Nameless, like the novel. You know the one.

Halifax! It’s been a long time coming. And, in the nature of life, it didn’t quite work out as I would have preferred; but there you go, you have to roll with the punches.

Halifax has loomed unexpectedly large for me simply because I kept having Titanic connections: coming across a travelling expedition, complete with iceberg, in Copenhagen; visiting Cork harbour in Ireland; and others that would make this claim stronger except that I can’t recall them at the moment thanks to a rather large port I’ve just seen off, from the private cabinet in our suite here on Silversea’s Silver Whisper (on arrival, your butler asks for your preferences in stocking the minibar – which is INCLUDED). Anyway, Halifax in Nova Scotia is the nearest port to the sinking, and lots of boats went out from here to rescue survivors, but of course came back with only bodies.

I didn’t get to the cemeteries that I’ve written about several times; but I did visit the Maritime Museum, which is very good, and which has a Titanic section that includes a new concept for me: wreckwood, that is, items made from wood salvaged from the ship. It seemed a bit trivial to make a rolling pin and a backgammon board from bits of the Titanic, but who am I to judge?

There was [all together now] not enough time to give the museum its due because I was booked on a coach tour out to Peggy’s Cove an hour’s drive away, sucked in because of another small obsession, with lighthouses. 

Although the weather deteriorated into rain, it was still pretty and striking, and I was glad that I’d gone. The bare granite rocks where the lighthouse stands were initially swarming with coachloads of tourists, but the rain drove them off in the end, and I was able to enjoy it uncluttered. It was all very  - you know, that book, by that writer, woman, I think there was a movie with thingummy, so well known, Usual Suspects,  you know. Damn that ruby port!