The Gulf of Finland was flat calm as we left Russian waters, the many ships following the invisible traffic lanes looking like toys on a glassy surface. The next day was already bright as we approached the old fortress that guards the narrows leading to the harbour of Helsinki. However there were very few passengers up and about to witness this interesting ‘technical’ piece of navigation, which has a minor course deviation in the middle for good measure and where the land passes by less than sixty yards on either side.

The local agent Rasmus, a youngish gentleman dressed very smartly and whose English was without a noticeable accent was going to have a very busy day, but I did task him to find out what the Finnish words were for ‘unsubscribe’. I have one of these monotonously regular emails from a Finnish branch of a worldwide travel company that I am unable to stop descending into my computer from cyber space because I don’t know which unintelligible sentence to click on.

Crew drill took up the morning, but I stole a few hours after to take a brisk walk into the city. Meeting up at the local outside market I was ushered by my wife towards a small stall where I had earlier just saved myself a small fortune, even though of course I had been absent for the transaction. The market is a great place, full of atmosphere and local colour, and it leads onto a delightful tree lined avenue with ‘posh’ shops in elegant old buildings on either side while through the middle runs a wide gravelled path. Tourists and locals alike were enjoying the sunny weather, sitting at outside cafe tables watching the world go by. We were passed by a horse and carriage, with aged bearded driver in bowler hat and bride and groom in the rear.

We walked back, catching the odd glimpse of the impressive Lutheran Cathedral of St. Nicholas as we crossed over cobbled streets. In the old harbour the huge ferries that make the regular runs over to Tallinn and Stockholm were at their berths and dominated the skyline.

The agent had managed to complete the ship’s business, and we prepared to sail on schedule. From the quayside, jacket now off and braces on display, he gesticulated my translation for ‘unsubscribe’ would come on email. Eventually it did:- “Jos et halua enää vastaanottaa sähköpstivietejä instrumentariumilta, klikkaa...” Simples.

We had a splendid two days in St. Petersburg despite the best efforts of the arrival pilot who stopped the ship about two hundred yards from the berth and seemed to be waiting for Russia to come to us.

Passengers were almost chomping at the bit to get off on tour, but were, as usual, brought back to snail’s pace as they went past the straight faced immigration lady. She didn’t seem to be overly impressed when my wife and I went to go off together. Visa arrangements are different for ship’s crew and passengers, but all was eventually sorted and a delightful young Russian lady, in her first season of being a guide, escorted us into the city and the Cathedral of the Spilt Blood. This was not for a religious experience, impressive as the cathedral is, but to go to the doll market next door. My wife was on a mission, not for cleverly crafted dolls that come apart and fit inside each other in ever reducing sizes, but for something a ‘little warmer’, which apparently would be a ‘good buy’. The morning was not without reward, not exactly what was required but a little something that was a suitable substitute for keeping ones neck warm. Apparently I have saved money yet again.

The evening tour was one I would most certainly recommend, a ‘Musical Evening in the Hermitage’. It was a leisurely walking tour around the staterooms of this normally bustling museum opened just for our party. The treasures amassed by the Russian emperors are truly magnificent and after an hour and a half we ended up in the Italian Skylight Hall, sitting down to listen to the State Symphony Orchestra of St. Petersburg play eight pieces of popular classical music. It was a remarkable evening that ended with a champagne reception.

For many, St. Petersburg was the highlight of their cruise, and it is a great city to visit, but two days hardly gives the experience justice as there is so much to see. Designed by Peter the Great just over three hundred years ago, it still has many of the grand buildings that were erected in the 19th century, along with everything else that has survived from the periods of the Czars, the Revolution and eventually the post communist ‘liberation’. We passed along the River Neva and across it’s busy bridges, the battleship ‘Aurora’, the ship that fired the shot that was the signal for the October Revolution in 1917, and returned to the new Marine Facade, built on reclaimed ground in only the last few years in order to take at least six of the world’s largest cruise ships at the same time.

