I was going to try to avoid writing a blog entry about the absolute shitshow going on over here because of a little snow. I am so angry about it that I was afraid I would just rail on about the incompetence and the stupidity and the sheer needlessness of the whole mess. I wrote one last year, complaining about the large-scale chaos that resulted from a light dusting of snow, the Eurostar’s inopportune breakdown inside the Chunnel, and the hundreds of transport-related problems that were caused. What’s been happening at London’s airports – and travel hubs across the rest of Europe – over the past four days makes last year look like a minor traffic accident.
I just have one question: What the fuck? Seriously, I didn’t want to go there, but how is it possible that a little winter guarantee like snow can actually cause such extensive destruction?
Unless you are living under a rock somewhere (or perhaps a pile of unexpected snow) it is unlikely that this is news to you. Starting on Saturday 18 December, when eight inches (I know, child’s play) of snow descended on the UK, the island’s airports all but shut down. I was thrilled at first by the layer of white that cloaked my backyard, but when the winter wonderland threatened to thwart my holiday plans the real severity of the situation began to settle in.
Obviously I realize that this country is not used to the kind of snow that is experienced by Canada or by the Scandinavian countries, but there has to come a point (maybe after the second year of the same shit) that people have to stop making excuses and own up to the fact that something needs to change. For instance, Heathrow, which handled 66 million travelers in 2009, has 69 ice-clearing vehicles (they don’t say snowplow so I don’t know if the aforementioned “vehicles” really are that), less than twice the number that Oslo has, a country that handles a quarter of that passenger total and “suffers” 60 days of snow a year on average.
Heathrow is not the only casualty – there are delays and cancellations on a major scale across Europe, and flights grounded back in North America or other parts of the world – but Heathrow has been chosen as the face of the disaster and is taking the brunt of the bullying. Rightfully so. The airport, which is the second busiest in the world, has turned into a refugee camp for thousands of holiday travelers. London’s mayor, Boris Johnson, said aptly on the BBC: “It can’t be beyond the wit of man, surely, to find the shovels, the diggers, the snowplows or whatever it takes to clear the snow out from under the planes.”
Well, apparently Boris, it is.
Now I mentioned earlier that the UK ¬– and most of Europe – is not used to these types of winters. Fair enough. I just wonder how many more of these weather disasters the country is going to shrug and bear before actually just shutting up and doing something about it? The transport secretary has started proceedings that will see Britain consult with its chief scientific adviser to find out whether the blizzards that began last month, and the “worst cold snap” in two decades last winter, provide enough evidence for a “step change” that would justify increased spending on cold-weather gear. Let me just reiterate that one more time: Britain is asking the weather experts for a second opinion, just in case the past hellish four days are not evidence enough.
On a personal level I have spent the past couple of days with a serious nervy tummy, wondering whether I will make it home for Christmas. I am beyond lucky that my travel day does not include Heathrow, but I do have a KLM flight out of City Airport tomorrow morning that will take me through Amsterdam (Schipol) and then Toronto before I finally arrive in Ottawa. Despite “disruptions” still reported at City this evening, I am starting to feel almost positive about my day of traveling. As long as the “light snow shower” that is called for tonight and tomorrow stays as light as possible.
Some of my friends have not been so lucky. Michelle was meant to fly to Montreal on Sunday but her flight was canceled and she was re-booked on a flight this coming Thursday, five days on. Lexie and her mother Christiane, who are supposed to be spending Christmas in London, changed their travel plans after their first flight was canceled and, after a disastrous Monday morning at Pearson airport, have given up completely. Tomorrow I will (hopefully!) fly from City, my roommate Lauren is flying from Gatwick, and my friend Nat is flying from Heathrow. Keep your fingers and toes crossed for us!
Tuesday 21 December 2010
Thursday 9 December 2010
Finding Football
There is an old saying: "Football is a gentleman’s game played by hooligans, and rugby is a hooligans’ game played by gentlemen". Having been to two rugby games since I moved here and now two football games in the past month, I can whole-heartedly agree with this. Football players (and their fans) are a special breed of human – but I kind of like it.
I was very spoiled for my first live football game ever. My magazine (www.employeebenefits.co.uk) is doing an employer profile for our January issue on the Manchester City Football Club and the interviewee graciously offered two tickets to a match. I was already going to be up in Manchester for a conference so my friend Nicola, who was conducting the interview, invited me to be her plus-one. Despite having grown up in the UK, she had also never attended a match. The much-hyped Manchester derby (MCFC versus Manchester United) is not a bad place to loose your football virginity.
Amped up by the excitement that had been gripping the city leading up to the big match, we visited the MCFC gift shop for some blue scarves, gloves (it was freezing!) and other paraphernalia. Also, since it was our first time and we played dumb, we managed to carry pints of beer into the stadium seats, which some rather discouraged male fans pointed out was against the rules.
The atmosphere was tangible, blue-clad fans filled the stadium, singing ‘Blue Moon’ and shouting hilarious obscenities in thick northern accents at the Man U players. About 1,000 fans of the visiting team were segregated from the rest of the enormous stadium, framed by riot police in fluorescent yellow in case things got too rowdy.
Unfortunately, they didn’t. The match was kind of boring and ended in a draw, nil-nil. The fans pouring out of the stadium did not incite brawls with one another, just begrudgingly wandered back into the city centre. I have to say, I was a little bit disappointed.
For all those Man U fans who find it questionable that I would so suddenly become a Manchester City fan, the reason is three-fold. For starters, MCFC were our hosts to a free football match. Enough said. Secondly, my cousin Colin – a Mancusian since his days as a university student in the city more than 20 years ago – is a serious fan and choosing Manchester United would be akin to betraying the family. And finally, since I live for metaphors, I have come to see the MCFC and Man U rivalry as somewhat similar to the relationship between the Ottawa Senators and Toronto Maple Leafs. At least before the team was bought by an Arab sheik and revived with lots of cash, MCFC was a true grassroots underdog up against the rich and powerful Man U. If those reasons don’t work for you, I also look much better in blue than I do in red.
Back in London, nearly a month later and about 15 degrees colder, I finally saw my local team play. Based on where I live in Islington I should, technically speaking, be an Arsenal fan. Or so I have been told. The ladies from my book club are fans and had an extra ticket for the quarter finals of the Carling Cup. Bundled up in my longjohns and big red riding hood coat – conveniently colour-coordinated to support the Red Army – I sat 20 rows up from the pitch and thoroughly enjoyed a much more thrilling match than the Manchester derby. Arsenal won 2-0 and advanced to the next round.
Though it did not include an actual football game, last week I attended a conference at the Chelsea Football Club. Between presentations on pensions, employment tribunals and sustainable businesses, I got to walk around the perimeter of the stadium. It was a cold and empty pitch but it was pretty cool nonetheless – I mean, Didier Drogba plays there.
The sport will never replace hockey for me but I am starting to realize that I do enjoy it. The players are cute, the fans are fun and the atmosphere is a thrill to be a part of.
I was very spoiled for my first live football game ever. My magazine (www.employeebenefits.co.uk) is doing an employer profile for our January issue on the Manchester City Football Club and the interviewee graciously offered two tickets to a match. I was already going to be up in Manchester for a conference so my friend Nicola, who was conducting the interview, invited me to be her plus-one. Despite having grown up in the UK, she had also never attended a match. The much-hyped Manchester derby (MCFC versus Manchester United) is not a bad place to loose your football virginity.
Amped up by the excitement that had been gripping the city leading up to the big match, we visited the MCFC gift shop for some blue scarves, gloves (it was freezing!) and other paraphernalia. Also, since it was our first time and we played dumb, we managed to carry pints of beer into the stadium seats, which some rather discouraged male fans pointed out was against the rules.
The atmosphere was tangible, blue-clad fans filled the stadium, singing ‘Blue Moon’ and shouting hilarious obscenities in thick northern accents at the Man U players. About 1,000 fans of the visiting team were segregated from the rest of the enormous stadium, framed by riot police in fluorescent yellow in case things got too rowdy.
Unfortunately, they didn’t. The match was kind of boring and ended in a draw, nil-nil. The fans pouring out of the stadium did not incite brawls with one another, just begrudgingly wandered back into the city centre. I have to say, I was a little bit disappointed.
For all those Man U fans who find it questionable that I would so suddenly become a Manchester City fan, the reason is three-fold. For starters, MCFC were our hosts to a free football match. Enough said. Secondly, my cousin Colin – a Mancusian since his days as a university student in the city more than 20 years ago – is a serious fan and choosing Manchester United would be akin to betraying the family. And finally, since I live for metaphors, I have come to see the MCFC and Man U rivalry as somewhat similar to the relationship between the Ottawa Senators and Toronto Maple Leafs. At least before the team was bought by an Arab sheik and revived with lots of cash, MCFC was a true grassroots underdog up against the rich and powerful Man U. If those reasons don’t work for you, I also look much better in blue than I do in red.
