Taking the ferry from Portsmouth to Bilbao

By James Stone

My mate and I had decided to spend a week in Bilbao. We would check out the Guggenheim - that kind of thing - and possibly drive out to the west of the Pyrenees.

My mate, John, is petrified of flying. So we took the ferry. It would take two nights and a day rather than an hour and half from Stansted; but I had decided it would be a good crack to take the four by four and have a drive round and about – and I'd always rather liked the idea of sailing through the Bay of Biscay for some reason. What appealed was taking a ferry that is actually going somewhere, unlike on a cruise. The ideal nautical option would be a ferry across the Atlantic to a city like New York or Miami; but of course that it just way too expensive.

Driving towards the back end of the ship in Portsmouth on the evening of the departure, I have to say the ship looked very square. It had all the dock workers and other entrails hanging out and made an interesting sight. We didn't have to wait too long though and getting the Mitsubishi onto the car deck was easy enough.

It was a usual overcast July evening. We stood on the deck and watched Portsmouth judder off into the distance, exhaust from a cylinder in the middle of the ship flying overhead and over the more refreshing sea breeze. We then headed down to an 'Irish' bar and grabbed a drink.

Admittedly it had been more than pleasant that night dozing off to sleep in the tiny cabin while the rocking of the ferry chimed with the mild buzz of a few beers.
But in the morning I felt sick. "We just need some grub," John said. It dawned that we had opted for six pints (or thereabouts) the night before, without really eating. A few bags of Walkers 'The Big Eat' had been the lot.

After a slap up breakfast in one of the several cafeterias, no longer feeling queasy, and agreeing we would not head back to the Irish bar that night, we headed up to the observation deck. This was quite cool, an enclosed room high up at the top of the ship with huge windows. The ferry seemed to be gliding effortlessly across the water – almost as if it were a low flying plane. I didn't share that thought with John.

It was great weather for the rest of the day so, as the boat passed France, we just lounged around on the top deck. It was a bit busy; but after finding a deck chair it was easy enough escaping the crowds (and the thought of work in London) - especially since I had a copy of the Da Vinci Code and Mr Scruff playing on my iPod.

In the evening, our last one before Bilbao, after dinner and a dip in one of the ship's pools, we gravitated again towards a bar – this one named the Galax. There was a nice night-time view out across the Bay of Biscay. Sparkling occasionally, the black night-time waters seemed to slide past with even more ease than a Carlsberg down the gullet. But then things were spoilt somewhat. The Galax bar played host to an Andrew Lloyd Webber greatest hits medley, The Magic of the Musicals. Cats, Phantom of the Opera, Starlight Express and of course Joseph – all were knocked off cheese-ily as you like by a troupe of three past it thesps.

"Come on John. This is more nauseating that flying, surely?" I said. The Irish bar it was.