When we left on the second evening the sun was still shining, our new pilot wasted little time in turning the ship towards the shallow channel that would take us out past the naval island of Kronshdat and the Gulf of Finland. The numerous Soviet built hydrofoils that take locals across the water to the Peterhof Palace came racing passed at regular intervals, with even their skippers leaning out of the window to take a photo of us. And the young lady guide from our first day has learned a new English phrase, ‘Cheap as chips’, very useful when sorting out the tourist trivia from the real thing.

Strong winds followed us as we sailed east towards the Gulf of Finland, but there was only a gentle roll despite the waves breaking in the same direction as our travel. Above us was only high thin cloud and so we had a day at sea in very pleasant warm conditions. Tallinn was relatively quiet, with only the ferries coming and going from across the Baltic, so the old town was not quite as busy as normal. Even so there were plenty of tourists wandering around this old Hanseatic capital with its watchtowers, graceful spires and winding cobbled streets.

I have seen a huge difference in the ten years I have been going to this ex-Soviet country, there has been much investment, mainly to cater for the tourist trade I guess. Consequently the old unspoilt feel has been slightly ‘jazzed’ up, but in the old town, quite carefully so that new buildings have had to meet the UNESCO World Heritage ground rules. We strolled around, stopping from time to time in a variety of shops more suited to my wife’s requirements but there were also quite a number of antique shops, far more than there had been when I first visited. They sold, of course, everything from the communist period, and at extremely high prices. In one shop I found everything from German second world war helmets, to SS daggers, Luger pistols and even a machine gun. Another sold some lovely old furniture, looking rather tired however but what interested me perhaps more than anything else was on the top shelf, tucked away behind other stuff, it was a model plastic kit of the TU-144, the Soviet attempt at building a copy of Concorde.

I asked the dealer to let me have a look. He reluctantly took it off the shelf, cut the sticky tape, which no one had done for years, and opened the box. The white plastic kit had been half assembled, rather carelessly, and there were no transfers. ‘The price?’ I asked. ‘One hundred and fifty Euros’ was the answer. Even a collector would baulk at that I thought. I smiled politely took a photo to prove my ‘find’ and moved on.

I left my wife to continue in her endeavours, and walked back to the ship. Our internal auditors had arrived and my turn was scheduled. When it came to sail I found we had an outstanding passenger according to the computer. A most unusual situation with our regular Saga passengers, so the announcements were made, we waited; even I made an announcement, which probably sounded somewhat pleading. The local agent went back up to the shuttle bus stop to check. We waited, and then I made the decision to leave, the first lines were let go.......and she strolled around the corner.

Cheers from the boat deck, the agent brought her the last few hundred yards in his car, the boys went down to assist, and she casually walked up the gangway seemingly without a care in the world. I guess we must be doing something right if our passengers are that relaxed.

At long last we seem to be getting something like ‘normal’ summer weather and so the last few days coming into the Baltic have been rather pleasant. It has, however, been extremely busy operationally with the most time consuming being a full safety inspection carried out by outside inspectors on Saturday. Sunday then, was to be a little more relaxing, after an early start to arrive in Warnemunde, the port for Rostock. This of course used to be East Germany, the Soviet styled German Democratic Republic. The all day tour to Berlin was despatched just after eight, the other more local ones left soon after.

I convinced my wife that we should join the afternoon tour that went over to Bad Doberan where a 700 year old red brick church, the Minster, dominates the skyline. Being an astute woman, she of course new the real reason for my suggestion, the Molli. This a narrow gauge steam railway originally built in 1886, was designed to carry passengers to the Baltic Sea and eventually extended in 1910 to the resort of Ahrendsee, a total distance of 15.4 km.

