Transcription of an MP3 Audio Diary, kept between Friday January 11th

and Saturday March 15th 2008. Part Twelve.

Sunday, 9th March

I told the captain at dinner this evening that, for a passenger, today was
'perfect'. Lots of wind, white-capped waves, pool water 20°C and sunshine
throughout the day. Home-made croissants for breakfast, roast pork, new
potatoes and sauerkraut followed by fruit salad and ice cream for lunch and
crème of asparagus soup, pizza and fresh plums for dinner.
The only negative point was that I waited in vain on A deck most of the
afternoon, hoping to photograph one or more dolphins from close range.
Needless to say, the only time any turned up was when I was in the pool on B
Deck. There were only 3 of them, following behind the boat for a few hundred
metres, but too far away by the time I got my camera pointed in the right
direction.
On the other hand, we were followed by a bird for 2½hrs this morning, flying at
our speed, but always about 50 metres behind us. Certainly too far away for
me to make out wing- or body-shape.
The pool was warmer today than yesterday and I went in 5 times before lunch.
When I came out again after lunch, the single bird had disappeared, but there
were now two pigeons who had taken its place.
We are miles out to sea (I couldn't see any sign of land), but the pigeons flew
close to the Grey Fox as if it were one of their regular habits. Even though I
was splashing about quite close to them, they landed on the Poop Deck and
marched backwards and forwards like Irish Guards at the Palace.
As the sea got rougher, I wondered if they had joined us in order to ride out the
pending storm, because, even when the spray thrown up by the bow covered
the whole of the pool area on B Deck, the pigeons were still counter-marching
close by.
Often the spray carried the whole 192m length from prow to stern and I forgot
about the dolphins and the pigeons, as I watched the light show that had been
set up for me: ephemeral rainbows in the spray. And I had no-one to share it
with. I hadn't seen anyone since lunch.

We shall be sailing between the Canary Islands later this evening.

Monday, 10th March

When we were in range of the Spanish Canary phone network yesterday
evening, Darek and another crew member were able to have truncated “Home
on Sunday”-type conversations on their mobiles; the rest of us tried in vain to
make a connection. While trying to find a worthwhile 'hotspot' on deck, on the
bridge, leaning over the rail at impossible angles, the dozen or so of us
following each other up and down between D and F Decks were like characters
from a Jacques Tati comedy. I gave up sooner than the others, but only
because I had decided to use my precious remaining minutes of satellite phone
time to call Rahel to discuss David's birthday present for the 20th. I copied
some of my photographs on to a CD for Kristian and decided to call Rahel later,
when the rest of the family were probably in bed. We shall have plenty of time
to talk when I get home, and she's free on Wednesday afternoon so we can go
present-shopping together if necessary... so, excuses apart, I really just wanted
to talk to my wife...
It was late when I finally went up to the bridge for my phone call, so the 3rd
Mate asked me to put out the phone light as soon as possible, because it
interfered with the bridge instruments which were all set up for night vision.
The lights from Tenerife to port and Gran Canaria to starboard were warm and
welcoming, although we were soon to leave them behind. I settled myself
comfortably for a long natter and, as soon as I had dialled Rahel's number, I put
out the light and snuggled down into the extremely comfortable armchair...
Just as I was hanging up, I got groped ! I was surprised, but I think the Captain
was scared... in the darkness, he had been feeling around to find his way into
his comfortable armchair. He excused himself and I switched on the little
phone light “Nein, nein, no, no, no. I'll come later. Sorry.” But I needed the
light anyway for the fiddly business with the phone card and the InmarSat-B
telephone. Capt B obviously hoped to scurry away before I could see he was
blushing and really embarrassed. That same naked vulnerability you feel when
you're standing beside your loved one in public, you look away to the other
side of the room, then turn back to him/her whispering a shared intimacy. To
be confronted by a complete stranger, your loved one having moved a couple
of metres away...
The only way to deal with last night's incident is 'not to'... unless he feels a
need to mention it.

