Day One — London. Creaks & Mews
The sounds and movements of London streets are immersive. Our walk from Covent Garden to Victoria Station featured crowded sidewalks, rapidly flowing traffic which always appeared from places least to be expected, and streets laid down by the higgledy-piggledy of centuries of London life.
And a bit claustrophobic too, in an outdoors sort of way. The sounds of ambulance sirens and motorcycles echoed off the stone facades of buildings reaching six floors or more above us.
That is what made a gentle creak beneath our feet so precious.
Our hotel room was on the fifth floor of the Waldorf Hilton in Covent Garden. As we walked to the elevator, the floor creaked. A wooden floor—I presume, dear Wilton—beneath the thick carpet. Not poured concrete in this gracious old building.
Our outdoor steps were weary with the concrete of sidewalks, that and the uneven footing of cobblestones. We had navigated to the Tate Britain gallery using helpful maps --- they were affixed at eye level on utility poles at many intersections. We had been kept alive at crosswalks by painted words at our feet of LOOK LEFT or LOOK RIGHT, that and the red and green lights for pedestrians crossing (the green lights celebrating gender diversity no less!).
That tiny little sound of the wooden floor creaking was reminiscent of another heard the day before. The gentle mewing of a kitten in a carrier as we loaded onto the airplane in Edmonton, Alberta. It was a confused, distressed little sound, a tiny creature caught in a world she didn’t know. On the streets of London, I knew how she felt.
And a bit claustrophobic too, in an outdoors sort of way. The sounds of ambulance sirens and motorcycles echoed off the stone facades of buildings reaching six floors or more above us.
That is what made a gentle creak beneath our feet so precious.
Our hotel room was on the fifth floor of the Waldorf Hilton in Covent Garden. As we walked to the elevator, the floor creaked. A wooden floor—I presume, dear Wilton—beneath the thick carpet. Not poured concrete in this gracious old building.
Our outdoor steps were weary with the concrete of sidewalks, that and the uneven footing of cobblestones. We had navigated to the Tate Britain gallery using helpful maps --- they were affixed at eye level on utility poles at many intersections. We had been kept alive at crosswalks by painted words at our feet of LOOK LEFT or LOOK RIGHT, that and the red and green lights for pedestrians crossing (the green lights celebrating gender diversity no less!).
That tiny little sound of the wooden floor creaking was reminiscent of another heard the day before. The gentle mewing of a kitten in a carrier as we loaded onto the airplane in Edmonton, Alberta. It was a confused, distressed little sound, a tiny creature caught in a world she didn’t know. On the streets of London, I knew how she felt.
Day One — London. Light, diffuse light |
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The light’s broad, rough strokes focus the paintings: JMW Turner (1775 to 1851) at the Tate Britain gallery.
Knowing we would have time in London, it was the one destination we felt to be essential. Despite all else that we did see, and we saw a lot, the canvases of Turner at the Tate captured us.
The commentary explained that once the background light had been established, layered in to provide incredible depth, Turner would add in final deft strokes that defined the figures of the foreground. We viewed unfinished works that had remained in his studio, works without those defining flourishes. Then seeing the finished works, we saw the flourish.
More than 200 years later, psychologists would finally understand this. First comes the emotion, emotion that Turner created with his broad strokes of light. Then comes the detailed understanding of what that emotion is about, the cognition. Neuroscientists say the two processes are separated in the brain by a half second. I imagine it took much longer in the Turner studio.
But there was another sight and sound at the Tate that day—children. Often at museums and public galleries a group of children distract us with their running about, their excited verbalizations, their breaking of the somberness of seniors. But these children at the Tate were different. They sat still, they talked in dulcet tones. They all wore the blue sweaters, grey slacks or skirts, the white shirts of their school uniforms. Their excitement was soft, gentle. They set an emotional tone amongst the other adults there, an emotional tone of respect, reverence even perhaps if they might know that word. And often they sketched, adding lines of what was in the foreground.
I caught sight of those same children in the martialing area down by the toilets in the basement. They were letting loose a bit there, more disorganized and impulsive excitement as saved up from how they had been upstairs.
For they were children after all.
Knowing we would have time in London, it was the one destination we felt to be essential. Despite all else that we did see, and we saw a lot, the canvases of Turner at the Tate captured us.
The commentary explained that once the background light had been established, layered in to provide incredible depth, Turner would add in final deft strokes that defined the figures of the foreground. We viewed unfinished works that had remained in his studio, works without those defining flourishes. Then seeing the finished works, we saw the flourish.
More than 200 years later, psychologists would finally understand this. First comes the emotion, emotion that Turner created with his broad strokes of light. Then comes the detailed understanding of what that emotion is about, the cognition. Neuroscientists say the two processes are separated in the brain by a half second. I imagine it took much longer in the Turner studio.
But there was another sight and sound at the Tate that day—children. Often at museums and public galleries a group of children distract us with their running about, their excited verbalizations, their breaking of the somberness of seniors. But these children at the Tate were different. They sat still, they talked in dulcet tones. They all wore the blue sweaters, grey slacks or skirts, the white shirts of their school uniforms. Their excitement was soft, gentle. They set an emotional tone amongst the other adults there, an emotional tone of respect, reverence even perhaps if they might know that word. And often they sketched, adding lines of what was in the foreground.
I caught sight of those same children in the martialing area down by the toilets in the basement. They were letting loose a bit there, more disorganized and impulsive excitement as saved up from how they had been upstairs.
For they were children after all.
Day 2 — London. But there are flowers
Shades of sandstone, ecru and grey front the buildings on the narrow streets of London. The cobblestones beneath our feet are slate grey --- the asphalt, charcoal. And there is only a slight promise of green in the branches of the trees that so generously limb out overhead.
But there are flowers.
And there is green grass.
Outrageously, green grass.
We get flowers from the grocers each week back home. They help with winter, help with being in the house. But they are not like these. The insurgent yellow of the daffodils in Green Park is absolutely insurgent --- clumps and clumps of them, bursting both pale and bright. The red of the tulips, riotous. And that shade of pink deep inside the magnolia is embarrassingly intimate, blush. Those tiny little blue flowers close to the ground, oh how they compete with the blue of the sky overhead. And win.
We have an astoundingly warm and beautiful day, on the centigrade scale into the high teens. For a pair of Canadians it all seems too warmish—after all, just days before I shovelled 10 centimetres of wet slushy snow that blizzarded upon us on the first day of spring. But here we are now in London, all the moisture in the air rather than falling to the ground. And our hotel, as charming and posh as it is, well, it most certainly puts the “hot” in “hotel”.
But there are flowers.
But there are flowers.
And there is green grass.
Outrageously, green grass.
We get flowers from the grocers each week back home. They help with winter, help with being in the house. But they are not like these. The insurgent yellow of the daffodils in Green Park is absolutely insurgent --- clumps and clumps of them, bursting both pale and bright. The red of the tulips, riotous. And that shade of pink deep inside the magnolia is embarrassingly intimate, blush. Those tiny little blue flowers close to the ground, oh how they compete with the blue of the sky overhead. And win.
We have an astoundingly warm and beautiful day, on the centigrade scale into the high teens. For a pair of Canadians it all seems too warmish—after all, just days before I shovelled 10 centimetres of wet slushy snow that blizzarded upon us on the first day of spring. But here we are now in London, all the moisture in the air rather than falling to the ground. And our hotel, as charming and posh as it is, well, it most certainly puts the “hot” in “hotel”.
But there are flowers.
DAY THREE — LONDON (still) ... Getting there.
Transfer day. A couple of days ago we had one from Heathrow airport.
We invested quite a bit of time going through the Arrivals process at Heathrow airport in London --- had a little train ride, wound our way through Passport control sufficiently for dizziness to occur, walked long corridors, went past Border control, took numerous escalators and finally made it to the baggage carousel. All that took us a while, a rather tired, impatient ‘a while’. Then came a gracious man in a blazer with a Viking badge. He found us by the red Viking tags on our carry-ons, stopped and chatted until our luggage came. He was gracious and interested in our coming, truly a sight for sore eyes getting off the red-eye flight.
Each step through the ensuing transfer process, until we were finally settled in our hotel room, there was yet another Viking badge with that iconic Viking ship logo. And a smile. Eye contact too, it was the eyes that smiled (all wearing masks, so presumably their mouths were smiling too!).
The Viking touch. Not just hospitality but watching out for our welfare, making sure we didn’t get lost (and how well I can do that if left to my own devices!). We needed it on the first transfer day arriving for our two day pre-extension; by the time we had made it to our hotel room we had been up more that 24 hours.
And now today, is another transfer day … that present tense “is”.
The commentary en route from the hotel to the cruise-port is the absolute best, then the Viking personnel really shine at the Cruise ship terminal despite their mundane task. There are hundreds of us with four stations to pass through (security, covid test, health screening, and finally the passport check, credit card submission, room key distribution and briefing). Did I say, hundreds of us? The queue snakes through an aged terminal building. And for every bend in the snake there is another Viking staff member greeting warmly, explaining clearly, encouraging. What they say to us they had undoubtedly said to hundreds of others before us, the same words. But when they speak to us, it is with genuine engagement connecting with yet two more seniors striving to be patient with the queuing.
In our first few hours on the ship it all happens again with staff smiling above their face masks, clear briefings, warm hospitality, watching out for the confusion in our eyes. Steady on, the desire for our well-being encases us. And our ship hasn’t even sailed yet.
There has been much grumbling about face masks to prevent covid transmission. And it behooves us to be gracious, one never knows the real story behind the grumble. But one thing masks have done is force us to look into the eyes of others. The muscles that make a mouth smile are voluntary; a person can fake it. The muscles that create an eye smile are not. It is easier to check for the smile at the mouth, the physiology there is bigger. But when forced to look at the smile of the eyes, not to take that easier short-cut, we get the real thing: that smile from the heart that can’t be faked.
I hope the Viking staff see my eyes smiling. I am sure they can, for my heart of gratitude is.
The fellow smiling above his mask is our cabin steward, Joel. Thank you Joel for taking care of us, and for your smile.
