Ferry Unwell

We started our northward journey to Shetland at 10am Saturday morning. The Megabus hadnt even left the bus station before Avril and Colette were spotted ripping into sandwiches like savage, ravenous wolves. The combination of this aromatic feeding frenzie in such an enclosed space and the rather unusual sight of a tumbling (unused) tampon making its way down the bus isle had me dry boaking into my facemask. Had I not had one too many Sambucas last night I may have been more resistant to the high jinks and laughter sweeping across us, as Colette gingerly retrieved the rogue sanitary item.

The bus journey was fairly swift and I thought I’d managed to beat the devil drink as sun kissed Aberdeen came into focus with Union Square’s warm sandstone brightly sunlit and the convivial Saturday hubbub filling the air. I was wrong. Perhaps the bubbles of the flowing cola or the ‘no egg’ marks and sparks sandwich tipped me over the edge, but no sooner had I joined the Northlink foot passenger queue when the horrific watery mouth and hot panic of imminent vomit came over me. I did a few wide-eyed, panicky 360 turns looking for a loo, but saw nothing. I made off hastily across a road, down an alley and upon reaching a set of large bins I found a sudden splash of relief as the ubiquitous carrot and tomato vomit gained freedom. Of course what had been an empty alleyway suddenly became alive with an upbeat whistling man who witnessed the entire explosive incident to my sheepish horror. Greatfully gulping in fresh air and hanging upright against a cool granite wall, I felt certain that the ferry would be a breeze after this.

In truth, I think the hearty plate of chips and peas washed down with a ginger ale and thankfully a calm sea revived me. Colette’s nervous knee jittering and constant mumbling about crossing information was more concerning however. She accosted the first member of staff who appeared as we boarded. Tickled with her desperate request for information, the guy later recognised her in the cafe and when asked by her ‘How the soup was?’ He lifted the pot lid and said “its still here, how are you soup?” It set the tone for the next wee while as we set up camp in the forward bar with a riotous Ayrshire man and a group of Northumberland fisherman. It didnt take long for the gin to start flowing and that age old argument regarding cod being an edible fish to start up, with all participating Scots taking the rather serious stance that no one could ever possibly ingest such a mundane, worm riddled specimen. Perhaps it’s a blessing that the bar closed at 9pm. Roll on Shetland!

We’ve arrived to a calm and warm day, rare I’m told in Shetland and have been treated to a lovely champagne breakfast – big thanks go out to our brilliant chefs Genevieve and Ishbel !