Blog 26. Return from Australia. Lisbon and Home

Day 115

Thursday 4 May.  Overcast, occasional feeble sunshine. 17ºC.  Wind Force 4 from NE. Position at noon: 36deg 19N. 3deg 6E.  Costa del Sol 26nm to the NW. 

Last night was a formal night and we continued the experiment with cocktails.  This time, Jane had a Cosmopolitan, which proved very enjoyable and more like a real cocktail: slightly astringent with just a touch of sweetness, served chilled in a proper cocktail glass with a twist of orange.  I had a Singapore Sling – at last.  It was quite pleasant, but proved to be a quite sweet ‘long’ drink, served with a straw, a chunk of pineapple, and a cherry.  Shades of Del Boy all over again.  I must have been thirsty, because I polished it off in no time and ordered a Cosmopolitan like Jane’s.  Glancing around the Chart Room, I noticed one bloke wearing a dinner jacket with a submariner’s dolphins badge, which seemed a bit odd with civilian rig; I suppose he wanted someone to come over and talk to him about periscopes or something.  I did think about it, but he would have sussed me out as General Service very rapidly, and dismissed me as a ‘skimmer’ of no account accordingly (submariners take the view that there are only two types of vessel: Submarines and Targets)  More startling was the sight of another chap wearing a dinner jacket, a naval cocked hat, and an earring.  We thought it really could not get worse until Jane saw a picture of loveliness in the form of a huge confection of pink candy floss, diaphanous and majestic, topped by a mountain of piled up blond curls, entering the Britannia Restaurant; she looked like an enormous fairy that had just fallen off the Christmas tree, possibly breaking several branches in the process.

We slept in today for some reason (it might have been those cocktails) and, in a rare act of daring, skipped breakfast.  Jane popped up to the launderette, that well-known site of gossip, and came back with the information that we are not the only people unhappy with the standard of dress in the evening, and with the bad manners of people entering concerts, lectures and shows late.  The people to whom she spoke were seasoned cruisers (Diamond badge holders – gosh), and they said that the standard of QM2 and Cunard had gone down significantly; Silver Seas or Seabourn were now better cruise lines in their view.  Apparently, in QUEEN VICTORIA people not properly dressed in the evening would be turned away, and Jane’s informant opined that that is the way it should be (I would have added half a dozen lashes, but I will accept just ‘turned away’ as a reasonable compromise).  They also felt that staff should shut the doors of the theatre when the show starts, and prevent further entry – just as would happen ashore.  You cannot believe how happy that makes me.  It is not easy being a martinet, you know.

Waiting for our first talk of the day, the second lecture by our ex-RAF pilot, I was able to sweep my eye idly over the rest of the audience in the theatre (those who arrived in good time) and was rewarded by the sight of a woman of comfortable middle years with dyed blond hair, wearing knee-length brown boots, bare legs, a flounced ra-ra skirt, a scooped blouse, and a baseball hat decorated with sparkles.  It just got worse.

I was just a little dubious about attending this second talk as the lecturer had already described his release and it was not clear to me what else he could say.  Indeed, this second lecture was somewhat more esoteric than his first, and it concentrated on encouraging people to realise their ambitions and give deep thought to their lives (I think).  His easy style made up for the rather complex and woolly content and he was still worth listening to, even though I was not entirely sure what he was getting at.  The bit that I liked the best was when he did touch on his rehabilitation, when he was taken to the RAF hospital in Cyprus after his release.  The nurse asked him if he would like to ring home, to which he (obviously) replied in the affirmative, whereupon she gave him a phone card, asked him to sign for it, and indicated the pay phone in the corridor.  He asked if he could have two and she looked around carefully before giving him another and saying, “But don’t tell anyone”.  This was so typical of the Armed Forces that I thought it was hilarious.  The naval author John Winton once wrote that the Navy would have welcomed Marco Polo, returning from the mysterious East, with just the Officer of the Day and the Duty Part of the Watch; here was another, genuine, example of Services underplay.

After that, our civil engineer gave a good talk on the reclamation of the Kennet & Avon Canal and, even though I knew the gist of it, I was still amazed by the state of the canal as it was in dereliction and how it is now.  He went on to talk about the on-going project of restoring the Wilts & Berks Canal and the progress that had been made.  It was good to hear of the plans for putting the canal through the middle of Swindon and making a feature of it there.

There wasn’t much in the programme for the afternoon, and the weather remained cool and hazy, so we retired to our cabin to read our books or, in Jane’s case, to catch up on zeds lost in 1979 when our son was a baby.

We entered the Straits of Gibraltar at about 1630 and it was quite busy, with ships here, there and everywhere: an Officer of the Watch’s nightmare.  We were going to toast The Rock as we steamed past at 1710 but, quite frankly, it was so hazy and cool that a cup of Bovril would have been more appropriate.  A shame as I was quite looking forward to another cocktail.  Soon we were back in the mighty Atlantic and pitching gently in the swell.

In a further break with tradition we stayed up after dinner and went into the Carinthia Lounge to hear our young guitarist play at 2200.  The Carinthia Lounge is attached to the King’s Court canteen and is the place where the people who cannot be bothered to shower and change in the evening go.  We have only been in once, I think, and that was for Lifeboat Stations.  It was actually quite nice and I suppose the only reason that we have not used it is the fact that it is rather large compared with the other more intimate lounges.  Much to my surprise, the standard of dress for the late concert was high, demonstrating that only a few people onboard fail to conform.  I felt suitably chastened.  The concert was very good, by the way.

Day 116

Friday 5 May.  Showers and sunny intervals.  19ºC.  Wind Force 5 from SE.  Low swell, 2m.  Clocks were retarded one hour to BST last night, so we are now back in synch with the UK.  We spent a bit of a lively night last night as the ship coped with the long Atlantic swell by pitching in a noticeable manner.  I didn’t think it was worth commenting on, but it disturbed Jane’s sleep so it will probably have laid low a few passengers.  

Entrance to Lisbon was quite spectacular, with a fairly long run up the River Tagus and under the 25th of April Bridge, which was completed in 1966 and modelled on San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge.  It was named after the date of the 1974 revolution, when democracy was restored to the country.  After the bridge, the river opened up into a huge lake that reminded me, on a larger scale, of the River Dart at Dittisham.  There the resemblance ended, for Lisbon revealed itself as beautiful, with white, yellow and pale blue buildings, all with the characteristic red roofs of Portugal.  There were some modern hotels in concrete too, but on the whole the vista was traditional.  Particular majestic was the Praça do Comercio, a large square on the river front, rather like St Mark’s Square in Venice, but topped with a huge arch.  We were followed in by a German cruise ship, MEIN SCHIFFE 3, which we thought was a bit much as we felt we should have exclusive rights to the city.  We secured port side to not far up from the Praça do Comercio and the German secured directly in front of us.  We were all secured by 0830.

An early start seemed a good idea as we wanted to pack in as much as possible, so we were across the brow as soon as the ship received clearance.  It was raining, cool, and windy so we equipped ourselves with fleeces and waterproofs, which was just as well because as soon as we got on the jetty it bucketed down.  Fortunately, I had a hood as the rain always makes my hair go frizzy and takes out the careful curl that I have engineered during my toilet, first thing in the morning.

Well, we really liked Lisbon.  It was clean and well-ordered with some delightful architecture and quaint sights.  There were trams, both modern and ancient (some of the latter set at an angle, like on a funicular railway, so that they could climb the steep streets); there were coffee shops;  there were restaurants; there were castles; there were statues.  A curious piece of Meccano turned out to be the rather Eiffelesque Elevador de Santa Justa, a lift to get you – well – from one level of a street to another level (contrary to popular belief it was not built by M. Eiffel of tower fame).  There were many more squares and fine buildings too numerous to mention (also, I have forgotten) and lots of ladies’ shoe shops, all of which we entered at some point or another.  We stopped for a coffee and custard tart (as you do) and the latter was absolutely delicious: still warm, with delicate pastry and gorgeous flavour.  We shared one as a gesture towards restraint and parsimony. 

At about lunchtime, the rain stopped and the sun came out, to the point where we felt quite uncomfortable, not to say obtrusive, in our fleeces.  So we returned to the ship to offload them and the waterproofs and to don short-sleeved tops.  This time when we went ashore we passed through the more dubious parts of the port area, which were quite restricted by reconstruction work.  On our way we found quite an attractive restaurant which seemed  popular with the locals – always a good sign.  So we dived in for a lunch of Cataplana (fish stew) and vinho verde, both of which were excellent.  The restaurant proved to be a sound choice, for it filled up rapidly and we discovered later that it was the winner of a Trip Adviser award for 2016.  But we could not afford to linger – those shoe shops don’t visit themselves – so off we continued to other parts of the city in the bright spring sunshine.

Lest you wonder about the ‘G’ word (Graffiti), yes there was some, but nothing like as bad as the other places that we have visited and virtually none on the finer buildings of the city or in the major areas.

By teatime we were exhausted and felt that we had done all that we could in one day, though there was still much to see.  Footsore, we returned to the ship for a nice sensible cup of tea in our cabin. There we saw the arrival of yet another cruise ship, MSC MAGNIFICA, which secured astern of the German.  This was beginning to look like a job lot of cruise ships, and the city was going to be well and truly inundated with tourists.

Continuing our aim of trying every cocktail in the bar menu, we repaired to the Commodore Club at 1830 and ordered two Ginger Cosmos, proper cocktails which were garnished aromatically by the smoke of an orange peel after they had been mixed.  We polished these off just as the ship was sailing, moving laterally off the berth then spinning through 180 degrees in the customary manner.  Leaving Lisbon was arguably the best departure we have experienced, as our berth was right in the centre of the city and our course took us past the aforementioned Praça do Comercio, which was packed with well-wishers.  We also passed yet another cruise ship, SEVEN SEAS EXPLORER, secured to a container berth; yes, definitely a job lot.  Steaming down river for the bridge, it was necessary to sound five short blasts on the siren no less than three times to clear yachts out of the way; it is an emergency signal that basically says ‘you are not taking sufficient action to avoid a collision’ and I have only ever heard it used once before.  Under the Rules of the Road, or COLREGS as they are known today, powered vessels have to give way to sail, but not in restricted waters where large ships have no room to manoeuvre.

Finally, we crossed the harbour bar and entered the Atlantic once more.  Last port of call before Southampton and it was excellent: a very fitting end.  Rundown on Lisbon?  Art and culture, 90%; skateboarders, NIL; dog muck, NIL; litter, 10%; graffiti, 20%.  Would we come again?  Definitely.

Day 117

Saturday 6 May.  Clear day, 22ºC.  Wind Force 3 from SSW.  Sea, Moderate.  Position at 1200A 42deg 29.7N 9deg 47.7W. Speed 16.  We are about 40 nm SW of Cape Finisterre, the bottom end of the Bay of Biscay.

It was an early start today because we had to complete a ‘face to face’ inspection with UK Immigration officials, a procedure starting at 0830.  As UK nationals, we were a bit surprised that we had to do this, but we were impressed that someone had had the gumption to embark the team in Lisbon, so that we could be processed on passage (as happened with Australian immigration at Mauritius).

The penultimate talk by our civil engineer was, this morning, on the subject of the first Cunard liner, the BRITANNIA, and about early passenger steamers generally, including the GREAT WESTERN the GREAT BRITAIN, and the WAVERLEY.  Our lecturer had to give the talk sitting down, because he had injured his knee when he was hit by a horse-drawn cart in Petra.  Unfortunately, we had to bail out of the talk early in order to hear another talk on designing the QUEEN MARY2, given by her naval architect and designer.  He gave an interesting talk, not just about the design of the ship and the significant difference between a cruise ship and an ocean liner, but also about his ambition as a schoolboy to design a successor to RMS QUEEN ELIZABETH which, of course, he eventually realised.  He wrote of this goal to Blue Peter in the 1960s and received a nice reply that enclosed a Blue Peter Blue Badge and told him not to be too disappointed if his ambition was not achieved.  Years later, when the programme did a show onboard QUEEN MARY 2, they ran a piece on him and presented him with the prestigious Blue Peter Gold Badge for his achievement.

People were still out sunbathing at lunchtime, trying to extract that last bit of UV before the UK and, indeed, we stood in the sunshine on the high after deck ourselves, listening to the calypso band and looking at the slabs of meat: some burnt, some well-done, some medium, and some rare; a lot of mutton, not much lamb.

There was an afternoon concert in the Queen’s Room (the ballroom) at 1415, featuring Jane’s favourite guitarist from the other evening.  Other than Captain’s cocktail parties, we have only been in this room once before for an extended period; my dancing does not bear public scrutiny.  It was, of course, excellent, but I think that, unknown to him, that guitarist is about to join penguins, wombats, dolphins and ice cream as Jane’s favourite things – purely in a maternal way, of course (note the absence of Horatio from that list).

Well, here we are about to enter the Bay of Biscay and, if we were in a steam warship 20 years ago, the marine engineering watch below would be adding just a few extra rpm to the ordered revolutions to ensure that we hit the Nab Tower several hours before the intended time: “homeward bounders”.  As it is, our minds are now on packing, getting home, and planning the mega-shop for victuals.  All our freezers are ’empty and open’, and the house has been in stasis for four months.  Heaven knows how we are going to get all our stuff in the cases, what with all the huge presents we have bought for our friends.  I think the didgeridoo will be the trickiest, but that stuffed kangaroo could be a problem too.  We have been told that our deck will be released for disembarkation at 0930, though we have to vacate our cabin at 0830 and sit in the Carinthia Lounge between times.  After that it will be ‘Goodbye QM2’ and ‘Hello home’.  At least we will be returning at the beginnings of summer so, if all goes well, we will have sunshine all over again.

Surprisingly, we managed to get everything packed OK and there will only be a few minor items from tomorrow night to add.

We had the final ‘black tie’ evening tonight and enjoyed Broiled Lobster Tail followed by Baked Alaska and flambéed cherries.  No cocktails as an aperitif, but we did have brandy after dinner in the Chart Room, then sauntered along to the atrium to watch the world go by (i.e. pick out those who cannot dress properly) .  Drifting back towards the Britannia Restaurant at about 2200, we heard a bit of a razzmatazz going on and peeped in.  There was some sort of ceremony, which involved parading the chefs and head waiters, that we were totally unaware of.  Glancing in, we also noticed that there was a Captain’s Table, which we knew nothing about.  It seemed a bit of an inverse protocol thing really: the Grills – those who pay the most – never see the Captain or his officers, but hoi polloi get a Captain’s Table and all manner of ceremony.  Most odd.

It is the Captain’s last voyage, by the way, as he is retiring after 48 years at sea.  So he must have started when I did in 1969, only he has worked harder and longer.  Nice bloke, good ship-handler, dry sense of humour.

Day 118

Sunday 7 May.  Clear sunny day, turning to sunny intervals.  15ºC.  Wind Force 3 from N.  Sea, Calm.  Position at noon: 48deg 15.8N  5deg 59.9W.  We are just off Ushant, the position where we were on Day 2 of our voyage when the temperature was 12ºC.  So the place has warmed up just three degrees in four months.  Hmmm.  Must go online and turn on the central heating to get that house warmed up for Mrs Shacklepin.

Our last day at sea of The Grand Adventure, that has lasted three months and twenty nine days.  Oh my poor head.  Shouldn’t have had that brandy,  I believe the memsahib was feeling the effects too, groaning about firewater and having packed away the Paracetemol.  There will be no more of that nonsense in Melbury, where we will, hereinafter, lead a sober, restrained and chaste life.

The day dawned with the early morning sun pouring through our cabin window and glistening on a calm sea.  It is one of the many things we will miss.  The walk across the upper deck on the way to breakfast was somewhat more bracing than it had been off Muscat, and Jane was seen to clutch her bosoms and heard to mutter about a cardigan again.  Truly, we are coming home.

We attended our last onboard church service in the Royal Court Theatre, which was conducted by the Deputy Captain and included the usual hearty hymns.  Of a previous church service I remarked on a ‘first’ being the applause for the choir; this time we had another ‘first’ in the form of a woman who came in and barged along our row three quarters of the way through the service.  Everyone was astonished (the theatre was far from full) and I would like to think, in Christian charity, that she was just a poor tardy sheep who was returning to the flock.  It turned out, however, that she was a passenger who wanted to get a plumb seat in good time for the next serial in the theatre, in 40 minutes’ time.  She certainly didn’t join in with what was left of the service, and she remained when it all ended.  “…as we forgive those who trespass against us…’. God, give me strength.

My last lecture of the voyage was by our civil engineer, this time on the subject of floating structures.  Jane declined to attend.  He started with a description of the construction and principles of Mulberry Harbour which was, of course, used for the D Day landings, then he moved on to explain how the same principles were used to construct a new jetty at Weston Mill Lake at HM Naval Base, Devonport.  This last was a bit of a revelation as, with typical naval officer’s ignorance, I had not cottoned on that the jetty was new (a jetty is a jetty is a jetty) despite the fact that it opened in 1989, when I re-entered the Service.  The pier was prefabricated ashore in sections at Weston Mill then floated off and sunk in a pre-dredged channel in the lake.  The sections were then joined together and a services tunnel added to the top, with a roadway on top of that, to form the jetty.  The section of Weston Mill Lake north of the new jetty was then reclaimed using dredged material from Plymouth Sound.  A similar approach was used to build a floating concrete jetty – a pontoon – for submarines at Faslane, and a tethered floating dock for submarines in the same area.

Well, I suppose you would like to know if we enjoyed the sea trip and was it all worthwhile?  A resounding ‘yes’ to both.  It has been an absolute treat from beginning to end.  True, there have been a few niggles and frustrations, and I have been tempted to give several fellow passengers a Jonah’s lift in the course of the two voyages, but we wouldn’t have missed this for the world.  We were made to feel really special from the moment we stepped onboard in Southampton, and the treatment continued throughout.  We now return fatter, slightly browner, and better educated than when we left.  Also, my cynicism regarding my fellow man now knows no bounds.  Would we go on another cruise?  Again, ‘yes’ we would, though we would stick with Princess Grill in future in order to get just that little bit of extra service, exclusivity and space.  There are so many things we would do differently if we went again, based on the lessons we have learnt.  The main one would be to bring clothes for onboard air conditioning, not for on shore, and to not bring so many.  We would also not go for such a long time if we had the chance in future: two weeks maximum.  Of course, on this occasion we had no choice regarding the duration, as our aim was not to take a cruise, but to take a sea passage to and from Australia.  I think we would still stick with Cunard for the present, as we like the formality and the crucial fact that their cruises can be taken from and to Southampton.  It would be interesting to try the other ships, QUEEN VICTORIA and QUEEN ELIZABETH, which some people say are better laid out.  But if we ever decide to cross the Atlantic then QUEEN MARY 2 will be the one for us; she is solid and as steady as a rock, and she will always be remembered as our First Liner.

As to Australia, it was magnificent: universally friendly people, beautiful country, delicious wine, beer and cider, quaint lovers of skateboards and flip flops, and with novel places to eat!  I hope the Australians appreciated the relief from the hot weather that we brought wherever we went.  Of course, the stay would not have been anything like as enjoyable without the services of the Laura & Derek Travel Agency, which provided food, wine, lodging, transport and convivial company throughout the whole seven weeks, and we are so grateful to them for making the whole thing worthwhile.  I hope that they and their car have recovered from the experience by now, and that they are now weaning off the Valium.

And so, dear reader, with sorrow in my heart that concludes my account of the Grand Adventure with its foreign places and strange people, most of the latter from Yorkshire and Lancashire.  I hope that you have enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it.  And if you just deleted it, unread, as it came in then don’t worry: as I said in Blog 9, you will not be tested on the content; rather you will hear the same stories over and over again when next we meet.

That’s all folks……..

Blog 25. Return from Australia. Limassol, Messina and Naples

Day109

Friday 28 April.  At Limassol, Cyprus.  28ºC, Wind Force 2 from S.  Bizarrely, we put the clocks forward last night, bucking the westward trend and throwing into question why we had put them back, just for the transit of the canal, where we did not go ashore.

Cyprus hove into view on a hazy dawn at about 0600: a land of brown, low, undulating hills with Limassol a sprawling mass of modern buildings visible on the shoreline.  My first impression was of a typical Mediterranean port that could just as easily have been the Côte d’Azur as Cyprus: quite pretty, with the characteristic low stone breakwaters topped by small lighthouses.  Our destination was the container port, but it was not an unpleasant berth, though it was a very awkward one.  Imagine, if you will, an almost perfect square, of bottom side only just longer than QM2 and that is to be our berth.  Now imagine a corvette moored on the lower left hand side of the square and a container ship moored on the upper right side of the square   Our approach was from the upper left corner of the square, passing left to right, and we had to enter, turn through 180 degrees, and come alongside at the bottom facing to the left.  It was very tight indeed, and our bows towered over the corvette when we had finished.  Very nifty.

We had an early breakfast and dashed off ashore shortly after 0900.  We had high hopes for Limassol and wanted to get back into the café culture that we had not quite managed in the mysterious East.  We could possibly have walked, but the centre of the town was about two miles away, no pavements were visible, and time was short, so we decided to take the shuttle.  Well, I must say, the traffic was pretty fierce and it took us a while to get through the narrow streets – almost as bad as La Réunion – but we made it in the end and disembarked at the old fishing harbour.  Off we set at the usual Shacklepin Bracing Walk into the inner city.

First impressions were not entirely encouraging.  We knew from our map where the centre of town and the shopping district were, and our route took us through what we thought were some doubtful backstreets, but which later turned out to be main streets.  Graffiti was everywhere, and we were both reminded of Tenerife.  I wonder if the Greeks invented graffiti?  Certainly the Romans suffered from it and it is one of those things that, sadly, has endured over the centuries.  The shopping street, when we found it, was somewhat unprepossessing and we kept wondering if we had the right place.  The usual U-boat box search was implemented and we confirmed that, yes, those were the only shops; not that we wanted to buy anything: we just wanted the centre of town.  The shops weren’t bad: the usual European brands like Topshop, Mango, but no big stores.  Never mind, we decided to just wander around from there and to make our way slowly to the promenade, which was reportedly splendid.   Traffic was pretty awful and getting across roads was difficult because there were few pedestrian crossings.  But we finally found some quiet streets and meandered through them to the coast road.

The coast road was much nicer, hosting a range of modern buildings that housed cafés, bars, contemporary flats and hotels.  We set our course east, and started to walk.  It was very pleasant if you disregarded the traffic roaring by, and we finally found a large Debenhams (did not enter).   There was speculation that Jane could also sense Marks & Spencer nearby – some kind of disturbance in The Force – and there was talk of following the scent, but I managed to discourage her.  After about an hour of heading in the general direction of Israel our tongues were starting to hang out, so we decided to seek a suitable hostelry on the promenade, across the road, as we made our way back.  Now our reputation for searching for an alcoholic drink in a busy port, without quite finding the right bar, is becoming notorious, and comparisons have been made with people who could not organise a drinking party in an establishment designed specifically to brew beer.  We rejected several places because their clientele clearly included people from QM2, and others because they seemed to contain rough men in singlets sitting on plastic chairs.  Eventually, however, we did find a very nice little bistro and we sat at a table under a sunshade, watching the ships at anchor in the offing and drinking half a bottle of the local rosé as we ate a light lunch.  Jane would have had an ice cream too but, unfortunately, by that time we had become invisible – shades of Port Campbell all over again (see Blog 16) – so we moved on. The meal, by the way, was very reasonable: €19.50.  We enjoyed a very pleasant long walk along the promenade in the sunshine and decided that Limassol wasn’t so bad after all, and that the climate was just right.  We were not sure if we would want to come to Cyprus for a holiday; we really had not seen enough of the island to form an opinion.  We did note that the beach was a dirty grey colour – the colour of cement mortar – and that was a bit off-putting, but the sea did look nice and clear.  Jane tried the temperature and declared it ‘not as warm as Bondi Beach’.

Eventually, we made it back to the shuttle stop and repaired back onboard.  We had been walking for five hours or so, so I make that eight miles when you omit the lunch.  We were not inclined to take further exercise.  We put Limassol down as one of our best runs ashore, despite the graffiti and the shabby streets.

We spent the late afternoon on our balcony watching the activity in the port.  A stern-loading vehicle ferry came in and executed a Mediterranean moor on the right hand side of the basin, that is, she dropped both anchors and backed into the jetty, so that she was moored sticking out of the jetty at ninety degrees.  The corvette (which turned out to be Russian) sailed and was towed out into the centre of the basin by tugs, which even Jane thought was very poor: you would never see a Royal Navy frigate do that; she would manoeuvre out under her own steam.  Notwithstanding that, the corvette looked very smart, modern and impressive, with a medium calibre gun (possibly 80mm), a missile silo for vertically launched missiles (type unknown), and a flight deck.  I must look her up when I get back to UK.  A Russian hospital ship called IRTYSH came in to the berth that the corvette had vacated, identifiable by being white, with an orange stripe and orange crosses on the hull.  Heaven knows what she was doing in Cyprus, unless it was something to do with the fighting in Syria.

We were prevented from sailing on time, because of a delay in being granted clearance by the port authorities.  Apparently some paperwork handed over 30 minutes before the planned sailing time had been lost, which does not paint too good a picture of Cyprus as an efficient country.  However, we did sail eventually and the manoeuvres for exit were, if anything, even more difficult:  the Captain now had a large hospital ship under the bow where the corvette had been, and a large ferry sticking out of the jetty on the right with submerged anchor cable projecting beyond his bows.  But he did it beautifully as ever and we gave the customary blasts of the siren as we left Limassol.

Run-down on Limassol?  Skateboarders, NIL; Dog Muck, NIL; Dogs, NIL; Litter Factor, 5%; Graffiti Factor, 90%; Cleanliness, 40%; Irritating Motorcyclists Speeding at Full Volume, 3; Traffic Factor, 60%.  Would we come again?  Maybe.

Day 110

Saturday 29 April.  20ºC, wind Force 3 from W, sea Slight.  Course  W.  On passage to Messina.  Position at 1200C: 34deg 32N 28deg 3E,  roughly 66nm south of the Greek island of Pathos.

We woke late.  I had originally woken at 0500 but was under threat of death if I woke Jane again before her due time, so I forced myself back to sleep again.  Result: a dash to breakfast before it closed.  Never mind, it is Saturday, and we are on holiday.