We put our clocks forward an hour last night, so once again we're getting up
while it's still dark. But sunrise is around 0800 ship's (and now the rest of
Europe's) time.
Breakfast in the dark... well, it's dark outside. But the mess is as inviting as
ever. The Chief comes down at the end of his 0400-0800 watch, bringing the
sunrise with him. And the sea temperature jotted down on a scrap of paper:
16°C. I said I hoped to swim, but unless the sun comes out and warms up the
air considerably, this will probably be my last day in the pool.
They have filled it for me (the crew stopped getting wet when the sea
temperature dropped below 26°C), but at the moment it is overcast and there
are rain clouds to the north of us.
As soon as we came through the Tenerife-Gran Canaria channel, we changed
course for Vigo. The headwind dropped, as it was no longer coming through a
funnel and we built up a respectable head of steam. We are now doing 15.2
knots (1100hrs). The MSC Geneva, who went through the locks before us when
we left Antwerp on 13th January, is bound direct for Antwerp again and is
bearing away further west at 19.9 knots. At the beginning, when I decided to
look at the possibility of sea travel, I made several enquiries about travelling on
'Geneva' to South Africa (hoping to get some sponsorship from a broadcaster
that I sometimes record for: 'World Radio Geneva'), but am pleased I chose the
MACS 'Amber Lagoon or sister ship' solution. MSC Geneva is 275m long and
67,000 tons with 3 x 2 passenger cabins. But loneliness has not been a
problem and I have been able to enjoy my own company... and many one-on-
one conversations with the officers and crew.

This afternoon's swim was invigorating... and not a little unnerving. The funnel-
effect has stopped, but rocknroll is here to stay. After I climbed out the first
couple of times, I was aware that the pool seemed fuller than usual (nice !)
and, depending on the swell and backwards-and-forwards rocking motion,
rather a lot of the water was sloshing up to the rim and sometimes over it. I
wondered if Kristian and the 3rd Mate had left a stopcock open and this time the
sea was forcing its way in, rather than rushing away and leaving me high and
dry.
However, floating in the middle of the pool and being tossed around was very
pleasant. Until I suddenly found myself out of the pool and pinned by a tidal
wave against the railings towards the stern...
After the initial shock and then understanding what had happened, I lay
spreadeagled where I'd been thrown, waiting for the successive sloshings, but
making sure that one arm was hooked over the middle railing to cut down the
risk of being washed overboard, in case the myth about the 7th wave turned out
to be reality.

It reminded me of a game we used to play at Rock Ends in Torquay...

When the sea was lively, it could cover the flat-top one moment and be 4 or 5
metres below it the next. The game was to position yourself about 10 yards
away, facing the rock-face, then, as the wave rose, to swim like buggery,
hoping to be left high and dry as the wave ebbed away. At the end of the
afternoon's entertainment, we would compare the length (and breadth) of the
deep scratches on our chests, stomachs and legs. The girls from Normandie
and Bretagne who joined us on their days off from different hotels in Torbay
were particularly adept at this sport and, unlike the rather more restrained
English girls, were keen on wrestling their latest garçon anglais, giving a whole
new meaning to 'blood bath'.

After dinner, I gave Kristian the CD of photos and he showed me some of those
he had taken during my time away from Grey Fox. He's going to copy them for
me onto my USB key.
The evening finished with rum & Coke in front of Clint Eastwood and 'The
Enforcer'.

