Ship of nightmares

So, five very rich men have now joined the 1500 mostly very far from rich people who died when the Titanic sank 111 years ago. The extensive - and expensive - search for their submersible has generated a mass of headlines and lots of screen time and, while it’s been moderately interesting to follow, it’s hard not to miss the sharp contrast with that other recent sinking, in the Mediterranean. Viz this very pointed cartoon in The Times yesterday. 

Recap: last week a fishing boat hideously crammed with migrants from Libya trying to escape to Italy sank off Greece. Some men on the top deck were rescued, while around 500 mostly women and children trapped down below drowned, their bodies so far unrecovered. It was initially in the news, but soon dropped out of sight, especially once the Titan submersible got into trouble. 

Amongst all the dreary conclusions to be drawn here (as well, of course, as acknowledging that any life accidentally lost, even of self-indulgent billionaires, is tough), the one I'm focusing on is our apparently never-ending fascination with the Titanic. It's inescapable, in our culture. I mean, like me, you've seen the movie, right? At least once, I bet, and quite possibly several times - you're certainly super-familiar with the quotes and iconic scenes. And, if you've gone overseas much, you'll have come across Titanic displays in various museums and possibly even one of the travelling exhibitions. The big one that's in New York right now I saw in Copenhagen - in 2011. It's still going!

I've certainly seen my share of Titanic stuff, from Jack Dawson's grave in Halifax to a note in a bottle thrown overboard by a passenger in Cobh, Ireland. And of course it's impossible to visit Belfast without going to their striking Titanic museum near the shipyard where it was built. That it was opened a century after the sinking tells you all you need to know about people's morbid fascination with mass deaths. See also my last post (er, also the Last Post) - but especially if there's something glamorous about it. 

Not that the bulk of Titanic's drowned passengers were, nor those on the fishing boat: just poor people trying to start new and hopefully more successful lives than those they were escaping. Nothing glamorous there, at all.

And for today’s tenuous connection, I’m currently sorting out a trip to Wairarapa, which is where James Cameron lives on his huge farm. 

That was never 11 days we had just then

Why yes, that was rather a long gap between posts. Mainly it was because of marketing: selling stories linked to events and dates, and though the ones I've been fully occupied writing about are marking the anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic a whole month from now, and Anzac Day even further away on April 25, there's been a bit of a rush to do it because I've got some travelling coming up. On Sunday I'm being whisked off to Buenos Aires on LAN's lovely business class, and thence to Iguazu Falls, Lima (again) and then, most excitingly, Easter Island. I once reviewed a book that was set there - rather unimaginatively titled 'Easter Island' - by Jennifer Vanderbes, who had clearly done a great deal of research into ancient angiosperms that she didn't want to waste, so by the end of the book I was quite the expert (temporarily) on fossilised pollen. Never heard the term 'palynology' before? Now you have.

Then after I've been home for less than a fortnight, I'm away again, for an incredible 6 weeks this time, to Europe: partly private but mostly work, and it's going to be very busy. Fun and interesting, but busy, and tiring. It doesn't help that there are three very old animals in this house, who miss me when I'm gone, and who so far have always been here when I've got back from a trip but, one day...

So anyway, the Titanic. I keep bumping into it, so to speak - of course, in Ireland last year, when we went to Cobh which was the ship's last port of call before setting off across the Atlantic, and where there was a really good exhibition in the old railway station there. Then there was an astonishingly, not to say anally, comprehensive travelling exhibition that I came across while I was in Copenhagen, that absorbed me for the best part of two hours while rampaging Hamburg football fans laid waste to the city outside (well, almost). We'll be going to a new one at Greenwich Maritime Museum while we're in London; there are, I discovered, others in Southampton, Liverpool and Cherbourg, all Titanic sister cities that I've been to; and several in Halifax, Nova Scotia where I haven't been, but have been increasingly hankering to go to over the last few years. Lots of the recovered bodies were buried there, including one J. Dawson, who was actually James, a boiler-room hand, but that doesn't stop a steady stream of fans of Leonardo DiCaprio's Jack going there to leave red roses on the gravestone:

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!