We invested quite a bit of time going through the Arrivals process at Heathrow airport in London --- had a little train ride, wound our way through Passport control sufficiently for dizziness to occur, walked long corridors, went past Border control, took numerous escalators and finally made it to the baggage carousel. All that took us a while, a rather tired, impatient ‘a while’. Then came a gracious man in a blazer with a Viking badge. He found us by the red Viking tags on our carry-ons, stopped and chatted until our luggage came. He was gracious and interested in our coming, truly a sight for sore eyes getting off the red-eye flight.
Each step through the ensuing transfer process, until we were finally settled in our hotel room, there was yet another Viking badge with that iconic Viking ship logo. And a smile. Eye contact too, it was the eyes that smiled (all wearing masks, so presumably their mouths were smiling too!).
The Viking touch. Not just hospitality but watching out for our welfare, making sure we didn’t get lost (and how well I can do that if left to my own devices!). We needed it on the first transfer day arriving for our two day pre-extension; by the time we had made it to our hotel room we had been up more that 24 hours.
And now today, is another transfer day … that present tense “is”.
The commentary en route from the hotel to the cruise-port is the absolute best, then the Viking personnel really shine at the Cruise ship terminal despite their mundane task. There are hundreds of us with four stations to pass through (security, covid test, health screening, and finally the passport check, credit card submission, room key distribution and briefing). Did I say, hundreds of us? The queue snakes through an aged terminal building. And for every bend in the snake there is another Viking staff member greeting warmly, explaining clearly, encouraging. What they say to us they had undoubtedly said to hundreds of others before us, the same words. But when they speak to us, it is with genuine engagement connecting with yet two more seniors striving to be patient with the queuing.
In our first few hours on the ship it all happens again with staff smiling above their face masks, clear briefings, warm hospitality, watching out for the confusion in our eyes. Steady on, the desire for our well-being encases us. And our ship hasn’t even sailed yet.
There has been much grumbling about face masks to prevent covid transmission. And it behooves us to be gracious, one never knows the real story behind the grumble. But one thing masks have done is force us to look into the eyes of others. The muscles that make a mouth smile are voluntary; a person can fake it. The muscles that create an eye smile are not. It is easier to check for the smile at the mouth, the physiology there is bigger. But when forced to look at the smile of the eyes, not to take that easier short-cut, we get the real thing: that smile from the heart that can’t be faked.
I hope the Viking staff see my eyes smiling. I am sure they can, for my heart of gratitude is.
The fellow smiling above his mask is our cabin steward, Joel. Thank you Joel for taking care of us, and for your smile.
Day four — Cantebury, Walmer Castle, Sandwich
On the matter of pigs and their owners, medieval Sandwich style.
Winding narrow streets, with sidewalks sometimes little more than a shoe width wide, provide the backdrop for the animated story-telling of our guide, Terry. Hundreds of years fly by while we stand in the ancient settlement of Sandwich, Kent County.
Fascinating excursions are iconic to the classic Viking cruise experience. Places to see, other centuries to visit. In this south-east corner of England we envision the inflow of Romans, Normans, Saxons each in their own time. We catch a glimpse of them in their stories, how they lived in this corner of a fair land.
About the pigs, the ones at Hog’s Corner? Well, I‘ll get to that. That story is told just up from Fisher’s Gate, the other side of the Customs House there.
Terry’s passion is transparent, a passion for sharing the history of this seminal corner of England.
For an hour we walk the Conservation Area in this once beach-side community, now three kilometres inland. And that is a story in itself. Oh, there were politics there: in the ancient Norman church the townspeople selected their mayor, if he refused the post they would burn his house down. And speaking of burning houses, we hear the etymology of the word “curfew”. It is from the French for “cover fire”. At night, when the church bell rang, windows and doors were closed up with everyone confined inside, candles and fires were put out so overnight the timber framed houses wouldn’t burn. Try explaining that to a 21st Century teenager!
I’d read a couple of books on the history of the British Isles before I came on this cruise. They contained lots of details about kings, and battles and such. But what I love about Terry’s commentary is that it is about people like me, the way common folk lived.
And that takes me back to the pigs. At night their owners released them into the streets to clean up the rubbish there. In the morning, if the owner didn’t corral his pig back in he had to pay a fine. Seems sensible to me.
Let’s enjoy a few pictures of Terry, mid-story of course.
Winding narrow streets, with sidewalks sometimes little more than a shoe width wide, provide the backdrop for the animated story-telling of our guide, Terry. Hundreds of years fly by while we stand in the ancient settlement of Sandwich, Kent County.
Fascinating excursions are iconic to the classic Viking cruise experience. Places to see, other centuries to visit. In this south-east corner of England we envision the inflow of Romans, Normans, Saxons each in their own time. We catch a glimpse of them in their stories, how they lived in this corner of a fair land.
About the pigs, the ones at Hog’s Corner? Well, I‘ll get to that. That story is told just up from Fisher’s Gate, the other side of the Customs House there.
Terry’s passion is transparent, a passion for sharing the history of this seminal corner of England.
For an hour we walk the Conservation Area in this once beach-side community, now three kilometres inland. And that is a story in itself. Oh, there were politics there: in the ancient Norman church the townspeople selected their mayor, if he refused the post they would burn his house down. And speaking of burning houses, we hear the etymology of the word “curfew”. It is from the French for “cover fire”. At night, when the church bell rang, windows and doors were closed up with everyone confined inside, candles and fires were put out so overnight the timber framed houses wouldn’t burn. Try explaining that to a 21st Century teenager!
I’d read a couple of books on the history of the British Isles before I came on this cruise. They contained lots of details about kings, and battles and such. But what I love about Terry’s commentary is that it is about people like me, the way common folk lived.
And that takes me back to the pigs. At night their owners released them into the streets to clean up the rubbish there. In the morning, if the owner didn’t corral his pig back in he had to pay a fine. Seems sensible to me.
Let’s enjoy a few pictures of Terry, mid-story of course.
Images from Cantebury, the towne.
Images from Walmer Castle (a rose shaped, Cinque Fort) and Gardens in Kent County
and yes, that canyon in aimed at France.
Day Five — at sea day, on the way to Dublin
To be quite honest, we were nervous about traveling again. And we’d grown a bit too comfortable in our stay-at-home, covid-cautious life. Oh, we were sure that Viking would take care of things, manage the covid risk as impeccably as it manages everything else. But still we were nervous. It takes courage to step out of being home-bodies, put on more presentable clothes, and venture out.
Now on-board with Viking, we’re reassured.
We welcome the consistently applied, ever-present covid precautions that Viking has built into the cruise. Reminders are spoken gently, not bossy at all. And it is still a Viking cruise, complete with a spectacularly spacious ocean ship, fabulous food, great excursions. There’s always so much nurturance for both the mind and body.
So, for all you Viking friends sitting at home scrolling Facebook, here are the goods. But first, I need to write that Viking advises that covid management will undoubtedly shift as best practices evolve and scientific evidence comes in regarding safe management of the pandemic becoming endemic within our world.
So before we, and all other passengers, were allowed on board we needed to demonstrate that we were fully vaccinated and boosted. (Check). We needed to have a negative covid test before leaving our home country (Check), and tested again during our pre-departure excursion (Check), and tested yet again during the embarkation procedure (Check, I said, Check!). But when it comes down to it, it’s very reassuring that everyone else we’re travelling with would have had to do the same.
Daily we have to submit a saliva sample for testing. The tubes for our sample are provided each evening in our staterooms and collected the next morning. We wear masks in all indoor public areas (exception for the dining area while eating). We are to constantly wear a covid tracking device that will let us (and Viking staff) know if we have come in close contact with someone who has tested positive on the ship. So far, so good. So very good.
The Viking way is to maximize the cruising experience, all the while keeping the passenger safe and comfortable. With their covid protocol they’ve insured our comfort, not only physically but also emotionally as well.
Oh, and by the way, masking compliance is great on-board, so far the only exceptions are people like me, prone to that senior-moment in getting up from the dining table forgetting to put it back on. When this happens, a Viking staff member close by offers to get one for me. No need, mine is usually in my pocket, or on the floor where my lap dumped it when I got up.
With the masks, it takes a little more initiative to introduce oneself to other cruisers and strike up those initial awkward conversations. The standard opening lines are … is this your first Viking cruise? … then morph into … and where are you folks from? … and then you’re off. We’ve all felt socially isolated in the last couple of years, making the effort to connect is well appreciated by others also feeling a bit nervous of being with people again.
If there’s a best way to climb out of your covid bunker, this is it.
Now on-board with Viking, we’re reassured.
We welcome the consistently applied, ever-present covid precautions that Viking has built into the cruise. Reminders are spoken gently, not bossy at all. And it is still a Viking cruise, complete with a spectacularly spacious ocean ship, fabulous food, great excursions. There’s always so much nurturance for both the mind and body.
So, for all you Viking friends sitting at home scrolling Facebook, here are the goods. But first, I need to write that Viking advises that covid management will undoubtedly shift as best practices evolve and scientific evidence comes in regarding safe management of the pandemic becoming endemic within our world.
So before we, and all other passengers, were allowed on board we needed to demonstrate that we were fully vaccinated and boosted. (Check). We needed to have a negative covid test before leaving our home country (Check), and tested again during our pre-departure excursion (Check), and tested yet again during the embarkation procedure (Check, I said, Check!). But when it comes down to it, it’s very reassuring that everyone else we’re travelling with would have had to do the same.
Daily we have to submit a saliva sample for testing. The tubes for our sample are provided each evening in our staterooms and collected the next morning. We wear masks in all indoor public areas (exception for the dining area while eating). We are to constantly wear a covid tracking device that will let us (and Viking staff) know if we have come in close contact with someone who has tested positive on the ship. So far, so good. So very good.
The Viking way is to maximize the cruising experience, all the while keeping the passenger safe and comfortable. With their covid protocol they’ve insured our comfort, not only physically but also emotionally as well.
Oh, and by the way, masking compliance is great on-board, so far the only exceptions are people like me, prone to that senior-moment in getting up from the dining table forgetting to put it back on. When this happens, a Viking staff member close by offers to get one for me. No need, mine is usually in my pocket, or on the floor where my lap dumped it when I got up.
