NWP 4. Two soups

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15 & 16-Aug-24 Vancouver

Alarm call at 0700hrs for the 0830hrs train to Vancouver. Surprisingly no USA immigration checking passports just some young lad making sure you have a passport and giving a pink piece of card with a handwritten ‘V’ marked on it. For Vancouver.

Boarding soon after to discover the dirtiest train I think I’ve ever been on. Carpets heavily stained and worn. Seats equally worn and stained. To the extent that some look like someone’s died there. Very grubby. Very surprising. America doesn’t do trains. That’s a European thing.

Off we chug following the coastline to our left. Stunning views across the water to the islands I’d driven through a couple of days ago. Approaching the border, all are instructed to return to seats and remain there until a secondary passport check is complete. Mother of Chinese family in front has disappeared with passports in handbag. Inspector is not happy. Barks at them that they’re holding the train up. Don’t think so mate. We’re trundling along just fine.

Arriving Vancouver, the carriages are released one by one to avoid overcrowding on the platform and a scrum for Canadian immigration. Takes another hour from arriving at station to faff about.

Taxi driver tells me it’s $17 to the hotel and switches the meter off. Oh, OK then.

I’ve been to Vancouver a number of times over the years but its startling to see how many homeless are lying about in drug induced states of torpor. Quite staggering. It’s every street in Downtown we drive along. Not out of the way streets. Main tourist streets. Unbelievable.

There’s only one place to stay in Vancouver if you want a stunning view from your bed. The Pan Pacific Hotel (https://www.panpacific.com/en/hotels-and-resorts/pp-vancouver.html). With the possible exception of the Grand Hyatt Hong Kong (also looking over a harbour) this has to be one of the best views from a room (see photo below). It is stunning. Let me know if you have a better view.

Walking to dinner at an excellent Nepalese I pass yet more drugged up homeless. Might be dead for all I know but I’m not the caring sort to go and find out. DIY in these situations.

Don’t. Involve. Yourself

There was a glitch in the matrix last night as my NWP 3 blog post told me it had been published but no one had received it. So a further attempt tonight. Receipt is quickly confirmed by a very old friend. I have to qualify that she’s a very old friend as in longevity. Still young! Ish…

Very old friend (as in longevity) starts my day by sending a photo of two Belgian Buns, she’s just bought from Sainsbury’s. As a reminder of us both working in Loughborough on a construction project there in the early 1990s.

It’s where my international career began…

May 1995.

A Friday morning.

The young trainee Quantity Surveyor, Touring Taurean, is sitting in a site hut in Loughborough. His boss’s phone rings. Boss is on holiday so he picks it up. His boss’s boss is reading this laughing.

It’s Dave from the head office in Nottingham. He’s just got back from a business trip to Hong Kong working on a brewery project in China.

The young Touring Taurean, making polite conversation, asks how Hong Kong was. It was brilliant, says Dave.

Touring Taurean unwittingly replies, “Ah, I’d love to go there.”

Dave replies, “Would you?”

Oh yes, say I. I’d go tomorrow.

“Can you go Monday?”, says Dave.

WHAT?!?!?

“Can you go Monday? Well actually, you’ve got to fly to Vancouver first, to spend a couple of weeks with the mechanical engineers and then fly from Vancouver to Hong Kong to assist with the materials procurement. It’ll be Business Class flights and five star hotels. Is that alright?”

WHAT?!?!?!

I’m 25 years old.

What an opportunity.

And so began my international career.

In Vancouver.

Hence a sentimental attachment to Vancouver.

Never looked back. And had a very nice life out of it. Thank you very much.

The boss whose phone I answered back then very sadly died just before I departed for this trip. RIP Oz. Thank you for everything.

Having been following a blogger rowing the North West Passage (www.berkeleysquarebarbarian.com/tag/northwest-passage-expedition) with three others on a small boat called Hermione, I was reminded that it’s mosquito season when I saw a video he’d posted of a cloud of mosquitoes whining about. Decide a mosquito face net would be a wise decision. Makes me look handsome. Already have lethal amounts of DEET in my bag for prevention but nothing for cure. Pharmacist directs me to buy some hydrocortisone cream. But the pharmacy also sells Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut. And spicy Pringles. $50 later…

I don’t have breakfast usually but as it’s included in the room…

Overdosing on crispy bacon, eggs, mushrooms, toast, butter and pastries at breakfast I am still full at lunch so decide on a small bowl of soup to keep me going.

It’s a bakery sort of place with seats. Order the roast garlic and tomato soup. Then see a nice looking pretzel. And I’ll need a Coke too.

It’s a busy lunchtime crowd. Seating demand far outweighs supply.

I’m expecting soup a la Pret a Manger. In a plastic beaker. Which is easy to drink out of.

But no.

It’s soup in a large bowl. On a plate. With a large piece of toasted sourdough. And the smallest spoon known to man.