Back in London, nearly a month later and about 15 degrees colder, I finally saw my local team play. Based on where I live in Islington I should, technically speaking, be an Arsenal fan. Or so I have been told. The ladies from my book club are fans and had an extra ticket for the quarter finals of the Carling Cup. Bundled up in my longjohns and big red riding hood coat – conveniently colour-coordinated to support the Red Army – I sat 20 rows up from the pitch and thoroughly enjoyed a much more thrilling match than the Manchester derby. Arsenal won 2-0 and advanced to the next round.
Though it did not include an actual football game, last week I attended a conference at the Chelsea Football Club. Between presentations on pensions, employment tribunals and sustainable businesses, I got to walk around the perimeter of the stadium. It was a cold and empty pitch but it was pretty cool nonetheless – I mean, Didier Drogba plays there.
The sport will never replace hockey for me but I am starting to realize that I do enjoy it. The players are cute, the fans are fun and the atmosphere is a thrill to be a part of.
Monday 15 November 2010
Trains Through the English Countryside in Autumn
I have spent a lot of time on trains this week and I can say, irrevocably, that there is no better way to see the changing colours of an English autumn. If I was in Canada right now I would have probably spent some time hiking in the Gatineau amid red, gold and cinnamon leaves, their bruised bodies crunching under my soles. I tell my British friends about this famous Canadian landscape and tell them there is no better place to see the seasonal change. But a mid-November train ride up north might have proved me wrong.
I am sitting on a Tuesday morning train from London Euston to Manchester Piccadilly – a work journey for a three-day conference in my second favourite English city. I am supposed to be finishing up a feature for our December issue but I cannot seem to tear my eyes away from the countryside outside my window. The rolling hills are tarnished a faded green, spotted with the fluffy white bodies of countless sheep. All this standard scenery is visible through the last leaves of autumn, clutching in bright ambers and coppers to their summer branches.
This is not to say that London is not performing in the dramatic colour change as well. It is a very green city and thus has become a very orange, yellow and red city over the past two months. My backyard has a solid carpet of damp fallen leaves and the naked branches above are saluting the coming of winter. But there is something about the vast spaces of the English countryside that is just so much more aesthetic and idealistic.
Two weeks ago I also got an eyeful of the autumnal change as I drove up to Oxfordshire with my cousin Pearl. From the throes of Saturday morning traffic on the M40 I admired the valleys lit up like fire in the sun’s spotlight. We spent a night in Benson at my cousin Mary’s new house, unpacking glassware, putting up curtains, constructing Ikea cabinets and hanging pictures. The open concept kitchen and living space is almost ceiling to floor windows, so the colours outside reflected through the sunlight as we completed our chores. One afternoon I accompanied Mary to the Red House, where she has lived for the past 40 years, and spent some time wandering the gardens for perhaps the last time, breathing in the crisp autumn air and soaking up the millions of colours around me.
It is three days now since I began this entry and I can report that Manchester was colourful too. Staying in Castlefield – where Manchester was born as a Roman city – I got a front row seat to the weaving canals that are autumnally littered with the descended leaves. The burgundeys and gingers that were still clinging bravely to branches were a stark contrast to the metallic bridges and railways that intimate Manchester’s industrial past.
Two days later – and on the third of six trains before I would be back in London – it was clear that, while the countryside of Oxfordshire and the train journey up north to Manchester were colourful canvases of the season, there is nothing to compare to the landscapes of Yorkshire.
I had already gathered evidence of this when I came up north in May. The rainy season had brought with it a descending cloak of mist over the rolling Yorkshire hills, as well as a spring renewal that dyed the green valleys a fluorescent hue. Despite an inability to actually see too far in front of my face, it was picturesque and echoed the wholly romantic visions that I came to love from novels like ‘Wuthering Heights’.
This second journey to Yorkshire – and more specifically, my cousin Clair’s house in the pictorial village of Knaresborough – was thankfully void of rain. (I did enjoy the aftermath of the downpours in May and the clinging mist across the Dales and Moors but dampness in November in Britain means a chill in your bones that you just cannot shake.) It was very cold up north – much colder than I had expected – so the lack of rain was very welcome.
On Sunday we went to the town centre for the annual Remembrance Day ceremony where I was treated to my favourite Knaresborough view, framed with the oranges and crimsons of the season. From the foot of the war memorial and the ruins of Knaresborough Castle you can look out over the River Nidd as it winds along the riverbank and under the picturesque viaduct. The colours of autumn were lit up as a border to this stunning view. There could be no better scene to finish up the weekend up north.
Now I am on the last leg of my journey back to London. Unfortunately, it is late on Sunday night and, the gold and orange countryside is now just a pitch-black canvas sporadically spotted with lights. Despite feeling disappointed not to have witnessed the changing of seasons in my beloved Ontario for the second year in a row, the scenery I was treated to in Oxfordshire, Manchester and Yorkshire more than made up for it this year.
I am sitting on a Tuesday morning train from London Euston to Manchester Piccadilly – a work journey for a three-day conference in my second favourite English city. I am supposed to be finishing up a feature for our December issue but I cannot seem to tear my eyes away from the countryside outside my window. The rolling hills are tarnished a faded green, spotted with the fluffy white bodies of countless sheep. All this standard scenery is visible through the last leaves of autumn, clutching in bright ambers and coppers to their summer branches.
This is not to say that London is not performing in the dramatic colour change as well. It is a very green city and thus has become a very orange, yellow and red city over the past two months. My backyard has a solid carpet of damp fallen leaves and the naked branches above are saluting the coming of winter. But there is something about the vast spaces of the English countryside that is just so much more aesthetic and idealistic.
Two weeks ago I also got an eyeful of the autumnal change as I drove up to Oxfordshire with my cousin Pearl. From the throes of Saturday morning traffic on the M40 I admired the valleys lit up like fire in the sun’s spotlight. We spent a night in Benson at my cousin Mary’s new house, unpacking glassware, putting up curtains, constructing Ikea cabinets and hanging pictures. The open concept kitchen and living space is almost ceiling to floor windows, so the colours outside reflected through the sunlight as we completed our chores. One afternoon I accompanied Mary to the Red House, where she has lived for the past 40 years, and spent some time wandering the gardens for perhaps the last time, breathing in the crisp autumn air and soaking up the millions of colours around me.
It is three days now since I began this entry and I can report that Manchester was colourful too. Staying in Castlefield – where Manchester was born as a Roman city – I got a front row seat to the weaving canals that are autumnally littered with the descended leaves. The burgundeys and gingers that were still clinging bravely to branches were a stark contrast to the metallic bridges and railways that intimate Manchester’s industrial past.
Two days later – and on the third of six trains before I would be back in London – it was clear that, while the countryside of Oxfordshire and the train journey up north to Manchester were colourful canvases of the season, there is nothing to compare to the landscapes of Yorkshire.
I had already gathered evidence of this when I came up north in May. The rainy season had brought with it a descending cloak of mist over the rolling Yorkshire hills, as well as a spring renewal that dyed the green valleys a fluorescent hue. Despite an inability to actually see too far in front of my face, it was picturesque and echoed the wholly romantic visions that I came to love from novels like ‘Wuthering Heights’.
This second journey to Yorkshire – and more specifically, my cousin Clair’s house in the pictorial village of Knaresborough – was thankfully void of rain. (I did enjoy the aftermath of the downpours in May and the clinging mist across the Dales and Moors but dampness in November in Britain means a chill in your bones that you just cannot shake.) It was very cold up north – much colder than I had expected – so the lack of rain was very welcome.
On Sunday we went to the town centre for the annual Remembrance Day ceremony where I was treated to my favourite Knaresborough view, framed with the oranges and crimsons of the season. From the foot of the war memorial and the ruins of Knaresborough Castle you can look out over the River Nidd as it winds along the riverbank and under the picturesque viaduct. The colours of autumn were lit up as a border to this stunning view. There could be no better scene to finish up the weekend up north.
Now I am on the last leg of my journey back to London. Unfortunately, it is late on Sunday night and, the gold and orange countryside is now just a pitch-black canvas sporadically spotted with lights. Despite feeling disappointed not to have witnessed the changing of seasons in my beloved Ontario for the second year in a row, the scenery I was treated to in Oxfordshire, Manchester and Yorkshire more than made up for it this year.