Our first serial of the day was a talk by our civil engineer lecturer (he of the canals), who was giving a talk about the strategic importance of Gibraltar where he had served as the MOD Civil Engineer.  I thought I knew Gibraltar reasonably well, but our lecturer produced some additional gems that I was not aware of.  In 1951 an ammunition ship, RFA (Royal Fleet Auxiliary) BEDENHAM in the harbour, blew up after a fire, and parts of the ship were blown right over the top of the rock.  The town suffered significant damage, seven people were killed, and resulted in the MOD decreeing that ammunition ships were no longer to be allowed in the harbour; instead, a new jetty would be built on the sheer east side of The Rock, with access to it gained by tunnel.  The downside of this decision was that the new jetty was badly exposed to the seas and it suffered repeated damage, but a solution was eventually found.  A further anecdote was about the airport runway, which runs east-west between the Rock and the border with Spain, the only runway in the world that is crossed by a road, and something of a challenge to aviators because of its narrow approach caused by closed Spanish airspace to the north and the very solid Rock to the south. In the early 1980s, one of our lecturer’s staff reported to him that he had had to fill in a depression in the runway, perhaps a yard in diameter, almost on a daily basis.  It was decided that they would have to excavate below the depression to investigate the cause of the subsidence.  The cause, when it was found, was related to the Rock’s history.  Before WW2 when the airfield was built, a popular pastime was horse racing, and the racecourse was located where the airfield now is.  It was customary, when a racehorse died, to bury it on the racecourse and what the team found by excavation was the skeleton of such a horse, whose rib cage had been supporting that part of the runway for more than forty years.  A final revelation was of hidden cells in the top of the rock, only discovered in 1997. They were created secretly in WW2 with enough food and water supply to last a year, and it was intended that they be manned, in the event of Gibraltar falling to the enemy, to act as a monitoring post.

Serial two was our Islam lecturer, this time talking about the Crusades – an anachronistic term, as it was not used until many centuries later.  As ever, he was good at putting things into context and he started by railing against those in the present day who are apologists for the Crusades.  He made a point of explaining that the Crusades were not so much an attempt to retake Jerusalem and the Holy Land from a peaceful people entrenched in Islam, as a response to the dangerous expansion of Islam and invasion of Christian lands throughout the whole Mediterranean, including Spain and the Balkans.  Although – ultimately – the Crusades failed, the Arabs, even today, regard the attempt as a humiliation and are very sensitive about it.  For this reason, it is a term best avoided, even in the generic non-capitalised, sense when dealing with Muslims.

We loafed all afternoon, trying to recover from the succession of early starts and the long hot day yesterday.  It was noticeable that the steamer chairs on the promenade deck were not quite so occupied as before, though there were still some diehards on the top-most deck trying to get that last tan.  It was reasonably warm if you stayed in the shelter of the superstructure, but if you stood in the wind it was freezing: 19 degrees C.

Before dinner we enjoyed cocktails with two of our fellow guests from the dining room which was, inevitably, a lively precursor to dinner.  We were offered a special deal for some sort of cocktail event tomorrow, five different cocktails and as may of them as you can manage in 45 minutes, all for $25 each.  We declined.  Who on earth can sink back five cocktails and remain standing?  Quite a few people, one assumes.

Day 111

Sunday 30 April.  18ºC.  Overcast. Wind Force 6 from W. Sea, Slight/Moderate.  Position at noon:  35 49N 20 46E.

We awoke to a grey sea, a grey sky, and distinctly cool temperatures.  There would be no difficulty getting a sun bed today if we wanted one.  As we crossed the open deck aft of our cabin on our way to breakfast we did not so much walk as skitter, and I wore a long sleeved shirt, a sweater and trousers.  I don’t think the shorts will be coming out again.

Sunday at sea, with not much to do.  We went to church, of course, and watched the last of the talks on the Crusades (head is still buzzing), but after that nothing was scheduled.  With parts of the upper deck out of bounds in an increasing wind, we certainly wouldn’t be taking a bracing walk. In the end we decided to just read our books.

Chatting to seasoned cruisers who have been onboard the other Cunard ships, we have discovered that the arrangements for Grill passengers are different in QUEEN ELIZABETH and QUEEN VICTORIA (they are sister ships with virtually identical layout).  In those ships the Queens Grill and Princess Grill restaurants are side by side on the top deck amidships, linked with the exclusive Grills Lounge, an enclosed outdoor Grills eating area, and a small pool to form an enclosed Grills complex like a sort of a fort on the top deck.  This complex is only accessible if you have the appropriate cabin key, which you fit into a slot in the lift.  Now that is more like it!  If we signed up for that we could avoid having to mix with the hewers of wood and drawers of water from Burnley to the maximum degree. I suppose we might have to see them if we went to the theatre, on a trip or ashore, but we could count that as part of the sightseeing: observing new cultures and  quaint plebeian ways, taking photographs and so on, before retreating back into our ivory tower.  I wonder if we can afford to do a trip in one of those ships?

The sea picked up again in the afternoon and evening, until it was blowing a Force 7 and the ship was pitching a little.  To my surprise, two fellow passengers from an adjacent table came down with seasickness; I didn’t think there was much motion at all.

Day 112

Monday 1 May.  Sunny, 20ºC.  Wind Force 3 from NE. Sea, Slight.  At Messina. 

Continuing our dance of the Hokey Cokey with the timezones, we put our clocks back one hour overnight.  So we are now only one hour ahead of UK.  A week to go before the end of The Grand Adventure.  Oh dear, I feel quite maudlin.

We picked up our pilot at 0630 as we steamed up the northbound channel of the Straits of Messina and, shortly afterwards, we swung sharply to port in a tight curve that took us into the southbound channel and the entrance to Messina harbour.  The island of Sicily – the largest island in the Mediterranean – was just beginning to be lit up by the rising sun, revealing the majestic green hills that surround Messina and (I am fairly sure) Mount Etna smouldering quietly in the background.  A typical Mediterranean port not unlike Limassol, Messina presented a picture from seaward of some fine architecture and prominent and impressive churches, supported by modest low-rise urban sprawl.  It has a long history, having variously been occupied by the Greeks, the Romans, the Saracens, the Normans, the Teutons, the Spaniards and the Neapolitans.  It was also the city where Richard the Lionheart is said to have married Berengaria on his way to the Third Crusade.  The town suffered from a severe earthquake in 1908 when 80,000 people – two thirds of the population – were killed and most of the present buildings, grand though they are, were rebuilt after that time.  The Strait of Messina, 22 miles long, is only 1½ miles wide at its narrowest point, and ferry traffic between Sicily and mainland Italy, via Messina and Villa San Giovanni or Reggio Calabria, is copious and busy.  It is perfectly feasible to build a road bridge across the Strait, and that has been mooted several times, but it is understood that the Mafia has a profitable interest in the ferry trade and that may explain the lack of progress on a bridge.

Our berth was a straightforward one in the sense that it was right on the harbour front in the centre of town, so getting ashore would be easy.  I wondered how the Captain would play it with regard to coming alongside, but soon found out: we entered the harbour, turned left initially, then hard right, pivoting through 180 degrees to come alongside port side to, effectively executing a Williamson Turn in the harbour (see Blog 8) .  That would make our departure much more straightforward, as all we would have to do would be to drive straight out.  

I forgot to mention, by the way, that our arrival was at 15ºC with a brisk north westerly wind blowing offshore.  Jane and I wore fleeces, sweaters and long trousers and still came in half frozen.  Meanwhile, our fellow passengers had sunk to new depths of sartorial style and behaviour: one woman was on deck wearing her pyjamas and a bathrobe, while her husband – for some bizarre reason – wore an anorak and sandals, but with a bath towel wrapped around his waist.  As Jane said, it would have been just as easy to have pulled on a pair of shorts.  Another old boy was up there wearing just a bathrobe and flip flops; sorry to have woken you.   I wondered, for a moment, if we were joining a Shipwreck Party, with everyone wearing what they had on when Abandon Ship was announced.  If I had known, I would have shown up wearing my silk dressing gown, monogrammed slippers and clutching a half-dhobied sock.

After breakfast, we dived ashore with our customary zeal and headed for the cathedral, the Doumo. It was an easy walk that took us up a steep hill and steps to give fine views of the city and the ship.  First impressions of Messina were of a nice Italian city with lovely architecture, all of it totally ruined by filthy streets, litter and yes, you’ve guessed it, graffiti everywhere.  Beautiful old buildings were covered in the stuff; even the trees had it carved into their bark.  It was such a shame.  Litter and dog mess also lay everywhere, even in the decent areas of town.  There seemed to be no escape. Jane wished a local street cleaner a ‘Bon Journo’ and he growled at her, snarling something in Italian that contained the word ‘privacy’; we can only assume that he thought she was taking a picture of him (when, in fact, she was trying to take a picture of a building without him getting in the way).  This was not a welcoming start to a new port.

We found some lovely squares or piazzas, one of which contained an amazing old astrological clock called the Campanile that performed all manner of operations at noon (irreverently, I was reminded of the Guinness Clock that used to be driven round different towns in Britain in the 1960s).  Eventually, we tracked down the main shopping district, which was quite pleasant, with wide tree-lined avenues, reasonable shops, and what appeared to be a regular and modern tram service.  Unfortunately, everywhere was shut, for it was a Public Holiday.  Shades of Tenerife all over again (Blog 1).  We explored for some time, eventually looking for a little café or bar where we could order a coffee and watch the world go by but, of the few places open, most contained fellow guests from QM2 and were full, and the remainder were right next to noisy busy roads and in the shade.  Jane wanted an Italian ice cream (it features high up there in her ambitions, along with penguins, wombats and dolphins), but nowhere seemed to be open.  So we just drifted aimlessly, taking in the local culture and lots of pictures. Finally, more by chance than by any fixed plan, we found ourselves on the harbour front some way astern of QM2.  By unspoken agreement we just drifted back onboard, I took Jane up to the Godiva Chocolate Emporium, and bought her a chocolate sundae.  It proved to be enormous: enough for four people and, of course, she couldn’t finish it.  I had to step in to uphold the family honour.  Never mind, she enjoyed it, though my shirt buttons didn’t.

It had warmed up quite a bit by the time we returned onboard provided you were in the sunshine; in the shade, it remained cool and you sensibly would wear a sweater.  Nevertheless, the sun worshippers were out in force again on the upper deck, trying desperately to make their brown skin black before we reached UK.  We sat out briefly too, but the wind became irritating and we moved off to the Commodore Club, there to read in peace and watch the ever-changing harbour-scape.  I noticed that the wind had veered from the west to the north east, blowing us on to the shore and setting up a dainty little chop on the blue waves of the harbour; perhaps the passage north to Naples will be a lively one.

Sailing from Messina was quite an event and not quite as straightforward as I had envisaged earlier in the day.  Shallow water lay immediately ahead, so we had to move sideways off the berth a fair distance, almost to the outer mole, before moving forward out of the harbour.  Then we had to contend with a three knot current funnelling down the Strait while cutting across to the far side of the channel to be in the correct lane for vessels travelling north.  After that, progress up the remaining stretch of the Strait of Messina was spectacular as we were only about a mile off the coast of Italy, so close that you could hear children’s voices and music and see people on the shore clearly.  The towns looked lovely, some in lovely little bays with fishing boats drawn up on the beach.  They were all joined by a majestic railway and road system that swept along the shore, in and out of mountain tunnels, and across wide viaducts and bridges over the valleys.  It made the Dart Valley Railway look rather tame in comparison.  Finally, off a town called Scilla (I think) we dropped the pilot and entered the Tyrrhenian Sea, setting course for Naples.

Stromboli.  Somehow, even the very name conjures up an image of a vast, powerful beast that slumbers quietly with hidden menace and is best not awakened.  We passed only a mile off the volcanic island on our port side at 1930 and thought it ominous, smouldering and quite threatening in its solitary majesty.  The most active volcano in the world, Stromboli nevertheless has 500 inhabitants on the island.  Heaven knows why they stay or what they do: fishing I imagine.  

Day 113

Tuesday 2 May.  Mostly sunny, 22ºC. Light airs.

We arrived in Naples quietly, and without fuss, at 0630 and moored port side to against the cruise ship terminal.  For once, we didn’t witness it, unless you count watching ‘the view from the bridge’ on the TV.  I have never liked Naples – a dislike dating from my first visit when I was a Midshipman, for reasons long forgotten.

We had booked an excursion to Herculaneum while in Naples, but that was not scheduled until the afternoon so we had the forenoon to see a bit of Naples.  Divesting ourselves of watches, jewellery, iPhones, wallets and purses we duly set off into the city after breakfast.  The port was extremely busy and I counted two other cruise ships and about ten ferries, the latter all Mediterranean moored in the traditional fashion.  Say what you like about the Italians, but they do design some fine looking ships.

Naples proved to be not as bad as I remembered it from 47 years ago, which is progress I suppose.  Three large forts dominated the port and the rest of the city was sprinkled with many churches and domes.  The city was busy, bustling, noisy and faintly chaotic on the roads, but it revealed some beautiful ancient architecture and delightful narrow lanes paved with cobbles.  The inner city had few cars, but instead had hundreds of scooters that weaved their way among the pedestrians in a series of mad homicide missions.  So far so good (if you disregard the near death by scooter).  The downside was that the streets were filthy with litter and dog mess, and every building – even the beautiful medieval ones and the churches – was covered in scrawl.  I realise that I am beginning to sound like a damaged record on the subject, but I promised myself when I started these writings to be as objective as possible and besides, it is only fair to those places that received a slating earlier in the voyage.  What an absolute shame to see this city, the capital of the Kingdom of the Two Cities for 700 years, defaced in such a cavalier fashion.  We never found the main shopping area as we ran out of time, but we did get to appreciate the older parts of town, ‘warts and all’.

The trip to Herculaneum only took about 20 minutes, probably the ideal time for transit to an excursion, and the tour of the ruins proved very worthwhile.  When Vesuvius erupted in AD79 the fallout had a different effect on the two towns, Pompeii and Herculaneum.  

In Pompeii, the town and its people were buried in ash, which later proved to be permeable.  As a result, the town was destroyed and the bodies decomposed inside and left their imprint in the rock, thus forming moulds.  Centuries later, archaeologists were able to fill these moulds with plaster of Paris  and so create the 3-D images of the people who died.  

In Herculaneum, 15 miles away, the situation was different.  There, the fallout was scalding mud and steam that was so hot that the inhabitants were cooked alive, their brains exploding in their skulls (hope you aren’t having a boiled egg for breakfast).  The cooled rock was not permeable, and so there were no imprints of bodies like there were at Pompeii, but the buildings were almost perfectly preserved, even including the tiled roofs.  The woodwork and beams etc were charred, but otherwise intact.  Also unique to Herculaneum is that it is still inhabited, that is to say, the modern town stands right next to the ruins, and there are buried ruins still under it.  Naturally, the old Herculaneum is at a lower level than the modern town and you descend into it, but also the old town is built on a slope that leads down to where the beach once was.  The site was excavated in the mid 1700s, which must have been no mean feat in those days as it was buried under 16 metres of volcanic rock.  Many of the buildings were amazingly preserved, complete with murals and mosaics and – yes – ancient graffiti.  The irony of the situation has not escaped me.  I mentioned that no bodies survived to the present day, but some skeletons have.  Trying to escape the advancing cloud of ash and steam, some people rushed to the beach to try to escape by sea.  Unfortunately, the wind was onshore and Roman craft did not have the ability to tack against the wind, so they were all driven back and people took shelter in the arches on the docks used to house goods.  There they were boiled to death, and their skeletons remain, the skulls broken open like burst eggs in evidence of how they died.  We actually found it a bit upsetting.

The temperature was ‘just right’ during our visit, with pleasant sunshine and a feeling like an English summer.  We were amazed, yet again, by the number of lame and unfit people who had come on the tour despite the warnings.  The going was very steep and uneven and several of them found it very difficult, with some baling out half way through.  It would be nice to say that they were plucky and determined to make the most of the trip despite their disability; however, judging by their comments I think it was rather the case that they hadn’t bothered to read the brief.  In the same vein, many people hadn’t bothered to read the brief about not bringing rucksacks and several came equipped to do the Pennine Way (see Blog 9); of course, it being Italy, no-one stopped them at the gate and they got away with it.

All in all, we enjoyed Herculaneum and got a lot out of it. We think it was probably better than Pompeii (which is much bigger) and our guide was very good.  A busy, but worthwhile day.

The ship sailed at 1900, making gentle sternway into the harbour before doing the usual 180 degree turn, blasting the siren, and heading for the open sea.  The departure drew no interest at all from the shore: cruise ships?   They are ten a penny.

Jane and I have now started a series of evening aperitif trials, purely in the interest of furthering our knowledge.  Last night Jane had a Margarita and I had a Kir Royale; tonight, Jane had a Honeysuckle Daiquiri and I had a Mai Tai.  The latter would have done credit to Del Boy and I was faintly embarrassed to be seen drinking it.  Fortunately, it did not include a parasol and a sparkler, but it came close.  We will try to be a little more conservative tomorrow night.

So that was Naples.  Onward to Lisbon.

Day 114

Wednesday 3 May. Clear skies. 18ºC.  Wind Force 3 from S.  Sea, Slight.  Sardinia 20nm on the starboard beam 0730.

A sea day to recover from all that exhausting touring and those cocktails.  There was a good range of lectures and concerts so, once again, we had to map out the day in order to be in the right place at the right time.  The first lecture was about Pompeii and Herculaneum so very topical.  Unfortunately the lecturer, a female archeologist, adopted a mumsy school-teacher style of delivery which irritated after a while; it was rather as if she was teaching a bunch of ten year olds.  As it was, we had to leave early in order to get a place at Serial 2, a talk by a Tornado pilot who was shot down in the first Iraq War.

He gave an excellent talk, entirely without script or lectern, and had a dramatic smooth delivery.  I wondered just how much he would be able to say on the subject of ‘flew on mission, got shot down, was beaten up during interrogation’, but he managed to inject a great deal of action, passion and endurance into the whole story.  Interestingly, he said that he suffered no trauma or PTSD as a result of the ordeal, but the one thing he continues to regret is that he failed in his mission (he had to jettison his bombs).  Actually, I can quite understand that as it is a matter of professional pride.  The other thing that he said he learnt from the experience was never to be afraid of anything again: after that, what else could anyone do to him?

A light lunch was followed by an excellent classical concert by a new guitarist, who played some beautiful pieces – mostly of Spanish authorship.  What better a way to spend a Wednesday afternoon.  Life in Melbury will be difficult after this.

The final lecture of the day was a talk on cruising in the 1950s and 1960s: an age when those who could afford a cruise had turn ups on their trousers, could hold their knives and forks properly, and got out of the bath to use the lavatory.  It was a pleasant light look at the history of cruising, concentrating on Cunard’s liner CARONIA in the 1950s: the first liner built specifically for the cruise market and capable of circumnavigating the world with minimum shore support.  She was also designed with air conditioning from the start – a rare treat at that time.  In those days there was very little in the way of entertainment other than the cinema once a week and the odd game of bingo.  The restaurants on CARONIA seemed quite small and narrow and the cabins seemed rather dated by today’s standards.  But then, she was built in the post war austerity period and only carried 600 passengers.

I think I will send this off now, and leave the last blog for Lisbon and the final leg home.

Blog 24. Return from Australia. Aqaba, Petra and Suez Canal

Day 106

Tuesday 25 April.  At Aqaba, Jordan. 30ºC.  Wind Force 7 from NNE.

Crikey, what a night! We were kept awake for most of the time with the noise of the wind, howling outside and battering the balcony door.  It sounded as if we were in a hurricane yet,  paradoxically, there was no ship’s motion at all.  All of the upper deck was out of bounds because of the high relative wind from dead ahead, which I would estimate at 60 knots.  Given the circumstances, we did not watch the arrival at Aqaba at 0800, but went to breakfast instead; this was our big day for Petra, and we were departing at 0900.

Aqaba is the only port in Jordan and stands right at the top of the Gulf of Aqaba, the right hand of the V-shaped fork at the top of the Red Sea, the left fork being the Gulf of Suez.  A town dating back to the time of the Phoenicians, it is famous for being, inter alia, the port taken from the Turks by Lawrence of Arabia and the Arab armies, the Turks believing that a landward attack was impossible.  When we arrived, it was a port like many of the others: not hugely attractive, no passenger terminal, and fairly busy, but the bulk of merchant shipping was in the commercial port slightly to the south east, where phosphates comprise Jordan’s main export.  Our subsequent coach drive through the city confirmed the impression of a fairly shabby Arab town, with no decent architecture to speak of and not much in its favour.  Apparently, Aqaba is popular among Jordanians as a weekend winter resort, and is becoming more popular in the tourist industry because of its fine beaches and coral reefs; I’m afraid I saw nothing in the town to make me want to go there again, but  I should emphasise that that is just an impression from the window of a transiting coach.

There was the usual jostling to get on the bus, but that is so commonplace that I make only passing reference to it now.  We had a two hour journey ahead of us to get to Petra – 80 miles, taking us across the desert and over a mountain range: food for comment in itself.  The first stage took us across the Wadi Rum, a desert of black, purple-coloured mountains that did not have the traditional sand that you might expect of a desert.  Instead, we saw vast tracts of rubble and rocks, rather like an enormous building site, with remarkable rock formations punctuating the landscape.  Here and there were Bedouin encampments – usually just one tent coloured black and white, with a few goats around it.  Heaven knows what the goats ate: there was very little, if anything, in the way of vegetation.  The desert was covered in litter.  We were quite astonished.  There were plastic bags and disused cans and bottles everywhere, with discarded tyres (literally) thrown in.  At times it was as if we were driving across a municipal rubbish tip, with the odd Gypsy camp included.  Taken with the geological mountainous backdrop, it was all a peculiar contrast.  The first road was a dual carriageway with several police and customs checkpoints along it, and the surface was not always in particularly good condition.  It had been the original trade route road from Damascus to Egypt and was still used extensively, which might explain the poor state of repair.  Service stations and rest stops occurred occasionally, the latter usually comprising a large lay-by with a corrugated steel shack, a few plastic chairs and a Coca Cola machine.  Surprisingly, the single carriageway road that we transferred to was in better condition.  It was virtually traffic-free, and wound its way around and up and up, seemingly forever.  Funnily enough, the winding undulating road and landscape reminded me of Dartmoor, but with sand instead of greenery.  We stopped at a ‘comfort’ stop, a two storey building on a high bluff rather like an old-fashioned road house in outward appearance; inside was a souvenir shop, a small cafeteria selling coffee and sweets, and a surprisingly decent lavatory. It had spectacular views of the surrounding countryside through large plate-glass windows (yes, the lavatory), and the air outside was distinctly chilly.  Such towns and villages that we bypassed came across as shabby, sprawling, single or two-storey off-white houses on the hillside, with no obvious centre or market place, and rubbish strewn all around.  A bit like The Little Town in Bethlehem, but set on a building site with disused car tyres and discarded washing machines.  

Finally, we reached the approaches to Petra, descending steeply down a narrow twisting road through suburban sprawl, with sheer drops on either side, into the town of Wadi Musa (The Valley of Moses).  We disembarked in the town outside the Petra Palace Hotel and walked to the main entrance of the ‘park’ where Petra stands.  To Mrs Shacklepin’s relief, it was warm, but not hot, now that we were off the mountains.

The origin of the hidden city of Petra is not known, but it was once the capital of the kingdom of the Nabateans, an Arab tribe that moved from Arabia in the 6th century BC.  From the city and fortress, the Nabateans commanded the trade routes from the east and Arabia and grew affluent accordingly, with the kingdom extending as far north as Damascus.  The Romans took the the fortress with difficulty in AD106, but the city continued to prosper until AD363, when it was partially destroyed by an earthquake from which it never recovered.  The Crusaders held a fortress there, but then the city fell into obscurity until it was discovered by a Swiss explorer in 1812.  Its location remained known, but the site was not really exploited until early in the 20th century. 

We entered Petra by a 1.2 km-long, narrow descending chasm (known as the Siq) that was sometimes only ten feet wide.  Pinkish purple cliffs, 30m high, towered on either side of the Siq, demonstrating how the fortress survived so many centuries (the Romans only conquered it by cutting off the water supply).  You could hire a horse and cart to take the trip to the bottom, or a donkey, or – indeed – a camel.  However, they all looked filthy and stank (and that was just the drivers), so we opted out of that.  Besides, we went with our guide, who had come on the bus with us, and he explained the key features.  The downside was that we walked at the pace of the slowest and, believe me, that was slow: several people had walking sticks and one had a three-pronged walker.  Heaven knows what they were thinking of, as we had been warned that the trek was an arduous one over rough terrain in stifling heat (and it was).  Every now and again we had to dive to one side as a cart came rattling down or up and Jane nearly got flattened by one at one point because we all dived to the left and she dived to the right.  We were also pestered the whole way down by men selling silver bracelets or boys selling information books, and it became a bit of a  nuisance.  But it was a fascinating journey, sometimes in sunshine, but mostly in shadow, with the sides of the chasm towering high above us.  The ground underfoot was mostly rubble, though there was the occasional stretch of paving.  There were shrines and carvings and caves (tombs) all the way down, remnants of a religion pre-dating Christianity and Islam, and channels in the side that once supplied the city’s water supply.

Eventually and suddenly, the chasm opened up to reveal a huge edifice of Corinthian columns and a portico, an amazing façade mounted by friezes and figures known as The Treasury.  If you are a fan of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade then this is the building that you see in the final scenes.  You could not go in to The Treasury, and it is believed to be not a treasury at all, but a tomb dating from the 1st Century BC.  This area was absolutely heaving with people, camels, donkeys, horses, carts and bric-a-brac stalls in the sunshine, but it was not the end of the journey, for the street (for want of a better name) continued onward past amphitheatres, colonnades, caves and temples.  We split off on our own at that point and explored further, but we had to be back at the top for lunch at 1430 and, basically, we ran out of time.  If we had not descended as a party, and had done our own thing (as we usually do), we might well have been able to crack the whole place; but our guide had said at the beginning that you needed at least three days to give justice to the whole site.  We found out afterwards that 6,000 people were at the site that day – rather too many for comfort.

Anyway, we set off back at the usual Shacklepin Hearty Pace and, boy, what a slog that was in the heat despite the fact that we were in shade for half the time.  Theoretically the Siq was only 1.2km long, but it felt like twice that.  We went through three bottles of water on the way and the sweat was pouring off us by by the time we reached the entrance again, with auxiliary hearts jogging on cold suction, ready to kick in at a moment’s notice.  Do you know, we passed some bloke struggling with a walking frame at The Treasury; it was hard enough to walk, never mind stagger.  He was plucky, I’ll say that, but also foolhardy.

We had lunch in the hotel where we had left the bus and it was good: a mixed buffet of salad or hot dishes, and three courses.  We would have liked to have tried something traditionally Jordanian, and the roast lamb with spiced rice came close to it, I suppose, but otherwise the dishes were European: beef stroganoff, chicken, pasta and vegetables.  Two of the puddings were Jordanian, and we tried both; they were very nice.

Then came the worst bit.  Having eaten lunch, on time as scheduled at 1430, we had to hang around until 1700 before departure.  We could have used that time usefully in Petra, but instead sat around in the hotel lobby, bored out of our skulls.  Hey ho.

As you can imagine, the two-hour return journey seemed to go on forever and we arrived at the ship, literally as the sun was setting, completely shattered and covered in dust.  What a day!  We sailed for Suez at 2100, in the dark, an event that we watched from the comfort of our dinner table.

Day 107

Wednesday 26 April.  Hazy sunshine, 22ºC, wind Force 7 from NW.  Position at 1300B: 28deg 46.8N 32deg 57.4E.  We are roughly halfway up the Gulf of Suez.  Clocks were retarded yet again overnight, making us one hour ahead of UK.

