Ayr to the Sea: The Unexpected Journey to the Ferry

We arrived at Ayr, a small, quiet station. As we stepped outside, I found myself recounting my ordeal to two elderly men nearby — explaining how I had to catch the Stena ferry by 3 PM. What they said next was like a cool breeze on a hot day, as relieving as finding an oasis in a desert. They told me there was a Stena company bus that left from right in front of the station, heading straight to the ferry terminal — and it was due in just 30 minutes.

I could almost feel the tension in my shoulders ease as I shared the good news with mom. Her eyes brightened, and with a mischievous grin she said, “Can I have a cappuccino!” I couldn’t help but laugh. So, of course, I got two — one for each of them — because apparently, a cappuccino was her ultimate cure for travel stress.

The bus arrived right on time. We grabbed our tickets and set off toward the ferry terminal. The coastal route was breathtaking — lush green hills rolled gently alongside us, and to our right stretched the shimmering expanse of the Firth of Clyde, its waters sparkling under the soft Scottish sun. It was the kind of scenery that makes you want to press pause on life and just breathe it all in.

Now, when it comes to any kind of travel — bus, plane, or car — my mom is a warrior, but only because she’s armed with her trusty Avomin tablets for motion sickness. Without one of those little lifesavers, even a few meters of movement would have her battling nausea and vomiting.

So, every morning, before any trip, she pops a tablet and becomes a happy traveller… with one hilarious side effect: she becomes extremely drowsy. I’d nudge her gently and say, “Mom, check out the Firth of Clyde outside,” and she’d try so hard to open her eyes, shake her head with a sleepy “hmm, hmm,” and promptly fall back asleep.

Watching her, I couldn’t help but admire the strength she’s shown over the years — especially when I think about those long seven-hour bus rides she endured with me and my sister as infants. She’d recall those days whenever we met, and I never pushed her to stay awake. Let her rest; she earned it.

Dad, on the other hand, has always been the picture of calm during journeys, but not when we are exploring on foot. Before smartphones, he’d pass the time with newspapers and books. Now, he’s the family historian, researching the places we visit and sharing tidbits of knowledge with me like a seasoned guide.

Before long, we reached the ferry terminal, which felt more like an airport than a regular dock we were used to. There was a passport check, and our luggage was whisked away on conveyor belts — a smooth, efficient process that had us feeling like seasoned travellers.

Of course, mom couldn’t resist another cappuccino — this time paired with some crisps.

I snapped a few candid photos of her and dad in their relaxed, happy moods. Mom caught me in the act and immediately, as always, complained to dad, “See that ‘chor’ is clicking photos again without telling us.”

Calling me “chor” — a Hindi and Nepali word which means “thief” — was her unique way of showing love when annoyed. I never minded; in fact, I loved teasing her back. After every photo, she’d demand, “Delete all the bad ones and keep only the good ones.” Like a robot, she’d say it every time. And I’d always say yes — though I’ve never deleted those ‘bad’ pictures.

As we started making our way toward the ferry entrance, the enormity of the Stena Line ferry hit me like a wave. This was no small boat — it was a floating city with multiple decks, vast enough to hold hundreds of passengers and dozens of vehicles. We climbed the gangway, looking up at its towering structure, feeling dwarfed by its sheer size.

For me and my parents, this was a brand-new experience of water travel. Back home, when we say “ferry,” we mean the wooden boats that cross river Brahmaputra — the ninth largest river in the world by discharge — between Dhemaji, my hometown, and Dibrugarh.

Those ferries are tiny, holding maybe 30 people and three cars at most. Compared to that, the Stena was a colossal ship. We’d easily call it a ship rather than a ferry.

The reason we were in this ferry was because my mom once told me she wanted to travel on a ship. So instead of flying directly from Edinburgh to Belfast, I chose this route — to give her that experience. And since the only other waterway experience, she’d had was back home on those small boats, this journey was her chance to tick that box.

We found our way into one of the ferry’s decks that housed a cozy bar and a restaurant. Claiming a spot right next to the window, we settled in as the ferry prepared to depart. The departure was so smooth that I had to carefully check the land outside to realize we were actually moving — the ship was eerily still, gliding away from the terminal like a giant. The calm Irish Sea must have been working its magic because the entire journey felt like being in a moving home, with no shaking or rocking to unsettle us.

But everything changed when curiosity got the better of us. We decided to explore the ferry a little more and somehow found ourselves on the top deck outside. The sea stretched endlessly in every direction, a vast expanse of grey-blue waves under a sky heavy with low-hanging clouds. The wind was fierce, whipping around us with a biting chill, and a light drizzle began to fall, making the air sharp and fresh.

I clicked a few pictures of mom and dad bundled up against the cold, their faces flushed from the wind. I urged them to head back inside before the chill got the better of them, but I stayed a while longer, taking in the wild beauty around me.

Standing there, I felt a deep sense of gratefulness to have my parents with me on this journey. Whether or not I will ever do this journey again, this moment — this shared experience — was something I would carry with me forever.

Once back inside, I turned to Dad and with a playful grin said, “Want to try a Guinness? You will be soon in the land of the famous stout beer, after all.” He looked at me, utterly puzzled. “What is that?” he asked. “Beer,” I replied simply.

Dad wasn’t much of a drinker, so I wasn’t expecting much enthusiasm. But then, unexpectedly, mom chimed in with an encouraging, if somewhat confused, “You should try it!” Her tone was a mix of curiosity and gentle persuasion.

So, I ordered a pint of Guinness. When the dark, almost black beer arrived, mom and dad’s eyes widened with questions. “What is that colour? Why is it black?” mom asked, her voice tinged with surprise. My parents were used to seeing the usual golden hues of common beers back home — pale amber or light brown — so this was a whole new experience for them. Mom’s curiosity grew, and dad took a tentative sip.

The reaction was immediate. A visible shiver ran through his body — the unmistakable “beer shock.” Mom’s face mirrored his, and soon after, she was back to demanding her cappuccino, as if the Guinness episode had never happened.

Dad, however, was not one to waste anything. He took his time, finishing the pint not out of struggle but out of curiosity. That curiosity kept him occupied for a while, as he I handed him my phone to do his research on “stout,” “Guinness,” and related trivia.

Just as we were settling into the gentle rhythm of the Irish Sea, savouring the novelty of the journey and the warmth of family, none of us could have guessed how quickly that calm would be tested. The real adventure, it turned out, was waiting for us just beyond the horizon — and it was about to find us before we even set foot in Belfast.