Like a Crackerjack contestant, left hand has plate loaded with a pretzel. Because no one mentioned the soup came with sourdough toast. Left hand also has a can of Coke. Shirt pocket is rammed with napkins. Wooden knife. Straw. Wooden spoon. Because no one mentioned the soup came with a tiny teaspoon.

Right hand has a large brimfull bowl of soup on a tracing paper type sheet on a plate. Tracing paper sheet acts as Teflon. On same plate is a large piece of toasted sourdough cut in half. And a pot of butter.

I am fully loaded and balancing plates left, right and centre. Making sure soup does not spill. Making sure pretzel does not slide off. Making sure Coke does not slip out of fingers simultaneously holding pretzel plate.

Searching for a vacant seat. So I can sodding eat.

Ah ha. There’s one.

Ask the girl adjacent if table is free. She confirms it is. Despite some detritus still on it. So. Hands full. I try and sit down on a cramped bench.

It’s at this point things start to slip and slide.

Bench is lower than expected. Sit down with a jolt.

And I see a bowl of tomato soup starting to slide towards my clean blue shirt.

With the corrective action of my right arm to stop soup spilling, my left arm counteracts.

Newton’s First Law kicks in.

Pretzel now starts sliding in the opposite direction to me. Which is fortunately caught in the nick of time.

Plates placed on table.

Phew.

That was close.

And then.

Some young woman arrives at the table. It’s her table. Not mine. The detritus is actually her half eaten lunch. She’d just gone to get a napkin.

Oh FFS.

I have to vacate.

Very carefully, I load up plates, Coke and cutlery.

And find another seat at a counter type table.

Soup finished.

Time for a drink.

Can is opened.

In all my decades of having a can of Coke with a straw it has been completely passive.

So you’ll imagine my surprise when putting straw in can, the contents squirt out through the straw like some ejaculation all over the sodding place. Thinking that was it there’s a further eruption through the ring pull opening. Frothing Coke everywhere even more. Unbelievable.

Sometimes whilst travelling you feel like a ‘picky tea’ as Jane McDonald (BBC Radio 2 presenter for our international readers) would say. In need of some wine, fresh baguette, cheese, salami, olives and such like, head to Granville Island market.

For some reason today, I must have had about six strangers turn to me in the street and say, “You’re so tall!”. Admittedly the first was the five foot housekeeping maid who I nearly ran into in the hotel corridor this morning and gave such a fright to as she came out of a bedroom as I was walking down the corridor. She looked genuinely scared and frightened at my height. Which with my walking boots on and a spring in the step I’m approaching 6’8”.

Queuing at the cheese counter in the market some woman turns to me and says, “You’re so tall!”

Hot and bothered. I snap.

“Would you go up to a disabled person and tell them they’re disabled?!”, growls the irritated Taurean.

She shrinks back and realises the error of her ways.

Back at the hotel I get in lift at street level. Reception is another level up. Doors open. Three old folk with suitcases. One is on a motorised mobility scooter. Think Madge Harvey in the TV series Benidorm. It’s that.

Two get in lift and thinking she’ll follow them straight in. But no. She dilly dallies. Trying to position her scooter so she can drive in to lift. Lift doors start to close because she’s mucking about. I stick arm out to stop doors closing. They do.

Briefly.

She’s now half in.

Doors start closing. I’m wafting my arm trying to alert the sensors there’s an object in door. My arm. On every occasion in a lift. This works.

But. For some inexplicable reason this time it doesn’t.

Doors are closing with my arm about to be crushed. I like to think I’m a reasonably strong bloke but am quite surprised how forceful the doors are. And with my arm still in the door trying to set a sensor off and physically trying to stop door closing, I am now swept sideways.

Which wouldn’t be too much of a problem if I had a spot to place foot to steady myself.

But said spot is taken up with a mobility scooter.

I have all on to stop myself being swept across and collapsing on to Madge.

You couldn’t make this stuff up.

So you’ll realise how nice it is to sit in my room with some excellent Affinois cheese, red wine and peppercorn saucisson, fresh baguette, olives etc and a bottle of Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon watching the sunset over Vancouver harbour and Grouse Mountain. Watching all the float planes coming home to roost. And Celebrity Summit departing for the Alaskan Inside Passage.

I could sit here all day watching the comings and goings.

When I retire…

NWP 3. Island hopping

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13 & 14-Aug-24 – Port Ludlow

And now for a magical mystery tour. I have nothing planned. No hotel booked for tonight. But I do have a car. Do I turn left or right out of the car park? I am a free spirit.

Do I go east inland? Do I go south towards Portland. Do I go north towards Vancouver? Do I go west to the islands? Hmmm.

I go north and west to the islands on an overcast and gloomy day. Low cloud blots out mountains. It’s dull and grey.

