Skip to main content

Cure for the Common Clock

 In this episode, The Cure for the Common Clock

Good morning, fellow travelers. Thank you for joining me, and welcome to Viviers, France—a place where time politely excuses itself and slips out the back door. If you’re like me, you’ve checked your watch (which you forgot to charge, thanks to the sheer absence of urgency on board) and realized that five entire days have quietly dissolved into the Rhône.

And what a beautiful vanishing act it is.

Forget those frantic Parisian paces—this is a different kind of life. Here, time isn’t measured in deadlines or métro schedules, but in the perfect temperature of your morning coffee and the slow, stately drift of the riverbank. On a Viking longship, time doesn’t fly; it drifts. There are no clocks, no announcements, no bells. It’s a five-star sensory-deprivation tank—except your stateroom is a masterpiece of space engineering and, miraculously, features the mythical 110-Volt outlet. (Fellow Americans, rejoice: you can charge your phone only to ignore it.) Every wish—from the perfectly fluffed pillow to the mysteriously restocked fresh water—is granted by unseen hands. It’s all so flawlessly smooth, you half expect the crew to start recruiting you for the cult of Calm.

The Charm of Viviers: A Vertical Leap Back in Time

Today we’re docked at the gorgeous and historic town of Viviers—a vertical museum of stone and sunlight. This is not your bustling port city; it’s a climb through centuries, perched on the hillside like a watercolor that forgot to dry. As the smallest city in France, its history is palpable, literally etched into the stone. Viviers boasts a rich past as a center of religious power, and its magnificent Cathedral Saint-Vincent dominates the skyline. Meandering through the steep, narrow, medieval streets feels less like a walk and more like stepping through a portal. Here, you’ll find noble houses and archways that have been holding up the world since the 13th century. It’s the kind of place that quietly reminds you how fleeting your little modern anxieties truly are.

Nautical Term of the Day: "Groggy"

Speaking of fleeting anxieties... let’s talk about today's dose of seafaring trivia from the Viking Daily. The word of the day is "Groggy."

We have the wonderfully colorful British Admiral Edward Vernon to thank for this one. His nickname was “Old Grogram” because of the coarse fabric of his coat. Back in 1740, sailors received a daily ration of rum—a potent motivator, though not ideal for ship maneuverability. Admiral Vernon, showing rare foresight (or perhaps desperation), ordered that the rum be diluted with water to curb widespread intoxication. The new, weaker concoction was naturally dubbed “Grog”—and the wobbly, woozy aftermath became known as “Groggy.”

So, the next time you feel a bit slow-moving and unfocused after your alarm goes off, remember: you’re not just tired—you’re channeling an 18th-century, slightly watered-down British sailor. Consider it heritage fatigue—brought to you by Admiral Vernon, the original wellness influencer who believed in hydration and moderation (mostly by force).

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to explore Viviers, determined to be anything but groggy today. Though if I happen to run into a Viking Daily bartender... well, who’s to say?

Today in History: November 1st

  • 1512: Michelangelo’s ceiling of the Sistine Chapel opens to the public for the first time, making neck strain a sacred experience.
  • 1520: Ferdinand Magellan becomes the first European to navigate the passage later named the Strait of Magellan—a feat that made “taking the scenic route” a global affair.
  • 1800: John Adams moves into the still-unfinished White House, proving that even presidents can’t resist a good fixer-upper.
  • 1993: The Maastricht Treaty takes effect, officially establishing the European Union—a historic reminder that cooperation, like fine wine, takes centuries to perfect.

Now, as I head ashore, I have to ask: What's the one piece of modern technology you wish would disappear on vacation?


I’m Patrick Ball. Stay curious, ask questions. See you soon!

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

Sunflowers, French Steel, and the Yellow Jersey

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...

Rediscovering the Magic of Summer . . .

Summer mornings, especially on a holiday weekend, have a special magic. The air is cool, the world quiet, and the day full of possibilities. This July 4th weekend, Lori and I decided to capture a bit of that magic by beating the holiday traffic with an early morning bicycle ride. We went through our usual pre-flight checklist: Stretched out the morning stiffness. Filled the water bottles. Strapped on the helmets. Checked the tires. Three tires passed inspection. The fourth had apparently declared independence. The rear tire on my e-bike was flatter than a Kansas highway. “Well, it looks like we’re not riding today,” Lori said, with the calm acceptance of someone who had already mentally promoted coffee to the day’s main event. “Why not?” I replied. “I’ll ride my old bike.” She gave me that look —the one that safely translates as, "Are you sure about this? " “Absolutely,” I said. “Why not?” I dragged the bike stand out and surveyed my options. One glance at the aggressive gear...

Morning Coffee

In this episode, Morning Coffee . . . Now, I’m not saying everyone needs coffee. Some folks get by just fine on, I don’t know, sunlight and positive thinking. Me? I’m pretty sure I started drinking the stuff sometime around the Reagan administration. Reading John Gierach’s "Ode to Campfire Coffee" in Trout Bum (a book that should be required reading for anyone who sees sleeping on the ground as recreation) got me thinking about how we’ve managed to complicate something as fundamentally simple as boiling water and adding grounds. Taste, you say? Look, black coffee is an acquired taste, like tequila or cilantro. I just don’t get it. Gierach, bless his heart, mostly drinks his java streamside, probably while wearing wool socks and waders and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. As for me? My outdoor coffee experience is a bit different. Picture this: the High Sierra, where campfires are banned (to avoid agitating Smoky Bear), and I’m huddled over a Whisperlite , coax...

Misfits at Halloween

In this episode - Misfits at Halloween . . . It’s autumn, and Halloween is approaching - how do you capture the experience, the smells, the rustling sounds of multicolored falling leaves, the quiet, peaceful feeling, the solitude of life in a small town? News flash, I’m here to tell you it’s not always as tranquil as sentimental storytellers like to depict it. Admittedly, like all agrarian communities, Cuba had its pranksters. Thankfully, though, in our small, rural farming community of the late 1960s and early 70s, I’m happy to report there was no teen violence, no gang shootings, and no serious vandalism. Well, ok, we did torment the local policeman, who we dubbed Barney Fife (I don’t remember his name). In the fall, most families would have harvested their gardens by Halloween, but inevitably, there would be leftovers. A group of us would hide behind Jim Welch’s garden fence on Main Street and hurl the leftover, soft, rotten tomatoes at Barney’s squad car as he patrolled the town. F...