Cruising down the river...

I AM lying in my fold-down bunk of a bed, with the ship gently rocking to and fro in the wake of a passing barge, and with the sound of water outside our cabin window sighing gently.

All very soothing and restful.

The little cabin is warm and rather muggy, and a kind of delicious, heavy languor is upon me. My eyes just keep closing of their own accord.

My Good Lady, I know, is safely ensconced up on the sundeck with her puzzle book and her novel, while I attempt to catch up on a couple of very broken nights of sleep in a post-lunch snooze.

It’s still only about the third day of our holiday but already the pattern of shipboard life has established itself.

An early breakfast – thanks to the alarm clock that is Wi-Fi set to ring at seven-thirty every morning, heaven only knows why – maybe the most consistently good meal of the day.

Then, depending on day’s itinerary, we either set out for a morning’s sightseeing, or more likely, settle ourselves to down to watch the Rhineland scenery floating by.

Lunch is at 12 o’clock sharp and consists of soup, a small main course or a salad, and a dessert.

The afternoon now stretches ahead; My Good Lady and I often take a bit of zizz at this time, although, too, we sometimes disembark and have a potter round one of the ports we’ve come into: Remagen, Koblenz, Rüdesheim…

At 1900 hours dinner is announced and we brace ourselves for another assault on our stomachs – the food on this cruise is definitely sub-par to what we might have expected – and our table dining companions, Ray and Margaret, are as bemused as we are as to what is presented to us.

Evening in the salon is something of an ordeal, too, with a deafening performance of the man at the musical synthesiser, sometimes accompanied by a strangulated, ill-pronounced song, booming at us through giant loud speakers. No place for a quiet conversation, this, and now, as darkness has fallen, it’s a little too chilly to sit out on deck.

So we endure it for as long as we can, although it is mitigated by the conviviality of another couple we have met, Esther and Bernie. Bernie, indeed, has a sense of humour that rises above even this musical torture.

And so to bed.

But it is a good holiday break, despite the shortcomings of the food and the entertainment, and one to which we should not be too loath to do again. River cruising has some definite advantages over the ocean variety. So, maybe next year, who knows, a sail down the Mekong River perhaps, or a trip along the Amazon?

Sleepless and on the eve..

MY EARLY night is as sleepless as I expected.

We’re off on our German travels in the morning, so naturally I thought a good night’s sleep would be just the thing…

But I find myself wide-eyed and awake, lying rather restlessly in bed, and trying not to disturb My Good Lady, snoring softly beside me.

Oh, to sleep as a baby! I find as I grow older sleep is something of a luxury – if, on the odd night, I can sleep without disturbance, I count it a blessing, a boon.

The Hindu scriptures describe death as a “deep, dreamless sleep” – and oh dear, how I sometimes long for that! At least for a night or two.

Anyhow, we’re packed again and ready for the off; the taxi is coming for us at 9-ish in the morning, and by this time tomorrow we should be aboard the M.S. Alegria, and floating up the Rhine…

Everybody tells me it should be a fantastic trip – I hope they are right.

Sorry if I sound a bit grumpy – to be honest I’m a little nervous, what, with my lack of sleep and the difficulty I’m still having with my leg.

No doubt it’ll be fine.

See you when we get back!

Until then, auf Wiedersehen.

Autumn holiday plans

SEPTEMBER has come in with a roar!

Torrential downpours, window-rattling winds and creeping cold are all conspiring to give us the autumn blues.

And guess what, we’re off on our holidays in a couple of weeks’ time – a Rhine cruise in northern Germany, maybe the one area of Europe that’s even colder and wetter than England!

I’m certainly planning to pack some thick woollies to take with me.

It’s given us something to look forward to, though – both My Good Lady and I have been feeling the need for a change of scene.

Our normal holiday destination – France – is a little out of reach at the moment because I don’t want to risk a long drive; my leg is still giving me some trouble.

The idea of a river cruise seems just the thing.

And for once, too, we’re splashing out on a taxi to get us to and from Manchester airport rather than driving down and staying over, although it would have been nice to meet up with family and friends perhaps…

Anyhow, incongruous as it seems, we’re getting ourselves ready for the off.

I’m just keeping my fingers crossed for a late Indian summer!