Tuesday 26 October 2010
Belle Paris
I could probably split this blog up into any number of categories – landmarks, art galleries, food, wine – and spread it out through weekly installments for the next few months. Paris is indisputably the most tourist-visited city in the world and there is a lot to justify this, from the art, the history, the parks and the architecture. Its landmarks – le Tour Eiffel, Notre Dame Cathedral, L’Arc de Triomphe and Basilica Sacre Coeur – are among the most recognizable in the world.
But this is meant to be a blog about London so I will keep to the most important parts of Paris: the espressos, the red wine and the decadent, decadent food.
Some context first: I caught the Eurostar from St. Pancras after work on Thursday 21 October. Two hours later I was at Paris de Nord. The day turned out to be fitting on two fronts. For one, my very first glimpse of Paris was on the very same day in 2004 while backpacking with my sister, and Paul moved to the city on the same day in 2009.
Paul is a friend from Queen’s who made a similar life change to mine last autumn – we both followed our dreams to the Continent. Mine was to be a journalist in London and his was to be a chef in Paris. He has spent the last year working in a Michelin-star restaurant near L’Arc de Triomphe. But, luckily for me, he quit his job recently in anticipation of a move home to Toronto, so I had a well-versed, French-fluent tour guide to take me around.
We spent three days and nights in and around the standard Paris destinations – le Tour Eiffel, Notre Dame Cathedral, the Louvre, Musee L’Orangerie, the Seine, Jardin des Tuilleries, Montmartre and Basilica Sacre Coeur, Musee Dali, L’Ile de la Cite, le Marais and Places des Vosges, Musee Rodin, Jardin Luxembourg, the Sorbonne, the Pantheon and the Latin Quarter, and L’Arc de Triomphe.
I have been to Paris before and have also been to most of the above landmarks, parks and galleries. This Paris visit was unique, however, because I got to have Paul take me around to the cobbled streets, cafes, restaurants, and arrondisements that he has come to love over the past year. And introduce me to the best croissants, espresso alongees, wines, and food that I have ever had.
It strikes me that French food is not necessarily any more elaborate or complicated than the food produced by any other nation. So why is it quite rightly the most unbelievable, delicious and mind-blowing cuisine in the world? I think it is because they do simple things very, very well. Every single bite of every single thing I tried was quite literally a life-changing experience. And it was just cheese, bread, wine and meat. I am not exaggerating.
First of all, only dull people are brilliant at breakfast. (That’s an Oscar Wilde quote that he likely coined while he was living in Paris – he now resides eternally in Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise, close to Proust and Jim Morrison.) Paul and I avoided this adage each morning, sitting outside with croissants, pain chocolat and pain raisin, along with an espresso noire (for Paul) and espresso alongee (for me).
Breakfast (and this is not in any way a complaint) took the same form every morning. But lunch and dinner came in a variety of delicious entrees and plats, some of the most adventurous meals I have ever eaten. Over three days I ate: escargots, boeuf tartare, bone marrow, confit de canard, baguettes, cheeses, a poached egg in blue cheese (maybe the best thing I have ever put in my mouth), a crepe, a croque madame, and a hot dog wrapped with a baguette and melted cheese.
As much as I like to think I have a way with words, I don’t think I can aptly describe the way I felt in tasting each of these delicacies. I think I murmured “Oh my god” every time I tasted anything which is trite and what I say when words just won’t cut it. But I will do my best to explain how I felt at each of the meals I mentioned, even though I don’t believe I can do the actual experience any justice at all.
Paul took me out on Friday night in Chatelet to a typical French restaurant. For appetizers, I chose (or was coaxed into ordering) 12 snails and Paul had the bone marrow. First of all, I believe that when people describe food as orgasmic they are referring to a glob of bone marrow on a piece of toasted baguette. Seriously, I can’t think of much in life that is better than this. Then there were my escargots, which were challenging to evacuate from their shells – an activity level much like eating lobster – but I surprised myself by thoroughly enjoying their little curled bodies soaked in butter, garlic and parsley. The main course for me was raw beef – boeuf tartare – and it was sublime. Tender like sushi but more fulfilling, if that makes sense. Paul had l’ongler of pig, if I remember correctly, but I think he was jealous of my choice.
So the next day he remedied that at lunch by ordering the tartare himself. I had confit de canard (duck), which was blissful, but neither could compare to the appetizers that we chose. I am still not completely sure what the proper name of it was, but imagine a poached egg settled into a melted pot of blue cheese. Then pierce the egg and, as the yolk mixes with the cheese, scoop it up with pieces of baguette. Again, to quote a very wise man, this is the stuff that dreams are make of. The meal had other elements too – a delicious vin en pot, capped off with an espresso alongee – but I have still been thinking about that poached egg and blue cheese ever since I consumed it.
Other titillating delicacies, and perhaps simpler, were a croque madame and a crepe. A croque madame, compared to a croque monsieur, is a toasted cheese and ham sandwich with a fried egg on top (the monsieur has no egg, so just use the ova to differentiate). Simple but delicious. The crepe was something I was on the lookout for all weekend and finally discovered outside Gare de Nord while waiting for my train home. I had cheese and egg. Again, so simple yet so unbelievable mind-blowing. The taste carried me all the way back to London.
Paul also took me to the marche at La Motte Piquette Grenelle on Sunday morning, where every cheese, bread, fruit, vegetable, seafood and meat you can imagine stretches the length of two metro stops. As you might have seen in my Facebook photos, I captured the early lives of figs, artichokes, oranges, cow tongues, mussels, baguettes, croissants, cheeses of all kinds, chickens, tomatoes and fish. While Borough Market by London Bridge in London is a much more posh Sunday food market, this Parisian marche was more fluid and simple and real.
I hope that everything above does some justice to how I feel about my trip to Paris. If you know me, you know it is not hard to please me – especially when it comes to food and wine. And the food and wine and history and art and experiences that I consumed during my three days in Paris have been both simple and complex. I can still taste the bone marrow, the escargots, the tartare and the poached egg in blue cheese. I do love London, don’t get me wrong, but I came back thinking that if I could write in French I would be in Paris.
But this is meant to be a blog about London so I will keep to the most important parts of Paris: the espressos, the red wine and the decadent, decadent food.
Some context first: I caught the Eurostar from St. Pancras after work on Thursday 21 October. Two hours later I was at Paris de Nord. The day turned out to be fitting on two fronts. For one, my very first glimpse of Paris was on the very same day in 2004 while backpacking with my sister, and Paul moved to the city on the same day in 2009.
Paul is a friend from Queen’s who made a similar life change to mine last autumn – we both followed our dreams to the Continent. Mine was to be a journalist in London and his was to be a chef in Paris. He has spent the last year working in a Michelin-star restaurant near L’Arc de Triomphe. But, luckily for me, he quit his job recently in anticipation of a move home to Toronto, so I had a well-versed, French-fluent tour guide to take me around.
We spent three days and nights in and around the standard Paris destinations – le Tour Eiffel, Notre Dame Cathedral, the Louvre, Musee L’Orangerie, the Seine, Jardin des Tuilleries, Montmartre and Basilica Sacre Coeur, Musee Dali, L’Ile de la Cite, le Marais and Places des Vosges, Musee Rodin, Jardin Luxembourg, the Sorbonne, the Pantheon and the Latin Quarter, and L’Arc de Triomphe.
I have been to Paris before and have also been to most of the above landmarks, parks and galleries. This Paris visit was unique, however, because I got to have Paul take me around to the cobbled streets, cafes, restaurants, and arrondisements that he has come to love over the past year. And introduce me to the best croissants, espresso alongees, wines, and food that I have ever had.
It strikes me that French food is not necessarily any more elaborate or complicated than the food produced by any other nation. So why is it quite rightly the most unbelievable, delicious and mind-blowing cuisine in the world? I think it is because they do simple things very, very well. Every single bite of every single thing I tried was quite literally a life-changing experience. And it was just cheese, bread, wine and meat. I am not exaggerating.
First of all, only dull people are brilliant at breakfast. (That’s an Oscar Wilde quote that he likely coined while he was living in Paris – he now resides eternally in Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise, close to Proust and Jim Morrison.) Paul and I avoided this adage each morning, sitting outside with croissants, pain chocolat and pain raisin, along with an espresso noire (for Paul) and espresso alongee (for me).
Breakfast (and this is not in any way a complaint) took the same form every morning. But lunch and dinner came in a variety of delicious entrees and plats, some of the most adventurous meals I have ever eaten. Over three days I ate: escargots, boeuf tartare, bone marrow, confit de canard, baguettes, cheeses, a poached egg in blue cheese (maybe the best thing I have ever put in my mouth), a crepe, a croque madame, and a hot dog wrapped with a baguette and melted cheese.
As much as I like to think I have a way with words, I don’t think I can aptly describe the way I felt in tasting each of these delicacies. I think I murmured “Oh my god” every time I tasted anything which is trite and what I say when words just won’t cut it. But I will do my best to explain how I felt at each of the meals I mentioned, even though I don’t believe I can do the actual experience any justice at all.
