Pages from My Passport E-Book

Amelia Dalton

• Herausgeber: Sandstone Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Being paid to explore sounded like a dream job. From Norway to Madagascar, by campervan, taxi, boat and small plane, Amelia Dalton hunted down remote archipelagos, deserted beaches and tiny local museums to create expedition holidays with a difference. On the way she was abandoned on an unpopulated island and escaped a hotel fire – and worse. Pages from my Passport is a memoir of adventures, disasters and occasional triumphs, all infused with Amelia's unquenchable enthusiasm.

Leseprobe

For ten years, Amelia Dalton owned a small ship running cruises to the remote island chains of Scotland’s stunning West Coast. She worked closely with The National Trust for Scotland, and gained her commercial qualifications as a Captain. Amelia advises for individual clients on river and ocean cruises and runs her own travel company, Amelia Dalton Travel.

Also by this author

Mistress and Commander: High jinks, high seas and Highlanders

First published in Great Britain in 2023

Sandstone Press LtdPO Box 41Muir of OrdIV6 7YXScotland

www.sandstonepress.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

Copyright © Amelia Dalton 2023Editor: Moira Forsyth

The moral right of Amelia Dalton to be recognised as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

ISBN: 978-1-913207-78-6ISBNe: 978-1-913207-79-3

Cover design by Nathan Burton

Ebook compilation by Iolaire, Newtonmore

To my talented, resourceful and entertaining son Hugo. Without him, I might not be here.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Chatting with Helly Handsome from a fjord ferryPassing a fjord village en route to the Seabird Museum‘The smell of money’ amongst the Lofoten peaks.Blue waters flecked by the occasional sailing dhowThe Indian Ocean programme to come - Zanzibar to Madagascar.‘Marie Antoinette’s farm’ amongst the Madagascar paddy fields.My challenge: the muddy, shallow and uncharted waters of Baly Bay spread uninvitingly below.Coconut palms curved over the water.Dugouts for fishing were drawn up on the beachHugo, all six foot four of him, overwhelmed the flimsy plane.I took an exotic beastie with me, perched happily on my hat.Another exotic beastie, the Angonoka, with its horny prongOverhead was an arboreal teddy bears’ picnic: Sifka lemur.Regular traffic on the road across the island.Our beach was pristine and perfect, giving no hint of dangers to come.Exploring the Mitsio Archipelago with a much-used chart.Striking islands and beaches amongst the archipelago.‘You stay here, I know what to do.’ Hugo takes over my job.My chosen ‘dog-bone’ island, beaches, coral, and snorkelling. Hugo does the recce.Every girl needs a good sun hat.Shopping for lunch at the Islands of the MoonSpices, lentils and beans, the exotic-scented, orderly markets of Asmara, EritreaDahlak Kebir, the guide shows me evidence of the ancient civilization at The Gate of Tears.The Ship’s Naming Ceremony; no hat but finery for HRH, the Princess Royal.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Maps

List of Illustrations

The Story So Far

1. At Last! We Go to Sea

2. Ocean Village, Southampton: Of Bilges and A Man

3. Czech Republic: Castles & Pugs

4. Czech Republic: Candles and Cakes

5. Norway: Beset by Trolls

6. Russia: St Petersburg, Bombs and Shards

7. Yorkshire: Is the Future Tartan?

8. Norway: Abandoned

9. Norway: Fjords and Pancakes with White Van Man

10. Greece: A Yellow-peril Tour

11. Madagascar: A Land of Exotic Beasties

12. Madagascar: A Land of Dangerous Beasties

13. Tanzania: Burn-out in Dar es Salaam

14. The Comoros: Islands of the Moon

15. The Maldives: Cyclones & Seaplanes

16. The Seychelles: Fruit Carving and Dumper Trucks

17. Eritrea: The Land of Punt

18. Eritrea: Isles at the Gate of Tears

19. Greece: Chóras and A Knight

Acknowledgements

I owe many, many thanks to those who enabled me to flex the Pages of my Passport.

