Saga Ruby Captain's blog

We had to cut back into the Isfjorden to disembark our two rangers, but then course was set to the south for our return journey. Spitsbergen’s dramatic west coast remained with us, in bright sunlight, for the rest of the night and into the early hours of the next day. With just a small deviation, the ship was turned towards Bear Island, the most southern of islands in the Svalbard archipelago.

We approached in mid afternoon, slowing down and navigating just over a mile from the shore. Apart from a Norwegian weather station the island is meant to be uninhabited, but three figures were just discernible near some sort of tent on the relatively flat north west coast. Strange? Apparently there are hundreds of lakes on the flat area, but on the south and east of this triangular shaped rather dark and mysterious island, high precipitous mountains are home to thousands of sea birds.

We came across a small cargo ship anchored close in against the towering cliffs just around the southern point, sheltering from the low westerly swell. Suspicious I thought, until I realised she was probably some vessel used to tranship fish from the numerous trawlers that work this western part of the Barents Sea.

Continuing our journey south in calm seas, fog eventually came down later in the night. A Russian freighter called us up while still seventeen miles away and asked us to alter course, a very odd request at that range. The Tromso pilot vessel emerged out of the grey murk, making twenty-four knots, over forty minutes before expected and a long way from the pilot station. I wasn’t surprised the pilot wanted a strong black coffee when he reached the bridge. Pilot fuel.

The Tromso weather started dull, but became bright and very warm. On board we busied ourselves with another crew boat drill while the ship was relatively quiet. A visit to the Polar Museum in the afternoon proved, for me, to be fascinating, having an interest in both the extreme latitudes and the explorers that conquered them. The shuttle bus returned through the many tunnels that have been constructed to speed vehicles around Tromso Island, I never realised how comprehensive they are, complete with traffic islands, lights and signs, etc. Must be a godsend in the winter.

From the ice we steamed slowly back to Albert I Land on Spitsbergen’s north west coast and made our way into Magdalenefjorden. We passed a number of glaciers on our way to the one at the head of the fjord where the depth of water would allow the vessel to be taken relatively close.

First however, we launched one of the tenders, our expedition boat and a floating ‘Lego’ like plastic dock. This was towed over to a sandy spit of land, assembled, anchored down and made ready for the passengers, along with the ‘world’s most northerly bar’, (to serve, perhaps regrettably, only mulled wine and hot chocolate)

Along with the boats went our two local rangers (one young Austrian man and a young Finnish lady), dressed for the part, complete with rifles and flare pistols ready for our immediate protection from marauding polar bears. Meanwhile we took Saga Ruby slowly up towards the face of the glacier, not so huge, but a suitably impressive hundred feet or so high and half a mile wide.

An hour later we returned to the anchorage and passengers were advised we had to operate a strict quota system, with only a hundred folk ashore at any one time. Consequently the tenders were operating a shuttle every twenty minutes or so for the next five hours.

There was a need to go and collect some glacial ice, for bar decoration, so the expedition boat sped away up the fjord after lunch on another ‘training exercise’, and then deposited ‘management’ on the beach to check out the operation over there. The sand was so fine it could have come from some Cornish beach, behind there was spongy tundra and thousands of round stones of varying colours and sizes. These, no doubt, gave some strength to the relatively low ground and would have prevented the spit from washing away when being pounded by the many winter storms that must pass through each year. Our rangers stood guard in the distance, but there were no polar bears to disturb the hot chocolate-drinking tourists.

Eventually they all returned, the dock was dismantled, the umbrella, chairs and bar packed away, and the boats returned on board. We had taken only photographs and left only footprints, and of course a little ‘sustenance’ for the two Norwegian police ‘environmental’ wardens that live all summer in a little shed just up from the beach. A somewhat solitary life, with no water except from the glacial streams, no modern toilet facilities, only a small generator to use for an hour a day, and of course, the numerous birds to keep them company.  

We took them further north than any of them, and myself, have ever been or are likely to go again, 80 degrees 38.9 minutes north. Why? Because that is where I found the edge of the world’s encircling polar ice.

The latest ice charts give an approximation, but the only way to find its exact position is to steam north until you get there, and we did, just after 10pm. First there was a little brash ice, then, within a mile, we were in the enclosed pack. Huge pieces, like some great jigsaw, that separated as we sailed slowly in for another mile or so. There was a light mist, but visibility was pretty good, and the bright sun, still relatively high in the sky, gave a translucent rainbow to make the jaw dropping view even more awesome.