Tarts and the Titanic

Random connections today: out of nowhere, a What's On in Macau in November promotion arrived in the post, personally addressed. Amongst the many attractions listed are the Grand Prix - as in Monaco, it's right through the central city, and would be exciting, if that were your thing - and the Fringe Festival with buskers on the streets (hopefully at a different time from the Grand Prix) which includes the usual sorts of acts plus, thrillingly, a presentation called 'Marathon Stories about Land Reclamation'. But the Food Festival sounds more promising, especially as the 'five top taste bud zones' includes Dessert - featuring egg custard tarts, no doubt. It's a local specialty they're very proud of which was introduced by the Portuguese who, and I say this having tasted both, make it better, especially at Casa Pasteis de Belem Restaurant in Lisbon, where they churn out thousands every day, each one flakily sweet and delicious.

There's a note about the calligraphy exhibition on in the Handover Gifts Museum, and those of you who've been paying attention know what that building is all about; and a respectful reminder that in Macau you may only stay in licensed accommodation "to avoid potential hazards such as fire and unsanitary conditions". Heaven forbid.

Another attraction coming to Macau is Titanic: the Exhibition. I've seen that and it's really good, with masses of artifacts from the Titanic and its identical sister ship the Olympic, and lots of individual passenger stories with items like watches and children's shoes. There's a big model of the ship cutaway on one side, which was interesting - and even an iceberg. No, really, a huge wall of ice that you can put your hand on and make the whole experience literally chilling. It's a travelling exhibition that I caught in Copenhagen last year. It was in a building across the road from the imposing and historic brick Town Hall, which I keep seeing as a location in Forbrydelsen, a terrific police murder investigation three-season TV series being played here end-to-end that I'm about 20 episodes into, all subtitled Danish, and which is the best thing I've seen for years (I spit upon the jazzed-up American version - this is dark and slow and detailed and brilliantly done). Worth seeking out.

Catching up

I've been MIA all week because of a new laptop and the unconscionable effort it's taken to get it set up and transfer all my files. Worst of all was migrating my old emails which took an entire weekend of Googling and wrestling with nerd-speak, getting familiar with esoteric things like .dbx files and trying over and over and over to shift files from Outlook Express via Windows Live to Outlook (for which I'm going to have to pay actual money to use). Thanks a lot, Microsoft. But it's done. Yay.

So what has passed me by in the meantime? Australian soldiers on leave getting drunk in the Middle East - sign of the times that that was a news story, but they were in Dubai, where the official relationship with alcohol is uneasy and it's a behind-closed-doors, consenting-adults sort of activity. Westerners who live there - and there are very many - have to get a licence to buy wine from a few special shops and then have to transport it straight home. You can only drink in hotel restaurants, and even then you're meant to behave yourself. (They frown on PDAs too, public displays of affection between the sexes, though it's all on for women and men to hold hands with their same-sex friends: it's rather sweet to see a couple of swarthy young Arab men in robes striding along with their pinkies linked.)

A dinner-table conversation about an upcoming fancy-schmancy family wedding at Hampton Court House (presumably near the actual HC) led to a mention of Blenheim Palace, which was followed, according to the law of coincidence, by a TV documentary that night about that amazing place, with some fantastic photography. It's a private home, always has been, but it's truly called a palace, and it's awesomely beautiful. And then there are the Churchill stars: handsome John, the first Duke of Marlborough, and Winston of course. Unmissable.

And yesterday a cruise liner inexplicably did a Titanic off the coast of Italy, with shameful losses of life. I wonder if it will give pause to those people who have booked for that trip in April to follow the course of the actual Titanic? The last place their ship will call at before crossing the Atlantic is Cobh, in southern Ireland, where we went last year and were happily absorbed by the excellent exhibition in the old railway station there. They've got a lot of artefacts (though not as many as in the travelling exhibition I saw in Copenhagen, which will be back in Barcelona by now) including a letter in a bottle that was thrown overboard as the Titanic sailed and was delivered to the writer's mother after his death in the sinking. And then I imagine the tourists will call in at Halifax, Nova Scotia, where many of the recovered bodies were taken and buried. I'd like to go there one day. I wonder if I will?