Firstly, to the Hebridean Spirit team. Together we created a stylish ship to voyage in many seas visiting secret corners and remote islands. Particular thanks go to Andrew Quarrie who gave me a chance, to Michael Fenton for his faith in my abilities and to the ship’s captains and crew who took on the challenges of unknown anchorages and uncharted waters. You all sewed the Pages together.

To Lee Durrell, who has embraced and been a vital element of so many of my adventures from Madagascar to Borneo, to Alexander McCall Smith, whose company and talks were such an inspiration at the Tobermory Book Festival and to Moira at Sandstone Press, who again has wrestled with my wayward prose and to Peter Hughes for his advice and encouragement.

The Story So Far

I decided on a whim, in my thirties, when I should have known better, to plunge into the salty, men-only business of ship-owning, taking everyone by surprise, not least myself. I was born into Yorkshire county life and lived like a butterfly, dining and dancing in great country houses. A care-free life of hunt balls, shooting parties and idyllic family seaside holidays in Scotland, on a small boat. A boat that changed my life.

After the sudden death of my treasured younger son, Digby, at the age of eight, I decided to set up an expedition cruise business to support a Scottish skipper. Together we found a boat in Denmark, Monaco, a sturdy eighty-five-foot Arctic trawler, built of solid oak. It was about as far from whimsy as a boat could be. My first book, Mistress and Commander, charts the years of crises amongst Scotland’s coastal communities, the chauvinism, adventures and quirky passengers that followed.

My raffish Skipper schooled me in seamanship; in turn, I tutored him in Scotland’s wildflowers and fauna, until one day he disappeared. A succession of skippers followed, one incontinent, others randy, none permanent. The only solution was for me to take on the officials and to achieve a commercial skipper’s ticket.

Eventually, the Scottish escapade came to an end. But I needed a job – and I longed to be back at sea. So I dusted off my passport . . .

1

At Last! We Go to Sea

‘Amelia, did you get the memo?’

Michael watched me bound up the gangway two treads at a time, enthusiasm lending impetus to my legs. I knew I was cutting it fine, but it had been worth it.

I had needed to see him, just one more time.

‘What memo?’ I asked breathlessly. Michael Fenton was keen on memos.

‘The one about Marigolds? Did you bring them? Pink or yellow?’ he asked, his voice fizzing with excitement.

‘Oh, rubber gloves! Yellow, more nautical than pink, I reckoned,’ I replied, thankful I had remembered them. Do I smell of stale pub, smoke and booze, I wondered?

It was a big day. There would be champagne, marbled Highland beef, Scottish prawns, Tobermory Cheddar, lobster and Colonsay oysters. All far more appealing than rubber gloves. Only the very top-quality west coast produce had been carefully loaded on board, and I was relieved I had missed the bustle of vans, lorries and tradesmen. The two vessels lay quietly alongside the quay, almost smugly, waiting for the off while Oban’s small fishing fleet of battered trawlers, tangled with clam dredges, masts and radar aerials, provided a stark contrast to the two navy-blue hulls, glossy and immaculate. The bridge, cabin windows, davits and rails all sparkled with fresh paint, white and crisp in the morning light. The two ships occupied most of the pier and had even succeeded in taking over the space reserved for the CalMac inter-island ferries. Their air of glamour, prosperity and elegance was palpable and striking. The ‘new’ ship, Hebridean Spirit, lay astern of the elderly lady Hebridean Princess, and Scotland’s cruise line, now grown from one to two sleek vessels, brought an air of modernity and glamour to the grey granite of Oban.

Today was both an end – the end of extensive refurbishment – and a beginning. Today, three years’ worth of dreams were to become a reality, and a large portion of the buck, or the millions of bucks, stopped with me. Soon, well-heeled passengers with sky-high expectations would saunter up the gangway, be presented with canapés and bubbly and introduced to their ‘staterooms’. They were not mere cabins on this fancy ship. Even the gangway, enlivened with bunches of daisies and silver thistles, had a marine blue carpet. From the moment of arrival on the quay, there was to be no doubt that this, the world’s newest small cruise ship, would also be the most exclusive. Stylish and elegant, she would lead the world in chic expeditionary travel.

