The Voyage
The diesel engine chuntered loudly and the grand old dame of a boat swayed on the choppy Celtic Sea. Men and women, mainly in shorts and coloured cagoules wandered back and fore from the small, but well-stocked restaurant area, balancing coffees and cans of gin and wine. Children of all ages wandered around aimlessly, clearly instructed not to run but pushing the diktat to the limit. The smell of coffee and toasted sandwiches crept through the saloon. “Mum, Toby’s been sick. Dad says he needs a cloth and a bucket”. “Oh, for goodness’ sake. Barney, take these cans to your father. I’ll sort it.” Keep calm and drink gin. The middle-classes are good in a crisis. I checked Dingle’s lead and wrapped it around my small but bursting rucksack. Dingle, wide-eyed and perplexed was cwtched under the seat in front, silently interrogating me as to what nonsense circumstances she was expected to endure in the coming hours. I reached into my shorts pulling out a dusty gravy bone...