diet: a fruitbearing tree can be grown from seed sown the previous year, and flourishes all over West Africa; the miserable specimens that appear on supermarket shelves in Europe bear little resemblance to freshly picked fruit from oneâs own plot. The same goes for mangoes, although the West African mango â stringy and tasting slightly of turpentine â is a poor substitute for the East African variety, but I did not learn that until seven years later. My fellow diners watched with morbid interest, predicting I would come to my senses after a dose of âbelly palaverâ. I fear the north-country people thought me stuck up, and heading for a comeuppance. No wedding ring, listed as âMrsâ on the passenger list, evasive not only about her past, about who was going to meet her at Takoradi â very odd.
Next morning was cool and overcast when we sailed down the Pembrokeshire coast to the Bristol Channel and the Scilly Isles. Breakfast was served in two sittings, the first for children with their attendant mothers. Once fed, swarms of calorie-fuelled brats thronged the corridors and ladders, thundering about in search of entertainment. Deck games would be organised later, but there was universal disappointment that the swimming pool would not be open during this voyage. The mothers then joined the second sitting for their own breakfast. The âfull Britishâ was the most popular choice, though some passengers were cautious, in dread of the Bay of Biscay, and retreated to their cabins at the first hint of a swell.
By mid-morning I had found a deck chair in a sheltered corner, and began to assess the occupants of neighbouring chairs, from behind my book. The sun had still not burned off the low cloud, so I had to fetch a sweater from my cabin, treating metal stairs, at which I was far from nimble, and steps, which were trip hazards, with care. Back on deck, I found the chairs arranged in little groups, one of which I was asked to join. It would have been rude to demur, and thankfully this lot were more animated than my companions of the previous night. At 11 a.m. the first round of drinks was ordered, but still replete from breakfast, I settled for fruit juice, while the others ordered beer, a few gins and tonic, and new to me, gin and Dubonnet, or Campari soda, which later became my favourite drink. The passing of the sister ship MV Accra , heading for Liverpool on its homeward voyage via Grand Canary, brought nearly all the passengers to their feet, waving like children. Other highlights were the sighting of a school of dolphins, the arrival of a solitary bumble bee, and a house martin sheltering in one of the lifeboats.
I reflected on Grandmaâs addiction to cruises lasting months, and wondered how she had endured the monotonous routine: regular meals, for which it was impossible to work up a healthy appetite, and unremitting trivial exchanges of social banter. She will have been avoided by many, but her entertainment value as a garrulous Irish woman probably filled a need, and by her own account she often dined at the captainâs table. She was a formidable bridge player, which will have helped to pass the time, but several cruises in the late twenties and early thirties, including two to New Zealand, made serious inroads on her estate. She is on record as boasting, tongue I now suspect loosened by alcohol, that I would be âone of the richest young heiresses in the provinceâ. After her death in 1947, when her will was read, there was not enough capital to honour her many bequests to âdear friendsâ.
The first port of call was Bathurst in the Gambia. I was shocked by the attitude of most of the passengers when the question of going ashore was broached. âThereâs nothing to see, itâs not worth the bother,â they said. From where we were anchored there was indeed little to be seen. A solitary pied kingfisher perched, almost within reach, on one of
Next morning was cool and overcast when we sailed down the Pembrokeshire coast to the Bristol Channel and the Scilly Isles. Breakfast was served in two sittings, the first for children with their attendant mothers. Once fed, swarms of calorie-fuelled brats thronged the corridors and ladders, thundering about in search of entertainment. Deck games would be organised later, but there was universal disappointment that the swimming pool would not be open during this voyage. The mothers then joined the second sitting for their own breakfast. The âfull Britishâ was the most popular choice, though some passengers were cautious, in dread of the Bay of Biscay, and retreated to their cabins at the first hint of a swell.
By mid-morning I had found a deck chair in a sheltered corner, and began to assess the occupants of neighbouring chairs, from behind my book. The sun had still not burned off the low cloud, so I had to fetch a sweater from my cabin, treating metal stairs, at which I was far from nimble, and steps, which were trip hazards, with care. Back on deck, I found the chairs arranged in little groups, one of which I was asked to join. It would have been rude to demur, and thankfully this lot were more animated than my companions of the previous night. At 11 a.m. the first round of drinks was ordered, but still replete from breakfast, I settled for fruit juice, while the others ordered beer, a few gins and tonic, and new to me, gin and Dubonnet, or Campari soda, which later became my favourite drink. The passing of the sister ship MV Accra , heading for Liverpool on its homeward voyage via Grand Canary, brought nearly all the passengers to their feet, waving like children. Other highlights were the sighting of a school of dolphins, the arrival of a solitary bumble bee, and a house martin sheltering in one of the lifeboats.
I reflected on Grandmaâs addiction to cruises lasting months, and wondered how she had endured the monotonous routine: regular meals, for which it was impossible to work up a healthy appetite, and unremitting trivial exchanges of social banter. She will have been avoided by many, but her entertainment value as a garrulous Irish woman probably filled a need, and by her own account she often dined at the captainâs table. She was a formidable bridge player, which will have helped to pass the time, but several cruises in the late twenties and early thirties, including two to New Zealand, made serious inroads on her estate. She is on record as boasting, tongue I now suspect loosened by alcohol, that I would be âone of the richest young heiresses in the provinceâ. After her death in 1947, when her will was read, there was not enough capital to honour her many bequests to âdear friendsâ.
The first port of call was Bathurst in the Gambia. I was shocked by the attitude of most of the passengers when the question of going ashore was broached. âThereâs nothing to see, itâs not worth the bother,â they said. From where we were anchored there was indeed little to be seen. A solitary pied kingfisher perched, almost within reach, on one of
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