At times, during the last few weeks, the space between my ears has resembled an overbalanced scale. Weird and alarming punch-drunk sensations have momentarily disorientated. Like one of those ‘dippy-ducks’ incapable of preventing that dip into the beaker. I’ve dipped. Or like a tight-rope walker carrying a weighted balancing pole, suddenly finding both weights have shifted to the same end. I’ve wobbled. Stomach turning nausea the result.
So the thought of a five hour ferry crossing from Nice to Bastia, didn’t quite make it onto this trip’s bucket list.
As a ‘just-in-time’ couple, the request to get Beastie port-side three hours before embarkation doesn’t sit easy. Nevertheless, we obey. It pays dividends. We’re near the front of the queue. RO-RO means the same will apply at the other end. Many stay sitting in their vehicles waiting patiently. For three hours!? We go. Walk the back streets. Clock up some steps. Leave Beastie to hold our place – fourth in line.
The Pasca Lota takes us by surprise. Silently slips in. Blind sides us. It’s size almost lineresque. Eight decks. Three for vehicles. A Eureka moment its anti-sinking property. Man managed manoeuvres massage MOHOs. Spaces settled into, deep below the waterline.
Once under way an announcement displeases. Bad weather, in the shape of a very stiff head-on breeze, increases crossing time. Three hundred isn’t a particularly huge number. But attach it to a floating device’s time machine and it has the ability to conjure carrots and other goodies out of thin air – or rather from below decks.
Ah. Only two hundred and ninety-nine more to go. Seriously? You watched this video to the end?
Fortunately, I don’t get to see, or taste, what I ate earlier. This ship’s massive mass saves my bacon.