Ilha da Madeira

The Island of Timber lies in the Atlantic Ocean west of Morocco and north of the Canary Islands. It is a lush island renown for its beautiful flowers and is sometimes referred to as the Garden Island. I reached here after a superb, glorious, fantastic six day voyage across the Atlantic from the Caribbean. The weather had been kind and the ocean as calm as a mill pond. All that has changed now that we have left Madeira but more of that in a later posting.

I had no organised excursions booked for this port of call so headed off, map in hand, to find the old British Cemetery. I found that many roads were being dug up and new roads constructed so it was all going to be a bit hit & miss as to whether I could actually find my way or not. At one stage I was confronted by a choice of several turnings and stopped briefly to consult the map. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a young Portuguese guy pops up and explains that he is a student at the local college. One of his assignments on that particular day was to take a photograph of a tourist consulting a map. Now, in this day & age how many tourists actually bother with a street map? They either wander around aimlessly or get out their mobile phones and consult their GPS ap. This particular student was indeed lucky to have found me - although I expect he would have preferred a very much younger English rose. He showed me the image on the camera when he had taken it and I have to admit it looked quite good - map in hand with my Artemis cap perched at a jaunty angle on my head! As I had been of help to him he then assisted me by pointing out the correct road to take - and then he was off in a flash as quickly and mysteriously as he had appeared.

I climbed the narrow, cobbled streets and marvelled at the old buildings with wooden shutters and little verandahs. Here was a city that was proud of its heritage and had managed to retain its relaxed continental feel. A pair of large iron gates within a high stone wall soon came into view and I was able to peek through into the outer garden of the cemetery. A notice informed me that entry was gained through "The Green Door" a little further up the road. I found the door and pushed - it was locked. Another notice showed that it opened from 10am to 4.30pm and here I was standing outside at the ridiculously early time of 9.30am. I went wandering for 40 minutes but on returning found the door was still firmly locked. I wandered for another 20 minutes but "The Green Door" was still firmly locked. It was 10.40 by this time and I was getting a little concerned that my visit was to be in vain. Then, by the side of the door, I noticed a very old fashioned sturdy brass bell knob. The kind one would have found in the days of Dickens. There was no indication that visitors had to ring to gain entrance but I was left with no alternative. I gingerly pulled the bell knob with one hand - nothing, not a sound from anywhere. I then grasped the bell knob with both hands and yanked for all I was worth - this produced what sounded like a peel of bells and I jumped back onto the pavement at the otherside of the narrow street in alarm. A dog started barking furiously but then I noticed the catch of the door had been released and it had slid open very slightly. I pushed the door gingerly open not having a clue what I was going to find. Would there be a withered old man standing just behind it? Would there be a pack of ferocious dogs? It certainly sounded as if there could be. There was actually no-one at all, but then a few metres away in the gloom of the caretakers quarters the friendly face of lady popped out and she waved me through an archway to my left.

At last I was within the cemetery which had the air of a Victorian English walled garden. Memorial stones adorned the high walls and graves, old and new, were laid out in neat rows and squares. As normal I wandered around happily for a couple of hours taking photographs of inscriptions. Here there was no need for me to place a comforting hand on the graves for these souls had certainly not been forgotten.

In 1761 Mr William Nash, the first Consul-General of Madeira, asked the Portuguese Government if he might buy land for use as a burial ground for British residents. Prior to this time Protestants were not allowed to be buried in local cemeteries and were consigned to the deep off the coast near Garajau. An Order in Council from Lisbon dated 3 January 1761 gave approval for a cemetery in Funchal provided that it was located at the outskirts of the town; so Mr Nash bought a piece of land just outside the city wall, an area of ground centred on an old orange tree and known locally as A Larangeira. The first grave dated from 1772 and was that of Mrs Shipcote, the wife of a taverner. Her great nephew, writing in 1841, recalls being present at her burial underneath the orange tree.

This certainly was a haven of tranquility and beautifully cared for. There was no comparison at all between this cemetery and those I had found in the Caribbean - although all are magical in their own way to me. Financing for this cemetery comes solely through donations and I left 5 Euros in the tin box on the wall of the Mortuary Chapel. I did not want to leave but once again my time was limited and I had to see a little more of the city of Funchal where Artemis was berthed.

More by luck than judgement I found myself in a narrow street tucked away behind the main esplanade which was packed full of tiny, dimly lit shoe shops. I was in my element as I wandered in & out of each and to my surprise I noticed that all were run by Chinese families. I asked one lady if she were from Hong Kong - "No, Shanghai" was the reply. We then spent ages chatting about her lovely home city in China. Did I buy any shoes? Of course - two pairs, one of which has a definite nautical look. I continued to explore and came across a couple of nice pieces of handcrafted jewellery which seemed to be a good way of using up my remaining Euros.

When I left the Caribbean it was with no regrets that the stay had not been long enough. I had certainly enjoyed finding the cemeteries and would never pass up another opportunity to spend longer in them but the islands themselves hold no draw. When I left Madeira it was the feeling that I would love to return. There is so much more that I would love to see and do on this island. Perhaps one day !!!

Antigua

"The beach with an island in the middle" is perhaps the prettiest of the Caribbean islands that I visited on this trip with brilliant turquoise waters lapping gently onto sparkling white sandy beaches.