I glanced out of the window at 0630 and saw yet another lively ocean, with foam blowing in streaks from the crests of waves and some spindrift.  Yes, that ties in with ‘Near Gale’ on the Beaufort Scale and (later) my assessment was confirmed by the weather report on the television.  A glance at the Jane Thermometer on the balcony table showed a temperature of only 20ºC, and this produced a squeak from her recumbent form, exceeded only by a louder squeak, later, when she went on the Internet and discovered that Melbury was at 2ºC.  Yes, the honeymoon period is over, and I don’t mean that Jane is divorcing me after thirty five years of mental cruelty: the temperature is becoming markedly temperate, and we will never return to the heady figures of 40 degrees.  The fleeces will be coming out before long.

The first lecture of the day was Part 3 of the one about ISIS.  In contemplating a report on this lecture, I am reminded of the quote by Winston Churchill that is (or used to be) printed as a foreword in JSP101, the Joint Services Writing Manual, in the chapter on writing a brief: 

“Pray state, this day, on one side of a sheet of paper, how the Royal Navy is being adapted to meet the conditions of modern warfare”

Trying to summarise our lecturer’s extensive, knowledgeable and highly complex talk on ISIS in one paragraph is damned difficult.  However, it was very interesting and highly pertinent, though our heads were buzzing by the time we had left the theatre.  The gist was that the Middle East has loyalties on tribal, historical and religious lines, not the geographical frontiers that were created after WW1.  Iraq, for example, was created as a British protectorate and the British favoured the Sunni minority as administrators and ‘ruling class’ over the majority Shiite population.  After Saddam (secular, but broadly Sunni) was deposed there was a backlash from the majority Shiite population and the deposed Sunnis, including élite army officers, went on to form ISIS.  Conversely, Syria and Lebanon became French protectorates, and the French favoured the minority Shiite population as the ‘ruling class’ over the majority Sunni population, hence the seeds of the fighting there now.  So ISIS is Sunni, and they see themselves as fighting the heretics in the form of Shiites.  And, of course, us.  One interesting fact is that the Koran was dictated to Mohammed by the Angel Gabriel and, technically, may not be written down or translated from Arabic.  Young (non Arab) Muslims are taught the Koran (in Arabic) by rote, without understanding it; promising candidates are singled out  and the Koran interpreted for them by Imams, and it is there that the danger lies, for they give their own interpretations.  The one cheerful thing that we took away, was that these people are totally irrational and have no firm goals, unlike the IRA in its day.  It is therefore impossible to reason or negotiate with them.  Just the thing you want to hear as you enter the Suez Canal.

Jane was reprimanded by some oink for not disinfecting her hands as we entered the restaurant at lunchtime.  She didn’t do it because she had just washed her hands after using the lavatory, one minute before.  We thought at first that the bloke was joking, but he wasn’t.  Jane was most indignant and tried to explain but, as I said to her afterwards, she did not owe an explanation to anyone, let alone to some obstreperous blob of lard who could do with a few lessons on healthy eating as well as good manners. What a cheek!  

The final lecture of the day was about the history of the Spitfire.  For whatever reason, Jane did not attend, preferring, instead, to examine the deckhead of our cabin from a horizontal position.  It was a revealing lecture, not least because Supermarine had considerable production difficulties with the aircraft right up to the outbreak of war, and the government almost abandoned the project before problems were resolved.  Interestingly, despite the Spitfires’s iconic image and its success, the Hurricane shot down far more aircraft in the Battle of Britain than the Spitfire.  The Spitfire also suffered teething problems when it was introduced, for example it could only be started with ground support equipment (later resolved by introducing cartridge starting) and, as first supplied, did not have a rear view mirror (difficult when reversing).  Initially, the engine used to cut out when the aircraft dived sharply and this fault was traced to the g forces on the carburettor float.  A permanent feature was that the radiator could only cool the engine above 120 mph, so the pilot had only six seconds to get the aircraft up to flying speed before the engine overheated.  Finally, the term, ‘the full nine yards”, in common usage today, referred to the length of the cartridge belt on the aircraft:  to give something ‘the full nine yards’ meant that the pilot had emptied his entire magazine into an enemy aircraft (you knew that already didn’t you – well one of you did).  All in all, a good boys’ talk.

The good news announced by the Captain is that we are now going to stop in Messina, rather than just transiting the Straits.  I was last there as a Cadet in 1970 in HMS SKEGNESS.  I wonder if it has changed much?  I suppose those girls are grandmothers now. 

We approached the anchorage at Suez at 1800 just as the sun was setting, and let go the anchor at 1830.  There were ships everywhere, also waiting for passage through the canal and I counted about fifty.  In keeping with the rest of the day, it was distinctly cool on deck, especially with a northerly wind blowing, and Jane and I wore fleeces.  I understand that we are weighing at about 0430, but we won’t be up for that.  We may, however, open the curtains at dawn to see the beginnings of the transit and we will certainly monitor the rest.  I believe the complete passage takes about twelve hours.

Formal dinner tonight and I had escargots in garlic butter followed by grilled halibut.  We were going to watch Lawrence of Arabia at the cinema, an apposite extravaganza that would last 220 minutes and take us into the wee small hours.  However, the projector packed in before the film could start, so we went to bed instead (secretly, somewhat relieved).

Day 108

Thursday 27 April. Hazy sunshine, occasional fog. 15ºC. Wind Force 3 from NNW.  Suez Canal, heading north.

I have covered the history of the Suez Canal earlier, so there is not much to add.   It is 120 miles long and must be transited at eight knots to minimise the erosion of the canal sides.  There are three lakes in the middle, Lake Timsah and Great Bitter Lake and Small Bitter Lake, and – unlike the Panama Canal – no locks.  The canal passes through Egypt on both sides, with fertile land to the west and the Sinai Desert (and some towns) to the east.  There are several ferry crossings (think the Dartmouth Higher Ferry without the cables), a high road bridge, and a railway swing bridge.  Convoys operate on a 24-hour cycle and start from both ends in the early morning.  They are synchronised to ensure that they pass at the ‘dual carriageway’ section, roughly half way along.

We were awakened at 0300 by the vibration of the ship’s propellers and somebody’s cabin door slamming.  Just as I turned over, a few more cabin doors slammed and it became apparent that we were weighing, with some inconsiderate fools keen to watch the process in the dark.  Even in daylight there would be nothing to see.  As a dim light filtered through the curtains at about 0500, thumps, bangs and footsteps could be heard on the walkway above our cabin where other spectators were, clearly, assembling.  I peered out of the window to see desert going past a short distance away.  We were in the Suez Canal.

Sleep was impossible with the Wigan & District Clog Dancing Team practising above my head, so I got up and shaved and went onto the balcony.  And promptly dived back in again.  It was freezing out there: well, 16ºC with a brisk northerly breeze, but that was cold enough.  Jane decided to get up too and so, dressed in long trousers, sweaters and fleeces we went on the upper deck.  Quite a few people were already there (we would never have guessed) just watching the desert on both sides roll by.  As far as the eye could see there was flat land and, ahead, the canal ran arrow-straight into the distance.  We were third in a convoy of ships that stretched far behind us in the mist; I counted ten ships before poor visibility obscured the remainder.  The canal was fenced or walled off about 100m inland, and here and there were military watchtowers all the way up, all of them manned.  Barracks appeared and went on a regular basis and it soon became clear that there was a strong military presence all along the canal zone. Whether this was to protect the canal from terrorists or from a surprise attack by the Israelis was not clear: though all the watchtowers faced inwards (suggesting the former), there were also stockpiles of military equipment and the component parts of Bailey bridges (suggesting the latter).  

The landscape changed as we continued north and, of course, it did warm up to the high 20s.  In general, there were more towns on the western side, and the land was more verdant.  The eastern side mainly remained as desert in the form of high dunes, though it had a road network and the odd industrial complex was visible in the distance.  The towns seemed quite homogenous two-story blocks of flats, all of the same height and colour with only the odd mosque to break the skyline.  Occasionally we passed a poorer town, which had the standard Arab house of two levels, with a roof terrace and sometimes a walled garden, all looking a bit shabby.  Eventually, at about 1400, we reached Port Said.  We did not enter the port itself but took the bypass straight into the Mediterranean.  On went the power, and away we went for Limassol.

The cinema was showing yet another modern(ish) film, Sully with Tom Hanks, so we trotted down at 1700 to watch it.  It was a good film, perhaps padded out a bit and plodding at times, but worth watching.  As I’m sure you know it is about the airline captain who managed to land his aircraft on the Hudson River after both engines were disabled by a bird strike – the bulk of the film covered the aftermath, when the authorities tried to blaming him for losing the aircraft.  

Energised by the break in routine of watching a film, Jane declared that we should continue with the off-piste behaviour by having an aperitif in the Chart Room.  We had two gins and tonic as the dark sea rolled by, and took it as a celebration for leaving Arabia and The East.  It had been nice visiting these exotic places, but it would be nice to get back to European culture and moderate temperatures again.  The gin must have been high-octane Gordon’s, because Jane was positively effervescent afterwards as we bounced into dinner.  We entered the double doors of the Britannia Restaurant, with its huge mural of a liner on the after bulkhead, and – arm in arm – descended the majestic curved staircase into the busy well of the room like Leonardo Di Caprio and Kate Winslet.  Smiling benignly to all and sundry, we threaded our way through the tables to the small annex where we eat, I turned left into our dining room, and Jane continued straight on into the galley, much to he astonishment of the assembled waiting staff.  She did come out faster than she went in, giggling inanely and complaining about the strength of the gin.  And that was before we had the wine with the meal.

And so to bed, totally zonked after being up since 0500.  So that was Arabia.

Blog 23. Return from Australia. Muscat and the Red Sea

Day 101

Thursday 20 April.  At Muscat, Oman. Clear blue sky. 38ºC. Wind Force 2 from W.

We entered Muscat at 0600 and the temperature on our balcony was already 35ºC and climbing.  The port, Port Sultan Qaboose in the district of Muttrah, was very different from Dubai, being smaller and set in craggy hills and the shadow of the Western Al Hajar mountains.  It rather reminded us of Madeira, with its mountainous backdrop, but in this case the hills were not verdant, but bare granite-like rocks, and that gave the whole setup a dramatic volcanic or moonscape appearance.  The port had the usual container terminal but, compared to most other places that we have visited, was relatively small and there was only one small cargo ship alongside.  Two large private yachts were already in the harbour when we arrived, and I presume that at least one belonged to the local Head of State as it had two funnels, was a substantial size, and had ‘Said’ written on the side.   Another cruise ship, SEABOURNE ENCORE, followed us in and secured on the jetty opposite, so tourists would be swamping the town throughout the day.  The port area comprised very pleasant low-rise white buildings and a few hotels, a souk, and a long promenade, making it quite attractive and unassuming. The rest of the city was tucked around a corner in the adjacent valleys and we never got to see it close to.  What we could see of it from the sea looked lovely: fine buildings, forts and palaces in sandstone or white, with few structures higher than four storeys; several small craggy islands, with ancient forts on them, offshore.

Muscat is the capital of the Sultanate of Oman, the current Sultan being Qaboose bin Said.  It is an important port in the Gulf of Oman, attracting foreign traders and settlers.  Since the discovery of oil and the accession of the present Sultan in 1970 there has been rapid economic development and heavy investment in infrastructure, supported by a vibrant economy.  My impression was that it was no Dubai, but I understand that the local Omanis contribute to society at all levels rather than being the indigenous élite, and this gives the city a more inclusive down-to-earth feel: a sort of Prosecco after vintage Champagne.  The Sultan is considered to be very competent and sound.

Our intention was simply to walk ashore in the time-honoured manner, and to do that as soon as possible before the heat got worse.  However, it became immediately apparent, when we viewed the jetty from above, that it would be far too hot to try such an adventure:  it seemed far hotter than Dubai, and even a half mile walk would not be a good idea.  A shuttle bus service was being provided and we could see the bus drivers in their long Arab gowns (cannot remember what they are called) sitting on a tartan rug in the shade between two buses, having a tea (or maybe a coffee) party, complete with pots and tiny cups.  You don’t get that with Stagecoach.  

So, immediately after breakfast, we left the ship and piled onto a shuttle in air-conditioned comfort.  Shortly, we set off down the jetty, down to a roundabout, turned left, then stopped.  There was a hearty conversation between the driver and someone else for about five minutes, then we set off again.  We drove through the port entrance security gates, where a further conversation was held, then onto a roundabout, did a circuit, and went back into the port again heading back to the ship.  Being British, none of us commented.  We then turned right and drove along a pier, met water, and did a three point turn and came back off the pier and continued towards the ship.  At the next pier we turned right again and headed for the other cruise ship, but we didn’t stop there; instead we went to a large building bearing the title, ‘Passenger Terminal’.  There, the driver alighted and appeared to have yet another conversation with someone, this time coming back with a piece of paper held high, like Neville Chamberlain after Munich, which, presumably, was a map.  This, I thought, is like trying to find your way out of Pompey Dockyard on a Friday lunchtime with half the caissons out.  Round we went again and headed for the main port security gate, passed through, negotiated the roundabout outside, but this time we spun off like a space rocket leaving Earth’s gravitational pull on a mission to Mars and headed into town.  A short journey later, we were stopping at the souk, with QM2 and the rest of the port clearly visible half a mile away.  It is a mystery to me how the driver could get lost in such a straightforward journey or, for that matter, why he could not just follow the other buses (at least three passed us as we toured the jetties and wharfs).

Well we had a good walk along the promenade and briefly took in the souk (seems just like the day before yesterday that we had last visited one) and the shops on the harbour front.  The area was very clean and very picturesque, the promenade being laid with colourful and spotless ceramic tiles, rather than paving slabs.  A medieval fort stood high above the harbour, and we could have walked up to it, but the heat was intense and Jane – to my amazement – declared it far too hot to do anything, and felt that we should return to the ship.  I never thought I would see the day, though I think the comment was made once earlier in the voyage.  So we hopped on the first shuttle going back, along with a bus load of other hot and bothered passengers.  We made sure that this bus was not the same as the one that brought us out: we didn’t want to end up in some distant oasis where the Nomadic tribes would pay 20 camels for a strawberry-blonde white woman, knocked down from 25 because she was a slightly used model.

Through the port security gates we went, up the road, then turned right for the other cruise ship.  I felt that I was experiencing déja vu.  Round we went and stopped at the passenger terminal building.  “Does anyone want duty-free shop?”, says the driver in broken English, and a mob burst off the bus and shot into the building, leaving about four of us still onboard.  We then drove round the corner and waited by the other door of the building.  Jane and I were all for getting off then and walking the rest of the way, but suddenly the shop door opened and the passengers all trooped back out and onto the bus, chuntering as only the British can do.  It turns out that the duty-free shop was shut, so they had entered the building, toured both floors, then come back out again.  Finally, we made it back to the ship.  There is not much adventure that you can create with a bus, 30 people, and an Arab port, but we had managed it.

Jane had not slept well last night (sore shoulder, noisy air conditioning and vibrating ship – none of which I had experienced) so, after lunch, she took the opportunity to count camels jumping over a fence.  I gave her a bolster pillow to cuddle as a poor substitute for me.  When she woke up, she had a touch of diarrhoea and felt duty bound to report it in case it was norovirus.  So that was us for the chop then, I thought, but it turned out it was OK: only Jane would be in purdah.

A knock on the door heralded the Decontamination Team wearing disposable aprons, overshoes and masks and bearing sprays and mops  Nothing to worry about then.  They thoroughly cleaned the entire cabin, especially the surfaces and the bathroom, and changed all the sheets, towels and bedding.  Jane was given a diet sheet for 24-hour confinement and they enforced it too; when I tried to order room service for myself, they knew we had a Contaminated Person in the cabin and initially said I could only order off the slop diet.  I had to explain that the proper food was for me; the Sick Person would be having the Clear Chicken Broth with Crackers.  It was all very impressive, though slightly embarrassing.  I think the red cross painted on the cabin door was the worst bit; that and the handbell that she had to ring whenever anyone came near the cabin.  I haven’t told her yet about the hairy sailors with deck scrubbers and lime who will come and scrub her down, lest it revive old fantasies, as yet undiscovered.

The room service tray, when it came, was a sight to behold.  Out went the delicate Cunard Wedgwood china, the crystal glasses, the stainless steel cutlery and the large cotton napkins; in came paper plates and cups, light plastic bowls and cutlery, and paper serviettes.  Clearly, after we had finished, the entire tray would be incinerated, with the possible inclusion of the waiter too.  Trust me, you haven’t lived until you try to eat a Mediterranean Vegetable Enchilada with a thin plastic fork and drink a South African Merlot from a paper cup. I broke the fork at an early stage and had to eat the rest by hand.  Jane declined to comment on the sensible Clear Chicken Broth, drunk from a plastic bowl with a tiny plastic spoon, other than to say, “Where’s my crackers?”

Darken Ship from 2300 tonight, and for the next three nights, as part of the anti piracy measures:  cabin blackout curtains closed, no balcony light, and reduced upper deck lighting.  This is to prevent impairing the lookouts’ night vision rather than to reduce the ship’s visual signature.

Day 102

Friday 21 April. At sea, off the SE coast of Oman, course 214, speed 23 knots. 29ºC. Wind Force 3/4 from W. Sea, Slight.  Position at 0800C: 19deg 14N  58deg 35E.

The patient spent a comfortable night having slept from 2100 to 0700 without a murmur.  Boy, that girl can put in the zeds, I have never seen anyone else like it; she could compete with a koala any day.  Other than being ‘a bit loose’ as one could delicately describe it, Jane seems fine (must remember to tell that genie that when I said I wanted a loose woman as one of my wishes, this was not what I meant).

It is a fine sunny day with a little haze, but the relative wind across the deck is quite high and it is buffeting the superstructure quite noticeably.  The higher parts of the upper deck, including the one outside our cabin, are out of bounds and even the balcony is a bit uncomfortable because of the noise.  Part of the anti piracy plan is to transit the risk area at high speed, and this ship is well placed to do it as she has a top speed of 29.5 knots.  Currently we are doing 23 knots, but we are still relatively safely about 50nm off the Omani coast; we may pick up more speed when we pass into Yemeni waters at 0130 tomorrow morning.  It is anticipated that we may meet HMS MONMOUTH, a Type 23 frigate, on patrol at 1900 or so, so watch this space (though it will be after sunset, so maybe not much to see).

I attended a lecture on ‘Why Care About The Past’ by a Senior Lecturer in History.  Wow, she was a dainty little blonde piece: not a bit like you expect for an academic.  Thank heavens I can take a disinterested view of these lectures and soak up the content without being distracted by superficial appearances.  It was a very good talk that highlighted ignorance of history on the part of senior politicians, and gave examples of the myths that we hold about the subject.  Examples of the former included the statement by Tony Blair that, in the Blitz, the USA was the only nation that stood by us (our Dominions and the exiled conquered nations of Europe stood by us in 1940, the one notable nation that didn’t was the neutral USA); the statement by Donald Trump that relations between the USA and Russia were at an all-time low (gloss over the Bay of Pigs and the Cuban Missile Crisis); and the comment by David Cameron that the British Isles had never been invaded since 1066 (we have been invaded thirteen times, the last – briefly – by the French in 1797, and once by the Americans).  Of the myths, a notable one was the belief that our forefathers went through the same hopes and fears as we do: not true. Our prejudices and emotions of love do seem to endure, but our concepts of science and beauty have changed enormously.  Overall, it was a very thought-provoking presentation given in a slick and knowledgeable style, and I will certainly attend her next lecture.  Maybe Mrs Shacklepin will be out on remission by then.

Lunch alone in the dining room was not a lot of fun, but then nor were the cream crackers on a paper plate that Jane had in the cabin.  We spent the rest of the day together, just reading and I skipped dinner (I could lose some weight anyway).  The sickbay called and said that if there had been no ‘reoccurrence’ by 0630 tomorrow, then Jane would be released.  The sanitation team arrived to do the evening clean (still in the masks and overshoes) and said that, if Jane got the ‘all clear’, they would need to come in tomorrow to do a deep clean that would take one and a half hours.  The rendezvous with HMS MONMOUTH did not come off, but we would not have been able to see her anyway: the upper deck was out of bounds because of the wind.

Day 103

Saturday 22 April.  Sunny, 30ºC. Sea, Slight.  Gulf of Aden, heading SW.

Joy! Jane has been released from quarantine and the decontamination team are fumigating our cabin as I write.  It is a very full lecture programme today, with four lectures almost in succession.  Quite a change from the previous two weeks, when there was little of interest worth watching.  It is going to be like being back at college today.

Nature was obviously celebrating Jane’s return too, because we were rewarded by the sight of a school of dolphins accompanying the ship as we sat down to breakfast.  We normally like to watch the blue tits feeding as we eat breakfast at home, however I think dolphins might just top that.

The first lecture was on ‘History and the Crisis of ISIS’ and the Illuminations cinema was packed out for it, with people sitting in the aisles and standing at the back.  I am surprised that it was not held in the theatre, which is slightly bigger.  I will not summarise the lecture as it was so comprehensive and complex, compressing 1,500 years of Islamic rivalry and ambition into 45 minutes.  The key bits I remember were the rivalry between ‘heretic’ Shiite (Iran, Syria, Lebanon mainly – about 10% of Muslims), and Sunni (The Rest); the mistake of destabilising the region by taking out Saddam in Iraq; the danger of repeating the mistake by doing the same with Sadat in Syria; and the naivety of believing that the Arab Spring was heralding the rise of liberalism and Western values.  The broad aims of ISIS are to return to the days of an all-embracing Sunni Caliphate that does not recognise frontiers, the defeat of Iran and Shiites, and a return to the conquests of Europe that were achieved in medieval times. 

The next lecture was about the two least known spies of WW2.  Both were very different, one being a double agent of Spanish nationality who supplied the Germans with a mountain of deceptive information; the other being a Polish woman who was very much a femme fatale, action heroine and very brave woman.  I had heard of the Spaniard, code name ‘Garbo’, who managed to get medals from both the Germans and the British, and was still alive to be fêted in the early 1980s.  The Polish girl, on the other hand, was treated rather shabbily by the British after the war and suffered a tragic aftermath to her courageous service.  She was not given preference to gain British citizenship, and worked variously as a telephonist, a shop assistant in Harrod’s, and as a ship’s stewardess, before being murdered by a lover in 1952.

Lecture three, before a late lunch, was the start of a series of talks on civil engineering matters starting with the Seven Wonders of the British Canal System.  It was a good talk and we chatted to the lecturer afterwards.  He had been doing these talks on cruise ships for seven years, apparently.

We managed about two minutes of sunshine as we transited the upper deck to our cabin after lunch, before we were off again to the next serial – this time in the Royal Court Theatre.  It was a classical concert called Piano à Dieux and comprised, funnily enough, a man and a woman playing the piano. This proved to be a light-hearted rendition of old favourites, with a few corny jokes thrown in.  It was well done and very entertaining. 

Onward to the final lecture of the day, ‘Exploration in the Arabian and Western Deserts’.  Poor delivery with boring content – it could have been so much better.  I refer the honourable reader to my comments of a few days ago regarding taking an interesting subject and making a complete dog’s breakfast of it.

Black Tie dinner in the evening was very pleasant and Jane wanted to go on to listen to a guitarist/singer, but we missed the start.  We did go along afterwards and listened at the door.  He was awful, and so was the band.  Phew!  Glad we missed that one: listening to that for 45 minutes would be a real penance.

Day 104

Sunday 23 April, St George’s Day.  Bright sunny day, 32ºC. Sea, Slight.  We are in the Red Sea, about a quarter of the way up.  Clocks were retarded yet again to Charlie time last night, so we are only two hours ahead of UK now.

We transited the Bab al Mandab at midnight last night at 24 knots and, looking at the chart, I was surprised how narrow it was: perhaps 20 nm – the same as the Straits of Dover.  We are still clipping along at 24 knots as I write, evidently trying to clear the pirate waters as quickly as possible, but there is no additional vibration or noise and the ship remains as steady as a rock.

Off to church in the morning, then to the second lecture by our visiting historian, this time on The Tudors.  Lunchtime brings a talk on ‘Why We Have a Royal Navy’ by our Royal Navy Liaison Officer (RNLO).

The church service was taken, this time, by the Deputy Captain – a painfully shy Italian who is rather difficult to talk to and never smiles, yet who must have hidden talent as he is only 28 and has reached high rank quickly.  It was, as ever, a stirring service with good hymns, lasting thirty minutes and quite a few people came along.

The talk on The Tudors was excellent and, again, it was a full house.  I will not even attempt to summarise it other than to say that our lecturer contended that the Tudor period was a significant point in our history, notable because of the break with Rome.  That break led the country to look outward, away from Europe, to develop a navy, and to discover new lands.  She drew an interesting parallel between that event and Brexit, which I hadn’t thought of, but might be true: a rejection of control by those outside our country.

Well, I suppose we had to attend the talk on the Royal Navy by the RNLO (who, by the way, joined us in Colombo and brought his wife along).  There was a good turn out, with the Illuminations cinema virtually full, so there is still an interest in the Service.  Not a bad delivery, though he was inhibited by having to read the official script.  It was certainly informative and, from what I could hear, people seemed to appreciate it.

We did the planetarium after that – ‘Life in other Universes’ – and Jane stayed awake throughout.  I think that might be all the programmes we have seen now, each one with a different narrator (this one was Tom Hanks).  We had missed lunch, what with all the excitement, and Jane was feeling thirsty.  So we headed up to the Commodore Club for a fortifying gin and tonic – though Jane had a Coke.  In the absence of solid food a good snifter or two will always satisfy.  A feeling of guilt descended at this point (it might have been the depressive effect of alcohol), because we had not been outside at all today, so we spent 20 minutes in the blazing heat on 14 Deck, scanning the horizon for icebergs.  We did see the Captain lying on a sun bed incognito, sans stripes and cap, accompanied by a mature lady in a bikini who – we presume – was his wife (mind you, you can never tell with sailors).  Clearly the Captain, who is due to retire after this trip, is starting his Run Down Period (RDP) early.  One thing we did notice as we sailed along was clumps of yellow weed of matted appearance, like a flattened sponge – presumably a characteristic of the Red Sea.  Of course, sponge is maybe what it was.

A rare ‘first’ in the dogwatches came in the form of a new(ish) film in the cinema:  Bridget Jones’ Baby.  Sequels and sequels-of-sequels are usually not as good as the original, but this one was an exception and actually quite funny.  It had Jane laughing out loud – a rare occurrence.

Something happened during dinner, but I am not sure what!   There was definitely an increase in power for about ten minutes, then a marked reduction.  The people on the next table went up to investigate and said later that we had slowed while a boat came alongside, presumably to embark or disembark person or persons.  Much mystery, as we are right in the middle of the Red Sea and I would have thought not needing a pilot yet.  We have started a rumour that we had rendezvoused with a nuclear submarine – see if it whips round the ship.

