There is a particular cruelty in arriving on a Cunard cruise as someone who has spent a full year learning to dance, only to discover that the Atlantic Ocean does not care.
Twelve months ago I walked into an Arthur Murray dance studio with the reasonable ambition of becoming a person who could dance. Not a competitive dancer — just someone who, when music plays and a dance floor appears, does not have to pretend they need the bathroom. After a year of weekly lessons I had arrived at something approaching competence in six dances: waltz, foxtrot, tango, cha cha, rumba, and jive.
I boarded the ship feeling, if not exactly confident, then at least prepared.
The ocean had other ideas.
What a Year of Arthur Murray Gives You (And What It Doesn’t)
A year of ballroom dancing teaches you to listen to music differently — to hear the beat as structure, to feel the phrase of a melody and understand where the floor lives beneath it. It teaches you about connection, about the extraordinary subtlety of lead and follow. It teaches you that the waltz is controlled falling, that the foxtrot is deceptively difficult, that the tango is less about passion and more about precision, and that the cha cha will humble you for months before it suddenly, inexplicably, clicks.
What it does not teach you is how to do any of this when the floor moves.
This seems like a reasonable gap in the curriculum. Dance studios are, sensibly, built on land. The floor at Arthur Murray is flat, sprung, utterly stationary, and entirely predictable. You build your muscle memory on a surface that cooperates. Then you get on a ship and discover that everything you’ve learned is stored in a body that now has to simultaneously execute a waltz box step and quietly negotiate with its own vestibular system about which way is down.
The Queens Room: Magnificent, Gently Swaying
Every Cunard ship has a Queens Room — a proper grand ballroom with high ceilings, crystal chandeliers, a gleaming dance floor, and resident musicians who create that “Bridgerton” moment.
And then you step onto the dance floor and the ship moves, and your bodt — which has spent a year learning exactly where to put its weight — makes an executive decision that is entirely its own and bears no relationship to the foxtrot you were attempting. The instructor’s advice, delivered with a patient smile, was this: don’t fight the ship. Soften your knees, lower your centre of gravity, and let the movement flow through you rather than brace against it. This, she noted, will be good for your dancing — the softness through the knees that a ship demands is exactly what ballroom technique requires anyway.
I did not immediately find this comforting. But by day three, something had shifted.
The Specific Problem of Different Dances at Sea
Not all dances are equally affected by the motion of the ship, which introduces a fascinating new variable into the question of what to attempt on any given evening.
The waltz, with its flowing rotational movement, is almost manageable in a gentle swell. The foxtrot is trickier — the travelling nature of the dance means you cover ground, and the direction you think you’re heading and the direction the ship is gently redirecting you towards are not always in agreement.
The cha cha and rumba — the Latin dances, grounded and largely stationary — transfer surprisingly well. The hip action that Arthur Murray spent months trying to get me to produce naturally becomes easier when your hips are genuinely having to respond to external movement. I am not saying the ocean improved my Latin. I am saying the ocean and Latin dance have a similar energy.
The tango is its own catastrophe. The tango is a dance of precision and control, of stillness and sudden decisive movement. It does not negotiate. It does not absorb. When the ship surges, that conviction takes you somewhere that is not on the syllabus. I am attendind the tango lession today at 12.15 we will see if the teacher can provide inspiration for the challenge,.
And then there is the jive.
Jiving in the Yacht Club at Sea: A Cautionary Tale
The Yacht Club on Level 10 is a lovely venue — relaxed, unpretentious, brilliant for an evening when the Queens Room was moving into dance party mode. It also sits higher in the ship, which means that in any kind of swell, the movement is considerably more pronounced than on the lower decks. This is useful to know before you attempt to jive there.
The jive, for those who haven’t tried it, is an exuberant, fast-footed dance built around bouncing footwork, sharp direction changes, and a considerable amount of movement through the hips and legs. It is very fun on stable ground. On Level 10 in a swell, it is something else entirely.
I attempted to jive in the Yacht Club on an evening when the Atlantic had decided to make its presence felt. What followed was less dance and more adventure — a glorious, unscripted series of near-misses, unexpected direction changes courtesy of the ship rather than the choreography, and a great deal of genuine, helpless laughter. Balance, which the jive demands you maintain while also bouncing energetically on the spot, becomes a negotiation when the spot itself is moving. We attempted a jive in these conditions because there were only a few couples in the venue and surprisingly managed most of it with a couple of spectacular sways where we grabbed each other to stay upright. We both fell into the general goodwill of everyone around us, who were experiencing similar difficulties and finding them equally hilarious.
It was, without question, one of the most fun evenings of the entire voyage. If you are going to lose your footing, lose it laughing.
Practical tip:
Save the jive for calm seas or lower decks. Or don’t, and enjoy the consequences.
A Very Practical Tip: Make Friends With Your Waiter
This applies at sea and ashore, but especially at sea. Your dining room waiter is one of the most valuable relationships you can cultivate on a cruise ship. They know the kitchen, they know what’s possible, and if you’ve taken five minutes to be genuinely warm and human with them — rather than simply a table to be serviced — they will go to considerable lengths to look after you.