I headed off on a half day jeep tour and bumped along unmade, deeply rutted roads and through little villages which bore the names of long dead plantation owners. Goats and sheep grazed contentedly at the roadside under the mango and papaya trees as our jeep sped along and the wind rushed through our hair. We stopped on a hill overlooking English Harbour and Nelsons Dockyard and I marvelled at the kalaidoscope of blues in the waters below. Then it was on to a beach that could have dropped straight out of paradise. I kicked off my shoes, slid out of trousers and blouse and wandered along that beach without a care in the world. The water was crystal clear and inviting but I contented myself with a paddle. I could see that the beach fell away steeply and that within a metre I would have been waist deep - far too deep for me!!!!! Refreshments were served and then we were whisked back to the ship.

Antigua had been colonised by a group of refugee English planters from St. Kitts back in 1632. In 1666 it was raided by the French, assisted by Irish malcontents and Caribs, but was soon recaptured and formally restored to England in 1667. By this time slaves had been imported from Africa to work the sugar plantations. In the 18th. & 19th. centuries, during the Napoleonic Wars, Antigua was the principal British naval base in the Eastern Caribbean. Admirals Nelson, Rodney, Hood and Jervis all made the dockyard at English Harbour their headquarters. It was here that Nelson re-fitted his ships during his chase of the French which ended at Trafgalgar.

As much as I would have loved to have explored English Harbour and its old cemetery Artemis was berthed on the other side of the island at St. Johns so I had to make do with exploring locally in the afternoon. The twin towers of the Anglican cathedral of St. John rose majestically from the hillside overlooking the harbour and it was not difficult to find my way there. I was delighted to find that it had a churchyard filled with ancient old British graves. As normal, most of the brick built edifaces had eroded and fallen apart leaving the graves as the habitat for lizards large and small. Those graves that were lower to the ground and topped with thick granite slabs were seen by the locals as the ideal place to have a picnic or to lie for a siesta under the shade of an old knarled mahogany tree. The cathedral was built in 1845 to replace an earlier building destroyed by an earthquake in 1843. I had read that it has a complete inner shell of pitch pine designed to protect it against the possibility of future earthquakes. I made my way up to the entrance eager to see inside but as with the Scots Kirk in Grenada I found it locked and barred. A notice on the door informed me that an accident had occurred quite recently and it was now considered unsafe to enter. Donations towards restoration were called for. I wandered around the outside, stood on tiptoe and peered through shattered windows. The interior looked magnificant - how I wish I could have entered. I had to content myself with exploring the churchyard instead - which was absolutely no hardship !!

I ignored the locals who were chatting in small groups and lazing on the graves. I did not care what they thought of me. I had spent many years in Hong Kong happily transcribing 12,000 memorial inscriptions in the old Colonial Cemetery there and being described by the Chinese cemetery groundsmen as "The strange English lady in the straw hat". The Antiguan locals would probably think me just as strange but I had to make good use of my time. Some of the inscriptions were still easily readable and I took many photographs. My main problem turned out to be the brightness of the sun for I could see absolutely nothing on the screen of my digital camera and had to trust to good fortune that I was pointing the lens in the right direction and that I was getting the whole inscription. Once downloaded to my computer a few days later I realised that I had been a bit off course with one or two of the shots! However, many others have come out and I realise that I have photographs of graves dating back to the 1700s.

At one point during my meanderings through the graves I heard a voice calling to me - "Madam, Madam" - I looked up to find that one of the local ladies perched on a tomb was trying to catch my attention. I walked over and found that she was curious as to why and what I was doing. When I told her that I hoped to research the stories behind some of the people who lay in the churchyard she was fascinated and pointed me in the direction of a grave near the far wall - "just near the tomb where that chap in the green shirt is lying ". She told me it was a very old grave and one that had caught her attention on a number of occasions. This lady's companion was a very old gentleman whose face was as gnarled as the mahogany trees. When he smiled his face broke into a wide toothless grin but he nodded in agreement when I told of the sad lives of these early settlers who died so young from yellow fever. The lady told me of a small English cemetery near her home in Jamaica. She said it was far from the tourist trail and she wondered what stories that had to tell. Oh if only I could spend a couple of months in these tropical islands! She wished me good luck with my research and I wandered off to the graves by the far wall. I easily found the grave she had directed me to and to my astonishment found that it was for a young man who had been born in 1685 and who had died in 1710 at the age of 25. His inscription was followed by that of his wife who had died shortly after. How I hope that I can find the story behind this grave.

I bade the churchyard at St. John's a fond farewell and headed back to the ship through the duty free tourist malls. I spotted tropical cotton skirts and wraps that were identical to those which I had bought in Malaya and Thailand last year but the prices were astronomical - ten or twenty times more expensive. I did not part with my money. I found a Bodyshop with lovely tropical bubble baths at £15 per bottle. I did not part with my money. Then I found a small local pharmacy where I was able to buy some wonderful cocoanut hair conditioner and styling mousse for a very reasonable price. I did buy these. I had the equivalent of £8 left in East Caribbean dollars but there seemed to be nothing that cheap on view and I was resigned to returning to England with what would then be useless currency. As I neared the edge of the shopping mall I noticed a lady all dressed up in her Sunday best standing quietly in a corner with a collecting box in her hand. She was very dignified and made no attempt to rattle her tin. She had an old fashioned straw boater on her head and my heart warmed to her. As I got nearer I could see that the collection was to raise funds for the local Adventist Church and its community. I found my EC dollars and placed them one by one in her collecting tin. She smiled broadly, gave me a huge hug and thanked me with such sincerity that I almost cried. The few dollars which had been useless to me were at least going to a good cause.

I climbed the gangplank of the Artemis with a happy heart and bid farewell to Antigua and the Caribbean. I have no way of knowing whether I will ever return. But a new adventure awaits for I am about to make my very first crossing of the Atlantic Ocean in a very grand lady of the sea.

