A Chilling Experience

This is a diary accompanying the review of the same title which can be found at -

www.cruisecritic.com/memberreviews/memberreview.cfm?EntryID=219073

It may be of some interest to those considering an exploration of some of the channel ports.

Then again, it may not...

 

Bulbfields and Gardens at Eastertime with Cruise & Maritime Voyages (Marco Polo); 31 March 2013 - 07 April 2013

 

Saturday 30 March 2013

 

The tall, bald, middle-aged rambler, garishly dressed in several shades of green and making tea on his Campingaz is the subject of surreptitious glances from a couple of girls in the waiting room of Preston railway station. He’s only continuing a worthy tradition - a wall plaque states that over three million sailors and soldiers who passed through the station during the Great War were supplied with refreshments by volunteers. A third girl, dressed like her partner in smurf-blue sweats, is carrying a large stuffed smurf, perhaps won earlier in the day at the Pleasure Beach. I should be in Smurf-land myself in a day or two, hoping to escape the unremitting greyness of the last few weeks and months.

 

Sunday 31 March 2013

 

“Let the train give you a strain” would be an appropriate slogan for those trying to get across London. I have second (and third) thoughts about my environmentally-friendly travel decision thanks to an almost total failure to find lifts or escalators between Euston and Fenchurch Street. I stop for a few moments at Tower Hill to look across the river from the Tower Liberty where a plaque tells that William Penn (the modest founder of Pennsylvania) was born within its confines, in 1644. The adjacent sundial has a history of London around its perimeter (a sundial trail is one of the more esoteric of London’s themed walks).

 

There are no buses to Tilbury Docks on a Sunday. How far can it be to walk? Too far to wheel a suitcase, is the answer, especially if you walk in the wrong direction, to the cargo docks instead of the cruise terminal. My ticket, baggage labels and documentation are waiting for me - I’ve been allocated a Category 5 cabin (whatever that is) on Columbus Deck. Passports are handed in due to computer system problems - they’ll be returned tomorrow.

 

My cabin, nominally a single even though it has two beds, is spacious and clean (as is the en-suite) with a safe in the wardrobe and a flat-screen TV on a high shelf that can’t be angled downwards if, for some strange reason, you tend not to watch TV standing up. On each bed there is a selection of gift-wrapped Easter chocolates. The Restaurant Seating card tells me where I’m dining, and when (second sitting, as requested). Helpfully, there is a seating plan on the reverse side of the card. A copy of the daily programme, a list of shore excursions and lifebelts for the imminent drill are laid out on one of the beds. There’s a picture hanging on one of the walls which is more than is hanging in the corridor (although closer to the stairs there is some pleasing artwork).

 

After registering my credit card at Reception, I enjoy a tasty Embarkation Lunch Buffet at Marco’s Bistro astern (open until 4 o’clock) before the alarm sounds for the safety drill. My designated muster station is the Captain’s Club although seats on the lifeboats may be somewhat less plush then the comfortable tub chair into which I settle.

“We’ve been here 20 minutes already,” says an impatient elderly passenger sitting next to me who then attempts to start up a chorus of “Why are we waiting?”

“I’m on holiday so I don’t care,” I tell her gently.

“You have the right attitude,” she acknowledges with a smile.

She and I seem to be the only two passengers who haven’t come dressed to spill…straight over the side. After the introduction and demonstration we’re taken out to our designated lifeboats to complete the drill.

“There are 10 lifeboats and 25 life rafts, far exceeding the minimum requirements,” we are told reassuringly.

Our lifeboat leader is Olga from the Ukraine who is a violinist. It’s good to know that the entertainment programme would continue for some of us were the ship to be holed rather more severely than she was in Norway three weeks ago. A couple of women passengers travelling with Club 80-130 are trying to persuade one of the ship’s officers of the health benefits of Redbush tea - both drinking it and bathing in it. I fear images of the latter may haunt me for a long time.

 

There is a table laid outside the Waldorf Restaurant, just forward of amidships, with a colourful and appetising display of tonight’s offerings. I unpack a little before dinner and make up a flask of tea at one of the two hot drinks stations. It’s time the milk jugs were replaced though - they all have broken spouts.