Tuesday, 11th March

I've just come up from breakfast, but already there's quite a lot to report...
Yesterday evening we continued to feel the effects of the swell produced
further north by repeated storms. This was then helped along by a fresh
headwind, that gradually built up during the night. When I was jarred out of
bed at 0330 the wind was no longer head-on, but from the north-west at
100+Kms an hour. I contented myself by tying down what could be tied down,
dumping everything else under the duvet on the other bed, weighted down
with my suitcase and crate of (mostly empty) cider bottles. Then I went back
to bed. And to sleep. Until 0613, when the drawers underneath the bunks shot
out and met in the space between. We seemed to be in the middle of a real
storm. I went out into the corridor and put on my flip-flops (shoes etc are kept
out of the cabins to keep the floors clean; although when I wash my feet, walk
back through the carpeted stateroom and then go back into the bathroom, the
tiled floor shows my black footprints; no matter how well a working ship is
cleaned -and Darek comes in to hoover and wash every other day- things, and
you, get dirty).
Out on deck, there was no storm. No rain. And very little wind. But the swell
was enormous ! One moment looking to the dark horizon, the next almost
ducking away, as the horizon seemed to rise above the height of D Deck where
I was hanging on for grim death.
Then I started to enjoy it.
It was rather like going in to land at the old Kai Tak airport in Hong Kong, where
you dived down below the level of the houses, sometimes noting frozen details
in a lighted bedroom or kitchen, then banked up over the buildings,
sideslipping down to the right and onto the landing strip. In spite of the fact
that I haven't flown since 1968, I have many poignant memories, and landing
at Kai Tak is definitely one of them. Preferably with my practical-joking friend
Captain Sorensen, an SAS pilot flying for Thai International... but those are
(probably libellous) stories for another time !
Out on D Deck, I found I was singing the Paul Robeson song from 'Sanders of
the River' at the top of my voice... and trying to steer the ship via the rail I was
holding, although I was, in fact staring off to starboard, out over the empty
swimming pool.
My Paul Robeson impersonation didn't seem to attract an audience, so I went
back to check on my cabin. And once again, I was unable to get in ! The office
chair-back was again jammed under the door fitting and I didn't want to risk
tearing the leather, so I re-locked my door and went back outside to steer my
Grey Fox.

The boy stood on the burning deck

His feet were covered in blisters
He split his trousers down the back
And had to borrow his sister's.

Breakfast is not until 0730, but after such a hectic night, the crew are likely to
be catching up on what must have been, for them, a very disturbed night, with
the continual check on cargo, hydraulics, loose ropes and cables and anything
else which might have shaken loose during the night.
So, still cabin-less, I went up to the bridge to find out how they were coping...
and to bum a cup of their ever-ready coffee. Then we all went down to
breakfast at the end of their watch. Darek asked me if I wanted toast, which
seemed a good idea, but then he arrived with micro-waved slices of toasted
bread, ham & cheese, and a slice of pineapple. Well, it's the thought that
counts. Then the Captain arrived, wanting to discuss the merits or otherwise of
owning a fleet of cargo ships, or simply managing one...

This conversation was rather one way and full of rhetorical questions. But this
time, rhetorical questions with very few concrete answers. He talked about the
rising costs of building a ship or a fleet of ships. Who are the people who invest
in this? When will they get their balance of financing right ? Hardware or
software ? And which kind of ware (hard or soft) are trained crew ?

When I got down here to my cabin, it was to find my armchair weighted down,
upside-down, across the corner of my desk. And with the electrician-cum-
handy man tightening clamps to hold the newly-repaired chair-arm in place.
After he finished, I offered him a tot of rum, and he showed me what I had to do
with my Home Theatre in order to pick up TV programmes in Vigo tomorrow.
Then it was time to start packing. And Unpacking. I had forgotten that I had
another case and my usual collection of plastic bags in the store room (which
should have been a fitness room, dammit), so I went to collect everything, lay
it out in neat rows , ready for packing again.

My shoes.
I haven't worn them since we set sail on 13th January. Sandals or, preferably,
bare feet, for two whole months. Winter clothes which might be some use to
the refugees after I get home. My beautiful bush hat. When or where will I get
the opportunity to wear that ? Should I use dubbin to preserve it ? Where can
you get dubbin, nowadays ? Perhaps I can use the same stuff we have for
leather walking boots...
I'm obviously putting off packing, but I can't simply leave everything here like
that. Even mid-morning, some of the bits & pieces are rolling across the floor.
Let's bung it all in one place and put a weight on it.

