The contradiction of travel

Why do I put myself through this? It is meant to be enjoyable, something I've missed throughout the pandemic to date, something I've been looking forward to for almost twelve months. Yet, here I am on the eve of my first foreign holiday in over two years? Lying in bed with a churning stomach, worrying about what's to come.

It has always been the big contradiction of travel for me. I love a good journey, and visiting new places, yet I book trips in the full knowledge that I will spend the days immediately preceding departure feeling sick with anxiety, waiting for the starting gun to sound.

It must be because, deep down, I know that I'm doing the right thing, that there's no gain without a little pain, and that once it begins, once I step onboard that first train to London, all that pent up stress and worry will miraculously evaporate, enabling me to enjoy the experience. Of course it won't be the end of all anxiety, I know my body too well to expect that realistically, but those future worry pangs will mostly be constrained to the pressure points of the trip - finding my way through Terminal 5 alone, arriving at my St Lucian hotel in the dark, whiling away a day on my own in Rodney Bay before the others arrive, and somehow avoiding catching COVID when unavoidably in busy areas.

It should be quite a trip all told. Eighteen nights door to door, one at Heathrow's only five star hotel, two at a St Lucian resort, fourteen sailing aboard a yacht with the silliest name, and one squashed into an economy seat on the flight back home. It will include only my second ever transatlantic return flight, the longest time I will have spent on a yacht in one go, the furthest I have travelled alone and the longest time I have spent in a foreign land enjoying my own company. But it involves plenty of things I love, from a day long private tour of St Lucia, to some potentially exhilarating sailing, not to mention escaping wintry England for somewhere with daily temperatures in the high twenties and guaranteed sunshine.

I can't wait!   

Unexpected dramas

I'm lying flat on my back in the starboard aft cabin, feeling the rumble of the boat's engine and listening to the flogging sheets being brought to heel. Outside the door Antonia is preparing cup-a-soups for the hungry crew upstairs. Avaret, steady and stable for the past ten minutes suddenly heels to the starboard followed by a sharp roll to port. The stove and kettle are pivoted and the scolding liquid stays where it is as its cook emits a note of alarm and grabs for the nearest fixed piece of furniture. Before long hot beverages are being passed through the cockpit once more as the passage continues.

It's the first leg of our trip around the lochs and islands of the Clyde and we are motoring up Loch Long a little way behind the lead boat, the wind having died after its earlier exertions. It isn't the way we wanted to arrive at Loch Goil Head, but it is better than bobbing about with nothing to power the sails. The route north from Largs was relatively simple in theory, and Chris, our Skipper, was confident that the sheltered nature of the Firth would protect us from the worst of the waves currently battering the area around the Mull of Kintyre. Gaps between islands and mainland promentaries combined with sudden gusts of wind conspired however to provide us with a somewhat bumpier ride than anticipated.

Keen to take some photographs to chart our journey, I had descended into the saloon with Antonia as the island of Great Cumbrae drifted away behind us. Perching on the sofa as she checked the kettle, which had seemingly been boiling since we pushed away from our berth at Largs. The healing, welcomed at first as an exciting addition to the day's journey, was increasing in severity and attempts to check the water temperature and hurry its progress proved futile. Noting a trickle of water from the heads she staggered to her left, grasping for the door handle whilst searching for something a little more solid. The water source undetected, focus returned to the promised coffee just as another gust struck, causing both of us to sprawl backwards across the lounge furniture, with me trying desperately to kick the toilet door shut as it swung wildly, threatening to break something.

We cane for adventure and we certainly seemed to be getting it. Up on deck Roger a former civil engineering diver and my cabin Nate? Was battling with the wheel. A tighter than intended mainsail was forcing the bow upwind, and it was taking much of his strength to hold us on a steady line. Though the course was relatively straight our path wove its way through the waves leaving behind a serpentine wake.

Also up top, George, Emma and Mark were enjoying the ride. As Roger called out each increase in speed-over-land a cry of exhilaration would ring out, encouraging us ever forward, ever faster.

Chris had deliberately entreated the visually impaired members of the crew to enjoy the journey for a bit whilst he got used to handling the boat, a new one for him despite his considerable experience. Liam, probably the most experienced on yachts aside from our sighted crewmates, was at least able to handle the jib sheets.

Four feet below I was starting to feel queasy. I've never experienced sea sickness before but the impending sense of doom which frequently accompanies a dancing stomach compelled me to hand back a mug of water, requested seconds before, and lie back on the sofa. As the yacht continued its somewhat erratic progress towards Loch Long I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing, wishing the sickness away.

