Philadelphia - Antwerp: Crossing the Atlantic - Ship's Log

Monday 6th April, Delaware River, Pennsylvania, USA

We bid farewell to Philadelphia, ‘City of Brotherly Love’. I don’t know about brothers but the part of town through which we humped our massive packs in order to reach the Tioga Marine Terminal didn’t show a lot of love on its grim, rain-streaked streets. A kindly local called a taxi for us, fearing we might get ‘sticked‘.


Down at the docks we finally reached her - the Rickmers Singapore, our home for the next eight days.

She was anchored at rather dilapidated berth, where we negotiated our way through puddles, broken crates and piles of discarded strapping lines in order to reach her ladder.

I made way for a burly man who was descending the gangway brandishing a chainsaw before I climbed up the slippery steps. A smiling Sri Lankan chap checked our IDs at the top before a tall thin Romanian fellow – the Second Officer - showed us to our quarters.

We’ve a modest-sized cabin with en-suite bathroom, complete with writing desk, TV and DVD, sofa and the bible in High German. Not bad for a week’s voyage, and a welcome rest stop after months of constant travel.

The Singapore is significantly smaller than the Hugo (our vessel across the Pacific), 194 metres long, 28 metres wide and weighing in at 30,000 tdw. This is enough however to propel her right around the world, calling in at ports across the globe.

She doesn’t seem very heavily laden at present; perhaps it’s the global recession. Indeed her decks seem rather empty with cargo strapped down almost hap-hazardly on top of the holds in front of us.

Four large cranes stare down onto these decks whilst to the stern sit crew’s living quarters and the bridge piled up on top of each other.

We use the afternoon to explore our new surroundings, discovering a laundry, galley and a lounge, Tea’s Maid on the side, Wilbur Smiths on the shelves, framed jigsaws (windmills and ocelots) on the wall.

Dinner, as seems customary on cargo ships, is early: 5.30. There are other passengers – quite a nice change, after having the Hugo to ourselves. They make an interesting bunch, rather like a cast of misfits from a Miss Marple novel.

There’s a jovial Dutchman called Henk who’s sporting a Bob Monkhouse tan and bushy eyebrows, and Christoph, your archetypal stolid German, not saying much and watching you keenly through shiny eyes. Both have been on board since December - a fact I find hard to grasp - happily pootling around the world and ship-spotting en route.

We’re also joined by two ladies: Martha is an Alaskan who’s flown back to her birthplace of Philadelphia purely to catch this ship, before flying home immediately on reaching Antwerp; and Sylvia hails from Chicago, grey-haired and very chatty she’s also just joining us for the Atlantic crossing.

Somewhat fatigued by the exertions of recent weeks I’m content to listen to their adventures as we eat solid East European fare from the Lazy Suzie in the middle of the table.

Later we take to the deck outside and watch the crew cast off as we head out into the Delaware River. We pass dilapidated old ships, disused power stations and overgrown berths where fishermen gather. It’s an abject scene of decay and past splendours. Hong Kong this ain’t.

Accompanied by our pilot like a faithful little lapdog we head purposefully downriver, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania to starboard, Camden, New Jersey to port (Camden: all this way and I still haven’t escaped).

Philadelphia slips away against a deep red sunset and we bid farewell to Uncle Sam. Thanks America; you’ve been fun.


Tuesday 7th April 2009, 38°26’N, 71°21W Heading 89°

We’re now on the open seas once more. The Delaware took ten hours to navigate to the mouth of the ocean; we entered the Atlantic at 3am, awoken by the increased swell.

They say it takes a few days to find your sealegs; for Lara’s sake I hope it’s quicker than that - she has spent the day looking decidedly green around the gills as the Singapore rocks ceaselessly in the swell.

It’s only three metres but, given the Singapore’s size and cargo this is still enough to through us around a bit, whether rolling about in bed (steady now…) or sliding back and forth on one’s chair in the mess.

Mess - it’s a strange name for a dining room, but it seemed rather appropriate today as our food slid around on our plates, particular when Simon, the steward, produced a large steaming tureen of asparagus soup.

Sylvia, joining us on board back in Philly, is also feeling under the weather. She entered the mess room somewhat unsteadily and soon hastily returned to her room having only nibbled the edges of her ham and spuds.

We tried to right ourselves with an invigorating blast of Atlantic air, stepping out onto the deck just below the bridge. The sea looked restless and impatient, white caps all around.

We wrapped ourselves up against the cool wind and reminded ourselves of previous seafarers. This wouldn’t have troubled our ancestors, sailing in their little wooden boats in the opposite direction. Time to stiffen one’s upper lip.

They were soon a-quivering however as we were given a brief tour of the ship’s safety facilities. The third officer - a Filopino - and a deckhand in a boiler suit and a rather fetching Beckham-esque hair band showed us around in a disturbingly lacksidasical manner.

They brushed over Lara’s questions but brought our immersion suits - enormous orange rubber outfits which, stretched out on the floor liked like gingerbread men. Would we really fancy a dip in one of those?

Our other option seems to be the ‘freefall’ lifeboat, an small, antiquarian vessel rusting away outside our porthole. It sits perched at an angle, at the top of a short set of rails, rather like an aquatic rocket, ready for action.

The crewmen were kind enough to show us inside and I immediately wished they hadn’t, with rows of tiny seats set for bracing oneself at the impact of hitting the water from on high.

Things weren’t much more reassuring on the bridge, where the dead-eyed Second Officer dispassionately surveyed the rows of instruments around him and pointed to a nearby storm causing all the swell.

Lara nervously eyed a button above the charts: ‘dead man push button’. Was this a Bond movie?

He told us about the cargo aboard: machine tools, steel plates, trucks and perhaps the odd luxury yacht, bound for Dubai. Looking down from the bridge it didn’t look exactly overcrowded - was this the impact of the global economic downtown? Sure, he replied, going on to tell us that larger container ships had been hit harder, unable to sail for lack of business.

Maersk, the largest line in the world, has apparently sixty such vessels currently idling, whilst the Singapore itself has been affected, missing stops in Kobe and Yokohama where there simply isn‘t anything to transport.

I thought back to our friends on the Hugo and wondered whether they were affected. An awful lot seems to have changed since we sailed with them four months ago, laden down with 6,500 containers.


Wednesday 8th April, 38°27’N, 63°13’W Heading 90°

The clocks went forward over the night - one hour less sleep, one hour closer to home. We hardly slept much anyway, thrown around as we were all night by the heavy motion of the boat.

It’s still choppy outside, lending our surroundings a strange air, as if we are sharing our cabin with a family of poltergeists. Cupboard doors opened and closed during the night, the shower curtain kept opening and closing as I washed and we are constantly having to catch items sliding off the table and desk.

Whilst this constant rocking motion might be interesting for a while - rather like weightlessness might to an astronaut in space - it is starting to turn to discomfort and irritation. Lara spent most of the day groaning and staring at the horizon, willing her seasickness to disappear.

The amount of half-eaten food that Simon is collecting from our plates is increasing as well, though perhaps that’s to do with the quality of the meals. What is it with shipping lines and the vast quantity of meat and stodge they seem to feed their crew? Is there some warehouse somewhere churning out this stuff, like a kind of maritime equivalent of school meals?

I took my heavy copy of Moby Dick up on deck and sought out a dusty old deckchair from the neglected bar. Soon a little bird came and settled nearby - a swallow-like creature I’d observed before flitting between the ship’s cranes.

