We are lurching through a heavy swell somewhere between Newcastle port of Tyne and the Norwegian city of Bergen. According to the captain, the Force 7 winds buffeting the Thomson Spirit and whipping up angry seas are likely to ease off tomorrow.
Meanwhile, like most of the 1,200 passengers on board, we are finding it difficult to walk straight as the ship wallows towards Norway, throwing clouds of spray high into the air. As I have remarked to several passers-by in the passages: “It is not I who am inebriated but the ship.”
We arrived in Newcastle from Edinburgh by rail following a four-day stay in the Scottish capital. At the railway station we came across a Thomson rep who suggested that we leave our bags in a bus and busy ourselves in an adjacent pub for a while. This we did so successfully that the bus later drove off without us. Happily, a second bus was at hand and we later found our bags waiting for us at the harbour.
Let me now reverse gear and start at the beginning. Edinburgh was the fourth of the cities on our itinerary. Our house-sitters arrived at Valapena as planned. As usual we spent a couple of days at home to settle them in.

To discourage others from joining us at intermediate stations, I emitted loud snores while Rolf contributed the most revolting nasal snuffles. So disgusting did we find these that we threatened to leave the compartment ourselves unless he stopped. I’m not sure that I’d want to share a tent with Rolf.
Prague was everything we’d been led to expect. Apart from a taxi ride from the station to our apartment and back, we walked the city from end to end for three days, exploring palaces, churches and galleries.
Back in Berlin with two days to spare, we spent one of them touring the historic and very pretty town of Potsdam, scene of the post-war conference between Truman, Churchill (Attlee) and Stalin.
At the Schloss Cecilienhof visitors stand in the very room where they met, beside the chairs and desks at which they, their advisors and translators sat. The whole place is imbued with a sense of history.
On the final day I got myself two new pairs of jeans (C&A keeps exactly my size), and a pair of Ecco slip-ons. We lunched at Fassbender and Rausch’s famous chocolate shop.
The last day also brought a welcome opportunity to catch up with Bernard Simon, a fellow journalist (and good friend of Cathy’s) whom we had last seen in South Africa in the 1970s. He had since moved to Canada. Along with two South African friends, he was spending a few days in Berlin before returning home.
Rolf entertained us all to a truly splendid baked-salmon dinner.
Thence to Edinburgh, courtesy of easyJet. Edinburgh didn’t give us a great welcome. We took the efficient airport bus service to the stop nearest to our rented apartment, only to find the road system in the area in a state of roadwork upheaval. We had to both figure out a route to the apartments and fight our way along narrow pavements through the rush-hour crowds.
The castle, at one end, was utterly overpowered by visitors so we postponed that until our next visit.
At the other, Holyrood Palace was closed to visitors for some royal do. Even so, there was a lot of history to be found inbetween these two landmarks and we didn’t mind the inconvenience.
One day we took a boat ride along the Firth (river or estuary) of Forth, under the justly famous Forth bridges and another we visited the former royal yacht, Britannia, now a museum ship anchored permanently at the city’s Leith docks.
To gaze on the beds where the royals had slept, the chairs at which they sat and the tables at which they ate, was quite fascinating.
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