Paul took me out on Friday night in Chatelet to a typical French restaurant. For appetizers, I chose (or was coaxed into ordering) 12 snails and Paul had the bone marrow. First of all, I believe that when people describe food as orgasmic they are referring to a glob of bone marrow on a piece of toasted baguette. Seriously, I can’t think of much in life that is better than this. Then there were my escargots, which were challenging to evacuate from their shells – an activity level much like eating lobster – but I surprised myself by thoroughly enjoying their little curled bodies soaked in butter, garlic and parsley. The main course for me was raw beef – boeuf tartare – and it was sublime. Tender like sushi but more fulfilling, if that makes sense. Paul had l’ongler of pig, if I remember correctly, but I think he was jealous of my choice.
So the next day he remedied that at lunch by ordering the tartare himself. I had confit de canard (duck), which was blissful, but neither could compare to the appetizers that we chose. I am still not completely sure what the proper name of it was, but imagine a poached egg settled into a melted pot of blue cheese. Then pierce the egg and, as the yolk mixes with the cheese, scoop it up with pieces of baguette. Again, to quote a very wise man, this is the stuff that dreams are make of. The meal had other elements too – a delicious vin en pot, capped off with an espresso alongee – but I have still been thinking about that poached egg and blue cheese ever since I consumed it.
Other titillating delicacies, and perhaps simpler, were a croque madame and a crepe. A croque madame, compared to a croque monsieur, is a toasted cheese and ham sandwich with a fried egg on top (the monsieur has no egg, so just use the ova to differentiate). Simple but delicious. The crepe was something I was on the lookout for all weekend and finally discovered outside Gare de Nord while waiting for my train home. I had cheese and egg. Again, so simple yet so unbelievable mind-blowing. The taste carried me all the way back to London.
Paul also took me to the marche at La Motte Piquette Grenelle on Sunday morning, where every cheese, bread, fruit, vegetable, seafood and meat you can imagine stretches the length of two metro stops. As you might have seen in my Facebook photos, I captured the early lives of figs, artichokes, oranges, cow tongues, mussels, baguettes, croissants, cheeses of all kinds, chickens, tomatoes and fish. While Borough Market by London Bridge in London is a much more posh Sunday food market, this Parisian marche was more fluid and simple and real.
I hope that everything above does some justice to how I feel about my trip to Paris. If you know me, you know it is not hard to please me – especially when it comes to food and wine. And the food and wine and history and art and experiences that I consumed during my three days in Paris have been both simple and complex. I can still taste the bone marrow, the escargots, the tartare and the poached egg in blue cheese. I do love London, don’t get me wrong, but I came back thinking that if I could write in French I would be in Paris.
Sunday 17 October 2010
Work Perks
I apologize for the large gap since my last blog entry. Summer ended rather insistently, swinging into a very hectic September, and it has been non-stop ever since. Besides all sorts of fun activities outside the office – markets, a rugby game, high tea, a day at the amusement park, a housewarming party at the new flat and decadent dinners out – I have also got to take advantage of some amazing work-related London experiences as well.
Though it wasn’t the hat-donning Royal Ascot, I spent my first day at the races – and confirmed my suspicion that I could easily slip into a serious gambling addiction. It was race day at Ascot and I got to join my editor Debi and my deputy editor Debbie in a box. We were hosted by NorthingateArinso, an HR services provider, for a day of free-flowing wine, a lovely country lunch, and seven races. I was shown the ropes on the first race, where I put £5 each way on a horse named Tazahum. The “each way” bet means your horse can either win or place and you still make your money back and then some. Tazahum came in a respectable second place and, as the bookie counted back my bet and change, I was hooked.
After this promising start I stuck with conservative betting, placing £2 each way on two horses per race. In the 2nd, 4th and 7th races I randomly picked the winners – Electric Waves, Vulcanite and Humidor. I just liked their names. In all but one other race I picked the second place winners, and finished the day £35 richer than when I started. On a gambling and wine-fueled high, I cruised into my Saturday night.
During this past week I was treated to a couple of other work events that also served as spectacular London experiences. On Wednesday, health insurer Aviva hosted a spa morning at the Park Lane InterContinental Hotel. Along with a few other female journalists I spent the morning getting pampered with a manicure, a 30-minute back massage and a refreshing steam that ended with a tropical shower. The absolutely blissful morning ended with canapés and champagne, before I returned to the office to chase my deadlines.
The next evening I attended a party hosted by New Look Business Solutions, as they were pushing their new motivation and incentive vouchers. We congregated at their offices for a presentation, some autumn/winter clothes browsing, along with some snacks and drinks. Then we were all given £50 New Look vouchers, herded onto buses and dropped off at one of their flagship stores to shop to our hearts’ content. Back on the buses with new sweaters, boots, tights and handbags, we were told that we were being taken to a spectacular venue for dinner and drinks. Driving through the City, I was convinced we were en route to the Gherkin, but then the bus pulled up to the north side of Tower Bridge and we disembarked.
Next thing I knew we were packed into the lift of the Tower Bridge’s exhibition and soon soaring above the Thames in the high-level walkways. On the west walkway we enjoyed champagne and canapés, and then we were split into teams for the corporate games. On the east walkway we played a rifle range game, mini-putt, Wii tennis, foosball, car racing and horse racing. All the while we sipped champagne and gazed out across the stunning lit-up city as it borders the Thames.
So, yes, it was a really good week. All amazing experiences to add to all the other reasons that I love my job. In November, I will be heading up north to Manchester to cover the Chartered Institute of Personnel and Development (CIPD) conference. Since we will be profiling the Manchester City Football Club in our December issue, I am also getting a free ticket to a Manchester United versus Manchester City match. Not too bad for my first-ever football game. I can hardly wait. But first I am back in the office tomorrow morning for news week as we chase news stories and wrap up the November issue.
Though it wasn’t the hat-donning Royal Ascot, I spent my first day at the races – and confirmed my suspicion that I could easily slip into a serious gambling addiction. It was race day at Ascot and I got to join my editor Debi and my deputy editor Debbie in a box. We were hosted by NorthingateArinso, an HR services provider, for a day of free-flowing wine, a lovely country lunch, and seven races. I was shown the ropes on the first race, where I put £5 each way on a horse named Tazahum. The “each way” bet means your horse can either win or place and you still make your money back and then some. Tazahum came in a respectable second place and, as the bookie counted back my bet and change, I was hooked.
After this promising start I stuck with conservative betting, placing £2 each way on two horses per race. In the 2nd, 4th and 7th races I randomly picked the winners – Electric Waves, Vulcanite and Humidor. I just liked their names. In all but one other race I picked the second place winners, and finished the day £35 richer than when I started. On a gambling and wine-fueled high, I cruised into my Saturday night.
During this past week I was treated to a couple of other work events that also served as spectacular London experiences. On Wednesday, health insurer Aviva hosted a spa morning at the Park Lane InterContinental Hotel. Along with a few other female journalists I spent the morning getting pampered with a manicure, a 30-minute back massage and a refreshing steam that ended with a tropical shower. The absolutely blissful morning ended with canapés and champagne, before I returned to the office to chase my deadlines.
The next evening I attended a party hosted by New Look Business Solutions, as they were pushing their new motivation and incentive vouchers. We congregated at their offices for a presentation, some autumn/winter clothes browsing, along with some snacks and drinks. Then we were all given £50 New Look vouchers, herded onto buses and dropped off at one of their flagship stores to shop to our hearts’ content. Back on the buses with new sweaters, boots, tights and handbags, we were told that we were being taken to a spectacular venue for dinner and drinks. Driving through the City, I was convinced we were en route to the Gherkin, but then the bus pulled up to the north side of Tower Bridge and we disembarked.
Next thing I knew we were packed into the lift of the Tower Bridge’s exhibition and soon soaring above the Thames in the high-level walkways. On the west walkway we enjoyed champagne and canapés, and then we were split into teams for the corporate games. On the east walkway we played a rifle range game, mini-putt, Wii tennis, foosball, car racing and horse racing. All the while we sipped champagne and gazed out across the stunning lit-up city as it borders the Thames.
So, yes, it was a really good week. All amazing experiences to add to all the other reasons that I love my job. In November, I will be heading up north to Manchester to cover the Chartered Institute of Personnel and Development (CIPD) conference. Since we will be profiling the Manchester City Football Club in our December issue, I am also getting a free ticket to a Manchester United versus Manchester City match. Not too bad for my first-ever football game. I can hardly wait. But first I am back in the office tomorrow morning for news week as we chase news stories and wrap up the November issue.
