Sailing

How wonderful it would have been to go on the Moody Blues Cruise, or On the Blue Cruise as it was more recently known. A flight to USA then a few days sailing to wherever in the company of the Moody Blues and various rock bands. The entertainment, non-stop and first class. The expense, well, one lottery jackpot win could have got me there, and home again. There’s another problem. Me and sailing don’t go together well. Not at all, really, but, if money was no concern, I might have risked it. Too late to find out. I’m saddened by the passing of my favourite, John Lodge, but very happy to have met him on a couple of occasions and enjoyed many concerts. Only one MB member left.

In his retirement, my father took up boating and spend endless hours, days, seemingly forever, on the Lancaster Canal in his cabin cruiser, sailing up and down. His first boat was to see if he liked it. He soon upgraded to something bigger and nicer, even though it needed constant care. He was involved with the boat club, became Commodore then later, President. The boat was moored at Forton, when it wasn’t in dry dock for repair, and occasionally I would visit. Sitting aboard was lovely, until another boat sailed past. Immediately, I would feel queasy. It wasn’t too bad if we were moving, but apart from attending a couple of dinner dances with the boat club, I didn’t grow to love his hobby. It was good for him, even when he became the subject of some gentle ribbing for being very sea-sick sailing from Fleetwood to the Isle of Man, and back.

My desire to visit the Outer Hebrides out-weighed any sailing worries and I booked ferry routes with short crossings. It worked very well. We had CalMac ‘island hopper’ tickets with the intention of seeing as much as possible. The longest crossing was Stornoway to Ullapool coming home. It was so good, it filled me with confidence to return the following year to see Barra and Vatersay, which we had to miss out. The ferry from Oban to Barra was over five hours. Four of those hours was enough to put me off all planned sailing trips round the small islands and I dreaded the journey back. We reached Vatersay driving on a causeway and keeping mindful of the times of the tide. It was worth it.

This summer, we sailed to Guernsey. A brave decision on my part, which I regretted shortly into the ferry journey. Those wrist bands did nothing for me. We needed our own car, not just to explore the island, but to continue our holiday along the south coast when we came back to the mainland.

I loved sailing the River Thames on a sight-seeing pleasure boat in London. I enjoyed the same thing in Shrewsbury, too, so not all is negative.

On our trips to the Ayrshire coast, we go to look at Ailsa Craig, an island that has fascinated me for years. It’s where the microgranite for curling stones is quarried from. I wonder if I could cope with a boat trip, just to sail round and back? I’ll see what next summer brings.

Meanwhile, next Tuesday, New Brighton beckons. Justin Hayward in concert. A first for me. The last member of the Moody Blues. It will be moving.

My Haiku style poem,

Calm swell of the sea,
It’s such a gentle motion,
Roll from side to side.

Soothing? Not for me,
It’s torturous endurance
With nowhere to hide.

Too late to lie down.
These wristbands are not working
Are we nearly there?

It feels so awful,
I’m not doing this again.
(Until the next time.)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Don't Mention the C Word...

Water and I have never been the best of friends. 

Don’t get me wrong - I like a nice relaxing bath or a bracing shower, I love a quick swim in the sea to cool down (rarely in the UK) and I have been known to cycle masochistically through relentless rain and thunderstorms without too much complaint, but put me on a boat or a ferry and I’m afraid I become that awful fellow passenger who goes green, groans loudly and races to the toilets to throw up. 

To be fair, I have had some pretty awful experiences which have led me to start hyperventilating and shaking my head vehemently as soon as the word ‘cruise’ is uttered - usually by somebody who has just returned from one - and is anxious to describe every glorious meal (to someone who could probably just about keep down a couple of rich tea biscuits without reaching for a carrier bag). ‘You don’t feel like you’re on a boat,’ they say, before telling me about the time the tables slid across the deck, the swimming pool was like a boiling cauldron and one of the ship’s entertainers skidded on a slopped trifle and spent the rest of the cruise trying to dance on one leg. 