The Minster was certainly an imposing building, surrounded by a small lake and parkland. Inside the red bricks with light coloured cement seem to accentuate the height to almost towering proportions. There is much to see for religious scholars, including numerous statuettes of deceased monarchs, all having remained unscathed from the ravages of war over the centuries. We continued on until our coach came to a halt a few minutes later near the centre of the small town. The Molli was passing through the narrow main street, its bell ringing out a warning which was probably unnecessary as anyone in the vicinity was there just to witness that unique experience. The carriages have a balcony at each end, enabling the enthusiasts to lean out during the journey to capture the memory. Great if you don’t mind soot in your eyes. My wife was fine inside, chatting away to other ‘suffering’ ladies.

It was a delightful journey, with the not so small engine powering its way down the line, grey smoke billowing out at times, and folks waving at us enthusiastically as we went past. The country side, with rolling green hills in the distance and nearby corn fields ready to be harvested looked magnificent in the dappled sunshine. On occasion the train stopped at a small station to let folks on or off, while half way we waited for the returning train. It all seemed very relaxed and very far away from the normal rush of everyday life. I guess that’s as a result of what it was actually built for, an escape from reality.

Ahrendsee is now known as Kuhlungsborn, and it is where we alighted in order to take some small refreshment then a stroll along the sea front. The area, so very clean and ‘tidily organised’, was busy with holidaying tourists. We were reminded that, before the reunification, factory workers were awarded the ‘prize’ of a holiday at this resort, but could only come as an organised and escorted group, not individually. Armed guards, in the days of the GDR, apparently patrolled the coastline, and it wasn’t to stop folks coming in from the sea. How times have changed.

We have been very fortunate with the weather, particularly during our journeys through the fjords, allowing the passengers to see the superb scenery at close to its best. Those of you who have seen a copy of Edvard Munch’s painting ‘The Scream’ may recognise it in the accompanying photograph I took the other day. It appears to be carved into the rock face at the side of Aurlands Fjord, it is, however, a quite natural phenomena. The views through the bridge windows as we sailed through the calm waters have been quite delightful, small villages, quiet hamlets and sometimes just a few farm buildings high up on the slopes.

The final run into Bergen gave the impression that the weather was going to hold, in fact the sun was just trying to poke through. It did for a short while after arrival but then Bergen lived up to its reputation and light rain started to fall. The pilots who had taken us all the way up from Stavanger left, with big smiles all around, for one of them had celebrated his sixty third birthday and I had quickly organised a cake with ‘Happy birthday Mr. Pilot’ inscribed in chocolate. He had been very surprised, taken photos and within minutes it was already on his Facebook page. He said that in all his years as a pilot he had never received anything on his birthday. There you are, Saga like to ‘surprise and delight’, even the pilots.

The passengers still enjoyed their day despite the rather grey skies, we were busy taking a top up on the fuel and fresh water, and there were a couple of new joiners. A deck officer arrived for a two day handover and then to relieve Scott, our 4 to 8 man who has been bringing us in and out of port most days. The new chap is Ukrainian, born in 1966, one year after the first cosmonaut in space, and his name? Yuri Gagarin. I wonder how many times he has pondered why his parents decided to bestow on him the name of this hero of the Soviet Union.

Our departure was close to schedule, having had to wait just an extra ten minutes for a tour bus that had been caught in traffic. A cocktail party for the ladies of the Women’s Institute followed, and from their conversations it is obvious they have had a great time. Unfortunately though, the next calendar was not mentioned, an opportunity missed perhaps?

There is a man in Olden who is known, not by his first name Aslak, but as ‘Mr Everything’. I hadn’t seen him for several years, but as we slowly approached the short jetty (which he used to own) there he was driving a line boat, then back on terra firma he clambered onto his bicycle to unlock the gate and, as ships' agent, brought the clearance papers to the Chief Purser. Aslak is one of the world’s characters and just about everyone in western Norway, including all the pilots, have heard of ‘Mr Everything’. And he does do just about everything including being the harbour master although, after greeting me as his long lost friend, he said, yet again, that he was going to retire this year. Probably about time as he must be eighty if he’s a day, but he seems to have boundless energy, a very firm handshake and a wry smile, particularly when he talks in his dodgy English about the real officialdom in his district for whom he has little time it would seem. He always asks when am I going to take a drive with him in his Rolls Royce (he has two, in immaculate condition, but fairly old), but as yet I’ve always had to reluctantly say ‘No time today’ – am I coward? Probably.

