Saga Ruby Captain's blog

After a day in Kirkwall in the Orkneys and then another in Stornoway on Lewis, we made a slow crossing of the Minch in order to arrive at the northern entrance of the Sound of Mull at nine in the morning. After a couple of days of rather damp overcast weather, this day dawned bright and clear, and we had sufficient time available to slow down in some of the more interesting locations. The first was the small port of Tobermory on Mull where we gently eased the ship into the quaint harbour in order to take a look at the multi coloured houses for which it is renowned.

Continuing on through the Sound we passed the famous Duart Castle then turned to the south and towards the Gulf of Corryvreckan, the ‘Cauldron of the Speckled Seas’. For small vessels this channel between Scarba and Jura can be very hazardous, with tides running over eight knots over what is reputed to be the world’s third largest whirlpool. As we passed through our speed came down from 14 knots to just 8 and the waters all around were swirling like some great mixing bowl. Close by, a small ‘adventure’ boat was giving its passengers an exciting ride. It was here where George Orwell was nearly drowned while he was up on Jura writing his novel ‘Nineteen Eighty Four.’

We then took a slow pass around Shuna, one of the ‘Slate’ islands, dodging the lobster pots and causing the few locals to step outside and wonder whether this great ship had take a wrong turning up into their Loch. I very much doubt if they have seen the likes before. A lone bearded fisherman gave us a wave as we glided past, meanwhile to starboard we passed a derelict castle, not ancient, but one built early in the 20th century and finally let go in the eighties when it became to expensive to maintain. It looked just a little odd with trees poking out the roof and various windows.

Later in the afternoon the ship passed through the narrow Sound of Islay. Port Askaig half way up had the local connecting Caledonian MacBrayne ferry alongside, and just after we passed Caol Ila, the first of the islands eight distilleries. It was a grand day, the weather stayed fine and many passengers took the opportunity to stay out and watch Scotland’s west coast glide by. The keen eye caught plenty of sea and bird life, while thanking the heavens for digital cameras.

Passing inside of the Outer Hebrides we had a day at sea to take in a few of the Scottish Isles before arriving in Torshavn, the capital of the Faroe Islands. Fortunately we were blessed with fine, if cool, weather for the arrival. As the harbour is fairly tight and any sort of wind is undesirable when putting the ship alongside. All of the eighteen treeless islands reach up out of the North Atlantic to over five hundred meters, consequently it is often that the tops are shrouded in cloud, but not during our first day, as the early morning cloud soon dispersed to leave unbroken sunshine. Those that went on tour were blessed with great views, while back on board we had a very active port on one side, containers on the move all day, and a busy harbour on the other. In the afternoon there were a number of local crews out practising in the typical old style island rowing gigs, including a ladies team that seemed to keep my bridge officers attention for some time.

We stayed alongside overnight and left before breakfast to make the twenty-four nautical mile run around to Klaksvik on the island of Borooy. We passed a Grimsby built sailing trawler on the way, the craft is well over a hundred years old and now used for ‘adventure’ cruising. The island, since 2006, has been connected by tunnel to the main islands and has a population of around 5000. The relatively new pier is quite large, however, there was a Greenland trawler discharging at one end. With limited space and a ferry linkspan at the bow, it made the docking rather interesting, particularly with the keen wind blowing down the steep sided valley. Saga Ruby, lovely ship though she is, does not move sideways with any degree of ease.

Weather wise it was a much cloudier day, a south-easterly was blowing in, bringing cloud down to less than 200 meters on our side of the islands. The western side, however, fared much better and the tours that went that way all received a good dose of sunshine. ‘Down town’ Klaksvik was just around the corner and out of sight, so I didn’t actually get to see it until we left, by which time the cloud base was down to less than 100 meters and a fine mizzle just about hid the view.

It is a rare occasion that we should have two days in port and, being a Sunday, I opted to join an all day tour that was to take in the ‘Wonders of Wicklow’. We headed off out of the city, had a quick stop close to the harbour at Dun Laoghaire then another forty-minute drive towards the rolling green hills of Wicklow and the waterfall at Powerscourt. This is Irelands highest at 398 feet and is set in delightful wooded scenery. Being a Sunday a few local families were already there setting up their barbecues while more energetic souls were following the trails on their mountain bikes. Hopefully with mouths closed as there were a great number of irritating flies buzzing around.