Friday 3 September 2010
Moving House
That is what they say over here – I’m moving house. I moved house this past weekend. The year-long tenancy agreement at 15A Ecclesbourne was coming up for either renewal or abandon, my flatmates Justin and Arthur had finished school and were moving on, so I decided to do the same. I was notified of all this rather late in the game so early August turned into a stressful scramble for accommodations.
Luckily for me, a fellow expat friend was also in the market for a new flat. Lauren’s rent was getting a severe bump come 1 September so we decided to live together. The prospect was exciting for me, since I had not lived with a girlfriend since the glory days of the Jenn/Leslie arrangement at Queen’s six years ago. As comfortable as my house was at 15A Ecclesbourne with the young lads, the chance to live with a great friend – and my surrogate twin in London at that – was an opportunity I could not pass up. The timing was perfect so we shook on it.
The London flat search, as I probably mentioned back when I moved here last year, is a tricky game. The market is dominated by the estate agent, a two-faced specimen who up-sells and racks in a truly obscene deposit that they have no intention of ever returning to you. But this is the game and you have to play it, so Lauren and I signed up with as many as we could along our high street and then started the flat visits.
Lauren took the brunt of this activity while I was up in Scotland but on my return we took it on full steam together with some viewings around Islington with the granddaddy of all estate agents, Foxtons. The three flats we saw were staggeringly disparate, the first a dump with stained walls and dirty carpets, the second a gorgeous family house with a backyard to die for, and the third a typical fourth-storey flat down Essex Road. When we learned that Foxtons takes a £350 admin fee we quickly decided none of these places were for us, despite the charming Leo who took us around in his mini coop.
Mid-week, midway through the month, Lauren had an appointment to see a flat that sounded too good to be true. It was a day-viewing because the place had just come on the market. Lauren arranged to work from home so she could be the first to see it and I waited by my mobile in anticipation as lunchtime neared. Basically, upon walking through the door, she knew this was it. She texted that it was amazing and was heading back to the estate agents to put in an offer. By 3pm the flat was ours.
Though our estate agents have already not been the easiest to deal with – the tenancy agreement has been printed off and signed four times now – we are happily ensconced in our new home. It is a truly adorable and large basement flat in a Georgian house right off Upper Street. We are both still in our beloved Angel neighbourhood, on our familiar tube and bus routes. We have large bedrooms, an expansive living and kitchen space, and a private backyard that, according to Dani, you could play a game of rounders in.
Within walking distance are the range of bars and restaurants along Upper Street, and we have already formed a first-name friendship with the landlord at our local, The Florence. Last night the adorable Ian brought us free wine and regaled us with stories of the band he plays bass for (we may or may not be going to their gig in a couple of weeks) and the organisation he is involved with that brings rugby to children in Africa.
If this set-up sounds too good to be true, you are probably right. I have been waiting patiently for the other shoe to drop. But so far it has been smooth sailing – besides the difficulty with the contract and the fact that, when the tenants above us are doing laundry, it sounds like a helicopter is taking off from the roof. There is also an abnormally sized cat that believes it owns the backyard but these are small sacrifices for a great roomie, amazing bed, outdoor space and a cozy local pub. I do hope this is the last time I have to move house for a while.
Luckily for me, a fellow expat friend was also in the market for a new flat. Lauren’s rent was getting a severe bump come 1 September so we decided to live together. The prospect was exciting for me, since I had not lived with a girlfriend since the glory days of the Jenn/Leslie arrangement at Queen’s six years ago. As comfortable as my house was at 15A Ecclesbourne with the young lads, the chance to live with a great friend – and my surrogate twin in London at that – was an opportunity I could not pass up. The timing was perfect so we shook on it.
The London flat search, as I probably mentioned back when I moved here last year, is a tricky game. The market is dominated by the estate agent, a two-faced specimen who up-sells and racks in a truly obscene deposit that they have no intention of ever returning to you. But this is the game and you have to play it, so Lauren and I signed up with as many as we could along our high street and then started the flat visits.
Lauren took the brunt of this activity while I was up in Scotland but on my return we took it on full steam together with some viewings around Islington with the granddaddy of all estate agents, Foxtons. The three flats we saw were staggeringly disparate, the first a dump with stained walls and dirty carpets, the second a gorgeous family house with a backyard to die for, and the third a typical fourth-storey flat down Essex Road. When we learned that Foxtons takes a £350 admin fee we quickly decided none of these places were for us, despite the charming Leo who took us around in his mini coop.
Mid-week, midway through the month, Lauren had an appointment to see a flat that sounded too good to be true. It was a day-viewing because the place had just come on the market. Lauren arranged to work from home so she could be the first to see it and I waited by my mobile in anticipation as lunchtime neared. Basically, upon walking through the door, she knew this was it. She texted that it was amazing and was heading back to the estate agents to put in an offer. By 3pm the flat was ours.
Though our estate agents have already not been the easiest to deal with – the tenancy agreement has been printed off and signed four times now – we are happily ensconced in our new home. It is a truly adorable and large basement flat in a Georgian house right off Upper Street. We are both still in our beloved Angel neighbourhood, on our familiar tube and bus routes. We have large bedrooms, an expansive living and kitchen space, and a private backyard that, according to Dani, you could play a game of rounders in.
Within walking distance are the range of bars and restaurants along Upper Street, and we have already formed a first-name friendship with the landlord at our local, The Florence. Last night the adorable Ian brought us free wine and regaled us with stories of the band he plays bass for (we may or may not be going to their gig in a couple of weeks) and the organisation he is involved with that brings rugby to children in Africa.
If this set-up sounds too good to be true, you are probably right. I have been waiting patiently for the other shoe to drop. But so far it has been smooth sailing – besides the difficulty with the contract and the fact that, when the tenants above us are doing laundry, it sounds like a helicopter is taking off from the roof. There is also an abnormally sized cat that believes it owns the backyard but these are small sacrifices for a great roomie, amazing bed, outdoor space and a cozy local pub. I do hope this is the last time I have to move house for a while.
Monday 16 August 2010
The Isle of Tiree
I’m sure my Dad won’t mind me sharing an excerpt from an email he sent me while I was traveling around Europe in 2004. My Dad is a very talented writer, especially when conjuring up memories and transferring them onto paper. While my sister and I were traveling those six months through various destinations, we received emails from him that chronicled his first impressions, in 1972, of the places we were about to visit, whether it was communist Czechoslovakia, ancient Greece or beerhaus-ed Germany.
As we were approaching Scotland, he sent us an email that included some of what you will read below. It begins on a train from London’s Paddington station to Glasgow, where he was obeying his grandmother and getting in touch with Scottish relatives he had never met before.
“… The train was old and the compartments were wooden enclosures with sliding doors. We were fortunate to have one all to ourselves which allowed us to sleep on the bench seats. At dawn I awoke to the sound and rhythmic shaking of the train and gazed out the window. Gone was the flat English countryside with the old dingy brick buildings. Before me the upland hills filled the window, steep and lined with stone fences. I could not see the sky. I had to get close to the window to look up to see the tops of it. I felt that I had been transported into another world.
We were met in Glasgow by Uncle John Brown [Pearl and Mary’s father] who insisted that, the first thing the next day, we accompany him to some place called Tiree to close down their cottage. Connie [Pearl and Mary’s mother] had gone to Ottawa to visit grandmother so we were bachelor-ing it. He claimed he needed 'hunger-as-hunter' young men to eat the food there. He flew us both over and I assumed that, since it was the Highlands and Isles and that the flight was short, it was relatively inexpensive. Later, I found out quite the opposite. I had just encountered John's brand of Highland hospitality.
My first encounter with Uncle John in Tiree 'clashing-the-pan’ opened up a new world, and vocabulary, for me. Not just Scotland but his Scotland. He would talk about the past, his past, and what it was like. Both the information and context one cannot get from history books. I learned to better appreciate oral history - history that must be told by the people who lived it and that will die with them. I found out about my family, including my grandfather, someone who I never knew except through my grandmother. From John, and later Aunt Pearl, he became more alive to me; my grandmother made him seem god-like …
… I gazed down at the clouds over the Atlantic realizing that despite all the wonderful and wondrous experiences, it was the contact with the older Scottish relatives that was the most important to me. This surprised me because, at the onset of the trip, visiting them was a mild inconvenience to satisfy my grandmother. At the end, it was one of the highlights resulting in life-long relationships.”
The way that my Dad describes learning about his grandfather is exactly how I feel when Pearl talks about my great-grandmother Bessie. She died when I was still quite young, though I do remember her. But when I hear about various episodes from her visits back to her homeland over the years, I feel like I am getting to know her a little bit better. And that amazing Highland hospitality has been passed down through the generations as well.
