RTW 54. HM The Queen

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Friday, 25 June 2010

Halifax, Canada

There’s a real buzz in Halifax. HM The Queen is coming to visit in two days. Major preparations are under. Many naval ships in the harbour are waiting to position themselves for the Fleet Inspection. One warship is reflected in the mirrored facade of a newly constructed building. Part of the harbourfront development which includes the Pier 21 Musuem. Canada’s Ellis Island (in New York). The place where all immigrants entered Canada in days gone by. Impressive multi media display.

Did you know that Samuel Cunard, founder of the Cunard cruise line, was born in Halifax? You do now, dear reader.

Steeper than anticipated walk up the hill to the citadel overlooking the town and the harbour. Prime defensive position. Which again has an amazing vista. Star shaped as most citadels are, it was completed in 1856 as a defensive position by the British to protect against US Forces. But never saw any action. Union flag still flies proudly.

One of the most horrendous sounds known to man must be the bagpipes. Can’t stand the noise. But have to walk past a piper playing. Actually a young girl in 19th century woollen clothing. It’s the hottest day. She must be sweltering in the heat. It being a ‘living history’ monument where everyone is kitted out in Victorian era clothing of the 78th Highlanders (hence the bagpipes) and the Royal Artillery. They’re recreating the cannon gunfire. All gather around the parade ground. Whilst soldiers stand to attention next to their cannon in the centre.

And light the fuse.

BANG.

Bloody hell.

It. Is. Loud.

Pretty impressive seeing a group of parcours runners on the way back down to town. One runs up to a lamppost and uses that as a springboard up to a 7ft high wall.

I think about trying it out, dear reader.

But.

You know.

Beer beckons.

RTW 53. End of the line

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Thursday, 24 June 2010

Halifax, Canada

Well this is it, dear reader. The final rail day on the rails of this trip.

Most of the day is spent trundling along the tracks passing the usual landscape of lakes and trees. Very Canadian.

The train has actually, and unbelievably, run out of food. A brief stop for supplies is required. Lunch is put back. Pretty pathetic service and totally inefficient. Not like the Trans Canadian at all.

About 100 miles from Halifax pass through a town which heard the great explosion of Halifax in 1917, when a French cargo ship carrying explosives crashed into another ship which ignited the explosives and created what was the biggest man made explosion at the time. The explosion demolished structures within a half mile radius thus destroying most of Halifax and killing about 2,000 people. Must have been some explosion if you could hear it 100 miles away.

Arrive Halifax.

This is the end of the line.

No more rail travel.

Quite sad really.

Walk through railway station to the adjoining hotel and ask door staff if they would call a taxi for me. Thus niftily bypassing the long queue for the station taxi rank. Bit of quick thinking. No flies on me, dear reader.

Check in to the Marriott Harbourfront Hotel (https://www.marriott.co.uk/hotels/travel/yhzmc-halifax-marriott-harbourfront-hotel/) to discover there’s masses of rowdy teenagers. Attending the local school prom.

Quiet room please. Away from this rigmarole. Am told there will be no noise or rowdiness. They have the police stationed in the hotel. Just in case.

Reception recommend Salty’s for dinner. Fantastic fish restaurant. Fantastic view of the waterfront. Excellent waiter who knows his wines. We get on well.

This is the perfect place for a period of quiet reflection on an amazing rail journey. A little celebratory drink or two with fresh fish freshly fried.

Oh yes. This is the life.

I am so lucky.

Return to hotel to find the lobby crawling with police. And paramedics.

A young school kid is sitting on the lobby sofa.

His face bleeding profusely.

Fight night.

RTW 52. Harold Cottam

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Wednesday, 23 June 2010

Quebec City, Canada

Sadly this is the final day in Quebec City. Shall miss it. Been one of the highlights of the trip. Nice old town and excellent hotel.

