Wilde about Ferries
The Carlow Nationalist - May 2010
Little boats were fine; it's the big ones I had a problem with. When I was young I spent a lot of my free time, as Ratty would have it, messing about on the river. Paddling down lazy backwaters; stopping beneath the shady, embracing arms of some huge overhanging tree, knotting the boat's rope to a bough and casting a line into the deep dark waters. As I've said, little boats were fine.
Then, in my early twenties, as the country was adrift on an horizonless sea of economic depression, I found myself aboard another vessel, this time bound for England. I remember standing on the upper deck on a windswept night as the lights of Dublin twinkled themselves out of existence to the rhythm of the ships engine as it laboured against the breaking waves of the Irish Sea. I remember shedding a tear as the last light of home faded from view and Ireland slipped beneath the bed-clothes of the night.
Below decks, in the ship's bar, it seemed like some great mumbling wake was in progress – as if news of the death of another patriot had flitted like a beggar through the crowd. Men stood stoically leaning against the counter-top, heads bowed, pint in hand desperately searching for balance in their lives. Later, once the drink had taken hold of their tongues it was time for songs and laments, raised voices and shirt-sleeves rolled to the elbow with just the hint of a threat. Later still as the ship ploughed a lonely wake through the night sea, men, tired and emotional, balled a coat behind their heads and settled, as best they could on a metal floor, to sleep with dreams of a new day and a new life.
My next encounter with ships came aboard a ferry crossing the Aegean Sea from the ancient Croatian city of Split to the modern Italian city of Ancona. The journey was uncomfortable – spent upright in a hard chair – but uneventful, that is until the morning came and the ship docked at her port of call. For some reason passengers were directed to disembark by means of the car-deck. Hundreds of people jostled for position on the narrow stairs leading to the ships nether regions. The July air was hot and stifling, it was almost impossible to catch a breath of clean air, and then the nightmare began. The noxious exhausts from the hundreds of vehicles idling their engines while waiting to disgorge themselves from the ship's deep caverns crept like a killer through the open doors and up into the staircase. On the stairs people started coughing, children cried in panic and the swell of people pushed downwards like a killer tide. Someone was going to be hurt, or worse. In a state of hysteria I had visions, possibly induced by the poisonous carbon monoxide coursing through my blood-stream, of headlines the world over declaring the deaths of hundreds of people in the stair-well of an Adriatic ferry. I could already picture the television programmes yet to be made which illustrated in graphic detail our 'timeline to disaster'. But, happily, I am here and so it is safe to assume my visions of doom were greatly exaggerated – but never forgotten.
Never forgotten that is until recently when I boarded the Irish Ferries ship 'Oscar Wilde' bound from Cherbourg to Rosslare in the aftermath of a volcanic cloud which still refuses to acknowledge that the joke is well and truly over. The 'Oscar Wilde', to put it simply, is a pleasure whose existence I had never known. From the comfortable bed of my cabin – a four-star (they come in 2, 3, 4 and 5 star varieties) – I watched the sun set in burning orange through the large picture window. Having flicked through the channels of the TV set and explored the luxury of my own en-suite shower and bathroom I set forth to discover the other delights which 'Oscar' had in store for me.
There were restaurants to suit every pocket, from fine, waiter-serviced dining in the Berneval Restaurant to a homely bistro and steak-house. There were also lounge bars and games rooms, cinemas and a children's play-room, spacious decks on which to sharpen the appetite with a stroll in the brisk air and smoking areas for those, including myself, who find it difficult to do without. I was impressed.
And then there was the ship's staff. It was refreshing and unexpected to find a level of service which I hadn't experienced in the longest time, even on dry land. Nothing was too much trouble and every encounter was transacted with an air of genuine gentility and friendliness. Along with my colleagues we dined in the silver-service ambience of the Berneval restaurant, the food quickly put to shame some of the finer meals I had recently sampled on my prolonged journey through France, Spain and Portugal – all of whom are highly regarded worldwide for their culinary delights. Again I was impressed.
On every deck, in every corner people glowed warm, happy smiles. Many of these, like myself, had forgotten, or indeed had never sampled the level of service and quality on board a modern ferry like the 'Oscar Wilde'. Those who know me know that I like to loudly applaud things done well regardless of what they are or by whom. I will now, gladly, indulge in a standing ovation for Irish Ferries; for 'Oscar Wilde'; for the wonderful people who work aboard her and how they've changed the mind of one long-misguided travel writer. All I can say to truly illustrate my new-found admiration is this: it won't take a cloud of ash spewed by some distant monster to coax me up her gangway and sample the delights on offer aboard my new friend, the Big Boat, 'Oscar Wilde'.
IRISH FERRIES
Further information: www.irishferries.com or by telephone 0818 300 400