Oh, and there was the moose.
Saturday, we drove down to Epsom to stay overnight with my sister, Linda, and her family. So, among other things, it was good to see Mary again.
It was also good to take the pressure off the Sunday drive. Epsom to Southampton is a quick two hour blast down the M3. I would hate to contemplate Liverpool to Southampton against the clock; it just feels as though it's asking for trouble to guarantee that there will be no hold-ups or accidents in those circumstances.
Anyhow, we arrived at Southampton early on Sunday afternoon and did battle with the poorly signposted road network. It was only thanks to Ross's sharp eyes that we found the gates to Dock 10. If it was like this in days gone by, it is a wonder that any of Titanic's passengers arrived in time to drown.
Being part of the wheelchair fraternity, we got on board during the first influx and into our cabin. Ours is by no means among the most luxurious on board. However, it will do us fine. I have certainly been in smaller and less well laid out and appointed hotel rooms. One major initial disappointment is the lack of power-points in the room. I am sure that there is something about this on the P&O website stating that each room has numerous sockets. I shall just have to see.
The first meal was more than acceptable. We have been warned that gluttony is an enormous problem on cruise ships. Certainly the range and quantity of food gives me pause for thought. We are seated with a party from the Southampton area for our evening meals; the four of them seem quite jolly - two sisters (Avis and Maureen), one with husband (Brian) and one widowed, plus elderly mother (Nelsy), who would appear to be something of a game old buzzard.
We could have partied til dawn but decided to follow our normal routine and turned in at around 9pm to listen to a talking book and go to sleep. Surprisingly, for a new bed which was gently rocking on the English Channel and throbbing with the ship's motors, we both got off to sleep very quickly.
In a sense, this was a nothing day. We were are sea. We could have attended a variety of improving talks but missed out on them all. We could have gone to see a couple of films but opted for neither. We could have witnessed a spectacular musical show but we avoided it. We could have participated in an art auction but we declined the offer. We could have joined in with numerous physical fitness opportunities but we gave them a miss.
Instead, we lazed and ate for most of the day.
We've booked the first of our trips ashore. One of the problems we encountered when planning this holiday was the complete reticence of some travel companies to give adequate information about mobility issues. P&O seemed better then most and yet even their brochure was confusing. Some tours were labelled as being flat but also as being unsuitable for people using wheelchairs.
So, we decided to wait until we could talk to someone in the know. First off, the desk for tour bookings does not allow for someone at wheelchair height and the operative behind the counter did not seem at ease with the situation. There was a handout which gave some better details of which tours would be best and some encouragement from our guide but the really disappointing news was that, in all likelihood, Ross would not be allowed into the Hermitage in St Petersburg with his wheelchair. If this is a long-standing policy decision by the Russians, then I do not understand why P&O do not make this abundantly clear in their promotional literature.
But we've booked tours for Oslo, Copenhagen, Riga and Tallin. Our first port of call is so close to the town that you can walk into the centre within 15 minutes. So, we've decided to take things easy and do our own thing. Ross can gradually gear up to doing more as the holiday progresses.
We're both very new to all of this and both of us have temporarily regressed a little as a consequence. I'm wanting everything done by the rules and Ross has come over all needy and helpless. As we both regain our self-assuredness, we'll pick up again.
One area where my servitude to rules has clashed with the circumstances is over dress for dinner. There are supposed to be three levels of formality from casual to informal to formal. Tonight is labelled formal. However, in practice, when Ross asked, he doesn't have to wear a suit providing that he has a shirt with a collar and tie. I just think, why bother stating the expectations when, in practice, they barely exist. For me, it is one layer of extra hassle that I don't need.
Some other increasing impressions.
We are among the youngest passengers on board. Ross is certainly one of the youngest; I am in the bottom 20%. I have nothing against this as it does mean that behaviour is consistently quiet and civilised. It does mean that, as we meet other people during meal times, we are exposed to conversations which are highly illiberal in tone and content and people whose one joy seems to be in complaining about lapses of service.
There is one other male couple on board. We have not made contact and I doubt that we shall. I would imagine that one is older than Ross and the other is younger than me. I suspect that they lead a very different life style to ours.
Most of the domestic staff hail from Goa. Our Cabin Stewart is called Melwin; our Waiter is Inacio; our Head Waiter is Dolphe. Goa was under Portuguese control for a long while so this maybe accounts for some of those names. It does mean that there are some very gorgeous smiles and bodies out there but none that are overwhelmingly appealing.
