I woke up this morning to the sound of seagulls flying over the Atlantic Ocean, as my all-new Silversea cruise ship made its way from Lisbon to Vigo. I didn’t realise just how soundly I would sleep, or how gently the breeze would waft into my cabin all night; how poetically the sheer white curtains would flutter; how slowly the scenery would change. It feels restful, calming and restoring – not what I expected today, and especially not on a cruise ship.
I lost my father just a few weeks ago, and the brain fog is real and persistent, so moments like these that manage to pierce through feel even more profound. Yesterday, as we were setting sail from Lisbon, I ate a pastel de nata, the ubiquitous egg custard tart, with pastry so crisp and flaky I could hear it crackle over the sound of the waves – and it filled me with delight. It was only moments before the cloud returned, but I registered the not-too-sweet thick, creamy filling, the dark brown baking spots on the bright yellow surface.
Casa Privata in Praiano, ItalyVia Tolila by Lauren & Annael Tolila
I know that many of my travel memories eventually boil down to just a few moments: my sister jumping into the waves on a beach in Mauritius during golden hour; my mother and I sharing a pint of Guinness at The Devonshire in Soho; my niece running through a glorious field of red tulips near Amsterdam as the rain begins to fall, fast and heavy. My father, wearing his grey Nehru jacket, in the library of a dilapidated grand palace near his hometown of Lucknow, thumbing through Urdu poetry books. Perhaps all we can hope for is the accumulation of these scattered moments over the years; the ability to distil them and store them in a happy compartment in our minds, and to replay them on demand.
I know time will help heal but, for now, I am grateful for the sounds of the seagulls over the ocean, the birds with wings outstretched, the sun on their backs, flying gracefully and intuitively, as if they know something we don’t about the heavens.