Excellent few hours at the Titanic exhibition in the city. I have a VERY tenuous connection to the Titanic. I am friends with the granddaughter of Harold Cottam. You may be wondering who Harold Cottam is, dear reader. Well. Born in Nottinghamshire, he was the wireless operator of the ship ‘Carpathia’ and it was he who received the distress call from the Titanic as it started to sink in April 1912. And thus raised the alarm. His diligence and prompt reaction were instrumental in saving 705 lives.

An unsung hero.

A day of interesting historical facts continues when I take a tour of the hotel I’ve been staying in the past few days. The Chateau Frontenac. It being the hotel where Churchill and Roosevelt met to arrange the D-Day landings. Taken to the room where it all happened. The story goes that they accidentally left the plans for the invasion in the room once they’d left. Only to be hastily retrieved by one of the waiters. And handed back.

Finally time to depart for the railway station. And an early evening departure.

Ho.

Ho.

Ho.

Due to the vagaries of VIA Rail, Canada’s passenger rail service, the departure station is not the same as the arrival station. Scheduled to take a rail bus from the railway station actually in Quebec City to a suburban railway station at Charny, a 20 minute bus ride away. To meet the Montreal to Halifax sleeper train.

However.

There’s been a 5.0 magnitude earthquake near Montreal. Which has delayed the train by about two sodding hours. Notwithstanding that, we are transferred to Charny bang on time.

However.

There is no rail bus.

No.

That’s too simple.

The rail company have laid on some taxis.

Except.

The number of people and their bags won’t fit in the number of taxis provided.

Flipping French. Can’t organise a whatsit in a brewery.

Taxi drivers start falling out with one another as it becomes apparent one taxi driver shouldn’t be there. He’s gatecrashed their little taxi mafia party. They’re not having it. He only has a normal saloon car. The others have people carriers.

I get in one taxi and load up my bags.

Then told I’m in the wrong sodding taxi. Notwithstanding they’re all going to the same station.

Have to decant and swap taxis.

New taxi driver has a hearing aid implant which clearly affects his notion of speed and distance between him and the rear bumper of the car in front. Tailgating at high speed.

Arriving at Charny surprisingly in one piece discover that the train is further delayed due to the earthquake due to speed restrictions on the line. And is now scheduled to depart at midnight.

It is now 2030hrs. Three and a half hours to kill.

For those that have not been to Charny and its railway station you will appreciate that three and a half hours is three hours and twenty nine minutes too long. I use the term railway station rather loosely. It’s basically a shed by the railway track.

No business class lounge. Tsk.

No wifi. Tsk.

No hope.

The shed is hot, sweaty and humid.

A breather is required for some fresh air in the hot and humid night.

Standing there minding my own business. Trying to cool off.

And then.

A single gunshot.

Nearby.

Clucking bell.

Followed by sirens.

Not wanting to be shot beat a hasty retreat inside. Under cover of a solid brick wall.

Train eventually arrives.

Bloody hell.

It’s long.

So long in fact that it has to stop twice.

The first time to take on passengers at the front of the train going to Gaspe. The second time to take on passengers at the rear of the train going to Halifax.

Unlike the Trans Canadian and its original 1950s carriages this sleeper is brand new. Cabins complete with a proper ensuite bathroom and shower. Ah yes. This is nice and modern.

In need of an ice cold beer on account of over three hours waiting for a train in a hot and humid shed am directed to the bar car. In the middle of the train. And a beautiful young stewardess. We stop serving at 2230hrs. Surely she’ll take pity on me as the train’s been delayed?

Nope. Not having it. Absolutely adamant she can’t. It’s the law.

Epic fail on the Taurean charm.

Hells bells.

Losing my touch.

Now grumpy and thirsty, my cabin attendant suggests talking to her colleague in the observation car at the rear of the train.

Actually quicker to jump off train and walk down the platform to the rear and then jump on again.

This is more like it. Much more welcoming and flexible with alcohol laws. At this end of the train.

Couple of ice cold beers? Thank you very much.