St. Lucia

The island was said to have been discovered by Christopher Columbus on St. Lucy's Day 13th. December 1502 but he did not set foot ashore. The British made the first attempt at a settlement when the "Olive Blossom" called here in 1605 but they were either killed or driven off by the Carib Indians. During the next 150 years the island was a subject of constant dispute between the French and British resulting in much bloodshed.

It was to Morne Fortune (Hill of Good Luck) overlooking Castries that I needed to go. A 1925 guidebook described the journey up as follows: A winding road ascends from Castries to the summit of Morne Fortune. It is a road made gracious by many trees, by cocoanut palms, by a dell or a thicket here and there, and by glimpses of the sea. All who mount this steep way will find that step by step they are carried back into the past. How many hundreds of men, French & English, have climbed this hillside with such ardour and breathless determination and with such fervent light in their eyes that one would suppose they thought to find at the top some beautific vision! If the wealth of the world had been there they could not have stormed the slope with more passionate eagerness. Yet there was nothing on the height but a mast from which hung a faded flag.

As Artemis entered the harbour at Castries I looked out over the town and up to Morne Fortune. There was no way I could follow in the soldiers steps and make the climb by foot so I had pre-booked a taxi - Fabian's Tours. As I was travelling solo it cost me an absolute fortune but at least I had the reassurance of knowing that this was a recognised tour operator who would take me exactly where I wanted to go and get me back to the ship safely after a couple of hours. I met Fabian as arranged outside the cruise terminal and he whisked me off through the town and up the winding road with hairpin bends to the top of Morne Fortune. It was good to see that many of the old colonial military buildings are now being used by the University and Colleges of St. Lucia. They are good solid edifaces and will no doubt last for many more hundreds of years. Fabian had little understanding of why I should want to visit the old military cemetery let alone why I should want to spend a whole hour or more there - but took me there he did. I would never have found it for myself for it was hidden away at the end of a narrow grass road. The 1925 guidebook describes it thus: This ever silent gathering place of the British is the most beautiful spot on the side of the hill. A number of graves are blackened with age. Some are of stone, others of weather-worn brick. Most of them tell the same story - the roll-call of the Yellow Death, the major of this regiment or the lieutenant of that, and so many of them mere lads.

It was in 1794 that the mortality was the highest. Of General Grey's original force of 7000 men at least 5000 perished in the course of that one year. The soldiers were badly housed and badly fed. Many were in rags. Grey wrote letter after letter to the Secretary of State but nothing was done. In the end he sent the message - "You seem to have forgotten us". The wonderful old guidebook goes on: It is, and always will be, a gruesome and discreditable story. If ever, on some silent tropical night, there should be heard again on the Morne Fortune the tramp of the sentry by the barrack wall and the challenge of the guard at the outpost, and if ever the stir of human life should waken among these blackened graves, the voice that would call from the summit of the hill would utter those reproachful words, "You seem to have forgotten us".

As I stepped into the cemetery I had no idea of what I might find. If the graves were blackened with age 85 years ago would anything remain now? I need not have feared. There were the graves standing proudly on their hillside. Some were huge edifaces surrounded with metal railings whilst others were simple slabs of granite. Many were in a very sad and sorry condition but I could see that it would be possible to obtain an inscription from perhaps a handful. I took many photographs and managed to transcribe a few actual inscriptions - the six year old son of a Sergeant, the nine year old daughter of a Sergeant, a 22 years old Ensign, the wife of a Government Administrator. Whether I could transcribe the inscription or not I was careful to place my hand on as many graves as possible - at least I had not forgotten these souls who had helped to forge the British Empire.

I would have loved to have spent a couple of days on that hillside examining the graves and trying to transcribe more of the inscriptions but one hour was all that I had. I bid the souls farewell. Fabian then took me on a very brief tour out to Marigot Bay where the original film of Doctor Doolittle was filmed. It was very beautiful but held none of the magic that I had found at the cemetery. Fabian despaired of me and took me back to the ship !!!

In the afternoon I wandered into town in the pouring tropical rain. I found the local people very friendly and very helpful but once again I was not interested in buying the normal tourist tat. At one point a rastafarian came pounding after me clutching his wares of plaited baskets. "Slow down, slow down I want to show you what I do" he shouted at me. This time my ploy of walking briskly with an air of knowing exactly where I was going did not work. He stood right in front of me explaining how he fashioned the baskets from fresh reeds and how in a couple of weeks they would turn from green to brown at which time they could be varnished or left in their natural state. They could be used for all manner of things. I explained that I had no room in my suitcase for a basket of that size but he came back with the reply that I could pack my knickers into it !!!!!!!! I have to admit that I did end up buying the basket just to get rid of him.

Back at the quayside I found a small shop selling modern art, antique prints and handmade jewellery. Again it was the unique handmade jewellery that caught my eye. I must have spent about an hour in there chatting to the sales lady about the various crystals and admiring piece after piece. I had a quantity of East Caribbean dollars that I needed to spend (I am full of good excuses) and eventually purchased a lovely pink druzy pendant and pink rhodocrosite ring. I returned to the ship happily clutching my purchases from St. Lucia - but my abiding memory will always be of that little cemetery high on the hillside.

Grenada

The "Isle of Spice", slightly smaller than the Isle of Wight, was fought over by the French and English throughout the 17th. & 18th. centuries. When the English first set foot on the island on All Fools Day 1609 the indigenous Carib Indians gave them such a rough reception that less than a year later the survivors abandoned their tentative settlement and sailed back home for a more peaceful life. Thirty years later the French arrived but they were compelled to leave even more hastily. They returned with a heavier force and managed to buy the island for a few hatchets, knives, beads and two bottles of brandy. When the Caribs realised they had been tricked they reverted to killing every white man they saw so the French fought back and with their greater fire power won the battle. The few remaining Caribs committed suicide by leaping off a cliff. In the mid 18th. century the tug of war between the French & English commenced with the English winning the day in 1783.