Gradually the open water behind us disappeared and, to all intents and purposes, it seemed we were in some great desert of broken jagged ice, slowly pushing onwards to some unknown destination deep beyond in another kingdom. By now the forward deck was full of wrapped up wide-eyed passengers, clicking away and gawping at this most unexpected of spectacles.

The evening show finished on schedule, and because I had suggested the likelihood of something special, the audience apparently piled out onto the after deck in some un-pensioner like scrum. Those to whom I spoke the next day said that they were just incredulous, never in their wildest dreams expecting such a sight.

For an hour or more we pushed our way through this white Arctic wilderness of icy islands, making a great semi circle with our wake, one that closed back up before we had covered another few hundred yards. As we slowly turned the view from the wheelhouse windows changed as the midnight sun crossed the bow, from a misty mysterious looming fog ahead, to a sun filled bright blue sky where the scenery seemed somehow more inviting, in a cold sort of way. Apart from a few sea birds racing around, there was no other living thing that we could see, no trace of the great white bear or the slippery black seal.

I announced over the deck speakers, no doubt disturbing the eerie silence of the moment, that we had reached the most northerly point that a Saga vessel had ever come. The cheer was so loud that I could here it from the bridge, making me falter in my delivery. A unique event for which we all, I’m sure, felt rather privileged to witness.

An enduring memory, one unexpected by our passengers, and one for which, if there had been prior expectation, would have never prepared anyone for the truly staggering moment when they took their first view.

We turned back into the Isfjorden, but in a north-easterly direction. Although the sun was, by now, shining, there was a fierce chilly westerly wind blowing up the fjord. Protected by the superstructure, those passengers on the forward promenade deck had a great view as we approached Pyramiden, an old Russian coal mining town.

We closed to within a mile, allowing everyone to clearly see the old mine working high up on the pyramid shaped mountain, and the covered conveyor belts leading down to the now dilapidated buildings and rusting machinery below. But the place was not completely deserted, apparently there are a few watchmen keeping lookout for who knows what. The Russian flag was flying proudly, all be it from some long since used crane. Of all the oddest things though, we noticed through our binoculars a blue Portaloo standing almost serenely on the crumbling dock.

From there we took a quick journey over to the Nordenskioldbreen glacier, almost two miles wide at the face, and turned in good time before the uncharted waters became to shallow. That made the folks on the deck move, a thirty knot head wind with a considerable chill factor is not one to hang around in for to long.

We headed back to the west and then, overnight, north to Kongsfjorden. Ny Alesund is now effectively a research station, or a combination of research stations run by different nations, all based on an ex coal mining facility and owned by the Norwegian Government through the trading name of the Kings Bay Company.

We approached at slow speed to the, yet again, far too short dock. This time the wind was fine, but the depth of water was just a metre or so deeper than our draft. Above the low cloud gave a moody feel to the day, with the odd hole allowing the sun to reflect from distant glaciers. Once secure, I was somewhat amazed to see quite a number of our passengers all booted and spurred ready to ‘adventure’ ashore as soon as the gangplank had landed. Off they went, back within an hour or so, in time for lunch.

In the early afternoon we followed, walking the dusty un-metalled roads built up a meter or so above the squidgy tundra, home to noisy, low flying and protective Arctic Turns. Apparently Ny Alesund is the world’s most northerly settlement, at least according to the patches available in the small shop that has been enlarged in order to financially benefit from the increasing number of visiting summer cruise vessels.

The place has an odd un-busy feel about it, very few people around, as though all the present incumbents are closeted away in their rather drab painted huts or more modern ‘scientific establishments’, watching for the inevitable conclusions of global warming. Sampling to the n’th degree air, soil and water quality, etc. Meanwhile the imported digger and crane are churning out diesel fumes as they lay a new trench for services to be supplied to another new ‘scientific building’. Fascinating really.

We left in mid-afternoon, on a mission to give the passengers perhaps the biggest eye-widening surprise of the cruise, one they were unlikely to forget.

The weather as we continued north was kind, and the overcast murky conditions only came later on Sunday. I had suggested at the church service that if the passengers wanted to be assured of sunny weather then they should perhaps pray that little bit harder.