Before lunch, I did bundle everything together and upended my superglued

office chair on top of it, like an Egyptian pyramid.
It was still where I left it when I came up after lunch, so I decided to spend the
afternoon on deck. No more swimming, but the sun was out and nice and
warm. The swell was still impressive, but I lay and sunbathed and read on the
bottom of the empty swimming pool, cooling down with the occasional fresh-
water shower.
And finally I've got a recognisable photo of a dolphin. In fact, two of them.
They will definitely be on http://wuzzy.smugmug.com !!

Captain Böckmann wasn't there for supper, so we finished quickly and I went
up with Kristian to collect my USB key and to look at more photographs that he
had taken on the previous trip.
I was a bit too early and then, suddenly, too late for my sunset photos, but got
one or two interesting 'before & after' framings, just as the batteries were
going on the blink.

Then...
...there was what looked like a swollen oil slick right beside the ship. It grew in
size, rose above the surface, then flicked over to show a flash of white as it
veered away to port, broke the surface again, then disappeared into the gloom.
It must have been a whale and it was THIS close. Colours seem right, but too
big to be an orca, I think (don't even know if orcas live in this part of the world),
however the flash of white or something very clear suggested a two-toned
animal. But I don't even have a photo to compare with any of Hannah's wall-
charts.

Wednesday, 12th March

We are still due in to Vigo today, despite another night of rock and roll. Rather
too optimistically, I took my shirt off and went to sit on deck after breakfast. I
stood it for about an hour, but the wind was decidedly on the March so I went
to make another effort with my packing. We are due in to Vigo at 1400, but at
breakfast the captain said there is a threat of strike action in the docks, which
might mean twiddling our thumbs for 24/48hrs. A couple of extra days in
Walvis Bay or even somewhere on the high seas further south was what I had
secretly been praying for, but kicking my heels in chilly northern Spain would
be less pleasurable !

Things improved around lunchtime. The damp mist lifted and we started to
wend our way between the small Cies islands that guard the estuary and the
safe haven, which is like a huge lake. The pilot came aboard on time and we
were alongside at 1410. But I had to wait until the agent came at a quarter
past three to find out when we were due to sail; with very few 'movements' to
perform, they reckoned we would leave by 1800, so that didn't leave much
time for sight-seeing. The agent did offer to drive me into the 'downtown'(!),
but the time was so short, I decided to stretch my legs near the port and try
and find a shop that would sell me some AA batteries for my camera.

I couldn't have made a wiser decision ! The centre of Old Vigo is just where I
came out of the port area. All up and down and round one hill, but my D Deck
– Mess – Bridge exercise has stood me in good stead and I took the windy
winding streets like a champion. I then found a hidden-away bar that offered
me 'gambas' for €10, including bread, a glass of wine, a bottle of water... and
chips and peas with my king prawns. There were 16 on the plate, which is why
the chips and peas were served separately, and I enjoyed every last mouthful.
I ordered a coffee, then spied a bottle of Cadhu malt on the shelf. To hell with
it, today was my last day of freedom before we hit Biscay again, so I ordered a
small €5 malt whisky. The lady brought a large brandy glass... and filled it up
nearly to the brim ! I drank some, I 'corrected' my coffee with some more, then
I drank some more, I dipped bread into it... but there was no way I could knock
back over 200ml and still keep my old town visit on track. So I finished my
bottle of Sousas water and decanted the whisky into the plastic bottle, sealing
my visit with a final mouthful of scotch and bread-crumbs.
Then off up the street.
For about 50m, where I discovered a tourist information bureau. The kind
young lady gave me information about Vigo in English and French (for the kids),
then I asked her what I could see in an hour, as I had to be on the Grey Fox by
6pm. She gave me a little flier: '100 Minutes of Culture', showing a route to
follow... a route which I had been following since I arrived in the old town !
Deciding only to see the suggested cultural exhibits that were out of doors, I
covered the course in plenty of time to get back to the ship with a nice little
anecdote for the dinner table – if I could face eating a meal so soon after those
delicious king prawns !

