Saga Ruby Captain's blog

After three hot days at sea, the sea temperature finally dipped below 30 degrees centigrade, and in fact our approach towards Porto Grande (rather inappropriately named in my opinion) was under overcast skies.

The chances of rain, however, were just about ‘zilch’….with not a bush, tree or blade of grass to be seen, it was quite obvious that this island probably has a climate very similar to that of the Atacama Desert. Which can make one wander why the ancient craft used as a pilot boat was about the rustiest form of water transport I have ever seen.

Still, it did its job, eventually, and the pilot joined us once I had negotiated the maritime assault course that lay around the harbour entrance, which included a tired looking Ukrainian salvage tug, various overloaded fishing craft and a small tanker parked right off the breakwater

One thing that was particularly noticeable was the number of ocean yachts around. The port is a favourite for those yachts folk who are transferring from Europe to the Caribbean and ensures them a trade wind passage across the southern half of the Atlantic. Porto Grande is alternately known as Mindelo and was originally used as a coaling station for the first steam ships in the 19th century.

These days trade has declined significantly, hence I suppose, the shabby pilot boat and the battered looking quayside where we made fast for the afternoon. They do have a relatively new tug however and it was only after we had passed it that I realised the water cannon display was probably for us and not just a training exercise.

The one ‘Taste of the Island’ tour departed as soon as our passengers had tasted lunch on board and then there was a steady trickle of folks who took the short ride into town on the shuttle bus. We had various duties to perform so, after my third visit to the island, I have yet to get ashore.

One thing I have noticed in the few years I have been coming here with Saga is that there now seems to be a minor building boom, with a mix of what seem to be new apartments and a large hotel being constructed on the other side of the bay. A new winter holiday destination perhaps?

We left after dark, yet again having to negotiate various vessels that had rather inconveniently anchored in the harbour entrance. Our efforts to call the port control and the pilot failed, so we left without the advice of either and were similarly unable to contact the incoming inter-island ferry which, despite my obvious movement, blasts on the whistle and VHF calling, continued to approach regardless.

She passed by a few hundred feet to port with the deck passengers whistling and shouting up at us from the top deck. We were headed for the cooler waters to the north, Tenerife on Thursday...

Douglas, with his bus, was there to meet us when we arrived in Takoradi. For once we were not serenaded by any group of local entertainers, I hadn’t noticed at first, until I realised that for once I could actually hear the pilot talking to me as we docked.

My wife had volunteered to be an escort on the tour to Takum National Park and, needless to say, I had been ‘volunteered’ to assist. So we set off quite early with smiling Douglas in the driving seat for the long drive back along the Cape Coast.

Once through bustling Sekondi we passed numerous villages set either side of the road. It was quite apparent that the mobile phone revolution has even reached these poor communities as one or two of the plastered mud brick buildings have been painted either a bright yellow or pillar-box red. Emblazoned within the colour scheme were either the MTN or Vodaphone logos respectively and I could only assume that it was some sort of marketing scheme that rather unsubtly advertised the new way of communicating in the 21st century. In some of the larger towns there were even more of these painted buildings, an indication perhaps that commercial rivalry was ‘hotting up’.

After almost two hours of a sometimes very bumpy ride we arrived at the park, met our forest guide and were soon off on the trail. It was rough up hill terrain, eventually arriving at a cable – canopy walkway. This 500 meter long, 100 foot high stroll above the trees on 10 inch wide aluminium ladders covered with teak planks, supported by steel cables and wire ropes was not for the faint hearted.

The baking heat and high humidity, and probably the adrenalin, added to the unique opportunity of being on the only structure of this type in Africa, way above the ground and in amongst the very tops of the tropical trees. By the time we eventually returned to the visitors centre we were dripping with sweat and the cold local ‘Star’ beer could never have tasted so good.

Somewhat later than planned we moved off and headed for Elmina, the site of a historic Portuguese built castle back down on the coast. We hadn’t time to stop, but took a drive around the busy narrow streets of the small town and here, probably more than any where else I had seen, was a view of day to day life that must have changed little in a hundred years. In the sheltered fishing harbour boats were alongside or up out of the water next to poor shanty buildings, a few children were running around and women, some with babies tied to their backs, were cooking, washing or laying out the salted catch to dry. 

