Awake to find we have reached land for the first time since leaving Southampton, moored up in Gothenburg (Sweden). Not the most picturesque port I've ever visited. After yesterdays glorious sun today is more overcast and grey, the Captain assures us it will clear (as do Sky News)
Our plan today is to explore Sweden's second city and see where the wind blows us, I visited Gothenburg previously, I remember little but it all appears vaguely familiar. The shuttle bus drops us in the centre of the City, directionless we wander up to the art gallery to find it has yet to open, are we in the mood for culture or does coffee appeal more? Even this short burst of energy fatigues Liz, it has been just over two hours since she got out of bed (and under two since breakfast) perhaps time for a rest and a little snack?
The decision is made for us anyway, the rain begins to fall, not just mild drizzle but full on apocalyptic pouring. We dash into shops, Rupert's RSR (Record Store Radar) is working to full effect and we discover a shop laden with rare European pressings and dubious bootlegs. Showing restraint previously unseen despite flicking through the racks he walks away with nothing, mainly 'cause of concerns about the authenticity of much of the stock.
Exiting the rain is only worsening, the pavements are flooded and all pleasure in exploring has evaporated. Both soaked to the skin there is little pleasure and less hope of ever getting dry again either indoors or out.
My new blue hoodie is both moulting fluff and leaching colours, Liz's Union Jack umbrella is getting some disapproving looks, we make the decision to return to the boat and begin the walk (wade) back to the shuttle bus drop-off point. Perhaps Copenhagen will be more successful???
It appears that most of our boarding compannions have had a similar thought as almost the entire boat (passengers and crew) are waiting for the 40 seater bus to arrive.
Again we witness some terrible senior citizen behaviour as the battle to board the shuttle begins, shoving those less mobile or able to one side to ensure they guarantee themselves a space. Quite frankly I don't think any of us can get any wetter, but as the puddles grow those in wheelchairs are in danger of drowning. I intervene, which sounds significantly more nobel than in reality it was, I stood in the way, look a bit dozy and played on my big, blue & fluffy state.
A bus full of sodden Brits, falling into full stereotype moaning about the weather; you'd think being British the one thing we'd be good at dealing with is inclement weather but blame falls very heavily on the Captains shoulders. Clearly his youth and good looks equal his inability to give an accurate weather report?
Following drying-off and defluffing we brave lunch in the Conservatory, a more accurate term would be canteen. It's quite charming to pick up a meal and dine outside, all charm is lost in the rain. The food appears bland & uninspired, our companions miserable and grey (or is it the other way round?)
Packed with the moist & moaning elderly, we beat a swift retreat in search of somewhere (anywhere) better. Catch a bit of the beach volleyball and grab a pint in the suprisingly sparse Lords Tavern, clearly the usual occupiers are in search of authentic British grub?
Liz is wavering, an afternoon sleep is clearly on the cards, but before that perhaps just one more drink?
A coffee perhaps?
An liquor coffee maybe?
A little cake?
Well ... it would be rude not to wouldn't it ... we are on our holiday's after all? (Not for the first time I wonder if we can contact Southampton to arrange a tug to drag me in?)
Mrs. T selects the most boring & bland item in the cabinet, but the waitress in on my side and brings over an assortment of pasteries. They all have to be discarded at 3pm when afternoon tea ends, silly me that's when I though afternoon tea would begin.
It's just as well she brought over a selection, we both agree that those brown things selected by Liz taste of mud. These jammy ones are much better.
Liz goes to bed, I go in search of entertainment. Entertainment is seriously limited today at 3.30pm on a cruise ship, a whist drive or ???
The rain has finally abaited briefly, I find a dry chair and table outside, with the picturesque vista of the Volvo factory to jot down my thoughts and read his book before Mrs. T raises from her adopted pit to be better value.
"I don't know why I'm so tired?"
The explanations are obvious and numerous; to eventually stop and to be forced to properly stop. The opportunity to rest with no guilt or distraction, to recharge batteries. The fresh sea air obviously suits, let's be honest Scandanavian air must be the purest to be found Worldwide? I fear she'll be in a virtual coma by the end of the fortnight, waking only very briefly for sustenance from cheese and liquor coffee, before hibinating again in her rest pod (cabin).
I'm a little concerned about these people who spend much of the afternoon walking round and round the deck. Initially I thought red Olympic t-shirts very very popular with the over sixties or that the boat was occupied by a large group all wearing the same attire. Closer inspection reveals that there is a select group who spend hours rotating; they're going to have to stop it soon or at least go the other way for a bit, they're making my bladder itch.
Be careful what you wish for Toddy, a runner is now skipping round, at least he's going clockwise which is significantly less irritating.
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