Sunday 30th September, Mar Cantábrico near A Coruna.
NE force 4, 1020 mbar.
The boat cuts through the quiet sea, as it has continuously for the last four nights. By 3am we’ve reached the Spanish coast at Cape Ortega, heading west on the last leg. To port lies the dark mass of Galician hills, black against a bright, moonlit sky, with lights picked along roads and great lighthouses semaphoring their unique messages out to those watching for them. Trawlermen rumble past along the coast, nets out in the waters. Ahead of us I can see the glow on the clouds from the lights over Ferrol – Franco’s birthplace – miles away, still hidden behind the headland. As our phone signal has reappeared on reaching inshore waters, I text Carmen, my friend from A Coruna who is celebrating her birthday back in London.
“I can see your house from here”, I say.
Saturday 29th September, Bay of Biscay.
NNE force 4, 1009 mbar.
The rocking and rolling of the boat, the incessant creaking of the cabin walls, and being occasionally flung across my bunk do not make for a restful night’s sleep. The watch rota is three hours on, six hours off, so when given the opportunity to sleep at night it’s foolish to turn it down – even if actual sleep is harder to come by.
Friday 28th September, Bay of Biscay.
SW force 3, 1050 mbar.
I sleep uneasily. The ship rattles, the wooden partitions of the cabin creaking with the pressure of the waves on the hull. Everything creaks and groans. The ship rolls and pitches strongly, and I am tossed from one side of the bunk to the other, and resort to trying to brace myself against each wall with my feet. But the motion is not because the weather is rough outside. In fact, sometime around 3am I awake to almost total stillness, only the gurgle of water under the keel. It feels like we’ve slowed almost to a stop.
Thursday 27th September, Western English Channel.
SW force 4, 1020 mbar.
I emerge groggily from below decks to find the dark clouds have dispersed, the sun is shining and the wind has dropped. After last night’s experience I had secretly hoped we were nearly there, so I am pretty disappointed to discover that I can still see the English coast. My god, sailing is slow. Having had to tack a bit through the night because the wind was against us, we’ve not even reached as far as Plymouth in 18 hours of sailing. However, my stomach is relieved to find it is a calmer sea through which Salamander cuts a brisk pace, and when cups of tea and oatcakes go down and stay down, it seems I have found my sealegs and am declared fit for duty.
Wednesday 26th September, Poole Marina.
S force 5, 990 mbar.
The plan was to leave last night, but there were still too many unticked items on the list of things to do, the wind was against us and Michael, the captain, was happy to have a vegan shepherd’s pie and a final sleep on (or at least docked beside) British soil before we left. He had waited 12 years for this, after all, so another night would cost nothing.
Chicago – America’s Midwest industrial underbelly, home of the skyscraper, and home of house music.
Hit by Katrina in 2005, Six Flags lies abandoned, its rollercoaster carcass steadily stripped for scrap and sinking slowly back into the bayou.
Night becomes day while I slip in and out of a truly uncomfortable sleep despite Greyhound’s claims of extra legroom and comfort, for which they congratulate themselves heartily whenever possible. Outside is a bland cityscape – a hinterland-scape – of turnpikes, roadside diners and McDonalds, nondescript housing and brown inbetween-land somewhere in New Jersey. But my heart skips a beat when I turn to see, stretched across a window of bright skyline carved out against the barely lit foreground, the crests of Manhattan’s spike-topped tower blocks and domes.
Three months has gone by quickly, quick enough to remind me how quickly time passes even when you’re not having fun, and actually doing really mundane things.
Just walking around this city makes me realise how much I like it, even while realising how little I’ve scratched the surface of Montreal, or the huge expanse of Quebec – Canada’s largest state – outside the city limits. The broad streets lined with bare-branched winter trees, improbably wide North American cars, and the brick triplexes that are unique to this city (a housebuilding split into three flats with a presumably lethal-when-iced stairway to each); the alleyways between streets one can look down that keep going for miles through block after block; the cafes and bars whose names I don’t know and never visited, and all those I did; the 1960s metro, filled with modern art and stained glass, with trains running inexplicably on rubber tyres instead of rails; the easy beauty of your womenfolk, and they way they can veer from restrained European chic to dancing drunkenly on tables and bars in the blink of an eye, the tip of a cocktail.
Cuisine edition: Quebec of course, being French-ish, has a long and glorious history of fine cuisine, masterfully prepared dishes of exquisite beauty and a general cultural appreciation of fine food that surpasses other, lesser nations. Here, then, are some of said cultural gastronomic treasures.