There are twelve people queueing at the boarding gate for the ship — twelve pilgrims on foot. And because we’re at the back, behind two nuns, the security guard eyes me up like the last, least-nice disciple, Judas. I’m invited for a gentle French frisking, front and back, at the end of which the guard seems somewhat disappointed.
“OK, you can go,” he sighs, and returns to his post by the x-ray machine. Then The Mathematician’s bag comes through.
“Um,” he says to her, “you have a penknife. Do you have a penknife?”
The Mathematician pulls a face and frowns. “A penknife,” she says. “Where?”
“In your bag.”
“In my bag? No, I don’t think I do …” She begins to rummage through. “This?” she says, lifting out a mechanical pencil.
“No, that’s a pencil. Behind your bathroom bag — I think there’s a penknife.”
“Hm … Oh, this?”
“That’s a toothbrush. A penknife — do you have one?”
“I really don’t think I do. Behind the bathroom bag, you say?” She pulls a few things out and shrugs. “Can you be a bit more specific?”
He sighs. I flash him a thirty-silver smile.
“OK.”
He waves us on. We soon catch up with the nuns who are boarding the shuttle bus.
“I completely forgot I had that,” whispers The Mathematician.
I laugh. “That definitely won’t work on the UK side.”
*
There’s something exciting about taking a lift to a covered gangway and then climbing to the seventh deck of a berthed ship, being only slightly delayed by two nylon-clad worshippers insistently showing their passports to a guard who only wants to see a boarding pass. We make our way to the grand central staircase (more shopping mall than Titanic), climb three decks past bars and bistros, and exit through a games arcade onto the port side upper deck.
Ah, the vista! Sun, sea, and sand (beyond the large stretch of lorry lanes and car parks). Caen glistens off to the south, and to the north: open sea and England. I’m marginally disappointed that the weather’s so good — I do like a bit of chop and bob. The Mathematician’s delighted. Even a glassy sea’s a wave too many for her.
“I fancy a bite of olive bread,” I say. “Want some?”
“Sure.”
We dip into the bag of Aux Normandises’ delights and retrieve a baguette. We break bread.
“It’s really olivey,” says The Mathematician.
It really is. Most every pore is packed and black and tender. We stand there and chew, eyeing the gulls like the French of a thousand years past, waiting for the last horses to park before casting off to conquer Harold(*).
A couple of lads join us — bronzed (burnt) and British, clutching beers. They laugh and lark about, find some plastic chairs and saddle up for the ride.
“Still looking forward to going back?” says The Mathematician.
I give it some thought.
*
There is, of course, a bar onboard, and once we’ve left most of the coast behind, we head down to grab a table with a sea view. It’s the Blue Note Bar, tastefully decorated with the odd saxophone or two and a few pictures of jazz musicians. A third of the tables are filled with my landsfolk. The rest are empty.
“At least they’re upright,” says The Mathematician.
True. On the deck below, by the information desk, we saw several people in various states of sprawl, like the aftermath of a zombie shooter. One lady lay draped across a couch. Cheaper than a cabin …
“Fancy a drink?” I say, eyeing the bar.
“It’s a bit early.”
“It’s nearly 6. I’ll have a gander at what’s on tap.”
John Smith’s Extra Smooth is the only thing that’s dark and not fizzy. As the barman pulls me a pint, I look about at the other tables. Most everyone has a bevvy and a packet of Pipers crisps.
“Creepy,” I say when I get back to my table.
“What is?”
“Have a look around.”
She glances at the old couple near us, the table with three young lads playing cards, the group wearing haulage firm t-shirts. She half stands to check out the rest of the place.
“Wow, everyone has a bag of crisps.”
I nod. “I think I know what all those lorries were delivering: English expeditionary supplies.”
She takes an apple from her bag. “What did you get?” she asks, nodding at my glass.
“Something I haven’t had in ages. Want to try?”
She shakes her head. “It’s a bit early.”
I tune in to the rustle and crunch of the place. It sounds like locusts at a harvest. (More like guinea pigs at a carrot but I allow myself a little beer-perbole.) I also hear something else, something I haven’t heard in ages: “Sorry”.
I’d forgotten how much the English apologise. For everything. Maybe I’ve been in Germany too long, but most sentences there don’t start or end with sorry (or contain the word anywhere, for that matter). I hear “Nah mate, sorry, but …,” as someone insists on a footy point of order; “Oh, sorry!” when someone accidentally queue-jumps at the bar. There’s sorry for passing too close to you; sorry they didn’t have the Pipers you wanted; sorry for hogging the hand dryer.
