TITANIC TENDER SS NOMADIC IN PICTURES

The SS Nomadic, tender vessel to the Titanic and the last existing White Star Line ship in the world, was officially opened last Friday, May 31 at her Hamilton Dock berth in Belfast.

Over the past seven years, the SS Nomadic — known as Titanic’s little sister — has undergone a £7m restoration programme which has seen the Cherbourg-registered vessel which conveyed 1st and 2nd class passengers to the ill-fated liner restored to her former glory.

The SS Nomadic was built on slipway No1 at the Harland & Wolff yard in Belfast alongside RMS Titanic and RMS Olympic and was launched on April 25, 1911.

The vessel is permanently moored at Hamilton Dock, adjacent to the £97m Titanic Belfast exhibition centre in the Titanic Quarter and is now open to visitors.

On board, a series of audio visual presentations traces the history of the ship, introduces different characters from Nomadic’s past and provides insights into what it would have been like to be a passenger or crew member.

The virtual barman, whose image is projected on to a wall, is a terrible gossip and tells titillating tales about the rich and famous who boarded Titanic, but unfortunately he serves only virtual drink.

Visitors can also find out about some of the vessel’s passengers and experience and interact with the history that surrounds the ship.

Tickets for pre-bookable tours of SS Nomadic can be bought online at www.nomadicbelfast.com Prices are £8.50 for adults and £5 for children, and family passes are available from £22. You can also buy tickets by calling 0044 (0) 28 9024 6609; from the Belfast Welcome Centre (47 Donegall Place); and on board.

See also www.discovernorthernireland.com for details of holidays in Northern Ireland.

SS NOMADIC IN PICTURES

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THE FABULOUS TITANIC BELFAST: A VISITOR (AND FRIDGE) MAGNET

MAGNETIC ATTRACTION: Fridge magnets on sale at the souvenir shop in Belfast Titanic

One year almost to the day after first setting foot on the then mucky building site that was Titanic Belfast, I went again yesterday morning and took the full tour of Northern Ireland's biggest purpose-built visitor attraction. It's absolutely fabulous. And I bought a fridge magnet to add to my collection. I've written about Titanic Belfast before in an article you can read on this travel blog. To see the photos I took yesterday, and those from previous visits, go to www.flickr.com/photos/sweenster/sets/72157626863307248
For information on visiting Titanic Belfast, see www.discovernorthernireland.com/titanic2012
Where to stay? The Europa is Belfast's most famous hotel. See http://www.hastingshotels.com/europa-belfast/

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SCOTLAND: IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF HEROES

PART 2: BELFAST TO CAIRNRYAN AND LIVERPOOL BIRKENHEAD TO BELFAST

CAN DO: 92-year-old Tartan terror Tom Gilzean

The world of electronics — and rascally scrap metal thieves — will be forever grateful to the two fellas who were walking down Aberdeen’s Union Street many years ago and spotted a halfpenny on the pavement. The ensuing tug-of-war during which the coin was stretched beyond all recognition and one of the combatants ended up in Dundee while still pulling resulted in the thinnest copper wire ever produced.

That at least is the story I was told by 92-year-old and much-decorated war veteran Tom Gilzean when I stopped for a chat on Edinburgh’s Royal Mile a few hours after stepping off Stena’s Superfast VII ferry in Cairnryan. Tom, who was resplendent in full Highland dress and sporting a chestful of campaign medals, knows a thing or two about pennies — he raised 4.2 million of them (£42,000) for disabled servicemen and sick children in 2010. And then some pea-brained pencil-pusher on the city council banned him from rattling his collecting cans in the street and threatened him with legal action, saying he didn’t have the correct permit. You can imagine the public outrage when distraught and frail widower Tom shed tears during an interview on nationwide television.