With the masks, it takes a little more initiative to introduce oneself to other cruisers and strike up those initial awkward conversations. The standard opening lines are … is this your first Viking cruise? … then morph into … and where are you folks from? … and then you’re off. We’ve all felt socially isolated in the last couple of years, making the effort to connect is well appreciated by others also feeling a bit nervous of being with people again.
If there’s a best way to climb out of your covid bunker, this is it.
DAY SIX — GOOD-BYE SAYINGS ARE PART OF THE GOING
It had been a misty day in Dover. Sunshine had been promised for the afternoon, but that was never seeming to happen. Photography can find its beauty without there being sun, and it can be a better bit of beauty without harsh shadows. You can check out the photo gallery from our Dover tours on my website compilation of this travel blog.
But as we departed for our sail through the English Channel, there was a touch of sun on those white cliffs. A good-bye smile. I share with this blog a watercolour sketch by my wife of 47 years, Mary, and a quick photo from the dining room at the aft of the ship as we sailed away.
Often we travel with anticipation: what’ll be the next great thing to see? The “hellos” of the trip. But it is in the “goodbyes” that we have the richness of reflection. For many of us on the cruise (most?) we are more at the reflection rather than anticipation stage of life. It’s time to get good at that.
Our daily goodbyes on this cruise, like the one from Dover, are but yet a part of a long line of goodbyes on these fair and damp isles. We have remembered the leaving behinds of ancient cultures and peoples on this same land: the Celts, Romans, Saxons, Vikings, Normans. The centuries of people who have lived here have left us with traditions, street grids, words, art, buildings. Viking cruises are big on history with a resident historian and tour guides always ready with an historical anecdote.
In the Viking commercials, CEO Torstein Hagen speaks of his personal value of curiosity: that which drives us forward to learn and discover. I have much of the world I haven’t yet seen and I am still curious. Undoubtedly, Viking will take me to some of it in the next few years. But in our acts of reflection, curiosity takes us inward. What touched us? What was memorable? What of all that experience was iconic, standing in for the rest? What does all that mean for the person I happen to be?
On the bus heading back to the ship from our tour of Dublin, our guide gifted us with two such iconic representations. In the pub, one toasts their drinking mates with Slainte!. We practiced the word and its jubilant expression there on the bus. I’m not sure that I will use it very often as I don’t drink with mates. Oh, just so you won’t worry … I don’t drink alone either, but I can manage a glass of wine with meals. Somehow the enthusiasm with which Sláainte is uttered doesn’t go with that glass of wine at the dining table across from Mary.
But our guide also told of her family tradition: when they part after being together as a family they sing an Irish song. As our parting from her approached, our guide Tricia Malone, sang it for us, her lilting voice as Irish as can be. Let’s make the chorus of “The Parting Glass” a perfect ending for this blog post.
So fill to me the parting glass
And drink a health whate’er befalls
Then gently rise and softly call
Good night and joy be to you all.
Cherry blossoms in Phoenix Park, Dublin
Day Seven — ANGLESEY, WALES . NOW THAT WAS ROUGH! |
Oh, my. Imagine saying "now that was rough!" about an experience on a Viking cruise!
So much on a Viking cruise goes so smoothly: the graceful ambiance of the dining room, the gentle celebrations of the arts and history that embrace us from all sides. And there are those warm greetings from each staff member: the ones you pass in the corridor, the ones who serve you at your table, even the ones cleaning the deck on the walking path up in the open air atop the ship. These things create the iconic Viking experience.
But I must confess, this ocean cruise is requiring a bit of an adjustment.
My previous Viking cruise was on the rivers: Danube, Mein and Rhine. We would dock in the centre of a city and early in the morning I’d be out with my camera. I could walk the streets, see folk on their bicycles going off to work, do my photography before the spaces got peopled up, catch the golden morning light. Alone, I could stroll where the spirit might take me.
The dockings for the ocean ships, at least the dockings so far, require either tender boats or buses to get to the precious places. We move in groups, not the solitary strolls that I so treasured.
On Anglesey Island our group descended upon a fabulous art gallery, the Oriel Ynys Môn. The watercolours, oils, lino prints, oil/acrylic multimedia canvases exquisitely begged us to appreciate the beauty of nature on the island. The work of several artists were featured; and, they were good, very good.
But there we were, three or four buses of Viking folk, all walking arrows on the floor designed to tour us around. The gallery became very peopled. There was little time or space to step back and let the art worm its way into the deeper places of our min. It wasn't a contemplative gallery experience despite the beauty there.
The times in life when all doesn’t go the way we expect create the rough patches. Times when we have to adapt, to think another way. There are liminal times in between how we thought it would be and how we find what it can be.
And so, with Mary happily exploring the gift shop, I got out and wandered. I got a couple of photos to share: a bucolic grazing of sheep across the road in a spacious pasture, the tiny flowers of a tangled hedge beside the roadway.
But our trip to Anglesey provided yet another transitional experience, a rougher one.
So this is the scene. After the warm bus on Anglesey we needed to wait on the pier for the tender. The temperature was getting down close to freezing. The winds were from the northeast at about 25 mph. It was raining. We zipped up tight whatever clothing we could and hunkered down. The tender boats jostled the churning sea back behind us. We didn’t turn to look at them because that was where the wind was coming from, across the water, pushing the rain. It probably was 10 or 15 minutes wait but enough to set a chill through.
Then close to two hundred of us piled into the tender, grateful for the shelter from the wind and rain. We set off for the ship on choppy seas.
Now as a Prairie dweller I'm not qualified to judge this, but I think the swells were about a meter or so. Enough to give our ride quite the ups and downs: both front to back and side to side. Then came the challenge of tying up to the ship for embarkation. Our tender pilot cleverly achieved what seemed unachievable as we bobbled there.
But just like the delicate blossom on the humble hedge and bucolic sheep in that Welsh pasture, there were moments of grace in the midst of the rough. We found out that our Covid face masks kept the lower half of our faces warm in that bitter cold rainstorm. Awesome. And as we navigated on and off the tender boat there were plenty of kind attendants in navy Viking coats with a firm hand to insure we didn’t fall: that ever present sense that Viking gives of looking out for you.
Grace doesn’t come in the calm. It comes in the storm.
So much on a Viking cruise goes so smoothly: the graceful ambiance of the dining room, the gentle celebrations of the arts and history that embrace us from all sides. And there are those warm greetings from each staff member: the ones you pass in the corridor, the ones who serve you at your table, even the ones cleaning the deck on the walking path up in the open air atop the ship. These things create the iconic Viking experience.
But I must confess, this ocean cruise is requiring a bit of an adjustment.
My previous Viking cruise was on the rivers: Danube, Mein and Rhine. We would dock in the centre of a city and early in the morning I’d be out with my camera. I could walk the streets, see folk on their bicycles going off to work, do my photography before the spaces got peopled up, catch the golden morning light. Alone, I could stroll where the spirit might take me.
The dockings for the ocean ships, at least the dockings so far, require either tender boats or buses to get to the precious places. We move in groups, not the solitary strolls that I so treasured.
On Anglesey Island our group descended upon a fabulous art gallery, the Oriel Ynys Môn. The watercolours, oils, lino prints, oil/acrylic multimedia canvases exquisitely begged us to appreciate the beauty of nature on the island. The work of several artists were featured; and, they were good, very good.
But there we were, three or four buses of Viking folk, all walking arrows on the floor designed to tour us around. The gallery became very peopled. There was little time or space to step back and let the art worm its way into the deeper places of our min. It wasn't a contemplative gallery experience despite the beauty there.
The times in life when all doesn’t go the way we expect create the rough patches. Times when we have to adapt, to think another way. There are liminal times in between how we thought it would be and how we find what it can be.
And so, with Mary happily exploring the gift shop, I got out and wandered. I got a couple of photos to share: a bucolic grazing of sheep across the road in a spacious pasture, the tiny flowers of a tangled hedge beside the roadway.
But our trip to Anglesey provided yet another transitional experience, a rougher one.
So this is the scene. After the warm bus on Anglesey we needed to wait on the pier for the tender. The temperature was getting down close to freezing. The winds were from the northeast at about 25 mph. It was raining. We zipped up tight whatever clothing we could and hunkered down. The tender boats jostled the churning sea back behind us. We didn’t turn to look at them because that was where the wind was coming from, across the water, pushing the rain. It probably was 10 or 15 minutes wait but enough to set a chill through.
Then close to two hundred of us piled into the tender, grateful for the shelter from the wind and rain. We set off for the ship on choppy seas.
Now as a Prairie dweller I'm not qualified to judge this, but I think the swells were about a meter or so. Enough to give our ride quite the ups and downs: both front to back and side to side. Then came the challenge of tying up to the ship for embarkation. Our tender pilot cleverly achieved what seemed unachievable as we bobbled there.
But just like the delicate blossom on the humble hedge and bucolic sheep in that Welsh pasture, there were moments of grace in the midst of the rough. We found out that our Covid face masks kept the lower half of our faces warm in that bitter cold rainstorm. Awesome. And as we navigated on and off the tender boat there were plenty of kind attendants in navy Viking coats with a firm hand to insure we didn’t fall: that ever present sense that Viking gives of looking out for you.
Grace doesn’t come in the calm. It comes in the storm.
Day 8 — Liverpool and all we really need.
Liverpool happens to be quite young a city, it just recently celebrated only its 800th birthday. Pretty young for Europe.
But it sure has bravado: the blight of youth, I guess.
Our guide was quick to point out a whole litany of biggests. I’m sure I can’t remember them all; let’s see if I remember at least one of them correctly. It was something about the clock face on the Liver Tower down by the docks being bigger than the clock face on Big Ben in London. And above that clock face was one of the Liver Birds (more picturesquely pronounced “Liva” by our guide). That mythical bird was 18 foot tall with a 24 foot wingspan. I suppose even their mythical birds are the biggest, too! There are two Liva birds there. Bella looks out over the harbour watching for the sailors to come back. Her mate, Bert, on the other tower looks into the city, watching for the pubs to open.
Oh, the stories went on.