Doing my best with Belfast

With thanks to Silversea for this cruise

Another day, another grand old city - and another wasted opportunity, though I did my best, truly. It was my first visit to Belfast, and I really would have liked to do it justice, but tiresome health problems intervened and yet another nebuliser session with Silver Wind's doctor down in the bowels of the ship meant that we missed the departure time for the city tour we had booked - and paid for. Ouch.

But we soldiered on into town on the shuttle when we were free, and took a taxi to the Titanic museum, which was the high point of the tour we'd booked. It's a remarkable building, all angular and modern and silvery. Inside, it's very efficiently organised, and you follow a trail through it, covering everything to do with Belfast's marine history and the Titanic  in particular, from design to, well, destruction. There is a slightly silly gondola thing you sit in and are dangled around a shipyard mock-up, past all the stages. Most impressive was the riveting process, which was incredibly hard, hot, noisy and dangerous work, and the only relief from the repetitiveness must have been the terror that the RIVET CATCHERS diced with throughout their long shifts, literally catching the heated rivets (in a bucket) and passing them to the men who hammered them into place.

There are mock-ups of the interior, and lots of interesting facts such as there not being a laundry on the ship for all the tons of linens they used for sheets and tablecloths and so on - though they did have a drier so cloths that got wet didn't go mouldy. There were voice testimonies from survivors, radio messages from the rescue ships, video of the wreck (showing the captain's bath which - in a not-coincidence - the news a few days later reported has now disappeared). Fascinating.

The OH retired back to the Silver Wind then, but I carried on, walking doughtily along the bank of the River Lagan to the 10m tiled Salmon of Knowledge (you're meant to kiss its lips to glean something useful), to the modern Victoria Square shopping centre with its high domed observation deck overlooking the city, past the historic crooked Albert clock tower, various statues, and appealing pubs all with piles of metal beer kegs on the footpaths outside.

Then I gave up a bit too, and took a HoHo bus tour, not doing any hopping on or off, but getting quite a bit of exercise on the top deck swapping from side to side as the sights demanded, and also ducking under cover at the front when it rained. The live commentary was very good, full of appealingly bad jokes and sincere pride about George Best, but suitably serious about "the dark days of our Troubles" which was a big part of the tour, as we went along the Shankill Road, past some confronting street murals, Crumlin Jail, and the chillingly practical (and still used) Peace Wall. If I'd had the time, and the energy, I would have done a proper job of exploring this side of Belfast, full of such familiar names from the nightly TV news when I was living in England through the '80s.

But I didn't, so I trailed back to the ship, to gaze from our veranda at the hulking, yellow, and motionless Samson and Goliath cranes in the Harland and Wolff shipyard opposite - which, not coincidentally, besides the Titanic, also built HMS Belfast. The shipyard has been a huge part of Belfast's history, but just a week or so ago went into administration, falling silent apart from a cluster of protesting (former) workers outside the gates.

Helpful Roy, our butler, proudly presented us with our invitation to dine at La Dame, the intimate and exclusive Relais & Châteaux restaurant that's the only one on the ship you have to pay for ($60 each). We'd been too late to book for it, and there were no available tables any day - but somehow Roy had got us in. We didn't like to tell him we had no appetite whatsoever, so we dutifully trailed along, were seated with a flourish at our table with its fancy china, and proudly presented with the menu. I'd like to describe the culinary delights that I indulged in - but, with no hunger or even functioning tastebuds, the whole performance of preparation, presentation and service was entirely wasted on me. What a shame.

