Like any truly patriotic Frenchman, Jules Verne reviled the English with a passion. “That hated nation,” as Captain Nemo continually puts it. Nevertheless, in 1867, he turned up in Liverpool, intent on taking a voyage to America on the giant steam ship, the Great Eastern—the largest ship ever built at that stage. This horror voyage he describes in his book A Floating City.  The pride of the British at the time when Britannia really ruled the waves, the gigantic boat was a disaster for all concerned—builders, seamen, passengers and investors, not to mention national pride. The ship proved to be hopelessly unmanageable, a technical and commercial failure, rolling so badly that even the hardiest travellers were ill all the way, accident-prone to a frightening degree, enormously expensive and difficult to fix on the many occasions it broke down, and troubled by the fact that there were only a few ports big enough to accommodate it.
    All this Verne observes sardonically—on the one hand saddened that such a great venture should yield so poor a return, on the other enjoying the British getting one in the eye. The ship made twenty bad voyages, was withdrawn for expensive modifications, and Verne rode the next attempt. It proved to be the last. The ship was scrapped and became an advertising hoarding.
    For me the voyage was a true joy—if only due to gratification at the idea that the big boys also messed things up to a level that rendered my tiny blunderings insignificant. It was just another example of the vast human capacity for error.