There appear to be several teams designated by different uniforms. There are inside bar staff, deck-side bar staff, restaurant waiters, waiters for the self-service restaurant, cabin staff, cleaning staff, maintenance staff, security staff, staff in khaki whose duties I have not yet fathomed. All of these are non-white. Then there are the officers of the ship; they are all white, if not English.
I suspect that there is some sort of pecking order in all of this so that restaurant staff are a cut above self-service staff who are a cut above the deck-side staff. However, there are probably all sorts of nuances within this. I am sure that it is not unlike the hierarchies in the classic English country house.
So, there is a sea of brown faces in service to the white faces of the passengers. I suspect that, for many of our fellow travellers, one of the guilty pleasures is living out an Imperial fantasy of Britains ruling the waves whilst dusky natives minister to your every whim.
Our first land drop is in Norway just on the Skagerrak. It is Norway's fifth largest city and appears to be of a size and scope similar to Falmouth (ie not big at all). We seemed to arrive on the day of some summer rock festival. There were certainly lots of sound stages set up and lots of youth disporting themselves. With dinky little islands and lots of yachts and powerboats and clear sparkling water, it all seemed rather idyllic. I'll bet it's a different story in the teeth of winter.
There's not a lot else to say about the place. Some unremarkable but pleasant wooden houses which are a talking point of the town. A circular fort which is the major historical feature (and I am sure that we were cruised by a young man whilst we were there). A pleasant enough cathedral which sports wooden pillars and a very austere and Calvinist ambiance (think spiritual Ikea) - we gate crashed part of an organ recital and got to hear a version of Barber's Adagio, something by Mozart and some pieces by Sir Charles Villiars Stanford no less. It was all something and nothing really.
Stuffed, of course.
And it's there on the quay to greet passengers as they embarked and disembarked. Its
position and appearance sort of summed the place up. It's a one moose town.
By now we are into our stride. I am off to the self-service buffet for my breakfast whilst Ross gets into gear in a more leisurely fashion with a shower and some food which we have purloined over the previous twenty-four hours.
Then it's down to the quayside and onto a bus for the organised tour which we have booked. As usual it's a blend of being told about things that we don't need to know about and visiting things that we wouldn't necessarily have gone to.
We would probably have gone to the Viking Boat Museum although it is a way out
of the city centre. I was knocked out by the shape of the ocean going boat. It felt
completely organic to me. The prow, particularly, looked to me like some sort of ripe
fig fruit. And the mast seemed to grow out of a large seed rather like some sort of
world ash tree.
I certainly wouldn't have gone up into the mountains to see the modern turf-roofed houses or the ski lift or the old style hotels and churches.
We would probably have missed out on the best bit which was the Vigeland Sculpture
Park. Planned, conceived and executed by Gustav Vigeland in the first half of the
twentieth century and supported by the City of Oslo, it is a large park filled with
over 400 sculptures of the human form in both granite and bronze. Based on the
wheel of life (and, I think, much influenced by Indian Vedic sculptures), there
are pieces representing all ages of life in all sorts of poses from individuals
standing or in motion to piles of children crawling all over each other and the
astonishing obelisk of life.
It is one of the reasons why I would consider returning to Oslo some day. Others include visiting the new opera house when it opens and visiting the Edward Munch museum.
I got to see some Munch's during the afternoon. Whilst Ross slept, I took the shuttle bus into town and went to the National Gallery of Norway. I would have to say that, as a whole, the collection was somewhat disappointing. Taken as a whole, the collections on Merseyside probably offer a better survey of Western European art over the past millennium.
However, the collection of works by Munch are astounding. Most are in just one room. But what a room. Aside from famous works (like the first version of The Scream and Madonna), there were a number of absolutely stunning creations.
I spent two periods of 10-15 minutes in the room and it was enough. The works are so powerful (and disturbing) that more time spent with them would be injurious. I suspect that Munch was not a wholesome man and I suspect that, for him, the boundaries between the gross, material world and the worlds of energy and spirit were slight - and that this was not necessarily a healthy thing.
Take for example, a painting of a young, pubescent girl. She is caught naked and vulnerable on the transition into physical maturity. Her breasts are small and she protects and conceals her sex with crossed legs and arms. It is a naturalistic and sympathetic pose. And yet, behind her and to the right, there is an amorphous shape. At a first glance, it could be her shadow and yet it is totally the wrong shape and size. I think that it is her anima, her spirit, her aura and I get the feeling that Munch was painting what he saw.
And, if so, it makes sense of the strange bendings of perspective and form that crop up throughout his work. A painting of three young women on a bridge on a balmy summer's night contains one of these vortexes in the bottom right hand corner. It is as though time and matter were coalescing and getting sucked in together.