Fortunately, furious deputy council leader Steve Cardownie kicked up such a stink in the chamber, where he described Tom as “a man who does Edinburgh proud”, that a special dispensation was hastily granted and the former Royal Engineers sapper was allowed to resume his admirable work. But the memory of that permit palaver still rankled as we chatted outside the Camera Obscura, one of the city’s top tourist attractions.

WARPED FACTOR: In the Camera Obscura

“I was married for 55 years and miss my wife so very much,” said Tom. “That’s the reason I’m out here on the streets doing this — I don’t know what I’d do if they stopped me collecting for the injured soldiers and the poor wee bairns. It’s the only thing that keeps me going. I was ready to go to jail if that’s what it took. The way they were treating me, you’d think I was a beggar. If I’m not allowed to do my charity work they might as well put me in my box.”

Just then, a beautiful young Spanish woman dropped some coins in one of Tom’s cans and planted a kiss on his cheek. His face lit up and he did a little jig. If he’d been a younger man and fitter he might have done a cartwheel as well, but in a kilt it would probably have got him arrested.

“Gracias, señorita!” he called as his new admirer headed up the cobbled street towards the castle — the home of the Scottish Crown Jewels, it attracted 1.3 million visitors last year — with her giggling girlfriends.

“She’s clearly not from Aberdeen,” said Tom, reinforcing my impression that he’s none too fond of people from the Granite City. “It’s a job and a half getting money out of Aberdonians. Oh, a tight-fisted lot they are. They’ve got padlocks on their purses and pockets in their shrouds.”

And then he let out a blood-curdling roar which startled several passers-by. “Come on all you miserable Aberdonians! Dig deep for the wounded soldiers and sick bairns!”

Tom, who began collecting for charity in 2005 when a friend asked him to help the Sick Kids’ Friends Foundation, is one of Edinburgh’s most colourful characters, but if he stood beside Brazilian-born former nurse Elaine Davidson he’d be invisible.

MOST-PIERCED: Elaine Davidson

Forty-four-year-old Elaine, who sells fetish gear — and postcards — from her Tropical Rainbow shop in Candlemaker Row where she also offers crystal ball and tarot card readings, is the world’s most-pierced woman. Her 6,925 piercings, including nearly 200 in her face and more than 500 in her — how shall I put this? — in her knickers weigh around three kilos. Not surprisingly, her appearance turns heads in the street, but none was more turned than that of retired civil servant Douglas Watson who met her in a Glasgow coffee shop 15 years ago and married her last June. He must have a magnetic personality.

When I got talking to Elaine in the Lawnmarket, the teetotal non-smoker told me her wedding in Edinburgh’s register office had been a “low-key affair” at which Douglas, who has no piercings, no tattoos and no intention of every getting any, wore a dark blue suit, blue shirt and Marks and Spencer tie. She arrived in a puffy white dress and with her face painted green, yellow and blue, the colours of the Brazilian flag.

“Douglas is a kind and gentle man,” said Elaine, “and being married to him is wonderful. I’m so happy. After 15 years of friendship and growing closer, having a wedding ring on my finger isn’t going to change the way I live my life. Mind you, I’ve had to give up sleeping on my bed of nails.”

I had to ask: Why so many piercings? Wasn’t it painful? And when will enough be enough?

“You get used to the pain,” said Elaine. “After the first couple of hundred I didn’t really feel it. I like my piercings, they’re an expression of my personality. Some people express themselves by the clothes they wear, I do it by getting my body pierced. It’s how I am. I don’t know how many you could call enough. It’s not that I can’t stop, it’s just that I’ve never thought of stopping. When I had 462 piercings back in 2000 somebody said to me it must be a record. That’s when it became a challenge. I thought, I wouldn’t mind being in the Guinness Book of Records, so they examined me and said yes, I was the world’s most-pierced woman. I’ve carried on getting piercings since then. I suppose one day I’ll decide, right, no more, but I don’t think that day will be any time soon.”

In bumping into tartan terror Tom, who’s raised more than £200,000 for charity in seven years, I’d met a hero, which was appropriate as I’d gone to Edinburgh specially to see the man who’s been my personal hero since I was a child. The fact he’s been dead for nearly 220 years is neither here nor there.

