This year has been a strange one to say the least. Nobody could believe their ears. “A volcano? You cannot be serious?” was the prevailing remark at the time.

Like so many others, I look back and recall being stranded in Dublin airport. I remember that particular morning very clearly.

Passengers were thrilled by the whole sense of Armageddon. It felt like our Latin teacher had failed to turn up for class and everyone had bunked off for the day.

At the time, I was travelling to London on a dreary work trip for a ghastly corporation. So I was quietly pleased that the volcano gave me a legitimate reprieve.

At daybreak the following morning I made my way over to Dublin seaport and boarded a vast ship called the ‘Ulysses’, which is owned by Irish Ferries. The atmosphere aboard was jovial, with a Dunkirk spirit going on.

I had a marvellous time rediscovering boats. I mean boats and me? Hardly! But yes, I was quite happy to be perched on top of a floating holiday camp. Ordinarily I suffer from nausea. At the mere hint of motion sickness I would be the first to throw up overboard. However, on this occasion, the gods were with us and the crossing was a picture of tranquillity.

I am quite a reserved person by nature, but I chatted freely with my fellow passengers. Two middle-aged twins from Maastricht, returning home from a road trip in Ireland and two rather attractive, if somewhat snooty young Irishwomen on a shopping trip to London.

There was a casino and a bar, which was served by the ubiquitous host of hard-working Eastern European migrants.

Hand on heart I couldn’t say that Ulysses was pretty in any way. However, she did have an imposing muscular grandness as she towered above the water line.

The scale of the ship was surprising and there were rumours circulating among the passengers that she was carrying over a thousand people that day. We all scrambled up and down her wrought iron frame, peering in and out of the rows of uniform port holes.

Weeks later, I found myself walking on the campshires along the River Liffey at Sir John Rogerson’s Quay. I stopped in my tracks to admire a dusty and faded old building in my neighbourhood.

It was one of those glorious summer evenings we’ve been having recently and the light was fantastic across the mouth of the River Liffey. As I gazed upon the building I read out the title carved in stone, ‘The British and Irish Steam Packet Company’ built in 1909.

The original British and Irish Steam Packet Company was in fact founded much earlier in 1836 and at the time consisted of a fleet of paddle steamers. The company has had a somewhat chequered history to say the least. Over the years ëB&Ií has changed hands many times and has survived the difficult war years and the post-war period of nationalisation. Today the Company in its most recent reincarnation has been privatised and is now known as ëIrish Ferriesí.

I lingered a while in front of the building, imagining all the people who had passed through its doors, smiling about my epic sea voyage earlier in the year. It was heartening to think that for a few short weeks in 2010 the people of Ireland were once more reacquainted with their seafaring past. Isnít life strange? An angry Volcano hundreds of miles away had rekindled a lost love. And like all good love affairs that come to an end, I left the lovely Ulysses with fond memories and a wry sense of nostalgia.