There one minute and then gone, we continued our return journey, now getting considerably behind schedule. By the time we arrived close to the outskirts of Sekondi the traffic was down to a crawling pace, I made a call and within minutes a police motor cycle rider turned up in front. Yet again, as if by magic, the traffic parted and we sped on reaching the port just a few minutes past sailing time.

Fifteen minutes later I was changed and on the bridge wing, I shouted down to Douglas as he was about to drive off in his bus back to Accra, he looked up and waved goodbye enthusiastically, a final Ghanaian smile in our final West African port.

As almost inevitably expected, there was another band and group of dancers to greet as we arrived into Tema, the largest port of Ghana. Fortunately they were not quite so loud, so I could still hear myself think while docking the ship.

In the days when this country was called the Gold Coast only surf ports existed but as trade increased there was a need for a new port to be built near the capital, Accra, which lies about 18 miles away. Nowdays the road that connects the two is about as busy as they come and the great plans of a new town consisting of an industrial residential complex has far outgrown the original intention. With new employment possibilities came a large influx of folk from up country and, despite the good intentions of the local council, a large slum area known as Ashiaman developed, and continues to grow.

We set off with a police outrider as escort for the long drive to Mampong, where the Centre for Scientific Research into Plant Medicine is based. An interesting place, but one relying on foreign funding and looking slightly ‘cash strapped’. Even so our scientist guide was both knowledgeable and enthusiastic.

Carrying on to the Aburi Botanical Gardens, laid out by the British around 1890, there was still evidence of the colonial past and the great British love for gardens. Our friendly guide took us down palm-lined avenues, past flowering tropical shrubs and had us gazing up into great hardwoods towering above.

From a distance I noticed something a little unusual and pottered over to take a closer look. It was an old Westland Whirlwind helicopter sitting somewhat dejected in a clearing and hand painted in a garish green and white. Only one rotor blade was intact, the other two bent or broken. It had been gutted of course, but it was still possible to climb inside and gaze out of the pilot’s glassless window. Other men in our group soon followed, perhaps a welcome escape from unpronounceable Latin plant names. The guide said it had been dragged in over 30 years ago, as an unlikely attraction I presume.

Our return journey was stopped for just ten minutes at a local craft market that lined the main road, sufficient time for my wife to purchase a carved stool, for our ever expanding personal West African collection I presume.  I took a photo of the happy carver and his wife proudly holding up the stool in front of his tiny open fronted shop, an image that will be kept along with his ‘business card’ as a memento and attached to the base. It gives his name ‘Kwaku Twum’ and quite gloriously underneath ‘Managing Director’.

The police motorcyclist earned his keep on the way back, the journey through the heavy traffic being something akin to the adrenalin rush one gets when skydiving. Lights flashing, siren blaring, cars and trucks pulling over alarmingly to the side of the road as Douglas the driver squeezed that coach through the smallest of gaps. Curious local folk stared at us as we sped past, no doubt wondering who the VIPs were, within moments our three coaches had past, leaving just a slowly descending cloud of dust and probably more than just a few angry Ghanaian drivers trying to get out of the deeper potholes at the roadside. Apparently this is normal…….for them.

We arrived back at the docks just minutes ahead of schedule, luck or just incredible driving, I’m still not sure.

The local dancers who greeted us on arrival in Lome were both loud and impressive, particular the two chaps on stilts, they must have been at least fifteen foot off the ground and absolutely no faltering steps or indication of impending rapid descent as had been the case yesterday.

Officials too numerous to count came on board to do the clearance, including the ‘Sanitary’ who declared us all fit and healthy. This part of the world still has some sort of need to ensure there is enough paperwork to file away somewhere, plus the requirement to have a special stamp and to use it religiously as though it will be the final seal of approval to ensure a documents legality is beyond question.

Despite the 90 plus degrees of temperature, the folks on tour went off with the usual degree of haste to ensure a window seat, Kpalime and Ewe Village, another voodoo ceremony and the regular panoramic ‘introduction’, popular amongst those that prefer to enjoy their viewing without getting out of the coach and remaining in the air conditioned splendour…of a sort.

On board, we settled down to the perhaps more mundane business of a regular emergency drill for the crew which seemed to take up most of the morning, even though, feeling slightly benevolent, I tried to reduce the time the crew had to spend out in the heat.

