14/10/2026
Wednesday Windy Wisdom
Wednesday 14 October 2026 — Aboard Bolette
There are mornings when the romance of life at sea is somewhat overshadowed by the realities of ageing.
This was one of them.
Bolette had spent much of the night rolling gently, although not always quietly, through the waves. The wind had been making its presence felt outside, while another meteorological disturbance was developing inside our cabin.
I had trapped wind.
Not the sort of thing you generally find mentioned in the glossy cruise brochures. There are photographs of smiling couples on sunlit balconies, exquisite food and elegant dining rooms. There is rarely a photograph of a retired gentleman lying awake in the small hours wondering whether his digestive system is attempting to escape.
The previous evening’s dinner had been rather lovely. Beef bourguignon, accompanied by a glass of Merlot. Rich, warming, beautifully cooked and entirely appropriate for a French cruise.
Perhaps slightly less appropriate at twenty past eight in the evening.
By the early hours, the beef, the w**e and my ageing digestive system appeared to be conducting negotiations. None was prepared to compromise.
There was some cramping, a certain amount of discomfort and, eventually, a modest release of pressure. Unfortunately, the discomfort then seemed to relocate, rather like an awkward passenger changing cabins.
As dawn started to quietly appear, Bolette herself was making rather more noise.
We were approaching port when a magnificent blast of her horn echoed across the water. I hurried out onto our balcony to investigate.
A small fishing boat was nearby.
Then came five short blasts.
Now, five short blasts from a ship’s horn are not simply a cheerful maritime greeting. They are a recognised warning that another vessel’s intentions are unclear or causing concern.
I couldn’t be certain that the fishing boat was the intended recipient, but I rather suspected she had just received a nautical telling-off.
I imagined Bolette addressing the little vessel in the imperious tones of a grand old dowager.
‘Excuse me, young man. I am entering harbour. Kindly remove yourself from my path.’
There may well have been a local pilot aboard by then, guiding us towards our berth. Somewhere on the bridge, sensible people were doing important navigational things while I stood on the balcony in my nightclothes, contemplating the behaviour of fishing boats.
And, of course, my own internal weather forecast.
Eventually I returned indoors to attend to the most important business of the morning.
Tea.
There is something deeply reassuring about the familiar ritual of making tea. The kettle, the waiting, the aroma, the anticipation of that first restorative sip. Whatever else may be happening in the world, a proper cup of tea suggests that civilisation has not entirely collapsed.
Over tea, I considered the day ahead.
Mrs B and I had decided not to go ashore. We have two days left of this holiday, and we intend to spend them doing precisely what we came here to do.
Resting.
There will be no rushing about, no determined pursuit of tourist attractions and no obligation to extract maximum value from every minute.
Perhaps a few gentle laps of the Promenade Deck later, partly for the pleasure of being outside and partly in the hope that a little movement might persuade my digestive system to resolve its outstanding business.
I remembered Sunday’s walk, when I managed a respectable distance despite my troublesome legs, only to be overtaken by an elderly lady with a rollator.
Bolette is apparently sailing full, yet she never feels crowded.
There is always somewhere to sit. Always somewhere quiet. Always someone happy to bring a drink or exchange a few words.
For somebody whose mobility is no longer what it was, that matters enormously.
It means the ship itself becomes the destination.
You don’t have to get off to have a wonderful day.
You can sit and watch the sea, listen to the music, enjoy a good meal, exchange a few words with a friendly waiter and simply be grateful that you’re there.
And that brings me to the wisdom of this particular Wednesday.
Like Bolette, I’m no longer in the first flush of youth. My body has developed an extensive repertoire of aches, groans and unexpected malfunctions. Some days I feel as though I’m held together by optimism, medication and a particularly determined wife.
But I’m still here.
Still finding things beautiful. Still laughing. Still enjoying good food and w**e. Still looking forward to adventures yet to come.
And I’ve discovered that an old ship can be a wonderful companion for an ageing man.
Bolette creaks. She rolls. She has the occasional leak. Her fittings aren’t all as pristine as they once were.
But she has character, warmth and a certain stubborn dignity.
I recognise something of myself in her.
Of course, there remains one particular anxiety about the day ahead.
Breakfast.
I am considering scrambled eggs, something light after last night’s French extravagance.
My only real fear is that, somewhere in the elegant surroundings of the restaurant, my digestive system might decide to announce its intentions with the enthusiasm of a ship’s foghorn.
One prolonged blast followed by five short ones.
I suspect the entire restaurant would fall silent.
The waiters would look towards the windows.
The captain might telephone the bridge.
And Mrs B would quietly request a different table.
Still, there are worse things in life.
And perhaps that is Wednesday’s real wisdom.
Ageing may rob us of a little dignity, but it need never rob us of our sense of humour.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, my tea is ready.
And somewhere beyond our balcony, a small fishing boat is probably reconsidering its life choices.