I could deal with a broken bone.  Hopefully that would get me stretchered off in Madeira, and let me laze about recuperating before being flown home.  No, what I can’t cope with is the nausea that comes over me in a huge wave (which is pretty appropriate really) whenever I even think about being on a boat.  

I’m aware there is a psychological aspect to this, but one which I can no longer control. At present I’m on a train, a mode of transport I find quite enjoyable provided I have a seat, a coffee and a book. However, having started to write this blog post I can feel the familiar sickness creeping down from my head to my stomach and up to my throat again. 

Each year when the kids were little we travelled to France for a camping holiday. And each year I was happy to be crushed in a small hatchback with three hot and irritable children, a cool box in my back, my feet in a washing up bowl, and a husband who hated driving and spent the whole time, head down, hands gripping the wheel, only opening his mouth to receive a bite of a warm tuna sandwich or to shout ‘Stop kicking my seat!’ at whichever child had the misfortune to be behind him.  I could cope with that. What I couldn’t abide was the sickly dread that built up as we approached the ferry terminal.  

Once on the ferry and having extricated the five of us from the stinking car, the children made their way excitedly to the restaurant. As far as I remember we never actually bought any food but we did sit at a table and open the foil wrapped picnic we were supposed to be saving till we were halfway through France.  I can still conjure up the smells of sweaty cheese, hard boiled eggs and the ubiquitous tinned tuna which was enjoying a revival in the Reidy household circa 1987.  That culinary combination would have been bad enough but permeating the whole area was the strong smell of diesel, cigarette smoke (and on one journey a deadly combination of cigar and pipe!) and somebody’s overpowering Estée Lauder that had just been purchased at the duty free. I love perfume but please don’t come within 100 yards of me if you’re wafting your way across the high seas.

Each year I suffered the indignity of the ferry toilets, clinging to the seat, head over the bowl and feet sliding on a stinking floor, while the rest of the family ate their way through the picnic and played on the fruit machines.  They didn’t miss me a bit.  Returning to the car as Calais came into view meant holding my breath as long as possible to avoid inhaling the petrol fumes from hundreds of cars, and trying to tell the children off without opening my mouth.  Only when we were finally away from the terminal with a couple of hours under our belts, tootling through the French countryside could I feel myself beginning to recover enough to argue about the route. These were the days well before SatNav, I would have a huge road map open on my lap, all in French, and a husband who hadn’t got a clue where he was going.  This was still an improvement on my time in the ferry toilets.

One year my mum suggested taking two ‘Sea Legs’  before I set off.  She swore by them and had fed them to us before every car journey when we were younger.  She couldn’t understand that the spoonful of jam they were hidden in was probably what made us feel more sick than the travelling.  I decided I’d nothing to lose.  Little did I know.  As soon as we set off I began to feel drunk, and immediately fell into an uneasy sleep, which didn’t please the driver, whose sense of direction was as bad in England as it was in France.  By the time I lumbered onto the ferry I couldn’t walk in a straight line - and I couldn’t keep my eyes open.  I remember very little of the whole journey except that I still felt sick, but through a drunken, dozy haze.  

These days I thank my lucky stars that we no longer need to catch a ferry but can cross the water by flying several miles above it.  Now all I have to do is avoid anybody who has just been on a cruise and is desperate to convert me. 

Please don’t mention the C word…..

Please don’t mention the C word by Jill Reidy

I know, I know

It was fabulous

The food was delicious

Lobster, special pate with brandy raisins

And that creamy mousse

Oh and octopus, imagine... 

Please…..

Saw some fantastic sights

The pyramids

Amazing

Took the tours

Drove a jeep over bumpy roads

Ooooft!

Laughed at the comedian

He was hilarious

A bit blue… 

Marvelled at the dancing

Even the one who’d slipped on the trifle

When the ship hit a storm

And the table tipped

No, please…ugh!

Made some lovely friends

Frank and Janice 

John and Jane

Oh and even Darren and Gareth

Sat at the Captain’s table

Groaning with food

Noooooo!