We took the shuttle bus into town in early afternoon. There were numerous little shops and stalls selling everything from cut flowers to the inevitable wooden carvings, clothing materials in garish colours, motorbike tyres and so much more. An hour was enough, too hot, the traffic to manic and once around the block in the very busy streets was quite sufficient to take in the ‘atmosphere’. 

The day ended with a superb evening of food and entertainment on deck. Our speed was just eight knots, the night was balmy, but with a gentle breeze and the full bright moon rose over our port quarter leaving a glistening trail in the black waters.

Cotonou, the city of the Chinese motorbike. There seemed to be thousands and thousands of them zipping around like slightly crazed ants. Even though the pilot was an hour late, apparently because he was very tired from working late the night before, we managed to claw back some time prior to the departure of the first tour to Ouidah, the voodoo cradle of Benin.

On the dockside there were containers, trucks and people seemingly everywhere, and a local musical troupe were on hand with their never ending jungle beat and blaring whistles to add just the right amount of atmosphere to the mayhem. Fortunately the plastic red and white ‘security’ tape kept back the locals from rushing forward in glee every time the stilt dancer fell over. 

We joined the second tour to Ganvie, a village built on stilts in the waters of Lake Nokoue. To get there required a forty-five minute journey on a rather battered old coach along roads that were filled with traffic, mainly of the motorbike variety. These are also used as a kind of freelance taxi, the rider being identified by his yellow shirt.

With a police cycle escort and the tour agent driving ahead with his hazards flashing, we fairly motored through the worst of the traffic, until we came to what is locally regarded as the main road junction in the whole of West Africa, Nigeria to the east, Togo and Ghana to the west and the rest of Africa to the north.

The ever-present beneficial Chinese have started to make what will be a massive underpass, overpass roundabout and there are now huge sections of new concrete road and bridge waiting to be connected up. Unfortunately there has been no sensible diversion in the meantime and traffic seems to go wherever there is a gap over ground that would be a challenge on a 4-wheel drive course. Rather spectacular in an ‘urban’ sort of way, and definitely not for the faint hearted.

Once at the lake we boarded local boats for the twenty-minute ride out to the home of the Tofinu people. Possibly since the 1700’s this stilt village and others like it had been built as a way of protection from the enemy Dahomey tribes. Now it is recognised as a tourist attraction, but the way of life seems to have changed little and we were privileged to see another totally different aspect of West African life in the raw.

Apart from small wooden and rather dilapidated homes, there were shops, a bar, school. and because they could not just step out the front door, even a small area where infants could learn to walk. We did land on a community area where local crafts were sold and yet another band entertained, along with a tethered monkey that had been trained to dance with the beat. I’m not sure the RSPCA would have been amused.

After a fascinating afternoon we returned on board and departed on time and without drama, despite the new pilots protestations and inability to follow my requests. Not used to passenger ships I think. 

During the night we passed the island of Principe and arrived to anchor two miles off the tiny port of Sao Tome before breakfast. There is a small dock for fishing craft but the waters of the harbour are to shallow for big ships. A container vessel was already at the anchorage waiting close by for a barge bringing cargo.

The tender journey took around twenty minutes and the sixteen or so officials seemed to be in no great hurry, so our efforts to get passengers ashore were somewhat delayed. Even so, off they eventually went, over to this ex Portuguese island that is lush with green scenery all the way up to its peak.

Looking over towards the non to busy ‘international airport’ I could see what appeared to be some very old looking aircrafts, so when I went ashore after lunch I convinced Luis, our local agent, to take us over to have a look. There were a pair of old Canadian registered Constellation aircrafts dating from the 50’s that had ended their days in this remote tropical spot.

Apparently they had been ferrying medical supplies and food into war torn Biafra during the struggles there. On the side, barely visible, were the words ‘ Operated for joint church aid’. The aircrafts were faded and battered, with panels fallen from the triple tail planes, and small aluminium patches glued over bullet holes. But what was rather amazing was that one had been turned into a kind of bar come house and the second was in the process of being converted.

Local guys were building walls right underneath and inside the hull, accessible by very non-airworthy looking aluminium doors. The shell inside had been panelled out in some sort of local timber and the cockpit was being prepared to become a loo (the windows, no doubt because of some degree of modesty being required, had been panelled over with aluminium). Over on the airfield there were a number of ex Soviet transport aircrafts whose activities were apparently unknown, or at least, not talked about.