In fact, as it was a Sunday, I did manage to find time, but then I couldn’t find him so I took a stroll into the village instead, just as a light shower came down off the surrounding mountains. Olden is one of those little villages you pass through on the way to somewhere else, but it is a gateway for the Jostedalsbreen National Park and the superb Briksdal Glacier, to where I have walked in the past. I took the opportunity to take a look at the old church in the village, built in 1759 on the site of an existing 14th century Stave church, parts of which were used for door posts and pews. Inside it had the most amazing vaulted wooden ceiling.

By the time it was ready to leave Mr Everything had returned to the pier to finish his duties and lock up. We backed down into the wider fjord, passing the local hotel sounding three long blast to the guests who waved enthusiastically back. Probably not to the hotel managements pleasure though, as they apparently have some long running battle with the local authorities over the noise that large cruise ships are supposed to make, disturbing the tranquillity of their location. As it’s a location right next to the main road I can’t really see that they have much of an argument.

We passed into the Sognefjord in the early hours and continued all the way east to Aurlandsfjord, turning south just before 0600 hours. It was a great run and the last fifteen miles in particular were amongst fantastic mountain scenery. There was the odd touch of blue up above, but for the main we were encased between mountain, fjord and moody cloud that hid the peaks above. As we slowly progressed towards the small quay at Flam there was hardly a breath of air, and the small village seemed to be just in the throes of waking up. Folks in their hotel rooms came out onto their balconies to look as our lines were passed to the shore.

Flam has always been a tourist village and since a branch of the Bergen to Oslo railway was built to connect it with the outside world in 1940 it has been an accessible and regular stop on the tourist trail (well, perhaps not until after 1945). From our bridge the famous Flam Railway station was just a few hundred yards away and the whole vista looks more like a very large model train set, with tracks, buildings and scenery all exactly in place. The majority of our tours took the train up to the main line junction at Myrdal and buses back, some folks however disembarked just before the top and walked down what can only be described as the most picturesque path back down to a lower station to re-board a returning train.

I managed to take a stroll in the afternoon in order to take a few photos of the ship. There is a new path up behind the refurbished Fretheim Hotel allowing an excellent vista of the fjord and our berth. The early summer wild flowers were in bloom and the smell of them filled the air as I followed a few others who obviously had the same idea. It was peaceful reflection and seemed far away from the minor bustle that was going on below, where ferries were coming and going from time to time, busses were lined up waiting for their returning tourists and the station stood empty for a short while before the next train came back down from around the corner.

As we left, the ships whistle was sounded in salute and the hotel guests, a fresh lot perhaps recently arrived, came out to wave us goodbye.

A breezy day in Dover was followed by an equally breezy one going up through the North Sea, however we rode it well and, with over five hundred ‘newcomers’ on board, the ship seems to be buzzing just a touch more than normal. I understand we have approximately two hundred Women’s Institute members, some with their husbands. I did ask them at the welcome cocktail party whether they might be considering a new calendar, which of course brought a few smiles, but also some quite apparent enthusiasm. I have a vision of a nautical version of that delightful charitable effort, with a Saga twist of course.

Stavanger was far quieter than when we came a few weeks ago and, apart from numerous oil field service vessels, we had the quayside to ourselves, just opposite the delightful old clapperboard houses. The weather stayed dry, but rather cloudy, so within an hour of our arrival there were less than fifty folks remaining on board. It was basically a half day call so there was obviously no time to waste and I was almost run off the gangway platform as the ‘escape committee’ surged forward. Good fun though, as so many of our newcomers were obviously quite excited to be stepping ashore after such a long sea voyage. I must have heard ‘If you’re down here who’s driving?’ half a dozen times, my reply of course could only be, ‘We’re parked’. It was enough for them to break out into a minor fit of merriment, and then off they went.