But of course, much of the tour celebrated the biggest and best hailing from Liverpool: the Beatles. Will I ever get “Penny Lane” out of my head? What an earworm it is. It was quite fun to travel the lane, have all the features of the childhood neighbourhood of the group pointed out as in the lyrics of the song.
Throughout the city I kept noticing the juxtaposition of architecture, the old with the new. Liverpool came second to that other famous English city, London, in one regard: only London got bombed more in WW II. So in terms of architecture, gaps got filled in and some buildings remained.
I took the accompanying image from the top deck of Viking Venus as I did my morning walk. The church here at the harbour is the Church of Our Lady and St. Nicholas. Arrayed behind her many variants of architectural style from different time periods. Take a closer look at all the styles of windows and the juxtaposition of two towers. It is a melange, but somehow it all happily coexists. And thus in its architecture, Liverpool shows us that the older and the younger can be accommodated side by side.
One of my delights on tours is catching the glimpse of children running in parks, being rocked in prams. There was even a class of teens heading into Liverpool’s St. George’s Hall, the girl’s uniforms of knee socks and skirts leaving knees open to a spate of sleet that happened to blow up around us. I was glad I was already on the bus.
In being on an oh-so-very-adult cruise ship, I miss the presence of children. Not that I am advocating a family friendly cruise, I am very happy with the classical music we hear in the atrium, history lectures rather than magic shows, the presence of an extensive library rather than a video arcade. But on the tours, the glimpses of a younger generation, a much younger generation, remind us that we are not all there is.
We end the Liverpool day, appropriately enough, with the stage performance of the Beatle’s song book. Not one earworm but many to hum in our sleep. And magically the generations mix right there amongst us. We were no longer an audience in their sixties and seventies but collectively we were all sixteen again, back in those sixties. Our adolescent selves emerge from our senior bodies, waving the flashlights of our phones overhead singing Hey Jude.
Off we go to bed, musically assured once again as we were in our youth, that all we need is love.
But it sure has bravado: the blight of youth, I guess.
Our guide was quick to point out a whole litany of biggests. I’m sure I can’t remember them all; let’s see if I remember at least one of them correctly. It was something about the clock face on the Liver Tower down by the docks being bigger than the clock face on Big Ben in London. And above that clock face was one of the Liver Birds (more picturesquely pronounced “Liva” by our guide). That mythical bird was 18 foot tall with a 24 foot wingspan. I suppose even their mythical birds are the biggest, too! There are two Liva birds there. Bella looks out over the harbour watching for the sailors to come back. Her mate, Bert, on the other tower looks into the city, watching for the pubs to open.
Oh, the stories went on.
But of course, much of the tour celebrated the biggest and best hailing from Liverpool: the Beatles. Will I ever get “Penny Lane” out of my head? What an earworm it is. It was quite fun to travel the lane, have all the features of the childhood neighbourhood of the group pointed out as in the lyrics of the song.
Throughout the city I kept noticing the juxtaposition of architecture, the old with the new. Liverpool came second to that other famous English city, London, in one regard: only London got bombed more in WW II. So in terms of architecture, gaps got filled in and some buildings remained.
I took the accompanying image from the top deck of Viking Venus as I did my morning walk. The church here at the harbour is the Church of Our Lady and St. Nicholas. Arrayed behind her many variants of architectural style from different time periods. Take a closer look at all the styles of windows and the juxtaposition of two towers. It is a melange, but somehow it all happily coexists. And thus in its architecture, Liverpool shows us that the older and the younger can be accommodated side by side.
One of my delights on tours is catching the glimpse of children running in parks, being rocked in prams. There was even a class of teens heading into Liverpool’s St. George’s Hall, the girl’s uniforms of knee socks and skirts leaving knees open to a spate of sleet that happened to blow up around us. I was glad I was already on the bus.
In being on an oh-so-very-adult cruise ship, I miss the presence of children. Not that I am advocating a family friendly cruise, I am very happy with the classical music we hear in the atrium, history lectures rather than magic shows, the presence of an extensive library rather than a video arcade. But on the tours, the glimpses of a younger generation, a much younger generation, remind us that we are not all there is.
We end the Liverpool day, appropriately enough, with the stage performance of the Beatle’s song book. Not one earworm but many to hum in our sleep. And magically the generations mix right there amongst us. We were no longer an audience in their sixties and seventies but collectively we were all sixteen again, back in those sixties. Our adolescent selves emerge from our senior bodies, waving the flashlights of our phones overhead singing Hey Jude.
Off we go to bed, musically assured once again as we were in our youth, that all we need is love.
Day Nine — the troubles (Belfast)
Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do.
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion, too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace … You …
You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will be as one.
John Lennon
I am troubled. I’ve just returned from a bus tour of Belfast. If nothing else, Belfast certainly has a lot of churches. We had so many of them pointed out. And you think that’d be a good thing.
Think again.
Over and over again our guide used the expression “… and that’s just the way it happens to be.” We saw wall murals of dead youth killed in sectarian violence … but that is just the way it happens to be. We saw police stations bunkered behind five meter tall barricades … but that is just the way it happens to be. We saw … it is too awful to keep going with this.
Oh, one more.
The photo I have included with the blog is of one of the peace walls in Belfast. Our guide told us there were about twenty-five of them … but that is … (oh, you get it). He explained that those living on either side of them don’t want them taken down, at least not yet. They don’t feel it to be safe. At the end of one of those walls is a gate across a road that is closed at night to prevent movement between the two sides.
Even yet, decades later.
Fear, distrust remains.
Is this what Christianity as a religion is about? What ever happened to its message of love your neighbour as much as one loves one’s self? How far has doctrine and theology taken its followers away from its core? We build walls, we separate ourselves into tribes, we vilify the other who doesn’t share our religion or our politics.
But isn’t religion supposed to bring out our better selves, or at least help us overcome our tendencies for evil? Aren’t politics supposed to create conditions for the wellbeing of the citizenry? Somehow this has all gotten turned on its head.
Of course, the troubles is not all that Belfast is. There is a magnificent City Hall. Statuary and gardens surround it with a sense of pride and grace. As I rode the bus I saw many neighbourhoods of neat brick houses with tidy little postage stamp gardens. Everyday folk clearly take a pride in those homes. Even the tragedy of the Titanic, built in the shipyards of Belfast, has spawned its own enterprises: the Titanic Studios, close to the slip where the Titanic was launched, was used in the filming of Game of Thrones. Then there was the graffiti on the peace wall: it heralded an exuberance of colour and line, the words scrawled there pleaded for acceptance of each other and love.
My spouse and I found Writer’s Square in Belfast. As an author and blogger, I just had to go there, didn’t I? Etched into the granite beneath our feet were the words of 20th Century Belfast poet, John Hewitt.
Out of this mulch of ready sentiment,
gritty with threads of flinty violence,
I am the green shoot asking for the flower …
It isn’t hard to do.
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion, too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace … You …
You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will be as one.
John Lennon
I am troubled. I’ve just returned from a bus tour of Belfast. If nothing else, Belfast certainly has a lot of churches. We had so many of them pointed out. And you think that’d be a good thing.
Think again.
Over and over again our guide used the expression “… and that’s just the way it happens to be.” We saw wall murals of dead youth killed in sectarian violence … but that is just the way it happens to be. We saw police stations bunkered behind five meter tall barricades … but that is just the way it happens to be. We saw … it is too awful to keep going with this.
Oh, one more.
The photo I have included with the blog is of one of the peace walls in Belfast. Our guide told us there were about twenty-five of them … but that is … (oh, you get it). He explained that those living on either side of them don’t want them taken down, at least not yet. They don’t feel it to be safe. At the end of one of those walls is a gate across a road that is closed at night to prevent movement between the two sides.
Even yet, decades later.
Fear, distrust remains.
Is this what Christianity as a religion is about? What ever happened to its message of love your neighbour as much as one loves one’s self? How far has doctrine and theology taken its followers away from its core? We build walls, we separate ourselves into tribes, we vilify the other who doesn’t share our religion or our politics.
But isn’t religion supposed to bring out our better selves, or at least help us overcome our tendencies for evil? Aren’t politics supposed to create conditions for the wellbeing of the citizenry? Somehow this has all gotten turned on its head.
Of course, the troubles is not all that Belfast is. There is a magnificent City Hall. Statuary and gardens surround it with a sense of pride and grace. As I rode the bus I saw many neighbourhoods of neat brick houses with tidy little postage stamp gardens. Everyday folk clearly take a pride in those homes. Even the tragedy of the Titanic, built in the shipyards of Belfast, has spawned its own enterprises: the Titanic Studios, close to the slip where the Titanic was launched, was used in the filming of Game of Thrones. Then there was the graffiti on the peace wall: it heralded an exuberance of colour and line, the words scrawled there pleaded for acceptance of each other and love.
My spouse and I found Writer’s Square in Belfast. As an author and blogger, I just had to go there, didn’t I? Etched into the granite beneath our feet were the words of 20th Century Belfast poet, John Hewitt.
Out of this mulch of ready sentiment,
gritty with threads of flinty violence,
I am the green shoot asking for the flower …
Day Ten — Ullapool and the Scottish Highlands
Our first sight of the Scottish Highlands comes at dawn. Snow-capped mountains are lit pink and violet as our ship sails in to anchor on Loch Broom at Ullapool. A calm sea and the dramatic landscape bode well for the day.
Let’s see: sunny skies, pleasant but cool temperatures with only a light breeze, no tour buses, a short tender ride on the placid harbour waters, quaint two storey white homes and businesses. What could be more delightful? The greetings at the pier and in the shops are warm as this little fishing village, now also a popular tourist destination, welcomes the first cruise ship of the year. We are treated to tea and shortbread as a part of our walking tour. Our guide even sings for us in Gaelic!
Our timing is perfect. Our ship discharges some 700 or so folk into this little town that has only about 1500 of its own. We walk the tidy little town without the summer influx of caravans and occupants of the B&Bs crowding the streets and shops. Apparently, this gets to be quite a bustling place.