A passing migrant or a ship’s pet, it probably one of a whole menagerie of creatures these ships unwittingly carry between nations, both up above and in the ballast tanks below.

Our course has changed - bad weather south of Nova Scotia has compelled the captain to steer a course which will pass just north of the Azores - another isolated group of islands we didn’t expect to see during the course of our global circumnavigation.

America is now far behind; looking at the charts the closest land is now Bermuda, though thankfully I think we’re still quite some way from the infamous Bermuda Triangle. Or perhaps that’s where that bird is from…


Thursday 9th April, 38°43’N, 54°33’W Heading 90°

Maunday Thursday. I know idea what Maundy means but it looks pretty Maundy outside: foggy and wet, with drizzle drenching the decks and confining us indoors all door.

It made us pretty lethargic as a result, where we just seemed to sit and stuff ourselves with meat (every meal seems to be heavily meat-based), read or watch pirated DVDs.

On the way to lunch the Chief Officer stopped us in the gangway. He looked more dishevelled than usual, sporting just a crumpled t-shirt and boxer shorts, and wore a bemused expressed on his face.

“Pliz”, he said, “How is do you say greeting in English at Easter?”

“Happy Easter”, Lara replied.

“Sank you”, he smiled, and wandered off, tucking his t-shirt into his boxer shorts. Was he making cards?

Sylvia hasn’t been seen now for 2½ days, confined to her room apparently by seasickness. Perhaps she’ll improve tomorrow - the seas seem to have calmed down a bit.


Friday 10th April, 39° 12’N, 45° 25’W Heading 90°

Good Friday, and a number of denominations to cater to amongst the Singapore multinational occupants. Being good Catholics those Filipinos amongst the crew who can have taken the day off, confining themselves to their cabins.

The Romanian officers, on the other hand, have to wait: following the Orthodox Church they celebrate a week later than Christians, a few days after we’ve disembarked in Antwerp. That leaves the passengers, nominally Christians, who have been promised a special meal on Sunday and even champagne.

Religion and food aside I wanted to see what lay below the waters we were traversing. Up on the bridge I consulted the charts to find that apparently we’ve just crossed the New England Seamounts (whatever they are) and are now passing over the somewhat eerie sounding Sohm Abyssal Plain. I also noticed that we are on the edge of the Gulf Stream - perhaps that’ll speed us up a bit.

I also discovered our route has been altered again; we’re now heading right for the Portuguese coast, before turning north up past Cape Finistere and crossing the Bay of Biscay. The Second Officer made a long face at the mention of this notorious stretch of water.

Resolving then to make the most of the calm weather whilst we can we walked up to the bow, stepping carefully over piles of rusted chains and heaps of half-empty paint pots en route. I admired the vessel’s livery as we walked - a handsome combination of green and yellow, with red trim painted around moving parts.

Reaching the bow we entered another world, away from the constant throb of the engine. I leant against a capstan and adjusted my senses: brilliant sunshine, warm air and just the sound of the wind in whistling around the forecastle above us and the waves breaking on the sides below.
Bliss.

After all the hussle and bussle of the US, I lost myself momentarily as I gazed out ahead of us at the endless succession of deep blue waves, their peaks sprinkled with white spray. It felt as if I were entering a new, unexplored world, like my forefathers before me.

At dinner the missing passenger, Sylvia, reappeared after 3½ days of absence. Gently nibbling on a piece of bread she explained that she’d been laid low by a stomach bug, surviving on packets of chicken soup and reading a number of books. The current one is a Jeffrey Archer novel. No wonder she felt rough.

Yet another hour forward on the clocks today and we‘ve noticed how much later the sun is setting into the sea. It‘s the third clock change in as many days; we‘re now only two hours behind the UK time-wise, yet still thousands of miles away.


Saturday 11th April, 39° 40’N, 36° 25’W Heading 90°

We had an emergency drill today and thanks to the Captain forewarning us at breakfast Lara had everything ready an hour before the bell sounded. With our lifejackets, immersion bags and safety helmets already at hand we were up on the bridge, our muster station, before you could say ‘abandon ship’.

No so our fellow passengers however, who’d chosen to lie in rather than make breakfast. The Captain looked unduly concerned, casually smoking a cigarette, the smoke masking his heavy eyelids as Christoph tottered along, his twinkling eyes wearing a vacant expression beneath a plastic helmet.

Sylvia then puffed up the stairs, all of a fluster “h..h…how do I get this on” she asked, smothered beneath her thick, bright orange lifejacket. The crew set about helping her when finally Henk arrived, equally bewildered, brandishing a lifejacket but no helmet or immersion suit.

It was like a scene from Dad’s Army, as they fussed around and the Captain resignedly dismissed them. He later told Lara what a pain he found taking passengers on board.

Back down outside our cabin on Deck C, the crew and officers played about with the lifeboat, a grimy orange craft with a passing resemblance to Thunderbird 4.

Rather like the legendary lifesaver this craft perched on a ramp pointing at an angle into the sea behind us, as our very own marionettes tried to get its engine to work. At last the poor beast let out a protesting splutter, a puff of blue smoke and then a rattling whine, like a horse on its last legs.

Suitably reassured that this escape pod was primed and ready for action its tormentors turn it off, shut its doors and wandered away.

Let’s hope we don’t have to use it. There’s a big storm brewing in the Bay of Biscay and we’re having to sit and wait it out off the Portuguese coast - even this crew don’t want to risk six metre swell.

The worst food yet at dinner - some kind of rolled meat, of possibly bovine origin, combined with ham and a gherkin in the middle and slopping around in an orangey-brown sauce. Never had the stale bread looked more tempting.

Never mind; things should look up on the gastronomic side tomorrow, with the promise of an Easter barbeque.


Sunday 12th April, 40°00’N, 28°13’W Heading 90°

Easter Sunday. Party Time in the ‘Singapore Bar’ on the pilot deck.

The Captain had pulled out all the stops, laying out the works: tablecloths were neatly laid out, hand painted eggs in each person‘s place; the fridge was filled to capacity with beer, wine and champagne and the barbeque was fired up out on deck.

In the absence of a lift someone had set up a long rope and pulley which led down directly to the back door of the galley, a Heath Robinson style affair with which Simon, the steward gamely struggled, trying to haul up all the food.

It took him several loads to raise this banquet to the pilot deck but soon enough meat was being thrown onto the barbeque to sustain the whole of the Texas: lamb chops, chicken wings, fatty hunks of pork and a fish the size of a killer whale.

Officers, crew and passengers soon set to work devouring this carnicopia, along with garlic bread, a massive cauldron of rice and some Filipino speciality fish.

As the Azores passed by to the south we entered the European sphere for the first time in eight months. It seemed an appropriate moment to raise a glass of champagne. Then one of beer. Then one of wine. Happy Easter.

Soon the crew fired up the karaoke machine and the golden oldies started pouring out, just like back on the Hugo. What is it with Filipino sailors and ancient, soppy love songs?

After the eighty-ninth rendition of an Engelbert Humperdinck classic I was driven to change the CD yet, searching in vain, all I could find was Phil Collins.

There was nothing for it and soon Phil and his mulleted chums were booming out in the background, playing live to an enraptured German audience circa 1991 as back in the present passengers and crew emptied the fridge of Tsingtao, a Chinese lager which tasted suspiciously watery.

They were charming company. There was a Chinese fellow - a cadet who couldn’t tell us why he’d taken to the high seas - along with two shy Sri Lankan cadets who scuttled off at the first opportunity, and a whole gaggle of jolly Filipinos.