Squeezed between my own large holdall and Roger's belongings, which face each other across the no man's land of our shared mattress, I'm beginning to feel a little better. I may not yet be able to stomach any proper food but a few tiny pieces of dried fruit, stowed in my coat pocket for emergency use, are giving me a much needed energy boost.

Having lain on the saloon sofa for a nautical mile or so, eyes shut and ears only just registering the sounds from outside, disparate tracks of wind, chatter, instructions and mechanics mixed into a single inelegant piece, I stumbled my way to the cabin, slamming the door slightly too hard, and throwing myself at the bed. This space, somehow reminiscent of the tiny bathroom in a modest house, stretches the notion of bedrooms somewhat. An area just within the door threshold serves as bag store and welcome mat, with a double mattress stretching aft beyond, partly covered to the right by the overhanging cockpit floor. Lying here now I listen to the water flowing past outside, and try to block out the engine. The horizontal position has eased my nautiousness though every time I raise my head, contemplating joining the others outside, the giddiness returns.

Then, without warning, Avacet is bowled over, granting the gift of flight to unstowed objects in every part and emptying a bowl of washing water straight into the fridge. We're turning fast and sharply, uninteligible shouts coming from above, and then an equally severe roll to port finishes the task of scattering utensils, food and nautical charts about the saloon. Another turn follows, shattering for good my internal compass which had hitherto done a not so bad job of keeping track of our progress.

Stability restored we continue our carbon guzzeling way towards the head of the loch.

Sleepless in Largs

I've never slept on a yacht before. I think I may have mentioned this previously, only it is three in the morning on my first night aboard Avacet, and I'm still yet to drop off. For once in my life I can guarantee that it isn't down to over sleeping. Indeed, having spent a little while in the sleeper train's lounge car drinking whisky on my way up here I was in my compartment's bed for fewer than five hours. I'm not sure it is down to excitement either, my anticipatory emotions having mellowed somewhat as some of the trip's uncertainties were resolved. Perhaps it is just that so much has happened in the past twenty four hours and there is so much still to come.

My morning in Glasgow was thoroughly enjoyable. I seemed to rediscover my adventurous streak,, a characteristic which, when at College over ten years ago, saw me regularly travelling to towns and cities across the West Midlands and Wales, broadening my mind and teaching me to stand on my own two feet. I think part of me forgets how challenging things can be and I am occasionally surprised and frustrated when I cannot find what I am looking for. But not so yesterday in Glasgow.

Wandering the city streets in persistent drizzle, conditions that Scots refer to as "drech", heading in the wrong direction more than once, and eventually walking double what I ought to have, felt like one big adventure. Once more I was reliant upon my own skills and experience, and it felt good. To top it all, when Cafe Gandolfo was finally reached I found myself in a place where customers are a prized comodity and well sourced food is king. In short, it was perfect.

But what to do with the remainder of my morning? @macolgan, who I mentioned in my previous post, had made a further suggestion, one which frankly couldn't be more firmly "up my avenue ".

In 2011 Glasgow's long established transport museum moved from its second home into purpose built facilities by the Clyde, acknowledging the city's indelible link with the sea. Almost immediately after the relocation it won European Museum of the Year.

Despite my success in finding breakfast without injuring myself or getting entirely lost, I thought it preferable to spend the remainder of my time in the museum, rather than potentially wasting it attempting to find the place. My taxi driver was kind and funny, attributes that seem to be a Glaswegian hallmark. He was also a brilliant source of intelligence on the city's perceptions of the Commonwealth Games and, almost certainly more prominent in Scottish minds, the forthcoming independence referendum. For the record, he was sure that the Yes campaign would be victorious, but that the subsequent process of withdrawing from the Union would take significantly longer than anticipated.

But, enough of the politics, we need to talk transport. The first thing that struck me on entering the Riverside Museum, as it is more properly known, is the immediacy of the exhibits. This isn't a venue where grand foyers and reception facilities form a psychological buffer between the man or woman on the Queen's Park omnibus and the stars of the attraction within. Rather, the trains and trams, taxis and trolleybuses seem to remain a part of the world they once served.

My other primary impression was of a place that is welcoming in its design and in the actions of its staff. Having been helped to find the cloakroom and toilet facilities I wandered the great space relying not only on deft cane technique, only seldomly tripping up a passing child, but also on the floor level lighting strips which highlighted each exhibit forming irregularly formed islands against a dark and extensive floor.

I won't pretend that I got everything out of my visit that I could have. A sighted guide would have been very helpful but I was at least able to explore independently, running my hands across the body work of steam locomotives, motorcycles and more, without challenge. What I lacked in background information I readily gained in artistic experience.

Arriving in Largs aboard a coach procured to transport fourteen or so visually impaired people who had arrived by train, it felt a world away from my morning's activities. Space was now to be shared and expertise pooled. Individual ambition would largely be replaced by teen effort and group learning.

