Democrito, as 'bosun' the chief sailor of the Philippines on board, leads me around in the pits and corridors under the containers. Finally I can't hear the ship's engine, but that really is the only advantage in this ominous place where iron and steel crackle. The piles of containers are riveted together with twistjoints at the corners and with rods along the sides: they have to go in and out one by one with the human hand in every harbour.

There's one deep corridor to the front of the ship. The seawater is constantly beating over it. Whoever falls here disappears into the hold saltwater. Democrito keeps looking back to see if I'm still there. Yes, but soaking wet from the seawater. At the front, under the bow, the sea splashes through peepholes in our faces.

Furthermore, corridors everywhere between containers. The wind is pouring between them. Here and there a Philippine checks the closing pieces. We are at sea level and the containers are stacked dizzyingly high. I don't feel bigger than an ant and actually I want to get out of this oppressive underworld as soon as possible. I remember one thing well: in the world of transport there is no time for sentiment; not at sea, not in the air and not in vans. Time is money and the clock rules.

*

When I enter the mess I look in the sign of "The Monk" just in time to shake it when Ramon asks me if I want "braised beef" as well. As a consolation he brings me a double portion of rice with vegetables in a hot sauce. It's so good that I ask for another plate. Ramon starts to realize that I am different from the Eastern European carnivores & omnivores. Don't mind, he shouts: for dessert you still have my delicious brownies!

*

With a large bend the Elbfeeder sails along the Irish Sea in the direction of Dublin. 150 containers have to come ashore, 60 on board. A pilot has taken over the rudder. Sunbeams illuminate the bridge and in his stiff trousers, muscular white shirt and flashy sunglasses this pilot strongly resembles Leonardo Di Caprio. It is as if I am watching an expensive advertising film: "Become a pilot! Find the Job of Your Life!"

The pilot pilots the ship like a snake between moored cargoes and waiting ferryboats.

In the end we slowly move to the corner of a dock, along the Elbtrader, our sister ship that also unloads containers here. It is as if we are looking at ourselves in a mirror. Everything about sister ship is identical, up to and including the colours and shades. Only now it strikes me how beautiful our ship is. Not too big, not too small, it's exactly the ship from my boyhood dreams.

I follow the docking from deck 1. Downstairs Rey Mark operates the winch to tighten the mooring ropes. He sees me taking a picture and starts laughing spontaneously. Even deeper, on the quay, a docker puts the second rope around a bollard. The Irishman defies every cliché of the tough docker. He's wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt, under his beer belly hangs a pair of shorts and from his left boot the lace hangs loose. He's somewhere in his mid-fifties and he bums.

I report with my passport to duty officer Iwan and descend along the wobbly gangway to the quay. The Ukrainian patiently explains how to find the exit of the terminal on foot, but I quickly confuse left with right, and so a hopeless wandering through the thousands of containers begins. All streets look alike and I get tired. Just when I consider climbing over the fence I see an arrow "Exit".

A little later I'm standing along a deserted street. The city plan of Dublin is still in my cabin, so with my wet finger I follow a long macadam road that hopefully leads to the city. Someone whistles me from far back. I look around: further on our Captain Somber is beckoning me: he actually wants to help me and when I am with him I see a totally different person.

Is it the walk that made him so happy? He kindly explains which way I have to go, points out, draws the way in the air and uses three times more words than we are used to from him. I hear he's already done some shopping at the gas station down the road and now has to get back on board. Excitedly he marches past the gate of the terminal back to the Elbfeeder. He's just starting to whistle. 

After a few kilometres I arrive at a dock, surrounded by ultramodern office towers and trendy restaurants. I have reached the edge of the city and look me the eyes out. I find myself in a kind of futuristic city, the last thing I expected here. The architecture is breathtaking and all-encompassing and I imagine that Antwerp can still learn from this.

Until it dawned on us that this is all too organized and new just to be Irish. Of course, the European Union is in between a lot of this. The EU has put billions into the Irish economy and this is one of the visible effects. No, you don't get the Irish crazy to leave the EU. There are posters everywhere for the elections and all the candidates praise and praise the European Union. How would you be?

Dublin's a little disappointing. To be honest, I don't go to a lot of trouble to find nice neighborhoods either. I only want to visit one place: the post office where in 1916 the freedom fighters under Pearce and Conolly proclaimed the independent Irish Republic. It's still a beautiful building. I'm gripped by emotion when I step inside.

This is where my childhood heroes fought and died in what I saw as a romantic struggle for freedom. The interior is powerful. Marble, shiny copper and polished wood, all in the style of yesteryear.

Nothing reminds me of the massacre the British troops inflicted during and after their storming. I look around and try to imagine the hopeless defence of the Irish nationalists; the surrender and the mass executions afterwards.

But I'm also here to keep a promise. Joris Van Bree of Cptn Zeppos dreams of receiving postcards from all over the world from his passengers and I want to give an example. At one of the beautiful counters I buy postcards and stamps, but unfortunately I don't have a bic with me. Next to me an old lady fills in her lotto ticket. I ask her to borrow the bic. When she sees my postcard she pushes her pen to me and says: "Wish me luck with the lottery tonight and keep it, lad". Well...: "Good luck, that's what I wish you mom!"

Moments later I'm in a pub on Parnell Street, this time to keep a promise to myself. At the bar I finally drink an Irish Bushmill's, I think it's the tastiest whiskie on earth. Some luck on top: on a mega TV screen I can follow the Cup Final between Manchester City and Watford. I intensely experience the very last match of Prince Vincent Kompany and drink another one on Kev De Bruyne, who plays a great match : 6-0!

*

At 9:30 p.m., when I have been back in my cabin for a long time, a crushing spectacle unfolds before my eyes. Slowly, ten stories high, the luxury cruise ship "Orchestra" passes by our boat. Like a high wall the ship passes my porthole. I walk outside and look with my mouth open. The ship is 300 metres long, with 2,550 passengers and a crew of 1,250. It is a true monster of the sea.

Only when it's over I see the screen of an outdoor cinema light up on the top deck. Passengers look from their lounge chairs at a half naked oriental actress in a jacuzzi. She lets herself be poured a glass and talks to an actor standing next to her.

With this surrealistic film image in the night, the cruise ship disappears to the sea.

*

I sleep while the cranes continue to load. At 4 o'clock the ship's engines start and I wake up. The ship is shaking. There are orders in the night. The Elbfeeder disengages from the quay and I fall asleep again.

**