Two men sit a couple of tables from us, themselves a few tables apart. Realising they have more in common than being on the same ship, they strike up a conversation that ranges from cars to football to the state of the government (so typical pub stuff). After thirty minutes of this, one guy says, “I’ll just come over. Then I don’t have to shout.” “Oh, sorry,” says the other guy.
When the pub quiz starts — hosted by two unflappable young women — I’m reminded of something else: self deprecation. The room’s abuzz as people form teams or decide to go it alone, going up to the stage to get a little console with A, B, C, and D buttons on it. The chatty guys form a team. “Oh, I’m gonna do absolutely rubbish at this,” the mover says, smiling, as he sits.
Towards the end of the quiz (which is actually pretty good), one of the hosts reads the following question off of the TV: “Where do Chinese Gooseberries come from?” Well, China, but that isn’t on the list. The correct answer is New Zealand (rebranded there as a kiwi).
“That’s the first question I got right. Literally,” the host with the mic says.
The other holds up her hand in an “0” shape. “I got none,” she proudly declares.
I look at The Mathematician.
“That would never happen in Germany,” I say.
She shakes her head in agreement. No one there boasts about how little they know.
*
There are several more events onboard, one of the favourites being Jukebox Bingo. We still have a few hours to go before reaching Portsmouth, so I opt for a second round of hoppy hydration.
“Is it normally this quiet?” I ask the barman as he pours.
He looks up from the glass at the empty tables.
“Oh, no,” he says. “It’s just early in the season. In summer, this will be full.”
“Of British?”
“Of course.”
I take my seat as a clip from Céline Dion’s My Heart Will Go On starts playing.
“Um, I think we’ll skip that one,” says the host. “Don’t think that’s really appropriate to play on a ship.”
*
We pass the Isle of Wight shortly before sunset. It looks beautiful. Busy, but beautiful.
“There’s so much shipping around here,” I say pointing.
Tankers queue on the horizon, and numerous ferries ply the lanes. It feels a bit like pulling onto the dual carriageway after a county drive.
We pack up our stuff and head up on deck. I want to see the city as we come in. The cool air and sea smell is calming. It gets a little saltier as we cruise past Southsea and Old Portsmouth, and I’m convinced I catch a whiff of vinegar in the air.
“Chips?” says The Mathematician.
“I reckon. Just like old times.”
She squeezes my arm, then sets about taking photos. I just enjoy gazing out at the gloaming-cloaked streets. It all looks pretty small — which it is, though the height of the ship helps somewhat. I see the 15th-century Round Tower, the 16th-century castle, the 17th-century Point Battery, the 19th-century piers. (But not in that order.) Some 21st-century people wave at us from atop the Tower. We wave back. I used to do that as a kid.
“Oh my God,” I say, catching sight of the Spinnaker Tower. It’s a nice piece of design in its own right — very nautically themed — but it’s lit in gaudy purple, blue, and green neon like a psychonaut’s Christmas tree.
“That’s, um— was it always like that?” says The Mathematician.
“I think I’d remember …”
We get a great view of the HMS Victory’s bow and stern as we pass — the rest is hidden by a giant tent. Seems the flagship of the Royal Navy’s undergoing some restoration work. (She is the oldest naval vessel still in commission.) We hear a man nearby bark out “Fire!”, followed by a cannon going off.
“Think they knew you were coming,” says The Mathematician.
We pass an aircraft carrier and a few destroyers before coming alongside Whale Island, with just a sliver of light on the horizon, and are called back inside to disembark. As we step away from the magic and into the LED lighting, we’re told by staff that, as foot passengers, we’ll have to wait for all the vehicles to drive off before we can leave. You see, the Portsmouth International Port’s being refurbished, which will make things really nice for passengers in the future, but here in the present, there’s no functioning gangway. They’re going to have to send a bus in to pick us up.
Forty-five minutes later, we’re on said bus and heading to border control which, briefly, goes something like this:
Border control guy (taking my British passport): Hello there. Are you returning home?
Me: No, I live in Germany.
Border control guy: Oh? Really? [Frowns] Why are you here then?
Me: Visiting my parents. It’s their golden wedding anniversary.
Border control guy: Ah. And when do you plan to go back?
Me: Next week. Wednesday.
The Mathematician: Tuesday.
Me: Right, Tuesday.
Border control guy: Live here, do they, your parents?
Me: Yep, just a 30 minute walk from here.
Border control guy: Uh huh. OK, have a nice stay.
The Mathematician, with a German passport, gets asked no questions.
“Wow, talk about a warm welcome,” I say as we leave.
“I know. And you’re one of them!”
“Apparently not if you live in the EU.”
We set about that 30 minute walk, marvelling at how tiny the houses are, even from down here.
—
(*) Pedants beware: I know they didn’t launch from Caen. (See https://urbanmole.is/?p=54623) They did eat baguettes though.