And would you like some whisky miniatures to go with that?

Thank you very much.

Taurean charm you see.

Phew. Still got it.

RTW 51. Elvis

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Tuesday, 22 June 2010

Quebec City, Canada

Having booked a tour of the outlying region need to get out of bed super early. A shock to the system. Have got used to a regular lie in, dear reader. The revitalising properties of a mug of tea and a crispy bacon buttie soon wakes me up.

Manage to grab the middle seat of the back row on the tour bus. Long legs need to be stretched out. Bus driver drives one handed as he holds the microphone in the other hand. So that’ll be safe. He sounds exactly like the Elvis impersonator on BBC Radio 2’s Steve Wright Show. Could almost be him.

Short drive to the Montmorency Falls. Accessed by a long steep staircase with 487 steps. Or, for the more intelligent, a cable car. A no brainer. The cascade of 83m is actually 33m higher than Niagra Falls but nowhere near as wide. Cable car arrives at the top and greeted by a large white villa. The Manoir Montmorency. Constructed in 1780 by the Governor and Commander of British Forces in Quebec Province and modelled on the architecture of French influenced Louisiana style buildings in the Deep South of America. Merely as a summer retreat. They do like their views these Brits. Perched overlooking the falls and the St Lawrence River and the Ile d’Orleans. Small island in the middle of the river. Not a bad view to wake up to.

Crossing onto the Ile d’Orleans reminds me of Hornby Island and a scheduled stop at a chocolate factory would be interesting. Were it not sadly lacking in any form of chocolate making. The food theme continues at Marie’s Bakery back on the mainland. This is more like it. Fresh homemade bread, spread with homemade Maple Butter. Gently melting into the warm bread. Mouth watering yet, dear reader? Maple Butter is a very sweet mixture with a similar texture to condensed milk flavoured with maple syrup. Have to have a second slice just to check the taste again.

Having been to Lourdes and seen the hysterical nonsense that pervades the place, you can imagine my cynicism as we visit Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupre. A well known Basilica famous for the healing properties of St Anne. A couple of columns at the entrance have a number of crutches, sticks and assorted cripple paraphernalia. Purported to be left by the miraculously cured. Bloody nonsense. Still a cynical old sod.  Quite ornate inside and a further worship hall is located in the basement. Bit like being in an overflow car park.

Across the road is the world famed Jerusalem Cyclorama. One of the world’s largest murals. Intrigued, I pay the CA$9 entrance fee. What a waste of money. A 360 degree painting on the wall of biblical scenes with cardboard cut-outs in the foreground. The sort last seen in a Paddington Bear TV programme in the 1970s.

Being someone that can manage to be at an exact location at exactly the specified time, it irritates the hell out of me when you rush something so as not to be late for the others. You know. Out of respect for others waiting. So. You can imagine how irritating it is when someone doesn’t turn up at the prescribed time. We wait. And wait. And wait. And wait some more. It’s the sodding wife of one of the blokes. And she’s not even French. It’s usually the French who are late isn’t it. He’s managed to lose her. Either by accident or design. If it were me, it’d be by design. Having chatted with her earlier. Someone lends him their phone so he can ring his wife. She’s in a sodding souvenir shop. Twenty minutes later we depart for a visit to a copper workshop and demonstration of copper ‘engraving’. Which is really rather good. Everything is done by the family. The father, Gilles, set it up years ago and when he died the wife and daughter continued the business. The ‘engraving’ is done by pressing down on the soft copper with metal tools to create a relief on the other side of various flowers, artistic shapes and objects featuring animals like cockerels.

Back in Quebec City, video call with my favourite colleague, mucker and drinking buddy, we’ll call him Nick (‘cos he wants his 15 minutes of fame in this blog) and am fully informed about General Wolfe, the British Commander at the Battle of the Plains of Abraham in Quebec City, on account of him watching a recent TV programme about the battle. A second foray to the battle site is now required to visit the Wolfe Monument. It being a hot day, in need of an ice cream. Nearest place is the Art Gallery cafe next to the monument.

