Ocean Waves

Crept out in the dark cold dank Hampshire morning, Amy in the car and me firing up the rumbling grunt of the 1600cc twin engine, the pipes carelessly pointing at my Dad’s bedroom window to sing him a last annoying wake up call from his last annoying son. Short but cold leg down to Portsmouth. 

I love ferries! Such a civilised way to travel. Cozy in our little cabin, cooler box stuffed with my beer and Amy’s wine, the 30 hour crossing to Spain is just pure lazing around. 

Piss stinky but cosy for 30 hours

I’ve ridden numerous bikes down to Spain through France before and never actually done the maths. The reason for this Santander route was simply one of survival. Cutting out 500 miles of France was only because January temperatures (plus the really ugly, boring flat bits in the north) aren’t conducive to comfort, or indeed survival on a bike, as 5c is quickly reduced to -5c windchill at speed.

Of course this sounds more than tolerable to most real men, but when you’re churning along at 90 mph, being hammered and buffeted like a heavyweight boxer, for hours and hours, perched upon a throbbing arse and burning coccyx (and more than likely drenched through with icy rain), it is so bloody horrible. 

It’s hard for car drivers to really appreciate the pure horrors of some biking, when so accustomed to the warm comfort of that warm comfy metal box in which we all love to sit.

Anyway, it turns out, after much spreadsheet shenanigans, it actually works out a bit cheaper the longer the ferry route, so not only do I start my biking journey in the more temperate climes of northern Spain and save myself 500 miles of bruising arse kicking, but I save myself a few Bob, to be spent no doubt on £3:40 pints in the bar.

Tribute to Nigel....a Majestic twin sighted in Portsmouth

My cheapness doesn’t always favour me as this ferry attests. It’s the runt of the fleet, the oldest they have with more rust stains than paint and designed more for the 2 hr hop to calais than the 30 hr ocean hike we’re on.

The cabin shower pod stank of old mans piss, which I ingeniously resolved by having a shower whilst squirting shower gel and hot water all over the walls, loo and floor, getting on my hands and knees and scrubbing all the nooks and crannies I could find to banish the stench. 

The boat is mainly full of leathery English chavs and really tiny Spanish lorry drivers, though having just popped to the bar I found a gaggle of larger(and fatter)English lorry drivers, most of whom aren’t aware of earphones and slouch everywhere, pint in hand watching some squawking film or football match on their device at full bloody throttle, so everybody else has to endure their collective, cacophony, cocktail of crap...(phew). 

Tempted to put on the Stevie Ray Vaughan at full volume, but quickly dismissed such folly...I huffed instead and drank my beer, trying to grasp the plot or half time scores.

Amy and I spent most of the day slouching on our little foam beds. Actually really nice knowing there is nothing whatsoever else we should be doing, especially after the traumas and last minute shite we had to do, sort and arrange before leaving for our little adventure (although Amy did the Bulk of everything, I felt most of the pain, as always)

I love airplane food and miss school dinners, but olde French ferry food is something else. The kitchen smell sort of kills your appetite even before you get to the restaurant (look, I love greasy spoons and all sorts of bottom feeding, but only when they celebrate their shitness, not trying to pretend they’re something better). 

Managed to hook a plastic label from my salad and showed it to the cashier ( what! No waiters!....this really is a canteen). Interestingly, I was more concerned they might not believe it was real, like I was a professional food spoiler, always looking to stitch up innocent restaurants, I took a pic of offending label and even apologised for complaining. 

Label was actually the only edible part

The manager (who had nicely nautical gold braided cuffs) was most apologetic and waived the cost plus two free cocktail tickets for the bar. The result was totally non-confrontational and strangely anticlimactic, but when Amy asked me; ‘If the Captain had taken time to deal with the food problem, who was ‘driving the boat?’, a hint of joy returned to my soul.

I’m in the bar now, necking another fantastic £3:40 pint of Kronebourg while Amy gets settled back into her favourite prone position she’s occupied all day. She somehow thinks I’m a bit drunk, but as she has spent little vertical time aboard, she has no appreciation of the pitch and roll this ocean creates....the Channel gets quite big as it becomes the Celtic Sea and unlike the Dover Straits, sight of land soon vanishes. 

To bed...Amy tucked up in her bunk watching her downloaded 135th episode of made in Chelsea, but obviously distracted and keen to ask me about the ship’s heave, as I enter the piss stinky cabin.

Since Amy recently confided a fear of being on a ship on the open ocean, I have naturally recalled any suitable info that might terrify her just a little bit more.

Earlier in the day, as fog shrouded the English Channel, the ship emitted a fog horn blast every 90 seconds. As shipping is generally spotted on radar, they give the blast to also warn whales out of the way, so I explained about whales and rogue ships in our path, along with icebergs, pods of killer whales breaching dangerously close to our bow and even ghost ships and though she pretended not to believe me on all of it, I knew she wasn’t entirely sure.

Coincidentally, any recent conversations with family or friends involving the Bay of Biscay, you’d be forgiven for thinking it like a French 'Cape Horn'. Most people have been helpful in their tales of winter storms and rough seas. Amy googled it and the first article she found was about a stricken vessel being salvaged...'all souls lost'.

Sometime during the night we will enter this terrifying icy graveyard and just seeing Amy pop a sleeping pill, makes me proud of the fine work done.