There was no hiding. I was responsible: responsible for the captain knowing where he was to go and where he should anchor; responsible for the crew knowing at which jetty to land our precious passengers. Once ashore, I was responsible for the passengers’ entertainment; after all, they were the raison d’être. From churches to museums, dancing to wine tasting, beach barbecues to concerts, bird watching to snorkelling, every element was my responsibility. Three years of searching, exploring remote coasts and islands, of recces and inspections were about to become frighteningly real. Until this moment, the passengers had been virtual. But now, after all the years of planning, my itineraries would run, be tested and operated. Would my far-flung schedules live up to my colourful brochure descriptions? Had I succeeded in replicating the romance of Scotland’s lonely islands in other parts of the world? Had I found the St Kilda, Rum or Jura of far-flung countries? Would the Med, Indian Ocean and Baltic prove as enticing as the charms of the Outer Hebrides, Skye and Mull?

Any moment now the new ship, with a full complement to test the systems, would be off on her ‘shake-down cruise’ from Oban to Leith where she would be officially ‘Named’, followed immediately by her first real cruise, with real passengers. It was fully booked.

Finally, Hebridean Spirit was ready.

Well, kind of.

Oban was bustling, the waterfront thronging with visitors impeding my path to the pub. I had just enough time to see him. But holidaymakers, many elderly and white-haired, doddered along, making good use of sticks and walking frames, whiling away their day. It was the usual, low-spend, inactive bunch that Oban seemed to attract. I pressed on, trying to weave my way through without barging into anyone. But I was determined. I had to see him. For so many years Cubby MacKinnon had exasperated, amused and annoyed me, and had almost ruled my life. It was seven years since I had last seen him but being back in Oban presented an opportunity – one I had long wondered about and did not want to miss.

The moment I ducked through the low doorway into the Oban Arms, I knew he was there. His smooth, sexy voice, laden with double entendres, was unmistakable. From the wheelhouse high above the water, Cubby’s quips, tall stories and blether had entertained islanders, passengers, the Coast Guard and fishing communities. For the years when he was Skipper of ‘my’ boat, Monaco, the Arctic trawler we had found together in Denmark, he had been a powerful presence. I had bought Monaco for him to operate and together we had battled with storms, daft passengers, dodgy finances and crippling bureaucracy.

Naturally, he was propping up the bar, regaling anyone who would listen to his seadog tales, denouncing the scourge of fish farms or proclaiming which island grew the best Golden Wonder potatoes. He spotted me as I came in but there was not the slightest hesitation in his story, just a knowing wink. It was a tale I knew well, a good one, the one about hiding in the bracken on Jura, tickling trout and escaping from the Laird.

‘Aye, well, I’ll be leaving you all just now.’ He straightened up and moved across the floor to a table by the window. Carefully setting down his partially drunk pint and whisky chaser, he turned and looked directly at me.

‘So, it’s yourself . . . Let me see you now. It’s been that long, you’ll be a wee bit heavier!’

‘Cubby – what cheek! You’re a wee bit greyer yourself!’ I retaliated. Really, despite a little grey in his beard and moustache, and at his temples, he looked just the same, and with the same mocking twinkle in those ‘sea’ eyes.

‘You’ll have time for a wee sensation?’ he asked. I remembered his father asking the same question many years ago, in a life before I knew anything of the sea, before I had been sucked into the charms, vagaries and complications of the west coast.

‘But of course. And I want to hear all about what you’ve been up to.’ I had heard about the new boat a shipyard was converting for him to operate cruises to St Kilda.

‘Aye, and what have you been up to?’ he asked. ‘Have you a new boyfriend?’ He had always been perceptive.

‘No, Cubby, I have not.’ But maybe I had. His question flipped my thoughts away, away to the man I thought of as HH. Was he married, had he a girlfriend? Where did he live? As yet I had no idea; HH had given nothing away.

‘Och, well there’s hope still for me, then?’ the warmth in Cubby’s voice, welcoming as ever, brought me back to the harbourside pub.