I’m jealous that my Dad’s very first impressions of Scotland and Tiree were at the age of 22, when he could remember it, appreciate it and eloquently describe it. I don’t really have that first memory, since I was 16 months old when I first visited. From my visit as a four-year-old, I do remember John and Connie, and that familiar Tiree scent that combines heather, the sea, sheep shit and burning peat. Strangely, it still moves me every time. Until you have smelt it yourself, you can’t imagine the unique and blissful flavour of Tiree. I also remember Lochan Ban, as the cottage is known, though it has seen many renovations in the last 14 years since my last visit.
So Lyl and I embarked from Oban on a four-hour ferry ride through the straight between the Isle of Mull and the mainland, joining rain and bumpy waters as we dropped passengers off at the small (population 65) island of Coll before docking in Scarinish, the port town of Tiree (population 700). Four (Pearl, Molly, Colin and Naomi) family members greeted us at the rainy dock, while 21 more (from London, Oxfordshire, Manchester, Yorkshire and even Norway) were back at the cottage, preparing a curry feast and a proper Scottish ceilidh (kay-lee).
We would all be living between three cottages for the next few days, a somewhat regular family reunion that Lyl and I were able to be a part of this year. While Tiree maintains the Scottish tradition of offering up a lot of rain, it is also known as the sunniest spot in the UK because of vast beaches all along its perimeter and westerly-facing views out to the sea. Also known for its windiness – it hosts surfers, kite-sailors, kite-boarders and even an international wind-surfing competition every year – the gusts can mean that the weather can change dramatically in a manner of minutes.
During our three days there we saw it all: downpours, clear blue skies, gusting winds and t-shirt weather. We spent our days hiking up Ben Hough, accompanying the kids to the beach for boogie-boarding, learning how to kite, painting finger and toenails, reading in the sunroom, drinking pints of Tennants and drams of whiskey, and spending the evenings with a family ceilidh band that had a changing cast of talented musicians.
It was a truly memorable visit, one that I could appreciate that much more because of both my previous summers here and because I am at an age now that contributes to experiencing family and places from my own perspective. I did yearn to have my parents there with me, because I know how much Tiree means to them as well, but it was enlightening to familiarize myself with the Isle with as few preconceived versions of visits to draw from.
I am grateful that the family let us gate-crash for those three days and allowed us to be a part of the reunion, sampling that Highland hospitality that my Dad described in his letters. I hope this is not the only Tiree visit I fit in while I’m living in the UK. Back in the city and back at work already more than a week, I am still craving that heathered, sea-strong Tiree scent.
As we were approaching Scotland, he sent us an email that included some of what you will read below. It begins on a train from London’s Paddington station to Glasgow, where he was obeying his grandmother and getting in touch with Scottish relatives he had never met before.
“… The train was old and the compartments were wooden enclosures with sliding doors. We were fortunate to have one all to ourselves which allowed us to sleep on the bench seats. At dawn I awoke to the sound and rhythmic shaking of the train and gazed out the window. Gone was the flat English countryside with the old dingy brick buildings. Before me the upland hills filled the window, steep and lined with stone fences. I could not see the sky. I had to get close to the window to look up to see the tops of it. I felt that I had been transported into another world.
We were met in Glasgow by Uncle John Brown [Pearl and Mary’s father] who insisted that, the first thing the next day, we accompany him to some place called Tiree to close down their cottage. Connie [Pearl and Mary’s mother] had gone to Ottawa to visit grandmother so we were bachelor-ing it. He claimed he needed 'hunger-as-hunter' young men to eat the food there. He flew us both over and I assumed that, since it was the Highlands and Isles and that the flight was short, it was relatively inexpensive. Later, I found out quite the opposite. I had just encountered John's brand of Highland hospitality.
My first encounter with Uncle John in Tiree 'clashing-the-pan’ opened up a new world, and vocabulary, for me. Not just Scotland but his Scotland. He would talk about the past, his past, and what it was like. Both the information and context one cannot get from history books. I learned to better appreciate oral history - history that must be told by the people who lived it and that will die with them. I found out about my family, including my grandfather, someone who I never knew except through my grandmother. From John, and later Aunt Pearl, he became more alive to me; my grandmother made him seem god-like …
… I gazed down at the clouds over the Atlantic realizing that despite all the wonderful and wondrous experiences, it was the contact with the older Scottish relatives that was the most important to me. This surprised me because, at the onset of the trip, visiting them was a mild inconvenience to satisfy my grandmother. At the end, it was one of the highlights resulting in life-long relationships.”
The way that my Dad describes learning about his grandfather is exactly how I feel when Pearl talks about my great-grandmother Bessie. She died when I was still quite young, though I do remember her. But when I hear about various episodes from her visits back to her homeland over the years, I feel like I am getting to know her a little bit better. And that amazing Highland hospitality has been passed down through the generations as well.
I’m jealous that my Dad’s very first impressions of Scotland and Tiree were at the age of 22, when he could remember it, appreciate it and eloquently describe it. I don’t really have that first memory, since I was 16 months old when I first visited. From my visit as a four-year-old, I do remember John and Connie, and that familiar Tiree scent that combines heather, the sea, sheep shit and burning peat. Strangely, it still moves me every time. Until you have smelt it yourself, you can’t imagine the unique and blissful flavour of Tiree. I also remember Lochan Ban, as the cottage is known, though it has seen many renovations in the last 14 years since my last visit.
So Lyl and I embarked from Oban on a four-hour ferry ride through the straight between the Isle of Mull and the mainland, joining rain and bumpy waters as we dropped passengers off at the small (population 65) island of Coll before docking in Scarinish, the port town of Tiree (population 700). Four (Pearl, Molly, Colin and Naomi) family members greeted us at the rainy dock, while 21 more (from London, Oxfordshire, Manchester, Yorkshire and even Norway) were back at the cottage, preparing a curry feast and a proper Scottish ceilidh (kay-lee).
We would all be living between three cottages for the next few days, a somewhat regular family reunion that Lyl and I were able to be a part of this year. While Tiree maintains the Scottish tradition of offering up a lot of rain, it is also known as the sunniest spot in the UK because of vast beaches all along its perimeter and westerly-facing views out to the sea. Also known for its windiness – it hosts surfers, kite-sailors, kite-boarders and even an international wind-surfing competition every year – the gusts can mean that the weather can change dramatically in a manner of minutes.
During our three days there we saw it all: downpours, clear blue skies, gusting winds and t-shirt weather. We spent our days hiking up Ben Hough, accompanying the kids to the beach for boogie-boarding, learning how to kite, painting finger and toenails, reading in the sunroom, drinking pints of Tennants and drams of whiskey, and spending the evenings with a family ceilidh band that had a changing cast of talented musicians.
It was a truly memorable visit, one that I could appreciate that much more because of both my previous summers here and because I am at an age now that contributes to experiencing family and places from my own perspective. I did yearn to have my parents there with me, because I know how much Tiree means to them as well, but it was enlightening to familiarize myself with the Isle with as few preconceived versions of visits to draw from.
I am grateful that the family let us gate-crash for those three days and allowed us to be a part of the reunion, sampling that Highland hospitality that my Dad described in his letters. I hope this is not the only Tiree visit I fit in while I’m living in the UK. Back in the city and back at work already more than a week, I am still craving that heathered, sea-strong Tiree scent.
Tuesday 10 August 2010
England Forever, Scotland A Wee Bit Longer
I have decided to make this blog a two-parter because I have so much to say about my beloved homeland. Today's will cover the mainland of Scotland and next week the stunning and unpredictable isle of Tiree off the west coast.
With a visit from my sister Lyl came also the quintessential visit to the land of our ancestors. I can hardly believe that I have lived in the UK for 11 months and have only just now taken the journey up to Scotland. The northern tip of the UK is probably my favourite place on the planet, filled with brisk weather, greasy food, hilly terrain, and whiskey. Besides all the typical stereotypes of Scotland I also love it because it is where, in some very small way, I come from.
There's something about Scotland that warms my spirit every time (may be that's the whiskey). My relation to the land is a few generations removed, but the textures of history here mean more to me than in any other country that I have ever visited because it is connected to my history and the history of my father, grandfather and so on.
Back in 1923 Robert Kerr Paterson (my great-grandfather) married his second cousin who was 19 years younger than him, Elizabeth McBride Holmes (my great-grandmother), in Gourock, Scotland. Robert was already residing in Canada, and had received a medical degree from Queen's University (this is where the legacy began). He had moved from Renfrew, Scotland to Renfrew, Ontario, and later Bob returned to Scotland and fallen in love. Later, Bessie gave birth to a daughter named Mary, and twins Robert Kerr (my beloved grandfather) and Elizabeth. That is how the lineage traces back and, despite the three generations passed, I still feel an intense pull to the place.