Turning off IS5 at Marysville, I find myself driving through the Tulalip Reservation. A federally recognised tribe and successors in interest to the Snohomish, Snoqualmie, Skykomish and other allied tribes and bands that signed the 1855 Treaty of Point Elliott. Nearly every house you pass has a RV parked in its driveway and I’m not sure if the RV is for ad-hoc use or someone is living in it full time given the detritus surrounding them.

Their website (https://www.tulaliptribes-nsn.gov/) states: ‘We agreed to cede title to our ancestral lands as signatories, which expanded to the top of the Cascade Mountains, north to Vancouver Island, and south to Oregon. In return, the treaty reserved the Tulalip Indian Reservation as our permanent homeland over which we have retained inherent sovereign jurisdiction.

Our status as a sovereign government maintains our right to self-govern as a “nation within a nation.” Including the inherent right as a government to raise revenue for our community. 92% of our services are funded from tribal hard dollars. These services included tribal member general welfare, family and senior housing, education, health, dental, and mental health services. It also includes law enforcement, fire protection, infrastructure improvements, and economic growth. Our tribal population is over 5,100 and growing, with 2,700 members residing on the 22,000 acres Tulalip Indian Reservation. We are located north of Everett and the Snohomish River and west of Marysville, Washington.’

The odd casino here and there helps.

Lunch at the northern tip of Fidalgo Island in Anacortes. Developed in the 1870s in the hope that it would be the terminus of the transcontinental railway, it was further developed in the 1950s with large oil refineries now blotting the landscape.

The main street looks like a typical late 19th century movie set. Something you might have seen in Back to The Future. It has that sort of feel to it.

Enticed by the Ghost Pepper Battered fish I soon realise that Ghost Pepper was in the Guinness Book of Records for being the hottest chili in the world.

I could still feel the spicy heat later that night.

Whilst having lunch ponder where to go next. There’s a ferry at 1445hrs to another island. It’s an hour away. It’s now 1315hrs. I can do this. So off I scoot in the Kia Sportage. Jaguar F-type it is not. But we get there. Half an hour before I set sail. Not had time to reserve a spot so, along with about 20 other cars am on standby. Told it could be this boat, the next or the one after the next.

Ferry arrives. I count 60 vehicles off. By my reckoning, I’m about car number 55 in the queue. Our lane moves forward. Yes! We’re moving forward on to the boat.

Until.

Three cars to go…the barrier comes down. Sod it. Next departure is 1615hrs. And I wait some more.

It’s with some relief that I manage to get on the next ferry and by now decide I’d better find a hotel for the night. Thank God for Google Maps. Now at the stage of the day where I just want to get somewhere and stop so a little gem of a place pops up on my search, a short drive from ferry terminal.

Port Ludlow Resort (https://portludlowresort.com) is just the ticket. Balcony view of the marina. Decent restaurant and a cold beer. Excellent end to the day.

The room has a gas fire. The pilot light is less pilot more Bunsen burner. As I wake in the middle of the night for the obligatory 4am pee, startled to see orange tinged shadows from the pilot light dancing on my wall. Jeez, thought there was a ghost!

Morning brew on the balcony watching the goings on in the marina. A float plane lands and chugs up to the dock. Birds soar overhead. It’s a bright blue sky start to the day. The water laps on the shore. It’s just silence apart from nature. This is how every day should start. Memorable.

Enroute south pass through Port Gamble. A charming little collection of old timber houses developed in the 1850s to support the lumber mill which had been set up to serve the region as lumber from New England was in short supply due to increasing demand. It became the longest running mill in North America and shipped lumber all over the world.

It’s noticeable as I head further south that there’s a lot more big houses lining the shore. Must have magnificent views of Puget Sound from the back gardens. Bainbridge Island is definitely more upmarket and across the water from Seattle. It’s where pickleball was invented in 1965 (the stuff you learn). This is where the wealthy live and there’s a nice relaxed feel to the place.

Last came here in 2019 on my Antarctica to Alaska trip so drop by the Bay Hay and Feed farm shop and garden centre for lunch as it was a flying visit last time and warrants another stop.

Much larger ferry back to Seattle so plenty of room and again only half an hour journey. Drop off car at Hertz and suddenly realise I’ve not filled up with petrol. Oh ‘eck, this is going to cost. Bloke at counter is Russian and very friendly. We do a deal. $17 to fill her up. Saves faffing.

Overnight stop at the Embassy Suites (https://www.hilton.com/en/hotels/seapses-embassy-suites-seattle-downtown-pioneer-square/) next to King Street Station. Perfect for an early morning train to Vancouver. Perfect views over the Seattle skyline and Puget Sound.