Back to the real world

This is not a monochrome photo - or at least, not deliberately, thanks to some app. There's actually a red buoy in there, if you look closely. But this is how the harbour looked today, on the way back to the city from Waiheke. As ends of holidays go, I suppose this at least makes it easier to head home, back to work and cooking meals and doing washing and having a doddery old cat walk across my pillow in the middle of the night, standing on my hair.

Tomorrow I'll be back on the sofa writing about Fiordland and Western Australia and the Titanic and Taranaki and Adelaide - and maybe even Waiheke. And today the third batch of Australian stories is out, with my Uluru camel paragraph the featured one this time. Onwards and upwards.

Riches

Hmm, I see on the way to coming here that this blog has had a visitor from Hanover - which is a coincidence because Copenhagen is full of rampaging Hanover football fans decked out in green and white scarves. They were marching about in groups, carrying crates of beer and singing randomly, though cheerfully. Something happened while I was in a museum however, nosing happily through an excellent, if unexpected Titanic exhibition - I could hear lots of sirens despite the headphones of my audio guide - and when I walked back to my hotel, the big square at the end of Nyhavn, though empty of fans, was awash with an appalling tide of litter, crushed beer cans and broken bottles. I hope the Danish police, many of whom get about on bikes wearing endearingly unflattering black and reflector-strip shorts, were able to cope with the Germans.

Today was grey and cold again, alas, so the autumn colours went to waste, and when I explored the Rosenborg Castle it was hard to appreciate the treasures within because the lighting was so dim in all the rooms. That was a shame because there was no surface not covered with fine glass or china, old tapestries, portraits big and small, or carved wooden panelling - however, it did speed up the inspection process. I lingered in the basement treasury, though, where the crown jewels (Denmark has the oldest monarchy in the world) were gleaming in their cases and I felt sorry - well, not really - for the woman who had to bear up bravely with a monster ruby the size of a goose egg hanging from her neck.

At lunch I sat in the rooftop restaurant of the old Post Office and had a little feast of Danish specialties, including a crispy fried plaice fillet, smoked salmon with cream cheese and a small beef steak with mushrooms. It was all very tasty and I enjoyed it, but it was filling and I'm still not feeling empty enough to be looking forward to dinner tonight, which is in a restaurant that's impressed the apologetic young man at reception here (he's called, inappropriately, Raphael). And it's just tragic that I haven't had room at any time during my stay to indulge in any street food: not the hot roasted and/or candied nuts, not the crepes with nutella and banana, not the organic hot dogs, and not - sob - the sweet breads and pastries that make such gloriously-smelling use of sugar and cinnamon.

Gator-aid

'Croc horror.' It wasn't a bad effort by the NZ Herald, and a nice little nod to the Sun. It's nothing compared to the much-celebrated front-page, all-caps glories of the NT News, of course - but then, up in the Northern Territory, they get so much more practice. 'Crocky Horror Picture Show' on a story about stupid selfies with crocodiles; 'G'day, Bait!' above a photo of a croc lunging towards a fisherman; the epic 'Croc Fights Shark'; the curious 'Fish Eats Croc'; the classic 'A Croc Walks Into a Bar'; the tempting 'Win Your Own Croc'; the obvious 'Great Australian Bite'; the inevitable 'What a Croc'. (None of these can of course compete with the paper's famous winners 'Why I Stuck a Cracker Up My Clacker', 'A Pack of Dogs Ate My Car', the haunting 'Frog Struck Down by Lightning' and the unavoidably wordy 'Best Man Left Bleeding After Being Hit in Head by Flying Dildo.')

Today's story was about a New Zealand woman who's been taken by a crocodile in the Daintree, in northern Queensland. Her last words were "A croc's got me!" which at least gives her family a resonant quote to use when telling the story - as they will, over and over, for generations. Bit harsh? Maybe, but not only is she a total stranger to me, also she was stupid - she'd lived there for years, she knew the dangers, and still she and her friend chose to go swimming in the sea at night. Darwin Award winner right there.