But before dinner, I went up to the bridge and spoke to the family. All five of
them and apparently the cats joined in, but I couldn't hear them. We've had a
couple of lively nights on board, but things have obviously been more
spectacular elsewhere. Rahel told me that they had shown pictures on
Téléjournale of a ship which had run aground in Guernsey and then a piece of
science fiction from France, where a cargo ship was stranded 50 metres inland
on solid concrete, surrounded by camera-flashing tourists. When it's that
rough, I would certainly take my chances out at sea, rather than close to shore.
Rock Ends was 50 years ago and I wouldn't fancy my long-distance swimming
ability across Torbay any more. But I'd still prefer to share the lifeboat with my
23 companions out in the middle of the Atlantic, rather than trying to negotiate
a murderous swell outside a 'safe haven'. Let alone being on the end of a wave
that can deposit a container ship on the other side of the harbour wall !
Rahel and I made vague contingency plans for my homecoming on Saturday or
Sunday or Monday, then I went down to dinner. Spaghetti Bolognese. How
could I refuse ?

We set sail at 1850, being nudged away from the dock by 2 tiny red tugs, then
the pilot was away with the pilot boat and we were sailing directly for the
setting sun. Threading our way back out through the Cies Islands, we turned
north and headed for Biscay.

Thursday, 13th March

Last night was the worst (or the best ?) since I've been on board the Grey Fox.
We started pitching as soon as we cleared the protection of Vigo's natural
harbour. But it was when we changed course to due north about three hours
later that the effects of the swell really hit us, scattering all my (and everyone
else's) possessions across the floor. My Rubik's cube started to create a
rhythm, as it rolled gentle bump, gentle bump, gentle bump across the carpet
then thwack as it hit the cupboard door on one side of the day-room and then
gentle bump, gentle bump, gentle bump thwack as it hit the partition wall on
the other. The cans of Coke I'd bought to finish off my Captain Morgan rum in
style rolled lengthways down the day-room, while the three I'd already put in
the fridge played muffled music on their metal tray, ably accompanied by my
last three bottles of cider one shelf down.
I had avoided major damage (or at any rate, major reorganisation) by loosely
strapping the things that I had already packed into and under my suitcase, but
my bathroom had become a skating rink: my bottle of shampoo had bounced
out of the sink (put there for safe keeping !), onto the floor and, by the time I
noticed what had happened, it had spread and rolled its contents everywhere
OUTSIDE the shower area ! I meant to bequeath the half-full bottle to the next
occupant, but now I'll be lucky to scrape together enough for today and
tomorrow.
Having shampooed the bathroom floor and rinsed it down, I reckoned I needed
a few hours kip, so I left everything else where it had fallen or rolled and
clambered into my bunk.

Those 23 minutes of sleep were a godsend ! I was woken by an almighty crash

as the office chair ended up with its feet jammed under the door handle. But
at least I was inside this time, so wouldn't have to battle with my furniture
through the gap of a half-closed door. As far as I could see, the big black chair
had performed a ¾ somersault...
When I came back on board in Cape Town, Darek proudly showed me the 'new'
home cinema they'd installed for me... and the repaired arm of the office chair
which had been damaged during the storms in the channel and Bay of Biscay
on the trip south. Then the repeat performance the other day. Now this.
Sadly, the same arm was now hanging limply beside the seat; this time the
metal cotter pin had lost its head, the remainder having gouged a 10cm chunk
out of the solid wooden desk. I left it where it lay and went back to bed to see
if I could improve on 23 minutes...

At breakfast, as the sun rose, the heavy lateral rocking started to calm down in
inverse proportion to the tinge of green on Kristian's face. If I had been feeling
as bad as he looked, I don't think I would have come down to the mess.
Kristian has become monosyllabic at the best of times, so none of us tried to
engage him in conversation; better to leave his mind and stomach at ease...
but it was tempting ! Each time he looked up from the contemplation of his
empty plate, it was to flick a malevolent glance at each of us in turn, as if it
were our fault that he felt so bad.
Darek asked if he should come and clean my chambers, but I took pity on him.
His own belongings were draped all over his cabin and he had to pick out his
clothes from the match-wood remnants of what had been a perfectly good top
drawer. But he would only be able to get his own things all shipshape and
Bristol fashion after he had done his usual chores AND cleared up the captain's
chambers which were in a much worse state than my own, because Capt B has
installed a semi-permanent home aboard. There were CDs and DVDs in every
nook and cranny and his freshly ironed clothes were only ready for another trip
to the washing machine.
I came down and tidied up my office space, then wrote up my night's
adventures.

