Category Archives: Around the World in 60 Days

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.

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.