 

The cabin steward introduces herself before it’s time to meet my fellow diners. We are a group of six solo travellers, three men and three women (one of whom is a ‘dead ringer’ for Victoria Wood) from Scotland and England. Our waiter introduces himself and presents us with menus. There’s certainly plenty of choice, including a Vegetarian Menu.

 

Well now, who wins the Lucas for the most interesting career? It’s a difficult call. Should it be the former cruise entertainer and member of the chorus of the Royal Ballet who has just finished a 6-month contract performing in Les Mis, or the former instructor in the art of robbing banks - in his guise as an ATM security consultant?

“I understand you’re a vegetarian,” says Antonio, the restaurant manager

I explain I’m more of a pescatarian but in my experience there’s always a plenty of choice for non-meat eaters so special arrangements won’t be required.

 

After a most enjoyable dinner it’s up to the Marco Polo Lounge for tonight’s show - Swing, Jive & Boogie. Good singers and even better dancers supported by a talented orchestra all contribute to some fine entertainment. Up in Scott’s Bar there’s a 60s night, but I reckon most of the punters are pushing it. A good evening ends with the DJ playing some dancing-round-handbags classics.

 

After yesterday’s change to British Summer Time, the clocks go forward again one hour tonight. The hot water stations are closed but fortunately I have my own supply of tea and tasteless biscuits (I must remember to put sugar in the mix next time) to end an enjoyable first day.

 

Monday 01 April

 

From humble beginnings as a 13th-century fishing village, Amsterdam has grown into the largest city in the Netherlands where a delightful mixture of canals, gabled houses, ornate churches and museums have all contributed to its development as a world-renowned centre for culture and commerce. It is also famed for a relaxed attitude towards sexual matters, the origins of which can be traced back to one young boy’s rather novel solution to saving the city at the time of its greatest peril. Such insouciance continues to this day where the largest and most popular green space in the city is the Vondelpark.

 

After a comfortable night’s sleep I watch as a tug nudges the ship into place as it approaches the Amsterdam Cruise Terminal on the banks of the IJ and as we berth it’s announced that passports can be picked up from reception. A buffet breakfast is enjoyed with one of my fellow diners who clinches the Lucas by revealing that she has catalogue modelling work to do when she gets back. She’s a little critical of the choreography at last night’s show and thought the volume was too loud.

 

The girl at the tourist information counter in the cruise terminal tells me it isn’t worth trying to get to Keukenhof - it’s been so cold that the tulips aren’t out yet. OK, time to think of Plan B. The sun is shining brightly on a clear cold day and I’m wrapped up in traditional British summer gear - woolly hat, gloves and raincoat. At the VVV tourist office opposite the train station a man with a lanyard suggests I buy a €10 all-day bus ticket for EBS busses to visit outlying towns such as Volendam and Edam. I ask a bus driver where EBS busses stop.

“On the opposjite sjide of the sjtation”, he tells me.

The Pub Landlord is right - a Dutchman speaking English does sound like a porn star.

 

Volendam is a pleasant half-hour bus journey across the polder landscape. The tourist office points me in the direction of the waterfront where the old town lies below the dyke. It’s pleasant and busy along the dyke itself but restaurant after restaurant after tourist shop after tourist shop (pretty though the colourful steeply-raked red-roofed buildings are) renders the area a little devoid of soul. Step one street back, behind and below the dyke, and a more rewarding experience of lovely houses, waterways, wooden bridges and brick walkways can be found.

 

Another bus ride brings me to the outskirts of Edam. Curiously, the town is far less curd-centric than its touristy neighbour being a rather quiet and pretty place that doesn’t seem interested in capitalising on its world-wide fame. Perhaps it should be applauded for so doing. The town is so photogenic that even the gardens and frontage of the offices of the regional water board are worthy of a photo.

 

I have about an hour and half to wander around Amsterdam where it continues to be cold but sunny. A circular walk from the train station takes me along inner canals past the Bredero statue (Bredero was, inter alia, a chronicler of Amsterdam’s underbelly) to St. Anthony’s Gate on the Niewmarkt (the oldest preserved fortification in Amsterdam), past the Rembrandthuis to Waterlooplein, across the Rembrandtplein and its wonderful sculptures of the Night Watch to the Flower Market beyond, then back following the Singel to the train station. I’m a little late back at the cruise terminal but fortunately, so is the last of the returning shore excursions.