I wondered if they had as we made our arrival into the Isfjorden, and then into Adventfjorden where the capital of Svalbard lies. Low clouds were being drawn down the face of the mountains that lie to the south west and a chill damp and rather brisk wind off the dock did not assist the docking.

The dock is too short for our vessel and there were lengths of ‘hairy string’ going in every direction to ensure we were not going to be blown off the berth during our stay. I advised our intrepid travellers to wrap up warm with plenty of layers, and they were soon off to be driven around in community buses that had been commandeered for the day.

My wife and I joined the ‘Longyearbyen and Trapper’s Station’ tour in order to get a good overview as to why all these hardy local folks choose to live so far north. I’m not sure if we actually found out, but we visited the local art gallery, the church and the modern museum, which is housed within the university and the Norwegian Polar Institute.

What we did find out was that the islands had become populated after coal had been discovered in reasonably large quantities in the early part of the 20th century. What’s happened since most of the mines have closed is that the industrial ruins have become ‘heritage’, while the rest of the islands are a great ecological habitat and centre for studies of the Arctic wilderness. There is a even a ‘seed bank’ where seeds from all over the world are preserved in some large cold vault, I presume to ensure the world would be set to continue after some cataclysmic event destroys what’s growing at the moment.    

We finished our tour with a ten kilometre drive into the tundra to visit the ‘happy huskies’ in their kennels, along with what a trappers hut would have looked like a hundred years ago, complete with dead seals hanging to cure. The husky dogs are still used in the winter to pull sledges, and in the summer some clever chap has invented a sledge with wheels. No doubt it is more of a tourist draw, but it does give the dogs some exercise.

By the time we had returned the day had become a little brighter and the full drama of the distant glacier filled landscape became more apparent. When we sailed it was to complete a scenic journey before our next scheduled stop.

The passengers had a very comfortable day at sea as we continued northwards, the sun so bright that I could detect a few red faces that evening. The berth at Leknes is relatively exposed and lay amongst the low rocky islands that exist between the ‘Vestfjord’ and the great Lofoten Wall, that incredibly scenic mountain range that protrudes southwards from Norway’s north west coast.

From a distance it appears that there could be no habitation or accessible land at the base of the mountains, whereas in fact, there are many small villages and towns dotted all along the coastline. In the past many of them were only accessible from the sea, but with modern roads, tunnels and bridges, there are very few left that are as they were fifty years ago

Fishing has been the staple industry until recent times, and mainly based around the cod spawning season of the early months of each year, when cod in their millions apparently head down from the Barents Sea to do their thing in the Vestfjord. Nowadays, as might be expected, tourism has brought many visitors and an alternative income for the locals.

For a change, I took some time off and followed one of our regulars tours, one which took in several of the little fishing villages, including Nusfjord, Sund and ended up at A, that’s A with a little ‘o’ on the top, and apparently the last letter in the Norwegian alphabet. There are no signs to indicate when you enter the village, apparently they get stolen almost as soon as they are put up.

The tour was delightful, the mountain scenery quite majestic and the fresh growth of late spring flowers amongst the tufted grasses very refreshing after my two-month diet of sea and more sea. Our very tall English guide Craig, from Nottingham, had been there for ten years, having fallen in love with the country, and a French lady, presumably around the same time.

The villages have embraced the increasing tourist presence, but they have not yet reached the tacky stage. I did note, however, there seemed to be an uncomfortable number of ‘mobile sheds’, those vans similar to the ones we get on the narrow Cornish roads in the summer. Apparently these folks come up from the south with their built in B&B, loaded to the gunnels with enough food and alcohol to last three weeks, and therefore bring relatively little financial benefit to the local economy. They do block the roads up though.

After a superb day, we left just before 5 pm and followed the Lofoten Wall to the south, eventually turning west and then north, the mountains looking dramatic in the afternoon sunshine and shadow. Over the next few days we shall take the folks so far north we should end up just fifty miles from the polar ice… or perhaps even closer.     

The Norwegian pilot who was to take us out of Stavanger and into Floro the next day was delighted. Because of the lack of spare cabins he had to have just about the only one left, a suite room. I asked him not to attack the free bar; he smiled as if in surprise.

