The Adventure Begins

 

Our last view of the Liver Building

The voyage begins

Hard to believe, but Birkenhead can look quite pretty from a distance and in the right light.

(apologies to those  whom it may concern)

Cruises are a strange old thing. We set off from Liverpool, this time for Canada, and once again I was struck by the simplicity of boarding in comparison with airports. There is only the one terminal and a single ship to focus on. The line is leisurely and gives you time to assess your fellow passengers as they quietly assess you. First impressions? They’re all so bloody old, and yes, I get the irony. 

We inched closer, packed like cows in an abattoir minus the stress and panic or indeed blood. Perhaps a little tense. I looked around again, sensing the huge and accumulated experience of elder spirits, bulbs in the potting shed waiting to flower, probably after that first drink on board. 

Bulbs in a potting shed? The three brisk and jolly women behind us looked more like characters from an Agatha Christie novel. ‘Murder on the Borealis.’

The guy in front of us, a small, dapper man in tweed and matching flat cap, a possible victim. He looked lugubrious enough, lips pouting at nothing, and carrying a ukulele in a black plastic case. He’d been on an earlier Fred Olsen cruise that had offered onboard ukulele lessons. His head had been thoroughly turned by the experience and this time he’d brought his own in the hope there would be fellow ukulele players on board. There were, and later on in the cruise, we discovered the surprising amount of violence the ukulele can nurture. There were fisticuffs, two men squaring up to each other. Ukuleles at dawn. I was baffled. Musical differences? We’re talking ukuleles here.

There were also Irish ‘travellers’ on board and a tall, thin man in his nineties walking with sticks—Mr Fred Olsen himself. We discovered this later, but even before then, I sensed this trip was going to be fun.

I think, to enjoy a cruise you have to enjoy people—or tolerate them at least. The Borealis is relatively small, with just over 1100 of us on board. A decent enough size compared with some of the 7,000 monstrosities currently ploughing the seas. I like people well enough, but that many? Moderation in everything.

Time Square from different levels. A central focal point.

As the journey progressed, I was struck by the many life stories, snippets of conversation that revealed hidden depths. Every day, every hour was like a kaleidoscope, tiny fragments of colour re-sorting themselves depending upon where you sat, walked, ate, or drank. There were the two women who’d gone through two husbands and were cheerfully looking for a third; the ninety-two-year-old Anglican priest who’d served in pre-revolutionary Iran.

 He told the story of his first Christian convert—a blind Iranian boy—who’d explored his stole and vestments by touch and listened intently as the then equally young priest had described their colours. In time, the convert became a priest too, married, and had children. 

And now the old man, bubbling with excitement and glee, came to the crux of his story. After years of clandestine messages secreted out from Iran, he was about to officiate at the marriage of that first convert’s granddaughter, wearing the same vestments and stole that had first enraptured the young Iranian. More, he’d translated and published the service into Farsi especially for wedding. I hope I have as much energy and enthusiasm when, God willing, I reach ninety-two.

One of the several lounges, this very much in the vein of a library/gentleman's club. That is not me in the chair

For us, an ornate but necessary signpost. The corridor to the left of it led to our room