 

I’m guessing that we’re sailing along the Noordzee Kanaal to Ijmuiden (where larger ships dock) and the North Sea. It’s very pleasant with the canal being lined with windmills of the modern variety. I read the news digest in the Captain’s Club as the classical duo begin their evening set with Moon River.

 

My safe combination isn’t working and have to ask my cabin steward to unlock it. She’s from Costanta, Romania, on the shores of the Black Sea and has worked on private yachts previously but didn’t particularly enjoy it - occasional rough sailings, the snobbishness of some of the guests (rather than the owners) and particularly, the spoilt brattishness of the owners’ children. Mine is one of 17 cabins for which she’s responsible.

 

We 6 solos chat about our day over another fine dinner. It seems the tours are very popular - Victoria Wood couldn’t get on her first choice so opted for the Amsterdam Walking Tour instead. Others either took the Keukenhof tour (there were blooms on display but only under cover) or the Windmills & Volendam excursion (where one passenger let out a shriek on the bus back on discovering that his souvenir collection of Dutch cheeses included Cheddar and Red Leicester).

 

An excellent day ends with a showtime performance by comedian/magician/ventriloquist, Matt Edwards. It’s enjoyably silly and definitely an act with potential with better material.

 

Tuesday 02 April

 

Excavations appear to show that the area around Antwerp was inhabited as long ago as the second or third century. The city first experienced an economic boom in the 12th century, when the rival port of Bruges began to silt up. By the first half of the 14th century Antwerp had become the most important trading and financial centre in Western Europe, its success based largely on its wool market - and its ability to silt up rival seaports.

 

“Due to a late clearance from port authorities in Antwerp, our departure has been put back two hours - to 4pm.”

That suits me - the day will be more leisurely and I should still manage afternoon tea.

 

We are docked by the Steenplein where a decorative ramp flanked by stone lions leads up to Wandelterrassen, a scenic boardwalk. At one end is the medieval fortress of Het Steen guarding access to the river Sheldt. The castle is fronted by a statue of a giant with legs akimbo between which two mere mortals are looking up in astonishment at a prodigious Lange Wapper.

 

It’s another cold, sunny day as I walk up to the Grote Markt with its magnificently ornate City Hall fronted by the Brabo Fountain whose symbolism of a Belgian struggle against a powerful adversary still resonates today. A little further up is the hidden medieval alley of Vlaeykensgang, accessible through unassuming doors. Groenplaats, with its statue of Petro Paulo Rubens at its heart, the cathedral as its backdrop and surrounded by shops and cafés is busy even in the middle of a midweek morning. I’ll save the Italianate Rubenshuis for another visit - the sun is out and who knows if I’ll ever see it again back in England. I continue on, along the Meir, Antwerp’s main shopping street lined with patrician mansions as far as the statue of artist David Teniers. The railway station is up ahead but that can wait for a detour to the Begijnhof - a hermitage for devout women who have not taken religious vows. The last Antwerp beguine died in 1986 and it is now an enclosed residential quarter surrounding a small park containing religious icons.

 

The zoo is next to the train station but I’m uncomfortable with animals and enclosures no matter how well-meaning conservationists may be and so give it a miss. Next door is Centraal Station, a style-defying edifice that Newsweek, in 2009, ranked alongside London’s St. Pancras, New York’s Grand Central and Bombay’s Victoria Terminus (or Mumbai’s Chhatrapati Shivaji, if you prefer - although the locals don’t). A short walk through the adjacent Jewish Quarter leads to the triangular Stadspark where sitting by the lake and doing nothing is blissful relief from a back that’s giving me gyp.

 

It’s time to head back to the ship, past the grandiose war memorial at one apex of the park, to Leopoldplaats and the statue of Leopold I, the first king of the Belgians following its independence from the Netherlands, with his dedication to the city of Anvers. Further along is the Plantentuin, a small landscaped garden containing trees, shrubs, herbs and water features, and the descending man sculptures.