The run up overnight was fine, although we had some rain in the early hours and then a few showers during the morning. Floro is a delightful small town with a fair amount of history, particularly during the Second World War when the Germans used it as a base for monitoring the coastline and defending their occupied territories from aerial attack. One of the tours was a trail that took passengers up to look at the tunnels and bunkers that had been built, and until fairly recently left to become overgrown as the locals didn’t know what to do with them. Now they have become a popular tourist attraction. Other tours took in the impressive coastal scenery and views from the nearby high mountains.

Our allocated berth was just a little awkward to get alongside in the morning, with very little room to manoeuvre astern, and the bow overhanging the end of the quay by about fifty meters forward. The manoeuvre was not helped by the Coastal Express roaring in and making some Formula 1-style docking in no time at all right behind us. I’m sure the Harbour Master, when he came down to exchange ‘first visit’ plaques, did not expect to have a conversation about how things could be improved if the town’s elders wanted to encourage bigger passenger ships to come alongside in the future. When we departed the pilots had another more practical demonstration of how the berth was not exactly suitable, to my slight amusement and their no doubt slightly increased palpitations. 

For this, my final cruise before vacation, I am no longer a solo sailor and so our new guests will have a double dose of the Rentell charm. I have a feeling I know who they’ll prefer. We sailed from Dover on schedule with just about every cabin occupied, and in the later afternoon sunshine, took a pleasant twenty minute cruise passed the white cliffs as far as St. Margaret’s Bay before the pilot disembarked.

The journey north was fine, although it became rather cloudy, as we steamed closer to the Norwegian coast. By the next morning overnight rain was starting to clear, but a light drizzle was never to far away until lunchtime.

With the world wide recession there is a certain downturn in the offshore oil industry, so there were numerous supply ships of one sort or another dotted around the harbour, laid up or otherwise. One of the most notable vessels though, was a huge self-propelled semi-submersible used, amongst other things, for removing defunct oil platforms and bringing them ashore for dismantling. The two cranes can apparently lift over 14,000 tons and with ten lifeboats and over 700 personnel, it can only be described as a great beast of the sea.

The town, however, seems a million miles away from such industry. Quaint cobbled streets in the old quarter with shops and restaurants built in the same white painted clapperboard style, a 12th century cathedral and lookout tower with green coppered spires and a charming nearby lake suitably inhabited by hungry ducks. A helicopter flight over the 1,800-foot Pulpit Rock was without doubt the highlight for the lucky few during the afternoon.

We sailed on schedule, north to the midnight sun (we hope) and onwards to the edge of normal human habitation. Another adventure I feel could be on the cards.

Our last day at sea for this cruise turned out to be rather comfortable, with the sun making an appearance later and the wind sufficiently light for those who choose to take their exercise striding around the boat deck to do so without having to clutch on to the taff rail as they worked their way around the forward area.

After boarding our pilot for Amsterdam at 04.00am, we headed slowly up to the lock at Ymuiden, being delayed for a short while by other traffic. Being a Sunday, our early morning passage through the North Sea Canal up to Amsterdam was in quiet waters.

That was all to change during the day however as barge traffic increased after we had secured alongside just up from the central station. By the afternoon there were numerous leisure boats of all shapes and sizes coming up past to take a look, out for the Dutch nautical equivalent to the British Sunday afternoon stroll.

The passengers had great weather for their last day and after their morning tour, many just sat in the sun and watched the frenetic activity on the water. By the time it came for us to sail we had to get a local port authority tug to keep the watery locals clear while the ship was turned within the confines of a relatively tight turning basin. A passing barge decided to overtake, and then slow down right in front just as we were increasing speed to make the first corner, leisure boats scattered as a few terse words were exchanged over the radio, fortunately we avoided both the barge and becoming the largest permanent attraction at the ferry terminal.

So it has been quite an adventurous cruise in many ways, and apparently some of our regulars say they expect it when they sail with me. Not necessarily a reputation I would want to encourage, even so, we have our fare share of ‘extra brochure’ fun from time to time.

For those that may hope for the unexpected then may I recommend the ‘Mysteries of West Africa’ cruise in November, I have a feeling that it could be one of those unforgettable voyages. Meanwhile, Dover on Monday and up north, way up north, for our next cruise.