We were finally allowed out on the promenade deck in the evening, but the deck lighting was still reduced, with lookouts posted, so we are not quite out of the wood yet.

Day 105

Monday 24 April.  Misty start, 29ºC. Wind Force 8 from NW. Sea Rough.  The wind has backed or veered after yesterday, when it was from behind us.  It is now on the port bow, making walking on those decks that are not out of bounds difficult.   We are about half way up the Red Sea, according to the chart, and tripping along at 22 knots.  Position at 1400: 23deg 0.3 N, 36deg 41.8E

Another lecture day.  Like buses, the good lectures on this return trip have been scarce, but then, suddenly we get about three all at once.

First, Part Two of the talk on ISIS, describing the expansions and rivalries of the Islamic world in the Middle East up to WW1.  It was interesting to note that, before the coming of Mohammed in the 7th century, the whole Mediterranean region, including (of course) the Holy Land was Christian.  Moreover, the North African countries did not consider themselves as being Arab.  Arabs came from what is broadly now Saudi Arabia.  The Egyptians, in particular, considered themselves to be above Arabs until the rise of Nasser and his coup at Suez in 1956.  After Mohammed, the expansions began and all of Northern Africa and the Holy Land was conquered, as was all of Spain.  The Islamic expansion even got as far as the gates of Vienna before it was stopped.  Islam also spread to Persia, the hated enemy of Arabs, and to what is now modern Turkey, and the Ottoman Empire.  Just to be awkward, perhaps, the Persians adopted Shiite Islam, a religion which is regarded by the majority Sunni Muslims as being heretical.  So we have a pot mess of Sunni Muslims hating Shiites, Persians hating Arabs and vice versa, the Turks an unknown quantity that is becoming less secular, and all of them hating the Kurds. 

Our historian concluded her talk on The Tudors by addressing the paradox of Henry VIII: a monarch who, according to all reports, was handsome, agreeable, witty and accomplished as a young man, yet turned into a fat, suspicious, despotic tyrant.  Our lecturer contended that the change came after January 1536 when Henry was injured in a jousting tournament and knocked unconscious for two hours.  Notwithstanding whatever brain injury he might have sustained, Henry never jousted again and became less physically active – hence the huge increase in his weight.  The injury also opened up an old wound that never healed, so he was constantly in pain from then on.  Everything went wrong for him in 1536: the injury;  the death of Katherine of Aragon; Ann Boleyn had a miscarriage, she was accused and convicted of adultery and treason, then executed; Henry’s 45th birthday, which was classified as old age at the time; his illegitimate son, the Duke of Richmond, whom he favoured as an heir, died suddenly.  All in all, 1536 was not a good year and Henry’s behaviour just got worse and worse from then on.  Good lecture.

Our WW2 spies lecturer of a few days ago, gave us a talk on the mistakes and disobeyed orders that were made in the sinking of the BISMARK.  He spoke well, and some of his facts were reasonably sound and even revealing, but he betrayed a lack of knowledge of naval matters that let him down.  For example, he said it was a mistake to send cruisers after BISMARK in the Denmark Strait because they did not have the firepower, range or armour; however they were not meant to sink her, they were sent to shadow her, which was the traditional role of a cruiser.  He also said it was a mistake to send HMS HOOD because of her limited armour, yet HOOD was the only ship we had available with the firepower and speed to do the job.  All in all, not bad, but his errors eroded his credibility.

As we went in to lunch I glanced out of the window and noticed that the white horses had come out with a vengeance and the swell had increased markedly.  It was definitely rough out there, and I learned later that the wind had increase to Force 8 (Gale).  We passed a large bulk carrier at one point and the spray was coming over her bows as she punched along. Yet our ship’s motion was unaffected: no pitching, no rolling, confirming my belief (expounded in Blog 1) that if you ever have to go across the Atlantic, then this is the girl to be in.  She is a beautiful seaboat.   Funny really, for some reason you do not expect to meet a northwesterly Force 8 gale, and angry battleship-grey seas, in the Red Sea.

Our final lecture of the day was by our civil engineer lecturer on the subject of the Suez Canal.  Again, he spoke fluently of the history of the canal, starting with the first attempt by one of the Pharos several hundreds of years BC.  Contrary to popular belief, de Lesseps was not the engineer who built the canal; de Lesseps was actually the French Consul to Egypt at the time.  He whipped up support to fund the project and most shares were bought by France and Egypt.  Britain did not support the project (‘not invented here’), but did buy up all the Egyptian shares when they came on the market after Egypt suffered financial difficulties.  The canal was opened in 1869 and, initially, operated on a one-way basis with passing places at the lakes that the canal passes through.  It has since been given a ‘dual carriageway’ in places to facilitate two-way traffic (one modification as recent as 2014), but other parts are still one way.  Passage is by convoy.  The lecturer also gave a potted history of wars that have affected the canal, starting with the Nasser take-over in 1956 and covering the Six-day War and the Yom Kippur War.  I will not rattle out statistics, as you can just as easily look them up yourself.  I will write more on the subject after we have been through it on Thursday.

We arrive in Aqaba tomorrow, where we are off for a long excursion to Petra: the ancient city where Indiana Jones saved his father by giving him a drink from the Holy Grail.  Aqaba is Jordan’s only seaport and it lies at the top of the Gulf of Aqaba, and from the anchorage four countries can be seen at once: Egypt, Israel, Jordan and Saudi Arabia.  I will end this blog at this point and start the next one with our adventures in Petra.

Blog 22. Return from Australia. Dubai

BLOG 22

Day 96

Saturday 15 April. Sunny and hot.  30ºC. Sea, Slight.  Arabian Sea on passage to Dubai.  Position  15deg 56 N,  7deg  54E. Course 317, speed 18.  Wind Force 2 from NW.

Yet another relaxing day at sea.  We drifted around after breakfast before attending the port lecture on Muscat, which we visit after Dubai, then trying a little people-watching.  I don’t know who used illustrate those saucy postcards of the 40s and 50s, but if he were still alive he could find much new material on the decks of QM2.  I know that I have commented on this aspect of decorum before, but I cannot resist reiterating the points for this new batch of passengers.  It is amazing what people will wear on holiday for the sake of a tan and skin cancer.  We saw enormous women wearing bikinis, with bellies on them like badly squeezed tubes of toothpaste; older women with breasts barely decent, bursting out of their bathing costumes like something out of a Regency drama; men with skinny white legs, varicose veins, long black socks and sandals; and men with enormous stomachs as if they were pregnant.  I saw one man who wasn’t even wearing a bra.  I am not exactly Adonis myself, and budgie smugglers do not flatter me (no, no – it’s true).  For that reason, I dress with a sense of dignity and cover the frightening bits, polishing my deck shoes every other day and retaining my shirt in public at all times.  I do confess that, daringly, as a concession to the heat, I have taken to removing my tie during the daylight hours, but that is as far as the nudity has gone.  The fact is, it is so intensely hot that neither of us could last longer than twenty minutes under that sun anyway; yet some of these people are piling on sunburn on top of sunburn.

The crew were practising anti piracy measures this morning in preparation for our passage from Muscat to Aqaba, when we pass through dodgy waters.  As it is, we are steaming up the western coast of India, skirting the risk area.   I had already noticed fire hoses rigged on the upper deck and pointing over the side as an initial precaution against boarding; I believe we may also be taking onboard some additional security personnel who, I presume, might be armed contractors.  The Captain told us last night that further exercises would take place and recounted a (true) tale of when the ship was celebrating the traditional ‘Crossing the Line’ ceremony and some ship’s staff were dressed up as pirates, heading aft to the swimming pool.  Unfortunately, their passage, dressed in eye patches, tricorn hats, cutlasses and the odd parrot, took them through the central atrium just as some old dear was waking up.  She was terrified, hid behind a pillar, then – when they had gone – scuttled over to the Purser’s desk to report that pirates had boarded.

I met the Staff Chief Engineer – the deputy Chief Engineer and equivalent to my job as Senior Engineer in HMS NONSUCH – at last night’s cocktail party, and we had a good shouted conversation about fuel specific gravity, gas turbine blades and the purity of boiler feed water.  He came from Carlisle and was due to retire in two years to cultivate his allotment, and we got on very well, especially when he heard that I was born in South Shields, which earns me the sobriquet of ‘Sand Dancer’.  We would have embarked on a further conversation about condensers and strum boxes, with perhaps a diversion to discuss drop forging,  but unfortunately we had to break off to listen to the Captain.  Alas, a conversation that I will never have.  Very nice bloke.

Day 97

Easter Day. 16 April.  Entering Gulf of Oman.  30ºC.  Wind Force 6 from NW.  Clocks were retarded yet again last night to Dubai time, making us three hours ahead of UK.  Beware: we are getting closer, folks; your honeymoon period will soon be over.

I stood on the balcony at 0800 this morning and gazed at a deep blue sea, flecked only by a few catspaws.  Glancing forward at the starboard bridge wing, I was rewarded by the sight of the Captain out on the catwalk, having a quick burn.  QM2 does not have open bridge wings or any external area, so the Captain was out on a narrow maintenance catwalk, breaching the air conditioned citadel in the process. Well, if you can’t have a sneaky fag in your own ship, then what can you do?  Rank should have its privileges.

We took another blistering walk across the hot deck in the blinding sunlight at 0830 to get to breakfast.  It’s a tough life at sea, but someone has to do it for Britain and I know that you appreciate the sacrifice that we are making.

It being Easter Day, we went to the non-denominational service led by the Captain in the Royal Court Theatre at 1000 (as mentioned in Blog 21, we passed on the episcopalian service held at 0800).  The service was remarkably well attended and enjoyable; we even had a sort of a choir in the form of five of the Cunard singers, who sang one hymn.  I am not sure that those attending were familiar with church services, as the couple next to us sang no hymns and spoke no prayers or responses, despite the words being on the sheet in front of them.  Also, the rendering of the hymn by the ‘choir’ was followed by applause in some quarters – a ‘first’ for me in a church service.

I attended a very good lecture by an ex USAF Officer on the American air bases in Britain since WW2 (for some reason, Jane was not interested).  He proved to be a lively and very informative speaker, explaining the huge number of bases in England during the War (I cannot recall the exact number, but I think it was over a hundred), the number during the Cold War, and the number in the next five years (one).  He also explained how the United States Air Force (USAF) had evolved from the wartime United States Army Air Force (USAAF) because of jealousy of the RAF existing as a separate service rather than being a corps of the army, as the USAAF was.  The USAF got their new identity and uniforms in 1946, but, for some unfathomable reason, kept the army ranks.   There were, of course, lots of pictures of aircraft, which was most gratifying.  I did not realise that the ubiquitous Dakota is not called that by the Americans; Dakota is a British nomenclature.  The Americans call it a Gooney Bird (= albatross).  Our lecturer also covered the various operations that the US bases in Britain have supported, starting with the Berlin Air Lift in 1948-49 (jointly with the RAF).  I knew that it had been a huge operation, but I did not realise that it involved an average of one flight per minute, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.  That is quite an undertaking.  The decision by de Gaulle to insist on the removal of all US bases and servicemen from France in 1966 led to the bases being moved to Britain.  Apparently, the US ambassador was summoned to the presidential palace and told of the demand that all US servicemen should be removed, and the ambassador responded, “Does that include those who are dead and buried in French soil?”.  One in the eye for the French, who remained uncooperative during the US attack on Libya in the 1980s, denying the use of French airspace.   The advent of cruise missiles and ICBMs has reduced the need for US bases in Britain today, and the latest decision is to reduce to just one, Lakenheath, by 2020.

It being a Sunday, we partook of a Pimms (Jane) and an amontillado (me) before a lunch of roast lamb.  Alas, the food was disappointing.  The lamb looked good, and was very tender despite being as thick as a steak, but the flavour was weird and Jane left half of hers.  It certainly didn’t taste like lamb.  I am not sure what they do with some of the food: they seem to take straightforward British fare and muck it about a bit.  After a week onboard I can now comment more fairly on the differences between Princess Grill (our outward journey) and Britannia Club (now): on the whole, the food is just not as good, though it can be excellent on occasions.  In some ways this could be taken as a pleasing conclusion, as it would be a bit annoying if we had paid all that extra money for Grill tickets only to find that the food was just as good for hoi polloi.  But it is not that the food now is more ordinary:  that would be acceptable; it is that it does not always match the description in terms of quality, taste and quantity, and it is inconsistent.  To give an example from the other day, I ordered beef tournedos and it was absolutely superb, possibly the best I have ever had; last Sunday we had roast beef and – again – it was perfect; yet on another occasion I ordered prawn cocktail as a starter and it came as three (yes 3) small prawns on a large plate with four drops of rose marie sauce around it and a sprig of lettuce.  You see something on the menu and you think, ‘oh that will be good’, but when it comes it turns out to be something different, something bland, or something small (or all three).  As you know, I am not one to complain or moan about things as a rule, but I must make an exception here for the sake of this factual record.  Sorry, did you say something?

We thought we would sunbathe after lunch.  Believe it or not, it is the first time we have done that as a dedicated activity since we left UK, being wary of too much sun.  But the large sun deck on Deck 13 is just outside our cabin, so we thought it was convenient to pop out and get twenty minutes each side.  Out we went, but we had not allowed for the relative wind across the deck, which was ferocious.  We tried lying on the sun beds, but first my hat blew off, then my book skidded across the deck, then my shirt went.  I chased after these items before they disappeared over the side, then heard a grating noise as the wind caught the whole sun bed and started to move that too.  So we gave up after 15 minutes, which was just as well as our faces were already beginning to feel the effects of wind burn.  As a matter of interest, we have now crossed the latitude where the sun passes directly overhead throughout the day, and it now crosses the southern segment from east to west again, as opposed to the northern segment like it did in Australia.  So we are back in the northern hemisphere.

Gazing over our balcony (in the shade) at the sea, we were rewarded by the sight of Flying Fish skittering away from the ship in considerable numbers.  They travel quite a distance through the air – perhaps a hundred yards or more – and are larger than we expected at about a foot long.  Fascinating.  There is always something to look at at sea.

For some reason, we felt the urge to break with routine and have an aperitif before dinner, the latter taken earlier so that we could attend a show called ‘The Three Tenors’ which was about – er – three men singing.  So 1830 found us in the Chart Room, a tasteful and very luxurious bar that we have rarely used before, ordering a kir and gin and tonic which we drank as we watched the dark sea roll by.  Being us, of course, we also did some people-watching as folk drifted into the bar.  It was a Black Tie evening and it was interesting to observe what some women’s idea of evening wear was, with selections ranging from lengths ‘short’ to ‘long’; from styles ‘elegant to ‘frump’; and from sizes ‘slim frigate’ to ‘stately as a galleon’.  Of course, there was not so much variation in the men, Black Tie being fairly uniform, but their choice of shoes was usually their weak point: understandably, few could afford proper patent leather shoes but, of the substitutes, most were filthy or inappropriate (we saw one pair of shoes that looked like beetle crushers from the 1950s).  It is amazing how many men today do not bother to polish their shoes, and some of the footwear would have been better employed in the garden.  Standards, standards.  Cherry Blossom and Kiwi are not expensive.

We took Foi Gras and Beef Wellington with a glass of Shiraz for dinner, both reasonable though the Wellington not as good as Jane’s (how could it be?).  Baked Alaska with cherries flambéed in kirsch rounded the meal off.   The theatre was packed for ‘The Three Tenors’, despite us getting there 15  minutes early.  As you know, we have not been much taken by the evening mass entertainment onboard, though the classical concerts during the day have usually been excellent.  But we keep hoping that something to our tastes will come along in the evening, and we dip our toes in the water from time to time.  In the past, the ‘dipping’ process has consisted of us nipping into the back of the theatre during a performance, standing for a bit by the door, then nipping hastily out again.  This time, ‘The Three Tenors’ sounded more promising, so we entered in good time and took a seat.  Oh dear, yet again a disappointment. The songs ranged from opera to the contemporary, performed (as Jane put it) ‘with them jigging around all the time’.  Though not a fan of opera, I would probably have enjoyed it if the singing had been good; alas, it was mediocre and the 45 minutes dragged by like having a tooth extracted without anaesthetic.  Well, we did try.  Should have gone to the cinema to watch ‘La La Land’, which comes highly unrecommended by most friends who have seen it.

Day 98

Easter Monday, 17 April.  On passage to Dubai, in the Gulf of Oman, about 50 nm from Iran.  Position at noon: 24deg 43N 58deg 40E.   Course 305 Light airs. Haze. 28ºC.

It was an early start today for no other reasons than that our body clocks had not yet adapted to the changes in time zone and the sun had risen.  I sat outside on the balcony in my bathrobe while Jane did things in the bathroom, and was struck by a strange screeching noise that I had never heard before.  Investigating, I discovered that the noise was seabirds – later identified as Cape Gannets – swooping low over the water and feeding on Flying Fish that were skimming away from the ship.  It was quite entertaining to watch, as the gannets occasionally dived deep into the clear water after the fish, leaving a fine trail of bubbles behind them.  Clearly, we were near land.

We had ordered breakfast in our cabin and we took the tray outside on the balcony, which was lovely and idyllic until the people in the cabin next door came out onto their balcony and we heard a loud male  Yorkshire voice bellow from behind the intervening partition,
” EEE, DORIS, LOOK! DOLPHINS!  EEEE!  ‘INT IT MARVELLOUS!
This was followed by a quieter female voice saying,
“No Fred.  Arr don’t think they’re dolphins.  They might be Flying Fish”.
“FLYING FISH!  AYE!  ‘APPEN THEY MIGHT BE!  RECKON THEY MUST ‘AVE BIN DRIVEN TO THE SURFACE BY THEM DOLPHINS!
“Shush, Fred, keep yer voice down”.
But it was too late, the idyllic moment had been spoiled.  I despair of my fellow passengers: even the screens don’t keep them out.  We seem to have a lot of descendants of the Wars of the Roses onboard for this leg, by the way, Cunard must have bought a job lot from Manchester or Leeds or somewhere north of Watford (I say this as a true northerner, not someone who comes from the Midlands).  Well, that’s insulted at least four of my friends, and I didn’t have all that many to start with.

On non-lecture days there is always a need to find somewhere quiet to spend the time while one’s steward cleans the cabin.  We quite favour the Commodore Club, which is up for’d under the bridge and has lovely views over the bow.  On this occasion, however, the bar staff were practising how far and how well they could throw empty bottles into the gash bin, so we opted instead for the library on the deck below.  This had equally good views over the bow, and was quieter, until Consumptive Colin two seats away started sneezing and coughing.  Not that delicate little ‘tsssst’ of a sneeze like ladies seem to do, but the explosive, Vesuvius, male version, catching some mucous in his hand and spreading the rest in a fine spray of droplets across the library.  Then the coughing started: deep and raucous and rich with phlegm.  As Ian Fleming once wrote, ‘Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action’.  Well this bloke would have got some enemy action from me if Jane hadn’t starting hissing at me in warning at my deep sighs and tuts.  At one point we thought the patient had sensibly got up to die elsewhere, but, no, he just stood up behind his chair to increase the range.  In the end, we got up and left: it was like living in a sanatorium.  If we don’t come down with something after this then it will be a miracle.

The ‘cruise cough’, by the way, is a common characteristic of our voyage experience.  It is noticeable on the days of embarkation and for about a week afterwards, often on the balconies as people explore their surroundings for the first time, but sometimes on tour buses.  First one starts up, then another answers, then another joins in.  It is like pterodactyls calling to each other across a primeval forest.  The phenomenon is the symptom of a few generous people who take the altruistic view that their germs should not miss out on a good holiday, so they bring them along for the ride.  The germs love it, of course, and make lots of new friends – which is the aim of every cruise operator.  Entirely coincidentally, today the Captain came on the broadcast to announce that the norovirus had taken hold with a few people onboard and Fumigation Stage 1 had been implemented (or something like that).  Soon the smoke from the after funnels will be turning black as they burn the bodies. 

Lunchtime brought some excitement in the form of the Royal Navy Liaison Officer (that I didn’t know we had) and his announcement that a Royal Navy Merlin helicopter, based at RNAS Culdrose, would shortly be buzzing the ship.  As the aircraft only has a three hour endurance, it presumably had not come from Cornwall that day.  On cue, along came the mighty machine, making several passes down both sides of the ship to the accompanying commentary of the liaison officer, who explained the aircraft’s role, armament and capability.  Of course, the Merlin was part of Naval Party something-or-other (he didn’t actually say) which was working with the Omani Navy to provide ‘security for such as pass on the seas upon their lawful occasions’.  I am still curious how the Royal Navy Officer got onboard: there hadn’t been a helicopter drop as far as I knew (the helo deck is just outside our cabin), and we hadn’t stopped for a boat transfer.  Maybe he got on in Colombo or maybe he was always there, on exchange.  

We watched the last classical concert by the Swedish guitarist in the afternoon.  He was, again, very good, but this time he included some contemporary pieces that sounded like a series of different notes played at random.  Not quite our cup of tea this time, but thank you for the experience.

At teatime we received further excitement in the form of a maritime patrol aircraft, flying low on the starboard side.  I did not see any markings, so cannot comment on its origins, but it was definitely military.  It was a four-engined turboprop aircraft, silver grey, very slim.  I suppose it could just as easily have come from Iran as Oman.  Iran was visible as a brown smudge on the starboard beam at the time – perhaps 15nm away (we were in the northbound channel of the approaches to the Straits of Hormuz).

The good news is that we heard this afternoon that we had been successful in our application to go on a ‘Dubai, the Golden City’ tour on arrival tomorrow.  When we first applied, we were told that the tour was full, but that we could go on the reserve list.  Somebody must have dropped out, because we now have the tickets.  I have no idea where we are going – my wife handles all such matters (‘Dubai’ would be a good guess), so watch this space for the run-down.

Day 99

Wednesday 18 April.  At Dubai, starboard side to.  Hazy and hot.  32ºC.  Light airs.

We were up at 0530 for our arrival alongside and our excursion into Dubai, scheduled to muster at 0730.  The plan last night was to have breakfast in our cabin before departure (the restaurant does not open until 0800), but we discovered that room service breakfast does not start until 0700, so that was out.  We could, of course, have broken our fast in the Kings Court self-service buffet (‘all you can eat with people who can eat all’) which opens at 0530.  Don’t be silly.  So we nibbled on a biscuit and a bunch of grapes on our balcony in the emerging dawn, Jane chuntering throughout about the imbecility of not providing an early service for those on trips.  To cap it all, I mucked up the cafetière of coffee, and she had grounds floating in her breakfast cup.  She didn’t have her happy face on that morning, and for some reason she resented me pointing that out.

Well, there we were, mustered in the theatre at 0730 under Flag 1 for the ‘Golden Dubai Tour’, viewing our fellow trippers with an assessing eye.  We were the second to arrive, so we were well sorted on the precedence for getting on the bus.  No more elbowing here.  The people behind were grumbling like no tomorrow about QM2, saying the theatre was awful and not a patch on the QUEEN ELIZABETH, and the ship was too big, and the food wasn’t as good.  Crikey, they could moan for England and I speak as an expert.  It begged the question, “So why, pray, did you decide to book this cruise?”.  The temptation was to get them ashore, shove them off the bus, and leave them there.  And possibly pay a couple of Bedouin to work them over a bit.  Fortunately, we were soon freed of this whinging, for we were off, following our guide with his little flag.  Only to be shoved back by this enormously fat older couple carrying a huge rucksack, who appeared out of nowhere and barged in front of us.  Oi, porkies, we were number two here.  They waddled along ahead of us like two hippopotami that have emerged from the swamp looking for food, blocking the whole passageway and defying any attempt to get past.  We got our own back when we hit the jetty, however, when the sleek agility of the springbok came into its own, for with one bound we were past, leaving them reeling in the slipstream.  That’ll teach you to mess with Team Shacklepin.  And we can’t even blame Johnny Foreigner this time: the two behemoths were English.

The bus tour was to be a whistle-stop tour of Dubai, compressed into five hours.  Inevitably it could only skim the surface, but it would be better than us taking in yet another shopping mall and time – as ever – was limited.  Our guide proved to be excellent and I wish now I had taken written notes.  Here is what I can remember;  you know all this anyway, I dare say, but I record it for posterity.  Dubai is one of seven states that form the single country that is the United Arab Emirates (UAE).  Each state has its own king, and they take turns to be Head of State of the whole country.  The capital of UAE is Abu Dhabi and Dubai is the commercial and administrative centre.  English is widely spoken as a second language.  UAE only came into being in 1971 when the British left and the separate sheiks agreed to settle their petty squabbles and form a united country.  From then on Dubai changed from being a tiny pearling village to being the enormous trading city that is is today.  To be accurate, the state of Dubai consists of Dubai City, and desert.  Even in the 1990s there were only seven skyscrapers in Dubai City, while now there are dozens including, of course, the highest building in the world, the Burj Khalifa, which is a hotel.  Curiously and paradoxically, Dubai’s wealth lies not in oil, but in trading and tourism, the latter being the second highest income earner.  Anyone can work in Dubai and there is no income tax, but no immigration is allowed – that is to say you cannot become a naturalised Emirati.  The latter comprise only 11% of the population and are all middle class; they get free water, 50% subsidised electricity, free education, and free health care.  Foreigners have to pay for these things though, for healthcare, employers are required by law to provide healthcare insurance.  Dubai is a very rich country.  Even the police cars are Ferraris, but –  then – they have to be in order to catch the other Ferraris.  Although Emirati are predominately Sunni Moslems, UAE is a tolerant society that embraces all cultures and creeds without hindrance, and local women do not cover their faces. Women wearing the full burka, our guide explained, will probably be tourists from Saudi Arabia.  Or possibly Bradford.  I put that last bit in myself.  The city, when we visited it by the way, was shrouded in a heavy haze such that you could barely see the top of the Burj Khalifa.  We learned later that this was partly the aftermath of a recent sand storm and partly a fairly normal state for Dubai: they rarely get dark blue skies and bright sunshine.  It didn’t affect the heat, which was prodigious.  It only rains for three months of the year.

The time it took to move from one highlight of the tour to the next, by bus, was itself a measure of the vastness of Dubai.  The city was amazing.  There were six-lane highways, all busy with cars, a very swish high-rise driverless train system (one train every two minutes), and a comprehensive underground Metro system.  Everywhere were shopping malls and huge buildings, ultra modern and tall, yet well-spaced so that there was no sense of claustrophobia.  New construction continued here and there, and it was quite clear from the excavation work that the city was quite literally constructed in the desert.  The city has a rule that any building older than 1980 must either be brought up to modern acceptable aesthetic standard or be demolished and replaced.  Overall, the city was very well-ordered, spotlessly clean and – yes folks – no graffiti!  However, it was not at all pedestrian friendly: there were few pavements and no small cafés on the street; all that was in the many shopping malls.  Water for drinking, and irrigation of the many gardens, came from a few wells, but most was extracted from seawater.  The grass was an intense bright green colour and uniform: better than you would find even in England or Ireland, thanks to irrigation.