Lunch was a pork chop cooked in batter, chips (not Freedom fries) and brussels
sprouts, followed by a kind of bread-and-butter pudding topped with whipped
cream. And, amazingly, I spent the afternoon (remember it's mid-March and
we were half way across Biscay) stripped off sitting in the sun; out of the wind,
it was remarkably hot. At lunch, the Chief had joked that the sea temperature
was 12°C and too cold even for me, but I think that if the pool had been filled, I
might have risked a quick plunge to cool down. I wonder what kind of weather
we'll have in the English Channel tomorrow?!?

Kristian had avoided lunch, but he was his usual unsmiling self at dinner time.
The captain started to tell me about the new schedule and had got as far as
the timing for Walvis Bay before he said: “But of course. you will not be with us,
will you ?” There's a little would-be cabin boy inside me who would be quite
happy to stow away until they leave Europe again. Jim Hawkins-like I could
perhaps live on apples for a week or two, which would certainly help to take off
the kilos that have accumulated on board.

Dinner was especially for me: fish & chips AGAIN followed by ice cream and
fruit salad. Chips twice in a day... but the captain said they still couldn't make
them properly in England.

During coffee, he asked me if I'd decided which way I intended to travel home,
the conversation got round to the first time I had been in Köln station (during a
school trip in the mid-50s) and my memory of seeing the night sky through the
roof, evoking the similarities between Köln and Coventry. The captain (born in
Lübeck in 1942): “Coventry was little. People was appalled because it was so
soon. But London was much more worse. And Rotterdam. And Lübeck was
worser, but it was only one raid, but there was no industry, it was only
residential. Like Dresden. And if you could see the sky through the roofs in
Köln in 1955, they must have been doing some special repairs, because the
war damage had been repaired with donations from the government and from
private donations as soon as the German economy was getting better in 1949
or 1950” !!
Given the rising tone and volume of his war-damage appraisal, I decided that
this wasn't a conversation that was likely to go anywhere very fast or very
pleasantly, so I cut things short and moved on, saying that the other
alternative was to go back the way I came via Paris...
Capt. B: “Oh yes, always via Paris. They are very good, the French, but you
must always go via Paris. I was going from Rotterdam to Dieppe... and we had
to go via Paris...”

And I was off the hook. There was even the opportunity for some mutual frog-
bashing, but I pleaded pressure of preparing to move on, filled in my customs'
declaration, then went up to my chambers to continue clearing up, rebalanced
my haversack and suitcase, thrn had a hot shower before watching a Gillian
Armstrong film: 'Oscar and Lucinda' with Ralph Fiennes and Cate Blanchett.

Friday, 14th March

My last full day on board. Then back to the 'real world': the world of being at
everyone's beck-and-call 24hrs a day, our world of plenty overflowing into
excess, the daily round where minor irritating mole hills become major
mountains and where making even half an effort could result in huge benefits
in communication and common caring – the kind of New Year's resolution that
everyone knows would change the tenor of our and others' lives for the better,
but that no-one ever keeps longer than the moment when things start to itch or
become jaggedly uncomfortable.
But aboard Grey Fox it's been a comfortable night, scrambled eggs on toast for
breakfast, a lightheartedness of the officers who will be going home soon:
either directly to Poland from Rotterdam or a few days later from Antwerp. The
new cycle, the crew replacements, the updated schedule are all on the notice
board in the officers' mess.
But a final episode of drama.
The radar (that was repaired in Vigo by an Italian who flew in especially to do
the job) has gone on the blink again. And the GPS is giving error readings.
This, as we move up the Channel (north of Guernsey) in thick fog. The captain
points to the secondary radar and 'My Lady Maureen', a trawler working off to
port between ourselves and the traffic jam of ships 5 miles away moving south.
Capt. B: “There is only fish THERE (finger jab), not THERE or THERE (more jabs)
but only THERE (jab) right in the middle of the major shipping lanes. Some
people is absolute stupid !” And we start to use our fog horn. We can't reduce
speed too drastically because of the ships following us single file up the
Channel and we can't speed up too much, because of those in front of us. But
none of us knows how far the nets stretch out behind 'My Lady Maureen'.
There are over 25 ships on the screen of the secondary GPS system, other
vessels without GPS on the secondary radar and no information about which of
the fishing boats is trailing what behind her. Then there are other fishing boats
that disappear from the screens as they heave to, or slow down to breast-
stroke speed. We have an A/B out on each wing of the bridge with binoculars
and an ever-present cigarette between his fingers and the blast of the fog horn.
The captain makes the occasional remark, like a driver insulting other drivers
on the autobahn, while I make the appropriate chuckling sound, but soon find
myself laughing out loud when he really amuses me.
Things seem to be under control and we will probably all be able to go to lunch
after the captain has briefed the officer who's taking over the watch at midday.