Our one day at sea turned out to be two. With a deep low heading up the west coast of the UK, the forecast for Torshavn in the Faeroes and Lerwick in the Shetlands the next day looked pretty awful, well, at least bad enough to make passenger operations to be near enough impossible.

Many emails, along with a few phone calls between the company and myself, winged their way across the ether. There was an obvious need to make changes, and to make them in good time to ensure their success.

We cancelled the call at both ports, brought forward the call in Bergen by one day, and booked a final call for the cruise in Amsterdam next Sunday. Fuel bunkering looked as though it might prove a problem as the bunker barge was not available on the Friday in Bergen.

I increased speed to get some distance ‘under our belt’ and to get a little way ahead of the low-pressure system. Even so, the barograph dropped like a stone on the second day and the sea conditions were not so comfortable for a while, but far better than they might have been.

A breezy arrival in Bergen was followed by a cloudy day, with some rain later. Meanwhile, back in the Shetlands where we should have anchored, they were getting gusts of wind up to almost 50 mph. Our tours went off on schedule and the folks I spoke with were more than happy to be in Bergen instead of fighting the elements two hundred miles to the west.  We shall now take fuel in Amsterdam, another problem solved.

We sailed when the last tour had returned, expecting some frolicsome seas, but in the end the turbulent ocean had already started to calm down.

We continued south in fog and ice overnight, altering course from time to time to avoid bergs of varying sizes, unseen but detected on the radar screens. By mid morning of the following day the fog had cleared to leave us with another crystal clear horizon and the great peaks of southern Greenland in the distance on our port side.

By 2pm we were approaching the Farewell Passage, threading our way through the rocks and small islands that guard the western entrance. Once through, it was into typical fjord waters with towering mountains on either side, glaciers and just the odd small berg to avoid as we made our way eastwards.

We had sufficient time to make a short stop off at the small Inuit settlement of Augpilagtoq, sounding the whistle as we arrived. Within minutes a few local boats had come out, adults with their children, to wave at our folks out on the promenade deck and catch a few sweets thrown down.

Another boat came up from the stern, two hunters with a recently caught seal, a stark reminder of the type of life they lead. This settlement is completely cut off from the rest of Greenland and visited only by a supply boat from time to time.

Continuing on, we rounded several more corners until we eventually came into Prins Christian Sund, the long narrow straight that finally takes the ship to the east coast. Here there was more ice, but we pressed on and came back out into the Denmark Strait around six thirty.

The crossing over to Iceland was in pleasant clear conditions, with the odd sighting of marine life to maintain the passengers attention. Once alongside in Reykjavik they were off of course, and there was even a crew tour to the Blue Lagoon, the natural mineral rich geothermal spa where the temperature is between 37 and 39 degrees. Fortunate for the bathers, as the weather elected to change from warm sunshine to a chilly rain during their watery sojourn.

We stayed until late, a local show coming to entertain, then it was off towards the Faeroes and the threat of some rather mischievous seas.

And so we took the passengers to Eternity, which is the popular English name for Evighedsfjord, some 250 miles to the south of Ilulissat. Overnight the fog had returned, yet again as thick as a hedge, but I had been assured that once we were in the fjord the sun would take over and burn away the all enveloping grey murk.

Indeed it did, but it took several miles, which didn’t really matter, as we were to penetrate fifty miles into the interior. Within an hour we were approaching Mount Taterat and by then we had passed several small glaciers way up in the mountains, but on either side of this 1,500 meter peak two glaciers came down from the great ‘Sukkertoppen’ ice field above.

The view was staggering in its beauty. Great dark jagged mountains reaching up to the crystal blue sky, wisps of thin white cloud lying with the snows of winter in their tops, a ribbon of twisting gnarled ice crawling down to join the glacier below. The lateral moraines had come together to form a dirty dark debris stain in the pristine white.

We stopped a mile or so off, not knowing the depth remaining further in, and sent away our expedition boat in order to take photos of Saga Ruby in this magical setting. Gradually I worked her over towards the base of Taterat itself. An almost sheer cliff where thousands of birds were nesting on every conceivable ledge, their guano leaving white paint like stains below and supplying sufficient nutrients for tufts of grass and lichen to exist. As we closed the wall the sound developed into a noisy din of birds screeching their social intercourse.