 

Locals on the boardwalk look on as we take afternoon tea out on deck with the sun beating down on our winter jackets and coats, and a brass band plays on the quayside as we prepare to move away. Cait, the Cruise Director, announces that it’s 291 nautical miles to Cherbourg where we’re due to arrive at 12.45 (two and half hours later than planned), and due to our late arrival today, the captain won’t be attending the captain’s reception. For shame!

 

The well-stocked on-board shops include a small selection of books. It seems that the best-selling 50 Shades of Grey has since spawned several variations - 50 shades of 50 Shades, if you will.

 

It’s very warm in Marco’s this evening. For my pre-dinner dinner I have some tasty butternut squash soup followed by tofu and noodles. The food is attractively presented at the buffet stations and it takes a great degree of self-control not to dive into the beautiful-looking desserts. I take a window seat to watch as we continue drifting down the river. It’s far too warm inside so I make up a fruit platter and take it outside - where it’s far too cold.

 

The majority of men at tonight’s Gala Dinner are wearing dinner suits but at our table we’re all in smart jacket and tie. It’s wobbly tonight even though we can’t be far out to sea. Those who went on the shore excursion to Brussels were very happy with it and tell the rest of us about their day. Other stories include our winner of the Lucas trying to explain the origin of the phrase “Hobson’s Choice” to a befuddled American friend. You live and learn… I’d always thought its origin lay in Salford and the celebrated play by Harold Brighouse but the original Hobson was a Cambridge stable owner who offered customers the use of the horse nearest the stable door, or none at all.

 

The Magic of the Musicals is an enjoyable show, particularly our lifeboat captain and part-time classical violinist playing solos such as Memories and Fiddler on the Roof. Some of the singers however, cross the boundary between singing and shouting and the strained contortions adopted by one or two of the girls make me wonder if they’re eating enough All Bran. The dancers in their impressive costumes and the Marco Polo Orch-es-traaaa (as our deputy cruise director likes to refer to them) are excellent. Kudos to all, especially considering the “motion on the ocean”.

 

Wednesday 03 April

 

Cherbourg, situated on the north of the Cotentin Peninsula is a distinguished city with a history that dates back to the Vikings and takes in the Seven Years War, the American Civil War (yes, really), the ill-fated Titanic and the Normandy Invasion. Celebrated museums devoted to fine arts and maritime history, and a notable architectural and botanical heritage are just some of the many attractions to inform and entertain any visitor - which is why I was intent on visiting Bayeux.

 

A cooked breakfast means that the day starts off as it should - or would do if Marco’s wasn’t so crowded. It’s too cold to be outside and the buffet restaurant isn’t large enough to cope with so many wanting to eat inside. I chat with a couple I met at Tilbury about the shore excursions. Like some of my fellow diners, they also couldn’t get on their preferred Amsterdam excursion.

 

The tours lecture is annoyingly peppered with innumerable repetitions of “As I say”, “As I said” and “OK” (which it isn’t) from automaton presenters reading from slides. Afterwards, at 11 o’clock, there is a lecture about Monet’s Garden - which I only remembered at 12 o’clock.

 

The lunch menu has tempting offerings but I can’t face any more food at the moment. After searching for somewhere to sit I finally find a window seat up in Scott’s Bar and eavesdrop on a conversation about Michael Caine (a friend of a friend now resident in an old-age home) and a particularly animated discussion about bus passes.

 

The ship is cleared by Immigration a quarter of an hour before our re-scheduled arrival time of 12:45. The tourist information desk in the terminal will be open until the all-aboard time of 8pm, a complementary shuttle bus is available and the late-sitting dinner has been put back until 8:15. These delays suit me very well. I’ll have some spinach soup, a roll and some cheese for lunch before I disembark. No I won’t - there’s absolutely nowhere to sit. It’s too cold to eat on deck and, failing to find a seat in the restaurant, I leave my tray.

 

The girls at the tourist information desk tell me it’s too late - I can’t get to Bayeux and back before the ship sails. The same disappointing message is repeated at the tourist information office in town…but not at the train station - I can get to Bayeux and back before the ship sails even if the next train isn’t until 15.40.