They were able seamen, oilers, electricians, the cook, the steward and the bosun, the latter of whom presented me with my latest ‘local’ hat - a Rickmers Line baseball cap.

It was, I’m sure you’ll appreciate, a great meeting of cultures from which we all emerged greatly enriched and enlightened as to the workings of other nations.

Well I did learn one thing at least: Tsingtao, according to one of the crew, stands for This Stuff Is No Good Try Another One. I couldn’t agree more.


Monday 13th April, 41°31’N, 19°35’W Heading 70°

Another disturbed night’s sleep, thanks to the big swell outside. At times it seemed so big and pronounced it felt like there were sea monsters outside playing keepy-uppy with the ship.

We rolled backwards and forth in time with the waves, the ship rattling around us like an old man with bronchitis. Things slipped along the table and the desk, cupboard doors groaned and so did we.

As daylight broke I looked out of our porthole to take a look for myself. Huge waves were rolling in from the North West, lifting us up as they rolled underneath us and dropping us abruptly as they headed on towards Africa.

We were like a cork in a bathtub, Henk said; the Captain just laughed. He seems to take a mischievous pleasure in our discomfort.

Sylvia showed us her secret weapon against sea sickness, rolling up her sleeve to reveal a rather whizzy watch-like gadget which looked like it had come straight out of The Goonies. “It gives me a small electric shock every few seconds”, she said, going on to explain that somehow it helped to nullify the motion sickness.

It’s hard to do much in our wobbly world; you cannot stare at a screen for more than an hour at best; we’re constantly catching food and glasses of water slipping off the table and even trying to walk around makes you look like an old drunk negotiating his way though the park.

Part of the reason for all this movement is the lack of cargo on board - the ship’s only 35% full (though that’s not unusual for the US-Europe leg of its route) and what scrap iron, machine parts and other assortments are being carried do not weigh enough to counteract the strength of the waves.

We’re all looking forward to reaching dry land now. Cape Finisterre should appear on the horizon tomorrow, and with it the first sight of land - and European soil. Not a moment too soon.


Tuesday 14th April, 43°32’N, 11°00’W Heading 70°

We finally saw another boat today, after a week of solitary sailing. Civilisation was close! As the day wore on and we approached Cape Finistere we saw more ships, oil tankers and cargo vessels heading for Spain or north up to Biscay. Even a light aircraft passed overhead.

After the rather bare void of the last few days the charts are suddenly crammed with features once more, coastlines and rocks, lighthouses and loose buoys and those squiggly lines denoted underwater cables.

The swell was still lively as we rounded the Cape and gathered for dinner. Spaghetti Bolognese and spring rolls; an interesting combination but a wise idea in these conditions?

The sun was still shining as we returned to the deck, our higher latitude is beginning to show. I’m beginning to look forward to the long sunny evenings back home.

England’s getting closer still - we’re back on GMT time and I now no longer have to open my battered old map more than one time. She sits there up above us, warm and welcoming.

We returned to the bridge and surveyed our next moves, all mapped out ahead of us out into the Bay of Biscay. The Captain’s decided on a series of long, drawn-out zig zag manoeuvres - an effort to counteract the rolling leviathans coming in from the West.

Soon the ship was swung around towards them, the waves breaking near the bow, and we started pitching rather than rolling, rocking up and down like a slowly nodding donkey.

Up three metres, down three metres, my stomach following a couple of seconds later. It’s going to make for an interesting night.


Wednesday 15th April, 047°55’N, 006°30’W

Awoke from the usual rolling pin slumber just as we sailed past Britanny. Another clear fine day - perhaps we’ll spot the coast of England today.

The Captain didn’t share our enthusiasm, or our optimism, the heavy brown rings under his eyes spoke of a sleepless night spent traversing the Atlantic rollers now thankfully behind us. He growled as we approached the charts so we made our excuses and quickly left.

It didn’t dent our excitement though - Lara was in a particular chippy mood as she tried to find English radio stations on the small stereo in our cabin. There was nothing but static on the airwaves but outside the activity was starting to crank up as the horizon started to fill with boats of all kinds: oil tankers, cargo ships, fishing boats and even a warship.

‘One of yours’ the Second Officer said nodding his head towards it ‘HMS Brocklesby’. I looked at the screen of boat recognition thingy and so it was. The first sign that we were on the edge of entering our homeland.

Gulls swung by to take a peek at our cargo and a massive cruise ship appeared on the horizon, bound for Southampton no doubt, bringing Terry and June back from the Caribbean.

We had entered the English Channel now and I walked up to the bow to stretch my legs, bumping into one of the crew, all splattered in paint. They always seem to be painting, though it seems to be a losing battle, like tackling some kind of maritime Forth Bridge.

The air had become colder and I could now see my own breath as I leaned against the bow and admired the long smooth waves. Should get a decent night’s kip at last tonight.

Five strange shapes appeared on the horizon through the low cloud: sharp masts piercing the sky, gunmetal grey bodies, moving in single file with great purpose. More navy vessels. Were we at war with France?

The fog was starting to fall as we gathered for dinner; England was running true to the stereotype, much to the amusement of our fellow diners. Another greasy fish platter later we returned to the deck and found ourselves in the middle of a real pea souper, visibility down to twenty metres at best.

Up on the bridge the navigator stared nervously at the radar screen, watching the yellow dots move slowly along the shipping lanes. A colleague peered out of the window and voices from other boats crackled over the airwaves in broken English. No-one wants a prang in the middle of the Channel.

The radar screen had also shown Jersey and Guernsey, just a few miles to starboard. Our first sight of Blighty. We hurried to our cabin and tried the radio again: we were met by a cacophony of southern English.

I scrolled through FM: ‘You’re listening to Duncan Warren on BBC Radio Devon…an RSPB reserve on the Isle of Sheppey to try to record a curlew….of the people that you’ve worked with on this record, Keith Richards must have stood out for many…we remember the man in the red fez, Tommy Cooper…it’s Handel week here on Radio Three…’

I finally settled on Radio Four and the soothing background natter of Midweek. I could imagine the scene back home, kettle on, budgie chirping, neighbour at the door to see if we’d like some of their potatoes…Mmmm Home - I could almost smell.

My reverie was broken by the Ten O’Clock pips, followed by the news. French fishermen were protesting again, apparently and blocking channel ports. Maybe we won’t be home so soon after all…


Thursday 16th April, 51°22’N, 02° 30’W

Awoke to the sight of France to starboard, or at least a vague blueish blur on the horizon. No England though, despite the fog finally lifting.

At last, after breakfast we gained the first peek of our homeland - the white cliffs of Kent sat above the glassy calm waters. Lara leaped excitedly about the bridge: “Look! It’s Dover!” Well Dungeness to be precise. Not quite to exciting.

We continued along the busy northbound channel, staying alert to the cross-channel ferries plying their way through the traffic.

It was starting to drizzle and it was all feeling too much like home. There was only one thing left to do and I rummaged around in my pocket to find a piece of equipment I’d hardly touched since leaving home- my mobile. Time to call the family.

“Hello Dad, I’m in the middle of the Channel”

“Clement Freud’s died!” he said.

“Right OK, well we’ll see you in a few days”

The phone reception - and England - soon disappeared behind a bank of fog and we carried on up towards Belgium and Holland.

We partook in luncheon, all excited about the pending arrival in Antwerp. Henk and Christoph had been at sea for four and a hour months, Sylvia had somehow survived the sharks, rocks, hurricanes she had feared and Martha was itching to try out one of the bikes rumoured to be stashed aboard.

