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 to satisfy her for now.  I’d been hoping to see many coastal sights on this voyage but the lingering fog kept me in my seat.

“Would you mind keeping an eye on Dingle whilst I pop to the café?” I asked the fair-headed man sitting behind me.  He lowered his book smiling with his twinkly blue eyes.

“Of course.”

“She’s unlikely to move.” I continued.

“I hadn’t even noticed she was there.”  I asked if he wanted anything but he pointed to his full coffee cup. I returned with a latte and he watched me balancing the cup trying not to spill it on Dingle.

“Is this your first time?” Without waiting for an answer as he could clearly tell, he continued,

“If you look through the porthole on the other side you’ll just about see the island .”  I tottered towards a window, caught my balance, stooped and squinted.  There was indeed an outline of land ahoy through the sea fret.  Rocks were looming and I could make out a faint contrast of a white sandy bay.  My outwardly calm reserve fell while butterflies leapt. I choked out an oh.  We really were nearly there.  I was coming to terms with being at the beginning of a long journey, but it wouldn’t be ending at this land.  It was the first step of  my life’s new voyage.  So many unknown unknowns and very few known unknowns. Thanks, Mr Rumsfeld.  As for the knowns?  The last few years had all but crushed them out of my life.  Dingle was the only known at that point of this journey. My furry side-kick.

I’d crossed Cornwall coast-to-coast in the summer traffic.  Anxiety welled.  Would I make it in time?   It’s always a pleasure to see the sight of St Michael’s Mount rising mystically from the sea at Marazion like an imagined Camelot.  My stomach settled slightly. 

The quayside at Penzance was a sea of humanity.  Well-spoken, three-generational family groups, who knew exactly where they were going and what they should be doing.  I was all at sea in this melee.  Having been despatched from the car parking company bus, I soon concluded I’d over-packed. I work on the kitchen sink principle. A wheeled-suitcase, extra holdall, a small rucksack and a collie.  Did I really think that I was capable of negotiating this journey with all this and on my own?  Almost everyone had asked me who I was travelling with and looked sceptical when I replied just Dingle and me.  We’ll be fine.   I’d managed to negotiate the vagaries of bus and rail travel around India and Nepal alone, including dodgy border crossings and Maoist strikes in the days before the internet.  This would be a breeze.

Harbours and quay-sides fascinate me. The co-existence of humans and fantastically shaped sailing machinery seemingly belonging in another century.  Lobster and crab pots and endless winches and ropes. The sounds of the gulls and fork-lifts loading the boats.  The smell of diesel mixed with sea water hung heavy in the misty gloom, with Cornish mizzle prickling the air. Wizened sailor types sat outside stone-walled pubs on the quayside nursing pints of Proper Job or Rattler. The tableau felt exotic and inviting.  I jostled through the burgeoning crowd to reach the kiosk to collect our boarding-cards. Dingle remained unmoved by having one of her own.  I dropped off my luggage hoping for the best.

We found some room outside The Dolphin to have a pint and wait for embarkation. Friendly fellow-travellers, Jane and John made room for us to share their table.  Were people really called that?  They’d been doing this trip for 30 years and still felt the draw and the excitement of the journey. The beer garden was decorated by an array of succulents which thrive in the damp coastal air.  Rumours were afoot that the heavy fog had prevented  the fixed-wing and helicopter flights leaving the mainland.  All ticket-holders were now booked on to the ship .  The bustling queue was long with bored toddlers running through legs.  I needed to protect Dingle from the confusion.  Unsettling for even the most stoic of dogs. Eventually the throng stirred and shuffled forward to board the ship.  Dingle was acquitting herself like a salty-dog professional.  Had she done this in a previous life?  The queue snaked past the cavernous luggage containers.  Random bags still lay on the quayside awaiting the forklift. Brightly coloured labels waved in the breeze indicating each bag’s island destination.  Surf boards, fishing equipment cluttered up gangways before being spirited away into the bowels of the ship.  One fascinating aspect of this trip is that my luggage would miraculously arrive at my accommodation the other end.  The sort of privilege you would expect with an expensive package holiday to a five-star destination.  The mainland could learn a thing or two from such a helpful ‘can do’ attitude.  I would find out later that creative pragmatism is vital to the success of challenging island life.  There is plenty for mainlanders to learn from island folk.

Overheard snippets of conversation suggested it might be a difficult crossing.  I’m a good traveller on the sea and wasn’t put off by the ship’s nickname ‘the vomit vessel’.  I didn’t fancy the outside deck so I managed to navigate Dingle and my rucksack to a single window seat close to all amenities as such they were.  Cafe, loos and stairs.  Dingle gratefully threw herself under the seat in front placated by water and treats.  She soon drifted off to sleep with much relief to us both.

This was the first significant journey I’d undertaken alone for many years. I visited my sister when she moved to Grenada in 2006.  I took the opportunity in case she and Andy didn’t settle. They returned to the UK in 2022 after many happy years but pleased to return after the restrictions of the pandemic.  Derek and I had otherwise explored the world together making far-flung trips to India, Vietnam and Grenada but more recently Cornwall and Ceredigion.