 

The plains of Lower Normandy are flooded for as far as the eye can see. Soaked and rotted hay bales serve as a reminder that the recent bad weather has not just been confined to the UK. An hour later the train pulls into Bayeux and it’s a 10-minute walk down the road to the town centre where the skyline is dominated by the cathedral dating back to the 11th century. I follow the signs to the tapisserie which used to be displayed in the cathedral but now has its own museum, located in the former Great Seminary of Bayeux, a training centre for diocesan priests. The recorded commentary provides fascinating insight into the 57 colourful and detailed scenes depicting the events surrounding the famous triumph of Bill the Bastard - particularly notable, according to one esteemed commentator, because his army of several thousand Normans was subject to one of the most confusing roll-calls in military history. The commentary is full of interesting nuggets, for example scene 49, where prelates can be seen carrying maces rather than lances because they were not allowed to shed blood, although they could knock somebody senseless.

 

There’s time to wander round the area of the cathedral and the medieval timber-framed surroundings of the Rue des Cuisiniers (Bayeux’s more recent historical connections, to the Normandy invasion, will have to wait for a subsequent visit) before my train back to Cherbourg. The 10-minute walk back to the ship is along the Quai General Joseph Lawton Collins, dedicated to the liberator of Cherbourg 26 June 1944 (who is buried, together with his brother and nephew, at Arlington National Cemetery). Close by the port entrance is the memorial stone to RMS Titanic which called at Cherbourg 10 April 1912, four days before passing into legend.

 

“Avast, me hearties, batten down the hatches and lash yerselves to the mizzen mast!”

Well, maybe, the announcement was actually, “Please hold on to the rails as you move about the ship”, and indeed people are swaying drunkenly as we head off for tonight’s after-dinner performance of Abba - Dancing Queen. It’s excellent, particularly considering how much the ship is moving, despite a couple of minor hiccups (a failed microphone and the wrong music for the ballroom couple). The cabaret in Scott’s Bar afterwards is also very entertaining - our compere can’t really tell a joke (notwithstanding his comment that passengers aboard Saga are…..well, let’s just say that even the portholes are bifocal) but he can sing.

 

Despite the drawers opening and closing, the creaking, breathing ship lulls me to sleep - but not before I set my watch back one hour for our next port of call.

 

Thursday 04 April

 

The Scilly Isles, a temperate archipelago in the far south-west of Britain lying squarely in the path of the Gulf Stream, comprise dozens of islands, five of which are inhabited (or six, if Gugh is counted separately). Many associate the islands with the lost Celtic civilisation of Lyonesse, a fabled land that, according to Alfred Lord Tennyson, saw the final battle between Arthur and Mordred whilst according to Delia Smith, it is the origin of a popular dish made from thinly-sliced potatoes and onions.

 

The announcement that tenders for independent passengers will be available from 10:15 proves to be too optimistic - it’s half past eleven before the swells and high seas calm down enough. As the tender operation gets underway we are requested to, “…smile at ship’s personnel and be gentle with them.”

 

At 1 o'clock my ticket is called and I make my way down to the tender which is bobbing up and down against the ship's side. Everybody is in good spirits during the bumpy 10-minute trip to Hugh Town, the capital of St. Marys. I forego the 1-hour £8 vintage bus tour of the island and, tourist map in hand, set off to see some of the sites. Fortunately the island paths, both exposed and sheltered, feel less blustery that down in town.

 

I’d like to find the memorial to the magnificently-named Admiral of the Fleet, Sir Cloudesley Shovell, at Porthellick Cove on the eastern side of the island, where he was washed ashore and buried following the wreck of his flagship, the Association. (The disaster caused the Admiralty to instigate the search for a way of calculating longitude.) He was later re-buried in Westminster Abbey and thus elevated to the pantheon of great British heroes - the traditional reward for anyone whose life was dedicated to giving the French a bloody nose.

 

Sheltered tracks along the west of the island lead to Halangy Down Ancient Village and Bant’s Carn Burial Chamber - remains of the Iron and Bronze Ages - before I turn inland to Carreg Dhu Garden in the centre of the island, after which I lose my way and flag down a local in his Landrover to ask for directions to Porthellick. He offers to drive me to his farm which is near the cove. His little daughter tells me proudly, “My daddy was born on the island - and that was a very long time ago.”

“Follow the path out the back of his farm, through the gate, turn right… You can’t miss it,” he tells me.