HE'S MY HERO: Poet Robert Burns

Alexander Nasmyth’s 1787 portrait of his close friend Robert Burns — said to be the truest likeness of Scotland’s national poet — had been in storage for two-and-a-half years while the National Portrait Gallery where it hangs underwent an £18 million renovation, reopening last December. I last saw the painting 30 years ago, but my fascination with Burns goes back nearly 40. In that time I’ve amassed an obsessionally-large collection of books about the man who wrote Auld Lang Syne and more than 500 other poems and songs during a tragically short life (he died aged 37 in 1796). I don’t have anywhere near as many Burns books and bits of memorabilia as Elaine has piercings, but the weight of them all will one day cause my floorboards to collapse.

My nose was no more than a foot from Burns’ as I stood for ages admiring Nasmyth’s work, which is the best-known and most widely reproduced image of Rab, Rabbie, Robbie, Robyn or, as Americans are wont to call him, Bobby. Slightly more than a foot to my left but within grappling-to-the-ground distance, the tartan-trousered guard kept a hawk eye on me (actually, in the local parlance, it was a hawk eye the noo). He looked like a man who’s never lost a staring-out contest, and I got the idea several of his colleagues had been put on red alert, ready to pounce on his signal. But he needn’t have worried — I was there as a pilgrim, not a pilferer.

To break the ice I struck up a conversation, telling him I’d come from Dublin to see my hero.

“Dublin?” he said. “Lovely place, but it’s gotten awfy expensive, has it no?”

When I told him the price of a pint he nearly collapsed. Must be from Aberdeen, I thought. Having gained his confidence, he stood down the SWAT team and we got yapping.

“This is the picture they all come to see,” he said, and took the wind out of my sails by adding: “We’d an old gentleman in here the other day, an expat Scot, came all the way from New Zealand just to stand where you’re standing. From Dunedin, he was. A retired school teacher. Imagine that — 12,000 miles just to look at a portrait.”

My measly 143 miles from Belfast as the crow flies paled into pathetic insignificance next to my fellow pilgrim’s daunting journey which probably involved a couple of gruelling long-haul flights, but if that old gentleman had dropped by again I’d have shaken his hand and maybe even genuflected.

FAMOUS SON: Burns statue, Ayr

Dunedin — from the Gaelic Dùn Èideann for Edinburgh — has a statue of Burns in the central Octagon (his nephew, Presbyterian minister Thomas Burns, was one of the city’s founding fathers). Scotland has 19 statues, and there are 15 in the US, nine in Canada, eight in Australia and one in England, in London’s Victoria Embankment Gardens. With three others in New Zealand making a total of 56 worldwide, Burns has had more statues erected in his honour than any other poet in history. I’m not alone in placing Rabbie on a pedestal, which was the sculptors’ job anyway. In a 2009 survey he was named as the Greatest Scot Of All Time, narrowly pipping William “Braveheart” Wallace to the post from a shortlist of 10 that also included Robert the Bruce and, perversely, Billy Connolly and Doctor Who star David Tennant.

As I took a last look at the portrait, I noticed for the first time that what I’ve for so long taken to be a nascent smile might well be the beginnings of a smirk. Rabbie, who fathered 12 children — seven of them illegitimate — by four women, had as many critics as admirers during the 10 years from 1786 when his first volume of poems was published until his death from a rheumatic heart condition. There are still those who refer to him as “that damned whoremaster”, but his literary legacy — some of the world’s best-loved poems and songs that have been translated into most modern languages (and Klingon) and still sell in huge numbers in book and CD form — is good enough reason to smirk. As he told his wife, Jean, as he lay in his deathbed: “I’ll be better kent (known) a hunder years from now.”