We drove back into town and dropped into the local market, it was one of the most frenetic I have ever seen, teeming with mainly local ladies who all seemed to be shouting at each other while chopping great pieces of fish or meat, energetically trying to sell their produce, or pushing through the crowd to get somewhere else.

Hectic to say the least, and although not feeling threatened, I was just a little uneasy with some of the looks we received. Big wide brown eyes and large bloodied cleavers have that effect on me. 

We took a short journey through the ex colonial town, passed the tree lined promenade and the old fort to end up in a very modern Portuguese owned hotel. Our all day tour passengers were having lunch by the poolside, and said that the tour was going along great.

The morning tour had been given a pack lunch as there was no way they would be back in time, so in the end, all seemed to be well catered for and we even managed to get them all back on board by sailing time.

After a short delay we sailed south as the sun dropped down behind the mountain, the sky an absolute text book tropical sunset. We had 25 miles to go before we would pass into the southern hemisphere, for just 35 minutes.

Mount Cameroon, at over 4000 meters, could be seen from many miles away as we approached the anchorage port of Limbe. It was a beautifully warm and clear morning, but within a short time after the sun had popped over the horizon, the cloud built and gradually hid the summit.

In our well-practised style, the first tender went over to pick up the officials and promptly caught its port propeller on an underwater obstruction. Once back, the boat was taken out of the water and a mangled tyre was found to be wrapped around the prop.

Over the next hour several more were caught and the sailors had to dredge the tender quay with a grappling hook to remove yet more, which we later found out had been laid by the local fishermen so that their own wooden boats would sit on the tyres at low water and not on the stony sea bed.

We went on the tour that took in, amongst other West African delights, a tea plantation. Although the drive was quite long and the local guide hadn’t the use of a microphone, he still managed to give us the benefit of his knowledge in a lovely accent without ending up with a sore throat.

We passed by the fascinating day-to-day life of various local communities and the busy city of Buea. There were numerous shops, markets and craftsmen practising their trades. Imaginative signs and billboards in an obscure colourful pigeon English dialect offering everything from advanced US recognised qualifications in computer studies to ‘Furniture crafted for the modern home’. And alongside the road, with traffic racing by, were handcrafted sofas, double beds and even coffins with white silk interior linings, open for inspection.

The old tea plantation factory was a picture of old machinery, made in Calcutta or Yorkshire many, many years ago, still managing to be kept going by the use of locally hand crafted spare parts and a certain amount of ‘bodgery’.  Unfortunately the factory was in the middle of some power supply problem so we were unable to witness all this Heath Robinson like mechanical marvel in all its glory.

Even so, the place had a great feel about it, freshly picked leaves drying in long bays, bulging sacks ready to be sent out and a few workers hanging around waiting for the power to come back, but watching us with the kind of look that says, ‘What on earth do these white folk want to come and look at this for?’ In the yard, three guys with big smiles were busy unloading massive logs onto an already huge pile, presumably to be used to provide fire for the leaf drying system.

Outside, the tea bushes, some up to a hundred years old, stretched for miles, and our two coaches bounced and heaved over rough ground to get us as close as possible to where the pickers were working. Hard, hot work in the humid climate, and I asked one man if they stopped picking when it rained. ‘No’ was the smiling reply, in fact they looked forward to the rain and its cooling effects.

They earn only the equivalent of $3 to $4 a day depending on the weight they manage to cut and throw over onto the baskets they carry on their backs.

We left the anchorage shortly after 4:00pm for the fast run that would take us past the island that used to be called Fernando Poo, a name to remember from the late sixties and the Biafran conflict.

Our arrival did not bode well for the first call of any passenger ship into this French speaking port. The pilot was delayed on board a cargo ship docking ahead of us, but eventually arrived and seemed quite surprised at my speed of approach.

In my concentration of keeping the ship on the leading marks as we transited the narrow entrance I overheard the word ‘Formidable’ in the conversation he was having with his colleague. By the time I had both engines running astern he suggested that we should perhaps reduce the speed as, in twenty years, he had never entered the port so fast. ‘Don’t worry pilot, good brakes’ I replied.