Dinner in the local restaurant. A homeless looking man is at a table nearby eating dinner. Naturally assume it’s the restaurant doing some community service feeding the homeless. But not too enamoured having to eat next to an unwashed homeless man with his long grey straggly hair and equally long straggly grey beard. Wearing shorts and sandals and a vest. Scruffy.

So you’ll imagine my surprise when he pulls out a leather wallet and produces a credit card to pay for meal. Perhaps not homeless after all.

We should never judge.

But we do.

NWP 2. PUBIC

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11 & 12 August 2024 – Seattle

It’s a leisurely couple of days pootling about Seattle as I gently adjust to BST minus 8hrs. Meander into downtown passing the unwashed camping out on the pavements. An increasing problem in every city centre you go to these days.

Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all are milling around Pike Place Market, the main tourist area in downtown. A collection of arts, crafts, restaurants and fresh food attract the many to the extent that it’s overcrowded and difficult to walk freely.

One of the main attractions is the fresh fish stall. You’d think a rock star was in town judging by the number of tourists with mobile phone cameras out videoing proceedings.

And what do they video?

Flying fish.

Fishmongers throw fish from the ice display to the counter a good few feet away so it can be weighed, wrapped and sold to the customer. Quicker than walking to the counter with fish in hand. And, of course, more entertaining. See video below. Having seen this before, experience has taught me to stand clear so as not to be splattered in fish juice. Lessons have been learnt dear reader.

Along the market area is the very first Starbucks coffee shop. And if you like queuing for a coffee this is the place to be. All along the front are shops selling food. Each with long lines of queues snaking along the pavement and queuing barriers. Astonishing to see so many queue. Not one for queuing I venture into another market for fish tacos but even that entails a five minute wait. And as we all know, there is no clean way to eat a fish taco. Sauce and juice dribbles everywhere. Classy.

Of course, the main tourist attraction in Seattle is the Space Needle. On a sunny weekend afternoon it is rammed with more long queues waiting to go up. So it’s late Monday morning when I stroll up and take the scenic lift to the top. Built for the 1962 World Fair it is recognisable the world over. Especially if you are a fan of TV show Frasier.

Lunch at the top with magnificent views is the plan. But there’s very limited choice. Chicken pie. Or beef pie. Beef pie it is. Piping hot it is not. It’s the sort of temperature between E-coli and botulism. With a dose of campylobacter. Nevertheless, it’s that or nowt. Hobson’s choice.

Descending to earth from the Galaxy Gold/Re-entry Red/Orbital Olive saucer at the top (yes, they are the genuine colour names…the things you continue to learn on this blog) I head off in search of Tom Hanks’ floating houseboat in the film Sleepless in Seattle. What should be a short walk to Union Lake turns into a trek.

The first thing I pass is a car park. The letter ‘L’ has been knocked over. It now reads PUBIC PARKING. Makes me smile and reminds me of an old 1960s-ish comedy film where the punchline showed a monument with the words along the lines of ‘By Pubic Erection’. Might have been a Bernard Cribbins/Charles Hawtrey type comedy? I did do an internet search for ‘pubic erection’ to find the name of the film but wished I hadn’t now.

The main road north out of Seattle has to be crossed. Naturally assume there will be a pedestrian crossing. Erm no. There’s a physical barrier preventing people playing Frogger (a 1980s computer game…). There must be a crossing further up think I. A mile later uphill I give up. There’s clearly no way of crossing. Outside the Catholic Hostel is a Lime Bike (electric scooter you can hire on a phone app…something I used regularly on many trips to Berlin until I nearly killed myself last summer coming within two feet of a car bonnet). The Catholics won’t mind if I use it. After some more riding uphill eventually an underpass to the other side. But having walked uphill for about a mile I am now some height above sea level. A steep staircase leads me down to the lake. Scooters are not made for concrete stairs and it takes some doing to stop it clattering on each step. Of which there are many.

Tom Hanks’s houseboat is apparently at 2460 Westlake Avenue. A collection of nice houseboats tightly packed behind a security gate. To keep the likes of me out. But after all that, somewhat disappointing that you can’t see the actual place as it’s at the end of the row, out of sight.

The afternoon ends with picking a car up from Hertz. We’re off on a magical mystery tour tomorrow. So mysterious that I don’t even know where we’re going yet!

NWP 1. First things First

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Originally, I was going to fly to Vancouver in Business but British Airways had a special offer to fly First to Seattle which was substantially cheaper. And a better flight schedule. So why not?!

Heathrow Terminal 5 has the added bonus of the Sofitel being attached to it, so an easy roll out of bed, a few steps(ish) and you’re in the terminal. All very relaxed. BA First has its own dedicated area so you can quickly waltz through security and into the Concorde Lounge far from the madding crowd. Of course, being the Concorde Lounge, there’s no scrum for the self service breakfast buffet like in the Business Lounge. No. This is waitress service. And a bacon sandwich is soon before me. Not usually one for breakfast but I will need something to soak up the soon to be quaffed champagne as I board the aircraft. Settle into my suite with oodles of space and leg room (ideal for my 6’5” heavyweight frame) sipping champagne. And relax. A bloke with a fluorescent pink Mohican sits opposite me. Can only assume he’s a rock star?

