I fulfilled my cruise ship fantasy, though we didn't leave Newhaven Harbour - Gaby Soutar

We’re queuing on the gangplank. The tender is coming, to take us to Viking Venus, which is docked for one day in Edinburgh before heading to Orkney. We can see her immaculate Colgate-white hull. She’s either small, or a few knots away. From here, we can’t even see her Norwegian flag. I hope this is just perspective, because I want to go on a biggie. A floating metropolis, if possible.

Viking Venus cruise ship

Earlier this week, I spotted a Rev Richard Coles Tweet.

His message said; “Imagine being head chef of Icon of the Seas, which has just completed sea trials, responsible for producing 75,000 meals a day”, and there was a picture of a pastel-coloured liner. Apparently, this will be the largest cruise ship in the world, after it’s launched out of Miami in 2024. That sort of size would do nicely.

Yes, they've got a bad rep, for environmental pollution and general uncool-ness, but I’ve always been fascinated.

“Have you been on a ship before?” asks the PR, who’s leading this recce. “Of course,” I say. Actually, it’s probably only been ferries and a kayak, and I’m not sure if they count.

I was put off longer sails after a nightmarish crossing to Calais, when I was 16-years-old. It was stormy, the waves crashed to deck height and we wobbled like Weebles.

This journey soon turned into a game of vomitous dominoes, starting with a waiter. My friend and I had just shared a whole box of Maltesers, so things didn’t go too well for us.

If you’ve seen the recent film Triangle of Sadness, it was exactly like that. The only cure for the nausea seemed to be to stare blankly at the horizon.

I’m sure nothing as dramatic as that could ever happen aboard the Viking Venus. You probably wouldn’t even be able to feel it moving, since it’s so massive.

The bright orange tender, whose name has given me the earworm of Blur’s identically titled song - “come on, come on, get through it” - latches onto its side.

We disembark, surrendering our passports at the door, though we won’t be sailing anywhere.

It turns out that this ship is bigger than my tenement, with eight floors, to sleep 960 guests, most of whom are away on a shore excursion.

Our tour goes on for ages, as the endless marble-clad corridors are lined with original Edvard Munch drawings. There’s a lecture theatre, where they’re screening a documentary on the Scottish Parliament, spa - with snow grotto and plunge pools - rooftop swimming pool, hairdresser, jewellery shops, gym and a multi-level living room. Plus, in reference to the company’s Norwegian billionaire owner, Torstein Hagen, they’ve got a small Viking museum.

I wonder what Ragnar and the guys would think of this space? It’s certainly not a longship.

I’m very tempted to ask if there’s really a morgue, as all cruise liners are supposed to have one, but it seems that question might be a bit of a downer, so I keep quiet.

The cabins are bigger than I’d imagined and have private balconies. I stand on one, and can see Arthur’s Seat, the fishermen’s cottages on Lower Granton Road, Inchkeith Island and another even bigger cruise ship, though it’s docked further along the Forth at Leith. Deploy the cannons, I say, but not out loud

There are also about six restaurants on board. We’re told that there are escalators in the kitchens, to deal with service for so many travellers.

On our walk-about, I think I have spotted who is responsible for this busy ship. Although he doesn’t have the customary Captain Birdseye beard or pet parrot, he is wearing a smart white uniform. He looks a bit too relaxed, though I guess we aren’t moving so he doesn’t have to be constantly twiddling the helm, even if that is the funnest part of the job. The handbrake must be on.

Anyway, part of the reason cruise ships are so embedded into my psyche is because my parents met on deck, at a party. My mum was a guest to the SS Capetown Castle and dad was their ship doctor.

On the Viking Venus, I ask if they do the dinnertime tradition of a captain's table, but, no, I think it may be a relic of the past.

Not only did my late dad’s ship do this every night, the passengers could also take advantage of an audience with the resident GP at dinner. He was charming, clever and funny, but also a bit of a closet introvert and misanthrope, just like his second born.

Most of the time, he hated having to entertain. When it was choppy, many of the travellers felt queasy and were confined to their cabins. This was dad’s best time, as he could eat blissfully alone, thanks to his excellent sea-faring consitution.

At his funeral, the humanist celebrant wanted to talk about his career and time on the liner.

“It was known as a happy ship,” she concluded in her rough draft, and I vetoed that immediately. He was never into sentimentality or platitudes.

It probably was quite pleasant though, since he did meet mum there.

Mind you, his ship wouldn’t have been quite as upmarket as this five-star behemoth. I almost don’t want to get on the tender to go back.

Goodbye Viking Venus, you were indeed big and not just far away.

www.vikingcruises.co.uk