There's a similar effect in a painting about grief which depicts the moments in a sick room immediately after the death of a loved one. There's a strong underlying naturalism. But then there are various elements, the lower part of a dress for example, where matter suddenly starts to blur as though the fringes of objects are breaking down.
A pleasant stroll back to the ship and then it was the now reassuring routine of drinks, showers, relaxation, a long meal, a walk on the deck to view the construction site which will be the Opera House and then bed.
Ross and I have known each other for ten years.
I started the day with a walk round the deck with Avis. She asked me about Ross and ME; I asked her about bereavement and widowhood. Not usual topics of conversation for two people on holiday but then neither of us are very usual.
We have some tiles in our bathroom which have come loose; Ross cut his foot on one. Though inconvenient, the real problem will be if they cannot fix them that we may be asked to move cabins. Normally, an upgrade is sought after. However, I do not know that it would give us any benefits whatsoever. We are quite amidships, which minimises any movement through tossing on the high seas. And on deck four we are also not so high up that we feel the full effects of yaw (ie side to sides motion). Deck 4 is the promenade deck so we are very convenient for a quick constitutional before bed - four turns is just over a mile. And we are close to the central lift which takes us straight down to the restaurant and up to the enclosed sun deck.
Ross and I had breakfast in the self-service restaurant and then down to the quay for our bus tour of Copenhagen. This was alright. We did stop at the Little Mermaid statue; we did get to see the royal palaces; we did go passed the Tivoli gardens. Most helpfully we did get a sense of orientation about the city though, frankly, a lot of the weaving about was to given us a sense of unnatural distance which was belied by the constant references to Copenhagen being small and village-like.
It does, however, sport a magnificent new opera house endowed by one of Denmark's richest citizens. Roland has already attended a Ring cycle there and rates it very highly.
We left the tour at the end and struck out for ourselves. We had an overpriced touristic sandwich and coffee on the main pedestrianised shopping street. We wandered a bit. We visited the National Museum of Art and Design; the best bits were the Italian Renaissance majolica plates (fine art and design is not really my thing though I'm happy to acknowledge the craft involved). And we walked back to the boat.
I do like Copenhagen. I think that I prefer it to Oslo. Oslo seems quite parochial and dour. Copenhagen is lighter and brighter and, certainly in the centre, has much more of the rococo architecture of the 18th century from when it was a centre of European culture. However, Olso boasts two giants in Ibsen and Munch and at least one more of note in Vigeland. Copenhagen doesn't seem to be quite so blessed in recent times beyond Hans Christian Andersson. The Norwegians punch above their weight in the world stakes - throw in Amundsen, Nansen, Greig and Nobel and you see what I mean.
But there's a gentleness and a refinement and a romance in Copenhagen that I respond to.
And we got to hear a remarkable and romantic tale of Dagmar, a Danish princess. Her sister, Alexandra, married the British Edward VII. She married the Russian Czar and was the mother of Alexander II. When their brother Frederick became King of Denmark, the two sisters bought a country house on the shores of the Baltic north of Copenhagen for their relaxation. As a consequence, there is both an Anglican and a Russian Orthodox church in the centre of the city.
Come the Revolution, Alexandra organised for a battleship to evacuate her sister from the Crimea whilst her son and his family went up against the wall at Ekaterinburgh. Dagmar came to live in her summer house just north of Copenhagen. When she died, her wish was to be buried next to her husband in St Petersburg. The Soviets said Nyet. Currently, she is buried in Copenhagen. This September, her mortal remains (what remain of them) will be laid to rest in St Petersburg. President Putin needs all the good press that he can get.
The story of Dagmar's youngest daughter is even more poignant. She was forced by Dagmar into a loveless first marriage in Russia. It didn't work and the girl managed to persuade Alexander to grant a divorce. She then married a commoner for which Dagmar never forgave her. Again, come the Revolution, the two of them somehow got out. They came to Denmark and bought a farm and so a princess of the blood became a farmer's wife and made a success of it. However, the Russians were not so happy with this and so diplomatic hints were made to the effect that Canada was looking for good farmers and so the two of them moved there. The second husband died and a third, Canadian, was acquired. She died in Toronto.
Thus, sometimes, are the European upheavals of the twentieth century measured. It would make a remarkable mini-series on television.
Getting back we found our bathroom floor fixed and breathed a sigh of relief at not having to move cabin. We've got quite settled where we are. The rest of our dinner party were up in the grill and so we sped through our evening meal, much to the obvious delight of Inacio who must be fed up of us being among the last tables to clear the dining room.
It was a quiet evening before another day at sea tomorrow when we plough our way across the Baltic towards the Eastern shores and Latvia and Estonia. Thus ends the first phase of our cruise.