Back in Canada the warmth and hospitality of the people of Nova Scotia is legendary: that is Nova Scotia, as in new Scotland. Meeting the people of Ullapool there is no doubt where the warmth and hospitality of the people of Nova Scotia came from.
250 years ago many came from this tiny fishing village, families cleared off their crofts due to economic conditions and changing agricultural usage. On one ship, an aging three-masted schooner called the Hector, close to two hundred people, including 33 families, made the crossing to Pictou Harbour, Nova Scotia. The trip took three months, babies were born and some folk died during that crossing.
Oh, speaking of 200 people in a boat. I have included a picture of our Viking Venus. In it you can see our tender boats, each of which also hold about 200. Great little boats, I’m just glad that I don’t have to spend three months in one.
So I will make this a short (and non-controversial!) blog but post some extra pictures to celebrate the beauty here.
Let’s see: sunny skies, pleasant but cool temperatures with only a light breeze, no tour buses, a short tender ride on the placid harbour waters, quaint two storey white homes and businesses. What could be more delightful? The greetings at the pier and in the shops are warm as this little fishing village, now also a popular tourist destination, welcomes the first cruise ship of the year. We are treated to tea and shortbread as a part of our walking tour. Our guide even sings for us in Gaelic!
Our timing is perfect. Our ship discharges some 700 or so folk into this little town that has only about 1500 of its own. We walk the tidy little town without the summer influx of caravans and occupants of the B&Bs crowding the streets and shops. Apparently, this gets to be quite a bustling place.
Back in Canada the warmth and hospitality of the people of Nova Scotia is legendary: that is Nova Scotia, as in new Scotland. Meeting the people of Ullapool there is no doubt where the warmth and hospitality of the people of Nova Scotia came from.
250 years ago many came from this tiny fishing village, families cleared off their crofts due to economic conditions and changing agricultural usage. On one ship, an aging three-masted schooner called the Hector, close to two hundred people, including 33 families, made the crossing to Pictou Harbour, Nova Scotia. The trip took three months, babies were born and some folk died during that crossing.
Oh, speaking of 200 people in a boat. I have included a picture of our Viking Venus. In it you can see our tender boats, each of which also hold about 200. Great little boats, I’m just glad that I don’t have to spend three months in one.
So I will make this a short (and non-controversial!) blog but post some extra pictures to celebrate the beauty here.
And, the eyes have it.
Before we left for the cruise we were living in such a world of nays.
There was (is? I guess … ) that brutal war with shocking civilian carnage going on in Ukraine. A sixth wave of covid is making its international tour just in time to take advantage of the world’s fatigue with public health protocols. Back in Canada, we’re still reeling from the very un-Canadian truck convoy protest. I can only imagine what the rest of the world feels about meek and apologetic Canadians now. Sorry! (Oh, and by the way, the vast majority of Canadians are just as shocked and dismayed at the irresponsible and egoistic protesters as the rest of the world might happen to be.)
So in the midst of all that we come onto a ship with spacious and peaceful public spaces, with warm and friendly staff.
Dozens of times a day we are greeted by staff with gentle words and a genuine smiles. How do they do it, day-in and day-out with all of us? Many staff have made the effort to greet us by name. The video display of the temperature sensor we smile into each morning does so as well.
It’s all so positive and polite: this gracious, warm hospitality. So opposite from the nays we left behind. One would almost think that the troubles of the world had vanished.
Of course, staff on board are also diligent about mask wearing in their efforts to keep us healthier than those walking about in the rest of the world. I can only imagine that the masks make their work more fatiguing. And, they are obviously tasked with smiling too. All of this while watching out for our safety and wellbeing, wellbeing that is both mental and physical. You can see their smiles in their eyes, hovering above those masks.
But one thing that you don’t see as you are served in the restaurants, at the bars, or by the cabin stewards is kibitzing. But I found some, just a little, and it was wonderful.
At least once a day I walk the upper deck, out in the open air. I typically see maintenance staff up there as it seems that area requires quite a bit of swabbing. They scrub away at acquired grit on the various posts and furniture, wash the glass, varnish the hand-railings and steps. I suspect it’s a dangerous place to work with the high winds and exposure high above the sea. The maintenance folk up there always work in pairs or, clutches of three. Good idea.
They are tasked with physical work not people work, and so they are a different sort from the other staff. Sometimes in those little groupings conversations happen, a bit of joking around. Kibitzing. Nothing objectionable or intrusive, just human.
I wanted to get a little deeper than the Good morning, sir, have a good day that we typically share. I met two fellows, initiated conversation. The backdrop was the windswept Orkney Islands, there was a cold mist in the air. The spokesman of the pair was from the Philippines, that great exporter of humans to the rest of the world to take care of others. I couldn’t help but thinking how they were on the opposite corner of our round planet from their homes and families; in a cold chill rather than warm, humid air.
Of course, I expressed gratitude for his warm greeting. He commented on how as a staff they are instructed to greet all guests as family. And he did.
I’m so glad I caught them kibitzing a bit. I hope I don’t get them in trouble with this post, because it was truly wonderful.
So here you see it in the smiles. The eyes have it.
There was (is? I guess … ) that brutal war with shocking civilian carnage going on in Ukraine. A sixth wave of covid is making its international tour just in time to take advantage of the world’s fatigue with public health protocols. Back in Canada, we’re still reeling from the very un-Canadian truck convoy protest. I can only imagine what the rest of the world feels about meek and apologetic Canadians now. Sorry! (Oh, and by the way, the vast majority of Canadians are just as shocked and dismayed at the irresponsible and egoistic protesters as the rest of the world might happen to be.)
So in the midst of all that we come onto a ship with spacious and peaceful public spaces, with warm and friendly staff.
Dozens of times a day we are greeted by staff with gentle words and a genuine smiles. How do they do it, day-in and day-out with all of us? Many staff have made the effort to greet us by name. The video display of the temperature sensor we smile into each morning does so as well.
It’s all so positive and polite: this gracious, warm hospitality. So opposite from the nays we left behind. One would almost think that the troubles of the world had vanished.
Of course, staff on board are also diligent about mask wearing in their efforts to keep us healthier than those walking about in the rest of the world. I can only imagine that the masks make their work more fatiguing. And, they are obviously tasked with smiling too. All of this while watching out for our safety and wellbeing, wellbeing that is both mental and physical. You can see their smiles in their eyes, hovering above those masks.
But one thing that you don’t see as you are served in the restaurants, at the bars, or by the cabin stewards is kibitzing. But I found some, just a little, and it was wonderful.
At least once a day I walk the upper deck, out in the open air. I typically see maintenance staff up there as it seems that area requires quite a bit of swabbing. They scrub away at acquired grit on the various posts and furniture, wash the glass, varnish the hand-railings and steps. I suspect it’s a dangerous place to work with the high winds and exposure high above the sea. The maintenance folk up there always work in pairs or, clutches of three. Good idea.
They are tasked with physical work not people work, and so they are a different sort from the other staff. Sometimes in those little groupings conversations happen, a bit of joking around. Kibitzing. Nothing objectionable or intrusive, just human.
I wanted to get a little deeper than the Good morning, sir, have a good day that we typically share. I met two fellows, initiated conversation. The backdrop was the windswept Orkney Islands, there was a cold mist in the air. The spokesman of the pair was from the Philippines, that great exporter of humans to the rest of the world to take care of others. I couldn’t help but thinking how they were on the opposite corner of our round planet from their homes and families; in a cold chill rather than warm, humid air.
Of course, I expressed gratitude for his warm greeting. He commented on how as a staff they are instructed to greet all guests as family. And he did.
I’m so glad I caught them kibitzing a bit. I hope I don’t get them in trouble with this post, because it was truly wonderful.
So here you see it in the smiles. The eyes have it.
Day Eleven - Turning the pages of History (Orkney Islands)
I love the way the pages of history turned during our tour of the Orkney Islands.
For us cruising folk, we think of our personal histories in terms of decades. How different my life was four or five decades ago. University, then career and kids, midlife crisis (a few of them maybe), retirement, and thankfully a longsuffering spouse who has stayed with me through it all!
When we think in terms of family, the time frame becomes generations: the childhood of my parents was very different than mine, mine very different than my grandkids. Gosh, there certainly wasn’t internet back when I was a kid, just the encyclopedia and mail made of paper and stamps. And there was only one screen in our home, a black and white tv with just six channels; oh, and also a screen that we pulled up from a shaky tripod so we could watch interminable slide shows and home movies that burned through when they got stuck in the projector.
In terms of the history of our western civilization, the time frame becomes centuries. We lived a good part of our lives in the last one, and can get a sense of story out of the three or four before that.
On the Orkney the clock ticks away not in years, decades or centuries but in millennia.
Out the bus window we see the Standing Stones of Stennes: they date back seven millennia. Gee whiz, wasn’t the Garden of Eden apparently since then? (One reckoning of biblical interpretation I read sited biblical genealogy to be about 4,000 years between Adam and Christ but all that seems like a rather treacherous endeavour to me).
Getting back to Orkney, sorry for the digression … Just a little further down the road from the Stones of Stennes we’ve flipped two pages ahead to just five millennia ago with the Ring of Brodgar. Our guide had us try to imagine what spiritual or celebratory human activity might have happened within or around that ring, no one knows for sure. Then half an hour or so and just five millennia later, we are envisioning the wartime naval use of the Skapa Flow, that body of water sheltered by the Orkney Islands. Lots of crucial naval excursions of the Great War and WW II came out of that body of water.
But wait, just before we got back to the cruise ship we flipped the calendar back a single page, a mere 900 years or so, to the St. Magnus Cathedral in Kirkwall. It commemorates the conversion of a Viking to Christianity there.
Flip, flip, flip: a thousand years here, a few thousand years there. How odd it can be, the way we turn the pages of history.
After all that time travel, I think I could use one of those whiskeys they distill on the Orkneys.
For us cruising folk, we think of our personal histories in terms of decades. How different my life was four or five decades ago. University, then career and kids, midlife crisis (a few of them maybe), retirement, and thankfully a longsuffering spouse who has stayed with me through it all!