A village pub took us in for a very satisfying lunch before we continued on to Powerscourt Gardens, originally laid out in the mid 1800’s as an Italian garden with many statues and urns copied from Versailles. Two large winged horses made in zinc guard the lake and were constructed in 1869 by a Professor Hugo Hagen in Berlin and a Japanese garden was

built on bog land reclaimed by the 8th Viscount of Powerscourt in 1908. In addition to a stone tower and a pet cemetery, that even included a favoured cow, there were the largest walled gardens that I can ever remember visiting. Most of these gardens were set to grass, but the central section was completely full of multi coloured summer flowers.

This was a garden of some extravagance and it is hard to imagine what wealth there must have been just to keep them in good order. It was a delight to amble round and, despite there being many other visitors, it did not seem in any way crowded.

After departing Dover we had a lovely day at sea, the first half of which was following the south coast of Devon and then Cornwall. There was enough time in hand to close the Lizard and then pass into Mounts Bay to take a look at St. Michaels Mount, Penzance, Newlyn and the charming village of Mousehole. The Minnack open-air theatre had a performance taking place and even without binoculars it was easy to see the audience as their multi coloured clothes contrasted brightly with the surrounding cliffs.

Our arrival into Dublin Bay the following morning was in calm conditions and bright sunshine, but because of two other visiting cruise ships we were allocated a cargo ferry terminal. It was fine, but because we were having a two day call, there was a need in the evening to move to the normal berth, which had been vacated by one of the others, thus allowing a ferry to come into the one we had vacated the following morning. The first day was fine with all the passengers enjoying the Irish hospitality, both on tour and independently in the city. In the evening the passengers were entertained with local dancing and song.

Once we had moved our new berth was just behind an aged Russian warship that was on a good will call, and it certainly seemed that there was some good will flowing, as a cocktail party with local dignitaries was in full flow as we crept into their peripheral vision. Needless to say, they took no notice of us.

The forecast wasn’t particularly great for our last few Norwegian ports, however, it wasn’t as bad as expected. Consequently the passengers I spoke with seemed quite happy with the rather ‘English’ type of weather. Many of those who took a morning tour in Kristiansand were back in time to take the afternoon tour, a nostalgic steam railway journey on the preserved Setesdal Line.

This narrow gauge line was originally built in 1896 to connect the remote Setesdal valley with Kristiansand, but was eventually closed in 1962. Five miles of the line has been restored and commences its very scenic journey alongside the Otra River at Grovane, ending in marvellous lakeside surroundings at Royknes. The enthusiasts that volunteer their services to keep this little gem of a railway running have lovingly preserved the engine and wooden bodied carriages that we rode in. My group joined at the top of the line after the engine had powered it’s way up from Grovane and I’m quite sure that there were as many ladies as men taking photographs when the engine filled with boiler water and then made its run around to pull the train back down the valley.

The track had literally been carved out of the rock and, in some places there seemed only inches to spare on one side, while on the other a steep slope ended in the rushing river below. Tight radius curves, a tiny tiny tunnel, a bridge across the river and snow sheds all added to that strange magic that attracts folks to old steam lines. A magic enhanced, for some at least, by the grey smoke that tried to percolate into the carriages by the open drop windows.  But perhaps it was the mournful whistle and the smell of the steam that took us back to the distant days of our youth.

By the time we had returned to Kristiansand the rains had finally arrived, but the stewards were ready with the Saga umbrellas to ensure no one got wet as they checked back aboard. They think of just about everything.

After a day of rain a day of sun followed, and it continued to shine as we entered the fjords near Alesund to make the four-hour passage up to Geiranger fjord. By seven am we were on the last leg, passing the waterfalls with the early sun glistening through their tumbling waters, before we approached the anchorage. It was a hive of activity as boats were splashed and the tender operation was set up once again.

Geiranger was relatively quiet as the first passengers stepped ashore to take their tours up to the top of Dalsnibba, the Norwegian Fjord Centre and Herdal Summerfarm. I stepped out to take the trail up to somewhere I hadn’t been for over eight years, the Storseterfossen waterfall. But first I wanted to go to a lookout, way above the fjord where I could take a photograph of Saga Ruby from above, an unusual shot and one I have taken before, but of another vessel. By the time I had doubled back to head up to the waterfall I met a few of our passengers who needed some directions, I then headed up the last two kilometres. The waterfall is spectacular in itself, but the joy is to follow the narrow path that takes the walker right underneath it. The water flows with great force, crashing down into the valley below. In recent years safety chains have been put in place, even so, it’s not for the faint hearted.

Within the hour I was back down in the village, looking slightly shabbier then when I left, but having completed the ten kilometres, almost without a foot wrong. I blame the wet rocks for the small tear I managed to get in my trousers but it won’t take long for the tailor to put them right.