Once secure three ‘sanitary men’ in clean well starched white coats came aboard, while all the other officials waited on the quayside. Apparently they had to ensure the ship was ‘clean’ before anyone else was allowed to come up the gangplank. All slightly frustrating as we were already late and I could see that the tours would be further delayed.

I believe my rather direct approach may have had some effect as they boarded shortly after. Then I found the agent taking a wander before the ship had been given clearance to land passengers, so with a friendly vice like grip around his shoulder, I returned him to the Card Room where, as if by magic, clearance was then granted.

The passengers embarked onto their coaches while dozens of police stood around in the military style uniforms, sub machine guns casually slung around their shoulders. The coaches didn’t move. ‘What now?’ I asked. ‘Oh, don’t worry, they’ve just gone to get some petrol for the police pick up trucks that will be escorting the coaches’.  Grhhhh.

Meanwhile, up on the bridge, five ‘Port State Control’ officers, again in military uniform, asked to see every possible certificate or log book a ship and it’s seamen are required to carry. I can only assume that this was to keep them looking busy while they simultaneously managed to demolish the very large plate of sandwiches that had been provided for their breakfast.

I asked them if they would like to witness our crew emergency fire and boat drill. They did, made no comment while doing so, but said afterwards that they were very impressed and left shortly after they received a small memento of their visit. Probably not of the tobacco type that they may have preferred, but a ship photo postcard personally autographed by myself. I did explain that it could be worth a lot of money in a few years time as they would be the only folk in the Cote d’Ivoire to have such a unique gift.

The various tours did get away and our folks had a very different view of West Africa than they had witnessed in Freetown. My wife Helen assisted as an escort on the longer tour, which took them first to a school where all the children were lined up excitedly waiting for them. There was an exchange of pleasantries and then the children sang and a local dance group entertained. When a few passengers were ‘encouraged’ to join in, the children cheered and applauded rapturously at the ‘white people’s’ attempt to dance African style.

During the day the temperature soared and at one stage, in the shade, it reached 93 degrees on the bridge wing. To hot for me, so the cooling breeze brought by our departure was in deed very welcome.

On the journey down the coast from Dakar we had an invasion. A swarm of insects, drifting on the land breeze and attracted by our bright lights I presume, they decided we were a suitable landing platform. There were millions, of varying sizes, and when the day dawned the after deck in particular was covered.

Our chaps were busy with brushes and hoses from the start, but it didn’t stop the early breakfasters from sitting under parasols eating their cereals as the odd locust or brown shiny thing came flying past. Most odd really.
 
The friendly voice of Freetown Harbour Radio welcomed us, and spelt his name out phonetically hoping he might get a pass to come on board. The senior pilot boarded wearing only what one could describe as ‘casual’ clothes, and seemed slightly aggrieved when his ‘present’ was not forthcoming after we had docked. I may have been more inclined if he had known what berth we should go to. After some minor negotiation I had had to point out that I preferred one that had sufficient water to allow the vessel to remain afloat.
  

Freetown doesn’t appear to have changed much from when we visited early last year, a heaving mass of humanity, most of whom seemed to be very poor, but somehow getting by. This time I remained on board, but spoke with several of the traders who set up next to a damaged container on the quayside.

They were good to talk with and laughed easily, as did the various security guards and ‘Protection’ guys. ‘What are you protecting’ I asked. ‘Protecting the passengers from accidents’ one said. Great. Even though they wore no uniform, but only jeans, T-shirts or an old boiler suit, they all had ID tags, which stated who they were and what they did.

Our folks filed off in a sort of organised chaos onto the many minibuses that had been commandeered for the day, including one with police painted on the side. The vans all disappeared around and out of the dock in convoy, with a police escort to ensure prompt passage through the anticipated heaving crawling traffic.

The shuttle bus made one round trip to the city in the morning and another in the afternoon, a short journey in distance, but not in time. Being a Sunday most of the shops were closed, but that apparently didn’t distract from the passengers ‘interest’. From the remarks I heard on their return it was quite apparent that none of them had ever witnessed similar scenes of life ‘in the raw’ as they had this day. The others who went further a field to the monkey sanctuary said it had been a great experience.

We left right on schedule, passing relatively close by the shanties that seem to come all the way down to the water. Native craft were closer in shore where hundreds of locals were going about there business of living. Even an old rusting wreck had even been utilised as a home or shelter for some.

