White knuckle ride

Gran won't go on the sea cat.
No shaggin way.

She can remember only too well the hellish ferry crossings of the 70s.
The brown flowery carpets housing the stench of 350 generations of beery vomit. The sleeping bags under the stairs. The Aran jumpers and the cigarettes flicked from the upper decks that wizz by your ear before disappearing in the freezing nocturnal froth below. The lads nervously waiting for the iron curtain to be lifted at the bar. The older guys with the bad tattoos dishing out ladles of congealed beans on the hot plate with two miserly rashers and three shriveled mushrooms. The kids running everywhere, loving it. The haggard parents not knowing how they'll cope with the car/train/coach journey ahead. The smell of old vomit. The salt on the handrails on the wind swept decks. The guys who lash into the drinks when the curtain finally lifts. The glittering lights of the fruits machines. The kids that still run and those who have stopped, looking pale. The empty pints on the top deck. The sticky steps. The heat indoors and the old smell of vomit. The chilling wind outside, that cuts you in two. The nose of the ship diving, and rising, and diving, and rising. The swell on the Irish sea. And the smell. The stuffiness of the lounge. The families asleep in the stair wells. The bad reception of the two TVs in the bar. With Gaybo on the Late L....te Tchhhhshow. The nuns. And the young guys with long hair. And bell bottom trousers. Guzzling the pints. The guy with a guitar.And dozens of stickers on the case. And two girls with long hair, mesmerized. The solid Irish coins. The solid English coins. Big bank notes made of rough paper. Mopping the spilled beer on the edged round tables. The guys who laugh too loud because they're drunk. Those who moan softly between two bouts of seasickness. The doors that are so hard to open, and close with an almighty bang. Between the gastric sauna and the salty Antarctica. The little lake of vomit that slushes gently in the blocked urinal. The seamen with old grey mops. And buckets. And tired wiry tattooed arms. Tired from mopping the regurgitated rashers, and mushy mushrooms, and congealed beans, and duty free pints, and anxieties, and hopes, and badly strummed cords, and dreams of employment on the other side of the Irish sea.

So there you go, Gran isn't going.
You can dock all the sleek sea felines you want, she ain't boarding. She'll pass.
She's been there, done that, got the t-shirt.
It had dried old puke on it.

The Stena route between Dún Laoghaire and Holyhead is being dropped next week, with the loss of 50 jobs. And it does not look like there are tons of available jobs to be found on the other side of the Irish Sea...