“Do you sell ice-cream?”

“No. But I can do you a smoothie which has ice-cream in it.”

Erm…

RTW 50. I’ll let you off

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Monday, 21 June 2010

Quebec City, Canada

Well this is all very civilised, dear reader. Quebec City. Is. Very. Nice.

Further enhanced by the glorious blue sky.

Map in hand, perambulate the Promenade. Like a Victorian pier clinging to the cliff side rather than jutting out to sea. Decked in wood with small bandstand type places dotted along where you can shelter from the sun. Fantastic views across the St Lawrence river to Levis on the opposite side. Either a steep walk down to the Lower Old town or a CA$2 funicular ride. Has to be the funicular.

And here’s a quiz question for you, dear reader. In which city did I last take a funicular ride. You know the drill. Email me. First person to email me gets absolutely nothing.

The Lower Old Town has properties with gable ends decorated with impressive murals depicting what life would be like here in the 18th and 19th centuries. There’s a nice relaxed feel here. Despite the Japanese tourists.

Past the Citadel are the Plains of Abraham. Site of a famous battle between the English and the French in 1759. It lasted an hour. We won. Now seemingly used as an open air concert venue given the staging being erected.

In order to reinforce the British presence in Quebec City, the citadel was later constructed in 1820 adjacent this battlefield site. Only accessible now on a guided tour. A couple nearby argue the toss over who should stand where. Deary me. Get a life you two. French Canadian tour guide gives us an English language tour. I say English language but it’s more like being in the BBC TV sitcom ‘Allo ‘Allo with their faux French accents sounding exactly like he does. Giggles are stifled.

The British built a citadel with a view. Wow. Awesome vistas. Could think of worse places to be holed up fighting.

After all that walking about pass an Irish pub on the way back to the hotel.

Its outdoor terrace bathed in the late afternoon sun. A spare seat outdoors. With my name on it. A cold pint of Guinness. With my name on it.

Along with another pint and a Scooby snack the bill is CA$28. Pay the bill at the bar. And round it up to CA$30. As that’s convenient for handing over three ten dollar notes.

Barman is indignant and tells me in no uncertain terms that it’s not enough.

What?!

Waitress pipes up. It’s normal to add 15%. So CA$4.20. I’d added CA$2.00.

We’re talking about a quid, dear reader.

Waitress realises I’m British. So clearly not a tipper.

She says, “It’s OK. I’ll let you off!”

You cheeky so and so.

And off I go.

Muttering profanities to myself.

Like some loon talking to himself.

RTW 49. Chateau Frontenac

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Sunday, 20 June 2010

Quebec City, Canada

Glad to leave Montreal. Not one of my favourite places. Feels grubby.

Am in need of a bit of cleanliness.

So after three and half hours travelling by train to Quebec City you can imagine my delight as I check in to the Fairmont Chateau Frontenac Hotel (https://www.fairmont.com/frontenac-quebec/).

Quebec’s most luxurious. And possibly the world’s most photographed hotel.

Architecturally stunning. Built like a chateau in 1893 as part of the Canadian Pacific Railway hotels built across Canada as part of an expanding rail network. To attract high end tourism and increase the use of the railways by the public. Its tower was later added in the 1920s.

Stunning views of the citadel and the old town of Quebec City.

Yes.

This will do for a few days, dear reader.

This will do.

RTW 48. Drowned Rat

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Saturday, 19 June 2010

Montreal, Canada

My view of Montreal being grungy doesn’t improve as I walk down Rue St Denis in the Latin Quarter and pass through some grungy looking hippie hangout under some concrete walkways strewn with tents and sleeping bags.

But then.

It improves slightly as I enter the old city. A complete change in atmosphere and scenery makes for an enjoyable stroll through the back streets. Though not a great deal to see.