Although this was my first day in the Caribbean I did not intend to take it easy to recover from the flight instead I booked myself on an excursion entitled "Hike to Seven Sisters". Although it was described as a hike I had fond imaginings of it being a gentle amble through the rain forest. I could not have been more wrong. Our guide, Alan, drove us to the highest point on the island where we were each instructed to choose a sturdy, knotted, tree branch to act as a walking stick. We then set off through the fields to the rain forest where we began our descent down - and down - and down - and down. There were a dozen of us and most were in reasonable condition but there was one elderly gentleman who had rather weak legs and who was blind in one eye. Why on earth his wife had booked this trip is a complete mystery because I would guess that even a gentle amble would have been a challenge for him! Our sticks were essential in giving us balance as we made our descent, slipping and stumbling on the wet mountain steps. Oh yes, I have forgotten to mention that it was pouring with rain! We could not complain as Grenada has been suffering from the most dreadful drought and this was the first rain they had seen in months. We jested that it took the
British to bring the rain. Eventually we reached the bottom of the mountain path and were greeted by the sight of two crystal clear mountain pools nestling beneath a waterfall. Several of our number stripped off and jumped in - I contented myself with sitting on a rock at the waters edge. After a brief rest we had to climb back up the same path that we had descended by - there was no handy lift or escalator hidden in the depths of the forest!

Alan had a wealth of knowledge on the local fruits and herbs and seemed to know of something to cure each and every ache and ill. He would slash a small branch from a tree, strip the outer bark and present us with fresh cinnamon sticks. He shook a tree and cut a fruit apart to show us the soft inside of fresh nutmeg. We only know it as a dried up nut that is grated but here the soft fruit is used for jelly, jam and syrup. He even had us eating Begonia flowers and I must say that they tasted really good.

After our energetic hike we went on to Grand Etang Lake which is cupped in the crater of a long dead volcano. Alan broke some stale bread and threw it into the water and all of sudden there was a frenzy as fish of every shape and size came to feed. The easiest to spot were the huge golden carp but as our eyes adjusted we could make out hundreds of silvery shapes darting here there and everywhere. Then there was a brief stop at a wayside cafe where we sampled the local rum punch before heading back to the ship.

In the afternoon I went off in search of ancient British graves and memorial inscriptions. From research that I had conducted prior to the trip I knew that the old Scottish Presbyterian Church and the Anglican Church of St. George were the places to head for. The view from my balcony looked out toward the town and there on the hill I could see the tower of the Scots Kirk and a little to the left a church that I took to be St. George. Once on the quayside I was faced with a choice of several narrow looking streets all of which seemed to head off in the right direction but which to take was a bit of a mystery. As I was contemplating I noticed a group of local gentleman - one was obviously a soldier as he was a giant of a man dressed in camouflage khaki. The others appeared to be policemen. I enquired the way and the soldier, who towered over me, kindly pointed out the correct street and gave me exact instructions on where to turn. Off I set on one of my mini solo adventures. As I was striding along I was conscience of a voice which seemed to be calling to me. I could not make out the words but turned around to see a lanky male (as black as the proverbial ace of spades) sprawled in a deck chair in the shade of a tree. I called out "good afternoon" and he took a second take and said "Oh you are English - I thought you were German!" - no wonder I had not instantly recognised the words he called to me.

When I reached the Scots Kirk I was absolutely gutted to find that all that remained was the tower and three walls. The main gate was firmly padlocked and a notice informed me that US $1 million was needed for the restoration project. Apparently Hurrican Ivan had devastated the town in 2004 and the old church had virtually been destroyed. I climbed up an embankment and peered over the walls of the churchyard and took some photos. It was obviously going to be impossible to get any inscriptions from here. I carried on to St. Georges and found a similar situation although here at least I was able to enter. I wandered inside the roofless church and was saddened at the utter devastation. But then, on the walls I noticed plaques. All around the inner walls were memorials to those who had played a part in the history of the island. They had not been destroyed, although they were in a dreadful condition and very difficult to read. I photographed them all and came to know a Lieutenant in the 71st. Highland Regiment who had died of yellow fever in 1844 at the age of 24; the young wife of the Surgeon to the Forces who died, aged 27, in 1813; and the memorial to the officers and privates of HM Forces who had lost their lives during the rebellions of 1795 & 1796. So my journey had not been in vain. I did have a few inscriptions and I hoped to follow up on these and find out a little more about the lives of these lost souls when I get back home to London.

As I returned along the same narrow streets I again passed the tall lanky guy who was taking his siesta in the shade of the tree. He wanted to know where I had been and what I had seen. As I was no longer in a rush I stopped and chatted with him. It turned out that he was one of many self employed tour guides. He told me that normally he would be at the quayside greeting tourists and touting for custom but this afternoon he just didn't have the energy and had collapsed in a chair. When I had originally wandered by he had thought of chasing after me to sell a local tour but I was walking too fast so he had let me go. I have found in the past that walking briskly with an air of knowing where one is going does have a tendency to deter locals. The fact that I don't normally have a clue where I am going is beside the point !! This guy did not look as if he was any kind of threat to me and I was happy to chat. When he heard I was interested in the churches he pulled some photos from his pocket and showed me pictures of the Cathedral shortly after the hurrican had hit. He told me that the Cathedral was being restored but that work on restoring the two churches was probably many years away. I waved him goodbye and made my way back to the ship.