Like Hugh Grant in About a Boy, I split my flight into units of time. Champagne, relax and read The Spectator. One hour. G&T and canapes. Half an hour. Lunch. Two hours. Afternoon nap. Two hours. Film. Two hours. Afternoon Tea. Half hour. Read Kindle. One Hour. Arrive. Time really does fly.

Flying over Iceland and Greenland, it’s an excellent lunch of canapes, Canadian lobster, fillet of beef with a marrowbone crust, chocolate tart and cheese and biscuits. With a Tablas Creek glass of red which is rather moorish. This is the way to travel. Hard life innit.

Arriving in Seattle, fluorescent pink Mohican is clearly in a rush and races forward to the front exit to be the first to disembark. There’s only eight of us in First so not really necessary.

Except.

The airbridge veers to the middle exit door and we all have to turn around to exit through Business Class, who are first off the flight. Pink Mohican is now the last of the last.

Like lemmings we all follow the lead group down the terminal corridor. A woman ahead stands in the main corridor waiting for someone thus blocking off about 25% of the width of main corridor. Lead bloke in our pack turns right assuming ahead is a dead end because woman is blocking part of corridor. We all follow down a side corridor. About 50 of us by this time. Until…lead bloke realises he’s made a boo-boo and it’s a dead end. 50 people no doubt collectively and silently think ‘bozo’. And we all turn around. Realising that we should have continued straight on.

We’re all in a closed pack now but not wanting to trip over my neighbours I surge forward like Lewis Hamilton starting 11th on the grid at a Grand Prix weaving between legs and luggage. And soon find myself as lead. Striding forward with my long legs.

Thinking passport control is just around the corner.

But it’s not.

No. That’s in another part of Seattle.

One of the longest escalators I’ve been on (bit like Kiev’s underground escalators) takes us up high to cross a bridge over the taxiway. And then back down again to another terminal.

What feels like a mile later, I arrive at passport control expecting long queues.

But no. There is hardly anyone about and I’m straight through to an Immigration Officer for the usual interrogation. Last time I flew to the USA in February in New York, I was hauled off to a side room for further interrogation as to why I had a tourist visa rather than an ESTA. Well, dear reader, it’s because I once had a holiday in North Korea (see blog elsewhere on this website). Like you do. Except this time Seattle immigration bod is really genuinely interested in knowing what North Korea was like and so have to explain how brilliant it was and don’t believe everything you read in the press. Satisfied that I’m not a North Korean spy, he waves me through with a cheerful thanks and goodbye. Not like New York immigration and those with attitude.

Taxi to the Pan Pacific Hotel (www.panpacificseattle.com) where I previously stayed on my Antarctica to Alaska trip (blog also elsewhere on this website) and a room with a view of the Space Needle.

Feeling surprisingly perky and awake I find I’m sleepless in…

North West Passage (test)

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Hello again. This is a quick post to test the system is still working after being dormant for five years. My last blog post was departing Seattle in June 2019. The world changed a few months later when covid and lockdowns restricted all travel.

But…I am now back in Seattle at the start of a new adventure. Next week I board the MS Roald Amundsen ship in Nome, Alaska, to hopefully sail through the North West Passage in the Canadian Arctic archipelago and arrive in Halifax, Nova Scotia.

The last time I was in Seattle, I had spent six months travelling from Antarctica to the Arctic. In 2010, and also on this blog, I travelled Around the World in 60 Days. The Canadian sector of that RTW trip was overland by train from Vancouver to Halifax, NS. I now hope to do Vancouver to Halifax via ship across the top of Canada and hopefully ‘circumnavigate’ Canada, so to speak.

Only time will tell as sea ice may prevent a transit through the choke point of the North West Passage.

This blog will obviously depend on a) internet access in remote Arctic waters; and b) something interesting happening. I’m not sure the first four days at sea sailing through the Bering Strait will provide much in the way of an interesting read…but you never know.

So, if you do not want emails for the blog posts being published, just let me know and I will take you off the list…not a problem.

RTW 59. The Reform Club

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Wednesday, 30 June 2010

Nottinghamshire, UK

Land Heathrow at the ungodly hour of 0600hrs.

It’s 0230hrs body clock time.

No sleep on flight. Despite a large single malt.

Am knackered.

Heathrow hell is today Heathrow heaven. Takes 15 minutes between aircraft doors opening and sitting on the Heathrow Express to Paddington. A record.

Explain to taxi driver that I want to go to the Reform Club on Pall Mall. Which starts a conversation about my travels. He’s truly impressed.