In December 2000 I was travelling back from Kathmandu after six weeks travelling and trekking.  There were issues with my ticket confirmation, and I was relieved to board the plane.   Derek drove 120 miles through the mid-December winter weather and traffic to pick me up from Heathrow.  He’d had his brakes fixed before he left and worried he’d be late.   That day was a sliding doors moment.  We hadn’t understood the true nature of our relationship.  The morning my friend Julie left Kathmandu, as a parting line she said

“I hope it works out with you and Derek.”

“What?  Oh no, we’re just friends.”

In September 2001 we were married.  In May 2024 he died from cancer.

I was determined to prove to myself this summer that I still the capability of travelling alone albeit with a very well-behaved collie.  I might be more than twenty years older, but that adventurous and capable woman was still lurking deep inside me.  I was embarking on a voyage that I had never wanted to take and navigating my new world with my dog.

The ship’s horn blasted our arrival into Hugh Town.   Beyond the harbour I could see a bay full of bobbing fishing and pleasure boats as well as a small sandy beach edged by buildings suggesting shops and dwellings.  My fellow sailors gathered their belongings and stretch their legs.  I offered more water to Dingle but she turned her nose up at it.  A gravy bone was eagerly accepted.  My twinkly-eyed neighbour stood up.  Dressed in white shorts and a fresh cotton t-shirt he appeared as unencumbered by life as he was by luggage. I felt encumbered by everything.  At least I didn’t have to collect my luggage desperately hoping the system would work.

“Are you on holiday?” I ventured.

“Just visiting my mother.  I don’t live here now.”

We chatted amiably and I discovered he was brought up on the island.  My first local and he was as friendly as I hoped I’d find the islanders to be.  Joining the crowd in disembarkation, we jostled with excited teenagers, disgruntled spaniels and smiling labradors shuffling down the gangway.  The afternoon sun had just started to burn off the mist and the white town beach contrasted with the grey crossing.  I waved at my twinkly-eyed friend as I passed him greeting who I assumed was his mother.  I didn’t know his name yet.

My heart sung as I skipped off along the quayside noting the Mermaid pub and the Atlantic Hotel.  Turning into the narrow streets I spotted a Co-op which seemed out of place in this island model village The streets widened giving more room to stride out past ice-cream parlours, cafes, assorted restaurants, jewellery and gift shops. Gaily coloured floral frontages giving a festive appearance. .   The first stop had to be the beach.  Dingle needed to dip her belly in the now azure, blue sea to christen her arrival on this beautiful archipelago.  I unleashed her allowing her to run in.  Non-dog owners probably don’t realise that happy dogs smile with contentment.  She now obliged me with her first for a few hours.

We had one more leg of our journey left.  I had checked my Ordnance Survey map many times.  Pausing at Holgates Green, I garnered our bearings noting that Hugh Town was like an amalgam of all the Cornish harbour villages I’d ever visited.   The map indicated just one road to our destination. I couldn’t go wrong. I still felt obliged to ask if I was heading in the right direction.  Church Street bearing left into Church Road past St Mary’s Church advertising the summer fete on Monday.   Victorian terraced houses, many of which were bed and breakfasts and hotels gave way to smaller cottages edged with roses and, oh what are those purple flowers? Agapanthus everywhere.

Leaving Hugh Town and the isthmus we reached Old Town Road.  That’s promising.  Up the slight hill, we dropped down towards the only island school.

“We’re nearly there, Whippet.  We’re going to have some fun.”  Dingle put her head down and trudged on.  The road bent sharp left at the gate of another church.  St Mary’s, Old Town.  That rang a bell.  The resting place of Harold Wilson, Prime Minister in the sixties and seventies.  I had plenty of time to explore.

We left the cover of the woodland and the crescent of Old Town Bay stretched ahead to my right.  My heart surged.  The beach was quiet at this time in the afternoon apart from a couple of swimmers and fishermen tidying their lobster and crab pots from the many boats moored in the bay.  The afternoon sun created a golden glow.  Dingle pulled me towards the soft inviting sand, but I knew that dogs were off-limits at certain times of day.  Five more minutes and we should be there.  At the far end of the beach the open road turned into a small hamlet of brown stone cottages. It felt like my home village on the side of a mountain in Wales. Beyond Old Town Café with bright signs offering English breakfasts and ice cream specialities the small gin distillery was just closing.  Finally Old Town Inn was in sight.   Worrying it might not be open,  I pulled the door and poked my head inside.  A large and airy bar welcomed us with customers supping pints and bar staff wiping glasses.  Taking my rucksack off my shoulders I smiled at the young man with a name badge ‘A.J.’

“Hi A.J.  I’m Ginny, I’ve booked a room here for a week with my dog Dingle.  We’d love a drink.”

A.J.smiled.

“Welcome to the Scillies.  Is this your first time?  I’m sure you’ll have a lovely week. Who’s this then?” he said pointing at Dingle.

“This is Dingle, aka the furry whippet.  We’re here on an adventure.”

I picked up my pint of cold lager and looked down at her lying at my feet.

“ I think we’ve just made the first step on the journey of the rest of our life.  Let’s enjoy the ride Whippet”.