I still had an hour to spare and mooched around the shops and stalls at the quayside. Most were selling a lot of tourist tat at extortionate prices but I did buy some Nutmeg jam and Nutmeg syrup. Then, quite by chance, I stumbled across a lady who was selling handmade glass and sterling silver jewellery. The pieces were really modern and eye catching. Maria had been born in Warsaw and had studied art first at Warsaw University and then in Rajastan, India (another of my very favourite places). Some of her pieces of stained glass adorn Alexandra Palace in London, Caius College in Cambridge and she is even responsible for the Pharaoh heads on the Egyptian escalator in Harrods. In 2000 Maria moved her studio from London to Grenada which is where I found her nodding off to sleep at her stall at the quayside. She jumped to her feet a little bit dazed and I felt dreadful for having disturbed her siesta. Having said that I was entranced by every single piece of jewellery she had on display. After a very enjoyable 20 minutes I purchased an absolutely stunning black and silver bracelet.

Back on the ship I relaxed on the balcony with a cup of tea and reflected on my day. I felt sadness at the destruction wrought by Hurrican Ivan but I had been touched by the kindness and gentleness of the local people. Suddenly the unmistakable beat of steel drums and the sound of Caribbean reggae music floated through the air. I looked over the balcony to find passengers from the Rum Runner tour returning to the ship on their catamaran. There was no doubting that they had consumed an awful lot of the local rum for there was one hell of a party going on down below. They swayed to the beat of the drums waving their arms in the air. I waved back from my balcony - and thanked my lucky stars that I had not chosen that particular tour !!!

We glided out of the harbour at sunset and set course for St. Lucia.

The Little Ship with the Big Heart

It was with a sense of relief that I boarded mv Artemis in Bridgetown, Barbados on Saturday. The 8 hour flight was excellent and had passed in a flash. As we touched down all passengers on the Thomson flight from Gatwick were excited at the prospect of the cruise and eagerly gathered up their belongings in readiness to deplane. After 15 minutes of standing in the gangways it became obvious that we were going nowhere and eventually our Captain confirmed this fact stating that apparently as three flights had arrived together P & O were quite unable to cope with the number of people booking in. None of us could come up with a reasonable explanation as to why the arrival of three airplanes within 30 minutes caused such a problem for P & O - surely they knew we were all arriving at this time as they had set the schedule !!

There was nothing for it but to wait - and wait - and wait - for one whole hour still cramped up on the airplane. Eventually we were allowed to leave and were ushered directly onto coaches which whisked us off to the dock where cruise ships berth. On arrival there was another 30 minutes of waiting on the coach because again there were too many people in the tent which P & O were using as their Booking In Hall. By this time it was 5pm in the afternoon and when the time difference was taken into account we had all been travelling for a minimum of 15 hours. When we were allowed to join the queue within the tent who were the first members of the ships staff that we came across - yes, you have guessed it - the photographers. Two very pretty young ladies, full of fun and exuberance shouted "Photo Time" and expected each of us to stand in front of a very tatty brightly coloured backdrop to have an embarkation photo taken for our holiday albums. After such a long day and with the delays on arrival I can't say any of us were in the mood. I instantly became a grumpy old woman and refused point blank to embarrass myself with a photo. I remembered the awful photo from Southampton a year ago and at that time I was excited and happy - goodness knows what this would have been like had I succumbed.

The good news was that by 5.30pm I was aboard Artemis and in my cabin. The bad news was that dinner was at 6.15pm and that suitcases were not expected to be delivered until 9pm !! It was a very bedraggled bunch of passengers who dragged themselves into the restaurant on that first night - most dressed in clothes that they had been wearing for 16 - 17 hours. When I returned to my cabin I discovered that I could not get the door to open. I tried the keycard all different ways. Nothing. I pushed and struggled with the handle. The door remained tightly closed. I went in search of my cabin steward, Carlos, and naturally when he tried the door opened as if by magic. I tried again with Carlos standing at my side. Nothing. He did it again and it opened. I did it and the door stayed closed !!! I began to feel that perhaps senility was setting in. The Deck Officer had to be called and it was he who taught me the knack of opening cabin A448. Apparently I had to change from being a "delicate flower" into a "sumo wrestler" and instead of just gently pushing the door handle down I had to attack it with some gusto. I am pleased to report that I only needed the one lesson. Since that first day I have heard stories of other passengers who have had similar experiences - some have even tried kicking their doors in!

Some contributors on the P & O Community website describe the Artemis as a "rust bucket" , however, my own description would be that she has "a touch of antiquity". It is the end of a long season for her and it is true that the rust is beginning to show through in places but this will all be removed during her spring spruce-up on her return to Southampton. I had also read that she suffers from a continual "shake, rattle & roll" but I have to admit that I find the constant throb of the engines a reassuring & comforting sensation when in the middle of the ocean. It reminds me that I am on a voyage on one the very grand ladies of the sea. Artemis was built in 1984 for the Princess Cruise Line and was originally called the Royal Princess. She was named by our very own Fairy Tale Princess - Princess Diana. When she was bought by P & O she was renamed the Artemis and now has only one more year in service before being sold on yet again.
I am as happy as the proverbially sandboy in Cabin A448. It is a tiny cabin when compared to that which I had on Arcadia last year but it is more than sufficient for a 2 week holiday. It even has its own little balcony where I spend many happy hours relaxing and watching the ever changing seascape. I am on the Port side of the ship (for the benefit of land lubbers that is the left hand side) which means that I see the sunshine during the afternoons when the sun begins its descent to the west.