‘Cubby, there’s always hope for you!’ I lied, smiling at him with affection.

‘Aye, so you say, but I can see I’m too late, you’ve a wee look in your eyes that tells me otherwise.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘And I can see you’ve moved up in the world.’ He nodded towards the two sleek vessels beside the quay.

‘Well, I’ve got to earn my living somehow! They look smart, don’t you think?’

‘Aye, smart enough,’ he agreed, almost reluctantly. ‘And you’ve plenty of potential out there.’ He waved the almost-empty whisky glass towards the esplanade. ‘If they’ve a stick or Zimmer, you just smile and give them a brochure.’

‘Cubby, that’s shocking! Anyway, the new ship is an expedition ship with beach landings on islands all over the place. Norway, Russia, Egypt, Eritrea, Oman, India, you name it.’ I hoped it sounded grand.

‘They’ll be needing plenty of spondulicks too, then.’

‘Mmmm, it’s not cheap, but it will be great value,’ I replied loyally. ‘And we’re upping the ”adventure” element for Princess too.’

‘You’ve done well to be ready on time.’ He was fishing for a story to regale the pub with later.

‘Not much choice. The ship’s got to get round to Leith for the Naming Ceremony with Princess Anne. She won’t be able to change her diary, so we have to be on time. But there’ll be no paying passengers in the cabins until after that. They will come on board immediately after the ceremony for the first cruise to Norway, but we’ve lunches, teas and dinners every day till Leith.’

‘So where are you going to be for all these fancy meals?’ he asked, teasing out a line of tobacco and positioning it neatly along a Rizzla paper.

‘Oh, all the way round. Douglas, Liverpool, Dublin, you name it, and I’ve got her into the Pool of London for three nights,’ I said. ‘It seems opening Tower Bridge is free, and I love the idea of stopping all the rush hour city traffic. Watching the bridge open from the water will be fun.’ I was smiling at the thought.

‘Och, have you no sense of economy, girl? The bridge may be free, but what about all the charges once you’re through? Lightermen and all. It’ll be a closed shop, everything tightly controlled.’

Since I had last seen him, I had travelled from the Arctic to the Tropics while Cubby stayed in his home patch among the Scottish islands, fishing and boating. Yet he still knew more about the whole business than I did.

‘Cubby, I’ve got to go. You’re the one who taught me the importance of being on time. I’d be in real trouble if they left without me.’ He picked up his whisky, drained the final drop and set the empty glass down on the ring-marked tabletop.

‘Aye, aye. Well, it’s been grand to see you.’ He looked almost sad and somehow smaller. Seeing him had stirred up a lot of buried feelings. His warmth, piercing sexy gaze and playful humour were still as attractive. But through his charms crept the same hint of unpredictability. Our disputes resulting in a tribunal were long gone, yet that old sinking feeling of constant worry, of dodgy finances and frightening accountability came welling up. Now, I was responsible again, but this time there was a whole raft of other people to share the load, a fancy ship and a well-founded company for support.

Being late now would be much worse.

‘You’ve only just made it.’ Michael’s rebuke brought me back to the present.

‘Are we leaving now?’ I asked, still trying to catch my breath and shake off the memories of Cubby – and my feelings.

‘In precisely six minutes. Both ships will sail together down the sound. Princess first of course, then we’ll follow. The chopper for the video should be here any minute. We’ll have a management meeting in a couple of hours once we’re down by Jura, so I hope you’re ready.’ He scanned the waters looking across the harbour.

I suddenly remembered his question. ‘So, why the Marigolds?’

‘A few things still to be done,’ came his economical reply.

‘Things that need Marigolds?’

‘One or two of the bathrooms, and possibly the heads, seem to be giving trouble. Hopefully, the engineers can fix them, and with any luck, you won’t need them.’

