It took quite a while for me to cram everything I needed for the next five weeks or so into a single bag. It bulged horribly, and weighed in at a solid 23Kgm. I winced when I lifted it; I would be carrying it through various public transport systems to our destination at Enkhuizen.
Rex glided up to my house in his gleaming pride and joy, a Jaguar of some form or other - all the same to me these old bangers. For once, without the use of spreadsheets, he issued a series of commands and questions: "Have you pulled your plugs out?", "Are your doors and windows secure?", "Show me your passport!", "Have you cleaned under your finger nails?", "Is your car locked?", "Check them all again!", "Have you got your cards and money?", "Keys!!", and other such trivia. He has illusions of being another Nelson.
Then he drove me down to Tollesbury, his car purring like a sewing machine that seemed happy in the knowledge that it would be enjoying a well-earned rest from its master for the next few weeks. Meryl had cooked us a superb lamb roast, which we thoroughly enjoyed, before she kindly drove us to Parkeston Quay at Harwich International Port.
After a swift farewell, Meryl strangely rubbing her hands together with an odd countenance and sardonic smile as she sidled away, we struggled up flights of stairs into the ferry terminal hall, deftly shimmying around half the Indian sub-continent who were also intending to board the 11pm ferry to the Hoek van Holland. Our colonial friends stood in random groups animateably chattering and shouting to each other, oblivious to the world about them, seemingly unaware that other folk were trying their utmost to navigate around them via the Arctic Circle. Once they had checked in they simply discarded their trolleys there and then, expecting others to park them in the trolley park.
A small bus ran back and forth transporting foot-passengers directly onto the main deck of the Stena Line ferry. I thought it would be easier to carry my colossal bag in my arms up the umpteen flights of stairs to my cabin for the night. My breathing was laboured by the time I got to the 11th deck, and Rex was helping me out with artificial resuscitation. What a fool I was, I should have returned the huge bag back onto my shoulders.
The compulsory cabin for the night crossing was bijou but comfortable, with a pair of bunk beds, and a toilet and shower. That was all I required.
We joined the hundreds of other passengers on the 9th deck for a couple of beers in one of the bars. As I patiently waited in the queue to be served, I got chatting to the two guys in front of me. One of them, a short chap who I judged to be in his early fifties, told me he was off to Denmark and Sweden. "Oh really, whereabouts are you visiting in Denmark?" I asked.
"Me and my mate are taking our motorbikes all the way up to Aalborg, then getting the ferry from Frederikshavn to Gothenburg. We have only a week to cram it all in," he laughed as he carried ample supplies of beer across to his pal. Crumbs, I thought, they will be crouched for most of their time on their bikes, with little leftover for sight-seeing.
The other chap, probably more my age, was intending to spend a week with a friend in The Hague. It soon became apparent that his passion was photography, particularly of ships. Well, some folk train spot, and this chap and his pal ship spot. Each to his own I thought, and I wished them both success.
Rex and I watched in interest as our large ferry glided down the Stour past Harwich and turned in front of the massive containerships assembled at Felixstowe, frantically being loaded and unloaded all through the day and night. It all seemed magical from our dark, windy vantage point. We were quite high up, and could see the channel buoys stretching way out to the horizon.
Knowing the ship's wake-up call would be at 05:30 UK time, we opted not to stay up beyond midnight. As I settled down to sleep in my berth, the gentle rumble and vibrations of the ship's powerful engines brought a familiar, comfortable feeling to the start of the night crossing.