A small regret

PEOPLE who know me well will tell you that I have a great love of musical theatre and film.

I mention this because I’m listening (again) to the BBC’s radio tribute to Kander and Ebb’s amazing work (Friday Night is Music Night, Radio 2 and online).

Sometimes I regret my decision not to move to London after I graduated – I would really have enjoyed the whole West End theatre scene.

Our visit last year to see Les Misérables is a case in point – what a joy that was!

Unfortunately, it was a bit of an epic journey for us, what with My Good Lady’s disability and, now, my recent stroke makes it, for the moment, almost impossible for us to get down.

There’s also the small matter of the not inconsiderable costs involved.

Still, I can enjoy CDs of soundtracks and DVDs of movies, as well as the wonderful musical output that the BBC provides almost daily.

So yes, it is one of my small regrets, not being a bit closer to the Big Smoke, it is in reality a very small one.

Discomfiture

A SENSE of unreality pervades me as I drive back from our Friday gathering in the Geriatrics’ Corner of the Pub.

I know my car control is a little erratic – but then other people’s seems no less so.

And the unreality extends to meal time, too; I’ve prepared us a Moroccan spiced tomato and chicken casserole, and I’ve just got the boiled rice to do.

It’s not until My Good Lady asks me if I’m not making the accompanying

Gremolata that I realise I’d completely forgotten about it.

Unreal!

Quite what is causing this state is a bit of a mystery. Oh yes, I find the Pub today too noisy for my hearing. My tinnitus is playing up badly, and with PD yelling, as it seems, at the top of his voice across the Corner while I try to talk with Fran and Den and Henry, it makes it almost impossible for me to follow what’s going on.

My leg is giving me difficulty, today too, and for some reason my back is aching.

All in all, I’m feeling a bit of old crock!

On the positive side, my chicken dish is quite amusing, even without the Gremolata condiment, and the Romanian Merlot, Cab Sauv., Shiraz wine proves to be quite enjoyable, too.

Best of all, today, My Good Lady seems to be in much better spirits than of late, with her “black dog” experience finally in abeyance.

I know, I ought to count my blessings instead of wallowing in my own discomfiture.

Sunday pies

THERE is something comforting and very English about a good old pie.

I’m very fond of them – especially on a Sunday, when, after the housework, we succumb to an easy-cook, shop-bought, frozen pie.

I just pop it into the oven – a rather nice chicken pie today, although we’re just as partial to a well-made steak and kidney, or even something fishy.

I insist, though, that our choices are well-made, not just those cheap, weak and watery things you can sometimes get at “bargain” prices.

If I could, I’d make my own pies and freeze them, ready for Sunday use, but unfortunately I don’t do pastry – I don’t have the hands for it.

My Good Lady has – cold hands – and she does excellent pastry, and sometime I do prevail on her to rustle us up some tasty Cornish pasties, or a succulent chicken and vegetable pastry.

For some reason, for me, the art of pastry-making doesn’t really appeal, so I shall continue to stock the freezer up with good-quality shop-bought treats to enjoy on our quick-cook Sundays.

Revisiting Lawrence

I’M JUST reading some of D. H. Lawrence’s shorter fiction, a fat volume of which has sat on our bookshelves for nearly twenty years.

I’m familiar, of course, with some of Lawrence’s novels – indeed, I had to study Sons and Lovers for my A-Levels.

I’m also acquainted with a handful of his short stories, with Fanny and Annie being, in my view, in the top ten of the finest stories ever written in the English language and one that I personally found deeply influential on my own writing.

This is not to say that I’m an unadulterated fan of Lawrence’s work – at times he irritates me as much as he fills me with admiration.

But I suppose, on the whole, the latter emotion is uppermost in me as I read his dissection of German militarism in The Prussian Officer, or the conflict between love and class consciousness in Daughters of the Vicar.

But what has prompted this interest in a long-dead writer and poet? I’m certainly not planning to sit any more exams in English lit, while my literary aspirations have dried up in recent years.

No, maybe it’s because we visited Vence last year, the town in the south of France where Lawrence died.

Or maybe it’s simply because this big book of stories has sat there so long unread and if I’m ever going to revisit Lawrence's work, it’s time I did it.

Either way, it should keep me out of trouble for a while.