Oh ye of little faith.…

 

The weather has held and it’s been an enjoyable day tramping round the island (notwithstanding my failed mission). I catch the last tender back which is another bumpy ride. Disembarking is both a delicate and indelicate manoeuvre - as the tender crests, each passenger is given a shove in the backside by the boatmen and pulled aboard by the ship’s crew in one smooth movement.

 

There are navy-blue sick bags set out along corridor railings so it’s going to be another night of fun. Over another fine dinner Peter tells of an enjoyable shore excursion to Tresco where there was plenty to see at the Abbey Gardens. I imagine it’s changed a lot since I was there over 10 years ago.

 

On our way to the after-dinner show Mrs. Lucas and I come across a husband struggling to wheel his wife along the corridor and into their disabled cabin. She tells us she’d had a fall in Amsterdam and had to be patched up in a local hospital. They’re fortunate to have been able to continue the cruise. We help them into their cabin and wish them well before enjoying another show of magic and generally entertaining silliness.

 

Friday 05 April

 

Despite its close proximity to France, the Bailiwick of Guernsey is a British Crown Dependancy situated in the English Channel whose international representation and defence are the responsibility of the United Kingdom. Its unswerving allegiance to the monarchy is clearly evident in its political and legislative make-up - the senior legal advisor is the Procureur, draft proposals to parliament are known as Projets de Loi and each parish is administered by a Douzaine.

 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I hev important announcement to make. I hev spoken to Head Office and unfortunately there is no alternative port ve cen visit…”

For the benefit of those who aren’t fluent in Russian, the captain’s announcement is repeated word-for-word by Rhys, the Guest Services Manager. The seas look and feel no worse than yesterday but our visit to Guernsey has been cancelled, so we are to head for Honfleur, our next port of call. Today’s challenge will therefore be - How to avoid cabin fever.

 

Over breakfast Mrs. Lucas talks about tour promotion work she used to do with her husband taking performers as diverse as The Royal Scots Dragoon Guards Pipes and Drums, and Peter Ustinov, to Australia and New Zealand. With an opening pitch along the lines of, “Would you like Peter Ustinov at your theatre?” it didn’t need to be a particularly hard sell. It’s very warm in the public spaces around the ship - not surprising with everyone out (or rather, in) and about.

 

The noonday navigational announcement tells us the seas are rough and the wind speed is 28 knots - that’s moderate gales if you’re outside, and severe swaying if you’re inside. I had hoped there would be dance lessons today (rock 'n' roll would be very appropriate) but instead there’s just a singalong party after lunch up in Scott’s Bar which it isn’t for me. Down at Reception I ask how the daily £5 gratuity that’s added to my on-board account is divided up. Equally - amongst housekeeping, restaurant, bar and galley staff, irrespective of seniority - is what I’m told.

 

Afternoon tea is a little disappointing. I try a scone with cream but have to leave it. The ship is too wobbly for me and I have to go for a lie-down until dinner. It takes a lot of effort to get to the back of the ship, make up my nightly flask, then sway back to my cabin forward.

 

We’re all disappointed that we didn’t visit Guernsey, especially Peter whose daughter lives on the island (but she’s flying over to see him in a couple of weeks anyway). Sparkling wine is served prior to the Baked Alaska Parade - a well-appreciated gesture. The galley and restaurant staff are (or should that be ‘is’?) deservingly cheered and applauded by all and an excellent, if mis-named, Farewell Dinner draws to a close with a toast to our fellow diners.

 

Tonight’s show is a performance by the violin and piano duo. Olga, with blond hair and blue dress engages in extended chatting but her English isn’t up to it. Varvara, with raven hair and red dress, accompanies her beautifully. She even smiles occasionally - or maybe it was just an involuntary twitch. Massenet’s Meditation is particularly lovely although it sounds a lot like Shostakovich’s Gadfly. I wonder if there’s a connection. The encore, Monti’s Czardas, brings a terrific concert to a close.

 

I ask Reception to reduce my daily gratuity to £3 per day - I’ll give something to Claudia and Elvis directly.

 

Saturday 06 April

 

Honfleur, a stunningly picturesque port lying on the River Seine estuary, has proved an inspiration to a great many (and many great) artists, particularly those associated with the Impressionist movement such as Claude Monet. Another important artist of the Honfleur School was Gustave Courbet who led the Realist movement in 19th century French painting and whose descendent, Harry, led the Unrealist movement in 20th century English puppetry.