We didn’t have long to wait. Soon the engines dropped and a pilot came aboard, our first of the day (one for the sea, one for the river and one for the harbour). We were heading into the River Schelde, gateway to Antwerp.

Soon the Belgium coastline appeared, first a faint grey outline, then a long dirty smudge before finally turning into a solid dark silhouette. It was like walking past a series of those indeterminate Flemish paintings, blimey those painters must have been bored.

A while longer and the sea pilot left us to be replaced by the river pilot. We could see both sides of the River Schelde now - houses, factories, gaggles of wind turbines, a cluster of dock cranes - and not a hillock between them. Flat as the proverbial Dutch pancake (for this was Holland now, not Belgium).

Henk proudly pointed out the landmarks of his motherland but it was difficult to get excited: aluminium smelting plants, chemical refineries, nuclear power stations lined up along the waterfront under a grey, miserable sky.

We passed the Dow chemical plant and the starboard side changed from Holland to Belgium. Tankers streamed past us on their way out to sea, leaving slug trails in the churned up water behind them.

Ever the accommodating host, Henk poured a wee aperitif as a jolly little tug boat ran up alongside us and we headed down to dinner.

Perhaps it was the cold chips and mushy prawns but we were all eager to get back on deck as the Singapore neared the massive docklands ahead of us

We watched the tugs slowly and delicately guide the Singapore through a set of locks and drank in the view: cranes and gantries presided over an enormous industrial landscape: oil refineries, rail yards, warehouses, mountains of containers and quaysides the length of several football fields.

Most stood empty, perhaps a reflection of the global downturn in trade. Certainly Antwerp has felt it, with business down 20% at the moment. A gigantic container ship stood empty, its waterline well above the murky waters of the dock.

We were being gently coaxed into a berth next to it. Many feet beneath us little men in yellow hats ran about catching ropes and securing them to the quayside, whilst forklifts chugged about, their lights flashing.

There was a faint bump.

Land.

Stillness.

We’d arrived.







Read more...

Rocking and rolling on the MV Rickmers Singapore

“Don’t worry, those ships are so big you won’t feel a thing!” Well Dad, I’m feeling every movement of this one. We are rocking and rolling our way across the Atlantic Ocean.

The MV Rickmers Singapore is a much smaller ship than our Pacific vessel, the CMA-CGM Hugo , at a mere 193 metres and 30,000 dead weight tonnage in comparison to 334m and 101,000 tdw, and boy does it make a difference.

I’m no ocean expert, but looking out from the porthole the waves look about the same as the Pacific to me. Yesterday there was a three metre swell. We got up to a five metre swell on the Hugo. So why do I feel so dizzy and queasy on this crossing?

It must be because she is a smaller ship in length and breadth and is carrying a lighter load. Indeed, there’s not a lot of cargo to see from the deck, she's only thirty percent full. The shipping industry has been hit hard by the global economic crisis. Apparently there is some ‘general cargo’ in the hold below (steel plates, machines, yachts) but I can only see some precariously lashed old wooden planks and a rusty metal tub of a river dredger from Louisiana.

In my turbulent rock and roll sleep I have had plenty of time to come to understand the finer points of the Singapore’s moves on the ocean. In my delirium I categorised these moves as follows:

The rattle: Default background movement whenever the engine is running. Causes doors and fittings to rattle continuously. Often not noticeable over the ship’s other moves. On it’s own, for example when being piloted up a river, can gently rock you to sleep as on a train.

The roll: This is the standard ship move, rocking gently from side to side. There is a sliding scale of roll, like a marine Richter scale, which requires various levels of falling-over prevention, from the wide leg stance (the higher the scale of roll, the wider the stance) to the grab (especially useful in the shower).

The rolley roll: This is a horizontal version of ‘the roll’, usually experienced in bed, and involves a whole body roll from one side to the other, often knocking into your loved one on route. Can cause sleep loss and a sore back.

The poltergeist: This occurs at the higher end of the scale of roll and can cause things to fall off shelves, cutlery and food to slide off the plate and cupboard doors to open.

The phat air: This one is more of a pitch and fall than a roll. The ship suddenly feels light, it sounds like the engine has come out of the water and that the boat is flying. It then reconnects with the water with a thud. It lurches your stomach and brain into the air at the same time, giving a momentary head-rush followed by light-headedness and nausea.

The washing machine: Is a combination off ‘the roll’ and ‘the phat air’. It starts off as a roll, then develops into a weightless phat air followed by another roll to complete a 360° revolution, taking your stomach with it and leaving you feeling all washed up.

The fact that I am able to look at words on a computer screen to write this is an vast improvement on my condition yesterday. Yesterday mainly consisted of staring at the horizon, reading a book in-between, lying down to watch a film and lining my stomach to help prevent nausea. The Atlantic forecast is peppered with STORMS (always written in capitals on the chart), which we will have to dodge. I hope today’s improvement means that I’m finding my sea legs and will be able to dance the merry MV Rickmers Singapore dance all the way to Antwerp.







Read more...

‘Huntin’ bucks and drivin’ trucks’ - So Long, Uncle Sam

American lad: "I like the way you roll your r's"
Scottish lassie: "Why thank you, it must be my high heels"

(As told by an elderly American gentleman)

A deep red sun set behind the skyscrapers of downtown Philadelphia as the good ship M/V Rickmers Singapore sailed past, heading down the Delaware River and out to sea. We were leaving the US.


I stood out on deck and thought back to the last few months during which we’ve travelled across this huge country, from the coast of California to the docks of Philadelphia.

It’s taken us over 5,500 miles, through seventeen different states, from the Tex-Mex border to New England, from the Deep South to the Midwest.

When we first arrived I was slightly apprehensive, recalling the disappointments of my previous visit in 2001. In particular I remembered the dominance of the corporates, the chains who seem to have taken over many a place, steamrollering over the local features and quirks which give a town or region it’s own identity, the differences which that add up to make it unique, distinct and of particular interest to the visitor.

Riding the Greyhound along the interstate it was easy to think that the whole nation had succumbed to this, the view dominated by an endless procession of chain motels and identikit burger chains. It could have been anywhere, Maine, Missouri or New Mexico. Same, same, same.

Yet off the highway it was a very different story. For there is not one America, of course, there are many, and exploring the variety on offer, discovering these different worlds with their own distinct identities has been a great pleasure, full of adventure and surprises.

We have wondered at amazing landscapes, from the saguaro-studded deserts of Arizona to the frozen lakes of Minnesota, from the mountains of Tennessee to the swamps of Louisiana.

We’ve walked in pristine national parks bursting with biodiversity; we’ve seen wild turkeys, eagles and beavers; and visited both the start and the end of the Mississippi, one of the great rivers of the world.

We’ve been wowed by the cities, from the French quarter of New Orleans to the East Village of New York, the fine skyscrapers of Chicago to the history streets of Boston. We’ve watched Ibsen in Minneapolis and viewed Monet in Chicago; we’ve hung with hipsters in Austin and hobos in Nashville.

We’ve partied at Mardi Gras and slept in Liz Taylor’s old Hollywood home; we’ve drunk moonshine with rednecks and basked in homemade hot tubs under the stars.

We’ve ridden the Greyhound and the lonesome railroad; we’ve sped in a Porsche down in Texas, and paddled a canoe in North Carolina.

