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PORTUGAL Once we reached Portugal we felt the presence of Europe. We walked on cobbled pavements along the shop fronts and I knew that Queen Street with its verandahs was thousands of miles away. I was excited at the prospect of seeing Portugal as I have a strong link with these people; many of my relations have Portuguese blood flowing in their veins. It is again like magic to think that a hundred years ago some of these people landed in New Zealand as sealers, whalers and traders and that they married Maoris. From these marriages are descended some of the most handsome of the Maori people. My own little village boasts of quite a few. We hired a taxi—destination “Chez Maxim”, the famous night-club of Lisbon. We were ushered into a room by red liveried boys of charming appearance. Nothing was too much trouble there. No wonder, for a bottle of wine wrapped in a white napkin the fee was three pounds. If you looked at the jewellery, and then retured to your table, a little red waiter appeared at your elbow: “Madame,” he would say in in enticing whisper, “the bracelet for Madame is fifty dollars” … or …“For you, Madame, the skirt in the window is thirty dollars”. Huge concierges stood around to keep law and order in this dimly lit, crowded night club. It was a fantastic nightmare of hot-beat music, masked women, drunk men, and the pressing attentions of these liveried waiters. It was my first glimpse of a flash night-club and it was far from what I had imagined. There were two stages for the bands who between them kept up a non-stop dance beat—rock-and-roll and South American rhythm. The masked women were intriguing me. I thought they were there to entice the men to drink, but apparently they were celebrating fashing. Later in the night we saw a floor show. A troupe of illclad dancers appeared on to the floor, one after the other till they stood side by side in a row. By that time we'd seen how they looked from a side view, a back view and now a front view. Each dancer carried an ostrich feather which modestly covered her naked thighs. None of them could sing, none of them could dance. Their faces were like painted grinning masks. Once you'd seen the back view, the side view and the front view of each dancer's body the act was completed. I should have appreciated their modestly-clad bodies if they had been well proportioned. But the sight of those huge, naked thighs, just there for the purpose of vulgar display, made me ill. Never was I made more aware of the difference between nakedness and nudity—between vulgarity and beauty. When drinks are thrust upon you and entertainment fails to satisfy you, where do you go? Back to the boat. I walked those cobbled streets in my silly high heels and I felt very cold.

LONDON: THE END OF THE VOYAGE We have passed Spain and are now nearing the end of the journey in our isolated, yet intimate world of boat-life. The main topic of the day is now the English weather and people shiver at the thought of the damp, foggy London winter. There is also gossip about concluding flirtations and there are sighs and tears amidst laughter and merriment. We have arrived in the harbour of Southampton; it is midnight, the second of February. People had waited all day for the mail to arrive. At long last it was here. There were looks of surprise, of delight, of disappointment. Yes. nothing is more heartening than to receive letters at the end of a long journey, good news from the friends and relations far, far away; letters of welcome from the friends you are going to meet. People make a country. You feel that you will be able to put up with much hardship if you are made welcome. I well remember that Tuesday night before our arrival. From about midnight till 2 a.m. there were transport and luggage officials on board—friendly English people in cloth caps and dark overcoats, standing at tables, helping, caring for the passenger who is worried about his luggage, who wants to send a telegram, who wants to book a rail ticket. They have a confidence and assurance born of years of dutiful labour. It was a drizzly grey morning when we stepped on land. For some reason unknown to me I was terribly excited as I set foot on English soil. It is not that Southampton is an especially attractive port. No, it is the sense of tradition you feel and see in the cloth caps and thick overcoats, the friendly faces of the porters, and the old stony houses; the trees, and the black, rich soil of the carefully tended fields which you pass on the train journey to London. Then we reached Waterloo Station. From there we took a tube to the heart of London—Piccadilly. We walked down the streets which are worn with age and we saw people. There were women wearing the most elegant fashions and those like myself, in flat heels. Men in bowler hats swung elegant umbrellas elegantly, wore tapering trousers and knee-length coats; everyone hurried hither and thither. The weather? Not very cold—just like a Wellington winter. London on such a day? Grey. Smoky, dirty, sprawling. Streets grow up out of the earth for little rhyme or reason. Is it a wonderful city? Yes. It is impersonal, yet friendly. You can walk down the streets and lose yourself. You can always stop someone for help if you get lost in the criss-cross of streets. I like to see the people walking, people who are walking to a place I know not, people I did not know. And now it is Spring and the greyness is going