This being the first full day at sea meant that I was able to resume my exercise regime of pounding the boards of the Promenade Deck after breakfast. A small plaque on deck informed me that 1 mile equalled 3.65 laps and I noticed that the wooden boards where bleached from the salt spray and as smooth as silk from the millions of pairs of feet that had pounded them in the past. I was pleased to see that the other preambulators on deck at that time were all going in an anti-clockwise direction. I don't know why but for me, at least, this is by far the best direction to travel in. On the Arcadia there did not seem to be any set direction of travel and that ended up as complete mayhem as everyone tried to dodge everyone else. Off I set at a hearty pace down the Port side. When I reached the back and turned to return up the Starboard side I found I was suddenly battling the most almighty sea breeze which caught that side of the ship. It was a matter of digging in and pushing against it. On this my first morning I have to admit that because of the very strong wind I only managed 8 laps ( a little over 2 miles).

Artemis is described by the crew as "The Little Ship with the Big Heart" and from what I have seen she has a wonderful quirky personality. She has corridors which seem to go nowhere except dead ends. She has staircases which suddenly end leaving one wondering in which direction to go next. Her public areas on deck extend to the very front of the ship making it possible to sit just below the webcam and feel that one is on the bridge navigating her across the ocean. There is also no doubting that one is at sea for even in a calmish waters I can feel the motion as if I am a cork bouncing around in a basin. This is something that I never felt on the larger Arcadia. But it is not an unpleasant feeling - at least not when the wind is only Force 3. I am just hoping that the weather is kind to us and that we do not hit a Force 10 Gale !!!!!! For anyone who is interested it is possible for you all to see the view from the webcam on Artemis and see the view of the ocean that I have. Just go the the P & O Cruise website and choose the option that is headed SHIPS. A list of all P & O ships will come up and at the bottom you should see WEBCAMS & TRACKING. If you click on this it will bring up the webcams from all the P & O ships. You will need to wait a couple of minutes for a connection to be made as the view has to be beamed down from a satellite and is not instant. After a couple of minutes you should see the views through each of the webcams and Artemis should be the second on the screen.

If a photo appears at the head of this blog it will be one that I took of Artemis whilst we were in Antigua. She is berthed alongside one of her big sisters, the Oceanea, which meant a lot of tourists in port on that particular day. At present I am not certain whether I will be able to download a photo whilst at sea so forgive me if none appears.

In the next few days I will try to find time to write a little about Grenada, St. Lucia and Antigua - although most of it will probably be about my search to find old British graves. So if you are interested please return to Travels with Twiglet. And as my Dad would say "Over and Out".

LUGGAGE LAMENT

It is sixteen years since I last took a flight on my own and in those days I had no worries about luggage because my passage was provided by the HK Government. The allowance was somewhere in the region of 35kg and even when I exceeded this I was never actually charged for excess baggage. "Travelling Light" is a phrase completely unknown to me.

For the Grand Voyage last year I left with four suitcases plus two large holdalls (and returned with an additional two cases !). Again there was no problem with weight because I was travelling Southampton to Southampton and as long as I could actually fit the suitcases and bags into my cabin (under the beds and in the wardrobe) then all was fine.

On that icy cold January morning in 2009 when I first laid eyes on the mv Arcadia I thought she was the most beautiful ship I had ever seen. But before I could board I had to check in and there was a queue a mile long in the Arrivals Hall. How on earth was I going to manoeuvre all the luggage from the taxi up to the entrance? Martyn, my taxi driver, went off in search of a porter but there were none to be found. Gallantly he took on the role himself and ferried the suitcases over to a hole in the wall where a couple of P & O staff were unceremoniously chucking the cases through. Apparently I would not see them again until they arrived outside the cabin. I was still left with the two large holdalls so Martyn wheeled these up to the Arrivals Hall and then bid me a fond farewell. What a life saver this taxi driver had turned out to be. I did give him a very good tip!

I had to queue for about an hour but I chatted to a lady behind me and the time went by in a flash. Up to the counter I went, tickets seen, passport handed over, credit card registered, photo taken and then it was through to negotiate security. I had a small purse type handbag slung over my shoulder beneath my jackets. This contained a quantity of coins and so had to be removed. I started to undress. I also had to take off my belt as it had a metal buckle— I was then terrified in case my trousers fell down around my ankles. I was one of many thousands of people in London who had suffered from a very nasty flu virus just before Christmas and I had lost a huge amount of weight. I staggered through the metal detector desperately clutching at my trousers—thankfully they did not fall down. I then had to thread the belt back through the waistband loops, replace the handbag and put on my two jackets. Oh dear, in all my dreams of this holiday I pictured myself looking very elegant and here I was clumsily trying to get dressed in a very public place. I did the best I could, picked up my two heavy holdalls and then made for the gangway which I could see ahead of me.

“Photo time!” I heard someone shout. I looked up and to my absolute horror saw that the ship’s photographers were waiting to pounce on everyone going through. I was working solely on adrenaline at this point in time and was very hot and flustered after the security gate debacle. I was in no mood to argue so did as I was told and stood in front of the painted backdrop. I might add that when I saw the photo displayed in the Photo Gallery the next day I was absolutely horrified. It was three and a half months before I was able to bring myself to buy this particular photo. I only did so in the end in order to have a full set of "Before and After" pictures !

The photo at the head of this posting is of the luggage hall at Southampton early in the morning when we arrived back. I might add that the luggage hall extends a very, very, very long way back from this entrance and contained somewhere in the region of 7,000 cases.

On this my next adventure the ticket informs me that I am allowed 23 kg for checked in luggage plus an additional 5kg in hand luggage. Oh deary me! On my first attempt I packed absolutely everything I wanted to take and not surprisingly the suitcases weighed in at the old 35 kg weight allowance. After ten days of weeding out and re-packing I have eventually managed to meet the 23 kg limit - providing my scales are correct. I have not dared to weigh the hand luggage.