Thanks to 'My Lady Maureen' and her friends, the doors to the port and
starboard wings had both been open most of the morning, so I got changed for
lunch. This is the first time I've worn long trousers and socks since 18th
January...
It really does feel as if things are drawing to a close, as I pay my mess bill after
lunch. I bequeath my Rubik's Cube to Darek; he gives me a sheet of paper in
exchange: someone has helped the cook type his Gherkin Soup recipe for me.
I wonder, when I make some, if it will taste just as good sitting at our dining-
room table? And I wonder how offended I will feel if Rahel or the kids don't like
it ?!?

Again that strange feeling of being so near and yet so far. Torbay, where we
swam on Christmas mornings has passed us by; Lyme Regis, where the lovely
Thalia Childs invited me to her painting exhibitions... and much later this
evening, Brighton & Hove...

I used to go down to the south coast on summer Sundays when I was living in
Fulham. I'd arrive at the station where the queue of noisy Londoners who had
chosen Brighton this weekend rather than 'Saaaffend' was waiting to buy
tickets and busy finding out if there was also a 'special' train because of the
large crowd. The queue would stretch from the ticket offices, across the main
hallway, out of the building and round the side towards the bus station. They'd
already been there for ages, were reasonable good humoured and were
prepared to spend the journey to Brighton cramped, packed like sardines into
every available sitting and standing space...
I seem to remember that my 7/8ths empty train to Hove left at 11:25am. But
the hundreds/thousands at the station in London didn't want to go to Hove.
They wanted to go to Brighton. I met many of them, no longer quite so good
humoured, as I strolled along the front from Hove to Brighton, the extra
kilometre walk from Hove station to the sea front a small price to pay for a
hassle-free journey.

Saturday, 15th March

Early breakfast in the twilight again. Dark. Dark grey. Captain Böckmann
reckons we should be alongside in Rotterdam early this morning...

Good-byes have been said, people are moving on. But they all have a few last
important things to do, that don't include making me feel comfortable or
important. They need to get the Grey Fox to her berth as quickly and
efficiently as possible. Welcome their replacements on board. Hand over
responsibilities. Then, those that are disembarking today get onto the Polish
bus as quickly as possible, already in a party mood as they wait for the
stragglers.

So I find myself saying au'voir to the bridge and chart room. A last finger-walk
around my chambers before leaving the key in the door and going up one deck
to knock on Captain Böckmann's cabin door. A very formal leave-taking. Then
I set off down to A Deck with my case and loaded haversack. To be met by the
electrician. He offered to carry my suitcase, but his lumbago is probably worse
than my back ache, so I politely refused. He'll be signing off from this trip in a
couple of days time when Grey Fox gets back to Antwerp.