Have to wait briefly for a table at lunch whilst it’s cleared. Order a drink at the bar and when table is ready start to take my glass with me. Stunningly beautiful barmaid says, “I’ll take it for you.”. Being completely capable of holding a glass in my hand, and for which I am fully practised, reply with, “It’s OK thank you.”

She retorts with, “It’s my job.”

Oh. OK then.

And she follows me to table. With my glass on her tray.

Am served by another stunningly beautiful young girl. Montreal is beginning to redeem itself.

By now the bright blue sky has given way to thick cloud. Humidity is sky high. Thunderstorm feels like it’s in the air.

It’s getting sticky, dear reader. Seriously sticky.

Not wanting to walk about getting all hot and sweaty investigate an open top bus tour at the Tourist Info office. Asked in English. Told in French. Here we go. Have to prompt her to speak English. Told the buses are finished for the day. It being only early afternoon. More French influence obviously.

Ask the girl I’ve just enquired with what the quickest way is to the top of Mont Royal lookout. Told I have to take a ticket and queue for an adviser.

WHAT?!?

You’ve just answered my question on the bus query. You can surely answer that quick question. There’s going to be a rumpus, dear reader.

She’s not having it.

Ask her if she knows the answer and she repeats that I have to take a ticket and queue for an adviser.

She knows the answer.

Far be it for me to say that there’s one thing worse than the French. The French Canadian. Like the Inbetweeners (Belgians, Luxembourgers, Swiss) they’re not sure what they are. French today. German tomorrow. Something else the day after.

Deary me.

Grab a ticket.

And queue.

Finally.

An answer to an easy question takes ten seconds of someone’s time.

It’s a 20-25 minute walk up the footpath.

That’s the quickest way. That’s all I wanted to know.

What they didn’t say was that it was up a bloody steep path. What they didn’t say was that with this humidity you will get drenched in sweat. What they didn’t say was that there were hundreds of sodding steps to climb.

Jeez.

Bloody hard work, dear reader.

Keep telling myself it will be worth it for the mesmerising views of Montreal from Mont Royal. From which Montreal takes its name. A volcanic hill which in this heat and humidity might as well be Mount Everest.

No gain without pain. I keep telling myself.

Huffing, puffing and perspiring as I wend my way.

Just as I approach the lookout point at the top. A spot of rain. And then another. And another.

Fortunately. I am under cover of some trees.

Ho ho ho.

And then it starts raining.

Not the usual rain us Englanders are used to.

No.

This is like being in a drench shower.

For which tree cover is insufficient.

Quick dash 50 yards for the cover of the Belvedere. And get a little bit wet in doing so.

It’s after an hour of solid heavy rain that I’m glad I made the quick dash to the Belvedere. At least I am now dry. Unlike others who have been caught out. There’s going to be some stiff competition for the Drowned Rat Awards. Smugly sitting in the dry with a wry smirk on my face as I see how drenched some folk are.

The view is dismal. Can see as far as the balustrade a few feet away and then it’s just rain cloud. Oh yes. Well worth the climb.

After well over an hour sitting in the dry and waiting for the rain to subside it peters out to a bit of a spit. I’ll have to make a run for it. The trees lining the path will provide sufficient cover for this little spit of rain.

Ho.

Ho.

Ho.

How wrong I can be.

The slight ease in the rain was a precursor to a further torrent.

I.

Get.

Drenched.

And I mean drenched. Everything I am wearing is soaked through. Right down to underwear.

Have a soggy bottom, dear reader.

Wetter than wet can be.

I would be drier sitting in a bath full of water.

At the bottom of the hill. Have to find a taxi. On this very wet day. At rush hour. Just as a football match has finished.

Yep. But it doesn’t matter. I can’t get any wetter.

Eventually. An empty taxi.

Driver is amused. Very amused. At the drowned rat who looks like he has won the wet t-shirt competition. With soaking wet jeans clinging to my legs I have all the flexibility of someone in a plaster cast as I creak and groan into the taxi.

