Time and again I have asked myself whether there was ever a time, in the bookish dreams of my boyhood, when I seriously envisaged mornings like those I’ve enjoyed recently. I don’t think there were, dreamer though I’ve always been.
Imagine a beautiful, quiet, floating library, in which excellent coffees and hot chocolate appear as if by magic, with ever changing views from the wide windows, and the kind of contemplation and relaxation that opens one to being entirely up for whatever a day might bring. I’m currently sitting in it. Pinching myself.
And I’ve written here in recent days of a kind of relaxed and necessary provisionality that is part and parcel of ship-board life. So I’ve been well prepared for last evening’s news that the current global situation has led to postponement of our onward sailing to the Caribbean and Central America. Instead we’ll spend a week riding the high swell of the Bay of Biscay heading home to the UK – each of us promised another opportunity to sail Southwards again, when safe opportunity arises.
The really great thing about picking up a ‘new book’ – especially the kind that you’ve never even dreamed of – is the not knowing how the story will end. And the inextinguishable hope that, having reached the last page, there’ll be a fabulous sequel …