Our first stop was a beach to allow Jane to paddle in the Arabian Sea, and for everyone else to photograph the Burj Al Arab hotel: the most expensive in the world, the second tallest, and looking like the spinnaker tower in Portsmouth.  There you could have a nice breakfast for about £70, but the rooms were harder to come by as the hotel is usually fully booked.  I wonder if they have The Times and serve Wilkins ‘Tiptree’ marmalade?  Onward to the largest mosque in Dubai for photographs (magnificent, but entrance was not part of the package, which was fine by us), then to a carpet museum for a pit stop.

A visit to a carpet museum does not sound terrible exciting, but it was only included in order for us to use the ‘facilities’.  This was an adventure in itself.  The Gents was quite normal, but the Ladies had the usual throne, but no lavatory paper; thoughtfully, however, a hosepipe was provided to give oneself a good sluicing down.  Jane refused to reveal whether she had availed herself of the services of Mr Kärcher in this manner; I presume not, as it was not clear as to how she would have subsequently dried her lower half after the deluge.  Mind you, her face did have a somewhat dazed expression, as if she had just taken part in a whole new dazzling experience.  Having used the lavatories it seemed churlish not to look at the carpets on display and to listen to the sales patter.  The carpets were actually framed, and hung on the walls like portraits.  They really were magnificent and opulent, all hand-made in Dubai (not India) and woven in black or rich red, picked out with solid gold thread.  The biggest (about the size of a hearth rug) took nine months to make and was on sale for about £4,000; the smallest, about the size of a bath rug, was for sale for about £400, which I thought was reasonable for solid gold thread and real jewels.  Jane thought they were lovely, but a little gaudy for our conservative tastes, for which I heaved a sigh of relief.

Dubai Museum was next, housed under an ancient fort and very well put together to depict the history of Dubai .  Unfortunately, it was also packed with Japanese and Chinese, all yabbering and pushing at once, so that it was hard to take in a lot of the displays.  What with the yabbering, the heat, the dark, the sand and the congestion it was a bit like the Black Hole of Calcutta down there, and we beat a hasty exit.

Into the fresh (hot) air and onward we went to Dubai Creek to catch an abra, an Arab water taxi, across to the souks on the other side.  The abra experience was hilarious.  The boat was a wooden flush-decked craft about forty feet long, with no railings or bulwarks.  We sat on a raised central platform on deck, while the coxswain stood in a hole in the engine compartment in the middle, whence he could see virtually nothing because of the passengers sitting in the way.  His navigation and boat-handling skills were of the Navy Lark school of nautical practise, inspired by the phrase, “Never mind the torpedoes, Full Speed Ahead”.  We shot backwards out of the berth without looking, bouncing off carefully placed wheels that formed fenders on the jetty, and narrowly avoiding another boat coming in, invoking much swearing in a foreign tongue.  Engaging ahead, with the engine clattering like a cotton loom, we creamed across the harbour with the coxswain bellowing at the passengers in Arabic to get out of his line of sight.  We then entered the berth on the other side, with our arrival a reverse repetition of the departure.  Twice, I was convinced we were going to hit other boats and at one point we went full astern, with the engine screaming and in danger of firing out con rods and piston rings in all directions, while a string of Arab invectives followed us.  Miraculously, we came alongside or, that is to say, we bounced off three bits of land and stopped, still afloat.  And so to the souks, passing up the opportunity to try a camel milk gelato on the way.

We had ten minutes in the spice souk and forty minutes in the gold souk, both fascinating experiences and I was glad Jane was with me or I would have bought a bag of garam masala, two virginal sisters, a camel, and a Rolex watch for £150 (bargain!).  The amount of bling in the gold souk would have kept Mr T happy for a year.  Heaven knows how much all that stuff was worth.  Few items had prices on them, so you were expected to haggle a deal.  Only one item, a gold and emerald bracelet, took the memsahib’s eye and I was directed to go in and politely enquire about an Armed Forces and Pensioner’s discount.  The necklace was £4,000.  I blanched.  I think the bloke would have haggled, but not down to the £100 that I had in mind.  As the News of the World used to say, I made my excuses and left.  As I said to Jane outside, I would have gone to £150, but what would she want jewels for when she had a rare little gem like me?  The crash of a nearby pile-driver unfortunately drowned out her reply.  

We had been warned before going ashore that women should dress modestly and cover up all naked flesh, so Jane wore a long sleeved top, trousers, socks and shoes.  It came as a bit of a surprise, therefore, to see a substantially endowed  British girl in the souk wearing just a boob tube, skimpy shorts, and sandals.  Her boyfriend, also in shorts, had treated himself to a red chequered Arab headdress, presumably to blend in.  I am fairly sure they weren’t off the ship, but I still thought it was a bit of an insult to the local people.  No wonder these people get thrown into jail.

And so back to the ship, in a temperature of 35ºC.  Dubai was an ‘end of segment’ port, that is to say the end of one mini cruise and the start of another.  A new batch of passengers was joining to join for the last leg to Southampton. We examined these creatures – our future shipmates for twenty days – as they lined up in the terminal building with their luggage, their flip flops, their sombreros and their tattoos with a mixture of horror, helplessness and resignation.  ‘Welcome to those seeking style and sophistication’ says the Captain’s message on the Daily Programme; well, that would cover three of them then; what about the rest?

Normally when you come off shore as an already-embarked passenger, you are fast-tracked through the boarding process, bypassing new-joining passengers with their heavy luggage etc.  We were unfortunate in that, just as we arrived at the gate, they closed the fast-track lane and we had to lumber through with the cast from Benidorm.  For some reason, Jane was beside herself at this.  She was spitting like a wildcat on Speed, hopping from one foot to the other and complaining to the port staff, the emigration staff, the security staff, the ensign staff, and anyone else who wouldn’t listen.  As someone in the queue pointed out, even if we had jumped the line past the security scanner, there was still a long lumbering caravan of humanity reaching all the way to the ship’s brow.  But we did finally burst into the open air, where we changed down into third gear and shot past two wheelchairs, five suitcases and an ASDA bag to get onboard.   At last, we were through the second security scanner at the entry port and heading for our restaurant for lunch; thank heavens lunch was extended to 1430 on embarkation days.  We had already planned what we would have, starting with a long cold beer and ending with a large ice cream.  Oh dear.  The restaurant was deserted except for a few crumbs, the last serving having taken place an hour ago at 1315.  We could, said a helpful waiter, get some food in the King’s Court self service buffet?  We didn’t think so.  The wildcat had turned into the Lord High Executioner by this time, and I was keeping well clear lest I be the one who lost his head.  I swear that if Mr Cunard had crossed our path he would be a dead man (actually, he already is).  We made it back to the cabin without her murdering any ship’s staff and took stock.  We had not eaten since 0600, and that had only been a snack.  We could muster half a biscuit, a green banana and three grapes.  Then I hit on a cunning plan.  The mini bar!  Quickly, two ice cold Peronis were poured and quickly they disappeared down our necks.  Second brainwave by The Master?  Room Service.  So finally, after a further half an hour’s wait, we tucked in to a club sandwich and a cheese panini with a few chips.  It might not have been haut cuisine, but it filled a little hole.  We then lay on the bed and promptly lost consciousness for the rest of the afternoon, zonked.

“PEEP, PEEP, PEEP, PEEP,PEEP, PEEP, PEEEEEEEEP”,  blasted the main emergency alarm.  
“For exercise, for exercise, the ship’s alarm is now being sounded and newly-joined passengers should collect their life jackets and proceed to their assembly stations taking care not to use the lifts…”. 
I swear I was off that bed and searching for my steaming boots, overalls, anti-flash gear and life-jacket  before I had even recovered consciousness.  It was 1700 and the newbies were being briefed on how to get off.  Oh well, we were going to get up anyway.  Honestly.

We had a pleasant dinner, our first proper meal of the day, preceded by a Prosecco and accompanied by a glass of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc (Zealand Estate, vintage not recorded).  There was no entertainment onboard that night so we spent the evening after dinner on our balcony watching the lights of Dubai and basking in the warm evening.  Lovely.  One idle observation was how much dew was forming on the balcony rail and deck; we always thought desert countries had a dry heat, but clearly there was quite a bit of humidity after all and the temperature dropped fairly fast to the mid twenties.  Interesting.

Day 100 (yes, one hundred)

Wednesday, 19 April.  Hazy sunshine. 42ºC. At Dubai/Sailing for Muscat. Wind Force 3 from WNW.

I spent a disturbed night: I dreamt that I had lost my cap and could not find my Night Order Book and so could not direct the time for flashing the ship’s boilers, the warming through of the main turbines, the testing of the main throttles and the testing of the steering gear and ship’s sirens, thus preventing the ship from sailing.  HMS NONSUCH has a great deal to answer for.   Sleep was not a happy place, so we rose early and were first in to breakfast at 0800.  This threw the waiting staff into some confusion, as they were used to a sleepy Jane coming in at 0915, yawning and stretching like something that had just crawled out of the double bottom tanks.  We had considered going ashore during the forenoon to visit the huge Dubai Mall, but it did not open until 1000, the trip took 40 minutes each way, and we had to be back onboard by 1230.  It was not going to be a goer.  So the plan was to have an early breakfast, allowing us to make room for an early lunch, and therefore allowing us to watch the ship sail at 1300.  Hence, we read books sitting on steamer chairs (we were sitting on the chairs, not the books) in the shade and passed the pleasant forenoon of those on holiday with nothing to do.

Now here’s an interesting observation in human psychology.  One way of identifying a seasoned cruiser is whether or not they wear a lanyard around their necks, attached to their embarkation card.  We all carry embarkation cards.  They are the size of a credit card and operate our cabin doors, record our comings and goings to and from the ship, and act as credit cards to pay for drinks and goods onboard.  They do not show a photograph or name: just a bar code, our voyage and our assembly station; but they do have the Cunard World Club colour on them (did I mention before that we were Gold members?).  Well the cards are difficult to carry if you don’t have pockets, such as if you are wearing a bathing costume or if you are female, so the solution is to use an ID card holder on a lanyard, and slide the embarkation card in there.  And this is the thing: your seasoned cruiser, whether wearing a bathing costume or being female or not, wears the lanyard at all times, like some member of MI5 popping out of the building for a sandwich.  It is displayed in a casual, offhand, understated way, with the badge colour in full view, and demonstrates that one has cruised before, the unspoken comment being, “Oh, one has to wear these dreary things.  I got this one during that cruise around Spitsbergen in ’89, the old one wore out”.  Now you can get these lanyards at the ship’s gift shop for $8, but the ribbon bears the Cunard logo and could be considered a bit naff, as well as revealing to all that you are a newcomer with more money than sense.  Seeing all this on the outward journey, Jane and I were determined to join the club for the return trip.  We raised this difficult conundrum with Laura when we were in Australia, and discussed solutions at some length.  Laura gave the matter weighty consideration, before solving the problem by giving us some old lanyards that she and Derek had (anything to stop us going on about it I expect).  Jane’s has ‘Saab’ on it (Swedish image, goes with the strawberry blond hair and the icy look), and mine bears the inscription ‘University of Melbourne’.  Thus, people seeing me walking purposefully around the ship with my distinguished silver hair, take me for an Australian professor of considerable erudition .  Or maybe a university janitor.

We duly left Dubai at 1300, blasting our siren and rotating on our axis in the usual way.  These actions never cease to inspire and impress me, despite having been onboard for so long.  Absolutely nobody watched us.  Even the berthing party had legged it.  I think the city was taking a siesta.  We passed the breakwater at 1315 in a temperature of 42ºC, the hottest we have ever experienced so far.  Jane seemed very happy.  With us we carry an anonymous and discreet party of ex special forces personnel, as a precaution against pirates.  We haven’t seen them because they are anonymous and discreet.  Let us hope that they are not called upon.  Summary on Dubai?  Amazing, impressive, huge and almost overwhelming.  Clean, well-ordered, very affluent, safe and hot.  Graffiti Factor, 0%; litter, NIL; skateboarders, NIL; dog muck, NIL; dogs, NIL; dossers, NIL.  Not pedestrian friendly, but you can’t have everything.  Would we visit again?  Maybe, but not sure what you would do after you had finished shopping and sunbathing; build sand castles perhaps?  Next stop Muscat, tomorrow.

Although this blog only covers a few days, it is a bit hefty so I will send it off now.

Blog 21. Return from Australia. Port Kelang, Penang and Colombo

Day 90

Palm Sunday, 9 April.  At Port Kelang, starboard side to.  Clear skies, 37ºC. Light airs.

After a good night’s sleep we were woken by a long blast of the ship’s siren.  I looked at my watch: 0700 and a pale dawn was filtering past the curtains.  Tottering onto the balcony, I saw that a local fishing boat was in the main channel and was being encouraged to shove over, or be run down.  We were entering Port Kelang (previously called Port Swettenham), the leading port in Malaysia, and official port for the capital, Kuala Lumpur, 25 miles inland.  It certainly lived up to its reputation, for there were ships everywhere: container ships, tankers, general cargo – all were represented.  To my mild surprise, we were not to berth on a container jetty, but instead we would lie alongside the Boustead Cruise Centre on a T-shaped jetty projecting out into the stream.  The cruise terminal building looked very nice, but it soon became clear that we were fairly far from civilisation, as these ports often are.  There would be no strolling ashore here: there was Port Kelang (just that), the town of Klang (pop 275,000 and 5 miles inland), and Kuala Lumpur (capital of Malaysia and 25 miles away).  A shuttle service would run from the ship to a shopping mall in Klang, and that would take 25 minutes.

Already alongside was a very small cruise ship (or possibly a private yacht) called THE TAIPAN, and a most peculiar square, utilitarian looking, vessel that looked like it was made of used Coke tins and had just come off the set of Mad Max.  This vessel appeared to be a US warship, as she was a dirty metallic grey in colour, flew the Stars and Stripes, and appeared to be manned by marines.  She was a catamaran or SWATH, completely oblong in plan, had a large flight deck, and a vehicle deck with ramp accessed from the stern. She appeared to be made from unpainted galvanised corrugated steel – hence my reference to the Coke tin – and had stains and patches hither and thither as if someone had been treating her with Kurust without bothering to add any primer later.   Despite her warship-appearance, her name was the US Naval Ship (USNS) FALL RIVER.  USNS was not a title that I was familiar with and so I looked her up.  She is an Expeditionary Fast Transport capable of 43 knots and is operated by the US Military Sealift Command, not the US Navy.  As I had inferred, her role was rapidly to transport soldiers or marines of battalion strength, with their vehicles, to parts of the world requiring military intervention.  Why she was built with corrugated iron and was unpainted was beyond me. 

We were alongside by 0800, and the gangway opened at 0915.  Not having booked any trips to Kuala Lumpur (known as KL by seasoned travellers) our options were somewhat limited.  I was sorely tempted not to go ashore at all, but that would have been an opportunity lost, so Jane and I took the shuttle to Klang to look at the shopping mall.  The roads were pretty awful, and we drove for miles across building plots and scrub, bouncing up and down as if on safari. For some bizarre reason, the dual carriageways had speed bumps and this added to the excitement of the journey.  One thing in Malaysia’s favour, they drive on the proper side of the road, so we had left them with a little bit of civilisation, at least.

Eventually, we reached the mall.  You know, if you’ve seen one shopping mall you’ve seen them all. This mall was fine: not a patch on Singapore or Cape Town, but not as bad as some others.  There was nothing special about the shops; they were neither up-market nor down.  We whipped round in 45 minutes and bought nothing but two packets of ground coffee, both more expensive than UK.  Back we went on the shuttle bus, this time in a vehicle with no air conditioning, no speedometer and no seat belts.  Another couple got on after us and said, 
“Well, what a waste of time that was!”.  
Not just us then.

After lunch onboard (only people in the restaurant) we relaxed on our balcony, wallowing in the heat and listening to the generators of USNS FALL RIVER.  Soundproofing was clearly not a priority when they designed her.

An interesting and regular occurrence whenever we sail is that there is always an announcement saying, “Would the following passengers please contact the Purser’s Office urgently: Mr Anthony Snodgrass of Deck 9, Miss Freda Cunningham of Deck 2… etc etc” (it isn’t always the same people).  I haven’t worked out if these people are adrift, or whether the ship’s electronic checking system is not working properly and has not logged them onboard.  On this, the final bit of our cruise the list has seemed to run to half a dozen people.  If the log-in system is defective then maybe it should be fixed for safety reasons if not for anything else; if it is because the passengers are adrift, then tough – just sail without them.   Apparently that very thing did happen when the ship was in Korea: some passengers, who had cut it fine anyway, were taken to the wrong place by a taxi and the ship sailed without them.  Their passports were landed and they had to catch the ship up in Shanghai.  That’ll teach them.  Somehow, I don’t think I’d make a good cruise ship captain.

We sailed at 1910 after the last stragglers had casually made their way across from the terminal building.  No rush, they were just supposed to be back onboard by 1830, but that’s OK; we can all wait.  

Dinner that evening was enhanced by being able to watch the port go by as we sailed away at 20 knots: something we couldn’t do before from Princess Grill (where we could only look at the joggers and fitness fanatics).  Afterwards, we went to listen to a Paraguayan  harpist play his Paraguayan harp in the evening.   He was very talented and the music, at times, was a bit like that of a Spanish guitar.  It wasn’t quite my cup of tea, as I prefer classical music, but I could appreciate the talent involved (the Paraguayan harp, by the way, is different from the normal harp in that it is played while standing up, with the player holding it like a double bass).

Day 91

Monday 10 April.  Sunshine and heavy showers.  35ºC.  At Georgetown, Penang.  

Penang is an island and port off the west coast of the Malaysian peninsula and is an independent state in the federation of Malaysia.  It has a strong colonial past, having been acquired for the East India Company by one Captain Francis Light in 1786 by the usual mix of diplomacy and trickery.  It grew in prosperity and stature and became the capital of the Straits Settlements in 1832, though its stature took a bit of a hit with the ascendancy of Singapore to the south.  Although an island, Penang is linked to the mainland by the third largest suspension bridge in the world, which is eight miles long.  Georgetown is the capital, and it was there that we secured at 0700, port side to against the Sweetenham Cruise Terminal.  Already alongside was a fine four-masted barquentine which was also in the cruise business, though on a somewhat smaller scale.  I do not know how many passengers she carried, nor did I get her name, but she managed to incorporate two small swimming pools into a sailing ship configuration, which I thought was clever.  Presumably the pools empty rapidly whenever she heels over under sail.

From the ship, Georgetown looked like a much better prospect than Port Kelang.  For a start, we could walk ashore straight into the city, which looked inviting and bustling.  Secondly, the town’s strong colonial past meant that there was plenty to see over and above the ethnic aspects of a foreign port.  We were soon ashore in the blistering heat, dodging taxi drivers and rickshaw drivers and setting a fine marching pace for Fort Cornwallis, our first destination.  The fort had been built by Light initially as a stockade, but that was not fated to last and so it was replaced by a stone edifice in the early part of the 19th century.   The fort was in sound condition but, sadly, it was a bit of a disappointment and an opportunity lost by the Malaysian Tourist Board (if there is one).  There was a series of laminated, but faded, photographs dotted around the fort that provided some information, but otherwise there was little else in the way of facts.  Wooden cut-outs of redcoats, with holes for people to pose with, provided a somewhat tacky diversion.  The chapel was intact, and said to be the oldest Anglican church in south-east Asia, but it retained no internal religious features or pews and was currently being used as storage for a few muskets and scaffolding poles.  There appeared to be a barracks, but there was nothing to confirm the fact; there was a magazine, which was clean inside but, again, was devoid of any information.  Hoardings outside proclaimed a huge refurbishment programme for the whole area, including the fort, and I am sure it will make a big difference.  Unfortunately, it will be too late for us.

The sky darkened and rain looked imminent and, of course, rain out here means a deluge.  So our next visit was directed towards the State Museum, a few streets away.  We took in several fine colonial buildings on the way, including the Town Hall and Court House.  The pavements of the city appeared to be…quaint, and dotted with hazards such as very deep storm drains and very deep holes in the ground (by ‘very deep’, I mean like 18”).  I think the holes might have been part of the drainage system, but I cannot be sure.  I know they smelled in a rather noisome way.  The museum was very good, and it explained the history of the island and its very multi-cultural population very well.  While we were in there, the heavens opened and the predicted rain fell in torrents.

After the rain had stopped we set off for the Protestant Cemetery, which contained the European graves of most of the island’s forefathers and was said to be older than Highgate Cemetery in London.  We set off through a very vibrant part of the city, passing colourful buildings and many and varied small shops, over pavement that came and went at random.  Some buildings were modern, others were worse for wear, sometimes next to each other: it was quite a mix.  The cemetery took some finding, mainly because we misread the map, but we found it eventually and went in.  The site was rather run-down and not as well looked after as one might wish, but it still yielded some famous names from Penang’s past, including that of Captain Light himself.  I was particularly moved by some of the graves, such as those of naval and army officers who had died quite young, perhaps of some tropical disease.  The grave of one Charles Theophilus Hogan, Chief Engineer of the colonial steamer PEI HO, who died on 1 January 1869, seemed close to home to me, and I found it very poignant.  I wonder how he died and what his history was.

A drink and some WiFi seemed a good idea, so we called in to the very grand Eastern & Orient Hotel just across the road.  Unfortunately, the WiFi was down because of a loss of electrical supply, so one of the aims of the visit was not achieved.  Never mind, it was good to get in from the heat and sit in some colonial splendour.

So we had a good tour of Georgetown and thought it worthwhile: interesting, varied, quite ‘third world’ and (with some exceptions) very informative.  We were, however, glad to get back onboard as our shirts were sticking to our backs.  The ship was due to sail at 1630, but for the same reasons as given above (Day 90), we did not get away until 1715.  With the usual three blasts of the siren we pushed off from the jetty and headed northwards, weaving our way through the anchored shipping.  A brief visit, but well worthwhile.  Next stop, Colombo (which might just be about to enter the monsoon season – watch this space)..

Day 92

Tuesday 11 April.  Andaman Sea, Position at noon: 6deg 17N  93deg 51.7E.  Wind Force 5 from W.  29ºC.  Rain in afternoon and evening.  Course W, Speed 19.7 knots.  On passage to Colombo.

We put back our clocks another hour last night, making us just six hours ahead of you.

Imagine, if you will, this.  You wake up in the morning to total darkness with just a faint hum from the air conditioning, and you throw open the blackout curtains to a bright sunlit dawn as you make the tea.  Leaving your cabin, you open the upper deck door immediately outside and are hit with a wall of heat, as if from a blast furnace, and you are blinded by the intense sunlight.  You walk aft along the spotless teak deck to the superstructure that houses the aftermost lift and descend ten decks before entering a beautiful oak-lined restaurant, where you are greeted, by name, by the maitre d’hotel and your personal waitress.  Finally, you take your breakfast, with the sea rolling past the adjacent window and soft classical music playing in the background.  That was us, this morning.  Oh, life is sweet.

We are just getting to know our fellow diners in our new restaurant, and they seem a very friendly lot: more friendly, perhaps, than the ones in Princess Grill.  It is early days, but I think we will get on well.  The staff are friendly and efficient enough, but not a patch on the ones we had on the outward trip with the exception of the maitre d’hotel, who is lovely.  I suppose you can’t have everything.  The food, as I have said earlier, is almost as good as Princess Grill, but we think that, possibly, the portions are smaller.  This is no bad thing, as we are desperately trying to lose weight after the previous ninety days.

This was a very quiet day, for the ship’s programme offered little in the way of excitement.  Unlike the journey out, the lecture programme does not – so far – sound promising.  Today’s offering comprised ‘How a Heat Pump Works’ and ‘The Life of Irving Berlin’, and neither of these appealed.  I think someone might have been playing the banjo in the theatre at some point but, if he was, then we didn’t attend.  However we did enjoy a classical concert by a Swedish guitarist in the afternoon, and he was superb.

There was a ‘special offer’ on Duty Free and Jane, in her naivety, thought we could buy a bottle of gin for a little snifter in our cabin before dinner.  However, the gin was $40 and there was nowhere that you could buy the tonic, other than the bar.  As I pointed out, at that price you might as well buy the whole G+T at the bar and get someone to make it for you.  To help overcome her disappointment, we treated ourselves to a Pimms (Jane) and a Bellini (me) in the Commodore Club  – so much for the alcohol-free day.

One piece of bad news that we received late last night was that we will have to pay $60 to get a visa for Colombo, whether we go ashore or not.  It is irritating because I looked up Sri Lankan visas before we left UK, and it said that if you applied in advance (ie from 30 days before arrival), the visa was cheaper.  I duly set a reminder to apply while in Australia, and went online, at that time, to apply.  However, when I looked at the web page the second time it said that the visa was free on arrival if you were up to two days in transit. “That’s us”, I thought, “we will be in transit”, so I didn’t apply.  Big mistake.  To make matters worse, it appears that we are arriving in Colombo at the time of a Tamil festival, when not only will the tensions be high, but most of the shops and all of the museums will be shut.  Already it is beginning to look like Colombo will be a run ashore to look at the draft marks, though I dare say Mrs Shacklepin will drag be further into the city to look at some market or garden or both.

The weather took a bit of a turn for the worst in the afternoon, with heavy rain and squalls, though the temperature remained high at about 28ºC.  We actually sat out on the balcony, where we were reasonably sheltered, for a while but it was so humid that we felt our clothes were becoming damp, so we came in.  Looking out of the window, it looked like a dull autumn day out there, with the instinct to light a fire; however Jane’s new thermometer told us that it would not be necessary.

It being just after the beginning of a new segment of the cruise, namely Singapore to Dubai, there was the usual Captain’s Cocktail Party in the evening, which was Black Tie,  and we were duly invited.  Naturally, with free champagne on offer, we attended.  Also needless to say, we did not go down to the venue by crossing the upper deck.  As before, we really enjoyed it and this time we chatted to a couple of the ship’s officers, which made a nice change.  One little snippet that came out of the conversation was that, although there is a single officers’ mess (I think Cunard calls it the Wardroom, like the Royal Navy), the officers tend to cling to their specialisations (eg engineers, seamen etc) when it comes to seating.  It is like my father, the Master Mariner, always said: oil and water don’t mix.

Dinner that followed the cocktail party, in our usual place in the restaurant, took on a somewhat Rabelaisian air and we had a very jolly time with the people at the next table.  Jane was in fits of giggles most of the time (it might just possibly have been the champagne) and her eyes were streaming so much that she had to borrow my handkerchief.  She was even laughing at my jokes: something that hasn’t happened since 1982.  As the saying goes, a good time was had by all.

Day 93

Wednesday 12 April.  Indian Ocean on passage to Colombo. Overcast with heavy showers.  25ºC.  Wind Force 6 from WSW.  Sea Moderate. Position at 1300: 5deg 55N 84deg 23E. Course 268, speed 22 knots.  We further retarded our clocks last night, so we are now 5 hours ahead of UK.