I jumped as gurgles and squeals like a sick pig burst out from above. Then, across the bay, above the finger of the Hutcheson Memorial, a dark spot grew, clattering towards us above the yachts on moorings in the Kerrera marina, coming to hover by the cardinal buoy marking the channel south, past Kerrera. The chopper had arrived. Now the piper had his pig under control and ‘Scotland the Brave’ skirled around the ship. As if by divine command, the clouds parted and the sun burst through, illuminating the whole harbour. Hebridean Princess gave two short toots and, belying her age, pulled smartly away from the quay, her bow swung round to head down the sound. On board Hebridean Spirit, the whole ship seemed to be holding its breath. We waited. A little tremor shook the decks as life and her identity swept up from her keel. Hebridean Spirit became a living ship. Like all ships, she would have a character, and we would have no choice but to get to know her.

The two vessels, both a rich marine blue with a red waterline and white superstructure, sailed together for the first time.

Kerrera, its low hills green with mid-summer bracken dotted with sheep, slid past to starboard. To port, on the mainland side, knots of on-lookers stood outside the few white houses scattered along the coast road. The people of Oban watched and waved from among billows of blue and pink hydrangeas.

Scotland’s cruise line sailed serenely past. The crew, none of whom I knew, grinned. Everyone grinned. The air of excitement was universal.

We had just one day left before our first potential passengers came on board to look round, so for the moment the manifest comprised shipyard lads and a bunch of Andrew the purser’s friends. He had told them what they were in for. They were on board to clean. This was not a jolly. I fought my way along the passageway where rolls of carpet lay idly like giant Swiss rolls, pictures leant nonchalantly against the walls, cardboard boxes huddled together. There was plenty still to be completed.

‘Anyone seen Andrew?’ a voice shouted above the general hubbub in Reception.

As the romantically named archipelago ‘the Isles of the Sea’ drew abeam, Princess gave a blast of her horn and turned a few degrees west heading towards Iona. Her decks were lined with waving, cheering passengers, on their cruise to the Barra and beyond. Spirit replied, and we headed south towards the Isle of Man and our first ‘show-off’ port.

Lacking an official job on board, I slipped up to the top deck to enjoy the surroundings. These were waters I knew well with deep-sea lochs and secret anchorages which Cubby had introduced me to, where he had anchored Monaco in golden evenings or tucked her away from winter storms. We had dropped off our passengers ashore to walk and revel in the seclusion and peace on many different islands. Once I had had a happy married life with two little boys and a springer spaniel. A life before death and Scotland had changed me.

There, to port, between the islands of Scarba and Jura lay the infamous Corryvreckan, ‘the cauldron of the speckled sea’. The turbulent waters looked benign at neap tide in the afternoon sun but playing the eddies and tidal currents had been Cubby’s ‘thing’, another aspect of his practical seamanship. Through him, in the good times, I had managed to achieve my marine qualifications, but would that experience and knowledge be adequate now? Was I sufficiently experienced to create a complete passenger programme for this new ship?The responsibility was now inescapable. As soon as HRH had named her, the passengers would come on board and my itineraries would be put to the test.

The ‘Show Off Tour’ with stops at Douglas, Liverpool, Dartmouth, Plymouth and Dover slipped by in a frenzy of entertaining. Mounds of vol au vents, canapés and copious champagne, each day an endless succession of greeting, smiling and also pride as the inhabitants of each port came to look over the ship and, we hoped, choose their future cabin. Mornings were for coffee with eclairs and croissants. Lunches were lavish buffets and tea, waist-threatening with tarts and scones. Dinners were of Scotland’s best: scallops and Colonsay oysters, wild salmon and prawns, haggis and marbled beef preceded cranachan, rich with oatmeal, cream and raspberries. Each day we grew fatter and increasingly exhausted. The moment a meal was done, and the passengers had ambled down the gangway, we returned to join the shipyard lads working in shifts to finalise another cabin. My Marigolds were wearing thin. There was a hole in the right thumb, not an appealing thought should I have to unblock one of the heads.

From the outer entrance of the estuary, the Thames is tricky. All the way upstream, from Canvey Island, past the porticoes of Greenwich, the rows of warehouses, right through Tower Bridge and until we tied up alongside HMS Belfast, the captain would have to be on his toes, but for me, with no responsibilities, it would be the passage of a lifetime.