Inconsistently, however, I'm hoping to get a story soon that will hinge on some Aussies who were too cowardly about being eaten by a prehistoric reptile - I've heard of some on an alligator-spotting tour of a Louisiana bayou who, when the boat broke down, after sarcastically playing 'Row, row, row your boat' and the 'Titanic' theme on their phones, to the boatie's irritation, then came over all panicky about being got by a gator, and insisted on being transferred to another boat. Wusses! Perfect Aussie-baiting fodder coming up...

So, so English

It's August Bank Holiday weekend, and the weather is amazingly hot and summery, so today everyone and his/her dog was out and about. I mean that about the dogs - honestly, you wouldn't believe how many dogs there are here. Everybody has one! Or several. On leads, well-behaved, well-fed, shiny and bright-eyed. It's lovely to see, if a little overwhelming.

The dogs were fine - it was the cars that got to us today. So much traffic! Not just on the big roads, but on the winding, narrow little lanes as well, crawling along, squeezing past each other, showing admirable patience and understanding. We were really glad we'd set out early on our big effort for the day, which was to walk along the top of the White Cliffs of Dover. We passed by the low but massive bulk of Dover Castle and left the car in the free! car park just above the cliffs. I'd never been here before, so it was great to see a new bit of England. The walk took almost an hour along to South Foreland Lighthouse, where we turned and came back. 

It was great. The cliffs are so high, so dazzlingly white, and the sea today was clear and blue like the Mediterranean. The ferry port was moderately busy, hemmed in by its harbour wall and totally focussed on processing car traffic. Up on the top, there were no fences or barriers, no warning signs - how refreshing, to be treated like a sensible adult! - just grass and brambles full of fat juicy blackberries, and wind-bent trees and shrubs. There were also Exmoor ponies, which was unexpected, though they were fat and crabby.

At the lighthouse, we were too early for the tea rooms, though they were getting ready and solved for us the mystery of the odd lumpy brown fabric bags hanging outside the open windows - false wasp nests, to dissuade the nasty stingers from making a nuisance of themselves. It was a new thing, so they couldn't report on their effectiveness (no pic, sorry).

Back at the National Trust visitor centre, we were also intrigued to find a freezer full of dog ice cream - pottles of almost regular vanilla ice cream with dog vitamins added. Good grief. Those Poms and their dogs, eh? 

We were almost at the end of our walk, just standing above the cliffs admiring the amazing scenery when we heard the most unexpected, yet appropriate, and instantly recognisable sound: a Spitfire! Of course we'd seen the gun emplacements that are still along the cliffs from war time, so we were already halfway in the zone, but it felt like a gift to see it buzzing overhead, and then back again, followed later by a couple of biplanes. Bank Holiday event, no doubt - but perfect timing, and so evocative.

We had also timed it well for the heat, which had really ramped up, and the crowds - not helped by a jousting event at the castle. There was no avoiding them though, and there were throngs of people everywhere we went that afternoon - to Deal's long pebble beach, and through impossible-to-park Sandwich to Ramsgate with its harbour full of boats including the sturdy Sundowner, which was one of the Dunkirk rescue vessels (and also, in a not-coincidence, once owned by the second officer on the Titanic). 

The sandy beach there was heaving, typically English and so foreign to Kiwi eyes - impossible to see the crowds, the umbrellas, the wind-breaks, and not scoff at how inferior a beach experience it was. The ample expanses of skin weren't appealing, either - dazzling white, glaring red, or covered in tattoos.

We headed back inland then, to Fordwich, for no better reason than that it's the smallest town in Britain. People were playing in the river, in amongst all the weed (cue more Kiwi lip-curling) - but they were having fun, swimming, boating and kayaking. Our goal here was to have dinner at the George & Dragon pub, which was a great choice, although we can't recommend the rhubarb cider - too much like cordial. The food, however, was excellent, and the Yorkshire pudding that came with the roast beef was magnificent. I rather regretted my baked Camembert when I saw it.

We cruised back to Bramling in golden evening light, the countryside so pretty, the oast houses quaint, the cottages cute, and went to bed satisfied with our busy, outdoorsy, picturesque and very English day.