Unlike my departure all those weeks ago, the doors of the Reform Club are open. Enquire with the doorman if it’s possible to poke my head in. And explain what I’ve just achieved. A story I suspect he’s heard many times before. But am allowed inside on the proviso no photographs are taken.

Very ornate interior entrance hall is the limit of my incursion but am feeling rather chuffed that I’ve finished my Around the World in 60 Days trip actually in the Reform Club.

Although the observant amongst you will realise that it only took 59 days.

Around the World in 59 Days doesn’t have the same ring though.

Does it.

 

 

Well, dear reader, hope you’ve enjoyed travelling with me around the world during these coronavirus times. The past week of blog posts were taken from diary entries written four months after returning from my trip. You know how it goes. The end is in sight and you run out of time and oompf to write diary every day. They were written from memory in the Apfelwein Mueller bar in Niederhochstadt, near Frankfurt, as I continued working there upon returning from my trip. Hence a few details may be missing. Or confused. Moral of the story is always keep on top of travel diary.

Am currently planning my next big trip. Overland to Oz & NZ. Though coronavirus and business commitments means this won’t be until at least 2022. But it will keep me travelling in the virtual world at least as I do the research.

Coronavirus has reinforced my view that you have got to get out there and see the world whilst you can. You never know what might happen.

Enjoy life whilst you can, dear reader.

‘Twenty years from now you will be disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbour. Catch the trade winds in your sails.

Explore.

Dream.

Discover.’

Until the next time, dear reader. Au revoir.

Make every day count.

RTW 58. Kissing the seal’s bottom

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Tuesday, 29 June 2010

St John’s, Canada

Final few hours in St John’s is spent at St John’s top tourist attraction. A newish building, imaginatively called, ‘The Rooms’. A collection of rooms housing art, artefacts, local history. Etc. Etc. Etc. With an excellent photographic exhibition on the subject of oil. Focussing (excuse the pun) on different aspects of oil exploration, extraction and consumption. One stand out photograph is an aerial shot of the Alberta oil sands. Wow. Such destruction of the natural habitat. A mass of forest and land is stripped away to reveal the bitumen laced earth. An assortment of processes are used to extract the bitumen from the earth. Google it, dear reader. It’s a massive industry with obvious environmental impacts.

Having spent a couple of days in Newfoundland am encouraged to become an Honorary Newfoundlander. At the local liquor store. No less.

Local brew is called ‘screecher’. Rum. Basically.

The daily ceremony starts at 1400hrs.

So arrive at 1355hrs.

Five. Minutes. Early.

However.

They’ve already started the ceremony. And the tosser doing it, a young lad in his early twenties, makes reference to me as the ‘latecomer’. In a very derogatory manner.

Not once.

But twice.

Someone’s going to get a slap, dear reader.

Ceremony involves kissing the bottom of a seal (stuffed) and repeat a phrase before taking a shot of screecher rum. Other ceremonies are available kissing a cod’s lips.

Seal’s bottom kissed.

Rum drunk.

Recitation recited.

Am now an Honorary Newfoundlander.

Whoopee.

Can’t wait to get out of Newfoundland.

Another clapped out taxi to the airport. Just to reinforce St John’s clapped out grimness.

Already have a boarding pass but not the code to the Business Class lounge airside. Peer through the window and motion to a woman inside that I want to get in. Clearly obvious that I want to come in. Clearly oblivious to the obvious motions. Am ignored. And only gain access when some bloke exits. Woman sneers as I walk past.

Sun sets over the apron as boarding begins.

This is the only reason for coming to St John’s. To take advantage of the direct flight home. A seasonal flight to cater primarily for the oil & gas industry.

Only a four and a half hour flight to Heathrow.

Bugger all sleep, dear reader.

RTW 57. Dot. Dot. Dot.

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Monday, 28 June 2010

St John’s, Canada

Even the blue sky doesn’t make St John’s less grim and grotty than Grimsby. It does allow a walk out of town and up to the top of Signal Hill though.

Signal Hill being famous for being the place where Marconi received the first transatlantic signal in Cabot Tower. Which sits atop. Originally a defensive fort protecting the entrance to the natural harbour that is St John’s. And used for flag mast signalling.

Technology advanced beyond flags on 12 December 1901. When Marconi received a Morse code signal from Cornwall in the UK. Using an antenna suspended by a kite.

The first communication was the letter S. In Morse Code.

Dot. Dot. Dot.

The enormity of this technological advancement came to the fore a few years later when the Titanic sinks to the south of St John’s. And Harold Cottam, whose granddaughter I know (see Quebec City post), received the SOS signal in his Marconi signal room aboard the Cunard liner, the Carpathia.

Walking around the headland and looking out to sea, realise the next land mass east is home. England. Actually closer to the UK here than Vancouver in the west. That’s how big Canada is.

