot in the course of the robbery and were hit by this shot in the arm, would you consider yourself lucky or unlucky? Needless to say Gerd thought it was lucky that she wasn’t badly injured: Lars though it unlucky that he had been shot, a view which Rab shared. I of course, ever the optimist, agreed with Gerd.

And on that note, with not an accident in sight and a fast clearing rain shower, we parted again. We’re never really sad in these partings because we have so often thought that we might not meet again, but have done so. Who knows when the next time will be?

In the hour which passed from leaving Lars and Gerd home until we were sailing out of the port, the rain had blown away – possibly to Helsinki – and the sun shone brilliantly again. We took up a good spot in the Captain’s Club lounge and enjoyed the view. We were joined by Robert and Pat, one of the couples on our table with whom we get on very well, and sat thee chatting over a cup of tea until we were driven from the comfort of our spot by a cocktail making demonstration, accompanied by music from Cocktail at full blast. That is another small niggle we have with the ship – the inappropriate screeching music – and he volume – which is played at times. We fee certain that, given the average age aboard (we are still probably on the young side of the median) there are very few people who would choose a noisy Madonna number over a soothing instrumental playing in the background. Of course you can always move away from the source of annoyance to a quieter part of the ship.

We have taken to spending the hour before dinner in a strategically placed seat in the Captain’s Club, sipping on a cocktail or two, which are the fashion up there in the evening. This room is the main thoroughfare for people who have eaten in the first sitting in the restaurant to migrate through to the Marco Polo Lounge for the evening show. Being creatures of habit, there are many regular who show up at roughly the same time each evening and it is a wonderful place to review the dress and physical characteristics of our fellow passengers. As is the case when we travel through the US, any concerns about the possibility of our being considered as having a high body mass index are swept away as some truly large people trundle by. One of the ladies last night might have been mistaken for an Alp had she tripped and fallen on her face. White slacks on an expanse that large are not a slimming look we feel.

There was a pleasant surprise for us at dinner when our waiter Kway brought us a chocolate cake with one candle, piped with the words Happy Anniversary – another nice little gesture. We concluded what had been an excellent day with a visit to the Lounge to see what was said to be the last performance of nn artist, whose name eludes me right now. We weren’t aware of his previous performances, nor did we know what he did – was he a comedian, a conjuror, an acrobat? Who knew. He turned out to be a somewhat weather-beaten old guitarist who certainly could play the variety of stringed instruments but whose patter was appalling. Insulting the audience and suggesting they get along to the bar and have a bevy or two to liven up before they come back doesn’t in our experience, endear yourself to the spectators.

PORVOO

Welcome to Sunny Helsinki said the sign on the side of the shuttle bus yesterday when we went ashore in Helsinki, the ‘Sunny’ scored through,. And they were quite correct to do so. The autumnal gale howled across the harbour blowing the rain horizontally into umbrellas whose structure was severely tested while pointing into the wind and completely and rapidly destroyed if deployed in the wrong direction. Our amusing guide Maarrttii (I’m never sure how many vowels and consonants there are in any Finnish word, but it seems safer to add rather than subtract any - so maybe his names was Marti) told us that this typical weather for this time of the year could change and we might indeed see some sun later in the day. This quip was received with derisive laughter by the passengers in his coach and indeed he proved to be inaccurately optimistic.

Our original plan had been to simply walk around Helsinki retracing the steps of our last visit about 30 years ago, but we were diverted from this by the thought of visiting Porvoo, which sounded like a nice little spot and which featured in friend Pam’s excellent FaceBook pictures of her and Eric’s trip. At that time we thought we might get to the railway station and catch a train out there. Just as well both these concepts were abandoned as walking around Helsinki in the pouring rain would have been pretty miserable and the trains had moved onto a winter timetable which would have made getting to and from Porvoo much more difficult in the time available – we were only in port for six hours. As things turned out we had a good time – probably better than the other tours on offer because the weather did clear a little as we drove through the countryside (Porvoo is about 40 km from Helsinki) and when we got there apart from some sprinkling showers and the odd gust of cold wind, the weather wasn’t bad at all.

We’ve been very fortunate so far and even St Petersburg at 12C and Helsinki at 10C weren’t really cold. Marti told us that they expected the first real snow of winter in about two weeks time and that by mid-November they would normally be under snow until the end of March or April. Our arrival in Stockholm has been delayed by an hour, apparently due to a storm between Helsinki and Stockholm last night. It is true that there were some bumps and bounces during the night which stirred us in our seep, but if that was rough weather, we didn’t really notice it. No doubt some of the souls who believe they suffer from sea sickness, so much of which is in the mind rather than the inner ear, will be missing their meals this morning as a result.

The woods made a lovely sight as we rumbled along the motorway. Mainly beech and spruce the contrast between the yellowing gold of the turning beech and the dark green of the spruce made for a pleasant spectacle. Of course these woods are nothing like those of New England where we went ‘leaf peeping’ about five or six years ago. Even with my defective colour vision I could see the glory in those leaves and trees. As we went over one bridge, past a small settlement, Marti pointed out an anchored boat – not a large one – with a large metal structure on the stern. He said it belonged to an old fellow who had built a sauna on the back of the boat so he could easily move between the freezing water of the bay and the sauna. The Finns seem to be obsessed with saunas and, we were told, they are everywhere – saunas as well as Finns.

