Mum and Dad on board Saga Ruby
To say that my parents couldn’t be more different from each other is something of an understatement. Dad, fascinated by ideas, is garrulous, so excitable he vibrates with enthusiasm, an instinctive left-winger. Mum is reserved, shy even, a quiet but acute observer of those around her, and scrupulous in her respect for tradition. I’d guess she votes Tory (she is far too discreet to tell you).
For reasons that sometimes escape me, these two people have been married for 56 years. At the age of 80, Mum is now compromised by health problems that rule out walking much beyond the nearest postbox. So while Dad beetles around like an 82-year-old Billy Whizz, Mum measures her days in crosswords and Cash in the Attic.
In the past they travelled widely but now she goes further than the hairdresser’s only when necessary, and even Dad realises she no longer has the stamina to match his appetite for galleries and museums.
I could see an impasse here. Dad’s curiosity and urge to explore the world was undimmed, while Mum liked being at home because doing anything else was too much trouble.
What my parents needed, I felt, was a holiday – and a cruise would suit both of them. Mum would enjoy being spoiled; Dad could scurry around as much as he liked.
Fast-forward two years – that’s how long the persuading took – and we were finally heading for a voyage in the Baltic, our first holiday together for four decades.
We examined our cabins and the rest of the ship. While Dad plunged into the library, Mum spotted enormous armchairs purpose-built for indolent afternoons. Just one problem – neither parent had any idea how to get back to their cabin. They laughed about this for days.
If there was a further level of disorientation, it came from the contrast between a cruise ship and the relatively modest lives of a former history teacher and education adviser (Dad) and a librarian who went way beyond her brief in a tough part of West Yorkshire (Mum). Like many of their generation, they are generous to others but rarely treat themselves. As Mum said: ‘It wasn’t until I’d stopped the constant jaw-dropping at how wonderful everything was that I started to enjoy it.'
Dad put it differently. ‘I wish I had an appetite,’ he said most days and without irony as he popped in to afternoon tea and, a few hours later, cheerfully demolished four courses and drank rather more wine than his drug regime permits. ‘Your warfarin won’t like it,’ Mum hissed as he recited the wine list.
Initially I thought that my role was to make everything accessible to Mum and Dad. But as every child of elderly parents will know, I was also engaged in a learning curve: I had to remember to allow them to be independent at least some of the time. On day five, Mum put me in my place by making her way to the spa for a manicure. ‘But you didn’t know how to get there,’ I said in the tones of an over-protective parent. ‘I found it,’ she said firmly.
Dad acclimatised quickly and was soon in a state of perpetual euphoria. A music appreciation lecture was full of jokes and stories, he said, beaming, though he fell asleep in a lecture on Russia. He almost sprinted to an afternoon wine-tasting.
‘He’s like a dog with two tails,’ said Mum. ‘He’s so excited I’m not sure his pacemaker can stand it.’ And so we spent two weeks glimpsing snapshots of affluent Scandinavia and post-Soviet Eastern Europe. In St Petersburg Dad relished the Hermitage but took issue with the guide’s romantic view of Russian history: ‘Royals, royals, royals and just two passing references to serfs,’ he sniffed.
Then there was Estonia, Poland, and a 12-hour trip to Berlin that Mum and I avoided but Dad, still full of Tiggerish bounce, seized as his opportunity to see a city he had long wanted to visit. I realised this trip was the classic tale of the hare and the tortoise. While Dad bounded along, drinking in every opportunity and occasionally wearing himself out, Mum chugged along and discovered unexpected pleasures – the ice-cream machine, the fine coffee that was served in the bar, and the 10pm song and dance show.
A duty-free outlet beside the gangplank in Oslo enabled her to indulge her love of shopping and buy a Norwegian jacket. ‘I’ve always wanted one of these,’ she said. She had views on the places we saw too. ‘It must be hard for a country to have any culture of its own when it’s been occupied for most of its life,’ she noted of Estonia.
What did I learn from all this? That there is a balance between supporting people and running their lives. My parents are more than capable of doing the latter.
Dad, having arrived as a sceptic, had become a convert. ‘I don’t see why we shouldn’t have a few amiable, relaxing weeks a year on ships,’ he declared. ‘If Mum agrees,’ he added diplomatically. They have now booked a cruise on the Norwegian fjords for next year. Remarkably, my parents have found something on which they agree. Mission accomplished.
Penny and her parents travelled on Saga Ruby – of course! For more information on cruises, call 0800 505030 or visit saga.co.uk/cruises
Penny’s top five tips for a happy cruise
1. Big ship or small?
There were 550 passengers on our ship. Bigger ships have more facilities – but less of a personal touch.
2. Less can be more
The crew leave passengers to decide which activities to engage with, and there’s no obligation to join in. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying a good book or a snooze.
3. Don’t miss sail-away
In some cities, hop-on hop-off buses are an excellent alternative to the cruise line’s excursions, but if you go ashore solo you probably won’t be insured if you miss the ship’s sailing.
4. Food, glorious food
Food may be available non-stop, but it’s not compulsory. No one will mind if you skip afternoon tea or ask for small portions at dinner.
5. Phoning home
Remember that there probably won’t be a mobile phone signal when you’re out to sea