We began the voyage last night, although it is surprisingly difficult to say exactly where we are now.
We passed the Channel Islands sometime around the middle of the day and, as I write this, I suspect we are somewhere in the Bay of Biscay. There is something rather pleasing about not knowing precisely where you are. The ship knows. Presumably the captain knows. For the rest of us, there is sea outside the window and that seems sufficient.
This morning began with a talk about whales and dolphins which, if I am honest, I expected to be mildly educational and largely sleep-inducing.
It turned out to be considerably more interesting than that.
The speaker talked about the dangers whales face from ships. Migration routes and shipping lanes overlap, with fairly predictable consequences, and thousands of whales are apparently killed by vessel strikes each year. Then there is the noise. Ships produce enough underwater sound to interfere with the way whales communicate and navigate. A whale comes towards the surface to work out what is happening and, in the worst cases, meets several thousand tonnes of ship coming the other way.
Not a cheerful thought.
But it felt like a talk worth hearing while travelling through waters that are themselves important whale and dolphin areas. It is easy to look out across an apparently empty sea and forget quite how much is going on beneath it.
We also learned about whale poo and its contribution to the marine ecosystem, although I will spare you the detail. Every educational programme has its limits.
Much of the rest of the day has involved sitting down.
This sounds worse than it is.
The ship rocks gently from side to side and, from a seat beside the window, the Atlantic is quite hypnotic. Vast stretches of grey-blue water slide past while the horizon rises and falls almost imperceptibly. It is difficult to hurry when the scenery consists largely of ocean.
The entertainment department, however, is doing its best.
At one point a troubadour appeared in the bar and began strumming his way through a selection of songs. His enthusiasm was admirable. His singing was perhaps a little flatter than the Bay of Biscay, and I am not convinced every item in the repertoire had survived the journey from the rehearsal room intact.
Still, he persevered.
Hot on his heels came the music quiz.
Like much of the entertainment on board, it appears to have been carefully calibrated for the over-90s. I mean age, not the 1990s.
There were old hit records, questions about films and sitcom characters, and occasional moments when I realised that knowing the answer was probably less reassuring than not knowing it.
Somewhere between the final quiz question and the restoration of background music, I made a tactical error.
One of the entertainment staff persuaded me to take part in what I assumed was another quiz.
It was not.
It turned out to be something resembling a ferry version of boules.
By the time I understood what was happening, I was committed. In the interests of international relations I threw twice, maintained what dignity I could, and retired gracefully from competitive ferry sport.
Dinner followed in the café: some sort of sausages with vegetables and rice.
It will not be troubling the Michelin inspectors.
The presentation was respectable, though, and the French accents of the people serving it improved the experience considerably.
And so we reached the evening.
There has already been bingo.
Karaoke — apparently “by demand” — begins at 9.30.
Regrettably, I have a strong feeling I may be feeling sleepy by then.
Fingers crossed.
The truth is that none of this really matters.
Sitting beside the window while the ship rolls quietly through the immense emptiness outside is unexpectedly calming. The quizzes, the singing, the games and even the prospect of karaoke all fade into background noise.
There is something about travelling slowly across a large body of water that changes the pace of everything.
For once, there is nowhere else to go.
And that is not at all unpleasant.