We sailed on schedule, sounding three long blasts back to the locals who always fires his cannon when cruise ships arrive and leave, and then took a slow passage past the falling waters. A number of kayakers had hauled up their craft and were sitting in the sun, waving as we glided by. A local photographer spent almost an hour darting around this classic liner taking video and stills until we finally put on speed and headed the sixty odd miles back to open waters. A perfect day, in a perfect place enjoyed by all.

The following morning we arrived at Honningsvag, the port of Mageroya Island and the gateway for land tours up to Nordkapp. There was a chill breeze blowing from the north west, bringing with it a grey murk that rolled off the mountains and a mizzely dampness that penetrated, making my eyes water as we docked the ship. The pier is a tad to short so a quarter of the ship hung out into space, held up by stern lines to mooring buoys, while the bow jutted over the quayside towards the nearby main street.

Despite the rather gloomy description, the whole scene seemed to be absolutely in keeping with this land at 71 degrees north. The passengers, all dressed up, went off on the buses to go and see from above what they saw from below the previous evening, while I too stretched my legs by taking a walk out of town and up to the slopes above where cultivated little garden plots gave way to damp clumpy grass and rocky scree. The clouds had risen enough to see way into the distance, where rain showers hid islands and sea from time to time. The Hurtigruten ferry had arrived just prior to my departure and lay on another dock fifty yards away from Saga Ruby so, along with all the fishing boats scattered on different wooden wharfs, the scene from up above was one of rush hour maritime activity, soon to be replaced by a more quiet normality when the ‘big ships’ had gone.

Of course, for the local folk, daily life was carrying on quite normally. Three little older ladies in local costume and with very little English were in their shop by the quayside selling reindeer skins and other ‘must haves’ to inquisitive tourists, while another chap was on his roof replacing timbers, and two young ladies in overalls were repainting the security shed. But for our returning passengers, it had been an expedition to the ‘top of the world’.

We sailed on schedule, and the only way to go of course, was south.

There was the odd glimpse of blue sky as we approached Hammerfest, but not for long, and the temperature had noticeably fallen. Which I guess was hardly unexpected as this place is proud to advertise the fact that it is the most northerly city in Europe. Most of the buildings are relatively modern as the city was just about completely destroyed during the war when the invading forces finally left.

We berthed across the bay from the centre, which gave me the excuse for taking a brisk walk and venturing up the zigzag path to the lookout position. Visibility was superb and, despite the layer of cloud, mountains many miles to the south could be seen across the steely grey waters. Back down amongst the rather unimaginative buildings there was a modicum of activity around some sort of market, close by where the coastal ‘Hurtigruten’ steamer berths on a daily basis.

We left around 7 pm, bound for Nordkapp, the very top of Europe where great sheer cliffs meet the sea and the midnight sun may be seen still well above the horizon. But not this night, even though there had been some encouraging sunshine during the fifty-mile journey. Still, our passengers were regally entertained out on deck as we slowly coasted by. Wrapped up to keep out the chill, they were fed hot dogs, soup, mulled wine, and other gastronomic delights which, according to the Hotel Director the following morning, were swept clean from the serving area almost as though a swarm of locusts had passed by. I can only assume that the effort of putting on so many layers had resulted in a voracious appetite.

We had a great run up from Trondheim, picking our new pilots up in the early hours of Sunday and coming back into the fjords at Rorvik. The morning weather was very pleasant as we passed by Torghatten, the mountain famous for its hole through the centre. It is possible to see strait through the hole, which has a width of 35 meters and height of 20 meters. As the day continued so the weather unfortunately deteriorated so that by the time we crossed over the Arctic Circle only the hardiest of our guests stayed outside in the rain to see the Arctic ‘globe’ placed on a small island signifying this important line of latitude.

We crossed the Vestfjord during the night, a night where darkness never came, so that by the early morning hours we were cruising past the spectacular Lofoten Islands. Svolvaer has no berth big enough for us so it was a case of anchoring just outside the harbour and tendering the passengers in for the half-day call. All went well, but regrettably the low cloud remained and that gave a kind of grey feel to the day. Even so, the passengers were suitably impressed by their tours and the sheer majesty of the cloud swirling round the jagged crests of the Lofoten range.

The anchor came up around lunchtime and we set off for the north, passing Lodingen pilot station and into the Tjeldsundet, the waterway that separates Lofoten from the mainland. The strong currents make navigation ‘interesting’ and at one stage we had 4 knots of tide against us. We passed Harstad in the evening and went back out into the Norwegian Sea, the ship rising gently to the northerly swell the further north we went.

Stavanger was enjoying fine weather when we departed and began our overnight run up the coast, coming back inside the fjords around 4 am. After six hours inside Norway’s longest fjord, Sognefjord, we passed into the coastal fjords before heading back out into the Norwegian Sea as we passed by the small town of Malloy.