 

The shuttle drops us off by the bus station, across the road from Place Jeanson (named for the polemical writer) and the bustling Saturday market. It’s cold again, and a little cloudy as I walk down to L’Enclos and the old port (Vieux Bassin), the Lieutenance and the salt halls (Greniers à Sel). The port is filled with sailing boats casting dull reflections in the water. Colourful timber-framed buildings with slate and stone abound. Tourist information plaques read “Honfleur, cité des peintres… un lieu inspiré”, which sums it up very well.

 

I explore more of the market around the area of Place Sainte Catherine with its famous church and bell-tower before following the tourist map through narrow streets up the steep Rampe du Mont Joli, which has fine views of the town and the Normandy Bridge spanning the Seine. Honfleur’s other viewpoint is Le Côte de Grâce, a little further along by La Chapelle Nôtre Dame de Grâce which dates from 1600 and stands on the site of a chapel founded by Richard II almost six hundred years earlier. The earlier chapel disappeared in a rockfall, hence the numerous signs warning of Risques d’éboulements by the cliff edge.

 

The Ferme Saint-Siméon, the famed refuge and meeting place for artists who gave birth to the Honfleur School, is on the road to Trouville on the edge of town. I sink into an armchair in the lounge with its terracotta-coloured floor tiles, wooden roof beams and an open fire, by a window overlooking the patio and the estuary, and ask for a coffee and patisserie. What is served is a true homage to the artists who used to congregate here - a pastry case filled with pistachio cream, topped with raspberries and decorated with a chocolate domino, gold leaf, and tiny yellow flowers. A copy of Le Monde has an article celebrating 100 years of Aston Martin - la belle centenaire de “gentlemen drivers”. 50 years before “le constructeur le plus exclusif de la planète” was conceived by Messrs. Martin and Bamford, Boudin would have been here playing skittles and Monet - dominoes, whilst the celebrated Mère Toutain poured generous quantities of cider for her guests.

 

The mind boggles at what one might find in the curiously-named Le Ph’Art studio and gallery by Place Hamelin. From there, la Rue Haute leads to the Maisons Satie - beautiful rust-red and mauve timber-framed buildings which would be even more picturesque were the whole street not blighted by parked cars and road signs. On the edge of town, down by the water, is Le Jardin des Personnalités (conceived for all Honfleurais - by birth, adoption or emotional pull).

 

I can’t remember where to wait, and can’t see anybody in the vicinity who looks like they’re waiting, for a bus. Fortunately, as I walk back to the port, a shuttle bus approaches which I flag down. It’s the last of the day and the only other passengers we pick up are a couple of the crew, laden with bags of shopping.

 

The sun comes out as we drift away from the dock and, like many other passengers, I take photos of the cable-stayed Normandy bridge linking Honfleur with Le Havre, before heading back to the cabin to start that most unpleasant of chores - packing. I leave a small note for the cabin steward, thanking her with a traditional token of appreciation before heading down to dinner. Another enjoyable meal ends with the collective toast of “Thank you everyone for your company” before thanking our Goan waiter in the traditional way.

 

After dinner it’s time for the final show - We Will Rock You. It’s very entertaining although performing Queen’s classic hits to an audience, most of whose headbanging days probably coincided with the birth of Aston Martin, seems a bit silly -

You got mud on your face

You big disgrace

Somebody better put you back into your place

We will

We will………..

Dearest! I forgot.What will we do?”

 

Sunday 07 April

 

After travelling 1390 nautical and occasionally bumpy miles we arrive back at Tilbury. Can I see anyone to catch a ride to the train station? No? £6 for a 2-minute taxi ride it is then. At least the sun is shining…

 

 

Other diaries:

http://boards.cruisecritic.com/showthread.php?t=1792071

http://cruiseforums.cruisecritic.com/showthread.php?t=1770405

http://cruiseforums.cruisecritic.com/showthread.php?t=1669814

http://cruiseforums.cruisecritic.com/showthread.php?t=1584868

An interesting read, thank you.

Very amusing review - thank you! gives a flavour of what to expect :)

JakTar, well done! Thanks for posting.