We sailed after lunch and headed up through the inside fjords, chilly on deck, but many came on deck as we passed under the low bridge at Haugesund with just a few metres to spare. The cruise appears to be shaping up rather well, so fingers crossed for the weather.

Despite the rather gloomy British weather we have been getting at times, I’m sure we must have had the best of what was on offer as we cruised through the Scottish islands. The Sound of Mull was calm and pleasant and then we took the relatively short detour to make a circumnavigation of Staffa, the small island where Mendelssohn is reputed to have gained his inspiration for the Hebridean overture. A local tourist boat was tied up alongside the small jetty and a number of folk were scrambling over the basalt rocks in order to peer into Fingal’s Cave, their small figures giving some perspective to this well-known cathedral like phenomenon. It is much bigger than it seemed from our vantage point a quarter of a mile away.

We continued around the coast, leaving Skye to starboard and passing Cape Wrath during the night. Kirkwall was grey, cold and windy, but all the passengers I met said their tours were fascinating. I have a sneaking suspicion though, that they were very pleased to get back to a hot cup of coffee in the Drawing Room. Leaving the berth with the strong on shore wind was a challenge for the pilot, but by re-arranging the tug positions we finally achieved ‘take off’ without scratching the paint. No paperwork, therefore a hundred percent success.

By the time we reached the Cromarty Firth the sky had barely changed from its sombre grey, but at least the wind had eased. This large stretch of sheltered deep water has been a home for the oil industry over many years, these days however it seems to be more for the refit and lay up of large rigs rather than the building. There must have been at least half a dozen of these giants sitting around, one with no ‘top’ on, apparently waiting for disposal. As we passed, its six giant weathered legs, taller than our bridge wing, appeared to be supported by nothing more than a thin layer buoyancy.

The berth was an old Admiralty Pier, built prior to the Second World War and with the ‘period’ Control Tower used apparently for when it was also a Flying Boat base, the scene looked somewhat at odds to the rig being repaired at the pier just ahead. Very ‘Agatha Christie’. Our harbour pilot, a veteran of sixty nine years, was a no nonsense retiree with a wry smile, and told me he was just ‘helping out’ while one of the regular chaps was on vacation. The country side all around was beautiful and this was remarked upon by our returning passengers.

As we left, in the early afternoon, I suggested they may wish to keep an eye open for the pod of dolphins that had leaped before our bows on the approach to the Firth before breakfast. One or two braved the cold and stood there for an hour or more, all to no avail as it happens. That’s life I guess, the early bird might grab the moment, for the rest, they will never know when it will come their way again.

We approached our berth, stern first and at a snail’s pace, the pilot appearing very cautious, and then he mentioned a local word that I didn’t understand. I was led to believe it meant something similar to ‘drekly’ from my part of the world, but whether it was meant to suggest something to do with the attending tugs I never found out. It was good to see that the Harland and Wolff shipyard had been busy, as a very large floating petroleum storage vessel was about to be floated out of the dry dock prior to its long journey back to the eastern waters off the Newfoundland coast.

The mayor and a couple of port officials came down to carry out the now vey familiar plaque exchange. He is a very tall man, making me feel rather small, and still in his late twenties. In his four weeks of office he has already met the Queen and dealt with a few floods, so we must have been relatively small fry, however you wouldn’t have thought it as the photographer was buzzing around, snapping away and obviously looking for that special PR moment. And it came when a passenger came along and said he had been an ex-mayor of a small town in the Ridings. More photographs.

I did have a little go when I mentioned that the coal dock was perhaps not quite the appropriate berth for a large passenger vessel, even though they had obviously had a good sweep up before we arrived. A tall grey wall separated us, but it is rather difficult to hide 200,000 tons of newly imported coal, particularly if you happen to be looking down from sixty feet up.