And then I saw the Arctic Eagles nest, built inconspicuously under an overhang. One bird was perched looking across the void, we searched for the other and eventually found it standing statesman like on a big rock not so far away. From time to time it took off only to land a few dozen yards away and spend more time just waiting and watching. I quietly swung the stern around and moved the ship gradually away to await the boat and not disturb this amazing spectacle of vivid nature in the raw. What a privilege.

We carried on and found why the fjord is known as Eternity. When it seems to come to the end, there is another hidden bend and it continues. We passed more glaciers than you could shake a stick at, some receding, some advancing, great waterfalls racing out from underneath and, in places where the sun managed to shine on alluvial melt, we could see a purple flowering plant forming a low cloth across the barren ground.

After a few more hours, by mid afternoon, we did come to the end, a glacier several hundred feet high and over a mile or two wide, pushing its way down to the blue milky waters of the fjord. There was brash ice for a mile or so before and we had to carefully sail through, watching the depth indicator all the way.  It remained at over 150 metres until just a few hundred yards from the cracked and precipitous face.

This solid wall of white and blue came so close it seemed we just had to reach out to touch; the passengers below me on the open deck were in awe, clicking away and waiting for the gun like cracks that might indicate a calving. There were a few small ones, seen by one or two quickly followed by a dozen pointing hands and audible expressions of surprise.

The sun by now was high, and its heat meant our short sleeve uniforms out on the bridge wing were perfectly adequate, all slightly incongruous, as perhaps was that lady back out sunbathing again on her balcony further aft. No one at home will surely believe her... unless they read this blog I guess.

For me it was mentally hard to break the spell, but of course we had to leave it all behind and move on. But the memories of this day will live with everyone of our passengers, of that I am sure, and for myself, yet again it makes me realise why I love what I do.    

Reduced visibility plagued the whole journey to the north. By the time we reached Disko Bay, in the early hours of Thursday, the wind had dropped, the sea was almost flat calm and the radars were even picking up sea birds less than a mile away. Somewhat disturbing when we were very much focused on picking up the growlers and smaller bergy bits, and not having to alter course for a flock of seagulls.

Eventually, but not until around seven in the morning, the fog just lifted and the surrounding bergs looked impressive as we passed by, sometimes just a few hundred yards off. The passengers were starting to come out on deck, and as we skirted the face of the Jacobshavn Icefjord the forward decks became crowded. The blue sky was now crystal clear, the sun, already quite high, was reflecting almost painfully from the great jagged wall of ice before us.

We continued on, passing through loose brash ice and small bergy bits, until we came to within a mile of the anchorage. There the water shelved up from 200 meters to less than fifty in a very short distance, only a quarter of a mile from the entrance to Ilulissat. In the way, most inconveniently, was a grounded berg about twenty metres in diameter and about as tall, and that was what was showing above the water. I edged past just far enough for the anchor to be walked down to the seabed.

It was to be a day of high adventure, apart from the initial spectacular visual impact of the ice wall, there was great fun when the fog drifted back and cut the ship of from the shore. The coxswains of the tenders, who had had to dodge grounded and free small bergs to get in, started having to ‘feel’ their way back and forth, sometimes with radar assistance from the bridge.

Many passengers were taken off in small local boats to get even closer inside the ice wall, where massive ice islands were slowly being pushed into deeper water before they broke away to drift off on their great journey. Others, perhaps the more energetic, went on an ice fjord hike, some just ambled around the small town, where packs of kennelled husky dogs howled from time to time in unholy unison.

The remaining mists disappeared and the temperature rose as the sun just got stronger, eleven degrees not long after arrival, nineteen degrees by late afternoon. I even observed a lady passenger with a convenient balcony sunbathing. We are well inside the Arctic Circle - amazing.

I caught up on a little sleep and then decided a ‘driving lesson refresher’ was required in our expedition boat. Where else to go to hone up ones skills but the ice wall. There were truly spectacular sights as we sped past sheer sided jagged ice peaks in steely calm water, and then slowed down to pass through the brash. Precipitous walls with cracks and crevices reaching down towards the water, leaning out at such an angle that surely hundreds of tons of ice would come crashing down at any moment. Rivers of water running off from the tops, minor waterfalls cascading down, great arches spanning a navigable path, blue ice at the base of smaller floating bergs that were being eaten slowly away by sea water. What a ride.     