I was woken this morning at 0500 by a roaring sound that I could not, at first, identify.  When I opened the curtains it was still dark, but you could see a mass of spray sweeping past the balcony like the water wall of a fire hose, soaking everything.  It was torrential rain.  Bearing in mind that the deckhead of our cabin is a false ceiling, with the upper deck above some ten inches above that, there must have been some force there that we could hear the rain.  Our balcony also has a deckhead, and is reasonably sheltered, but the rain was still lashing at the french windows with some force.  I do hope this does not auger badly for Colombo tomorrow.

We took breakfast in our cabin, just for a change.  The original intention was that we would eat outside on our sunlit balcony, but that idea was quite out of the question.  Jane did have hers in bed, however, and looked suitably smug in the process.  

There was not a great deal programmed today that was of interest, but we did attend a lecture by a political journalist, on the subject of ‘Britain After Brexit’.  It is an interesting facet of human nature that some people can talk on a boring subject, yet make it interesting, whereas others can take a God-sent opportunity of a good subject and make it boring.  This man was in the latter category.  His delivery was poor,  his jokes weak, and his points obscure.  Some people walked out in the middle, which I thought rather rude though he would not have been able to see them.  He was not controversial, rather he was very matter-of-fact, and this was to his credit.  Nevertheless, it was hard to pick up a lot of his points, given his clunky and disjointed style, and this was very surprising given his reputation.  What we did manage to understand was some of the detail of the alleged debt that the UK would have to pay off in order to leave (projects already committed to, and the pensions of UK EU civil servants were the items I remember).  He also explained the difficulties of transferring existing EU laws into UK laws (problem being that the laws contain references to EU regulations).  Another piece of information was that exit could be delayed if, say, EU attention was diverted elsewhere because of some international crisis and that, theoretically, the whole process could be stopped.  This last was a surprise, as I was of the understanding that our boats had been burnt when the letter was sent.  However, to reverse the process would require a strong opposition, a change of government, and another referendum, so in practical terms highly unlikely.

With a dearth of worthwhile lectures or entertainment, and a sullen sky, we spent most of the afternoon on our balcony just reading and this was a treat in itself.  Mummy did let me buy that illusive watch that I fancied on the outward journey, but which I failed to buy because of our unplanned early departure in Adelaide.  It can tell the time in 27 different countries you know, as well as the date and day of the week,  and whether it is morning or afternoon.  Perfect for the forgetful mature gentleman such as I.  We also popped down to see our old steward and waitresses in Princess Grill during a quiet moment, and it was lovely that they remembered us by name, with much hugging and kissing (with the waitresses, not the steward).  We were also tipped the wink that we could come in for Princess Grill tea in the exclusive lounge: a treat, as they serve clotted cream, not whipped cream (one does have one’s standards).

We cracked our second complimentary bottle of Blanc de Blanc before dinner: the moment seemed right

Day 94

Thursday 13 April.  At Colombo.  Sunny intervals.  Light airs.  35ºC.  Very humid and clammy.

We arrived in Colombo at 0630, a straightforward entry for once, and secured port side to at one of the container jetties.  

It had been a disturbed night because, when Jane got up to use the lavatory at 0200, she accidentally switched off the cabin master switch as she groped for the bathroom light.  Suitably ensconced on the throne, she was then disconcerted by the bathroom light going off under the time delay caused by the master switch being off.  She then groped in the dark to restore the master switch and, in so doing, switched on the main light and activated the television.  My awakening was triggered by a bright light, a loud television, and a sleepy figure padding around the cabin switching lights on and off and saying, “How do I turn the light off?”.  Fortunately, we had gained half and hour’s sleep because the clocks were retarded yet again during the night, making us 4.5 hours ahead of the UK.  Odd amount, but there you go.

Colombo was once the capital of Sri Lanka (Ceylon, until the name changed in 1972); the capital is now Sri Jayawardenapura Kotte, demonstrating that nine syllables beats three in any game of Happy Capitals.  Sri Lanka is very roughly the size of Ireland in terms of land mass, and its occupation dates from 3,000 BC, when a people known as the Veddas lived there.  The Veddas were conquered by the Sinhalese from northern India in the 6th century BC and they remained in occupation for 1700 years until, in the 11th century AD, Tamils from southern India invaded the north of the island and drove the Sinhalese south  This sowed the seeds of the civil war in Sri Lanka that took place in the 1980s and 90s, and which was only settled in 2009.  Colonially, the Portuguese landed in Ceylon in the 15th century, to be displaced by the Dutch in the 17th century who, in turn, were driven out by the good old British in 1815.  Ceylon gained its independence in 1948 and is famous for, among other things, being the country with the first female Prime Minister, Sirimavo Bandaranaike.  The main religion is Buddhism.

Colombo harbour proved to be a huge and very busy one, with a very rapid turnover of container ships (we saw seven sail and arrive in the course of the day).  It was fascinating to watch these giants being loaded with containers by the tall, gangly cranes that looked like enormous stick insects.  Extensive land reclamation was taking place to extend the port further and we were rewarded by the sight of a dredger, very close inshore to the beach beyond the enclosed harbour, sucking up the seabed and firing it in a long muddy stream onto the adjacent beach.

Jane and I were actually in two minds whether to go ashore.  The visit brief for Colombo was not encouraging as it stated,

“…Colombo is a loud, noisy and busy city, which can be hot and steamy at times.  Much of it is of little real interest to visitors with only a few hours to see the sights”.

This hearty recommendation was complemented by the visit lecture, in which we were told that we would be arriving during a Tamil festival in which tensions might be high, and all shops and museums would be shut, and no trains would be running.  We were also advised to remove all jewellery and not to take too much cash.  The icing on the cake came when we discovered that we were not permitted to walk into town, and must take the shuttle bus (40 minutes) to a shopping mall or handicraft market.  We did not fancy either of these destinations; we really just wanted to see the city at leisure.  Anyway, there must much humming and hawing, but – in the end – we decided it would be ridiculous to take a cruise that included a major city in the world yet not go ashore.  So we took the shuttle.

It was absolutely scorching on the jetty, with the heat radiating from the tarmac like a furnace.  We hung around looking for the shuttle bus, drifting hither and thither with everyone else, until it duly appeared and we galloped towards it.

Well, getting onboard that shuttle did not involve a lot of Christian charity or an ethos of ‘women and children first’.  It was like a rugby scrum, and the people with the best elbows won.  As I have said before, your Johnny Foreigner doesn’t do queuing.  Then we were off, leaving a disgruntled mob of the halt and the lame and those with no elbows to take bus number two.  When we had passed the main dock gates I was glad that we had not tried to walk.  It was utter chaos out there.  An alternative to the taxi was little three-wheeler cabs called tuk-tuks – you will have seen them in films of India, if not in real life.  These tuk-tuks were everywhere: in front of the bus, both sides of the bus, occasionally dangerously close to under the bus.  There was much tooting and swerving as we made progress, and it seemed to be a game of bluff, with the biggest vehicle winning.  More than once we saw a tuk-tuk being squeezed between two converging parallel buses, narrowly avoiding being crushed.  As well as the tuk-tuks there were people everywhere, all trying to mob the bus and sell whatever they could.  We finally got through this mêlée and made the main highway, taking in some sights on the way and, from what we could see, the city seemed quite clean and with a reasonable mix of architecture, but there seemed to be armed soldiers everywhere and there was a strong contrast between the very poor and the affluent.  One pleasing thing we did notice was that they drive on the left here too, and on every spare bit of disused land two or three impromptu cricket matches were taking place.  Damned civilised, I thought, glad we’ve taught these fellows something during our colonial occupation.

Arrival at the shopping mall was horrendous.  The bus was besieged by a mass of humanity, with men peering in and trying to sell goods, trips, and possibly their sisters.  It was a bit like like when you arrive at a car boot sale to set up a stall, and people try to take your goods before the car has even stopped.  When the bus door opened they would have burst in if they could: it was very unnerving, bordering on being thoroughly unpleasant and there was no way we were getting off there and pushing through that lot, so we stayed on.  We disembarked at the final stop, the handicraft market, and that wasn’t too bad – but outside the gates the harassing mob was still lurking, being controlled by a few policemen using strong-arm tactics.  Venturing further than the market was not attractive.  So we bought some Sinhalese tea because I am quite fond of Orange Peko from the Dimbula region (very expensive in UK) and some Sinhalese coffee, passed over buying a wooden elephant or a brass Aladdin’s lamp, and got back on the next shuttle bus for the ship.  Time from disembarkation to re-embarkation: 61 minutes; the shortest run-ashore ever.

Were we philistines for not trying to see more of this colourful city?  Possibly.  Were we unadventurous?  Perhaps.   But the truth is, it offered no appeal to us whatsoever, felt very threatening and, as an old friend once said to us, “Life is too short to do things that you don’t want to do”.  Other people on the returning bus had exactly the same opinion as us, and one went so far as to say, “What a dump”.  Well, it was certainly a colourful experience.  Verdict on Colombo?  Insufficient data, but we wouldn’t come again.

We sailed at 2000, spinning round in the usual manner, then taking the buoyed channel for the sea.  Next stop, Dubai.

Day 95

Friday 14 April.  Good Friday.  Sunny intervals.  30ºC.  Humid. Wind Force 4 from W.  Sea: Slight. Position at noon: 9deg 41N  75deg 10.5E, 66nm SW of the bottom left of India, course NW.  Clocks were retarded the remaining 30 minutes last night, making us 4 hours ahead of UK.  We are hugging the Indian coast on the way up the Arabian Sea to Dubai in order to minimise the risk of attack by pirates, of which more later.

We awoke early, partly because of the retarded time, which made us think it was later than it actually was, and partly to attend the 0830 church service for Good Friday, advertised in the programme.  The service was conducted by an American priest from Tucson, so we had a proper sin bosun rather than the Captain, and he seemed a jolly and engaging enough fellow.  We weren’t entirely familiar with the service because the priest was an Episcopalian minister, but we plunged in nevertheless.  My goodness, that service went on.  After half an hour, with our tummies rumbling, we were still on Page 1 of the service sheet.  There were three lessons, each of which covered many verses, if not entire chapters; then the Gospel, which also was extensive.  There were two hymns, which we only vaguely knew, but we gave them a good shot until we realised that we appeared to be the only ones singing (everyone else was struggling or just mouthing the words).  To crown it all, Jane and I got a fit of the giggles in the middle of one of the hymns as the tune rose and fell with an, “oo – oooo – ooooooo” refrain at a particularly tricky part, and we only just managed to control ourselves.  It doesn’t do to giggle in the House of the Lord, even if it is the Royal Court Theatre.  The sermon wasn’t too bad, but the prayers seemed to go on forever and we were seriously worried that we might not make breakfast at all.  Finally, after 45 minutes, the service ended and we shot out like a rocket to the other end of the ship to the restaurant before breakfast ceased.  We both concluded that it was very nice, but next time –  on Easter Sunday – we would go to the Captain’s service where there would be no nonsense, there would be hearty hymns that we knew, and all would be finished in half an hour.

After breakfast we decided we needed some exercise to wear off all that food and wine, but we didn’t fancy doing the prison exercise yard that is the promenade deck.  So we decided to do a circuit of every internal deck, starting with our own on Deck 13.  In the process, we could view the cabins in the lower recesses of the ship where the poor people live and, indeed, view the poor people themselves – rather like visitors to a zoo.  So we set off: down the starboard side, round the for’d end, down the port side, down the stairs; next deck; and so on.  Well, from Deck 13 to Deck 2 it took us 1.5 hours do do those circuits: let us say four miles.  We were amazed that it took so long, but we felt all the better for it.  We also, in passing, discovered the ship’s night club which looked very nice.  Who knows, we may return later in the dark to do a little smooching and boogying, or whatever one does in a nightclub these days, though as the club opens after our Ovaltine time this may just be a pipe dream.

The afternoon brought another classical concert with our young Swedish guitarist who, again, was superb.  He played a range of pieces ranging from Spanish, through Portuguese to Paraguayan – thankfully without the backing of the Cunard resident band.

Another cocktail party with the Captain this evening, this time for Gold Badge holders and above.  Of course I have raved about this Gold Badge for some time (well, ever since we got it), but it was quite apparent that we were not the only people so qualified.  In fact, judging by the crowd in the Queen’s Room ballroom just about everyone onboard had one (650 people, to be precise).  Oh dear.  We really must push and try to get the next grade up, the Platinum.  Just one night onboard a Cunard vessel: that’s all it will take.  You will recall that I joked in an earlier blog about receiving the Gold Badge for loyalty (it actually exists somewhere – probably in a suitcase under the bed).  Well, believe it or not, some people were wearing their badges in their lapels or on their dresses tonight.  I knew I should have worn mine.  I could have worn it along with my Blood Donor Badge (‘he gave so that others may live…’), National Trust Life Membership Badge, River Thames Volunteer Lock-keeper Badge, Prefect’s Badge and RNLI Bronze Lifesaving Badge.  Damn: an opportunity lost.

Blog 20. Return from Australia. Singapore

Day 87

Thursday 6 April. Transit from Melbourne to Singapore. Sunny and 26ºC in Melbourne; humid and wet at 33ºC in Singapore.

We rose at 0400 for departure to Melbourne Airport at 0500.  Laura and Derek were kindly driving us there, but it can be a 90 minute journey and we were concerned that the motorway would be clogged up.  Indeed, the motorway was surprisingly busy on the way to Melbourne, but I suppose the M4 to Heathrow would have been just the same at that time.  As it happens, we completed the journey in about an hour, and said our sad farewells to Laura and Derek just after 0600.  I hate farewells, and we made it quick.

It seems to me that all airports operate slightly differently.  If you are a regular traveller you become familiar with the routine and think nothing of it.  If, however, you are infrequent flyers like us, then you can easily become completely lost.  Trailing our luggage, we roamed the airport looking for the baggage drop for Singapore Airlines like two lost waifs sent off to the country to escape the blitz.  Eventually, after the fourth circuit, we discovered that the airlines ‘hot desk’ for the check-ins and ours was not open yet, so we found a nice hard chair to sit on and waited.  Finally, at 0730, the desks opened and we were off: a very quick check-in for Business Class, through security, and down to the Business Class lounge for breakfast.  Very nice and civilised, despite the baby and two toddlers (who can afford to take children that age in Business Class?) who – you will be amazed to know – were no trouble at all.  The breakfast of cold poached egg with Hollandaise sauce, and  bacon the texture of shoe leather wasn’t brilliant, but it was free and eaten in quiet surroundings.  Breakfast, as I have often told Jane on many an occasion, is a non-sociable meal that should be taken in peace and tranquility, with the preserves and toast rack close to hand, a cup (not a mug) of the best hot Colombian within reach, and a copy of The Times set on a reading stand in front of one.  She ignores these requirements, of course – I think there is a rebellious streak in that girl.  What her poor father must have put up with.

Soon we were boarding the aircraft (a Boeing 777-300ER for the technically minded), and I must say that travelling Business Class is the way to go, even if it does cost a packet.   Seating was arranged 1:2:1 across the aircraft and Jane and I had large individual booths, one behind the other, with window seats.  You could convert the booth into a bed, but we didn’t bother.  A glass of champagne appeared immediately on boarding and we settled in rapidly.  I don’t know where the baby and toddlers went, but they weren’t with us; I rather suspect that they were in First Class (even more amazing).

As we took off I felt very sad about leaving Australia after so long, and Jane even shed a tear.  We were leaving a beautiful country and our dear friends who had been so good to us.  But there you are: all good things have to come to an end.  Of course, Laura and Derek could have been cracking the champagne as we left the runway!

Instead of the usual second-rate film that you used to get on aircraft, there was a huge selection of films or TV programmes to choose from, and you could pause or rewind as desired.  I watched three good films and a bit of Fawlty Towers, and the journey just whizzed by.  The food was also excellent.  There were five choices for the main course and I chose snapper fillets on noodles as the healthy option, but I could have had lamb, chicken, steak or vegetarian.  For wine, we could have champagne, three choices of other white wine and four choices of red (I had the Shiraz).  The staff were very good and looked most becoming in their sarongs.  What I particularly liked was the way that they made a point of learning and using your name (“Another champagne, Mr Shacklepin?”), and they didn’t just associate the name with the seat – they used it if they met you in the aisle, or when you were searching out the lavatory too.

The journey took seven hours in real time, but there was a two-hour time difference so it was only five hours on the clock and we arrived at about 1600 local time.  We are now only seven hours ahead of you in the UK. 

Immigration in Singapore was a breeze compared to the USA, and the airport was a delight to visit.   It didn’t take long before we were in a taxi heading for the Premier Inn; the fare was $SG18 (about £10), which I thought was very reasonable.  What we saw of Singapore en route was beautiful.

Premier Inn proved to be very like its namesake in UK (it is a spin-off of the same company), but the service was even better, and more like a hotel, for example a porter took our luggage and delivered it to our room, there was a fridge with complimentary water, and – of course – there was air conditioning.  The room was smallish and ‘Premier Inn standard’, with a double bed, a small desk and a couch that could be converted into a third bed;  it was perfectly adequate and excellent value for money at £218 for two nights in a big city.  I would like to report that we dashed out after dropping off our luggage, but the truth is we were so shattered and disoriented after being up since 0400 in Australia, and not at all hungry after the aircraft food, that we just lazed about in the room and went to bed early.   Also, it was raining in Singapore (though 33ºC), and that made a good excuse.

Day 88

Friday 7 April. Hot, humid and sunny. 34ºC.  In Singapore.

We had heard good reports about Singapore but, behold, the half was not unto us.  This place is truly and absolutely amazing.

After a good restful night, disturbed only by heavy thunder and lashing rain, we decided against the standard Premier Inn breakfast – after all we were in Singapore.   So we set off up the road to find a little café.  The heat hit us like a Turkish bath.  By golly, it was hot.  Surprisingly, a suitable venue was hard to find (copies of The Times seemed to be a bit thin on the ground), but we used the time usefully by taking in the diverse cultures of the city, passing through what I think was the Malaysian, then the Indonesian quarters.  We did find a little café eventually and after that we could start exploring Singapore properly.

Laura had described to us that Singapore was one of the few nations to learn from its British colonial background and keep the good bits instead of just ditching the lot.  And that is the impression we got.  The cars drive on the left, the plugs are 13A 3-pin, and the official language is English (though the national language is Malay).  What more can you ask?  Superficial though they may be, these pointers were symbolic of what was clearly a well-ordered society.

It is hard to describe Singapore and give it justice.  It is, without doubt, the most beautiful city I have ever visited: yes, even better than Sydney and Melbourne. It is a garden city.  There are flowers, shrubs and trees everywhere: walking through the streets is like walking through the Garden of Eden.  More often than not, the pavements themselves are tiles, not paving slabs, and they are all spotless: no litter, no dog-ends, no dog mess; everything is as neat as a new pin.  The highways are wide and mainly dual carriageways, but with four lanes on each side.  The buildings are a mix of old and new, but the overall impression is of magnificence and graceful beauty.  And get this:  no graffiti!  None at all.  I looked everywhere for it, but found none.

We realised that we had a lot to see, with so little time to do it in, so we headed first for the Marina Bay Sands Hotel, which is an enormous three-tower complex with what can best be described as a surfboard on top of the three.  The ‘surfboard’ contains a viewing area and a roof garden.  At the base of the hotel is a huge shopping complex on four levels, with an ice rink at one end and a lake and canal at the other.  You can get a boat out on the latter, and be rowed to and fro as if on a gondola, if being paddled about in a shopping centre is to your taste.  All the shops are top names, of course: none of your WH Smith or even John Lewis.  Instead there is Prada, Gucci, Rolex, Jimmy Choo, Chanel and every other expensive name you can think of.

We wandered through this complex for a while, not least to just cool off, then we crossed a bridge to the adjacent Gardens by the Bay which had all sorts of gardens in them such as a Chinese Garden, a Colonial Garden and so on.  One feature was high steel ‘trees’ (called Supertrees) overgrown with foliage and you could walk along a suspended walkway high among them.  We did this, and I had no problems, but Jane did not like the wobbly walkway much and it was the fastest $S16 we ever spent.  The gardens were absolutely delightful, and we wandered round for quite some time, but storm clouds were looming and so we thought it sensible to head back indoors before the rain started.

The heat and humidity were overpowering and we felt the strong urge for a stiffener, so we headed back into the city looking for a watering hole.  On the way, from one of the high bridges, we were rewarded by the sight of QUEEN MARY 2 coming alongside about a mile away.  Not long now.

A number of potential drinking places appeared, but they were mostly serving late lunch and we weren’t hungry, what with the heat and the late breakfast.  I fancied an up-market hotel where we could do some people watching and sample a cocktail.  Raffles was the obvious candidate, but we saw a closer candidate in the form of the Fullerton Hotel, a grand building overlooking the lagoon, so we went for that.  It was a a fine establishment which, it turned out, had once been the General Post Office, but we couldn’t find the bar.  We wandered hither and thither past PLU having coffee or afternoon tea and eventually found a sign that said ‘Roof Bar, 8th Floor”.  So up we went in the lift to Floor 8, which we further explored, passing private rooms and laundry trolleys, but still never finding the bar.  No we didn’t ask.  By that time I had taken against the hotel, not least for its absence of security, so I decided we would try Raffles instead.

Back into the Turkish bath, and en route to Raffles we took in Singapore Cricket Club and its ground, the Pedang; the Victorian Memorial Hall; the art gallery; and a statue of Raffles who (of course) founded the colony as an East India Trading Company base under licence from the local Sultan.  We strolled into Raffles as if we owned the place and followed the signs for the Billiards Room, where the famous Singapore Sling is currently served.  The place was quite busy with tourists (I don’t put us in that category, naturally) and we thought they were just hanging around, before we realised that they were the queue for the bar.  I don’t queue, and I certainly don’t queue for bars, so we walked out.

The jury is out on whether we made the right decision in cancelling our booking for Raffles.  It was certainly very grand, but we were only staying for two days and the hotel seemed awfully ‘touristy’ – not necessarily in terms of clientele, but in terms of visitors.  And if we had stayed, would we have had to queue for a drink? Whatever, we saved just under £1,000 which I could use for new upholstery for the boat (or to deck out the memsahib in a new set of clothes, of course).

So, back to the hotel to peel our clothes off our backs and take a shower.  Before that, we did find a little place where I had a Tiger beer and we hoovered down a Nasi Goreng (very filling).  We had been walking for over six hours, mostly in the steamy heat, and I reckon that must be about 12 miles’ worth.  I needed that drink.

Jane wanted some photographs of Singapore at night, which involved walking all the way back to the ‘lagoon’ again, an aspiration which my feet and stomach greeted with incredulity.  But we could hardly sit in our room from 1800, so at sunset (about 1900) we set off, this time attired in nice dress, sandals (Jane) and smart shirt and trousers (me).  We still hankered for that cocktail, and drifted past a big hotel vowing to return, but then we discovered a road we hadn’t seen before, and followed it past bars, cafés and restaurants, to an escalator descending into the ground.  Crikey, there was a whole new world down there that we hadn’t noticed!  I think it was actually a Metro station, but in addition there was a vast network of shops, food bars and cafés down there,  extending for at least an acre, and all air-conditioned.  We followed the signs for what we thought was Marina Bay (where we were headed for) and eventually emerged into the warm soup again, completely lost.  There then followed a minor family contretemps regarding the soreness of feet, the uncomfortable humidity, and the unwillingness to rerun the afternoon’s experience in new clothes.  There was also a feeling of déja vu from walks in Geelong as we trudged through dusty areas, climbed over crash barriers, darted across roads and generally embarked on an outback expedition in unsuitable clothes.  Astonishingly, we found what we were looking for, and took some amazing pictures.  I must say, it was a beautiful sight at nighttime: the Marina Bay Sands Hotel, lit up, really did look like something out of Star Wars and the rest of the city was like fairy land.  Sydney and Melbourne had been pretty damned good, but this place was off the planet.

We dived down into the land of the troglodytes again and took, what I considered, to be the direct route underground to where we wanted to go.  There was yet another minor disagreement as to the right course, and we drifted around vaguely past more underground shops before emerging – well – somewhere near Raffles.  We found a convenient cocktail bar (tongues hanging out by this time) and dived in.  They didn’t do Singapore Sling, but they did do Bellinis, which we ordered and hoovered down like refugees from the desert.  When we paid ($S37) it was revealed that they were part of the ‘Happy Hour’ package so, as Jane put it, we could have had another.  Always wishing to fulfil Jane’s every wish, we headed for Raffles for that illusive Sling.

Raffles looked lovely floodlit, and I felt another minor pang of regret for not staying, until I discovered that the queue for the bar was still there (though, to be fair, other people were in it).  So off we set back to the hotel, this time smart, hot, and tired.  But we did enjoy the Bellinis.

Day 89

Saturday 8 April, and we rejoin QM2 today.  Overcast, heavy showers, 35ºC.  

We drifted up the road looking for somewhere for a light breakfast, Jane clutching her waterproof lest a heavy shower should disturb her beautifully coiffured hair.  I didn’t have the heart to tell that the humidity had done the job already without having to resort to precipitation.

This is sad.  In the whole of Singapore, the best place we could find for breakfast on Day 2 was a Starbucks.  In our defence, it was starting to rain and the heavy tropical storm threatened to ruin my carefully coiffured hair and immaculate appearance.  Actually, it was quite good for Starbucks, modest though it was.

At last, it was noon and time to check out and head for the end of Phase 3.  Verdict on Singapore?  Fantastic, but we had nowhere near long enough to make a proper assessment and we did not manage to see all the places that people recommended.  Apart from the time shortage, the atmosphere was very enervating and I thought we did well to do six hours in the heat.  Ambience and aesthetics, 10; skateboarders, NIL; grown men on electric children’s scooters, 2; litter, NIL; cleanliness, 9; dossers, NIL; beggars, NIL; dog mess, NIL; dogs, NIL; security and safety, 10; Graffiti Factor, 0%.

Our official joining time for QM2 was 1530, but we were hardly going to wander Singapore trailing two large cases each, so we took the view that the cruise terminal would, at least, be air-conditioned.  If we had to wait, then so be it; fair enough.  We arrived there at 1215.  What a contrast with Southampton!  There were no porters to take our luggage: just a heap of cases in a corner looking like cast offs from some sinister genocide operation.   We asked a bloke what to do and he just told us to add our bags to the heap.  This we did, wondering if we would ever see them again, before we entered the building.  We passed through the usual security checks and what a sight awaited us.  Imagine, if you will, an enormous aircraft hangar capable of taking – say – an Airbus 380 or two.  Imagine then filling this space with linked chairs like a vast departure lounge far exceeding anything in Heathrow or Gatwick.  Well that was the cruise terminal.  And it was packed.  Packed solid with seated people.  We were ushered to a designated area, each of us trailing what is euphemistically called ‘cabin baggage’, and sat to wait.  Time passed by and it was eventually revealed that the emigration computers had ‘gone down’ and that nothing was happening.  Shades of Cape Town all over again, I see.  More people kept arriving, and filled up more space; further batches arrived and were ushered upstairs; I presume even further batches would be ushered outside.  Finally, there were signs of movement, and anyone for Princess or Queen’s Grill was extracted.  I almost put my hand up accidentally:  see how the mighty have fallen.  But then, after two hours, and before our designated time, we were off: through check-in, smile for the photo (was told I was very handsome, but sadly it was by a bloke), and given our (Extremely Important Gold Club Member) embarkation cards.  Off we went through a door where we had to take off all our clothes and pose for emigration.  Actually, I made part of that last bit up, but it was surprising just how many hoops we had to jump though to get out of Singapore.  Finally, finally, we crossed the brow and entered the hallowed portals of QM2 once again.  It was like coming home.

