Remembering the Condor Ferry, thinking of sailing in foreign seas

The prospect of seeing the English shore slip away from the deck of a vessel is dear to my heart - I'm infatuated by jets, I must admit - their white shapes piercing the upper air, the lines of their contrails, never fail to delight - but ships were always my first love -

I think of Byron, sailing to the continent, to exile and immortal fame - Scrope Davies, escaping his creditors, hiding out in Ostend - James Joyce, ending up in Trieste, the capital of nowhere -

We once got the night mail from London to Dublin - Anne and Richard were my late night fellow travellers - we drank Guinness on the boat, and blinked in the early morning sun - Bernie O'Shea helped us make a fire out of peat - there were horrific scenes inside The Blue Loo - the landlord danced on top of his bar - in Castledown Bearhaven, we thought, were surely the worst lavatories in the world - Anne sang bravely in a bar in Macgillycuddy's Reeks -

One October, I was walking on the beach at Studland - a grey sky pressed down upon an icy sea - Richard sat upon the fine white sand, in the lee of the dunes - marram grass rattled in the wind -

Suddenly, I heard a subdued roar - the great white dart of the Condor Ferry was moving into the open sea - mighty engines expelled dark fumes as the craft started to pick up speed -

I remembered racing to St Malo on this ferry - I had looked out at Old Harry - we raced past high chalk cliffs - I had been whisked away from a land of Tesco in moments - I remember chuckling with glee as we crossed the Channel - I would have been happy circling the watery globe -

Richard told me of crossings made in hazardous ferries under tropical skies - I had a sudden wish to feel a wooden deck beneath feet, moving slightly from side to side in a turquoise sea -