Back on board the operation was coming to a smooth conclusion, even so, we had the odd rogue growler causing problems by coming to close to the gangway. A larger one had to be pushed out of the way using two tenders, no doubt with great enthusiasm by the crews. Eventually we had everyone back and the anchor was heaved home. As we headed back out through an ice-cluttered sea I told passengers of adventures to come the following day. ‘I am going to take you from here.. to Eternity’.

Now they are guessing.

In fact it was only the first day that was a tad uncomfortable. Further to the north the isobaric version of an ageing onion was slowly moving north east, bringing some fairly hefty swells right at us for a while. They gradually eased though, and life soon returned to normal, well, normal for the North Atlantic.

The expectancy of arrival kept most of the passengers in a state of eager expectation, while on the bridge, our cadets were keeping the met observations on a regular basis. The sight of the seawater ‘bucket’ being tossed into the sea from the bridge wing had a few inquisitive souls stop me to find out what was going on. ‘Sea water temperature’, I replied. ‘What for?’ ‘Well, when the sea water plummets down to 4 degrees centigrade we have a pretty good idea that icebergs will soon be detected by the radar’. ‘Fair enough’.

And so it was, late on Monday evening, they were sighted in the distance as we closed Cape Farewell. The fog came a little later, we had to drive round one or two to make our approach to Qaqortoq, and then it cleared, the sun came out and views of the jagged snow capped peaks in the distance could be seen. More grounded bergs, in over fifty meters of depth, were passed in the last twelve miles and then we were off the small town, anchoring in the still waters and hardly a breath of air.

Of the course, the great big jackets, woolly hats, gloves, scarves, etc, were in abundance, partly my fault as I had mentioned ‘layers’ the day before, when the forecast had said overcast and three degrees. In fact the temperature was ten degrees in the bright sunshine. No one complained though, and they all gradually made their tours or just wondered around the small town. Some, as part of the tour, actually went into a local home to be offered coffee, sandwiches and home made rhubarb pie, chatting away with the local Inuit in their broken English.

By the time we were ready to sail in the early afternoon, the wind had come up a little and the fog could be seen tumbling over the low barren hills to seaward. The multi coloured private homes, the rather more boring looking social housing and the local shore side refuse tip were left behind as we headed back to sea. Within the hour we were back in it, nothing visible on the outside and eyes glued to the radars in the wheelhouse. All things being equal it will be Ilulissat and Disko Bay on Thursday.

With wet weather forecast out to the west, we left Dover on our ‘Greenland and the Ice Floes’ cruise at a fairly sedate pace, having a day at sea before our first landfall. With one engine on line we passed the Isle of Wight early the following morning at slow speed and then did a little ‘rock dodging’ down the Dorset and Devon coastlines to ensure sunny weather continued for as long as possible, and so that the folks could get a great view.

By the time we were closing Plymouth the dull conditions ahead were becoming more prominent, and at about the same time, we came across the Navy playing their war games. A grey Lynx helicopter gave us a quick buzz and the standard  ‘Wow, look at that’ manoeuvre just behind the Lido deck. Then we were ‘interrogated’ by a ‘Coalition warship’, his final question being, ‘What is your cargo?’ ‘Passengers, 502 of them’ was the reply. The chap was obviously talking from somewhere deep inside his warship where there were no windows.

The following morning we passed the old forts that guard the entrance into the bay that is the lower harbour of Cork, and on towards Cobh, with its gaily coloured houses and magnificent Pugin designed St Colman’s cathedral standing high above the harbour. The berth lies next to the railway station, part of which has been turned into a museum telling the ‘Queenstown’ story, when Cobh used to be the final stopping off point for the liners heading for America back in the days of mass emigration. Some of our guests took the tour half way across southern Ireland, or down to Kinsale, while others went off into Cork and to Blarney castle. I’m not so sure many of them would have been able to kiss the Blarney Stone as it takes some youthful dexterity to achieve the task correctly.

After a busy day, we left as the stiff south westerly breeze had moderated a little, an indication of the weather we had in store after we had passed the Fastnet and set our course to the north west. I kept the speed low until dinner had passed and the magician had finished his act, so we did not venture into the unsheltered waters until most of our folks had settled down for the night. In retrospect, a wise decision.