WHERE IT BEGAN: Burns' Cottage in village of Alloway

A full-sized replica of the Ayrshire cottage in which Burns was born into abject poverty on January 25, 1759, can be visited in Atlanta, Georgia, but the real thing, all whitewashed walls and thatch, is in the village of Alloway, an hour’s car journey north of Stena’s Cairnryan port.

The highlight of the scenic drive along the coast-hugging A77 is the view on a clear day of the majestic and uninhabited island of Ailsa Craig, the plug of a volcano that last blew its top 500 million years ago. Being roughly the halfway point on the old ferry route between Belfast and Glasgow, it was nicknamed Paddy’s Milestone by generations of Irish labourers and potato pickers heading to Scotland in search of work. Rising out of the sea to a height of 340 metres 10 miles west of Girvan (where Mr. Chips serves the best fish suppers in Ayrshire), this former refuge for Catholics fleeing the 16th century Reformation which was also a prison colony in the 18th and 19th centuries is now a bird sanctuary for hundreds of thousands of gannets, kittiwakes and guillemots and a growing number of puffins.

It’s most famed, though, for the quarry that provides the rare Blue Hone granite known as Ailsite from which 70 per cent of the world’s curling stones are made, including those used by the gold medal-winning British women’s team at the 2002 Winter Olympics in Utah.

ROCK OF AGES: Volcanic isle of Ailsa Craig

One of the most-visited homes in Scotland, Burns’ Cottage is a humble, four-room residence comprising a kitchen, spence (parlour), barn and byre that was built by the poet’s father, William, in 1757. Just down the road is the £21 million Birthplace Museum that opened in December 2010 and houses more than 5,500 items of memorabilia plus many original manuscripts in Burns’ distinctive hand.

Nearby are the ruins and well-kept graveyard (where William is buried) of the reputedly haunted 16th century Alloway Auld Kirk that was the scene of the witches’ and warlocks’ dance — with music provided by the Devil himself — in Burns’ epic poem Tam o’ Shanter; and the medieval Brig o’ Doon, rebuilt in the 18th century, over which the terrified and rapidly sobering Tam fled the “hellish legion” on his grey mare, Meg. The bridge is overlooked by the Burns Monument which was paid for by public subscription, allegedly including donations from Aberdeen, and completed in 1823.

WITCHES' LAIR: Haunted Alloway Auld Kirk and graveyard

My trip was drawing to a close as I stepped off the train from Edinburgh in Liverpool, where I had one last pit stop in what had become a heroic journey — I was going to the Cavern Club in Mathew Street where, on the afternoon of Thursday, February 9, 1961 a local band called the Beatles who would become the heroes of millions played to a full house in the original building on the same site. The new Cavern Club, built using 15,000 bricks from the old one which was demolished in 1973 by British Rail (Boo! Hiss!), opened its doors in 1984 and is a thriving live music venue and one of Liverpool’s most popular tourist attractions.

John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, Stuart Sutcliffe and Pete Best’s first lunchtime gig in the Cavern blew the audience away and earned them a regular booking. The line-up changed, of course, and by the time the band made the last of their 292 appearances there on Saturday, August 3, 1963 they had become the Fab Four of John, Paul, George and Ringo. Other Cavern regulars included Cilla Black, Gerry & The Pacemakers, The Swinging Blue Genes, Billy J Kramer and The Dakotas, The Merseybeats and The Searchers, but it was The Beatles who put the club and their home city on the musical map, triggering Beatlemania and leading a Liverpudlian takeover of the charts on both sides of the Atlantic.

BEST CELLAR: Music in Liverpool's new Cavern Club

I had a great night at the Cavern, but mindful of an early start the next morning when I had a date with a ferry down the Mersey and onward across the Irish Sea, I headed to bed. I’d followed in the footsteps of heroes Robert Burns and The Beatles and met a new one in plucky old soldier Tom. For someone who’s petrified of being punctured, I could only marvel at the courage of pierced lady Elaine. And now it was time to go home. Rabbie lamented in To A Mouse that “the best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley”, but as I boarded Stena Mersey at Birkenhead this second part of my ferry adventures had been free of the minor disasters that usually dog me on my travels. Suspiciously free. Arriving in Belfast bang on time and with an hour to kill, I popped into The Crown Bar for a pint. As beer lovers know, there’s no such thing as “a” pint, so I had two. And missed the last train to Dublin. Then a pal of mine walked in, we got talking and, before I knew it, I’d missed the last bus.