We’re taken a musical odyssey and found great sounds galore, from street jazz in New Orleans to blues in Chicago. There was zydeco in Jackson and country in Nashville, rock ‘n’ roll in Memphis and mountain music in the Smokies. We found polka in Minneapolis and Motown in Detroit; visited Elvis’s Graceland home and found Johnny Cash‘s last resting place.

We’ve tried burgers and fries, hash browns and links; kolaches, knish and Vietnamese pho; beignets and gumbo, po-boys and crawfish; collard greens and cornbread, black-eyed peas and BBQ ribs.

And there were ramps and catfish, walleye and wild rice; clam chowder, lobster bisque and buffalo wings; Philly cheese steaks, doughnut holes and pretzels; food from a dumpster and acres of pizza.

We’ve washed it down with a wide range of beers, many local, all delicious. We supped Dogfish in Boston, Dead Guy in LA, Honkers in Chicago, Summit in Minnesota, Lone Star in Texas; Abita in Louisiana; Yazoo in Nashville, Yards in Philadelphia...

We’ve lived through a thousand films, the quintessentially American: paper bags for your ’groceries’; steam escaping from vents in city streets; stoops and fire escapes on brownstone buildings; bow-tied academics on Harvard campus; white picket fences and red hip roof barn; state troopers and police cruisers; huge firetrucks and burly heroes; yellow traffic lights hanging on wires; ‘city limits’ signs on the edge of town; neat clapboard houses with a basketball hoop in the front yard; workshirts with name badges on; people with the ‘Jr’ suffix; retro-style diners…

But it was the people of course, which stick in the memory. There’s been the good, the bad and the quite clearly mad.

Thanks to our common language, our shared history and perhaps most of all the wonders of couch surfing, we have been able to get closer to Americans than people in other countries and nearer to finding out what makes this huge country tick.

We’ve stayed with nurses and hipsters, Spanish surgeons and Argentinean biochemists, musicians and teachers, students and stock market traders.

They’ve put us up everywhere, from bordello-themed rooms down in New Orleans to log cabins high in the mountains; from terraced houses out in the suburbs to crash pads in the middle of downtown. We’ve slept on couches and mattresses, floors and even a massage table.

We’ve made friends with strangers who’ve welcomed us to their town, memorable characters such as Wers-leh ‘White Lightnin’ the blues guitarist’, ‘Durl’ the bus driver MC and ‘Mow-reece’ the tram driver, who just digged my boots.

They’ve come from all backgrounds: rich and poor, vegan and carnivore, Democrat and Republican (‘you‘re liberal?! Get outta my house!’). There’s been hippies and hawks, rednecks and poets, veterans and protestors, gay, straight, black, white and all shades in between.

We’ve met Mexican labourers and Chinese chefs, Baptist preachers and Vietnamese microbiologists, tatooed ex-cons and Senegalese cabbies, Native American croupiers and Cajun waiters, drugstore cowboys and Puerto Rican plumbers, whooping frat boys and rednecks in Dodge Rams, ‘huntin’ bucks and drivin’ trucks’, flying the Southern Cross.

Given this range of backgrounds it should be hard to define what being an American is - you could ask them and they’d never be short of an answer. Perhaps therein lies the actual answer, for we found that Americans always have questions and are never too shy to express their own opinions.

There’s little English reticence here, and perhaps a greater certainty in their beliefs. Opinions are often more polarised and on controversial issues it seems never the twain shall meet: abortion, same-sex marriage, the right to bear arms...

I found the latter particularly difficult to understand: on several occasions I was shocked to discover the nice, sane person we were travelling or staying with was packing a piece. ‘Because I need to protect myself,’ I was told. From what? Other people with guns?

I just bit my tongue. Coming from a mild, rather phlegmatic country I find it hard to comprehend such a mentality. There are some issues I guess where we will have to agree to disagree.

There were benefits to being English here though and after several months of enjoying American’s most generous hospitality I can no longer argue that the ‘special relationship’ is purely one-way. We have often been quite overwhelmed by people’s kindness where people would go out of their way to help or to offer advice to someone from ‘the old country‘.

Many a time a local would prick up their ears upon hearing our English accents and soon the questions would start flowing, from the usual about the royals, the weather and the Beckhams, to those about the UK economy, their favourite British bands and how I sounded like Hugh Grant.

I learnt a great deal from these little encounters, and gained a real insight into people’s everyday lives, the lives that make up America. They seemed to enjoy this too, such as the fellow in a Mississippi sub shop who insisted on stumping me my meal in exchange for a natter.

And here I would sway between loving and loathing, buzzing on the good points but perplexed by the bad.

There’s still things there I find hard to understand: an obsession with the big and the energy-intensive; the gross disparities between rich and poor; a blind obedience to the flag and an unquestioning reverence for ‘patriots’; a poor public transport infrastructure (in some places non-existent); rampant obesity and the fast food culture...

But one thing stood out here above all else here: religion. It seems that in America the zealots shout louder. I lost count of the number of signs I saw warning that we were ‘all going to hell’ or the amount of insane rants I heard on the radio.

There’s a sizeable portion in this country who subscribe to this, and are not afraid to show themselves. We came across them throughout the land.

Back in New Orleans they stood out in Bourbon Street, amidst the maelstrom of drunks and debauchery with their hellfire grimaces and their placards of sinners: ‘sports nuts’, ‘pencil neck weak kneed gutless men’, ‘rebellious women’, ‘witches’, ‘pot smoking little devils’ and, bizarrely ‘used car dealers’. Come on now, you can’t condemn Frank Butcher…

It all left me aghast and disturbed. How did this happen? ‘Well what did we expect?’ one American said to me, ‘after all you sent over all the puritans‘.

He had a point, and I guess for every Thomas Paine and William Penn there must have been a boatload of religious nutters seeking a new land where they could express their free opinion (or empty their guns into armadillos).

Back then it was a land of opportunity and today it still struck me as such - a land where, if you go for it, you really can ‘make it’. The ‘American dream’ lives on, and millions still come here in search of a better life.

It’s a ‘can-do’ culture where people work hard and seem less likely to say ‘no’. It never took us much effort to enter a new place and find someone who could fix our laptop or give us a ride to another town.

Standards of living seem generally higher and for many life is comfortable. Or should I say was, until the economic bubble burst.
Perhaps they grew too comfortable and complacent as the world’s top dog; certainly many are now learning the hard way that economic fortunes can go down as well as up.

Can they turn this around? Of course they can, and they’ve got a nice fresh young chap at the top who they hope can do just this. Returning to the US, just after Obama took power we felt a
palpable wave of relief amongst the people we met.

‘Hope‘. It's a good slogan for the US.

I hope to return myself one day. Keep the cheesesteaks warm.







Read more...

We are sailing (again)

We're heading back out onto the water, this time sailing across the Atlantic, from Philadelphia in the US of A to Antwerp in Belgium.

Our route retraces (albeit in reverse) that made by William Penn, founder of Pennsylvania, as we head down the Delaware River, passing between Philadelphia, Pennsylvania on one side and Camden, New Jersey on the other, and out into the Atlantic.

And that'll be it for our America leg. Out of the New World and back to the Old. It's going to be quite a change, but then we will have time to adjust as our ship takes eight days to cross 'the pond'.

Our home for the next week will be the Rickmers Singapore, a mighty vessel carrying cargo around the world. You can follow our progress across the Atlantic via Rickmer's ship tracker here.
Read more...