‘What time will we be entering the Thames?’ I asked, determined not to miss a moment whatever time of day or night it might be.

‘The bridge lift is scheduled for eight thirty tomorrow morning,’ the captain replied, a glint of satisfaction in his eye. Raising the roadway during the morning rush hour would create a jam. The traffic had to be stopped while the bascules slowly lifted apart to allow us through.

‘How did you swing that one?’ I asked, enjoying the pun.

He shrugged. ‘Just depends on the tide. Anyway, with the amount we’re paying, I reckon they can open it whenever we want.’

‘But it’s free! That’s why I put the Pool of London into the schedule,’ I said, afraid that, at the very start of my planning, I had missed something.

‘Yes, sorry, you’re right. It’s not the bridge that’s costly, but once we’re through we’re a sitting duck. Thank God we don’t need a tug to get alongside Belfast.’

Cubby had been right. The need for a tug had not even occurred to me. Unhappily, I left, pushing through the heavy steel door. I had anticipated the manoeuvring would be tricky but neither the captain nor the marine department had made any objection. Increasingly I felt overwhelmed by nerves. Would the itineraries I had constructed so carefully for so many years, work? Were they actually operable? Had I thought of every aspect? Landing fees, Customs clearances? What else had I missed? I had studied depths, anchorages and wind patterns for so many seas and ports.

My brief from Michael had been to replicate the intimate cruises Hebridean Princess had been making so successfully around Scotland’s convoluted coasts. I was to find the equivalent of the west coast worldwide. Archipelagos, islands, lochs, castles and communities that echoed those so-successful Scottish voyages taking people to visit the remote and inaccessible. For three years, I had not stopped. I had created sequences of voyages ranging from northern Norway east to India. I had found distant islands, tiny ports with colourful histories and small museums rich with local interest.

Immediately the bottle had been smashed, Spirit would be off. She would set sail for Bergen with all the staterooms filled. Every passenger would be anticipating an unforgettable experience as they cruised among the unknown Norwegian islands and remoter fjords in this elegant small ship. Some had booked more than two years ago. Expectations ran high and my job was to turn their expectations into reality.

Would my plans work? What had I forgotten? I felt, unusually, slightly seasick.

Rain, relentless and drenching, forced me back under the steel overhang. I knew better than to seek cover on the bridge: navigating in the narrow waters of the tidal Thames required non-stop concentration, even in good visibility. But the estuary was wider than I had anticipated. Muddy water stretched away to port and starboard, muddy and dirty compared with the clear waters we had left behind in Scotland. Sea and sky merged into grey nothingness. Surrounded by mud flats and low land, the crew would be relying on the navigational equipment as Hebridean Spirit made her way carefully upstream.

06.45 on the twenty-fifth of June. How could the weather be like this? June should be sunshine, roses, frocks and fancy hats, strawberries and cream. And this evening we had our biggest, most prestigious party.

These invitations had amused me. How could the Directors be ‘At Home’ on the ship? They all lived in Yorkshire.

‘Amelia! Amelia!’ My name was being called urgently over the Tannoy. ‘Please come to Reception.’ Giving myself a shake to remove as much of the rain as I could, I pushed through the weathertight door. At last, the carpet in Reception was going down.

‘Are, there you are.’ Michael looked frazzled, his glasses were smeared and his hair was in need of a comb. He fired questions at me. ‘What are the plans for tonight? Will we be tied alongside Belfast? She’ll be closed to the public by then. Are people allowed to cross her? How will the Chairman get on board?’

I tried to be reassuring ‘I’m sure Andrew or the first officer will have sorted the ship’s arrangements out. We have a couple of launches hired to ferry people across the river from Tower Pier as the tenders aren’t here yet.’

Immediately I mentioned the tenders I realised it was a mistake. The tenders were being specially designed and built in Orkney. They were entirely Michael’s babies. But they were not on board, we did not have them and with every day I became increasingly terrified they would not be ready. By now there had been several terse conversations about this.