The taxi driver watched as I withdrew a hundred quid from the ATM outside the Europa Hotel. The meter was running. Ah, well.

●To book your crossing on Stena Line’s Irish Sea routes and for details of special money-saving fares see www.stenaline.ie, call 01 204 7777 or contact your travel agent. In the UK see www.stenaline.co.uk. Further information on visiting Scotland, Belfast and the west of Ireland can be found in other travel articles on this blog: The Most Faithful Little Dog That Ever Cocked A Leg, Scots Whey Hey, All Aboard As Titanic Gets Set To Sail Again, I Lost My Heart To A Galway Grill, The Movie That Put Ireland On The Tourist Map and Oh Mayo My.

●See also www.visitscotland.com, www.discovernorthernireland.comand www.discoverireland.ie

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A FERRY FINE WAY TO SEA THE SIGHTS

PART 1: DUBLIN TO HOLYHEAD AND FISHGUARD TO ROSSLARE

ALL ABOARD: Stena Line's Nordica Irish Sea ferry

Thoroughly fed up with hanging around in airports and wondering if my bag would fit in the dreaded luggage frame, I decided for a change to check out four Stena Line routes: Dublin-Holyhead, Fishguard-Rosslare, Belfast-Cairnryan and Liverpool Birkenhead-Belfast.

With a free week on my hands I booked my foot passenger tickets in the smug knowledge that I could bring as many bulky bags as I wanted on board — plus golf clubs, a surfboard and a bike if I so chose — at no extra cost.

I don’t happen to own golf clubs, a surfboard or a bike (I do have a set of darts), but if I had they could have come with me and it wouldn’t have cost me a penny extra.

Granted, I’d have looked a right eejit cycling one-handed with a golf bag over my shoulder and a surfboard under my arm, but the point is I had the choice. And better still, no one was going to charge me 40 quid for forgetting to check in online.

So, taxi booked to take me to Dublin Port, off I set on a sunny Mothers Day morning for Holyhead on the first leg of my two-part Stena adventure. Or to be more accurate, misadventure.

All four ferry crossings were plain sailing. Actually, having upgraded to Stena Plus they were plush sailing. But as so often happens when I set off on a trip, be it near to home or distant, as soon as I set foot outside my front door someone somewhere along the way has got it in for me.

And that for me is what makes travelling such a joy. The unexpected can throw up challenges that would have the toughest of tough guys blubbering like babies, but me, I just laugh (though I draw the line at me arriving at one airport and my luggage arriving at another).

There were plenty of challenges and laughs as I went back and forward between Ireland, Northern Ireland, England, Wales and Scotland, crossing by sea and travelling by bus and train; I found myself in umpteen daft situations and met many colourful, delightful and crazy people; and when I finally arrived back home in Dublin at the end of eight incident-filled days, I couldn’t wait to tell the lads who’d ridiculed my plan that flying is for the birds and taking the boat is a ferry fine way to travel.

SPAN-TASTIC: Footbridge connecting Holyhead ferry
terminal and train station with the town

I was stranded on a train going nowhere after a truck carrying a load of cheese got stuck under a railway bridge in North Wales. I trust the traffic cops warned the guy behind the wheel to drive more Caerphilly next time.

Although the accident disrupted my travel plans, it paved the way for several chance encounters that made my ferry adventures hugely enjoyable (and profitable). Among the characters I met as I criss-crossed the Irish Sea visiting five countries and four capitals in eight days were, in no particular order:

•The guesthouse cat that bit a lawyer specialising in personal injuries claims

•The biggest Irish wolfhound pup in the world

•The worst horse tipster in Britain who finally came good, and

•The groom who chose the worst possible moment to tell his stout-swilling best man a joke.

