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hills behind them. The land was both rocky and lush, and I fell in love with it at once. It lacked the civility and dignity of the English countryside, but somehow had a wild, bewitching charm. An intoxicating charm. So much green! How could potatoes ever have dreamed of refusing to thrive in fields like that? It seemed a crime against nature, as well as humanity.
    Once again, we did not enter the harbour; but, rather, tenders crowded with new passengers rode out to meet us. Realizing that I was looking at Cork, where my father had been born, brought tears to my eyes. How I would have loved to have him standing here next to me, at this very moment. Mummy never got a chance to see Ireland, either, and I know she would have been staring as eagerly as I was.
    There were other boats following the tenders, with people inside clamouring to come aboard. I asked a bundled-up woman reading in a deck chair what they were, and she said that the boats contained merchants hoping to come aboard and make a quick profit. A few were actually allowed to set up shop while we were anchored, and I heard later that they were displaying the most beautiful lace, along with china and linen.
    It was with deep regret that I went inside for luncheon, and I barely noticed my food, so eager was I to return to the Boat Deck and admire Ireland. Two shrill middle-aged sisters were seated at our table, and they told us, at giggling length, about the horrifying thing they had seen while they were out on the deck. A demon-like face had appeared to them, peeking out of the aft funnel, and laughing, as one of them put it, like “Beelzebub himself!” Mr Prescott, who was also at our table with his wife, assured them that it had certainly been a member of the crew doing maintenance work. The sisters remained convinced that there must be a more sinister explanation. This was altogether too eccentric for me, and I asked to be excused, so that I could go back outside. Mrs Carstairs agreed reluctantly, but urged me to stay away from the funnel in question, just in case.
    Back on the Boat Deck, I was pleased to discover that we were sailing along the coast, rather than heading straight out to sea. A great flock of screeching seagulls was following us, swooping, diving and otherwise enjoying the day. I leaned on the railing until well past teatime, watching the beautiful scenery pass by. We passed islands, and lighthouses and austere, craggy cliffs. The rock formations were fascinating in their variety, and I do not think I could ever get tired of those glorious shades of green in the landscape beyond. Of course, I will always love London, but my father must never have stopped regretting leaving this splendid country behind.
    Someday, I must come back to Ireland and see all of that beauty up close.
    After dinner tonight – the meal as lavish as ever, I might add – we went up to A Deck to listen to a concert by the five-man orchestra. I was not familiar with many of the tunes, but they were all gay and cheerful, and it was an enjoyable evening. People applauded each effort enthusiastically, and sometimes shouted out requests. The band would respond right away, they never once hesitated. I found the ragtime particularly engaging. Mrs Carstairs says it is very popular in the States, and was pleased to answer the many questions I had about American music in general.
    I realize that I have yet to do my stateroom justice on paper. Right now, I am reclining on my bed, which has thick blue curtains I can draw around it for privacy, if I so choose. My entire room has been decorated in shades of blue, from the flocked wallpaper to the bedspread to the thick carpet. I even have my own writing desk and dressing table, the latter with a large old-fashioned mirror mounted above it. There is also a small sitting area, with a shiny square table and two comfortable armchairs. I have a bedside heater, as well as a ceiling fan. My washstand – with two sinks! – is