Largs Sailing Club could hardly have been more welcoming as we bundled into their striking clubhouse with a multitude of bags and waterproofs. The main restaurant room, looking out westwards across the Firth of Clyde, later captured the setting sun perfectly as we ate dinner.

Later this morning we set sail northwards, heading for Loch Goil Head. The wind is due to be fairly strong and, as is traditional in these parts, there is rain in the air. It is going to be a testing week I know. But I am also sure that it will be fun. I only wish I could get some sleep in.

Location:Largs,United Kingdom

Packed and ready to go: all set for a week sailing on the Clyde

Right, well here we go with the real purpose of beginning this blog, a "proper trip ".

It won't have escaped your attention that, subsequent to setting up this account and posting an introductory piece, I haven't been particularly good at furnishing you with reading material. It hasn't been due to lack of ambition, or even imagination, but rather a tendency to over complicate things, to aim for perfect prose on every occasion and then to run out of steam part way through.

But those early posts, including the ones you've never seen, were only meant to hold your interest until the opportunity for more sustained blogging sailed along.

Which brings me neatly up to date. I am writing this with only a couple of days left at work before embarking on a week long jaunt up to Scotland and around the Firth of Clyde. My bag is virtually packed, I have my tickets to get there and back, and I thankfully also have my brand new bespoke waterproofs, more about which I shall surely write in due course.

Now, I should stress that although this is a pleasure trip, insofar as it is a week away from work, in a beautiful landscape, doing something I enjoy. It will not come without a degree of challenge however, not to mention bucket loads of elbow grease. Of the thirty or so visually impaired and around fifteen sighted people taking part in the VISA GB Clyde Flotilla Week there are no passengers.

Split between six chartered yachts, each hopefully having a couple of sighted sailors (including the Skipper, you'll be relieved to learn ) to ensure we head in the right direction, we will be setting sail for a week of adventure, or at least windswept days and cozy nights, in the estuary of Scotland's great River Clyde.

Those who know me well will recall that I am no stranger to sailing. Having answered a plea for more blind and partially sighted sailors, broadcast on BBC Radio Four's In Touch programme back in 2008 I joined my sort-of-local Sailability club, located on the other side of London, beside Greenland Dock. There, I was fortunate to benefit from the knowledge and know how of a number of experienced and wonderfully enthusiastic sailors. Learning the basics of turning handfuls of rope and unpredictable gusts into forward motion occupied me for much of the summer and autumn before, rather ambitiously joining a selection exercise for the British Blind Sailing team, who were shortly to compete on the world stage in New Zealand. Much to my surprise I was picked as one of two reserves, and only narrowly missed out on flying halfway across the world to uphold my country's honour.

Whilst I never again did quite as much sailing as in those first six months or so, I did compete in four Blind National Championships, hosted by the East Anglian Sailing Trust on the River Orwell in Suffolk, succeeding in winning two of them. Following my most recent win circumstances led me to hang up my buoyancy aid and take a break from the water

So, it is not without some knowledge that I signed up to spend seven nights on a yacht with a handful of strangers. But, there is a world of difference between sailing dinghies and small keelboats in short, sharp races, and cruising a river estuary for extended periods of time, in the rather close company of seven other people. Therefore, with the time before we let slip our lines now swiftly ebbing away I must confess to feeling somewhat trepidacious about the days ahead.

But, enough of that for now, there are practicalities to deal with and expectations to manage.

Sitting here at home it is easy to promise long, immersive, blog entries, sparkling galleries of perfectly framed photographs, and atmospheric audioboo recordings capturing every moment in glorious stereo detail. Not wanting to disappoint however, let me say now that I will give you what I can, when I am able to, but not very much else. In other words, the nature of this trip is likely to mean that I will be occupied for much of my time away, and the opportunities for hiding myself away to pen pieces of prose are likely to be few and far between. Furthermore, there is highly likely to be a striking difference between getting my thoughts down in a clear and understandable manner, and ensuring that every "i" is dotted. My written entries will inevitably contain uncorrected typographical, and even factual, errors, and I will inevitably publish photographs showing my feet or the back of someone's head. Please understand that I would not willingly publish such content, but accepting that this will be the case could make the difference between giving you a flavour of the trip, and keeping it all to myself!

In a couple of day's time I will be hanging up my guide dog and picking up my cane, shouldering an unwieldy holdall, and heading across town to join that night's Caledonian Sleeper service bound for Glasgow. I hope that you will be there with me, at least in spirit, to share the highs and lows, battle the challenges and savour the memories. I very much look forward to having you along.

Location:Richmond,United Kingdom