When we think in terms of family, the time frame becomes generations: the childhood of my parents was very different than mine, mine very different than my grandkids. Gosh, there certainly wasn’t internet back when I was a kid, just the encyclopedia and mail made of paper and stamps. And there was only one screen in our home, a black and white tv with just six channels; oh, and also a screen that we pulled up from a shaky tripod so we could watch interminable slide shows and home movies that burned through when they got stuck in the projector.
In terms of the history of our western civilization, the time frame becomes centuries. We lived a good part of our lives in the last one, and can get a sense of story out of the three or four before that.
On the Orkney the clock ticks away not in years, decades or centuries but in millennia.
Out the bus window we see the Standing Stones of Stennes: they date back seven millennia. Gee whiz, wasn’t the Garden of Eden apparently since then? (One reckoning of biblical interpretation I read sited biblical genealogy to be about 4,000 years between Adam and Christ but all that seems like a rather treacherous endeavour to me).
Getting back to Orkney, sorry for the digression … Just a little further down the road from the Stones of Stennes we’ve flipped two pages ahead to just five millennia ago with the Ring of Brodgar. Our guide had us try to imagine what spiritual or celebratory human activity might have happened within or around that ring, no one knows for sure. Then half an hour or so and just five millennia later, we are envisioning the wartime naval use of the Skapa Flow, that body of water sheltered by the Orkney Islands. Lots of crucial naval excursions of the Great War and WW II came out of that body of water.
But wait, just before we got back to the cruise ship we flipped the calendar back a single page, a mere 900 years or so, to the St. Magnus Cathedral in Kirkwall. It commemorates the conversion of a Viking to Christianity there.
Flip, flip, flip: a thousand years here, a few thousand years there. How odd it can be, the way we turn the pages of history.
After all that time travel, I think I could use one of those whiskeys they distill on the Orkneys.
Day 12 — Edinburgh. There is a feeling of this place.
Thus far as a British Isles Explorer, Viking style, I’ve walked in the core of several cities: London, Dublin, Belfast, Liverpool, now Edinburgh. In some of them, my feet barely touched the ground with only quick photo opportunities off the bus. For others, I’ve been able to mosey.
All our tour guides, except for one, have been excellent at filling in the history of the place, pointing things out, commenting about architecture, sharing stories set therein. I’m sure that what they told us was accurate. Typically my brain filled up with this sort of stuff while I stared at the back of the bus seat in front of me.
With the commentary I might be amused by a story, or impressed with the uniqueness of a building, or satisfied to know the economics of the area. But those reactions are just transitory. Often when I come back at the end of a tour to blog I have trouble remembering the details to pepper into my writing. I was satisfied with those details at the time. But they didn’t take root.
Then come the extraordinarily good guides, and we’ve had a couple of those on this trip. What they say rings true, like they are living it. This is their home and they are proud, engaged within it.
Oh, what a huge difference exists between accurate and true.
When a person is telling the truth you can sense that the words are heartfelt, not researched and head learned. Even the most trivial, everyday sort of thing has that tinge of reverence, of celebration, of belonging. I feel drawn to those sorts of guides. I still remember the real human connection that I felt with guides on a river cruise we had two and a half years ago. I remember things they said.
Two entirely different experiences. And yet there is a third.
When the earpiece is silent, when my mind has a chance to do its own thing, when I can stand outside and people watch or look for interesting camera angles, that’s when I start to get the feeling of the place. But I have to get the mental clutter out of the way first: you know all those details and amusing stories. I need to switch off that part of my brain that deals in knowledge, and let the deeply sensing part of my mind percolate into consciousness.
Now you are going to have to bear with me. What I am saying is a knowing without language.
In Edinburgh it was a feeling of being held, held in a reassuring and gentle way. As I walked the park parallel to Princes Street Castle I sensed the Edinburgh Castle overhead to be a benign presence, watching out for us mortals below.
And even though there were lots of people on the Royal Mile, and buskers, and occasional dogs, I didn’t feel overwhelmed, which is saying something for this oh-so-introverted guy. In London I felt the six storey stone clad buildings as claustrophobic, echoing the noisy bustle. But in Edinburgh the six storey stone clad buildings didn’t give me the impinging feel, just a gentle cradling. And somehow, the city seemed wise.
I took a photo of Adam Smith, that great Enlightenment figure: the Father of Economics, the Father of Capitalism. I took the photo from a distance, so could get the backdrop of St. Giles Cathedral behind him. He seemed to have a rather stern look on his face as he observed the capitalism below. Is this what he envisioned?
Perhaps.
Or maybe the stern look was because he had pigeon shit on his head.
All our tour guides, except for one, have been excellent at filling in the history of the place, pointing things out, commenting about architecture, sharing stories set therein. I’m sure that what they told us was accurate. Typically my brain filled up with this sort of stuff while I stared at the back of the bus seat in front of me.
With the commentary I might be amused by a story, or impressed with the uniqueness of a building, or satisfied to know the economics of the area. But those reactions are just transitory. Often when I come back at the end of a tour to blog I have trouble remembering the details to pepper into my writing. I was satisfied with those details at the time. But they didn’t take root.
Then come the extraordinarily good guides, and we’ve had a couple of those on this trip. What they say rings true, like they are living it. This is their home and they are proud, engaged within it.
Oh, what a huge difference exists between accurate and true.
When a person is telling the truth you can sense that the words are heartfelt, not researched and head learned. Even the most trivial, everyday sort of thing has that tinge of reverence, of celebration, of belonging. I feel drawn to those sorts of guides. I still remember the real human connection that I felt with guides on a river cruise we had two and a half years ago. I remember things they said.
Two entirely different experiences. And yet there is a third.
When the earpiece is silent, when my mind has a chance to do its own thing, when I can stand outside and people watch or look for interesting camera angles, that’s when I start to get the feeling of the place. But I have to get the mental clutter out of the way first: you know all those details and amusing stories. I need to switch off that part of my brain that deals in knowledge, and let the deeply sensing part of my mind percolate into consciousness.
Now you are going to have to bear with me. What I am saying is a knowing without language.
In Edinburgh it was a feeling of being held, held in a reassuring and gentle way. As I walked the park parallel to Princes Street Castle I sensed the Edinburgh Castle overhead to be a benign presence, watching out for us mortals below.
And even though there were lots of people on the Royal Mile, and buskers, and occasional dogs, I didn’t feel overwhelmed, which is saying something for this oh-so-introverted guy. In London I felt the six storey stone clad buildings as claustrophobic, echoing the noisy bustle. But in Edinburgh the six storey stone clad buildings didn’t give me the impinging feel, just a gentle cradling. And somehow, the city seemed wise.
I took a photo of Adam Smith, that great Enlightenment figure: the Father of Economics, the Father of Capitalism. I took the photo from a distance, so could get the backdrop of St. Giles Cathedral behind him. He seemed to have a rather stern look on his face as he observed the capitalism below. Is this what he envisioned?
Perhaps.
Or maybe the stern look was because he had pigeon shit on his head.
'In the Scottish Highlands we didn’t spot Nessie in the Loch. Maybe next time.
I did spot this rare bird.
It is a blue plumed, many zippered, photosnapper. Note its large unique beak, camouflaged for the snowy day. This bird is well adapted to the cold with feather down neatly held close to its body by polyester fabric. Given its tendency toward brain freeze in this northern clime, this bird has adapted by weaving strands from a lamb's body into an intricately detailed crown. The sharp eyes of this bird are hidden behind a clear goggle-like attachment, seen on no other wild creature of the moors.
While somewhat fearsome in appearance, this bird can be approached and is usually found to be quite friendly, especially if humour is involved.
I did spot this rare bird.
It is a blue plumed, many zippered, photosnapper. Note its large unique beak, camouflaged for the snowy day. This bird is well adapted to the cold with feather down neatly held close to its body by polyester fabric. Given its tendency toward brain freeze in this northern clime, this bird has adapted by weaving strands from a lamb's body into an intricately detailed crown. The sharp eyes of this bird are hidden behind a clear goggle-like attachment, seen on no other wild creature of the moors.
While somewhat fearsome in appearance, this bird can be approached and is usually found to be quite friendly, especially if humour is involved.
Day Thirteen — Our feet in the mud of Culloden
What could motivate us to keep walking in a muddy field, huge clumps of snow falling steadily on our heads? And oh, there were big dirty puddles there, sometimes covering right across the path. And in places the sucking bog was just inches away … well, I presumed it was sucking and would’ve taken my boot, but I didn’t give it a chance to try.
We walked a field where close to two thousand people died in a battle that lasted less than an hour. Give that a second thought; that many people died in the same amount of time that we took to walk the field.
What motivated us to continue in such a midst of unpleasantness?
We were motivated by story, the story told by a gifted guide.
We were few in number, only about six of us, probably because of the weather on the day and the shortened itinerary for the tour. We couldn’t go into the interpretive centre at the site of the Battle of Culloden because it was the weekend (the centre’s weekend is taken on Monday and Tuesday in the off-season). A castle and garden we were to see were also unavailable. We were left with the battlefield walk with those globs of snow accumulating on our jackets, the stories holding our thrall.
What made the place real was the heartfelt emotion of our guide, El. Several times she choked up with tears in speaking of the battle, naming various individuals involved, acknowledging the intimate human tragedy. We witnessed and shared El’s perplexity of the senseless carnage that took place there. And then, at the Old Leanach Cottage (stone walls, thatched roof) El laughed in telling the story of the old woman with what she declared to be Bonnie Prince Charlie’s tin cup, passing it around for tips after she’d toured folk through the battlefield.
Certainly El had a grasp of the numbers. She could tell the order of how things went on that day in April, 1746. She named the politics that created the battle, talked about the subsequent Scottish Clearances to follow it. All of that history, the things that we normally think history is, was there. What captivated us though was the story she wove around us. She embraced us with that story and held us close for its listening. Her reverence for the place was infectious. For her this was a sacred place.
I wonder if 276 years from now there will be another El, walking the fair land we now call the Ukraine, weeping even yet for the senseless death that occurred there in 2022. Let me end with a quick abridgement of the Pete Seeger lyrics.
Where have all the husbands gone, long time passing?
Where have all the husbands gone, long time ago?
