A Crossing

     Santander looked better by night, from the deck of our departing ferry. We had explored the city in the sultry afternoon, venturing beyond the waterfront, climbing many steps into the down-at-heel neighbourhoods up the hill, an exhausting and sweaty endeavour. Now it was cooler and the streets and buildings were illuminated, as were the striking towers and gables of the Palacio de la Magdalena, which marked the mouth of the bay.

     My fellow passengers on this twenty hour crossing with Brittany Ferries were overwhelmingly English, retired and white. An assortment of accents could be heard: Sussex, Yorkshire, West Country. A minority might be described as 'posh'. Conversations were struck up by strangers, the result of proximity and shared nationality. Some concerned the most mundane of topics: pensions, careers in the civil service, health care. Sometimes a soupcon of petty one-upmanship was detectable. ‘Oh, but you did miss a wonderful summer’, or ‘You didn’t go to Salamanca? It was be-yoo-tiful’.  

     A sizeable minority of bikers was also on board, as well as a smattering of Spaniards, some of whom were in their twenties and seemed to have crammed everything they owned into their cars; presumably they hoped to find work in the UK. I saw a total of two Asians, one of whom was my Chinese wife.

     An hour after we left port I walked out on deck once again. Lights were visible along portions of the shore, the largest cluster indicating what I assumed was Santander. I was mesmerised by a thunderstorm in the distance, which pierced the black sky with brilliant flashes of lightning. The storm seemed to be in the mountains, for once or twice I discerned jagged silhouettes in the light. Thunderclaps were faintly audible above the sounds of the ferry. All around the ship was darkness and my mind turned to the fear that must engulf those who find themselves in the open water on such nights.

     Few people were outside to share my wonder at this awesome display. The majority were drinking in the bar or enjoying meals served by the French crew, who appeared determined to use English even when addressed in their own language. It was only the next day that the decks became cluttered with passengers. They stared listlessly at the sea, read paperbacks or Kindles, or just sipped wine. A handful of die-hard sun worshippers stood out; they had removed their shirts and were using this last chance to make their leathery chests just that little bit browner.

     The great expanse of the sea extended to the horizon, with rare interruptions provided by the occasional fishing boat, seagulls, lighthouses and land. At last, after almost twenty hours, there was a dim suggestion of land to the north. Three grey ships of the Royal Navy were manoeuvring offshore, and the landmarks of Plymouth came into view: tower blocks and a big wheel. I had spent well over half the trip supine, sometimes beset by waves of nausea, but I was in no doubt I would do it again. This was the way to travel. 

Practicalities 

We paid 319 pounds for a one-way ticket from Santander to Plymouth; our four-berth 'outside' cabin was included in the price. Finding the ferry terminal in Santander is simple: head for the city centre then follow the signs for 'ferry'. The service runs from March to October.