My first two trips to Scotland was as a youngster – first when I had just turned one and then when I was about four. Though I cannot say for sure that I remember these trips in detail, whether from hazy memories and photographs, I do remember bits and pieces. At 15 I remember more clearly being stuffed into a station wagon with my Mom, Dad, sister and brother, and driven all over the country, visiting castle ruins, Scottish cities and lochs, as well as the westernmost of the Inner Hebride islands where cousins Pearl and Mary maintain their parents' cottage – a later full-time home – on a heather-capped, sheep-strewn and remote island called Tiree.
Though being fined countless pounds for fighting with my siblings and dragged to countless castles, I have to thank my Mom and Dad now for instilling such passionate pride in me for this gorgeous country. There was a lapse in my grandfather’s generation when there was not a lot of connection to Scotland. A combination, I think, of a distancing from the previous generation and my grandparents absolute worship of their second-home and cottage at Norway Bay.
When Dad visited Scotland during a 10-month backpacking trip in 1972, he got in touch with unknown relatives to appease his grandmother (the aforementioned Bessie) and discovered instead lasting relationships and a deep love for the country. Dad maintains the Scottish pride continually with an insistent celebration of Robbie Burns' Day each 25 January, his homemade shortbread during the holiday season, and his fervent desire to one day learn to play the bagpipes.
Lyl and I counted Edinburgh and Glasgow among our must-visit destinations during the great backpacking adventure of 2004. Though Glasgow was too bustling a city for me at the time (this is before I ever imagined Toronto and London would be my homes), we were in love with Edinburgh, its studded volcanic hills, perched on the southern edge of the Firth of Forth, with an old and new town that is separated by a valley that holds up the towering Edinburgh Castle. We stayed at Brodies' Backpackers, facing the cobblestoned Royal Mile, which leads east to Palace of Holyroodhouse and west to the Castle. We bundled up in the day and visited landmarks such as the war memorial and tower to Lord Nelson overlooking the city from Calton Hill, then listened to bagpipers along Princes Street while eating chips and haggis wrapped in paper, before returning to our hostel to nap beneath large tartaned comforters. We visited the Writer's Museum, learning more about Scottish legends Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott and Robert Louis Stevenson; the graveyard where economist Adam Smith and poet Robert Fergusson are buried; the National Portrait Gallery to see paintings from Mary Queen of Scots to Sean Connery to a possible relative called Robert Kerr Paterson; the imposing Palace of Holyroodhouse and the magnificent castle.
For this latest journey to Scotland, Lyl and I had Tiree as our ultimate destination, a trip we had not made for almost 15 years. First we arrived in Edinburgh to meet Ottawa friends Jill and Noel, who have been on the road for over two months. As usual, Scotland greeted us in a misty rain and, as a result, that first day was spent along the Royal Mile, pub-crawling to avoid the downpour. There were pints of Tennants and McEwan, drams of whiskey, a delicious pile of haggis, tatties and neaps, then later deep-fried Mars bars and fish and chips. By the end of the day we were all feeling a little worse for wear and vowed tomorrow to indulge in some vegetables.
We did even better. Though Noel was feeling under the weather (which I have been blamed for thanks to a never-ending cold I’ve been nursing), Lyl, Jill and I spent the day hiking up to the summit of Arthur’s Seat. Since Edinburgh is placed within a 350 million year old volcano, the surrounding terrain offers casual (and often strenuous) walks with stunning views of the city below. We started off on a slight incline along the Salisbury Craggs and, with prodding from Jill, traversed the heather- and thistle-strewn hill to the top, known as Arthur’s Seat. It was brutal at times since, as usual, I was not wearing proper footwear, and the remnants of yesterday’s binge drinking and eating were barely settled in my stomach. But despite all the whining (sorry ladies), the view from above was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. (You will have to wait for me to upload my photos to see what I mean.)
Back down the hill we lunched on mussels from the Isle of Mull (so much for the veggies plan) and then embarked on the informative Scotch Whiskey tour. We learned about the five whiskey-producing regions and chose our favourite to sample at the end. Though fond of the floral highlands, light lowlands and even the peaty smokiness of Islay, I discovered that the fruity Speyside whiskies are my dram of choice.
Lyl and I said goodbye to Jill and Noel, who returned to Canada a few days later, and equipped with a brand new knowledge of whiskey, the rugged countryside around Edinburgh and the wish that we had never tasted a deep-fried Mars bar, we boarded a train the next morning to Oban, a small fishing village on the west coast that provides ferry passage to the Hebride islands.
Tiree is such a blissful and heavenly place, and was this journey filled with amazing family members, great food and Scottish music, that I will have to break off now and return to a Tiree-only blog next week. Until then, mar sin leibh.
With a visit from my sister Lyl came also the quintessential visit to the land of our ancestors. I can hardly believe that I have lived in the UK for 11 months and have only just now taken the journey up to Scotland. The northern tip of the UK is probably my favourite place on the planet, filled with brisk weather, greasy food, hilly terrain, and whiskey. Besides all the typical stereotypes of Scotland I also love it because it is where, in some very small way, I come from.
There's something about Scotland that warms my spirit every time (may be that's the whiskey). My relation to the land is a few generations removed, but the textures of history here mean more to me than in any other country that I have ever visited because it is connected to my history and the history of my father, grandfather and so on.
Back in 1923 Robert Kerr Paterson (my great-grandfather) married his second cousin who was 19 years younger than him, Elizabeth McBride Holmes (my great-grandmother), in Gourock, Scotland. Robert was already residing in Canada, and had received a medical degree from Queen's University (this is where the legacy began). He had moved from Renfrew, Scotland to Renfrew, Ontario, and later Bob returned to Scotland and fallen in love. Later, Bessie gave birth to a daughter named Mary, and twins Robert Kerr (my beloved grandfather) and Elizabeth. That is how the lineage traces back and, despite the three generations passed, I still feel an intense pull to the place.
My first two trips to Scotland was as a youngster – first when I had just turned one and then when I was about four. Though I cannot say for sure that I remember these trips in detail, whether from hazy memories and photographs, I do remember bits and pieces. At 15 I remember more clearly being stuffed into a station wagon with my Mom, Dad, sister and brother, and driven all over the country, visiting castle ruins, Scottish cities and lochs, as well as the westernmost of the Inner Hebride islands where cousins Pearl and Mary maintain their parents' cottage – a later full-time home – on a heather-capped, sheep-strewn and remote island called Tiree.
Though being fined countless pounds for fighting with my siblings and dragged to countless castles, I have to thank my Mom and Dad now for instilling such passionate pride in me for this gorgeous country. There was a lapse in my grandfather’s generation when there was not a lot of connection to Scotland. A combination, I think, of a distancing from the previous generation and my grandparents absolute worship of their second-home and cottage at Norway Bay.
When Dad visited Scotland during a 10-month backpacking trip in 1972, he got in touch with unknown relatives to appease his grandmother (the aforementioned Bessie) and discovered instead lasting relationships and a deep love for the country. Dad maintains the Scottish pride continually with an insistent celebration of Robbie Burns' Day each 25 January, his homemade shortbread during the holiday season, and his fervent desire to one day learn to play the bagpipes.
Lyl and I counted Edinburgh and Glasgow among our must-visit destinations during the great backpacking adventure of 2004. Though Glasgow was too bustling a city for me at the time (this is before I ever imagined Toronto and London would be my homes), we were in love with Edinburgh, its studded volcanic hills, perched on the southern edge of the Firth of Forth, with an old and new town that is separated by a valley that holds up the towering Edinburgh Castle. We stayed at Brodies' Backpackers, facing the cobblestoned Royal Mile, which leads east to Palace of Holyroodhouse and west to the Castle. We bundled up in the day and visited landmarks such as the war memorial and tower to Lord Nelson overlooking the city from Calton Hill, then listened to bagpipers along Princes Street while eating chips and haggis wrapped in paper, before returning to our hostel to nap beneath large tartaned comforters. We visited the Writer's Museum, learning more about Scottish legends Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott and Robert Louis Stevenson; the graveyard where economist Adam Smith and poet Robert Fergusson are buried; the National Portrait Gallery to see paintings from Mary Queen of Scots to Sean Connery to a possible relative called Robert Kerr Paterson; the imposing Palace of Holyroodhouse and the magnificent castle.
For this latest journey to Scotland, Lyl and I had Tiree as our ultimate destination, a trip we had not made for almost 15 years. First we arrived in Edinburgh to meet Ottawa friends Jill and Noel, who have been on the road for over two months. As usual, Scotland greeted us in a misty rain and, as a result, that first day was spent along the Royal Mile, pub-crawling to avoid the downpour. There were pints of Tennants and McEwan, drams of whiskey, a delicious pile of haggis, tatties and neaps, then later deep-fried Mars bars and fish and chips. By the end of the day we were all feeling a little worse for wear and vowed tomorrow to indulge in some vegetables.