Where have all the husbands gone?
Gone for soldiers everyone
When will they ever learn, when will they ever learn?
Where have all the soldiers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the soldiers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Gone to graveyards, everyone.
Sigh … when will we ever learn? When will we ever learn?
Two further images from the Culloden battlefield, then three of Invergordon as taken from the ship.
Day Fourteen — Strong winds, sturdy buildings, hardy folk - Shetland Islands
If there is one thing that can be said about an ocean cruise, it’s how pampered is the lifestyle.
Consider “afternoon tea” at 4pm, graced by live classical music and those tiny little sandwiches with the crusts cut off. We loved the scones served with clotted cream and strawberry jam.
Then there was the five course dinner in the Chef’s Table. Of course, there was a wine pairing for four of those courses. Gosh, that was the most sophisticated meal (and the most wine at one sitting) I’ve ever had.
In fact, all the eating on board was great. I even had a Nordic hotdog topped with a shrimp/mayo salad and salmon roe.
So let’s have us pampered folk just cruise into the Shetland Islands, mosey around there.
We were first delighted and then, blown away (well almost!)
Our first impression was of the commercial street in Lerwick. On the narrow, winding cobblestone street we found great shops and warm greetings. The narrow lanes and staunch stone walls made for some interesting photography. We loved by the stoic, old world charm of the buildings there.
The blown away part, the almost blown away part, came during the photostops on the scenic bus tour.
Our handful of photostops, including to pet the ponies still decked out in their thick winter coats, found us in wind. Our guide said that it can get up to 200 mph. It was not nearly that high on the day of the tour, but high enough to make me concerned for the stability on my bald head of that great Harris Tweed flat cap that I bought in Ullapool.
Our guide told us that in order not to be blown away the concrete tiles on the roof of her house are even secured with screws to keep them from flying off. She said her roof weighed 15 tonne (did I hear that right? I think so). In high winds she hears them rattling overhead. Perhaps that explains why the buildings are constructed with thick stone walls.
And compared to us pampered folk, the ones grown accustomed to afternoon tea and the fine dining, the Shetland folk have to be hardy souls. I looked at those Shetland ponies, built close to the ground, sturdy little creatures who can pull double their own weight. I suspect they are a bit of a metaphor for the humans, too. So much of the work on the island is outdoors: sheep farming, fishing, working the rigs for the North Sea oil, installing wind turbines. To manage all that in the winds, well, for sure, it need be hearty folk.
We were fortunate to get into Lerwick. Previous Viking cruises couldn’t safely land at the pier because of … you guessed it … the wind. We got in, but the wind didn’t want to let us out as it pressed our ship firmly into the pier, wind so strong that the power of the ship would not be enough to get us out. Two Lerwick tug boats pulled us away from the pier to head out into the North Sea bound for Norway.
Hardy little boats they were, like the people there.
Consider “afternoon tea” at 4pm, graced by live classical music and those tiny little sandwiches with the crusts cut off. We loved the scones served with clotted cream and strawberry jam.
Then there was the five course dinner in the Chef’s Table. Of course, there was a wine pairing for four of those courses. Gosh, that was the most sophisticated meal (and the most wine at one sitting) I’ve ever had.
In fact, all the eating on board was great. I even had a Nordic hotdog topped with a shrimp/mayo salad and salmon roe.
So let’s have us pampered folk just cruise into the Shetland Islands, mosey around there.
We were first delighted and then, blown away (well almost!)
Our first impression was of the commercial street in Lerwick. On the narrow, winding cobblestone street we found great shops and warm greetings. The narrow lanes and staunch stone walls made for some interesting photography. We loved by the stoic, old world charm of the buildings there.
The blown away part, the almost blown away part, came during the photostops on the scenic bus tour.
Our handful of photostops, including to pet the ponies still decked out in their thick winter coats, found us in wind. Our guide said that it can get up to 200 mph. It was not nearly that high on the day of the tour, but high enough to make me concerned for the stability on my bald head of that great Harris Tweed flat cap that I bought in Ullapool.
Our guide told us that in order not to be blown away the concrete tiles on the roof of her house are even secured with screws to keep them from flying off. She said her roof weighed 15 tonne (did I hear that right? I think so). In high winds she hears them rattling overhead. Perhaps that explains why the buildings are constructed with thick stone walls.
And compared to us pampered folk, the ones grown accustomed to afternoon tea and the fine dining, the Shetland folk have to be hardy souls. I looked at those Shetland ponies, built close to the ground, sturdy little creatures who can pull double their own weight. I suspect they are a bit of a metaphor for the humans, too. So much of the work on the island is outdoors: sheep farming, fishing, working the rigs for the North Sea oil, installing wind turbines. To manage all that in the winds, well, for sure, it need be hearty folk.
We were fortunate to get into Lerwick. Previous Viking cruises couldn’t safely land at the pier because of … you guessed it … the wind. We got in, but the wind didn’t want to let us out as it pressed our ship firmly into the pier, wind so strong that the power of the ship would not be enough to get us out. Two Lerwick tug boats pulled us away from the pier to head out into the North Sea bound for Norway.
Hardy little boats they were, like the people there.
Day 15 — With Grieg at Troldhaugen — Bergen
On this trip my wife and I spent time in two major public galleries: Tate Britain and the National Gallery in Edinburgh.
There’s a different sense of history and culture to be gained in looking at great art. If you take the time, you can catch the very nature of the artist’s seeing and feeling in that other place, in that other time.
Listening to classical music can do the same. As a musician myself I am deeply aware that it is my emotion, my perspective on life, that drives my musical creation. When a musician performs a piece by a classical composer we get the emotion and perspective of two creative individuals: the composer those many years ago in that other place, and the musician with us in the present.
This was so powerfully illustrated for us at the Grieg recital in Troldhaugen. We had been immersed in the life of Edvard Grieg as told by our so capable guide. Then, looking at the same scene that Grieg viewed as he composed, we heard his music: heard his heart, heard his very soul.
The recital was ecstatic and energetic. With the cascades of notes played impeccably accurately and the rhythms precise, the emotion of both composer and performer transfixed us and held us suspended in beauty. We were transported and transfixed.
What happened was not entertainment. But it was entertaining. What happened was not performance: it was presence. What happened there in that recital hall was not something from over two hundred years ago, but was about the very beating of our hearts at this moment in time in this beautiful place in Norway.
We think of history as being dates, and names, and events but seldom grasp the experiential and existential nature of the people involved back then. We see old buildings and put together what happened within them in terms of economics and culture. We look at rooms preserved with old furniture and try to imagine the day-to-day lives lived there.
But it is in the fine arts, in the music composed and then performed, that we meet the deeper inner worlds of another time and place.
There’s a different sense of history and culture to be gained in looking at great art. If you take the time, you can catch the very nature of the artist’s seeing and feeling in that other place, in that other time.
Listening to classical music can do the same. As a musician myself I am deeply aware that it is my emotion, my perspective on life, that drives my musical creation. When a musician performs a piece by a classical composer we get the emotion and perspective of two creative individuals: the composer those many years ago in that other place, and the musician with us in the present.
This was so powerfully illustrated for us at the Grieg recital in Troldhaugen. We had been immersed in the life of Edvard Grieg as told by our so capable guide. Then, looking at the same scene that Grieg viewed as he composed, we heard his music: heard his heart, heard his very soul.
The recital was ecstatic and energetic. With the cascades of notes played impeccably accurately and the rhythms precise, the emotion of both composer and performer transfixed us and held us suspended in beauty. We were transported and transfixed.
What happened was not entertainment. But it was entertaining. What happened was not performance: it was presence. What happened there in that recital hall was not something from over two hundred years ago, but was about the very beating of our hearts at this moment in time in this beautiful place in Norway.
We think of history as being dates, and names, and events but seldom grasp the experiential and existential nature of the people involved back then. We see old buildings and put together what happened within them in terms of economics and culture. We look at rooms preserved with old furniture and try to imagine the day-to-day lives lived there.
But it is in the fine arts, in the music composed and then performed, that we meet the deeper inner worlds of another time and place.
Day Sixteen — on our own in Bergen, Norway
The restaurant near the Kode gallery in Bergen is abuzz with conversation. Aside from the ready responses in English to the questions we ask, not another word of English can be heard. I don’t think there is another person older than half our age there when we are.
Strollers and carriages bring in toddlers with their parents. This lunch room cafée is clearly a meeting place for young adults in the heart of the city. We are lucky to get a table, one reserved for another party but that isn’t for another 45 minutes; if that would be okay.
The decor in the cafe is a melange of pale yellow, gold and pink. The eating surfaces are a mixture of high and low tables and a counter, the dishes an odd unmatched assortment.
The chalk board menu is in Norwegian and a tattooed server in jeans and t-shirt patiently translates it for us. The food tastes authentic in the way of not trying to be authentic but just being naturally so. I have a fish soup … and oh, none of the staff know the English word for the specific fish therein (it has the texture and taste of cod). The broth is strongly flavoured with chili pepper and some other spice I couldn’t identify: anise perhaps or fennel.
The restaurant near the Kode gallery provides a chance to sit down. We’d spent the hour before enwrapped in the paintings of Norwegian artists. We had visited the Kode years ago, remembered the fabulous Munch exhibit there. Much of the Munch is down for conservation work today. But we are drawn to the work of Norwegian artists who came before him. The audio commentary (available in English) provides background understanding of the works before us.
After lunch a second Kode gallery features an exhibit of queer art from the antiquities to the present.
Our visit is an oasis of appreciating the landscape and people of Norway without it be interpreted for us. A fine way to spend a rainy day: no sunny, oops … rainy again, then a bit of sun, always windy, oh well, you know Bergen weather. Spend the day not as tourists, but as visitors to a different culture, a youthful vibrant one.
Strollers and carriages bring in toddlers with their parents. This lunch room cafée is clearly a meeting place for young adults in the heart of the city. We are lucky to get a table, one reserved for another party but that isn’t for another 45 minutes; if that would be okay.
The decor in the cafe is a melange of pale yellow, gold and pink. The eating surfaces are a mixture of high and low tables and a counter, the dishes an odd unmatched assortment.