During the day a small group of officers had gone over to a youth development centre that Saga intends to help through their Charitable Trust. Chief Officer Rhys is preparing a brief report of their findings and that should be online soon.

As part of our visit to Freetown I, along with Mrs. Rentell, JoBo the cruise director and Thomas, the head chef, volunteered to visit one of the projects being considered by our sister company, Spirit of Adventure, for its forthcoming cruises to Africa.

The project in question is a youth development centre, initially founded by Miracle Corners Sierra Leone, a locally registered but internationally funded charity aiming to establish community projects in West African countries and then fund them for a year until they can support themselves.

The centre itself consists of a single story building, located on land donated by the adjacent police barracks.  Presently there are two IT classrooms, an office, a large function room and a smaller front room. 

The centre caters for about 350 students and provides IT lessons as well as a martial arts club and male and female volleyball teams and, with Saga’s help, would like to build a separate teaching kitchen with a view to offering catering courses and establishing the front room as a small restaurant.

We left the ship and after a 15 minute ride through the hustle and bustle of a Freetown Sunday morning we reached the centre where we were met by Michael, the charity’s representative and some of the centre teaching and administrative staff.  After a quick tour of the centre we then had the opportunity to talk to the staff and students from the various courses and sports teams including the president of the “Student’s Union”.

I wasn’t sure what to expect but was struck by just how basic the facilities were.  However after speaking to the students and staff what emerged was a strong sense of community and a fierce pride in what they had achieved thus far and hoped to achieve in the future. 

Notable success stories were an IT student turned teacher and a lady who, having no previous IT skills, had completed an HND in accounting and finance with the centre’s help.  The centre is due to host the regional martial arts championships in December and the volleyball team came third in this year’s national championships.

All in all the visit proved a success and it will be interesting to see how the project develops in the future.

Chief Officer, Rhys James

We passed between Tenerife and La Gomera around breakfast time the following morning, the anticipated five-meter swell had not been a problem and as we decreased the latitude, fair weather began to dominate.

The ‘Mysteries of West Africa’ were about to commence for real and the various lectures on board were a reminder to those a little less experienced that we were about to enter the realm of ‘expect the unexpected’.

Dakar is a frequent port for cruise ships on an African itinerary, even so the sprawling French speaking city is more geared up to the hustle and bustle of commerce than passenger comfort.

The wind blown Sahara dust had settled on the ship as we had skirted the coast of Mauritania, and this along with the humid heat, seemed to act as a wall once we had docked. Twenty-eight degrees before eight o’clock and building fast by the time the tours departed, our passengers well advised before they left.

My wife and I tagged onto the tour going over to Goree Island, the ancient slave depot that is now a UNESCO World Heritage site. With time to spare before catching the ferry, our guide, through his dodgy microphone, advised that we would have a short city tour. Short on distance, but not in time as we became stuck in sweltering traffic around Independence Square. Thankfully the air conditioning on the coach was in good working order.

The ferry was a colourful mix of locals and tourists, but the small island was somehow different and not particularly ‘touristy’. There are over a thousand folk who live there permanently, scraping a living, or so it seemed, from selling a variety of locally made handicrafts. Their presence was somewhat ‘invasive’ but in the main they were friendly and not rude.

Although the old slave buildings and the disturbing history that comes from those times fascinated me, I was in some way more intrigued in the way life was being lived today. There was a busy school, children in smart uniform, and younger ones tearing around the narrow streets playing chase with each other. As we later sat having a cooling libation, two young girls stood in front of a bench where our folk were sheltering from the sun.

The girls were smiling while they innocently counted all the ‘white people’. The ferry journey back was just as interesting as a group of ladies in traditional dress sat towards the back laughing and talking excitedly, seemingly totally unaware, but probably completely disinterested in the presence of the many foreigners.

Stopping the bus just after the dock gate, we disembarked and went over to be voluntarily ‘hassled’ by the dozens of local tradesmen allowed in by the authorities to set up their ‘shops’.

After some interesting negotiation I returned on board carrying a teak giraffe taller than our Nepalese security lady Bishnu. She laughed when she swiped my identity card, my wife, on the other hand, is now wondering where we will be placing yet another family ‘heirloom’.