For gluten-free travellers this is particularly important. Tell your waiter on the first night, clearly and warmly, what you need. Ask their advice. Thank them properly when they help. What you will find, if you’ve built the relationship, is that gluten-free options appear that aren’t on the menu, bread alternatives are brought without you having to ask, and the kitchen is quietly briefed before you sit down.
Spain: Walking a Section of the Camino from A Coruña
We docked at A Coruña — a handsome port city on the northwestern tip of Spain, all glass-balconied buildings along the seafront and a magnificent old town tucked behind. A Coruña is one of the starting points of the Camino Inglés — the English Way — the route taken by pilgrims who sailed from Britain and Ireland to the northern Spanish coast before walking inland to Santiago de Compostela. The route follows the shoreline through Galicia, providing beaches and wonderful sea views, before heading inland into rolling farmland with old chapels and leafy paths.
Walking even a section of the Camino from here is something I would recommend without hesitation. The Way of St. James has attracted more than 200,000 pilgrims each year since 2013, — and when you walk it, even briefly, you understand why. The path winds through woodlands, centuries-old stone churches, over old bridges, through villages and past a lot of cafes and pubs. No danger of starving on this route!
After a few days of my body quietly arguing with the Atlantic, there was something profoundly satisfying about putting feet on ground that stayed where it was. With the tour we were doing a 4km section and there were evocative plants along the path. Daisies which were similar to arnica for my new career, Wisteria which was a wonderful reminder of Mum as we had an amazing wisteria in one of their first homes in Melbourne, Eucalyptus trees (its a popular crop for paper) but also a keen reminder of our home though I have to be honest never seen them in such tidy rows.
France: The Luminous Surprise of La Rochelle
La Rochelle was the port I knew least about and my husband was ready to ask them to send our bags to a local pub and stay there for the last bit of our trip. It is one of those French towns that seems almost too beautiful to be accidental — a medieval harbour with two great towers flanking the Vieux Port, a network of arcaded streets that shelter you from sun or rain, and a culinary culture built on exceptional seafood and the Atlantic coast’s extraordinary produce.
La Rochelle is flat and cycle-friendly, with paths that take you out to the Île de Ré, which is supposed to be one of the most beautiful places in France, all whitewashed villages, salt marshes, and Atlantic beaches. That’s on the list for the next trip!
Eating Gluten Free: What Actually Works
On the ship
Tell Cunard at the time of booking and confirm with your dining room waiter on the first evening. The kitchen handles dietary requirements well when given proper notice. And see above — make friends with that waiter. It makes all the difference.
In A Coruña and Gijon.
Spainish cuisine is naturally very accommodating. The region’s cooking is built on simply grilled seafood — pulpo a feira (octopus with olive oil and paprika, served on wooden boards) is the unmissable regional speciality and is completely gluten free. Grilled fish, rice dishes, and vegetables are almost universally safe; just ask about sauces. The key phrase is “Soy celíaco/a — sin gluten, por favor” and most restaurants in tourist areas will understand it.
In La Rochelle: the gluten-free traveller’s unexpected paradise
I speak a little french but had forgotten about this gem! The traditional savoury crêpe of the Atlantic coast — the galette de sarrasin — is made entirely from buckwheat flour. Despite the name, buckwheat contains no wheat whatsoever. It is a seed, completely and inherently gluten free. A galette complète filled with ham, melted cheese, mushroom, onion and a fried egg, eaten on a terrace ten metres from the medieval harbour, is one of the best lunches available anywhere in France.
Crêperie des Dames on the edge of the old port was a strong choice — staff are knowledgeable about allergens and when I asked for sans gluten and laiterie they checked with the kitchen and confirmed that my daughter could tolerate mushrooms cooked in butter,
Practical tips for both ports:
- In France, look for sans gluten on menus and remember that sarrasin or blé noir always means buckwheat — always safe
- In Spain, grilled meats, fresh fish, rice, and corn-based dishes are almost always safe — ask about sauces and breadcrumbs
What the Ship Teaches You That Arthur Murray Can’t
By the final evening at sea, the ocean and I had reached, if not an understanding, then at least a working relationship. I had learned to let my knees absorb what the ship was doing. I had found, in the gentle rolling of the deck, the hip movement that Arthur Murray had been trying to produce in me for months. I had danced a foxtrot that I would not be embarrassed to describe as a foxtrot.
The ship is, it turns out, a remarkable teacher. It takes everything you’ve half-learned on stable ground and refuses to let you be passive about it. You cannot coast on a moving dance floor. You have to be present, continuously, in every muscle and every step — which is exactly what a year of ballroom dancing is supposed to teach you, and what the studio floor, in its cooperative stillness, sometimes lets you avoid.
The tango remains on notice. The jive in the Yacht Club on Level 10 in a swell remains the most chaotic and hilarious ten minutes of dancing I have ever experienced. I would do it again in a heartbeat.