‘Amelia, don’t worry, they’ll be waiting, ready for us in Leith. I know how critical they are.’ Did he realise they would be needed several times every day, all through the Norwegian fjords and islands to get passengers ashore? Without tenders my carefully designed itineraries were inoperable.

Hoping to divert him, I said, ‘The Watermen wouldn’t let us use our own tenders, anyway.’

He turned towards the door. ‘Come up to the bridge.’ He disappeared up the stairs, but I knew this was not a good moment to interrupt the deck officers.

No one even stirred as the Managing Director entered. Tension filled the air. No chat, no scanning for dolphins or sipping of coffee. Just concentration. I slipped through the portside door onto the bridge wing to be out of the way. We were just passing the looming UFO of the Millennium Dome. Visibility was improving. Slowly the ship turned a corner, following the river as it snaked inland. Weak rays of yellow morning light began to squeeze through the rain clouds.

‘Nearly there,’ said Michael, oblivious to the tension. White colonnades and pepper pots of the Old Naval College, elegant reminders of Greenwich’s long maritime history, rolled slowly past on the port side. A few more twists and turns, north then west until a distant sound of sirens floated towards us over the muddy water. Tower Bridge, all gables, turrets, walkways and Victorian charm, looped across the river ahead barring the ship’s progress. Hebridean Spirit swept nearer as a little crack appeared and slowly, smoothly, it grew. Steadily and surprisingly quickly the bascules pivoted, the road lifted and parted. Just visible above the blue and white railings were vans, trucks and lorries, queuing in the morning rush.

Smoothly, Hebridean Spirit slipped between the piers and under the high walkway. Pale faces peered, staring over the balustrades at the smart navy blue and white ship. Engines revved impatiently. Almost before the stern was through the sirens wailed again and the road quickly descended, returning to its place providing passage across the river. Close by on the port shoulder lay HMS Belfast. Heaving lines snaked out from Spirit crossing the few yards of turbulent water. Fat ropes followed, hauled over the gap. Black fenders, like taut, giant aubergines became gently squeezed as Spirit snuggled up to Belfast. Smoothly she came alongside. The captain grinned.

The stacks of boxes in Reception were lower, the piles of logo’d fleeces still in their tissue paper had diminished. Fluffy bath robes, neatly folded on pristine bed covers, now graced their appropriate staterooms. By degrees the ship was becoming an entity, not exactly ‘a well-oiled machine’, but the crew were slicker and smarter by the day.

Fresh from a shower and in evening clothes, Michael looked a little more relaxed. He asked me to go ashore to meet the Chairman and his party, as he still had plenty to do on board.

‘Of course I will, a pleasure. Pity about the rain, but we can show off the new brollies. I’ll take a clutch with me.’ I grasped an armful from the polished brass stand.

With the wash from every passing boat, the slight wooden pier rocked. Minutes stretched out as I waited. Despite the rain, the Thames bustled with boats. Disco lights pulsed, flashes of electric pink and blue danced in slithering patterns across the water. Michael Jackson’s world drowned out the roar of City traffic. To my left the Tower, still a formidable bulk, exuded menace, lurking grey and grim in the mist. Where on earth were the Chairman and his party?

‘Amelia. Amelia.’ The VHF clipped to my lifejacket burst into life. ‘Amelia, this is Hebridean Spirit. Channel 73.’

‘Channel 73.’ I twisted the little knob.

‘Have they arrived?’ The captain was curt. ‘I can’t see anyone through the binoculars. Anyone with you on the pontoon?’

‘No, ‘fraid it’s still just me.’

‘Rats! No one at all?’ His irritation crackled through the air.

‘Nope, sorry.’

‘Blast! Well, they’ve missed their party. The launch has had to go off now, they won’t extend their hours. Pity we don’t have the tenders, but there’s nothing I can do.’

‘Oh no! Does Michael know?’

‘No, he seems to have disappeared, probably in one of the cabins fixing something. Will you be Ok?’

‘Yes, no problem for me. I’ll just go home. But all that food and drink, what a waste and the galley’s been working for hours!’