Where I sit steaming in the warmth of the taxi.

RTW 47. Bonjour

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Friday, 18 June 2010

Montreal, Canada

Some thought has gone into the timing of the rail journey between Ottawa and Montreal. Coincides with the kick off time of the England v Algeria World Cup football match.

Cunning plan to pass the two hour rail journey watching a live stream of the match. Find a live stream on the internet which comes from a Pakistan provider. You can guess how this is going to work out can’t you.

The stream plays perfectly for five seconds then buffers for ten seconds. Yep. That’ll make for a long game. A dreadful game that ends with a 0-0 draw. Wishing I hadn’t sent my two Algerian colleagues, whom I’d been working with in Qatar a few months ago, a cheeky email saying I’d have a beer for them to celebrate England’s win.

Arrive in Montreal and greeted with a ‘Bonjour’ by the surly taxi driver.

And so it begins.

Despite failing O level French, rather surprise myself with the outpouring of words that surprisingly form a coherent sentence in French. And we surprisingly arrive at the place I wanted to go to. The Hotel Le Relais Lyonnais (http://lerelaislyonnais.com/en/). Located on Rue St Denis right in the centre of a vibrant street lined with restaurants and shops. There’s a good buzz this Friday evening but thankful for a quiet courtyard room. Suspect it’s going to get noisy later.

The area is getting ready for the Montreal Jazz festival in a few weeks with sound stages being rigged. For the moment though it’s the Franco Festival. All things French. Jolly good.

Everything is in French. Signage. Menus. No English. Very annoying being greeted in French. Hard to believe that Montreal is in the same country as Vancouver.

Lots of weird types and beggars about. And an awful lot of sex shops and girlie bars in the mainstream areas.

It’s all a bit grungy, dear reader.

RTW 46. Emilie

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Thursday, 17 June 2010

Ottawa, Canada

It’s 0545hrs. Three taxi drivers are arguing the toss over who should take me to the railway station. A few blocks away. None want to take me. No. They want to do an airport run. An expensive fare rather than my paltry CA$6.

Security measures are in place for next week’s G20 summit. So have to be dropped off away from the main entrance to the station. Train is manky. Even in First Class. Canada hasn’t really grasped the concept of train travel. Unlike Europe with its plush high speed trains.

Four and a half hour journey time hampered by having to give way to goods trains. Goods trains take priority on the rails. They’re used to transport goods and sea containers from the west coast to the east coast. And vice versa. Quicker and cheaper than sailing through the Panama Canal. Apparently.

For the first time in Canada the scenery is much like England. Undulating countryside. Fields. Cows. And did those feet…

The VIA Rail station is 7km from the city of Ottawa and now heading towards French speaking territory. Taxi driver has to radio the controller to find out where my hotel is. So well known then. But the Hotel Indigo (now https://www.themetcalfehotel.com/) is on Metcalfe Street. The main shopping street of Ottawa and five minutes from Parliament Hill.

Akin to the British Houses of Parliament complete with a Big Ben looking tower they Parliament Hill consists of three buildings that look like they’ve been airlifted out of London. Green copper roof and intricate stonework. Its front lawn has a group of Falun Gong supporters/protesters making themselves known. A 40 minute guided tour of the Parliament necessitates an hour’s security queue. Sod that. So walk around the buildings until I find another entrance and some more security people. Discovering there’s no security queue now take the opportunity to enter the Parliament. The queue has migrated to the lift to the top of the tower. Don’t do queuing. So pass on that and make my way to the Memorial Hall. Small room at the base of the tower. Houses Memorial books from World War 1 and World War 2 listing all the names of Canadians who died in the wars. The World War 1 book is enclosed in a glass case with brass angels at each corner on a stone altar in the centre of the room. A page is displayed showing various names and is turned to the next page each day.

Now that the lift queue has subsided enjoy the view of Ottawa from the top of the tower. Still so flat. Can see for miles on this gloriously sunny, blue sky day. Downside is it’s chuffing hot.