By 2 am the following morning we had re-entered at Grip and commenced the six-hour run up Trondheim Fjord. The good weather of the day before had deteriorated overnight to rain, but by the time we docked after breakfast, next to the modern glass fronted municipal swimming pool, the sun was shining yet again. And so it stayed for most of the day, which was great for the tours, including the walking tour that I joined, a five-mile ramble that followed the coastline along a popular path that was much used by the locals. It was quite delightful, with summer flowers (including an unusual orchid), stony beaches, and countryside clapperboard style houses, many painted in a dark red that was originally manufactured from a pigment first derived from copper mining many centuries ago.

There was a problem in obtaining two pilots for our voyage through the coastal channels the next day that resulted in our having to take the ship off the berth and then anchor off the island of Munkholmen, until later in the evening. The island had apparently been the execution ground of Trondheim until Benedictine monks had built a monastery there in the 11th century. We eventually set off at reduced speed to make a rendezvous with a southbound passenger vessel during the early hours, when pilots were swapped over before we continued our journey northwards.

Our run north from Dover was in rainy weather that finally started to clear as we approached the Norwegian coast, and our arrival into Stavanger on Thursday morning was under a fine clear sky. I opted to join what was considered to be a serious trek up to Pulpit Rock, an amazing piece of Norwegian scenery that juts precariously over Lysefjord, some 1500 feet below.

A short walk through the town to the ferry terminal was followed by a half hour fjord journey and a very pleasant drive on the local bus to the starting point at Preikestolhytta. (Try saying that with a sweet in your mouth). Now days this is where the three mile trail starts, and as one might expect, it has become a mini village catering for this very well known hiking excursion. And popular it certainly was, I have never seen so many folk attempting to achieve a ‘must do ambition’. Men, women, boys, girls, very young children on father’s shoulders, even dogs with their ‘saddle bags’. There seemed to be so many different nationalities and languages it must have sounded like the biblical Tower of Babel.

This was no walk around a National Trust estate, but a true test of stamina as the path was very uneven with large and small slippery angular stones, some made damp from small streams. At places it went over boggy plateaus covered with aged decking, past small black lakes and great rounded granite boulders. Time was against us, as was the tide of visitors coming the other way, but I made the last 500 yards or so at a fast pace, sheer rock to one side, an almost vertical drop to other, every now and again coming up against a log jam of sweating bodies where only one person at a time could make progress across a tiny ledge.

At the top, as the path levelled out, there must have been several hundred souls that had finally made it, all laughing and chatting at their achievement. And no surprise, what a view. In superb weather we could see for miles down the Lysefjord and over the surrounding mountains. Inevitably there were those on their stomachs peering down into the void, at waters so far down that the few small boats on the surface were only just visible as tiny specks. 

Eventually, after suitable liquid refreshment, it was time to return, and the journey back was almost as strenuous with gravity adding to the dangers of what was underfoot. We made the bus, and the ferry, and returned in one piece. This certainly was a ‘must do’ excursion, but only for the most able and those without fear of an impending attack of vertigo.

The Rock of Gibraltar slowly came into view some five or six miles in front of us as daylight took over from the darkness, but the low cloud kept the peak hidden from the view of our eager ‘early bird’ passengers. Entering the bay we threaded our way between large anchored vessels that were making a brief call in order to take fuel bunkers, and picked up our pilot, who turned out be the son of an old friend back in Cornwall. Small world.

The veil of cloud blown over the peak by the easterly Levanter gradually thinned so that those who took the cable car could at least see something from the top. The majority of our passengers though, seemed to be intent on doing their own thing and waiting for taxis to take them the short journey into town where the main street remains, as ever, a shoppers delight. There were obviously tourists who had come in from over the border as well as many holidaying locally and by the time I took a fast stroll the place was getting very busy.

Meanwhile berthed on the other side of our pier was ‘Octopus’ a very large private yacht, apparently owned by a certain computer software gentleman. Rumours spread of course, of the two submarines kept inside, the helicopter, etc. Ahead of us, several planes coming in from northern Europe passed by the bridge window in their final approach to the airport that is extended into the sea at both ends, and for which the cross border traffic has to stop during a landing or takeoff as the main road crosses the only runway.

We left on schedule and threaded our way back through the anchored vessels, avoided the ferries coming from North Africa to the nearby Spanish ports, and made our way towards the Straits and the traffic separation scheme that would take us back into the Atlantic. The easterly wind picked up from behind us and we sailed along with the white tops of the deep blue ocean seemingly matching our speed.