London to Hoek

A bike, a tube, a train and a ship: 4 legs.

Even in this tiny cabin in the middle of the ship with no window I can feel that we are floating. As if through water I can hear the ship's own sounds coming up through the floors and walls like a clanking and groaning whalesong.
From Harwich the ship turned massively past those docks that jut out from the edge of the world - past the great, bright cranes and their thousands and thousands of containers from China - and out along the long string of winking buoys leading finally into the moonless black.
Over the railing and down below the water fizzed turquoise in the glare from the ship's windows. Leaning out, it's impossible not to ponder that it would only take one slip and they'd never find you out there. Behind and already a long time ago, clustered dots of light - English homes and streets - hung as signs of life in the middle of the night, domed with orangey wisps of cloud. Eventually there would be more up ahead, just the same of course but feeling foreign.
Going back inside, the fake leather chairs, flashing fruit machines, sweating salmon and cheese platters and bolted-down tables: for some reason this clutter reminded me of The Poseidon Adventure with Michael Caine, and I wondered how it would look if you watched it upside down. I escaped.
Back to the cabin, then, where I can hear the engines rumbling dirtily somewhere passengers aren't allowed to go: in a great room of steel and oil, maybe, lit by naked bulbs in metal cages. All this welded metal is just a brave speck in the dark; every now and then everything shudders as if the sea doesn't want us here.