And that was only on the first two legs, from Dublin to Holyhead and Fishguard to Rosslare (next week in part two I’ll tell you about my jaunt around Scotland and England when I travelled from Belfast to Cairnryan and Liverpool Birkenhead to Belfast).

The bridge strike meant the train I was on from Holyhead to Shrewsbury couldn’t proceed beyond Shotton. We’d been sitting there twiddling our thumbs for nearly an hour when the guard announced that a replacement coach would collect us from outside the nearby Central Hotel “in 10 minutes” and take us to Chester from where we could continue our journeys. Fifteen minutes passed and there was no sign of a bus. Half-an-hour later there was still no bus. After 50 minutes I gave up waiting, deserted my grumbling fellow passengers and, thinking dark thoughts about errant bus drivers being Shotton sight, popped into the Clwyd Hotel for a beer. And that’s where I encountered Barry, the worst horse tipster in Britain, who was standing at the bar reading the Daily Mirror racing pages.

After a few minutes Barry, who was well into his 70s, took the pen from behind his ear, circled a horse’s name and told his three elderly buddies: “Kempton, 3.50, Tuxedo. Put your shirt on it.” His pals scoffed, sniggered and called him names, then the loudest of the three said he wouldn’t back one of Barry’s fancies even if it was the only horse in the race. Barry was clearly a tipster in whom the shirtless betting public of Shotton had lost all faith So I’d love to have seen their faces later when his selection romped home at 11/1. I never got the chance to buy him a drink from my winnings — I’d nipped into the Ladbrokes down the street after finishing my pint and, for the hell of it, stuck a tenner on Tuxedo to win.

It was a Welsh rare bit of luck, and took some of the sting out of having been charged £6 an hour for wi-fi access in my digs in Holyhead the day before. The Boathouse Hotel is a comfortable, well-run establishment with wonderful staff and a restaurant serving tasty, wholesome food, and I’d happily stay there again. At £40 a night for a single room it’s reasonably priced, but £6 an hour to check your emails is not on.

FAMILIAR SIGHT: Holyhead train station sign

Holyhead looked a bit down on its luck, sort of faded and flaking, when I stepped off the Stena Nordica (you should see the cabins, they’re like something out of a posh hotel) from Dublin, but first impressions are so very often misleading. It’s true the town centre could do with a lick of paint and has more than its fair share of empty locales, but a pleasant stroll revealed a lesser-known lovely side to the ferry port that for generations has been the arrival and departure point for Irish people travelling to and from Britain.

The ice cream van parked on the hill known as Newry Beach was doing a roaring trade as families made the most of the fine start to the day before mums and grannies where whisked off for a slap-up Mothers Day lunch. I was feeling peckish myself despite having earlier tucked into a fry (Anglesey free range eggs, back bacon from Cigydd y Fali, pork sausages from Edward’s of Conwy and Clonakilty black pudding with rosti potatoes, portobello mushrooms, beans and grilled tomatoes) on the ferry over. None of the young St. Patrick’s Day revellers on board seemed keen on breakfast, but having seen thousands like them out and about in Dublin just a few hours before, it was no surprise. I guess they’ll have recovered by the time Arthur’s Day comes around in September.

A blackboard outside the King’s Arms informed passers-by it was part of the Fursty Pub Company. With the early afternoon sun beating down on my threadbare scalp I was becoming very fursty, so in I went and managed to nab the last free stool at the bar in the lounge. A sign on the wall warned: “Notice to patrons — shouting and bad language will NOT be tolerated.” An admirable sentiment, but another sign reading, “Notice to children — running around screaming your heads off and poking travel writers in the ribs with plastic pirate swords will result in parents being heavily fined and jailed,” wouldn’t have gone amiss. Having narrowly avoided being filleted by a cutlass-wielding five-year-old buccaneer (who was lucky not to get a clip around his buccaneer), I consoled myself with the knowledge that the homemade steak pie with mash, peas and gravy I was eventually allowed to finish in peace was delicious and cost just £5.