Those US visit ‘attainment goals’ - the results

Remember those ‘attainment goals’ I set myself when we first landed on US soil back in December? Well here’s the results:

Goal: To meet someone called Chuck or Randy (particularly if their name also includes the suffix ‘Jr’ )

Not met really, though I did hear of many. A friend also knows at least two people called Hank. Who are women.

Goal: To eat a Corndog

Not met. I’m sorry. Friends were happy to chow down on this bizarre hunk of fat on a stick but I just couldn’t do it…

Goal: Visit a High School and look inside the students’ lockers

Not met, and wisely so, given the stories I heard about High Schools.

Go to a live recording of a chat show

Achieved? Yes - visited recording of the Jimmy Kimmel Show in LA. Instantly forgettable. Why did I agree to this in the first place?

Watch an Ice Hockey match

Not met, due to the extortionately high price of a trip to watch the Minnesota Wild. However I did better than this and attended the Roller Derby in St Paul. A great evening out.

Visit a space centre

Not met - Houston had a problem, namely the amount of traffic (and our tight schedule to reach New Orleans).

Get admired for my accent and asked if I'm from 'Scotsland' / Denmark etc

Easily surpassed. Our accents drew attention and often admiration on countless occasions, particularly in the south.

Australian tops the charts as the nationality I was most mistaken for. Others included Irish, Dutch and even more bizarrely, Ukrainian.

Persuade someone I am Prince William’s cousin

Not achieved. But I did persuade someone that the Queen regularly pesters me, inviting me round for tea.

Collect bizarre questions about my home country, e.g: ’Do you still drive a horse and carriage?’

Achieved? Yes plenty, though even more Americans seemed more interested to hear about the present state of the UK’s economy.

Hear some Mississippi blues, preferably on a rickety old porch in the rain

Not achieved exactly, but I like to think I managed far better when I met Frank and his 1932 steel guitar up in the Great Smoky Mountains. I’ve never heard the blues like that before…

Hear something referred to as ‘aloadabaloney’

Sadly not. But I did collect a great deal of interesting new expressions I’d never come across before. “I wouldn’t take you to a dawg fight…”

Eat pizza in ‘Noo York Cidy’

Tick. Pizza in the village - one dollar a slice. However the great Chicago’s deep pan pizza vs. New York thin crust debate has still to be settled.

Buy a ten gallon hat

Not met. But perhaps I went one better, returning home the proud bearer of a genuine mountain man’s hat, a hillbilly headpiece from Civil War days.

Meet a stressed-out, coffee-guzzling cop like the fat one off ‘NYPD Blues’
Not met. They were all too relaxed, somewhat disturbingly. Nor did I get hold of one of the collectible playing cards with their name and face on - something I was told all cops have.

Go to Mardi Gras in New Orleans

Met. And I will return.

Read more...

The U.S. East Coast: Too close to home for comfort

Our plan to minimise culture shock by travelling slowly is working. With just three weeks to go before we arrive back in the UK we arrived on the Eastern seaboard in Boston and glimpsed the ocean over which our adventure ends.

Perhaps understandably therefore, I felt a bit blue in Boston. Boston felt too familiar, too much like a city in England. After months of daily novelty and stimulation I wasn’t ready for the Britishness of Boston. Perhaps it was the rain, the squat brick buildings, the street names (Gloucester Street, Hereford Street) and the fact that people say, “Cheers!” It was a gentle reminder of what lay on the other side of the Atlantic.

Boston’s history is fascinating, again connecting us to home. It was the site of the infamous Boston Tea Party, when in 1773 Americans infuriated by rising levels of unrepresentational tax being enforced by Britain, rebelled by throwing 342 chests of tea into the sea (what a waste!). It was a provocative move that eventually led to war with the British, following which America declared its independence from the colony in 1776. No wonder then that Boston retains memories of its British past. But I’m sorry Boston, this time you are just too close to home for comfort.

New York City was next - surely I would find the stimulation I craved here. Of course, it didn’t fail, how could it. But we did meet with April’s showers. Rain is a spoiler, especially when you have left your umbrella in a hostel in Hoi An, Vietnam. It dampened our plans for wide roving and forced us to slow down and re-evaluate. So we huddled in the Bowery Poetry Café and then set off for a tour of Grand Central station, the Comfort Diner and the United Nations headquarters.

One thing was for sure, I didn’t want to hang around our hostel - the Whitehouse Hostel on Bowery. This place used to be a 50 cent a night flophouse for newly arrived immigrants. A few of these residents remain, living in the same squalid, cramped conditions. The upper floors serve as the hostel where conditions are equally squalid and cramped, but now cost $34 a night. With drunk, lost men wandering about, people having, “F*** you!” “No, no, no, f*** you!” fights in the small hours and the nocturnal dephlegmations (and who know what else) audible to all, it was a cruel comedown from the joys and hospitality of friends and Couchsurfing. Good job the hostel was in a great neighbourhood where an evening’s stroll takes you passed multiple hipster filled bars, fascinator wearing theatre goers and a film shoot and even provides some Gastrophonic Stimulation .

Despite the glamour and the grime, New York City just wasn’t as awesome as I remembered from my previous bumpkin visits. As a former Londoner, I couldn’t help but draw comparisons between the cities, for there are many. People rush around with the same focussed expression on their faces, the fashions are similar, the shops are similar, the international feel is familiar and it’s full of Brits - more than we’ve come across since leaving home last summer. Another reminder that we are getting closer to home.

We wanted to leave North America on a ship from Montreal to Liverpool, but the line was fully booked. Instead we opted for Philadelphia to Antwerp. Philly had never been on our original itinerary so I was pleasantly surprised by, and enjoyed, the city. Our fellow Megabus companions proudly pointed out all the ‘must see’ sights of Philadelphia - Independence Hall, Liberty Bell, Penn’s Landing - as we drove to the drop-off point. There was far too much to see in one day, but one day was all we had.

As home to one of the forefathers, William Penn, and once the second biggest city in the British Empire, areas of Philly have a decidedly British feel to them. The large, red-brick houses in the Society Hill area remind me of parts of West London and the streets in the suburb of Manayunk are reminiscent of a small, Welsh town. Indeed, Philadelphia used to be called New Wales and there are many Welsh place names remaining, such as Cynwyd and Radnor. There are reminders of the colonial past throughout the city - Unions Jacks pub and British Imperial Cleaners, for example. Philadelphia was also the home of great thinkers and activists. It was here that the Declaration of Independence and the US Constitution were written, signed and first publicly read.

For me it was the perfect place to leave from for Europe. We were to take a similar route to the fore fathers (albeit in in reverse) across the Atlantic Ocean.

I wonder if I would have found the East Coast cities more exciting had we headed west, instead of east, on our trip, if these had been our first ports of call. I believe I would. Although my enthusiasm for Boston, New York City and Philadelphia suffered as a result of visiting them last on our trip, they definitely helped me prepare for coming home. They felt a lot more British than many places in the US and reminded me of what lay ahead on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. As a result, I feel that the return to Britain will be less of a shock. Now I have a week on the ocean to ponder this and come to terms with the fact that our worldwide wander without wings is drawing to a close.

Read more...

Guns, beerlube and Jesus: Roadside adverts

Something’s got to relieve the pain of travelling by Greyhound in the US - for me it was the roadside advertisements.

There was a multitude of great advertisements which helped me to pass the time, making me gasp, chuckle or even howl out in amazement.

These massive great hoardings dominate the interstate landscape, interrupting your view and towering over chain motels, fast food outlets and anything else that has the misfortune to be backed up against these great highways.