I stood for a few minutes watching the dockers at work unloading, then I set off
up the road to look for the bus stop. I have no idea of the bus timetable, but
there's supposed to be a regular service into Rotterdam.
No problem leaving the docks, just a cheery wave to the security guard. I got
my haversack to sit more comfortably, then marched down the middle of the
road, towing my suitcase behind me, as there were no pavements on either
side. The odd car or lorry seemed to take my central position in their stride, to
mix metastases.
According to the timetable on the wall of the bus shelter in the main road, I had
just missed the bus by ten minutes. But obviously the bus didn't know that,
because it arrived with a gentle hiss as I turned away from the timetable.
The bus driver asked me what I wanted and I said I needed to get to the main
station, the... 'haupt bahnhof'? The...

Most Dutch people that I've met seemed to speak quite a lot of English, but the
bus driver's was limited, to say the least. She told me how much to pay, gave
me a ticket, then said: “I show you”. When I looked nonplussed, she waved me
across to a nearby seat, smiling and nodding as I sat with my large suitcase
upright on my knees.
The bus seemed to be making a concerted tour of Rotterdam docklands, but
each time I caught the driver's eye, she smiled and nodded.
After about 20 minutes, we pulled up outside a shopping mall and a low-rise
station entrance. The driver opened all the doors, switched off the engine and
got out of the bus. Were we changing drivers? Not a bit of it: “I show you”.
And I followed her out of the bus and into the station. She took me to the
electronic entrance gates, made 'wait here' hand gestures and disappeared.
I didn't even have time to become confused, as she came back with a security
guard (or a station employee, I'm not sure which). He explained in good
English that I should use my bus ticket on the local train which would take me
to the mainline station.
Which is where I am now, waiting for my train south. I tried to call my friend
Brigitte, but there was no reply and no answering service. Brigitte's an actress
and worked with me in Florence Rep. She even sang one of my songs in a
revue. To much acclaim, I might add! Unfortunately I couldn't let her know
when I would be arriving here, so I'll have to make contact after I get home
again.
I decided not to go back via Paris, but rather to make for Basel. Either route
would mean a long wait, if I wanted to take an express, so, having decided that
I'm going straight home without passing 'GO' or collecting $200, I'm going to
have a look at train-hopping.

The journey south in the Netherlands has been like an international football
tournament! Names that remind me of Dutch players, total football, and there
seems to be a Philips factory in every village.
I'm waiting at a stand-up coffee bar on Venlo station, waiting for the train to
Cologne/Köln. I'm eating a hot pie and drinking a large beer, but that's not why
the people behind the counter and the other 3 customers are laughing. They're
laughing because they can see me talking into this machine and I'm smiling
back at them. But they started laughing about 10 minutes earlier.
I'd found some Bassett's Traditional Winegums.
So I grabbed a few packets and put them on the counter. Normal. Then I put
down my luggage, ordered the pie & beer, and went back to the racks of
hanging sweet packets. And emptied two rows of wine gums. Mild laughter.
By the time I had a pile of 17 x 500grm packets, we were all laughing out loud.
The young man went to see if they had any more in the stock room, while the
young lady offered me 3 packets of liquorice 'Katjes' for free. Sadly I had to
stick on 17, as I had cleared out their stock. But I've another (huge) plastic bag
to add to my collection. Of the few photographs that remain from my earlier
life (another story, another time), there are half a dozen of me with a plastic
bag hanging from a finger or two.

I changed trains yet again in Köln - the station in 1955 was in a different world
– and, just before crossing into Switzerland, I took my last sunset photo.
Through two layers of tinted glass, but it completes the collection.
I only had a few minutes wait in Basle, before getting this train to Lausanne.
I've just spoken to Rahel.
She'll pick me up in Renens.
I don't know if I'll be able to keep my eyes open long enough to finish today's
'Grauniad' that I bought in Rotterdam, because I'm suddenly very tired. I'll set
my cell phone alarm for just before Yverdon, then I'll have a nice little kip.

Of course, I'd forgotten the ticket inspector. I had to pay CHF5.- because I don't
have my Swiss Annual Season Ticket with me. But she checked me out
electronically; back into the system...
“...the thin end of the iceberg...” - a snippet of dialogue from a conversation in
Hilton, Kwa-Zulu Natal comes floating by...