FAB STOP-OFF: Historic Chester, where I spent a night

I don’t know if the phantom coach to replace the train going nowhere ever turned up. If it did, it was long gone by the time I swaggered out of the bookies with £110 of Ladbrokes’ lolly plus my £10 stake in my pocket and jumped aboard a double-decker for the short journey to Chester. I decided to spend the night there, and it proved to be a wise decision — it’s a fabulous place. What didn’t prove to be a wise decision was my asking a souvenir seller, a born and bred Scouser who looks like the late actor Pete Postlethwaite, to recommend a pub, because the following exchange ensued.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Where’s the best place around here to go for a pint?”

“Well, I always go to B&Q,” he replied.

“They sell pints in B&Q?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Pete.“Any colour you want.”

“Eh?”

“Is it for inside or outside?” he asked.

This guy’s nuts, I thought. “It’s for inside, of course,” I said. “I’m going to drink it.”

We both twigged at the same time.

“Aah!” he said.

“Aah!” I said.

“If it’s a pint you want, The Albion serves the best beer in town, and there’s no telly, no jukebox, none of them noisy gaming machines. Go up the steps there, across that bridge and walk along the ramparts. It’s only five minutes.” I thanked him and set off for The Albion. It was shut.

BIG BOY: Max and owner Geoff

Fortunately, the Marlborough was open, and conveniently it was right next door to the Blossom Hotel which was my home for the night. If you like your ales, the Marlborough has a great selection, but if you’re afraid of dogs I’d think twice about popping in because it’s one of the favourite pubs of the world’s biggest Irish wolfhound pup. Sixteen-month-old Max weighs more than 12 stone and stands six-foot-four on his back legs when he puts his front paws on his master’s shoulders. Despite his intimidating size Max is a gentle giant, and together they’re a popular sight when he takes his owner Geoff out for walkies — or rather, draggies — every afternoon. He’s such a powerful pooch, though, that a collar and leash are useless and Geoff has to keep him on a bridle.

Cardiff was my next port of call as I made my way to Fishguard for the return leg of my journey. I’d never been in the Welsh capital, but during my brief visit I was impressed enough to stick it on my list of weekend destinations for later in the year. I was also impressed by the lunchtime pies in the Goat Major pub, opposite the splendid castle, which was the scene of a most unfortunate but very funny incident, though it was all I could do to stop myself from laughing for fear of getting a dig.

A young guy who was getting married later that afternoon popped in for a nerve-calming pint with his best man, his father and some male friends, and before long the jokes were flying. Which was all very well, except the groom made the terrible mistake of delivering the punchline of a particularly funny story at the very moment the best man, who was standing right in front of him, took a swig of stout. I’ve never in my life seen such looks of horror. The groom’s white shirt looked like Jackson Pollock had got to work on it with a bucket of brown paint. There was silence. Then a single loud expletive. Then a couple of minutes of mass panic like something out of a cartoon while damp cloths and sponges were called for before one of the lads — there’s always a hero in these situations — rode to the rescue.

“Here, take my shirt,” he said as he began undoing his buttons. “I’ll nip round to Top Man and buy a new one.” And so a blushing bride somewhere in Cardiff was spared the shame of marrying a man in a white shirt splattered with porter-tasting polka dots.



HERE SHE COMES: Stena Europe
arrives at Fishguard, as seen from
the terrace of Pentower guesthouse

Guesthouse owner Tony Jacobs, who describes himself as an ageing crooner and is the leader of the Tuxedo Jazz Orchestra, was waiting for me when I got off the train at Fishguard Harbour. His wife, Mary, whose elderly parents are from Cork city, is an occupational therapist, and together they run what for me is the best B&B I’ve ever stayed in. On top of that, Pentower (http://www.pentower.co.uk/) has breathtaking views of the harbour from the terrace, where I watched the Stena Europe ferry arriving from Rosslare.