Like so much in the States anything goes and - if you’ve got the money - it seems you can hire these hoardings; securing your own personal patch on which to try and flog your wares to the captive motorist.

The following few should give a flavour of what‘s out there…

“Nobody’s perfect - that’s why you need plastic surgery” - Texas

“We sue lawyers.” - Texas

“What can I build for you?” - Texas

“Get the trucking job you deserve” - Texas

“18 wheeler wreck? 1-800 Lawsuit” - Texas

“Cowboy. Your all -American dealer” - Texas

‘www.myhurricaneikeclaim.com. 888-IKE-CLAIM-4U’ - Louisiana

‘Experiencing Jesus Again’ - Louisiana

‘Give us your gun and we’ll give you $1,000’ - New Orleans, Louisiana

‘Our business stinks, but it’s picking up’ - rubbish truck, New Orleans, Louisiana

‘Get your hunting and fishing licence today. Call 1-800-GOHUNT’ - Mississippi

‘Tennessee - where Elvis lives’ - Tennessee

‘Abstinence works’ (Sponsored by the Girl Scouts) - Tennessee

“You can have Jesus forever. Call 1-800-NEEDHIM’ - North Carolina

“Hell is truth seen to late [sic]” - Church sign, North Carolina

‘Naughty adult shop - home of the famous beer lube’ - truck/shop, Wisconsin

“Depression can be dangerous. See your doctor” - Minnesota

“Been rear-ended?” - Minnesota

“Abortion is a death in the family” - Minnesota

“Congress has gone to hell” - Minnesota

‘Prison area - do not pick up hitchhikers’ - Michigan

‘We’re happy to sell to gunmen and terrorists’ - Boston, Massachusetts

‘Coming soon - Spring, and Jesus’ - New York State

Read more...

How to…travel by public transport around the USA

The USA is an enormous country where the car is king. Travelling around by public transport is not the norm and even most guidebooks assume you are driving everywhere. Gathering information about public transport has been time consuming, so to save you the hassle here‘s what we found out.

Buses
It is possible to get around most of the US on the bus, although in comparison to Mexico the bus system is far behind. Greyhound has elicited groans for years, and yes it is grim, but thankfully some better buses, such as Megabus, are starting to challenge their stranglehold.

If you’re first in the queue for the bright blue double-decker Megabus you can secure a table and four chairs in front of a video screen, and if you’re lucky they will be playing films. The seats are comfy with leg room and the onboard toilet is useable. Despite the better quality the prices are often cheaper than Greyhound. We met a woman who had bought a return from Chicago to Detroit (a five and a half hour journey) for $2.50. Buy in advance and you can get a real bargain. They keep their prices low by offering a no-frills service; you can only buy tickets on-line (you get a reservation code that you show upon boarding), you have to put your bags in the hold yourself and they have no bus stations (only bus stops by the side of the road). The only disadvantages that we found are that the service only serves the north/northeast of the country and if the weather is bad you have to wait for the bus in the rain.

The Megabus drivers are great entertainment, each seemingly running their bus in the manner they seem fit. Our Chicago to Minneapolis driver made the rules of the journey clear to its mainly springbreak passengers,
“No chewing gum loudly - no smacking or cracking. Gentlemen please raise the toilet seat and put it down again. Don’t play music loudly - that’s what headphones are for.”

On the other hand Durrl (spelt Darryl on his name badge), our Minneapolis to Chicago driver, was a one man entertainment machine. He was playing his personal collection of DVDs (“I thought the kids might like Iron Man”) and was genuinely sorry when the DVD kept skipping over the rutted roads of the Mid-West. He grinned back over his shoulder, while battling to keep the bus upright in strong winds and rain, until he got the thumbs up from us that the volume was fine. As Blades of Glory skipped itself to the end Darryl changed tack and got on the PA system,
“Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time ever in Megabus history this is your chance to come down to the front and make an announcement over the microphone. Come on down!” No-one budged so Darryl continued,
“We got a beautiful girl upstairs on her way to become America’s Next Top Model and we got some world travellers sitting here right behind me on the lower deck.” A shout-out on the Megabus - it doesn’t get much classier than that! And on he whittered congratulating people for the size of their phone or the food they were eating until finally some passengers came down the stairs and grabbed the mike,
“I’d like to say thank you to the driver for getting us here safely and to say happy birthday to my nieces for Thursday.” A round of applause. Durrl liked that and came back with an Eddie Murphy style,
“O, o, oooh! We’re gliding like Egyptian silk!” This man clearly enjoys his job and made the eight hour bus journey so much shorter. Public transport has never been such fun.

There are, apparently, a few bus companies travelling between one city’s Chinatown to the next (various websites, just google ‘Chinabus‘), but again only serves the northeast at present. The buses are, apparently, of about the same standard as the Greyhound, but are cheaper. Boston bus station has a particularly good array of bus companies serving different destinations.

When all else fails there is the Greyhound. It does connect to most cities in the US and is often cheaper than taking the train. We didn’t find it a dangerous experience, just a depressing one, with some of the worst customer service we’ve encountered on our trip. However, it works and we used it extensively between Texas and Ohio. Check for deals online and, if you can, book ahead because when you book more than three days in advance your travel partner gets a half-price ticket. You need to arrive at the Greyhound station an hour before departure to pick-up tickets (you just get a reservation code online) or to purchase tickets. They never seem to sell out, and if a bus is full they just put on another one for the same journey.

When you’ve bought your ticket put your bags in the queue by the departure gate - you want to be one of the first on the bus so you can pick good seats (we prefer near the front and as far away from smelly people as possible). You and your hand luggage may be subject to an airport style security check and frisk, as was the case in Memphis, so keep penknives, scissors, nail files etc. in your backpack for the hold and not in your hand luggage. Greyhound buses are fairly standard coaches but lack the comfort and movies of the Mexican buses, so take your own entertainment.

Both the Megabus and the Greyhound stop every few hours for a loo and food break. Greyhound seems to have a close relationship with fastfood chains, whereas the Megabus usually stops at a service centre where you can make your own choice.

Trains
Travelling by train is definitely our preferred method of public transport in the US. The seats are comfy with plenty of legroom, there are plug sockets so you can work on your laptop, there’s a dining car and the toilets are acceptable. They are better than British trains in terms of comfort, although delays are also not unusual.

The view from the train is often much better than the soulless, corporate chain lined interstates that the buses favour. The train can take you through farmland and forests and alongside rivers and lakes.

Amtrak runs the trains in the States. You can buy tickets on line or at the station, with online sales offering the best deals. There are weekly ‘hot deals’ and if you are planning to travel extensively during a two or three week period, a rail pass could be a good option.

Turn up 30 minutes to an hour early to collect your tickets (if purchased online) and wait to be directed, or sometimes escorted, to the train. The waiting areas in the stations are generally more comfortable than those for buses.

The only drawbacks for us have been that Amtrak does not operate services across the whole country and only in the northeast does the service seem to be frequent.

Travelling around the States on public transport is perfectly possible, provides a great insight into parts of America you might not otherwise encounter and can even be great fun. If only there was a Durrl on every train and bus!







Read more...

Welcome to Canada, from Tim Horton

“Who is Tim Horton?” I asked the immigration official at the Detroit-Windsor border.

I’d never heard of the chap and yet, within a minute of arriving in Canada I was being shepherded towards him by a pleasant young lady with a maple leaf on her uniform.


We’d just stepped off the ‘tunnel bus’, a vehicle which carried us under the Detroit River and across the US-Canada border.