Wore that new sequinned top 

You know, from Debenham’s 

Bargain in the sale 

With the classic black trousers

Ruined by the consommé when the ship lurched

Arrrgh!

Hair done by Bernice

It looked gorgeous

For three days 

Without a comb touching it

Every morning

Milky coffee

Yukkk!

Every night

Pina Colada

Strawberry daiquiri

Whatever you wanted

No no no!

And the pool

The day of the hurricane warning

Waves, high as a house

Couldn't stand up

SO funny, water everywhere

Bleurgh bleurgh bleurgh!

Oh you’d love it

I wouldn’t 

You would, honestly,

The food…..

No…!

Pass the sea legs while I lie on the floor 

Close my eyes

And forget what you’ve told me

Please just go on your cruise 

But please, please, please don't mention the C word.

Thanks for reading, Jill  

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All Aboard A Cal-Mac Ferry!

Sailing was not my favourite method of transport.  Years ago I would feel queasy on my father’s cabin cruiser, moored at the side of Lancaster Canal, especially when a passing boat sent ripples through the water.  The memory has never left me, but as my desire to visit the Outer Hebrides grew, and the only practical way to do it was to take the car, it was ‘let’s go for it, I’ll cope’. And cope I did, but there wasn’t a problem. The first time we went, we pre-booked our crossings with Caledonian MacBrayne on a Hopscotch ticket and sailed from the mainland to Skye, then Skye to Benbecula, North Uist to the Isle of Harris and the Isle of Lewis back to the mainland. We crossed different waters and they were short journeys. I was very happy to be sailing comfortably. We stayed in some amazing places and tried to pack as much sight-seeing in as possible. We drove south as far as Eriskay, a tiny island reached by a causeway from the end of South Uist. Unfortunately we missed out the Isle of Barra. We couldn’t schedule it in, but it was a perfect reason to return the following year.

I couldn’t wait to get back to the wonder of the Outer Hebrides. It’s like being in another world, even another planet; it’s so different from anywhere. We were only going to the Isle of Barra, not touring like before, but we needed the car and our dog would be with us so we chose the most direct route. We would sail from Oban to Castlebay, Barra. It was a journey of over five hours, but I had confidence from the last time. It would be fine. We arranged an overnight stop near Glasgow before a long drive to Oban for a lunch-time ferry. It was mid-May, warm and sunny, the beginning of last summer’s glorious weather. I looked forward to boat trips around the small islands close to Barra.

After the many crossings we did the year before, we had ferry travel off to a fine art and chose our seats by the windows in a dog-friendly area close to a café. We settled down for the long trip.  The beginning of the voyage was slow and gentle through the Sound of Mull. I hoped to get photographs of Tobermory as we passed the Isle of Mull before sailing into open water. Being out at sea, away from the shelter of the Inner Hebrides, was very unpleasant for me. The water was choppy, the ferry rose and fell like a slow roller-coaster. I couldn’t stand up, I would surely fall. Our poor spaniel whimpered and sat on my husband’s knee like Scooby-Doo. I spent hours bent forward, staring at the floor, feeling unwell.  I was so glad to reach Castlebay.

The experience of that crossing put me off any idea of island boat trips. We were halfway through our stay before I felt better, then I began to worry about the ferry back to the Scottish mainland.

Sailing back to Oban was fine, I needn’t have worried, but I’m back to square one. Sailing is not my favourite method of transport.

I think I’ll manage the Orkneys, but Shetland will have to be a flight and a hire car.

 

I've chosen Robert Louis Stevenson's version,

Over the Sea to Skye

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,
Say, could that lad be I?
Merry of soul, he sailed on a day
Over the sea to Skye

Mull was astern, Rum was on port,
Eigg on the starboard bow.
Glory of youth glowed in his soul,
Where is that glory now?

Give me again all that was there,
Give me the sun that shone.
Give me the eyes, give me the soul,
Give me the lad that's gone.

Billow and breeze, islands and seas,
Mountains of rain and sun;
All that was good, all that was fair,
All that was me is gone.

             Robert Louis Stevenson (1850 - 1894)


Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

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