David Mitchell

‘If yee like, wee can get yee a hooovarr!’

The Scottish barman said this to me as I sat alone in the empty horseshoe-shaped lounge at the front of the Stena Line ferry. I was on a ‘non-landing’, ‘Sail and Shop’, ‘day cruise’, from Belfast to Cairnryan. This was the non-landing part, ninety minutes during which I remained on the ship at Cairnryan with the crew as they did the vacuuming and whatever else.

Wife texted: ‘Are you the only weirdo left on board?’ Well, the barman had said there was a couple on the other side, but I never saw them.

A week before, I’d got a Stena Line brochure through the letterbox. As well as advertising daytrips to Glasgow and Ayr, it said you could go Belfast to Cairnryan and back without getting off (the small print was very strict about this – don’t get off!) for ten pounds. Ten? You can barely leave the house for less than ten pounds these days.

I have a flair for not spending money when I am expected to, so I thought I could beat the system, avoid buying cosmetics and Toblerones in the Duty Free, and just enjoy the boat trip. I had a full PhD that I was due to read, so I could bring it. You know, this would be work.

Still, I have very little faith in my own ideas, so I mentioned my plan to a few people in the coming days in the hope of encouragement. The consensus was that this was not a good idea. What would be the point? I eventually ruled out going.

But on that day – the only day I could possibly do this trip – I stepped outside at 7.30am and the air told me it would be a good day to be at sea. I spent ten pounds and got a ticket. Two hours later I was on my bike.

I would describe the cycle journey from East Belfast to the Stena Line Terminal as one of declining enjoyment. After the pleasant bit around the river, you head into the industrial zone of Duncrue Street (where you pass the famous ‘Irish Sea border’ checking area). There’s a cycle lane of sorts, painted on to the foot path. Then you arrive at Dargan Road, a dual carriageway roaring with lorries and lined with narrow footpaths. I stayed on the footpath, but there were constant kerbs and overgrown bushes. I wondered how it would look in the paper if one of these lorries hit me: ‘Tragic end for local academic enroute to a Sail and Shop non-landing day cruise to Cairnryan’.

The terminal was there but both the building and the car park were fenced off. All I could do was, like an eejit, join the lane for cars getting on the ferry, as if I thought the bicycle I was riding was really a car. The security man told me I had to go to the foot passenger terminal. I’d love to. But how? He told me to lift my bike over the barriers. When I got to the terminal building, there was no bike parking, so I chained it up inside the smokers’ hut.

Never having been a foot passenger on a ferry before, the next sequence was interesting. I had to exchange my e-ticket for a paper ticket and was handed a ‘£10 off when you spend £50’ voucher; evidently, they didn’t know the miserly genius they were dealing with. We then paraded past some policemen and other staff who were watching everyone entering the terminal. (‘Youse all look like ye’re doin nathin!’ shouted a woman beside me). Then we went up an escalator into a waiting area with a café – a bit like a small airport. If you like panoramic views of car parks, this was the place to be.

As we walked the long tunnel that led to the ship, it was lovely to realise that the large black container that someone ahead of me was carrying was the temporary home of a cute little dog. I would have followed them to the pet lounge and hung out with the dogs but unfortunately you needed a pin code to get in.

Stepping on board, I had a sudden rush of satisfaction. I could go here, or there, or over there! It wasn’t busy. I strolled all over the ship and then sat in the lounge and read the PhD until we moved off. Then I went outside for the small-scale amusement of seeing places I knew from the vantage point of the ship: Holywood, Crawfordsburn, Bangor, and finally the Copeland Islands. The temperature was bearable for the duration of Belfast Lough until, instantaneously, a cold wind hit. I went back to the bar to read.

I had Absolutely No Intention of Shopping, but after a while, for the sake of stretching my legs, I went to browse. I have never understood Duty Free – nothing in there ever seems cheap. But I got the gang some chocolate. When you are on your own like this, you can really dedicate yourself to reading every element of the pricing labels and weighing up the relative merits of each product. It’s a blast.

We were nearing our destination (no wait, everyone else’s destination) so I went outside to watch us dock. I put my hood up to keep my head warm. A man beside me spoke in my direction. I couldn’t make out what he said, so I pulled out the sides of my hood as if I had giant ears. I still couldn’t understand and asked him to repeat again. I realised he was speaking Liverpool. Once I’d tuned in, we had a nice chat about his regular visits to Belfast for work.

I had to confess to him my day-trip-to-a-ferry situation. Listening, the man ambiguously frowned. Then his expression turned conspiratorial, and he handed me his pass to the Stena Plus Lounge (where, for an extra 25 quid, you get ‘free’ drinks and snacks). He advised me how and when to use the card so I could get into the lounge without any staff realising. I thanked him sincerely, certain that I didn’t have it in me to pull off such a heist.

Then everyone left the ferry except me, the staff, and a rumoured couple of others.

In this period, as well as having the exchange about hoovering, and reading the PhD, I read in detail the Duty Free catalogue. Amid the usual fayre, it advertised strawberries and cream for June, in honour of Swedish midsummer (Stena Line is Swedish). I assumed the restaurant was the place to get these, so when the new passengers were on and the restaurant opened again, I went there and ordered.

The woman to whom I spoke asked a colleague, uncertainly, if they could do strawberries and cream. The colleague, an older Scottish woman, looked grave and determined. ‘Aye. Aye we could do that aye!’ ‘It’s in the Duty Free catalogue,’ I explained, an important point to get across, I thought. She asked if I ‘waaanted whupped creeem arrr porring creeem’. Whipped, if it’s not too much trouble. Off she went. When it came it was delicious. The lady checked in on me halfway through, telling me I was the first person to order the strawberries and cream and how did I find them? I said I would happily recommend them to others.

In this restaurant, you could get limitless hot drinks for £3.50 (you buy the cup and then go mad at the machines) so I pressed the button for a bad but hot hot chocolate, and went outside.

This was when the day really got good.

The ferry stays with the coastline for quite a while as it comes out of Cairnryan. Scotland was a bar of solid green, with tiny white waves splashing silently at the bottom. The feel of the newly-appeared sunshine was like when you hover your hand over a toaster – a real emphatic heat, despite the chilly air. Quite a few of the very diverse passenger complement – Americans, Japanese, and less identifiable nationalities – were now out taking shots and selfies, leaving the boat’s interior full of idiots who didn’t think to be outside. There was a lighthouse. If I’d seen a dolphin then, my contented head would’ve exploded.

At last, the temperature dipped as we got out to open sea and I went back to the bar to read a book in which a man was walking through Austria in winter. I stayed there until we were nearing the dock, then went outside into the grimy sunlight to dutifully watch it all happen. A cruise ship was departing behind us.

I cycled back through the deserted docks area, to Sailortown and the Big Fish, and then into the East and home, ready to consider where I had been.

Whoever thought of that £10 ticket, well. Now I feel I owe you some perfume, whiskey, and novelty sheep souvenirs.