It was only going to be the briefest of encounters with Canada (heading as we were to see friends in Ontario) but time enough, we hoped, to notice and appreciate some of the differences which Canadians seem so quick to stress between their homeland and the US.

Every Canadian we have met during our travels so far has seem anxious to put considerable distance between themselves and their cousins to the south. Without fail every item of baggage they carry seemed to be clearly emblazoned with the maple leaf flag.

I guess it for the benefit for ignorant non-North Americans like myself. Canadian and American, I’d struggled to tell them apart, the only clue being the accent which usually I didn’t pick up on. They spoke the same language, drove the same cars, ate the same food, indeed they seemed so inextricably entwined, did the differences Canadians friends had stressed to me really start with a simple hop over the border?

It started promisingly. There was none of the stony-faced procedures and paranoia in crossing the border here. Just patient smiles, efficient service and an explanation that Mr Horton was a popular purveyor of coffee beans and bagels.

We left the building and entered the bright sunshine enveloping Windsor, Ontario. Windsor…it seemed to ring a bell. Wasn’t it familiar?

I bought sandwiches from Tim Horton’s and glanced at the new currently. There was a imperious looking-lady stamped on the five dollar bill and her regal visage also gazed out from the dollar ‘loon’. Hadn’t I see her before?

Outside the Maple Leaf flag fluttered in the breeze, alongside the flag of Ontario. Something stared back at me from a corner of the latter’s design: diagonal crosses of red, white and blue.

It was coming to me now. Britain! That funny old place where I used to live. The Queen! The Union Jack! Had I taken a wrong turn somewhere?

It became more confusing as we caught our ride and headed north. We passed Charing Cross Road, another city called London, Aldershot, Chatham-Kent and Tilbury. There was Essex county, Middlesex and even Oxford.

I spotted a sign to Leamington ‘ Tomato-growing capital of Ontario’ and another for ‘Dorchester-on-Thames Golf Club’.

This was getting too much. Way back in the olden days, when the British arrived to nick yet another large chunk of land that wasn’t theirs couldn’t they have at least displayed more imagination?

Fancy coming all this way, braving storms and harsh elements, hostile locals and moose attacks, and then naming an their exciting new discovery after a nondescript town in the commuter belt.

I was still wondering about this when we passed yet another Tim Horton’s. That makes it at least fifteen by now in under two hours. These Canadians must really love their coffee.

Just who was this Tim Horton fellow? It sounded rather nondescript a name for a coffee empire magnate, perhaps more like the scrawny kid whom fellow pupils would try to set on fire with a bunsen burner during chemistry lessons.

I soon found out that he was a former hockey player, a sport which I am reliably informed in Canada rivals the world’s major religions.

This helped to explain the other names which weren’t derived from a leafy Surrey suburb. Wayne Gretzky Parkway for instance.

Though many of the names were familiar, the locals had an odd way of pronouncing them. The broad accents of Chicago and Detroit were now well behind us and we found ourselves adjusting our lugholes to a decidedly Scottish-inflected manner of pronunciation, with plenty of ‘oots’, ‘aboots’ bouncing around, coupled with the uniquely Canadian mannerism of adding an ’eh’ at the end of every sentence.

The night closed in and I endeavoured to keep myself awake. It had been twelve hours since we’d left Chicago.

“What are you planning to do tonight”, I asked our ride.

“I dunno. Probably drink beer and throw axes in the back yard.”

Half an hour passed and the Niagara Escarpment rose up before us and soon we were in the streets of Hamilton, home of our friends Doug and Linda, and part of the large urban sprawl (fondly referred to by locals as the ‘golden horseshoe’) stretching around the south-western edges of Lake Ontario up to Toronto.

The next morning we ventured down to the lake itself, one of the five famous ‘Great Lakes’. Across the waters steam rose from one of the large steel mills on which the city’s economy is based. Another stood inactive, work recently stopped as the demand for steel plummeted. Down in Detroit they are not building as many cars as usual.

We headed up Queen Elizabeth Way and into Toronto (or ‘Tron-oh’ as the locals seem to call it). We ate a curry and watched Critical Mass cycling past HMV, Lush and the Black Bull pub.

It could have been London. We had to try something different, something which we wouldn‘t find back home, something local, something Canadian.

“How about wine tasting”, Linda suggested.

Canadian wine. I learn something every day.

Soon we were passing between vineyards, the bright sun blazing down on the cold earth, before pulling up at a smart modern building, all crisp stark lines.

The company Prius stood in a reserved spot out front, smooth jazz played inside. Slender men in designer glasses and tight black tops moved with suitable sang-froid amidst the minimalist décor, polishing glasses and laying out breadsticks. Tim Horton’s this was not.

We were impressed by the sustainable features of the building and soon umming and ahhing over the tasting notes: their wines were ’not the least austere’, offered ‘great fruit parity’ and came ‘buttressed by beautiful acid’.

Oz Clarkeisms aside they did offer something I’d never encountered before: ‘ice wine’. This local speciality involves picking ripe grapes when frozen, yielding less water, the same amount of sugar and a more highly-concentrated juice. The result: a much sweeter wine, which comes in smaller bottles.

Suitably tanked up we headed for the town of Niagara-on-the-Lake, just down the road from the famous falls themselves. Amongst the fine nineteenth century buildings stood the Prince of Wales Hotel, The Angel Inn, the Royal George Theatre…(and no Tim Horton‘s). Oh dear: it was all getting too British again.

I couldn‘t help but be drawn to a shop called ‘Taste of Britain.’

Welsh tea towels, DVDs of The Vicar of Dibley, Midsomer Murders and Only Fools and Horses, and a collection of foodstuffs that wouldn’t disgrace our village shop back home. There was Marmite and Typhoo, Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut and Bisto granules, Branston pickle and Lyle’s Golden Syrup, Yorkshire tea…

Yorkshire tea! A week ago I wouldn’t have been able to control myself, my body yearning for a decent brew. Yet now , staring down the barrel of our impending return to Blighty my enthusiasm was somewhat dampened.

Lara, on the other hand was dancing with delight, nostalgia and excitement sweeping her up into a giddy dance on the spot: “They’ve got salt and vinegar crisps! Ooooh!” she squealed as I dragged her outside.

Back in the street my nose sensed the heady waft of bacon sandwiches, my ears picked up the sound of clinking china and from somewhere, I could swear, drifted the solemn tones of a Radio Four announcer.

Was this Canada or the Cotswolds?

It was all too much, too soon: we had to get back to the US.

It wasn’t far - over the river in fact. Just turn left at the falls.

Ten minutes up the road the magnificent Niagara Falls thundered in a roar of mist and spray. Large chunks of ice still clung to the sides whilst on the Canadian side the skyline was pitted by a strange assortment of ugly towers.

There was the usual range of ‘amusements’ somehow deemed essential complements to a natural attraction in North America: Guinness World of Records, Hard Rock Café and of course a sprinkling of casinos.

We shivered before the huge horseshoe falls, marvelled at the sheer volume of water plunging over the ledge and our friend Doug was robbed by a fortune-telling Gypsy (ok it was a plastic one in a machine but one that the Daily Express would surely wind itself up about nevertheless).

It was time to leave. We headed for the rainbow (bridge, that is, not the one hanging down below in the mist) and the joyous queue at the US border. Linda was nervous: she loathes crossing into the US.

“I could do with a cuppa before going there”, she said “Shall we go to Tim Horton’s?”










Read more...