Despite the still not so great weather the passengers seemed to enjoy all their tours; up to the Antrim Coast and Giant’s Causeway, the Ards Peninsula, Mount Stewart House and of course the Titanic Experience. The newly opened ‘Titanic Belfast’ is an ultra-modern looking six story building already being referred to as ‘iconic’ and from the outside having a vague resemblance to the bows of the three great sister ships, Olympic, Titanic and Britannic. By all accounts it is a remarkable exhibition and is the showpiece of what is now referred to as the ‘Titanic Quarter’ of Belfast.

We left in the late evening, and within a few hours, passed the storage vessel with its two tugs attending. Five knots and many days of North Atlantic in front before reaching her chilly destination.

The Liverpool pilot must have been very keen as his boat came racing out towards us some thirty minutes before the scheduled ETA. He was indeed very cheery and it wasn’t until later when I spoke with our local agent, that I found out the reason why, he normally only pilots the scrap carrying ships, not that I read anything into that. A special assignment for him then.

The Mersey was much the same as when I last passed through the brown murky waters over twelve years ago, except the skyline had changed somewhat. The beaches of Crosby had Antony Gormley statues of men embedded in the sands which apparently caused a certain degree of consternation amongst the locals when they were first placed. There were numerous calls to the coastguard when these ‘men’ were thought to be about to drown as the tide rose and enveloped them. From a distance the Liver Building seemed to be divided by a very tall slim apartment eau de nil coloured building. In fact as we came much closer it was a few hundred yards to the west, along with several other modern buildings that have gone up in the interval. They are a sign of great investment to what was a very run down area, which now also includes the new Cruise Pier, a series of large floating concrete structures which rise and fall with the tide.

While our passengers disappeared off to see the ‘Beatles Experience’, ‘Iconic Liverpool’ and further afield to Snowdonia, I remained to greet terminal staff, including a lovely enthusiastic lady with that unmistakeable accent who presented me with a present for the ship. It was a small cast statue of the flightless Liver Bird, obviously a proud symbol of Liverpool, but it’s somewhat prehistoric appearance may take some explaining to the foreign guests who, on occasion, visit my quarters.

The weather, in true British summer fashion, was not great, but at least it did not rain. The folks came back suitably impressed I believe, and as we were not due to sail until 2300 hours, a local ‘sounds like’ group, the ‘Cheatles’ came on board to entertain. The accents were good, the songs were the same, the wigs were impressive and they even managed to get a few of our still lively folks up onto the dance floor.

Happy days.

The overnight journey, rounding Land's End and up through the traffic separation scheme, was in relatively windy conditions, but affected us little on board. By the time we had closed the Irish coast the swell had reduced and a bright sunny morning greeted those who chose to rise early to watch our arrival. The River Lee was in full ebb as we made our approach to Cobh, the port for Cork. The impressive neo-Gothic St. Colman’s Cathedral dominated the skyline above the brightly painted houses, the pretty view gradually filling the bridge windows as we approached until finally the pilot gently manoeuvred us onto the two large floating pontoons that are effectively the berth. These are so placed against the river wall to ensure the ships have enough depth in which to float comfortably at all states of the tide.

In this century year, of course the Titanic is very newsworthy and Cobh, or Queenstown as it was known then, was the last call before its fatal voyage. The nearby heritage centre, which is part of the railway station, had apparently even more to remind visitors of the infamous tragedy than was usually on display. The pilot also told me that the locals had celebrated the event in style and dignity, with a huge open air concert on the promenade, a cast of hundreds and an audience of thousands. No doubt the Guinness, which just happened to be an added inclusive to our walking tour, was flowing well that night.

A few brave souls went on a 'Rib Safari' out of Kinsale, while there was quite a number who travelled up to Cork and onto Blarney Castle. Some said that they had actually kissed the famous Blarney Stone, and I do recall having seen a few practising, perhaps unknowingly, in the Drawing Room over the previous few days. For us it was emergency drill day and by the time that was finished the rain had started to fall. The wind came up as a cold front came over the hills and the afternoon ended somewhat grey, before fortunately drying up a little before we departed