Brrrrr!

Well! It was quite a rough night – literally. It’s unusual here, apparently, even crossing the open waters of the Gulf of Alaska, since there was no wind; but the good old Scopaderm patch did the trick and I rather enjoyed the rocking and rolling in my cosy bed. Last time I sailed with Silversea I was faintly insulted to be offered a waiter’s elbow as I was shown to my table for breakfast (though it’s not age-related: all the ladies get this service) – but I was glad of it this morning as I staggered through the door into a sparsely-peopled restaurant.

We’re on the starboard side and so far that means only horizon to look at – on the other side is a continuous line of pristine white peaks, some of them really high and cloud-capped. Today’s focus was the Hubbard Glacier, at 76 miles the world’s longest tidewater glacier, and very active, ripping up and down the fiord with great haste, glacier-wise, and continuously calving.

As we approached it, gliding up the inlet, we saw more and more icebergs, bigger and bigger, some dirty black and others pure white, even blue against the light. We’re not talking Titanic, they were small compared with the Silver Shadow, but plenty big enough to support sea lion mothers and cubs, which we saw several times. Distances were deceptive, and though the glacier looked big, we were still actually 3 miles away from the terminus. Everyone gathered on deck, shivering and glad of the offered hot chocolate or gluhwein, but eventually they all went away and it was possible to hear the ice below clinking as the ship gently stirred the water, and a low growling roar from the distant glaciers. As I watched, a little (up close, big) section of ice calved off, falling in slow motion from the face and splashed into the water.

And then we turned to leave the inlet, and the water in Desolation Bay was blue and silky smooth, and the sun was hot through the glass doors of the suite; and ahead are cocktails and a dress-up dinner at the Captain’s table. Oh, and an Abba show.

Plodding round Cork

With thanks to Silversea for this cruise

It turned out to be a fairly bouncy crossing of the Irish Sea last night, and I was glad to have my head down. In the morning, we opened the curtains to the uninspiring sight of a pile of Maersk containers under a grey sky - in a bit of a turn-around from the usual state of affairs, Silver Wind is too small to be allowed to moor at the port of Cobh (pronounced Cove), which is only interested in the big ships with lots of money on board. (And where I went in 2011.) So we're stuck in industrial Ringaskiddy, about a 40 minute drive from Cork.

Despite being still sick, full of aches and pains and with no energy whatsoever - probably not helped by eating only a banana all day - I took the shuttle into Cork to do a dutiful walk around. I was impressed by the neatness of the countryside, suburbs and town, which looked prosperous, but the very first encounter I had was on the street with a forceful young man (admittedly pretty skinny) begging for money to buy something to eat "because Oim stearving, stearving!" I watched him for a bit after shaking him off - he was focused on women of a certain age. I couldn't decide if that was because he thought we looked kind, or gullible. Too bad for him I'm neither.

The centre of Cork is on an island in the middle of the River Lee, which is just as well, as it limits your scope for getting lost - because it has a confusing layout and I couldn't get my head round it at all. Still, I found the famous English Market, which is a hall filled with the usual offerings of food, raw and processed, including an impressive range of local cheeses. Then I just wandered, helped not at all by the useless map we were given on the ship. Shops, churches, cathedral, statues, people, traffic, wide avenues and narrow lanes... I thought of going to the butter museum because, well, butter museum, but ran out of energy and headed back to the ship for yet another nap.

We were down on numbers for Trivial Pursuit and the OH carried the day today (Anne Boleyn, 1940, eardrum). I was mostly just the scribe, though I did manage to get Mercury wrong, which was shaming. We came third again.

And tonight I had room service because I simply couldn't face tidying up and going through all the performance of a restaurant dinner. Instead I stood on the veranda and watched as Cobh slid past with its impressive cathedral and stacks of terraced houses. People lined the docks waving and cheering, and it must have been very like when the Titanic departed from there, its last ever port. Fortunately, we're not tackling an Atlantic crossing - just popping along the coast to Bantry.