Only one more day of magnificent meanderings. Sit on a rock looking out to sea contemplating what I’ve achieved. It’s been an awesome trip.

Footpath becomes quite treacherous in places as I round the headland back to the narrow gorge forming the entrance to the natural harbour. Necessitates clinging to a chain fastened to the rockface in parts. Sheer drop to the sea below. Scale of the cliffs either side of the narrows exacerbated by the small white lighthouse at the mouth of the narrows.

Entering the town from the cliff path are remnants of storm damage. Many of the wooden buildings have been crushed by the might of the ocean and left to slowly decay. Perfect location for the view. But clearly a risky location for protection from the elements.

Late afternoon as I walk back through town. It’s grim. Have nothing nice to say about St John’s. It’s a dump. One particular road is lined with bars. Hearing live music emanating from one requires investigation. An Irish bar. Obviously. After a brisk walk, a pint of Guinness wouldn’t go amiss. Clientele has much to be desired. Grotty pub. Grotty people. Grotty street. The late afternoon sun streams in through the windows highlighting the dust and grime on the tables.

Not a bad pint of Guinness and were it Fagans in Dublin or Gibneys in Malahide, I’d be settling in for the night.

But.

It’s not.

So I don’t.

Having asked hotel reception for a restaurant recommendation am directed to a pub well known for its fish and chips. Walk towards it and a group of teenage lads on the opposite side of the road I’m keeping an eye on, ‘cos it’s that sort of town, suddenly find a couple of bricks on the pavement and promptly throw them through the window of a disused building.

Told you it was that sort of town.

There’s definitely an undercurrent of something sinister in St John’s.

Eventually find the fish and chip pub. Down a back street. Couple of tattooed thugs stand outside the entrance. Smoking. It’s not endearing me to walk in. And it looks grotty.

An about turn and return to ‘Blue on Water’. The scene of last night’s antics. For something finer than fish and chips. Fillet steak and a glass of decent red.

Return to hotel and reception catch me. To give me a green glo-stick. As the power in the bedrooms is going off soon to enable some electrical work to be carried out. The glo-stick is to be used if you need emergency light.

Nightcap required. Order a drink at the bar. And pay. And walk off. To enjoy in the comfort of my own room.

Oh. Dear. God.

It’s as though I’ve just murdered someone. Have broken Canada’s stupid alcohol laws. It’s not allowed. An argument ensues.

Make out that I’ll sit in the bar to drink it.

With gazelle like speed I leap up and escape the bar with drink once barman’s back is turned.

And retire to room.

But.

That glo-stick is just looking at me wanting to be snapped and ‘let off’. Not played with a glo-stick before.

So.

There I am.

Drinking Jameson’s in the garish green glow.

Little things, dear reader, little things.

RTW 56. Any sore spots?

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Sunday, 27 June 2010

St John’s, Canada

Have ordered a bus transfer to the airport that picks up from the front of the hotel. CA$20 for the half hour journey. Exit hotel and greeted by a couple of taxi drivers touting for business. Told I’m waiting for the bus in ten minutes, they offer to take me to the airport for the same price.

Done deal.

Transfer in comfort rather than a cramped public bus.

Small airport with hardly any other passengers. So go straight through the scanner. Only to be stopped for a full on search.

My belt is loosened by the guard who then asks if I have any sore spots.

WHAT?!?!

Bloody hell, what’s this search going to be like?!

Rucksack is emptied. And I mean emptied of everything.

And bomb swabbed. To check for all those explosives I’m not carrying.

Clearly bored on account of no passengers am being given the full treatment.

Nail scissors confiscated. Notwithstanding the three flight security checks they’ve already passed through on this trip. Two small jeweller’s screwdrivers for my glasses just about pass muster after a lot of deliberation.

Having relieved me of my scissors am allowed airside.

Terminal takes all of a few strides to see in its entirety. Heathrow it isn’t.

Short flight to St John’s. Newfoundland. And not far from the easternmost point of North America at Cape Spear. Very rugged coastline enroute reminds me of the flight I took from Newquay to the Isles of Scilly a few years ago and the northern Cornish coast.

Utterly clapped out taxi to the downtown Delta Hotel (https://www.marriott.com/hotels/travel/yytds-delta-hotels-st-johns-conference-centre/). A sign of things to come.

Rapidly realising that St John’s is crap. No other word for it. Think Grimsby on a wet day. Yep. That bad.

Walking to the quayside merely reinforces initial view. More grimness. Plenty of undesirables about.

Enquire about a whale tour. Not guaranteed to see whales and forecast is for it to be a bit choppy. Don’t do choppy. Not since a four hour deep sea fishing expedition off the coast of Cornwall with my Dad in 1984. No. Not to be repeated, dear reader. Will give whales a miss.

Am assured the best restaurant in town is ‘Blue on Water’. Need somewhere quiet to catch up on diary, dear reader. Am way behind.

