Stena line ferries are not just for cars, they take foot passengers too. I use a rail-and-sail deal connecting Liverpool St station to port in Harwich, where judging by the décor in the waiting area it is still 1982. Not so on the Ferry where a pristine world of swirly carpets and brass handrails spreads over several floors. It’s surprisingly peaceful up high above the waves and the views are wonderful from the restaurant. The people-watching is also rich: travellers I spot fall into two broad camps: hauliers glad of a few hours’ rest and a pint at the bar, and swarms of beige-clad early retirees queuing expectantly with trays at the buffet counter. On the fringes a few backpackers and French families can be spotted. I’m the anomaly.
The Stena Britannica and Stena Hollandica ‘Superferries’ shuttle back and forth twice daily like mechanical figures on a Dutch clock. I chose the night shift figuring it will save me booking a hotel when I arrive and for this reason also I eschew an outer room with porthole window opting for an inner-facing room with the same fixtures and fittings for much less. Besides which, there’s the communal deck if I need to gulp down fresh air. I won’t, I’m tired on Friday nights, I’ll just lie in my bunk watching the dog kennels via the CCTV system, it is like a canine parody of a police line-up show. I’m travelling alone so choose the bottom bunk, it’s narrow with rails and quite firm presumably to stave off the rolling nausea of the swell. It's cosy, plump pillows and a little reading light with a small plastic tray attached which can hold my wallet and watch. Every other surface is a laminated like a flat-pack kitchen, a wipe-clean wonderland. For those few weary backpackers it will be a haven, for the after-office commuter like me it’s the budget-priced quiet I crave after my daily grind, but for the couple next door it’s sounds as though its an opportunity for a different sort of grind. I give up on the television and put my headphones on.
As the ships engines swell I open the door to my ensuite bathroom, a Dairylea triangle in the far corner, not quite the tardis I had hoped for, but it does offer miniature toiletries and a spare roll (for those who won’t find their sea legs). Later, I make tea in the miniature kettle and settle back into bed still listening on my old transistor set. I want to drift asleep between the rough, hospital-clean sheets in the middle of the sea at the exact moment Radio 4 fades to a small crackle, halfway between the shores.
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