We soon found our cabin, high up on Deck 13 and higher than the bridge.  There is no-one above us except the deck and the sky.   It was one of the new cabins added en bloc in the refit of June 2016 and very nice, though (of course) smaller than our Princess Grill cabin of the outward journey, though not uncomfortably so.  This time we are travelling ‘Britannia Club’, a sort of Premium Economy ticket that gives the anytime dinner time and designated seating of Princess Grill, without the privilege of eating in the Princess Grill itself.  As I write, we have not eaten yet so I cannot comment on the Britannia Club restaurant, but I know that at least it will have views of the sea, instead of the views of the zombie-like fitness fanatics marching around Deck 7 as was our fate on the outward trip.

Awaiting us in the cabin were two bottle of Blanc de Blanc on ice (as befits Important Gold People) and our luggage which, miraculously, had not been filched by the lesser elements of Singapore.  After unpacking, we poured our wine and ventured out onto the balcony to view the port.  This proved difficult, because the Caribbean candidate for Miss Universe 1951 (failed Heat 1) did not have the strength to open the sliding door.  Then she lost her embarkation card.  Then she lost her mobile phone.  I could see a paddy brewing, and I’m not talking about preparations for St Patrick’s Day.  Never before has a glass of ice-cold sparkling wine been needed so much.  I opened the door, and placed the elixir in her hand and, behold, she was turned into Wonder Woman (alas, minus lasso, which had still not been unpacked).  After the third glass she was burbling like a Three Badge Parrot and could open anything.  Truly, we had finally returned onboard the Love Boat (well, I hope so – though she might fall asleep on me yet).

The first hurdle was lifeboat drill at 1700 and after that we could relax.  Looking at Jane, the relaxation stage had clearly started early and she was already voicing the view that we should descend early to our Assembly Station to get the best seats.  I was not sure if she meant ‘best seats in the lifeboats’ or ‘best seats in the lounge’, but I thought I had better comply as Jane in her masterful mood is best not ignored.  I returned to the cabin from the balcony to find our lifejackets already laid out on the bed by Jane, and I grabbed one, only to be told, 
“That one is mine.  This is yours”.
“How can this be so?”, I asked, “we’ve just joined and they’re both the same”.
“No”, she said, “Mine is cleaner.  Yours has a greasy mark on it, as befits an engineer”.
I confess, I was initially lost for words.  With the ship sunk beneath us, sharks circling and hypothermia lurking, Jane would be concerned to present a pristine appearance in an immaculate lifejacket (something of an oxymoron in itself, by the way).  She was right about the mark,  but I protested loudly – as we marched along the cabin flat – that I was a Chartered Engineer, not a grease monkey:  I could explain the difference between entropy and enthalpy in a few terse sentences.  And at this point she assaulted me: physically pushed me along the cabin flat to the stairs.  What do you think of that?  After all I have done for her.  “No more Lucozade for you, deary”, I thought.  And I bags the first seat in the lifeboat.

At last, supper time came and we went down to the Britannia Club Restaurant for the first time.  It was jolly nice –  dare I say it, a better dining venue than Princess Grill: more distinguished and quieter, with wood panelled bulkheads, less traffic, and a table by the window looking out over the sea.  The restaurant is on Deck 2 which, you will know from previous blogs, is quite low down, close to the waterline so we will be somewhat closer to nature.  On the basis of just one meal, the food was just as good as Princess Grill, with six choices on the table d’hôte menu, and a similar number on the à la carte.  I am not sure why they offer both menus, but I’m not complaining.  Just for the record, I had Crab & Lobster Thermidor to start, followed by Pan-fried Cod in a mustard sauce.  We weren’t originally going to have any wine, but we felt that we should celebrate, so we ordered a bottle of Cloudy Bay Sauvignon Blanc to last us a few days.  That is several resolutions broken already – Australia has been a bad influence.

The ship was due to sail at 2000, but there were delays with the authorities and we did not, in fact, get away until about 2110 in the end.  I didn’t envy the Captain taking the ship out through what was a very busy and congested shipping channel in the dark, but we cleared everything with the usual air of panache.  The lights of Singapore remained in sight well into the evening and we were sorry that our visit had been so brief: another time perhaps?  Next port is Port Kelang tomorrow, the port for Kuala Lumpur which is 25 miles away.  We will not make the latter as it is too far, but we may try Port Kelang on the shuttle.  We will see.

We slept the sleep of the just in the large bed, completely dead to the world.

I will send this off now, as it completes Phase 3 – the transit of Singapore.

Blog 19. Australia Finale. Melbourne

Day 81

Friday 31 March. Cold at 12ºC.  Sunny.

We set off from Phillip Island after breakfast to return to Geelong for a day, before heading for a weekend in Melbourne.  The return journey did not seem as lengthy as the outward one, despite the fact that we stopped at yet another winery en route.  There, we took part in the shortest wine tasting on record, because the owner could only spare us five minutes as he had a large party arriving for lunch.  So it was look, smell, slurp, gulp, next one, then thank you.  Laura and Derek liked the wine despite the somewhat perfunctory reception, and they bought half a case.  The winery was miles from civilisation on an unmade dusty road, about two miles from the highway: a lovely building and restaurant with superb views of the sea.  How people got to hear of it, heaven only knows, but the restaurant has a good reputation for food.

The trip back on the ferry across The Rip to Queenscliff was enlivened by a women’s get-together in what passed as the restaurant onboard, eating an extended lunch and making one heck of a racket at the same time (as a lot of women can do: they all talk at once).  Apparently you can hire the ‘restaurant’ for such events and just stay onboard for trip after trip, eating and drinking away.  We all get our thrills in different ways; I must write to the North Shields Ferry Company and suggest they do something similar for their trips across the Tyne.

Finally, we were back in Headquarters in Geelong.  The house was like a fridge, a fact remarked upon by all concerned, yet Laura’s solution was to open the back door.  Jane sat in the kitchen with a fleece on, and I would have joined her if I had one.  I’ve said it before: they are a tough bunch these Australians, they still walk around in shorts and flip flops in the freezing cold.  In the end, we both decided to go for a walk and get some exercise in order to warm up, and that did help.  Odd contrast to earlier in the visit.

We spent the evening in a little Italian restaurant in Geelong where you could ‘bring your own’ .  It was a family run affair, and so very good, though it took an hour to deliver the main course and we were comfortably into our wine by that time.  The return to the happy fridge was highlighted by taking some of Derek’s port, which warmed us up very well.  The photograph of Jane drinking it through some spouted contraption, aimed at aerating the port as it was consumed, was duly posted.

And so to bed.  I don’t think I’ve slept with an icicle before; this was a first.

Day 82

Saturday 1 April.  Rabbits, and there are a lot of them in Australia. 21ºC, sunny intervals, cool breeze.

Mid morning we set off for our penultimate destination in Australia, Melbourne, and we were very much looking forward to it after seeing its competitor, Sydney.  It was an hour’s journey on the motorway, and rather tedious (as any motorway journey is).  I was struck again by the poor lane discipline on Australian roads, something I found a little strange given the stringent driving test standard in the country: everyone seems to just pick a lane and stick to it; there is none of this ‘keep to the left after overtaking’ like in the UK.  Consequently there is overtaking and undertaking, and it is quite unnerving. 

Our first sight of Melbourne was very impressive, because its skyline was visible from miles and miles away as a huge majestic conurbation.  When we got closer in, the majesty of the city came across even better.  We drove across Westgate Bridge, which is very popular for suicides who cannot face poverty after losing in Melbourne’s Crown Casino (typically five a month).  A few years ago, a father threw his four year old daughter from the bridge to get back at his wife, with whom he had had a row.  Pretty appalling.

Under the bridge, the Yarra River wound its way from a busy harbour, up through the heart of the city.  The buildings seemed higher than those in Sydney, but also the city centre roads were much wider.  As a result there was not the dark canyon effect so common with high-rise buildings, and there was much more natural light on the streets; the wind still howled like a banshee at street level, however, and I was reminded of Chicago.

Laura had used her timeshare contract to obtain a serviced apartment on Kavanagh Street in the central business district, and this proved to be a perfect location.  The apartment was an executive suite on the seventeenth floor and quite excellent.  It had two double bedrooms (one en suite), with a family bathroom and a small kitchen.  Large picture windows and a balcony gave fine views of the city.  After parking the car in the residents’ car park we set off to explore the Melbourne.

Our first port of call was the viewing platform of the Eureka Tower, 88 floors (282m) above ground level.  This gave us splendid views of the city all around, and we were able to appreciate the layout and many fine features.  It was quite breathtaking and we were fortunate to have a sunny period in which to do the viewing.  I liked the look of Melbourne, and I reckon it looked even better than Sydney, which is saying something.  It appeared very spacious, well laid out, and with some impressive old buildings and many parks.  There was the option, for an additional fee, to walk onto a glass-floored external platform, but we passed on that.  Curiously, given my acrophobia, I was not too bothered by the height, but I did feel slightly nauseous, and so did Jane; I think we must have been suffering vertigo, something I have never experienced before (fear, yes, nausea, no).  I did read that the top of the tower can move as much as 300mm (12″), and I reckon that was happening when we were up there.  I didn’t actually kiss the ground when we exited the lift on the ground floor, but it was a close thing.  Interestingly, local runners sometimes run to the top of the Eureka Tower for charity; I understand the record for 88 floors is seven and a half minutes.   This brings that dash to the upstairs loo during a commercial break on the television into perspective somewhat.

We pushed on to the riverside, where the city was celebrating a festival in style: brass bands, singers, individual players.  We wandered through this lively mix, seeking out somewhere to have lunch.  I thought perhaps a little riverside restaurant with French cuisine, but Laura said that there was a food court nearby, in the ground floor of the Crown Casino, and this offered good value for money.

A food court.  This sounded ominous.  I didn’t think I had ever eaten in a food court.  Surely it couldn’t be as bad as I thought it would be?  Yes, it could. We strolled though a heaving, noisy, bustling chamber, which had stalls on all sides offering all manner of international foods.  Plain Formica tables with plastic chairs were scattered around the centre of this maelstrom, and they would be the hub of The New Dining Experience.  I am not the best person for concealing personal feelings, and I confess that I viewed the area with the manner of a Regency buck touring an abattoir.  But the rest of the party were determined to eat there, and I tried hard to make the most of it.  We eventually ordered some Asian food: any two dishes, with noodles, supplied on a paper plate with a plastic fork to eat it with.  We secured a table and sat down to eat, buffeted by noise and movement all around like pebbles in a fast flowing stream.  People bumped into our chairs and shouted over the top of us; we were assaulted by clamour on all sides.  The food was actually very good, but frankly, the entire experience was absolutely awful.  As a process for taking on fuel it could be compared to a Replenishment at Sea in a Force 8 off Portland; as an enjoyable culinary experience it failed miserably.

And so for a stroll to see the rest of the city, heading for the main shopping street, and it was then that the detail of Melbourne was to be compared with the first impressions.  It was extremely busy and noisy, it being the Food, Wine, Art, Comedy and Just-About-Everything-Else Festival this weekend.  As in Adelaide a lifetime ago, we were assaulted by a cacophony of different types of music and a medley of conjurers and street artists, all performing at once.  The city was much more open and airy than central Sydney, with an eclectic mix of buildings, old and new, that broke up the skyline, let in more light, and was quite pleasing to the eye.  The roads were very wide, typically eight lanes plus two tram lines, and this enhanced the feeling of space.  Most roads were lined with plane trees, which also gave them a very relaxing and natural appearance.  Although Melbourne didn’t have the magnificent harbour and waterfront of Sydney, it did have the river, and the riverside had a wonderful buzz to it.  The buildings were quite imaginative.  There was a huge curved concert hall that looked like something built by the Todt Organisation as part of the Atlantic Wall; an art theatre with a tower like the RKO logo; an art complex that looked like camouflaged discarded shoe boxes; and some very fine Victorian architecture, all of which I marginally preferred to Sydney’s buildings (Opera House excepted).  Overall, architecturally and aesthetically, Melbourne came across better than both Sydney and Adelaide.

But oh dear, the graffiti.  It seemed to be everywhere: it was on bridge pillars, hoardings, buildings,  lamp-posts, electricity sub-stations, bollards, and road signs (and they are just the ones I can remember).  There was even an alley deliberately set aside for graffiti artists, and the vandals had disfigured that with obscenities too: graffiti on graffiti.  And this wasn’t in some run-down part of the city: it was in the Central Business District.  Even the head of office of the Bank of Australia, with its grand marble entrance, had graffiti on it.  It all felt a bit of a let down, like when you see a beautiful woman then discover that she has tattoos.  Why put up with that?  Why not clean it off, or, better still, shoot the graffiti artists as they crawl out of their holes at night?  It really did let down the whole city and it was worse than Tenerife (see Blog 1).

We did not really see all of the main shopping area of Melbourne, so I cannot give a fair comparison with the other Australian cities.  Laura only took us through the poorer quarters where the ragged people go and these areas were a bit scruffy, with lots of dog-ends outside buildings, where the pariahs are sent to pursue their dirty habits away from healthy people.

We went into our first Australian pub, a fine Victorian building called Young & Jackson, and had a very pleasant pint of Carlton Bitter (Carlton is THE Australian beer, by the way – they wouldn’t touch Fosters with a barge pole, and it isn’t on sale anyway).  The comfortable lounge was dominated by a huge oil painting of a naked girl, Chloe, painted in 1875 and the subject of much controversy at the time because of its perceived prurient influence.  The full-length painting showed some powerful use of colour and subtle brush strokes, illustrating a slim youthful form in the style of Raphael.  Derek and I were so impressed by this example of fine art that we felt bound to examine it in detail and be photographed next to it.

In the evening, Laura took us to ‘a little place where she had lunch once’ that was a Hare Krishna eatery called Crossways.  We set off through the streets which, if anything, were even busier and noisier than during the day.  Smart theatre and concert patrons in evening wear shared the streets with pop fans, eccentrics, students and tramps; rap music competed with classical; jazz with hip hop.  Think Oxford Street, pre Christmas at night time, with lots of noise and no Christmas lights.  We battled our way against the stream, tripping over down-and-outs and push chairs, until suddenly Laura dived left into an ordinary doorway between two shops and started to climb the narrow stairs.  I started humming ‘Fernando’s Hideaway’ for some reason, and did wonder if we would have to knock on a door and say that Joe had sent us.  But no, we went straight in to an ordinary first floor room, quite narrow, that ran from the front to the back of the building.

Crossways, run by the Hare Krishna movement, was like a cross between a Salvation Army refuge and a Youth Hostel.  Round or long pine refectory tables, with folding plastic chairs, were scattered through the room and were occupied by a wide range of patrons: students; men in vests with tattoos and hairy armpits; Orientals; an old woman in a lamé top with a rucksack, cleaning out her ear with her little finger; and a thin, angular, old man wearing a floppy bee-keeper’s hat and wrapped in a sheet.  A bit like Simpsons on The Strand, then.  At one end of the room was the serving counter.  There was one (vegetarian) ‘choice’ only, and this changed each day.  The main course came with a pudding and a drink, all for $AUS 8.  Tonight, the Dish of the Day was vegetarian curry, and the pudding appeared to be that old naval favourite, figgy duff and custard.  We trooped up to the counter, paid our money, and were duly handed our plate of curry and rice, with the duff added to the tray.  We were expected to clear our table when finished, emptying the leftovers into a slop bucket and piling the dirty plates and cutlery in suitable receptacles.  A bit like the Cadets’ Messdeck in HMS SKEGNESS, only the deck didn’t move or leak, and we didn’t have to wash up.  

We sought a suitable table and managed to secure three seats on one, with Derek sitting nearby on another.  There were no napkins or tablecloths, but the cutlery was – at least – in stainless steel.  For a drink, I chose a milky yoghurt called lassi, the first time I have ever drunk a dog food.

It was a cheeky little repast that offered much in the way of unintended entertainment and people watching, but not a great deal in anything else, unless you count the extremely cheap price.  I’m sorry to say that the curry was not terribly good.  As we left, we were required to ring a ship’s-type bell as a Krishna way of saying thank you.  And ‘thank you’ for a unique experience (never to be repeated).

Return to the flat was the reverse of the outward journey and just as noisy.  I was struck by the incongruity of siting an open-air rap venue right next to the classical concert hall: it just didn’t seem right or appropriate.  As we sat in the flat on the seventeenth floor, the thump, thump, thump of disco music was entirely audible until late into the evening, but fortunately it did stop when it was cocoa time.  As I have said previously, these Aussies really know how to party.

Day 83

Sunday 2 April.  Sunny intervals and cool.  16ºC and cold at night.  We put our clocks back overnight in preparation for the Australian winter, so this makes us nine hours ahead of you now.  Of course, we forgot to alter anything until Jane woke up at 0630 thinking it was 0730.  Discovery that she had another hour in bed gave her immense satisfaction.  We had intended to go to Communion in St Paul’s Cathedral at 0800 (there is a great deal to confess), but the flesh was unwilling and the spirit was weak.

Today, we set off for the Melbourne International Flower and Garden Show, taking a tram from the centre of town.  We could have walked, but Jane wanted to ride in an Australian tram and it was easy to fulfil this simple pleasure.  On the way, we passed a bloke transporting a suitcase and tent on a skateboard, and an old man in an invalid scooter with a built-in hifi playing at full volume.  And I thought London was full of eccentrics.

The flower show was very – erm – flowery and Jane enjoyed herself immensely.  I recovered consciousness after five hours to find myself holding an enormous bag of horticulturally related goodies, next to a woman with a big smile on her face.  At least she didn’t buy any plants.

A late lunch seemed to be the order of the day and Laura suggested that we go to China Town for some dumplings at a little place that she knew.  After yesterday, I was becoming a little dubious of Laura’s choice of eating establishments, but Jane was hissing at me to be pleasant and agreeable, so I smiled feebly and we set off, me dragging the heavy bag forlornly behind me.  We passed under a large decorated Chinese arch at the entrance to China Town, bearing a message in Chinese that said, 

“Welcome White Imperialist Barbarians.  Enjoy Australia While It Is Still Yours”.  (My Mandarin is a little shaky, but I think that was the gist of it)

In China Town, the favoured dumpling place was shut, and the next alternative had a queue out the door.  We cast our eyes around a range of establishments that looked to me like opium dens, bordellos, or bars where you would go in to ask for a glass of Chablis then wake up in Shanghai.  We drifted forlornly and indecisively back up the street and the sign ‘Food Court’ caught my eye.  Oh no.
Right on cue, Derek said, 
“Heh! We could always go to the Food Court!”.
“Go for it!”, I said in a feeble voice.
In we went, and it was actually fairly empty and quiet and I would have considered eating there, as my feet were killing me.   However, the emptiness was because every stall was shut.  It was Sunday.  

Finally, we ended up in the ‘Elephant and Wheelbarrow’, an older drinking establishment very like a London pub.  Jane had a bruschetta that comprised onions, tomatoes, goats cheese, pesto and a pint of olive oil on what appeared to be a toasted piece of thin cardboard; Derek and I had beefburger and chips; Laura had chicken panini.  Jane left the cardboard, but ate my chips when I wasn’t looking.

I thought that a return trip on a tram would have been nice but, no, Laura felt that we should see Fitzroy Gardens and Cook’s House.  The latter was the house of Captain James Cook’s parents from Great Ayton in Yorkshire, which had been bought by Australia and shipped over in the 1930s, making it, effectively, the oldest building in the country.  En route, we took in a large conservatory full of begonias and gloxinias.  How lovely.  At last, tired and weary, and still dragging the large bag of horticultural products, we staggered back across the bridge, ran the gauntlet of street performers, and made it back to the flat, where we collapsed.  We still had to go out later for supper though.  Dumplings anyone?

Reluctantly, we dragged our weary legs out of the flat for supper and, to my relief, we weren’t going back to China Town on the other side of the city; instead we were going to a riverside restaurant called Left Bank, which was quite close.  The thumping music from the festival could be heard from hundreds of yards away and, as we approached the river, I said, “Can we pick somewhere quiet?”, whereupon we entered our destination to find a screeching saxophone and throbbing drum duo blasting away at full volume.  By hand signals we asked for a table that was warm and quiet, and got the first, but not the last.  The place was very busy and we were actually on a veranda overlooking the river, but with a heater going full power, which was lovely.  Unfortunately, conversation was impossible and all we could do was smile inanely at each other and wave occasionally.  “This”, I thought, “is like eating dinner in the engine room of a tramp steamer at full power, with half the main bearings wiped”.  It was such a shame, because the service, the wine and the food were very good, bordering on excellent.  Even the music was good, I have to concede; it was just far too loud and inappropriate for a restaurant setting.  Jane liked the music too, and she boogied and wiggled her bottom all the way back to the flat (memo to self: see if you can get a CD of that music for a private listening).

Off back to Geelong tomorrow, and final preparations for departure on Thursday.  Thoughts on Melbourne?   Very difficult, as I tend to give more weighting to the marks on graffiti than is probably rational.  Appearance and architecture, 9; arts and culture, 9;  parks, 8; graffiti factor, 80%;  dossers, 30; dog-end factor, 60%; skateboarders, 2; grown-up men on children’s scooters, 1; shopping, 7; refinement and placidity, 5.  Overall view: I liked Melbourne, but it felt like the place was being abandoned to the Morlocks.  Which city won out of Adelaide, Sydney and Melbourne?  Let me think about it.

Day 84

Monday 3 April.  Bright and sunny, 21ºC, cold at night.  We took breakfast out, returning to yesterday’s restaurant, which was a bit quieter than last night.  The girls were going off to the art gallery after breakfast, but the boys were deemed too philistine to appreciate finer culture and sent back to the flat.  Also, there was some suspicion as to our artistic motives after Saturday’s episode with Chloe.

Finally, at noon we said goodbye to Melbourne and set off back to Geelong.  The final phase was about to begin.

Jane needed to fill up with probiotics, pills, powders and other mysterious potions recommended by our daughter-in-law for the return journey, so we walked down to the local shopping precinct and enlisted the help of a friendly pharmacist.  I reckon we bought enough stuff to last until next Christmas, and it cost quite a packet, but nothing is too expensive to keep Jane well.  I just hope it will all fit into the aircraft to Singapore.  

We also thought we would obtain an external thermometer so that Jane could monitor the temperature on the return journey (she has a passing interest in the weather), but the best place to buy that was a DIY store, which was some distance away on the Melbourne Road (which sounded ominous; just how far up the Melbourne Road?).  Action the iPhone Maps app, which told us the direction to walk in, and off we set.

I have mentioned previously how the Australian infrastructure is not geared up for urban walking.  Our journey reinforced that comment.  The route took us down a very busy four-lane bypass that had no footway, so we stumbled through the dust, past factories, tyre repairers, garage forecourts, metal shops, fabricators and incredulous manual workers.  We clambered over crash barriers, bits of car bumper, abandoned cars and discarded lorry tyres.  With the traffic whizzing by, it was a bit like walking along the A303 on a Bank Holiday: not terribly nice.  But we did make many motorists’ day, judging by the stares that we got.  The DIY store was Bunnings, the Australian chain that is taking over Homebase.  It was very good, with helpful staff and a good range of stuff.  The layout was a bit like B&Q, so the latter will have quite a challenger in due course.

Sarah, Laura and Derek’s daughter, cooked the supper tonight: Gyoza (Japanese fried dumpling),  Pho (Vietnamese soup), and Humming Bird cake.  It was all excellent.  The soup, in particular, was something I had never had before: a complex beef stock with fish sauce and noodles into which you added, from the table, bean sprouts, greens, coriander, mint, chilli, lemon or lime juice as you wished.  It ended up looking like a mangrove swamp, but it tasted delicious and was very filling.  The Humming Bird cake was one of Sarah’s mother-in-law’s recipes and proved to be a moist, chunky version of carrot cake.  It wasn’t fattening at all because it contained one of my ‘five a day’.

Sarah asked Arthur if her Humming Bird Cake was as good as his mother’s, and I was able to save him by interjecting, “Careful, it’s a trap”.   However, having avoided that hazard, he then blundered on to remark (presumably as a professional chef) that, yes the cake was a pretty easy one to make.  And people say that I keep putting my foot in it.  Arthur has a record of displaying the Death Wish, for – on his honeymoon – he managed to lose his wedding ring.  He and Sarah went swimming on the first day, and she advised him to take off the ring before entering the sea; advice which he duly ignored.  He then lost the ring in the surf and Sarah was apoplectic.  Arthur went to report the loss to the local police station and outlined the circumstances, and the police officer raised a sardonic eyebrow and said, “So I suppose you’d like me to give you a cell for the night”.  Fortunately, I think Sarah forgave him (though I must warn him that she will never let him forget it).

As a digestif, the port came out and we were indoctrinated into yet another Australian tradition.  This consisted of taking a biscuit the shape and size of a bourbon, but covered in chocolate and called a Tim Tam, nibbling off a corner on opposing sides of one diagonal, placing one end in the port, and sucking through the other bitten-off end.  Result, a port infused biscuit and a chocolate flavoured port.  We then ate the biscuit.  It tasted lovely, but I am not sure I would want to make a habit of it, lest my liver and/or heart give out.  Never mind the potions, I hope we fit into the aircraft to Singapore.

Day 85

Tuesday 4 April.  Sunny and pleasant.  22ºC. Well, it is the penultimate day and our thoughts were beginning to leave Australia and to think of packing for Phase 3.  But we could hardly sit in all day, so we set off to walk into Geelong for the last time to say goodbye to the familiar places.  We took a slightly different route this time, which avoided most of the industrial estates, and made the town centre in an hour and a half.  

I started off my initial comments on the subject of Geelong with the harbour frontage, and I am pleased to report that I have not changed my opinion.  It looked lovely in the bright sunlight and, this time, there was a small cruise ship at anchor in the bay, with tenders shuttling to and fro.  It is a pity more ships do not stop in Geelong: the city would be worth the visit and it would do the city a lot of good.

We had lunch outside at our old favourite, The Sailors’ Rest, then sought out the shopping area to change some money into Singapore Dollars.  Jane needed a belt to hold up her jeans (why else?) which were still very slack after her illness.  It is a measure of the fickleness of my wife (I will not say, ‘…and of women in general’, nay, nay) that, having moaned for years about putting on weight and having clothes that are too tight, she now moans that her clothes are too big for her.  Of course, there may be an ulterior motive here, in that the comments may be a precursor to putting in a bid for new clothes.  I feel a belt, taken up a notch or two, will be much cheaper and perfectly adequate.