The Jacobs have three pet cats, and it was their fondness for felines that threw up the funniest story of my journeys. A couple of years ago, one of their moggies was in a huff and bit a guest. It wasn’t much of a bite, more of a nip, really, but Tony and Mary were mortified — even more so when they later found out what she did for a living. “I’m a lawyer,” she said. “I specialise in personal injuries claims.” Fortunately, she saw the funny side of it.

On the way back to Rosslare I reflected on what had been four fabulous and fun-filled days at sea and on the road. Surely my next ferry trip, to Scotland and England, couldn’t possibly be as incident-filled? Well, as horse tipster Barry’s scoffing pals said in the pub in Shotton, I wouldn’t bet on it. Hop aboard next week and I’ll reveal all.

FOURTEEN FERRY GOOD REASONS TO SET SAIL IN 2012

Stena has come up with more than a dozen good reasons to travel by ferry on its Irish Sea routes in 2012.

Door to Door service: Take the car on board and enjoy the freedom of travelling from your home direct to your destination, with no transfers or expensive airport parking involved.

Don’t hang around: Check-in is only 30 minutes in advance, beating the much longer airport check-in times and leaving you more time to prepare for your journey.

Squish it all in: Travel by ferry and feel free to bring the kitchen sink if you want.

Child’s Play: Start your holiday fun as soon as you step on board with loads to see and do including kids’ fun zones, cinemas and free wi-fi.

Shhhh: Sleep like a baby in a comfy and surprisingly luxurious cabin.

Mouthwatering food: Choose from Stena’s new Taste restaurant, the Metropolitan Grill or Barista Coffee House.

Man’s Best Friend: Pets can travel in style with you.

Stretch out: With no restrictions on leg room you can comfortably stretch out and relax or move about and explore what the ferry has to offer.

Save your pennies: There are no hidden charges, so what you see when you’re booking is what you pay.

It’s good to talk: Use your phone and iPad while you travel without restrictions — there’s no need to turn it off.

Shop till you drop: Check out the onboard shops which offer great savings on fragrances, spirits, designer handbags and much more.

Keep fresh: Bring all your toiletries on board without the need to stick to a 100ml limit.

Don’t lose your shoes: Stay fully-dressed as you move through security with no need to remove boots, belt and accessories.

Treat Yourself: Upgrade and enjoy all the advantages of the Stena Plus Lounge with complimentary snacks, beverages and newspapers.

ADVENTURE TIME: There's fun galore for ferry kids

Stena Line’s head of PR and communications, Diane Poole, OBE, said: “The reasons why so many families choose ferry travel are simple.

“Most importantly, ferry travel offers the convenience of packing as much luggage as you like into your car and driving from your own doorstep direct to your destination with a comfortable and enjoyable sea crossing in between.

“Stena Line offers a wide range of family-friendly entertainment and refreshments from free wi-fi and free movies to a Curious George play area and iPads and Xboxes for teenagers.

“There’s also fantastic on-board shopping and a great selection of food and beverages including family meal deals, so there’s something to keep everyone happy during the journey.

“With more routes, more choice and more flexibility than ever before, ferry travel is a convenient, relaxing and hassle-free option for families. With a family of four being able to travel from as little as €119* single by car, it offers tremendous value in challenging economic times.

“Going by sea really is the most relaxing way to travel, and with so much to do your holiday starts as soon as you step on board.”

*Single economy online fare is valid for midweek travel on the Dublin Port to Holyhead and Rosslare to Fishguard routes and generally requires booking a minimum of 21 days in advance of travel.

•To find out more or to make a booking, log on to www.stenaline.ie, call 01 204 7777 or contact your travel agent. In the UK see www.stenaline.co.uk

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