My next post will probably be from somewhere within the Bermuda Triangle - providing I manage to negotiate check-in & security at Gatwick.

Magical Mornings

Fifteen months have passed since I departed on THAT voyage, on THAT ship and in THAT very cabin which had the huge balcony. The Grand Voyage on mv Arcadia lasted 101 nights - shades of the 1001 Arabian Nights with a story for each and every day. If only I had discovered Blogger back then!

I write this just a few days before flying out of Gatwick to Barbados to join the smallest of the P & O's fleet - mv Artemis - on her Spring re-positioning cruise. There will be a few days island hopping in the Caribbean and then lots of long days at sea as she heads back across the Atlantic to Southampton. In fact we are going to be limping back on three engines as the fourth broke down last week and despite the best efforts of engineers they are not able to fix it until she returns to the UK. It means that we will be missing our stop at St. Barts but on a positive note it means that we will have an additional day at sea.

It was those long sea days that I remember most fondly from last year. A very brisk 12 laps (four miles) of the Prom Deck after breakfast set me up for the day. The Bay of Biscay was kind to me on the outward voyage but a freezing cold wind whipped around my head. I buried my ears beneath a huge white furry hat, gulped in the clean, fresh ocean air and set off at a decent pace. Certainly a bracing start to any day. The sea turned quite nasty in the Mediterranean where we hit a Force 10 gale. The Prom Deck was roped off so I sat in one of the lounges at sea level (busily chewing homeopathic anti-seasick pills) and watched the huge waves as they rolled towards us and battered the side of the ship. I was far too excited to be ill.

As we cruised through the Red Sea & Gulf of Aden our security officers became very visible on deck peering out through binoculars to spot any potential piratical attacks. I saw all sorts out on deck at 8.15am. There were the very elderly who had difficulty in putting one foot in front of the other; there were the dawdlers who wandered around in pairs chatting to each other, taking up the whole width of The Prom and totally oblivious to the fact that other people wanted to pass; there were the tryers (like myself) who made a real effort; there were the posers who donned lycra shorts and raced around for a couple of laps continually looking at their reflection in the glass windows wondering if their busts looked OK and whether their bums looked too big (!!); and finally there were the professionals or experts who were well versed in the art of exercise. Who have I missed - oh yes, there were those who did not walk at all but who thought that by coming out on deck and reclining in a chair was enough to work off that breakfast of 2 sausages, 2 pieces of black pudding, 2 eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, baked beans and toast!!

Watching all of us were the crew. Cleaners who religiously washed down all the painted and varnished surfaces every single day. Security Guards from the Philippines who's faces broke out in huge smiles. Occasionally it was possible to spot an officer in his white uniform striding off purposefully or an engineer in his blue overalls disappearing through secret doors into the bowels of the ship. And then there were the famous faces. From The Bay to Mumbai a permanent sight on The Prom early in the morning was Martin Bell in his signature white suit. All said good morning and all were so friendly.

When we reached the Indian Ocean the air turned very hot & sticky and the big melt down started. We would not feel cool again until we reached the Great Australian Blight in February.

I was forever hopeful of spotting a dolphin or even a whale but I only ever heard other people telling me THEY had seen them. I always seemed to be on the wrong side of the ship or stuck inside when I should have been outside. One particular morning, as we entered the Tasman Sea, I looked over the balcony rail and gazed at the gently rolling ever changing seascape. Every now and then gentle waves broke into small white crests. My eyes strayed to what appeared to be a group of these white crests and suddenly I realised that they were actually fins whizzing through the air and then diving into the sea. It was the dolphins!!!!!!! I watched them for several minutes as they played in a group (or should that be a pod?) to the side of the wash. All too soon they disappeared into the distance - but at last I had seen them.

We headed north again leaving Australia behind us. As we crossed the Solomon Sea and headed for the Equator the winds increased and the rain came down in sheets. The Prom was not cordoned off but trying to do my normal laps proved too much. On one side of the ship the winds buffeted me so hard that I had to hang on to the hand rail to prevent myself from being blown off my feet. On the otherside of the ship it was a matter of trying to dodge the torrents of water which dripped from the lifeboats and flooded the deck.

In early March we reached the Yellow Sea & were heading for China. The temperature had dropped to 4 degrees and the waters were choppy. As I exercised on The Prom I noticed many small boats in the distance and all were displaying red flags. They seemed to be saying "Keep Away - Keep Away". I suppose they must have been marking North Korean waters.

I didn't think anything could compare with setting foot in the Celestial Empire but the Gulf of Tongking in Vietnam did not disappoint. Local legend has it that the gods sent down a family of dragons to protect Hai Phong from invaders. While the dragons' watched over the land, their mighty tails carved the rocky seabed and Halong Bay was created. It is now known as the Home of the Descending Dragon and it is the little islands that form the humps of the tail. This was very beautiful but even that paled in comparison to the sight that greeted me as we glided into Langkawi a week later. I was on the balcony very, very early in the morning just as dawn was breaking and the most magical sight was unfolding before my eyes as the sun slowly rose over the horizon. It is almost impossible to describe the beautiful colours of blues, pinks & purples which swirled around the sky creating a mystical backdrop to tiny little islands dotted in the sea. If Halong Bay was the Home of the Descending Dragon then this surely had to be the Boudoir of his Phoenix. The photo at the head of this blog captured just one second of this particular magical morning.

I find it difficult to imagine that anything in the Caribbean or on the Artemis could match these experiences - but only time will tell.