The chalk board menu is in Norwegian and a tattooed server in jeans and t-shirt patiently translates it for us. The food tastes authentic in the way of not trying to be authentic but just being naturally so. I have a fish soup … and oh, none of the staff know the English word for the specific fish therein (it has the texture and taste of cod). The broth is strongly flavoured with chili pepper and some other spice I couldn’t identify: anise perhaps or fennel.
The restaurant near the Kode gallery provides a chance to sit down. We’d spent the hour before enwrapped in the paintings of Norwegian artists. We had visited the Kode years ago, remembered the fabulous Munch exhibit there. Much of the Munch is down for conservation work today. But we are drawn to the work of Norwegian artists who came before him. The audio commentary (available in English) provides background understanding of the works before us.
After lunch a second Kode gallery features an exhibit of queer art from the antiquities to the present.
Our visit is an oasis of appreciating the landscape and people of Norway without it be interpreted for us. A fine way to spend a rainy day: no sunny, oops … rainy again, then a bit of sun, always windy, oh well, you know Bergen weather. Spend the day not as tourists, but as visitors to a different culture, a youthful vibrant one.
A couple of images from the train ride Bergen to Oslo ... we didn't get off the train in Finse!
Day Nineteen - Oslo
This is the first time that we have done Viking pre- and post- excursions. And, this is the first time we have been in these three amazing European cities: London, Bergen and Oslo. What a study in contrasts.
In London we stayed in Covent Garden in an old hotel, the Waldorf Hilton. Gosh, even the floors squeaked. It was posh and elegant. We had amazing breakfasts. And oh, the rooms were really hot. We walked the busy streets of London, down to the Thames, past the Parliament buildings, even down so far as the Tate Britain. At times it felt as though being a pedestrian in London was taking one’s life in one’s hands. We hopped on the Big Bus and found the commentary annoying to the point that we couldn’t wait to get off.
In Bergen we were at the Hotel Norge, centrally located, an old hotel completely redesigned: clean lines and unique design elements. Bergen was charming with old buildings, and we felt like we were in the heart of where people have lived for centuries. Our time in the Kode gallery helped us to understand the landscape and people of Norway. We saw a couple of Munch paintings but were really impressed too by the Norwegian artists who came before him. Had two more amazing breakfast buffets. And oh, the rooms were hot there too.
In Oslo we are in a newly constructed hotel in the midst of many new buildings, all unique. Amidst its bright colours and modern design of the hotel were little touches of old-world charm. The room is hot there too, but at least we could open a window. Can you tell we’re Canadians, used to a colder climate? And by the way, another amazing breakfast.
An old industrial district at the harbour is being redeveloped with modern (oh so-modern) buildings including the dramatic architecture of the recently completed opera and the oddly shaped Munch museum. Olso provided us with the best city tour yet, including time at the not-to-be-missed Vigeland Sculpture Park. We had time enough to take in the Munch, coming away blown away by this artist.
Our day in Oslo is a perfect way to end our almost three weeks in Exploring the British Isles and Norway. Alas, tomorrow it’s up well before dawn to make the flights home.
You can check out pictures of London and Bergen on previous posts.
In London we stayed in Covent Garden in an old hotel, the Waldorf Hilton. Gosh, even the floors squeaked. It was posh and elegant. We had amazing breakfasts. And oh, the rooms were really hot. We walked the busy streets of London, down to the Thames, past the Parliament buildings, even down so far as the Tate Britain. At times it felt as though being a pedestrian in London was taking one’s life in one’s hands. We hopped on the Big Bus and found the commentary annoying to the point that we couldn’t wait to get off.
In Bergen we were at the Hotel Norge, centrally located, an old hotel completely redesigned: clean lines and unique design elements. Bergen was charming with old buildings, and we felt like we were in the heart of where people have lived for centuries. Our time in the Kode gallery helped us to understand the landscape and people of Norway. We saw a couple of Munch paintings but were really impressed too by the Norwegian artists who came before him. Had two more amazing breakfast buffets. And oh, the rooms were hot there too.
In Oslo we are in a newly constructed hotel in the midst of many new buildings, all unique. Amidst its bright colours and modern design of the hotel were little touches of old-world charm. The room is hot there too, but at least we could open a window. Can you tell we’re Canadians, used to a colder climate? And by the way, another amazing breakfast.
An old industrial district at the harbour is being redeveloped with modern (oh so-modern) buildings including the dramatic architecture of the recently completed opera and the oddly shaped Munch museum. Olso provided us with the best city tour yet, including time at the not-to-be-missed Vigeland Sculpture Park. We had time enough to take in the Munch, coming away blown away by this artist.
Our day in Oslo is a perfect way to end our almost three weeks in Exploring the British Isles and Norway. Alas, tomorrow it’s up well before dawn to make the flights home.
You can check out pictures of London and Bergen on previous posts.
In summary ...
A beautiful ship, spacious, of Scandinavian design. Viking staff warm, personable, always present with a smile and whatever assistance is needed. Fabulous food in all the eating venues.
Viking provides a great experience both on the ship and off. Three excursions really stand out as immersive and deepening.
We loved the walk in the ancient fishing village of Sandwich, near Dover. Our guide made that time in British life come alive for us. Another guide provided a deeply moving telling of the Battlefield of Culloden while we walked the muddy paths. And then the piano recital of the music of Grieg in Troldhaugen was immensely moving, transformative even.
Oh, and I forgot one. Driving down Penny Lane, listening to the Beatles, seeing the lyrics come alive through the bus windows. Oh, and I forgot another. The singing of “The Parting Lass” by our guide in Dublin. You get the idea.
Now the lowlights.
One of the disappointments for us was the absence of the close companionship we felt with other passengers on a Viking river cruise we took a couple of years ago. The larger passenger load of the ocean ship, with covid spacing, made it much harder to get to know folk and share experiences we were having. Everyone stayed to themselves or their small groups.
With the exception of Ullapool we were always herded onto buses for the excursions, seeing much but only through windows high off the ground. I don’t think I herd well, at least I don’t herd happily.
But the most difficult aspect of the cruise was the attitude that so many passengers showed to the covid precautions. At least once a day we were advised that masks were to be worn in all public areas except when actively eating.
Over the course of the cruise more and more folk didn’t wear masks in those public areas or went around with their noses above the mask. It was like another contagion catching on: if one person can go barefaced or bare-nosed then many more think that they can too. Toward the end of the cruise we stopped going to the Atrium and Living Room because so many people were unmasked there, some of them coughing away.
When an unmasked fellow passenger sat beside me in the Star Theatre I asked him if he would put a mask on as he was sitting just inches away. Grumbling he did, muttering that he would because I was being “a Nazi” about it. He muttered that he didn’t believe in the effectiveness of masking. I suppose he felt that if he didn’t believe in it he had the right not to do it. A few minutes later he got up and walked away. I suspect that I ruined his evening.
This disregard for health precautions by so many passengers showed disrespect of the Viking staff who were working so hard for us. The ship was the workplace and living quarters for that staff. The disrespect of them was, well, just as plain as the nose on those passengers’ faces. Unfortunately.
All of this made me wonder … if our ship was ever to do the Titanic thing would a large portion of passengers refuse the lifeboats because they had the right to stay on the ship? They'd paid their fare, no one can make them get off, and they really didn’t believe the ship would ever sink.
As much as we loved the wonderful ship, the more spacious stateroom, fabulous itinerary, great variety of dining opportunities, we won’t do another ocean cruise for a while. We look forward to a Viking river cruise in the fall, thinking it might be a better match to our interests and perspective.
Viking provides a great experience both on the ship and off. Three excursions really stand out as immersive and deepening.
We loved the walk in the ancient fishing village of Sandwich, near Dover. Our guide made that time in British life come alive for us. Another guide provided a deeply moving telling of the Battlefield of Culloden while we walked the muddy paths. And then the piano recital of the music of Grieg in Troldhaugen was immensely moving, transformative even.
Oh, and I forgot one. Driving down Penny Lane, listening to the Beatles, seeing the lyrics come alive through the bus windows. Oh, and I forgot another. The singing of “The Parting Lass” by our guide in Dublin. You get the idea.
Now the lowlights.
One of the disappointments for us was the absence of the close companionship we felt with other passengers on a Viking river cruise we took a couple of years ago. The larger passenger load of the ocean ship, with covid spacing, made it much harder to get to know folk and share experiences we were having. Everyone stayed to themselves or their small groups.
With the exception of Ullapool we were always herded onto buses for the excursions, seeing much but only through windows high off the ground. I don’t think I herd well, at least I don’t herd happily.
But the most difficult aspect of the cruise was the attitude that so many passengers showed to the covid precautions. At least once a day we were advised that masks were to be worn in all public areas except when actively eating.
Over the course of the cruise more and more folk didn’t wear masks in those public areas or went around with their noses above the mask. It was like another contagion catching on: if one person can go barefaced or bare-nosed then many more think that they can too. Toward the end of the cruise we stopped going to the Atrium and Living Room because so many people were unmasked there, some of them coughing away.
When an unmasked fellow passenger sat beside me in the Star Theatre I asked him if he would put a mask on as he was sitting just inches away. Grumbling he did, muttering that he would because I was being “a Nazi” about it. He muttered that he didn’t believe in the effectiveness of masking. I suppose he felt that if he didn’t believe in it he had the right not to do it. A few minutes later he got up and walked away. I suspect that I ruined his evening.
This disregard for health precautions by so many passengers showed disrespect of the Viking staff who were working so hard for us. The ship was the workplace and living quarters for that staff. The disrespect of them was, well, just as plain as the nose on those passengers’ faces. Unfortunately.
All of this made me wonder … if our ship was ever to do the Titanic thing would a large portion of passengers refuse the lifeboats because they had the right to stay on the ship? They'd paid their fare, no one can make them get off, and they really didn’t believe the ship would ever sink.
As much as we loved the wonderful ship, the more spacious stateroom, fabulous itinerary, great variety of dining opportunities, we won’t do another ocean cruise for a while. We look forward to a Viking river cruise in the fall, thinking it might be a better match to our interests and perspective.