‘Good evening.’ From behind me came a gentle, educated voice. I turned to see an elegant man in a grey suit walking onto the wooden boards, his long face creased into a rather strained smile.

‘Are you anything to do with Hebridean Spirit?’ Behind him, teetering in high heels, cowering under brollies and swathed in macs, came a gaggle of flimsy dresses, accompanied by dark-suited men. Tentatively they stepped onto the bouncing jetty.

‘Hello! Good evening. Yes, I’m Amelia.’ I held out my hand.

‘I do apologise we’re so late. There was a hold up on the embankment and then the minibus didn’t seem to know how to find this pier.’

‘Just a moment, please. I’ll give the ship a shout.’ I walked out of earshot to the end of the pier. ‘Hebridean Spirit, Hebridean Spirit, this is Amelia. Captain, they’re here now. What do you think? Any chance you can whistle up that launch?’

‘No, afraid not. As I said it’s gone off until the end of the evening. It will be back then to return people ashore. Nothing we can do, I’m afraid.’ Was it relief in his voice?

I turned, wondering how to break the news, my gaze sweeping across the ruffled rain-spattered waters. The disco boats had all disappeared down river, taking their parties of dancing revellers on to different sodden views. There was no good way to tell the chairman and shareholders I was unable to get them onto their ship.

Then, in the distance, under the central arch of London Bridge, I saw a small tug chugging rapidly towards me, borne swiftly downstream on the ebbing tide. I twirled the VHF to Channel 67.

‘Tug under London Bridge. Tug under London Bridge. This is Amelia.’ Silence. He would be past me soon. I had to make him stop.

‘Vessel under London Bridge! Vessel under London Bridge! This is Amelia.’

‘Amelia. This is Dougie. Channel 77.’

‘Dougie, hello, thanks for responding. I can tell you’re a Scotsman. Could I beg your help, please? Can you help that wee Scottish ship over there, Hebridean Spirit?’ I didn’t give him time to reply. ‘I’m on Tower Pier, abeam of you now and I’ve a few folks here with me. I really need to get them on board Spirit. Do you think you could give them a quick lift across, please? Our launch has done a bunk and we’re really stuck.’

The current was fast, any moment now he would be too far downstream and be gone.

‘Och, it’s time for my tea. Johnny’s just away down to the galley to fetch it. Would it be Ok in half an hour? I’ll take my tea and then I’ll be back to take you over.’

Would he come back? The Chairman and his guests would not be happy waiting in the cold and rain on a windy pier.

‘Not really,’ I said. ‘They’re VIPs. Now, if you were to pop them over you could tie alongside. You and the lads can have your tea on board. Tea with a wee dram of course.’ Water swirled at the stern of the tug as he put on the brakes and began to turn.

‘Hebridean Spirit, Hebridean Spirit, this isAmelia.’

‘Go ahead, Amelia.’

‘Please tell Michael and Andrew the chairman’s party will be on board in a moment. And ask the galley to get a good tea ready for the Skipper and crew of this tug, with a dram or two. And maybe you’d like to give a bottle of the ship’s whisky to the skipper?’

It was the lack of movement that woke me. Jumping out of bed, I pulled back the curtains. Below the window stretched the concrete quay of Leith. An incongruous line of brass stanchions stood to attention, linked by blue cord, resplendent with gold tassels. We had arrived.

How could I have overslept this morning, of all mornings? Quickly, I dressed, tugging on jeans. The new white dress, hanging in the cupboard, waited. It had been waiting for several years.

The ship was strangely still and silent. After the constant hustle of the past days when an average of three hundred people had dined, wined, peered and poked their way round, it seemed delightfully quiet and empty. Even on the bridge.

‘Morning. Any sign of the tenders?’ They had been promised at every port where we had docked.

The watch gulped his tea. ‘No. All quiet. Dougie’s touching up a few chips in the paint, so it’ll have time to dry.’ He waved his mug at the open foredeck where the anchor winch and bits were all painted an unassuming dove grey. ‘Do you think we’ll be needing them for Norway?’