Eating My Own Words

Well folks, that was the cruise that was.

And now my glass is not only half-full, but its contents are fairly dribbling down my legs. At least I hope that’s what it is.

And thus, it now behoves me to completely revise my earlier and deeply suspicious predictions of how the whole gig might turn out in practice. Or as I believe might be the more appropriate expression, to eat my own words.

Do you happen to recall that I had earlier got my knickers in a twist about the Schengen Area’s much-dreaded biometric testing procedures and how the reported snaking-long queues might prevent us from catching the ship on time? Well, thankfully, none of the Dalek-like contraptions were actually working in Barcelona, so it was a complete dawdle. Ali said not a word to me but her eyes made up for it. ‘I told you so,’ they smirked.

The bus journey to the port was a slightly different story, though … or rather, the bus driver himself, who picked us up from Terminal 2 Arrivals then immediately tried to dump us off, together with our luggage, at Terminal 1 Departures, thereby heralding the shortest vacation in aviation history.

That was until a big Californian guy called Wesley and yours truly both louped off the bus in impressive synchronicity to advise him of his folly and immediately redirect him to the port. What an eejit. When I thanked the driver as we left the bus, he just smiled and said, ‘no, thank you, senor’.

Once on board the cruise ship, the Celebrity Equinox, our cabin on the tenth floor was far roomier and more comfortable than I could ever have imagined. I had resigned myself to something resembling a drying closet. By way of example, the wardrobe boasted a total of sixteen hangers, three of which Ali very kindly agreed to allocate for my own personal use. Wasn’t that nice of her?

And off we sailed, to a couple of big resounding toots from the ship’s hooter (or was it hoots from the ship’s tooter, I really can’t remember?), glasses in hand and en route to a very new adventure, an azure-blue sea below and a cloudless sky above. Mind you, having been up since half-three in the morning, it might well have been the other way around.

Anyway, after a couple of glasses of fizz, we returned to our cabin, whereupon we were introduced to our own personal ‘concierge’, a charming young Filipino guy called Nyoman, who would transpire to become our very best friend for the next ten days (probably aided significantly be my tipping generosity, which irritated Ali as much as it pleased Nyoman.)

We showered and changed (Ali looking a million dollars in her new dress and me replete with two days’ stubble & resembling something the cat dragged in), hit the martini bar then headed for dinner in the main restaurant. And no, not as I had feared, crammed beside a huge communal tableful of disparate and desperate characters of all shapes, sizes and idiosyncratic social graces, but at our reserved, secluded table by the window.

The waiter handed us our menus and the wine waiter plied us with wine. A delightful meal then followed, while we sat there watching the mighty vessel glide effortlessly over the waves. And that’s about the last thing I can remember as a couple of eye-watering martinis, a few glasses of wine and sheer exhaustion contrived to envelope what little remained of my consciousness.

When I woke up the next morning, I had absolutely no idea where I was, not a bloody clue. The only inkling was the sight of a scantily-clad Ali leaning over the rail of our balcony, the sea breeze blowing gently through her hair, thereby enabling me to rule out Ardrossan harbour on a dreich winter’s morning.

I do have to admit that I was really impressed with Ali’s philosophy on excursions from the ship, which was essentially this. Get up early, hit the port, do the sightseeing bit and put in the walking miles, then get back onto the ship in time for a wee refreshment, a light lunch and spend the rest of the afternoon on a sunbed. It sounded like a plan and turned out to be a very good plan indeed.

Honestly, within a mere couple of days, Ali had developed such an intense tan that if she was sitting motionless on the ship’s mahogany furniture, she was practically invisible. On at least two occasions I walked straight past her. She still insists that her heritage springs from some distant ancestors’ passionate encounter during the days of the Spanish Armada.

Our first two excursions involved a very pleasant and leisurely stroll through Malta’s beautiful city of Valetta, followed the next day by a near-supersonic taxi ride to Piraeus, the aquatic gateway to Athens and the largest seaport in Greece, which Ali had visited before and described to me as ‘just like Greenock, only without the rain’. It transpired to be a very accurate description indeed, so we didn’t hang around.

However, the following day really took my breath away, when I was awakened by a big kiss, a card and a lovely rendition of ‘Happy Birthday to You’, which had doubtless been hewn from the very bedrock of Bridge of Weir Choral Society. And there, when the curtains were drawn back, stood the glorious sight of Santorini, with its dark and mountainous terrain in the foreground and its dazzling-white buildings spread all over its summit like a giant coating of heavenly toothpaste (probably the worst analogy in literary history, but that was what it actually looked like to me at half-eight in the morning).

We scoffed breakfast, cleared security and hopped onto one of the continuous armada of ‘tenders’ whizzing their way across the sea to this magical little Greek island. There, we took a rather crude and noisy cable-car to the distant summit, where we spent the morning strolling through the narrow streets and marveling at the vast array of shops which sold everything from leather goods and exotic clothes to assorted artefacts (many of which were worryingly phallic in nature) and jewelry … and, of course, more gold than Fort Knox itself could boast.

A few modest purchases (non-phallic, I am eager to state) and a couple of cappuccinos later, and it was time to head back to the ship for a chilled bottle of Peroni, a glass of fizz and a bite to eat, before topping up our tans again. Then, as a birthday surprise that same evening, Ali had reserved dinner in the ship’s much-lauded French restaurant, where we were treated to a really sumptuous meal.

All in all, a quite unforgettable day against a truly magnificent backdrop.

Now, at this point, you might be relieved to hear that I don’t intend to regale you with chapter-and-verse of the remainder of our adventure-at-sea, but I do hope you will allow me to share a few personal perspectives on cruising.

First up, the overall experience of sailing on a seafaring vessel the size of an inner-city block of high-rise flats. Well, I actually found it quite delightful … the wonderful feeling of zipping over the gentle waves in the glorious sunshine towards our next exotic destination with no discernible sensation of motion whatsoever, a light and cooling breeze in our hair at the bow of the ship and total calm at the stern where we loved watching the huge vessel’s V-shaped wake embrace our latest fond memory as it sped towards the distant horizon.

Secondly, the very high quality of the onboard accommodation, food and entertainment, all of which exceeded my expectations with considerable room to spare … our luxurious cabin with its private balcony, the incredible range and excellence of the ship’s restaurants and bars, and the surprisingly high level of musical and other events which were as relaxed and varied as I could ever have imagined. And such was the onboard informality, that the dreaded white jacket never even escaped from my suitcase.

However, and perhaps most memorably of all, the sheer thrill of waking up each morning in a different place … another country, another time-zone, another port … together with the anticipation and excitement of exploring each new locale and culture, secure in the knowledge that we would soon be back onboard wallowing in the luxury and ambience of a quite magnificent cruise-liner.

In summary, I therefore have to admit that I set out on my first ever cruise as a devout agnostic and returned as a willing convert who simply cannot wait to do it all over again.

It was an overwhelming feeling which was brought back into very sharp focus the very next day, when I discovered that CalMac’s 15.20 sailing to Brodick was ‘at risk of disruption or cancellation, due to higher than expected easterly winds gusting at over 0.001 miles per hour’.

I thought of Santorini and beheld Ardrossan harbour.