Now here is a curious feature of the Australian retail system.  If you buy something that costs, say, $AUS 39.98 with a credit or debit card, then the process is exactly the same as in UK.  If, however, you pay for the goods with cash, then (in the example I have given) you will get no change.  The invoice lists the change (2 cents in this case) as ’roundup’.  This is because the Australians no longer have coins less than 5 cents.  It is a funny system, for I am suspicious about what happens to the ’roundup’.  Moral of the story: don’t pay cash.

I bought Jane the inevitable ice cream, and we walked back along the coastal walk as the sun was setting.  Another 12 miles in total I reckon, though my legs felt like it had been 20.  If only all this exercise was doing me some good.  To make up for all the energy lost, I tucked in to Derek’s homemade paella for supper, cooked in an enormous dish on a massive gas ring on the patio.  It was delicious.

Day 86

Wednesday 5 April.  Bright and sunny, 24ºC.  With the writing very much on the wall, we spent the day packing, washing, ironing, swearing, dumping various superfluous items, reading and sun bathing.  In the evening, Laura, Derek, Sarah and Arthur took us out for dinner for a farewell feast.  Saying goodbye is so difficult and we cannot believe that our time in Australia is over.  The whole thing has been absolutely lovely and the best holiday ever.  Of course, there is Phase 3 (Singapore) and Phase 4 (The Happy Return) still to come.

Verdict on Australia?  Fantastic.  Lovely people, very friendly.  Excellent wines. Surprising, but generally hot, weather.  Unexpectedly very like the USA in many aspects.  Liked the birds, especially the penguins.  Very little litter or dog mess.  Lots of men with pony tails on skateboards and scooters, who have yet to grow up.  Pity about the graffiti in Victoria.  Flies could be a nuisance.  Beware the Yellow Peril.   And Laura and Derek have been absolutely splendid and such good and tolerant friends (would you put up with me and my whistling for six weeks?).  Would we come again?  You bet, but not unless we win the lottery.

I will conclude this Australia phase now and send it off.  We are off tomorrow, Thursday 6 April, at 0500 to get to the airport and catch our plane to Singapore, of which more anon.

Blog 18. Australia. Phillip Island

BLOG 18

Day 78

Tuesday 28 March.  Sunny and 22ºC.  Slightly cooler today, but still pleasant.  We had kangaroo steaks and sausages last night for supper, by the way.  The meat is leaner than steak with a slightly stronger flavour, though not as strong as venison.  It is best eaten rare (according to Derek) because it can be very tough if well done.  We enjoyed it, and it gave us a spring in our step today.

Today, we are off, first, to a Koala Park to see the – er – koalas.  When we saw these creatures in Ballarat they were in a sort of zoo and were in captivity; here on Phillip Island the koalas are free in a large nature reserve, so our visit turned into a game of I-spy and hunt-the-koala.  Actually it was very interesting, as there were boardwalks high in the treetops so that you could see the koalas close to.  Koalas are to be found only in the eastern parts of Australia and, as marsupials, they carry their young in a pouch.  Unlike kangaroos however, their pouches are on their backs, not their fronts.  When born, the joey is absolutely tiny: about the size of a man’s thumbnail, and it grows from that size while in the pouch and suckling.  I think I mentioned earlier that they survive on five types of eucalyptus leaves, grazing or snacking for about four hours a day and conserving energy (i.e. sleeping) for the remaining 20 hours.  We found about eight koalas in all, some quite close so we got some good photographs.  All in all, it was a worthwhile visit.

And so on to Churchill Island, an islet linked to Phillip Island by a low bridge and causeway, and now owned by the Australian National Trust.  There was an ancient homestead on the island, with several demonstrations such as milking, sheep shearing, whip cracking and sheepdogs.  It was very pleasant in the sunshine, with the sea all around and we managed to see the sheep shearing demonstration right through.  It was most impressive, not least because the sheep was quite large (estimated 100 kg) and seemed very unwieldy to control.  The record for shearing a complete sheep is, apparently 45 seconds though two to three minutes is more the norm.  As to whip cracking, well, I can get that any night of the week.

We took a break after that as we were off to see the ‘Penguin Parade’ at 1900.  

Well, at 1830 we duly mustered for The Penguin Parade aka The Great Australian Con Trick.  This event took place at a beach near The Nobbies (see Blog 17) and it soon became apparent, as we drove there, that the entire island was going too.  Bearing in mind that this natural phenomenon takes place every single night of the year at sunset, that is quite some revenue coming in at $AUS25 a pop.  There was a large modern exhibition building at the Penguin Centre and it was heaving with people, mainly Japanese bussed in from Melbourne.  There was the inevitable shop, and this was selling Penguin Everything: I noted Penguin Towels, Penguin Sweaters, Penguin Ponchos, Penguin Pens, Penguin Books and Penguin-in-your-favourite-football-team-strip.  There was even Penguin Face Cream (though why you would want to smell of fish was beyond me).  Of course, there were also the many forms of penguin cuddly toy, and more variations of penguin products too many to list without sending you to sleep.  Jane was persuaded not to buy our son (aged 38) a cuddly penguin in near-Sunderland football colours.  

We passed through this commercial mêlée with some haste and out onto an extensive boardwalk system that led over gently sloping cliffs down to a shore.  A ranger was holding a stuffed penguin to show the children, and Jane was in raptures.  Must have a photograph with the penguin, and stroke it (which she and Laura did).  Then she started burbling how lovely it was to hold a real penguin.  
“No dear, it’s dead”, I said. 
“But, it’s real”. 
“It’s stuffed”, I said, thinking that this was becoming more Pythonesque by the minute.  
“Well, yes”, says Jane, “but it is real. It feels lovely”.  
Can’t win.

At the shore, concrete tiered seating had been created, and this stretched from the low cliffs down to the beach.  Here we sat, with perhaps three hundred Japanese.  It was like the Sands of Iwo Jima down there.  And we sat, and we sat.  We gazed at the sand, the waves, the lighthouse and the rocks, then the waves, the sand, the rocks and the lighthouse.  The Japanese yabbered constantly and took pictures of themselves.  Photography was banned because the flash upsets the penguins, but the Japanese ignored all that (no speak English).  Derek and I reckoned that a good nudge with a cricket bat would improve their comprehension significantly.  The light faded and the wind grew cold. Twilight came and went, the stars came out, and the lighthouse started to flash.  The demarcation between sea and land became vague.  I half expected John Wayne to land in the surf with a battalion of Sea Bees.  Finally, Jane pointed to the sea: 
“Is that one?”. 
“No it’s a rock I think”.  
“How about that – it’s moving”. 
“I think that’s a seagull”.  
Silence, apart from the yabbering Japanese.   My left buttock grew numb and I changed sides.  My whole body was beginning to stiffen into rigor mortis.  Finally, finally, after sitting for an hour and a half, we could vaguely see tiny movement way off to the right, in the gloom, among the rocks.  Up came the tiny penguins, probably about 300 metres away to one side, barely visible in the dark and only distinguishable thanks to their white fronts.  They came absolutely nowhere near us and disappeared inland.  We sat a bit longer.  
“Is that it then?”  I said.  
Apparently it was.  The thing is – and this is pretty obvious when given close consideration – the Fairy Penguin is the smallest penguin in the world, standing typically only 8″ high: about the size of a herring gull.  It was always going to be hard to see one in the distance and the dark, or to distinguish it from an ordinary seabird.  Three hundred adults with a sprinkling of children had just sat for an hour and a half in the freezing cold to look at the sea and a lighthouse.

Of course, there was a bit more, for we could see the penguins outside their burrows from the boardwalk, and this we did: blundering around in the dark and accidentally treading on Japanese and boisterous children in the process.  Derek and I found a penguin that wasn’t moving much, but Derek reckoned that it was just that the battery had gone flat.  Jane, meanwhile, had entered the Inn of the Seventh Happiness, aided and abetted by her chum.  There was much “oohing” and “ahhing”.  At last, Derek and I managed to drag the girls away, screaming and kicking, so that we could have our supper.  I could only settle Jane with (false) promises of ice cream and possums.  As far as Derek and I were concerned, we had seen enough bleeding penguins for a lifetime and had consumed one bottle of red wine in our imaginations already; in our minds, we were about to start on a second.

Back at the ranch, we took a hasty, but filling, repast and consumed that promised two bottles of red wine.  All agreed that it had been an interesting exercise; all agreed that we had been there, done that, ignored the T-shirt.  That night, Jane slept with a smile on her face.  The real power of a man is the size of the smile of the woman lying next to him (I read that on the back of a matchbox).

Day 79

Wednesday 29 March. 26ºC, mostly sunshine and very pleasantly warm.  Crikey: only eight days before we leave Australia.

Today we visited Pyramid Rock, a headland halfway along the island’s southern shore between The Nobbies (west) and Cape Woolamai (east).   This proved to be a fine clifftop viewpoint with some majestic views of the basalt rocks and a seething cauldron of a sea.  Access along the cliffs was along a (now common) railed boardwalk, which eased my acrophobia somewhat.  It was a good, if wild, spot and we stood for some time just taking in the constantly changing seascape.  I tried out a composting toilet for the first time and found it a memorable experience, best not often repeated; it was alright for a man, I suppose, but I wouldn’t have like to use it as a woman: heaven knows what might come out of that black hole when you are sitting on it.

We moved on from there to the small Purple Hen winery for yet more wine tasting , and there encountered an owner who clearly had failed both the Customer Relations Course and the subsequent attempt to get her money back.  From the moment we walked in, it was made apparent that we were a nuisance, and when she had asked us (Brits) our views of Brexit it was even more apparent that we had given the wrong answer.  I did think, at one point, that I should have prepared myself a service brief on the topic so that I could give informed responses to her interrogation.  I was particularly taken by her views that older people should not be given the vote as they would not have to endure the consequences of their decision (define ‘older’); and by the fact that the majority of illegal immigrants in Australia were British.  Tips one, two and three when operating a business: be pleasant and welcoming;  keep off politics, especially the politics of another country; and don’t insult the tourists.  I feel it is to our credit as disinterested wine drinkers that we still bought some of her wine despite her attitude: a pétillant Blanc de Blanc and a Pinot Gris.  We passed on the red wine as we weren’t having fish and chips that night and could, in any case, buy cheaper vinegar elsewhere.

After Mrs Charm, we moved on to Rhyll, another town on the island just to see how the other half lived.  We did not quite make the town as we found a delightful seafront restaurant where we could stock up on calories, quaff a little wine, and generally soak up the atmosphere.  This proved to be an excellent find, and we sat outside on the veranda with some good food and an ice bucket containing a 2016 bottle of dry Stump Jump Riesling from the  D’arenberg Estate in the  Maclaren Vale of South Australia (pretentious? Moi?). 

A good snooze would have been in order after this jamboree, but Laura was keen to take us to another nature reserve that epitomised The Bush, so we set off there for a good ramble.  Wildlife was remarkably scarce and we saw nothing other than trees; I dare say that the animals had taken our advice and taken a siesta.  Halfway round, Jane needed to take a tinkle, but she was a little wary of venturing into the undergrowth for that purpose, lest she should tread on something poisonous.  My helpful suggestion that, if she heard a hiss while in mid process (as it were),  then she should move hastily away did not seem to provide the assurance intended.  Anyway, she got on with it reluctantly after we moved on, and I had the overpowering urge to sneak up behind her, and tickle her bottom with a leafy twig.  Fortunately, better counsel held sway and I managed to contain myself, as is evidenced by the fact that I am still alive to write this here today.

To complete the David Attenborough Experience, we finally visited a wetlands area on the coast.  Here we saw how different plants adapted to marshlands and coastal waters.  This visit was better than the previous one as it demonstrated how mangroves grow entirely in sea water, their roots filtering out the salt which is later excreted on the leaves and bark.  Again, we walked on well set-out boardwalks that took us right into the mangrove swamp.  We saw a couple of wallabies on the way back, and that made up for the lack of animals elsewhere.  Wallabies, by the way, are smaller than kangaroos, are almost black, and have nicer faces than their larger cousins.

Finally, back to the happy homestead for a sensible cup of tea and a snooze.  Well, Jane had the snooze, I stayed awake as I had the First Dogwatch.

Day 80

Thursday 30 March.  We awoke to rain and low temperatures, 12ºC.  I don’t think this is a spin off from the cyclone harassing Queensland at the moment, but rather the early signs of the Australian autumn.  Singapore beckons, I think.

Owing to the weather, we sat indoors and read books for most of the day.  We also found the heater and set that in operation.  Finally, by mid afternoon, the weather had settled and Jane and I set out for a stroll along the beach; we were suffering from cabin fever and desperately needed to get out.  The tide was nearly in this time, and the strip of beach was quite narrow.  Jane reckoned the tide was coming in, but I assured her – speaking as a seasoned mariner born in a seaside town – that the tide was ebbing (a term we sailors use when the tide is going out).  This was evidenced by the strand of damp hard sand at the waterline.  We duly set off westward, dodging the waves (we had kept our shoes on) and pausing every five seconds for Jane to pick up seashells and other assorted molluscs.  It was a fair old slog, as it is when you walk on sand, but quite pleasant in the fresh breeze and sunshine.  After a while, we did notice that the strand of beach was getting narrower, both in front and behind us, and it became apparent that the tide was ebbing in the wrong direction.  I explained this to Jane as being an exceptional phenomenon, unique to the Southern Hemisphere, that was caused by the resultant of lunar forces with the Coriolis acceleration concomitant with the Earth’s rotation, occurring whenever there were tidal flows of high Reynolds Number.  I think I got away with it as, by the time I had finished, she had found a dead seal to look at.

We managed to get a mile or two along the beach before our way was blocked by a freshwater creek and we had to turn back.  We could have taken off our shoes and waded, of course, but we weren’t wearing shorts and I did not want to get my only pair of trousers wet.  I remarked loudly, on our return journey, that the tide was now flooding – a term we sailors use when the tide is coming in.  Jane gave me a knowing ‘told-you-so’ look that meant that my lecture in fluid mechanics had washed over the top of her head.  Women: why are they always so right?

For supper on our last night, we returned to the RSL, where we ate a hearty meal among the pokies, small arms and Bofors guns.  Off tomorrow, back to Geelong.

Blog 17. Australia. Phillip Island

Day 74

Friday 24 March.  Sunny intervals.  24ºC. The journey to Phillip Island (which, contrary to my last blog, is not in Port Phillip Bay but on the open sea to the east) proved to be surprisingly long.  Instead of taking the very lengthy, circuitous, route around Port Phillip Bay through Melbourne, we took a short cut by using a ferry from Queenscliff across The Rip to Sorrento in the east (see Blog 12).  The ferry was a conventional RoRo, a sort of cut-down version of a UK cross channel ferry; certainly bigger than the Torpoint Ferry, as Port Phillip Bay can be very choppy and the journey takes forty five minutes.  Notwithstanding the short cut, the journey on the eastern side of the bay took about four hours making a total time of six hours from start to finish.  Quite a slog for Derek, but he seemed happy.  We did break the journey up with lunch and a visit to yet another winery for a wine tasting; I am getting quite good at the latter and can appreciate the merits of the clarity, the legs, the nose and the slurping (‘a good bullshitter’ was the phrase that should most frequently have been found in my confidential reports)

Phillip Island covers about twenty square miles (roughly the size of Guernsey) and is joined to the mainland by a bridge, so no more ferries to get there.  Almost all of the towns on the island are named after places on the Isle of Wight (Cowes, Rhyll, Ventnor), which gives it a homely feel.   We are staying at a time-share property in Cowes on a small holiday resort complex, a two-bedroomed terraced house looking onto a small internal courtyard containing a tennis court and swimming pool.  The accommodation is modern and well-appointed, with an open plan living area downstairs and the bedrooms upstairs, each with their own bathroom (joy).  It is certainly an improvement on the place at Halls Gap, though it might be a bit noisy with all the other units attached and close: we will see.  The maintenance of the property is, perhaps, a bit dicey.  There was a shriek and a crash as Jane demolished the lavatory roll holder shortly after we arrived, and the entire hot tap assembly fell apart as I was having a shower later: a tricky problem to solve with hot water pouring out and me without my multi-tool immediately to hand.  Otherwise, though, all right.

We opted out of eating in for the evening, not wishing to start the arrival with a major shopping expedition. Derek and Laura suggested eating at the local RSL (Returned Servicemen’s  League) – the equivalent of the British Legion – which offered good value for money.  I dare say that you can imagine my inner thoughts and it did cross my mind that this was moving from the sublime to the ridiculous after QM2; but that was an uncharitable thought and so we happily complied.  What a surprise! Their RSL was far superior to out British Legion.  It was in a modern, very slick-looking building, as good as a proper restaurant in terms of decor, both internally and externally.  It had a huge bar and dining area about the size of a ballroom, with a good range of food, all reasonably priced.  You ordered at a central counter, and the food was brought later.  Members (i.e. ex servicemen) got a cheaper price, but anyone could use the facilities: you just had to sign in and prove identity.  The only ‘let down’ to this fairly up-market establishment (apart from the raffle over the main broadcast) was the large section of the building set aside for pokies (see Blog 10) – it was like Las Vegas in there, people glued to the machines with glazed expressions. We went in to watch them play, like visitors to a zoo, and some didn’t seem very happy with us watching them; can’t imagine why…perhaps they thought that we brought bad luck.  There was no skill to the games that I could see, it was all (biased) luck.  And you didn’t put coins in the machines, you put in credit cards.  Scary and sad, I thought, and very odd to our eyes.

Well we learnt another expression today.  I was recounting to Laura about a road rage incident that we had seen yesterday, when some woman had shot out of a shop like a banshee and was screaming at a driver who was sounding his horn because of a car blocking his exit (“Go round!  Go round!  Ya want I kick yer car in!? Do yer? Go round it you…”).  
“Ah”, said Laura, “that would be one of the bogans”.  
“The Bogans”, I thought, “are they extra-terrestrials like the Vogons in The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy?  Or does she know the family?”   No. In Australia, a bogan is a person of the lower orders, whose behaviour does not quite come up to the standard expected of general society.  A yob, in other words.  So there you are, another word for the vocabulary.

Day 75

Saturday 26 March. Hot and sunny, 28ºC.  The usual gentle start, to the sound of cockatoos and kookaburras.  Cockatoos (the white parrots with the yellow crests on their heads – save you looking it up), by the way, make good pets and can mimic humans or telephone ring tones and other sounds.  Interestingly, though, their life span is similar to or greater than ours and so aviaries ask you not to take one as a pet unless you are either young, or have made arrangements to look after the bird after you die; quite a few cockatoos have to be cared for in animal sanctuaries because their owners have died.  Depressing thought.

After breakfast we drove in to Cowes town centre to seek out a second-hand bookshop that we had heard of.  Jane, Laura and I love these places; Derek somewhat less so.  Located in two containers (it’s that Mr Maersk again), the bookshop turned out to be veritable treasure trove for bibliophiles and we spent quite some time in there, leaving with a large bagful of books.  The temptation was to dive in to reading immediately, but that would have been a waste in the good weather, so Jane and I set off for a walk in the sunshine.  Our complex proved to be five minutes’ walk from the beach and we removed our shoes and wandered along the foreshore in the surf, in what has become the time-honoured manner.  It was most pleasant.  Eventually, we came to civilisation and we dried our feet to explore some of the town, though I suspect that the main aim was for Jane to have a gelato from a small Italian restaurant that she had spotted on the Esplanade.  The ice cream portions here are very generous, and Jane loves ice cream almost as much as penguins and wombats. 

Cowes proved to be a nice little holiday town, with the main street lined by variegated cypress trees that gave it a colourful shaded appearance.  Like most Australian small towns the street was wide and had the characteristic electric power lines on poles, such as you see in the USA.  There was a reasonable range of shops, but most buildings were restaurants, cafés and bars to support the vibrant tourist industry.  It was all very relaxing and warm as we strolled back to the resort complex for lunch.  

The afternoon had that sleepy tropical feel, so we acquiesced and crashed out for a couple of hours.  I awoke to the screams of children.  For a while I thought I had died and was in purgatory, being subjected to a final test by God while He decided where to put me; but no, it was real children and I was still on Earth.  There were children in the swimming pool thirty metres away, a child in the tennis court four metres away, and toddlers in the children’s playground located right next to the house one metre away.  All were screaming and yelling.  Bless them, I do love to hear their little voices being tested to the full.  I got up so that I could go downstairs and join the others outside, there to revel in so much happiness around me, smiling benignly at all and sundry. Marvellous stuff, Valium.

We had a barbecue using the communal hot plate in the evening, dining on kangaroo meat balls and beef burgers, washed down with Shiraz.  Very Australian.

Day 76

Sunday 26 March. Overcast 21ºC.  Not so nice today so we felt no guilt in tucking in to those new books.  Something has been eating me, and it wasn’t Jane.  I have insect bites on legs and arms, but no idea when I was attacked.  I have come off remarkably lightly in Australia with regard to mosquitoes so far, but it appears that his area must have more than most and they are silent but deadly.  Fortunately I still have that haemorrhoid cream.

As a matter of interest, Phillip Island, like Port Phillip Bay, is named after Admiral Arthur Phillip, who was the first Governor of New South Wales in the late eighteenth century when Australia started as a penal colony, and he founded the city of Sydney.  He appears to have been a very competent Governor, dealing fairly with both the Aborigines and the convicts, before retiring to Bath in 1805.  He died there in 1814, allegedly after falling from his wheelchair from a first floor window (not sure how he managed that).  He is buried in St Nicholas’ Church,  Bathampton and his ghost is said still to haunt Bennett Street in Bath.  Something from home linked to where we are now.

I see that you are putting your clocks forward about now, so summer must be coming; here in Australia we will be putting ours back for winter next week, and we will then be only nine hours ahead of you.  It still feels a long way a away.

The sun finally came out mid afternoon and so we set off for The Nobbies: a coastal rock formation on the western tip of the island, famous for – wait for it – penguins!  The Nobbies proved to be very scenic, a nature reserve that is closed off to humans at night when there is a significant migration of animals.  The Fairy Penguins (PC name, ‘Little Penguins’ – see Blog 15) are only about 8″ – 12″ in height and, each night, come ashore, climb the cliffs, and retire to their burrows at the cliff edge to be with their chicks.  The burrows are like a rabbit burrow, but at the Nobbies, small hutches have also been created in wood to help them along.  We saw the burrows, with penguins in them, as we walked along the boardwalks and we are due to attend one of the events, ‘the March of the Penguins’ later this week.  This is when you can witness the birds coming ashore at sunset, regular as clockwork.

There was a warning sign at the Nobbies concerning the Copperhead Snake, billed as “Phillip Island’s Shy Snake”, a member of an endangered species, highly poisonous, with no specific anti-venom available.  The notice urged us not to disturb the poor dear thing if we saw one, as the snake is shy and very rare.  Stuff that, I thought, I am an endangered species.  I don’t know who writes that snake’s publicity material,  but I must say he has done a good job with the positive spin.

We paused at a winery on the return from the Nobbies and did the Australian Sunday thing. The place was heaving, with a folk singer strumming in the corner and massed tables full of drinkers.  Clearly, these people were doing more than a tasting.  Inevitably, we ended up buying three bottles of wine at $25AUS apiece – an amount we would never spend in the UK; it must be holiday fever.  We bought a cheeky little Sangiovese and a very pleasant Pinot Noir.  I could become quite accomplished and pretentious with this wine tasting, you know, given a bit more practice.

Finally, back to Cowes to stock up on victuals and enjoy the evening sunshine by the gelato shop with an ice cream.  Excited by all those penguins, Jane entered a competition to see just how much chocolate ice cream she could spill down her shorts in the shortest time (I made that up), and then we were back to the happy homeland for supper.

Day 77

Monday 27 March.  Sunny and very windy, 30ºC to overcast 21ºC.  A Category 4 cyclone is marching majestically towards northern Queensland and we in Victoria, thousands of miles to the south, are due to catch the edge of it later today, with strong winds from the north, and heavy rain forecast.  Winds from the north here, of course, are hot and dry.  Another geographical fact that I haven’t mentioned, because it is obvious when you think about it, is that the sun here rises in the east and passes across the northern sky, not the southern sky as it does in the northern hemisphere. This is useful information if you are lost in the Great Australian Desert without a compass, and you want to head south for the coast and safety (tip: don’t aim for the sun).

At 1100 we set off to San Remo, across the bridge on the mainland, to watch the pelicans and sting rays being fed.  It was very hot and windy out there – absolutely lovely I thought – but quite dehydrating.  The feeding display is given by a woman from the local fish and chip shop, using scrap fish, every day at noon, and quite a few people had assemble to watch it.  It was reassuring to note that my nemesis, in the form of five school coaches, had managed to find me despite all my efforts at hide and seek.  The little monkeys.  Pass the pill bottle.

The increasing wind unfortunately churned up the sea and prevented the feeding of the sting rays, though we could still see them as dark shadows in the water.  Apparently the feeding woman usually feeds them by hand, holding the food under the sting ray because that is where its mouth is; she keeps well clear of the tail, however, and legs it rapidly if the fish turns because the sting will put you in hospital, or even kill you, if it hits you.  She did feed the pelicans.  The pelicans came onto the beach to be fed and they put up quite a display. They toss the fish around in their mouths to make sure that they swallow the food head first.  If they were to swallow it another way then the fins and barbs would jam in their throats and not slide down.  Australian pelicans are the biggest in the world and those we saw were bigger than a child and almost as big as the woman feeding them.

After this display we felt duty-bound to have fish and chips, and we ordered flake and chips for four in the restaurant.  When it came, it displayed a neat approach to protecting the environment and saving on waste by not being served on any plates.  Instead, all four fish came in one communal cardboard tray, and four portions of chips in another.  Most novel; we had to just pile in like a medieval banquet.  I broke my plastic fork on the fish, and spent some time looking for the napkins and finger bowls before discovering that there weren’t any.

As we left the restaurant the weather took on a change.  I have never seen such a rapid transformation.  Within five minutes the wind increased and veered to the (cold) south and clouds formed into a sullen grey mass. We headed for the car, pursued by a range of flying objects from twigs to empty drink bottles.  The threatened rain didn’t appear, but it certainly looked like it was going to.

En route back we called in to the Vietnam Veterans Museum.  It was something I wanted to do as a mark of respect, because the returning serviceman in Australia received just as disgusting a reception when they came home as their fellow US veterans.  Even the RSL (see Day 74 above) refused to recognise  them, claiming that Vietnam wasn’t a proper war.  About a quarter of the Australian servicemen fighting in Vietnam were conscripts, and they were chosen by ballot, based on their birthday.  So it was literally the luck of the draw whether they were called up or not.  Before Afghanistan, Vietnam was the longest military conflict ever embarked upon by Australia (1962-1975). Of 60,000 men who served in Vietnam, 521 died and 3,000 were wounded.  It was not until 1987 that Australia officially “welcomed home” the veterans of Vietnam; I saw a film of the ceremony and it was deeply moving.

As I write, it is dull and sullen outside, like a blustery day in autumn.  Thunder is  rumbling and spots of rain are beginning to splatter the windows.  Good to be indoors, on the whole.