23rd March 2013

We indulged in a leisurely breakfast this morning, as Barcelona wasn’t expecting us until after 1 pm. Suitably fortified, we decided on a brisk constitutional around the decks. The sky was blue and cloudless, but a brisk Arctic gale made my decision to wear shorts and a t-shirt look less “Mediterranean chic” and more “foolhardy Brit abroad.”

A restorative coffee stop soon followed, where we ran into our dinner companions and sat for a good natter. None of us fancied the official excursions; Barcelona had already been ticked off our “must-do” list years ago, so we teamed up with Jonathan and his mum and opted for the shuttle bus into town.

Eventually admitting defeat to the weather, I swapped shorts for trousers and a jumper before we claimed prime seats on the top deck, tucked neatly behind the funnel. From there, we had a panoramic view of our stately glide into port. Most of the other passengers seemed to prefer cowering behind glass indoors; clearly, they didn’t share our British commitment to “fresh air, whatever the temperature.”

Since we’d be going ashore, lunch came early. I heroically tackled a mountain of seafood, cuttlefish stew, paella, and a platter of mussels. If I fall overboard, I’ll float home on shellfish alone.

Disembarkation was remarkably swift, thanks to Costa’s dedicated terminal. Minutes later, we were bouncing along on the shuttle to central Barcelona. La Rambla was buzzing with shops, stalls, and street artists. We browsed the market, and Sue emerged with a coconut, while I stuck with a freshly pressed coconut-and-pineapple juice. (One of us is clearly more committed to practicality than the other.) We wandered the full length of the boulevard before drifting through side streets to catch the bus back.

Back onboard, we celebrated survival with a mandatory coffee. The once-warm afternoon had cooled dramatically, and the hot cup in hand felt like a luxury. With the UK buried under snow (so said the telly), the idea of staying aboard another week or two suddenly felt very sensible indeed.

Dinner that evening was another festive affair, complete with candlelight waiters and impromptu serenades. Some of the singing has been nothing short of spine-tingling, especially the opera.

The evening show, meanwhile, starred a French juggler. Amusing chap, though he dropped rather more balls than was strictly professional. Ever the pragmatist, he simply recruited international volunteers from the audience to fetch them back. Not quite a standing ovation performance, but good for a laugh before bedtime.