Sit and scribble away. Surprisingly busy for a Sunday night me thinks.

Persuaded to try the local delicacy.

Cod cheeks.

And.

Cod tongue.

Very tasty.

Continue scribbling. Quietly minding my own business.

Party of six on the adjacent table. Clearly here as part of a conference in town. One of the women asks what I’m doing.

Explain my around the world in 60 days tour.

They’re very interested.

It starts a chain reaction.

Another woman, who is much more extrovert, is, apparently, the niece of a famous Canadian Prime Minister. Whose name I have forgotten. Though had never heard of him. So not Trudeau.

The lone man in the party is actually English. From Lincoln.

Oh really, I say. I’m from Nottingham.

Really? My sister lives near Nottingham.

What do you do for a living? Says he.

I’m a Quantity Surveyor.

Really? My sister is married to a Quantity Surveyor!

No way! Who is it?

And tells me the name of a well known Partner/Owner of one of Nottingham’s quantity surveying practices.

Such a small world!

They’ve all had a few bottles of wine by now. It’s getting messy.

First woman that spoke to me says she has a very good looking 30-ish daughter. Who loves travelling. Who works in London. The whole party of six is now trying to fix me up with her daughter. Mother is now trying to get in touch with her for daughter to meet me when I arrive back in the UK on Wednesday.

They insist on photos.

End up with the Mother and the former Canadian Prime Minister’s niece, who, it turns out, is daughter’s Godmother, sitting on my knees for photos.

To send to daughter in London.

So.

There I am.

Two strange women on my knees. Drunken arms slung around my neck and shoulders.

Being photographed.

You. Couldn’t. Make. It. Up.

Taurean charm you see.

RTW 55. Beaver Tail

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Saturday, 26 June 2010

Halifax, Canada

In need of the revitalising properties of a bacon buttie, head off to the Farmers’ Market. Best place to try for a bacon buttie. Place order at stall. Pay up. Given a ticket. Sit and wait. With my coffee.

And wait.

And wait.

Soon becomes apparent that yours truly is not the only one waiting. Mutterings of discontent from other tables.

Takes a sodding hour to get a bacon buttie. By which time the Farmers’ Market is packing up. It obviously not being the crack of dawn. Bacon buttie is more lunch than breakfast.

Fully revitalised am to take a tour of the Alexander Keith brewery. Founded in 1820, the marketing blurb promises an unforgettable tour with songs, stories and, obviously, beer tasting. Unforgettable yes. Rather annoying, to the point of irritating, young girl gives the tour dressed in early 19th century dress. Far too happy to be doing this job. She clearly wants to be an actress. Judging by the over enthusiastic performance of singing and dancing we’re given enroute. Which culminates in the entire tour group having to exit through the doors and out in to the Farmers’ Market singing, skipping and clapping.

You can imagine the embarrassment, dear reader, of being watched skipping out from a brewery, singing and clapping.

All nonce like.

In need of some fresh air, see another amphibious bus tour. Having escaped a sinking in Ottawa, will try a second time. Fifteen minutes to wait for the next departure. Feeling peckish, spot a ‘Beaver Tail’ stall. Iconic Canadian food. Think a long and large flattened doughnut. Without the hole. Made with dough and deep fried before being covered in a variety of toppings. Sugar. Chocolate. Nutella. Fruit. The usual stuff.

However.

Told it will take fifteen minutes to make.

Now about three minutes before departure on the amphibious bus. Situation is explained. Pity is taken on me. Promptly served someone else’s Beaver Tail so I can jump on the bus. Like now. Much to the disgust of everyone in the Beaver Tail queue. Can do queue jumping when I want, dear reader. Slope off pretending to be French. People tutting. Scoffing my freshly fried Beaver Tail. Oh, it’s good, dear reader. Very tasty. Very unhealthy.

Board the amphibious bus. Not many seats so choose to sit at the back to avail of the legroom. It’s a seat for three but two guys already occupy most of it. Motion that I’m going to sit there. Very reluctantly they shift up. Lad now in the middle is chewing a toothpick. Whenever I see people chewing a toothpick, there’s something in me that makes me want to ram it down their throat. Once worked on a construction project in Frankfurt which had an Italian contractor. All the Italians used to walk around chewing sodding toothpicks after lunch. Ooh. I could quite easily have a field day.

The tour around the town shows up nothing new as did most of that yesterday but the best bit is when we hit the water. Chugging past the massive aircraft carriers. Getting ready for HM The Queen tomorrow and the Fleet Inspection. The US Nimitz class carriers dwarf the Royal Navy’s HMS Ark Royal aircraft carrier. All the fleet are surrounded by a 200m boom forming an exclusion zone to prevent any incursions.

Marines patrol in their speed boats.

You wouldn’t want to mess with them.