Porvoo is, like Dragor and Bad Doberman, a place that many ‘proper’ travellers look down on. Generally there are no stupendous works of art or examples of soaring architecture in these places; they exist to attract tourists with their prettiness, evoking a feeling of stepping in the past. We like that feeling and perhaps our views can be compared to those who, like us ‘know what they like’ in art and simply dislike (strongly in some cases) what is seen as the pretentions of those who think that Tracey Emin’s dirty underwear or the pickled sheep for which the Saatchis paid a fortune are (a) works of art and (b) more attractive than, say, a Constable. But I digress – WE like the little villages over the big cities every time. In our drive around Italy three years ago, for example, we avoided the centres of art and concentrated on meeting locals and eating local food – apart from a day trip to Venice because we happened to be nearby for a wedding. One of the guests at the wedding – an old South African who hadn’t travelled much was less impressed with Venice than most people. “Man,” he said, “these people invented paint, why don’t they paint their buildings? They live like rats there.”

So…..Philistines as we are, we had a very pleasant time wandering through the village, sampling their excellent homemade cake, buying a couple of amusing home made chocolates for the grandchildren – they look like little sprats (the chocolates, not the grandchildren) because this is Baltic Herring week in Helsinki. Which reminds me of Lars (who we will be seeing later today) and the Baltic Herring Pie.

He is an excellent cook, as is Gerd, his wife. Since he retired there has been something of a problem in the kitchen as he demands equal cooking time. Gerd, ever the peacemaker, has negotiated a reasonable compromise, where they share the duties. On our last visit when we were doing our winter Baltic tour, it was Lars’ turn to cook the final dinner before we left for Estonia. I was with him when he went to the supermarket to buy the ingredients and was surprised to see him buy three packs of Baltic Herring fillets – about 750 grams (about a pound and a half). That seemed a lot of fish for four people in a pie (the fish, not the people in the pie of course). Of course I said nothing, since I do my best not to interfere in others’ decision making process and Lars duly went about his cooking and baking, eventually producing a delicious pie, with all the little tails forming a fence around the edge. It would probably have comfortably fed ten people and we fully expected to be offered a bit of the cold pie when we returned ten days later. Of course we have never let Lars forget this episode.

But I digress. Apart from the local comestibles, Rab was also able to find a very nice warm jacket to remind her of Porvoo – something that was NOT made in China but in Finland. An unusual find these days, but typical of this kind of venue. There were some excellent photo opportunities and I think my favourite so far is the one I was lucky enough to take of an old local receiving his post from the postie as he went his rounds. Although I rather like another of an abandoned picnic table and umbrella in a sea of golden leaves. I’ll try to get both up and you can be the judge.

We headed back to Helsinki and the rain after our meanderings were completed and stopped in the city square where there was yet another Cathedral and statue of Alexander II. Seems he was quite the lad as far as the people were concerned before he was assassinated. Must try to find out a bit more about that – was he too forward thinking – ahead of his time? Or a laggard who couldn’t move fast enough? The square was not far from the quayside market place and in the light of Baltic Herring Week, I thought I should see some of the goods on offer in the half hour before we made our way back to our ship. Rab and most of the tour group stayed on the bus, but some of us braved rain and wind to see what there was down there.

Not a lot, as it turned out. A handful of hardy souls were manning stalls that seemed in imminent danger of collapse. They had a wonderful harvest of fish and had time and opportunity coincided, I would have loved to take advantage of some of the samples on offer. As it was I limited myself to one purchase. I saw a box of what looked like jerky or, as we would say in South Africa, biltong and thought this might be similar to the dried fish I bought in Seattle last year. That was very tasty indeed, although Rab insisted it made me smell like an old seal or walrus. I asked the old duffer running the stall what it was and he just shrugged his shoulders and pointed at the young girl serving another customer. When she had concluded the sale she came over to me and I repeated the question, which she didn’t really understand. I’d had a closer look at the goods and so I asked her if it was smoked eel? “No,” she said, “they are lamprey.” Well, close enough I thought, so I said I would have one, asking as she wrapped my purchase, “Is it good?” “No,” she said, “I don’t like it.” But she was wrong – it was very tasty and I was sorry that I dared not take any back to the coach for an evening snack with a beer.

We fought our way back to the gangplank to the welcome warmth of the good old Marco Polo and after a couple of cocktails, while relaxing and listening to the piano/violin duo knocking out a couple of tunes we went down to dinner to the first meal that wasn’t quite up to the very high standards of the food so far. By chance all but one of us on the table ordered the medallions of beef and found them tough and somewhat tasteless. Not inedible by any manner of means, but certainly in the ‘could try harder’ category. The after dinner show was a rock ‘n’ roll evening, most of which was pretty good, but I guess some of the hits in Rumania, Ukraine and Belarus, which is where the dancers and singers come from, didn’t make it to our part of the world, so we didn’t recognise them.

And so to bed, perchance to dream….