How an adventure begins

I sat in the front passenger seat of a taxi making small talk to my driver, Martyn, on a cold, grey January day in 2009. The night had been bitterly cold and it was now trying to snow but the flakes were so tiny that they melted as soon as they touched the damp road. We were heading for Dock Gate 10 in Southampton where the P & O ship was berthed. As the taxi turned into the dock area and I caught my first sight of mv Arcadia my mouth dropped open and all I could utter was “WOW”. I could see a smile spread across Martyn’s face. He must have seen this reaction a hundred times before from virgin cruisers. The ship was absolutely huge—so much larger than I ever imagined. It towered over the berth and made me feel like the tiniest of beetles.


“Am I going on that? !!” I uttered in amazement. It was not only the magnitude of the ship that struck home at that moment but also the magnitude of the adventure that I was about to embark on. All on my own I was about to go on my very first cruise. Not only that, but it was to be a “Grand Voyage” — half way round the world and it was to last 101 nights. It turned out that Martyn had worked for P & O on cruise liners such as this for some 12 years in the past. He told me that I was going to have THE most fabulous time and that I would probably come back married. I hastened to tell him that I was definitely not going on the cruise looking for a husband. So why was I going? It was to try to pull myself out of the bottomless rut that I had dug for myself over the past few years.


During the Autumn of 2007 my very elderly and faithful dog, Lucky, was nearing the end of her life. In quiet moments during the evenings I would surf the internet looking for ideas to distract my mind from sombre thoughts. Being a genealogist I had often researched families who had made long sea voyages in the golden age of the 1920s and 1930s. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to follow in their footsteps and cross the Atlantic in style in a cruise liner? My fingers did the walking (or I suppose to be more accurate “did the sailing”!) and I searched to see how much it would cost to do such a journey on the famous Queen Mary or the new Queen Victoria. Cripes, it cost an absolute fortune just for the 7 day Atlantic crossing—never mind the return journey! And there were no single berths on these lovely ladies of the sea.


From my days in Hong Kong I knew that the Queen Elizabeth did have a small number of single cabins so I searched to see what voyages she was about to embark on. To my disappointment I found that she was due to depart very soon on her very last voyage before being sold and sent off to Dubai to become a floating hotel. My fingers continued to fly over the keyboard keeping the bad & sad thoughts at bay and eventually I found myself immersed in the P & O website. All of these ships did holiday cruises and world voyages. I was able to bring up maps of the world and see the intended routes. I was able to peek through the ship’s web cams and see views of vast oceans and foreign ports.

My imagination strayed. Now if I were able to do such a voyage which of these World Cruises would I choose? My fingers clicked away and brought up page after page of exotic places. It would have to be a voyage that went to South East Asia and Australia. Oh, look—there is one that calls at those places as well as Shanghai and Hong Kong—I could even visit the Great Wall from one of the ports in northern China. Now if I were able to do such a voyage which of the ships would I choose to go on? My fingers clicked away and brought up pictures and details of the P & O fleet. Oh look, that one looks so much sleaker than the rest—and the stern of the ship is tiered which looks so much nicer. What a coincidence for that is the ship that is doing the wonderful cruise that takes in SE Asia, Australia, China and Hong Kong! Now, if I were to do such a voyage on such a ship which of the cabins would I be able to afford? My fingers flew across the keyboard and found the pages which showed deck plans and prices. Yes, I could afford an inside cabin. Yes, I could afford a cabin with a window. But if I were doing such a trip, in such a ship wouldn’t it be nice to have a balcony so that I could relax in the fresh air in my own space. I searched some more and eventually found the perfect cabin with the perfect balcony. It was a stateroom with huge balcony right at the back of the ship. The cost? Much more than I would ever want to pay, but hey, this was all in my imagination. One can always dream can’t one?!!


As the weeks passed by Lucky became weaker and seemed to become more confused in her mind. Thursday 28th. November was her next appointment at the vets and I tried not to think about the inevitable outcome. The day dawned ominously dark and as I waited for the animal ambulance to arrive I sat on the floor and cuddled Lucky for half an hour chatting to her very softly. Then we were off. I didn’t hear a thing the driver was saying for I was trying to fight back the tears. As I carried Lucky into the Vets I could hold the tears back no longer. I broke into sobs and the vet knew it was THAT time. I cradled Lucky in my arms as she was put to sleep. It was not a pleasant experience as her muscles went into spasm and her heart gave its last beat. The vet assured me that she could not feel a thing but I screamed out for her to give in. I screamed and screamed—and cried and cried. She died in my arms.


I walked all the way home across the common in the drizzling rain. I sobbed my heart out and when I got home the anger set in. Anger at myself for not having the perseverance to nurse her longer. Stupid really. Lucky was in her eighteenth year and the reason she had lived so long was due to my stubbornness in not giving in earlier. But my mind was not seeing things rationally at that point in time and I stormed through the house chucking her bedding, rugs and feeding bowls into the dustbin. I was distraught and needed to get out. I went into town and looked at the shops. Somehow, through the haze of grief, the thought of that Grand Voyage came into my mind. Now if I were to go on such a voyage, on such a ship then I would need a nice evening dress to wear on formal nights. I went into Monsoon and there on the racks was the perfect dress. Without a moments hesitation I tried it on and bought it.


Oh dear, I had now taken a positive action. I had an evening dress to wear on a cruise that was just in my imagination. What a silly waste of money! I cried my heart out over Lucky all evening and all through the night. The very next day I went on the internet and booked THAT voyage on THAT ship in THAT very cabin that had the huge balcony!


A rash compulsive action? Most definitely!!! But then that is how an adventure begins!