Leaving Southampton on Friday, the forecast was for a deteriorating weather picture, a deep low-pressure system approaching the British Isles from the northwest.  We set speed and course to get as far south as soon as possible, and in so doing, avoided the huge swells that were forecast off Cape Finisterre for Monday.

In fact, with the advantage of tide and southerly current, we managed to arrive off Funchal on the evening of the 8th, giving the passengers a grand view of Porto Santo as we passed in the afternoon.

We had a fantastic sunset, followed by a night alongside, with views of the myriad lights that cover the hillside above Funchal. Some of the passengers ventured ashore for an evening stroll, but I got the impression that it was the crew who made the most of one of our very few nights in port.

Since I visited almost two years ago there has been much work going on, with a very large passenger terminal almost complete. The design, as one might expect, is modern, with a long curved white roof covering the full length. However, even before passengers have had the chance to enter, the seagulls appear to have dominated the new structure.

There were thousands of them in great waves, taking off, landing, and leaving their guano for all to see. The port authority will have to do something  to try an alleviate this very unwelcome sight.

The weather stayed fair throughout, the passengers went on tours or took the shuttle bus into town, and one couple even went off to deliver a few things to their timeshare where they will be at Christmas.

My wife and I enjoyed a pleasant stroll in town, took in the local market with it’s fascinating fish section and then found a delightful spot off a side street for some small refreshment, no tourists, just a few local business folk.

Our departure was set for 5pm as we have a long fast run south, over the Tropic of Cancer and on towards the first of our west African destinations, Dakar. Adventures are expected. 

By the time we left Casablanca the great swells experienced on the way in had started to reduce, so conditions were not too bad. Some pitching was experienced on the way up to the Portuguese coast, but all in all a good passage.

We entered the River Tagus around midday and gave the passengers a slow journey passed the Tower of Belem and Henry the Navigator's monument, but only because we had to wait for the pilot to finish his lunch. Always makes me smile that we should take a pilot when the river journey is almost at its conclusion, and then he comes onto the bridge and watches us do the ‘parking’.

It was, I suppose, quite natural for the gathering of the ‘fittest and most mobile’ right by the gangway so that they could be the first off the starting blocks as soon as the authorities gave permission for shore leave. The problem was, despite me advising them not to congregate they did and the authorities had a job getting past them to go up to the clearance room. ‘Oh, it’s OK’ they said, ‘We’re used to queuing’. Obviously my point hadn’t quite sunk in.

But it was a lovely afternoon and we eventually sailed around 10pm, back into a calm black river, which reflected the myriad of lights from the shore. As we pulled away and under the great bridge, a container ship was hovering behind ready to slide into our berth, more inbound traffic was lined up ahead as the pilot disembarked leaving me to navigate the ten miles or so out to sea.

Our last port of call for this cruise had been, like the rest, most successful and only two days at sea remain until Southampton. The weather forecast is not t0o bad, but those sea legs will be exercised until we return home I think.

Well, it was a night to remember, and nothing to do with that movie of the same name, or indeed our next port. A long swell picked up from the northwest, the legacy of some storm way up in the North Atlantic, and during the night it grew to five meters or so.

At first on the port bow, we pitched a little uncomfortably and then, after midnight, it came onto the beam as we altered course. If anything the motion was more comfortable then as the stabilisers helped to reduce the rolling, but as we approached the port the increasing ground swell, raised by the shallow water, gave us a few interesting lists to port. And then, as we passed through the breakwater, at full manoeuvring speed with the stabilisers still out, life immediately returned to normal.

With the ship upright, and slowing down fast to embark the pilot, I advised the passengers over the public address that they could now walk about without fear of being projected across the room.

Overcast and rainy conditions soon gave way to sunshine, and off they all trooped for yet more cultural adventures, smiling and chatty as they passed me on the dock, the odd one or two giving me a sort of knowing wink.

Meanwhile, I sympathised with a charming lady Welsh entertainer who’s first cruise ship voyage it was and had gallantly sang the evening before while feeling slightly more than just a little nauseous. Apparently she is not absolutely convinced that singing for her supper on a cruise ship is for her, yet.  

Even alongside the ship was moving just a tad, enough to snap one of the headlines, and our berth was almost a mile from the sea. The day however, went off rather well, the tours were enjoyed and the overland adventurers returned, complete, having had a fantastic time, just before we were due to depart. It wasn’t long, before they were filled in as to what they had missed during their absence.