Viking Sun, Day Two - Ignoring Auckland

We sailed last night – all the way from Queens Wharf to Princes Wharf. So we woke up blocking the windows of the long-suffering Hilton guests and wondering what was so special about the ship we'd had to make room for. Everyone on board was busily readying themselves for a day ashore, many of them no doubt heading over to Waiheke Island to do the vineyard tour or mosey around Oneroa, but oddly we felt no such compulsion. (Having an afternoon, evening, night and morning in the city did feel generous, though.)

Instead we breakfasted in a leisurely fashion at Mamsen's - that's Norwegian for Mum's, and it's all modelled closely on the kitchen and food that Viking President Torstein Hagen grew up with. The thing to have here was apparently the waffle, so I did, but wasn't impressed - it was a bit dry, needed butter and lots more than the mingy amount of cream and fruit I was allotted. But the croissant I didn't have was, apparently, a (messy) triumph.

The fruit tea wasn't, though, so I popped ashore - mightily disappointed, I have to say, to see everyone offered a plastic bottle of water as they left the ship - to buy myself a box in town. Then I just nosed around the ship till sailaway at 2pm. We'd been looking forward to this, never having sailed in or out of the Waitemata before, but sod's law dictated that this summer's long hot drought broke today, and the cloud was so low that even the top of Rangitoto was blotted out, and there was no chance of seeing Waiheke.

There was a Halfway Point Party on the pool deck, celebrating Day 65 of the 130, which was rather spoiled for me by an American OWM getting territorial over a couple of chairs that - truly, reader - I reached first. The Cruise Director, Heather someone, was full of the news that Viking has done excellently in the just-announced Cruise Critic Cruisers' Choice Awards, getting first in 11 categories (trouncing Silversea, I have to note with surprise). People seemed smug and content - though there was some disappointment still swirling around that weather meant the cruise had had to miss out Stanley in the Falklands, and Easter Island, adding to the already pretty high number of at-sea days. (I, of course, regular readers 😃 will be aware, have been to both those places, so I had my own reasons to feel smug.)

Though we certainly weren't hungry, our lunch having been very nice, we felt obliged (it's tough, this job) to try out the High Tea in the Wintergarden as Minky G strummed away on her guitar. We eschewed the cake stand of sandwiches and fancies, which looked very good, and just had tea and scones. They too were good but I have to say the allocation of jam and cream was again on the mingy side.

I skimmed past a performance by the Virginia Gentlemen in the Atrium which was completely full, three levels and even the stairs jammed with sitters. These young guys, all very short-back-and-sides, smart suits, clean and wholesome, sing doo-wop which, while not in the same category of intolerably self-important nerve-janglery as jazz, requires a very specific kind of finger-snapping musical appreciation: you need to be American, for a start. Much more to my taste was the pianist later when we had pre-dinner drinks - though, again, they give out automatic PLASTIC STRAWS???! Whatever is Viking thinking? 

Dinner was at the much-vaunted Manfredi's, and my goodness, they spoke the truth. I really wasn't that hungry but the bistecca fiorentina was SO fabulously tasty and tender. All I had to do to cut it was to draw the knife across it and the mere weight of the blade was enough to do the job. A triumph. I ate the whole thing. And then, despite deciding to skip dessert, our lovely waitress was so enthusiastic about the Nutella panna cotta, showing me a photo of it on her phone, that I gave in, and it was indeed delicious.

I cruised through the shops - lovely Nordic stuff in glass, felt, silver, at typically Scandinavian prices - and then we took our seats in the theatre, for Gary Arbuthnot, who despite his name is Irish, and a whizz on the flute and penny whistle. I would happily have sat there and watched his fingers blur over the instruments, but there were clips from movies playing behind him. That was fine when it was a James Bond theme tune - slightly less comfortable when it was Rose and Jack dancing down below deck in Titanic. The movie's listed in the entertainment schedule, too. They like to live dangerously, on Viking Sun.