I love ferries. Give me a ferry over a flight any day of the week, and I’d rather take a ferry than the Channel tunnel every time. All that burrowing along under the sea with no sea to look at: what’s that all about? I need the thrill of the land fading astern and new land coming to the fore. Down below, in the tunnel, it’s rubbish – nothing to look at apart from your watch telling you when the 35-minute crossing is over. Crossing? Even the word sounds wrong for something that goes under the sea rather than over it.
No, ferries are my thing. They’re never scrupulously clean or particularly tidy; they’re too functional for that. And I’ve never been on a ferry that didn’t look as if it had seen better days. But they present themselves as rather pleasingly worn in, rather than worn out. And best of all, they’re never fancy. I’m against fanciness in all things. I know there have been attempts to fancify ferries, or parts of them, with business-class areas and whatnot, but to no avail. They’re never going to feel very exclusive.