As I leave have to pause to see the procession of the ceremonial mace to open the day’s parliamentary session. Needless to say. It’s the same style as the British Parliament’s mace.

Continuing a theme of trying to travel on as many types of transport test the amphibious tour bus. You know the ones. They have a tendency to sink. Forty minute tour of the city on the roads feels like a duck out of water. Final twenty minutes begins with a slow and tentative drive down a steep and bumpy slipway into the Ottawa River. Crossing from Ontario into Quebec as we do. Ensuring I know where the life jackets are. Ensuring the window is open for a quick escape. Oh yes. An enjoyable twenty minutes.

Back on dry land find that many parts of Ottawa are like London. Bytown Market has that Covent Garden feel. Victorian era houses line the side streets.

Notre Dame Cathedral has that grey stone look but with sunlight glinting off its brightly shining spires which almost look silver. Inside is ornate and sit down for a few moments. Not to pray, dear reader. No. A brief respite from the sun and to cool down from the heat outside.

Passing under a 20ft spider next to the Art Museum pay the CA$15 entrance fee merely to take advantage of some air-conditioning. Fantastic atrium with incline ramp up to the first floor and the Pop Life exhibition. Pop art from the 1960s onwards. Andy Warhol. Jeff Koons.

One of the installations is called ‘The Twins’.

Two young twin girls in their twenties sit on chairs either side of a glass table.

Real live human beings. Just sitting there. Doing nothing.

So that’s art is it?

Discuss.

Dead horse impaled with a placard bearing ‘INRI’.

So that’s art is it?

Cobblers if you ask me.

But then I’m a science sort of person.

It’s all a bit poor, dear reader.

In one darkened room lit by UV light they invite you to scribble on a black wall with UV pens.

The inner kid in me can’t resist the temptation to write in bold letters as high up as possible where no one else can reach ‘Touring Taurean’s World Tour 17-Jun-10’. I know. It amuses me anyway.

Such is the warmth of the summer evening decide on dinner al fresco. And where better than the terrace of the Fairmont Hotel overlooking the Rideau Canal. A feat of engineering comprising 47 locks over its 126 mile length and built in 1832 to connect Ottawa to Lake Ontario and the Saint Lawrence River.

Perfect location to watch the golden sunset. This must be the best location in town. But surprisingly not busy.

Busy writing diary as I soak up the remains of the day over a decent pint and excellent food.

My waitress takes an interest in what I’m writing about.

Explain the trip.

Asked if I’ll write a book. One day, dear lady. One day.

Promise to mention her in it. If I do.

So.

Emilie.

This is for you.

RTW 45. Massage

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Wednesday, 16 June 2010

Toronto, Canada

Up on the 23rd floor the hotel is shrouded in rain. And the view is of the inside of a cloud. Tipping it down. Am struggling to walk, dear reader. My left foot. Is knackered.

Decide it needs seeing to. A massage is required.

Chinatown will definitely have massage places.

Upon arrival it’s not strictly Chinatown. More everything that’s not Canadian town. Tibet. Nepal. Jamaica. West Indies. Most of Asia really.

Quite a hippy and run down area.

Pick a random one that looks half decent and clean. Greeted by a bunch of Chinese girls. And explain requirements.

It’s CA$45 for an hour’s massage. This is not a euphemism for something else, dear reader. This is a genuine foot massage!

Feet are soaked in tea. For some time. All part of the service.

Young Chinese girl takes me to a massage room. She soon realises I’m too long to fit on the table. So relocate to a chair in the corridor.

And then she begins. Even I can tell how bad it is. Very stiff muscles and tendons. All that weight of the rucksack probably hasn’t helped. Plenty of clicking of joints. The sort of clicking that goes right through you.

And then she finishes.

Oh. My.

Now feels like I’m walking on air. Rather than being in constant pain.

Oh yes.

This is good.