We did even better. Though Noel was feeling under the weather (which I have been blamed for thanks to a never-ending cold I’ve been nursing), Lyl, Jill and I spent the day hiking up to the summit of Arthur’s Seat. Since Edinburgh is placed within a 350 million year old volcano, the surrounding terrain offers casual (and often strenuous) walks with stunning views of the city below. We started off on a slight incline along the Salisbury Craggs and, with prodding from Jill, traversed the heather- and thistle-strewn hill to the top, known as Arthur’s Seat. It was brutal at times since, as usual, I was not wearing proper footwear, and the remnants of yesterday’s binge drinking and eating were barely settled in my stomach. But despite all the whining (sorry ladies), the view from above was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. (You will have to wait for me to upload my photos to see what I mean.)
Back down the hill we lunched on mussels from the Isle of Mull (so much for the veggies plan) and then embarked on the informative Scotch Whiskey tour. We learned about the five whiskey-producing regions and chose our favourite to sample at the end. Though fond of the floral highlands, light lowlands and even the peaty smokiness of Islay, I discovered that the fruity Speyside whiskies are my dram of choice.
Lyl and I said goodbye to Jill and Noel, who returned to Canada a few days later, and equipped with a brand new knowledge of whiskey, the rugged countryside around Edinburgh and the wish that we had never tasted a deep-fried Mars bar, we boarded a train the next morning to Oban, a small fishing village on the west coast that provides ferry passage to the Hebride islands.
Tiree is such a blissful and heavenly place, and was this journey filled with amazing family members, great food and Scottish music, that I will have to break off now and return to a Tiree-only blog next week. Until then, mar sin leibh.
Thursday 29 July 2010
Writing Irish
One of my favourite things about living in London – a reason I listed in my very first blog entry – is treading the same ground as my beloved writers, like Shakespeare, Virginia Woolf and Charles Dickens. Ireland, and Dublin specifically, is heaven for someone like me. A person can (literally) not walk a block of the city without stumbling upon a statue of Oscar Wilde, pass by the house where George Bernard Shaw was born or see landmarks from within the pages of James Joyce’s novels.
This past weekend I flew to Dublin. Ostensibly, I was there to spend the Saturday with Adrian, my 17-year-old next-door-neighbour in Ottawa, non-biological little sister, who I helped raised since she was one (at least I like to think I did). She has been in Ireland for the whole month with a group called the Irish Experience, visiting Cork, Galway and Dublin, and gaining an English credit for high school. I was thrilled to fly in for 48 hours and spend time with her, but she had a strict itinerary and could only see me on the Saturday.
Fair enough. We had a lovely (based on companionship, not weather) Dublin day: wandering Trinity College campus, shopping on Grafton Street, strolling along the Liffey, drinking the freshest pints of Guinness on the planet (me, not Adrian). Newly lit up by the words of Irish writers thanks to her course, Adrian was even keen to stroll quite a distance along the Liffey to visit the house where Joyce’s ‘The Dead’ was based. Thrilling for me, of course, that someone else wanted to visit sites from my favourite novels, short stories and poems. (The next day’s literary obstacle course around the city would have been strenuous for even the most Guinness-fortified companion, however, so I was glad to be on my own for that one.)
Luckily for me, Adrian’s group leader had a couple of extra theatre tickets (resulting, most likely, from the fact that two kids had already been sent home for various forms of bad behaviour) so I got to prolong my visit with my girl for a few more hours. Since the kids had just read it in their Irish playwright class, we saw Sean O’Casey’s ‘The Plough and the Stars’ in the Abbey Theatre off O’Connell Street, the very theatre where it was controversially staged for the first time in 1926.
The title of the pacifist play comes from the flag of the Irish Citizen Army. “Plough” refers to the symbol on the flag that in Northern America is known as the big dipper. The show was stunning, perfectly cast and acted, and even moving for me – despite the fact that I was the only one who hadn’t read it. Based during the months leading up to the infamous Easter Uprising of 1916, it chronicles the unextraordinary lives of Irish tenement-inhabitants who are each affected by those extraordinary nationalistic events in their own way.
Equipped with this very poignant Irish experience, I spent Sunday cramming in as much of Dublin’s rich literary history and culture. I walked out to the house where Nobel-prize winner George Bernard Shaw was born in 1856 (he wrote Pygmalion which is perhaps more widely known as the film My Fair Lady); saw the Dublin Millennium Literary Parade in the park beside St. Patrick’s Cathedral (which includes Wilde, O’Casey, Yeats, Beckett and Joyce); visited, for the first time, the James Joyce Centre, a rather unspectacular timeline of the writer’s life with a few spectacular artifacts (his death mask and the actual door of 7 Eccles Street where his most well-known character, Leo Bloom, fictionally resided); and wandered through St. Stephen’s Green to see the commemorative statues to Yeats and Joyce.
Another stop in Dublin that I count as one of my must-sees is the Writer’s Museum. You wear a headset spouting out all sorts of facts about Ireland’s great writers – Swift (the father of satire), Yeats, Wilde, Joyce, Beckett and Synge (both phenomenal playwrights), among others. It is a really great museum with so much fascinating information in the ornately decorated rooms of a beautiful old house. Among the old artifacts on display are: a 1685 Old Testament, the first one translated into Gaelic; an original copy of Ulysses signed by Joyce; and a program from the first performance of Synge’s most famous play, Playboy of the Western World.
I had a truly wonderful visit with Adrian and thoroughly enjoyed my solo literary day. I made the kind of stops (and did the amount of walking) that not everyone would have the stamina for, especially since the landmarks I checked out were all related in some way or another to Ireland’s great literary geniuses. Now I'm back in London, hanging out with my latest visitor, my sister Lindsay,and getting really excited about this weekend's trip up to Scotland, the homeland.
This past weekend I flew to Dublin. Ostensibly, I was there to spend the Saturday with Adrian, my 17-year-old next-door-neighbour in Ottawa, non-biological little sister, who I helped raised since she was one (at least I like to think I did). She has been in Ireland for the whole month with a group called the Irish Experience, visiting Cork, Galway and Dublin, and gaining an English credit for high school. I was thrilled to fly in for 48 hours and spend time with her, but she had a strict itinerary and could only see me on the Saturday.
Fair enough. We had a lovely (based on companionship, not weather) Dublin day: wandering Trinity College campus, shopping on Grafton Street, strolling along the Liffey, drinking the freshest pints of Guinness on the planet (me, not Adrian). Newly lit up by the words of Irish writers thanks to her course, Adrian was even keen to stroll quite a distance along the Liffey to visit the house where Joyce’s ‘The Dead’ was based. Thrilling for me, of course, that someone else wanted to visit sites from my favourite novels, short stories and poems. (The next day’s literary obstacle course around the city would have been strenuous for even the most Guinness-fortified companion, however, so I was glad to be on my own for that one.)
Luckily for me, Adrian’s group leader had a couple of extra theatre tickets (resulting, most likely, from the fact that two kids had already been sent home for various forms of bad behaviour) so I got to prolong my visit with my girl for a few more hours. Since the kids had just read it in their Irish playwright class, we saw Sean O’Casey’s ‘The Plough and the Stars’ in the Abbey Theatre off O’Connell Street, the very theatre where it was controversially staged for the first time in 1926.
The title of the pacifist play comes from the flag of the Irish Citizen Army. “Plough” refers to the symbol on the flag that in Northern America is known as the big dipper. The show was stunning, perfectly cast and acted, and even moving for me – despite the fact that I was the only one who hadn’t read it. Based during the months leading up to the infamous Easter Uprising of 1916, it chronicles the unextraordinary lives of Irish tenement-inhabitants who are each affected by those extraordinary nationalistic events in their own way.
Equipped with this very poignant Irish experience, I spent Sunday cramming in as much of Dublin’s rich literary history and culture. I walked out to the house where Nobel-prize winner George Bernard Shaw was born in 1856 (he wrote Pygmalion which is perhaps more widely known as the film My Fair Lady); saw the Dublin Millennium Literary Parade in the park beside St. Patrick’s Cathedral (which includes Wilde, O’Casey, Yeats, Beckett and Joyce); visited, for the first time, the James Joyce Centre, a rather unspectacular timeline of the writer’s life with a few spectacular artifacts (his death mask and the actual door of 7 Eccles Street where his most well-known character, Leo Bloom, fictionally resided); and wandered through St. Stephen’s Green to see the commemorative statues to Yeats and Joyce.
Another stop in Dublin that I count as one of my must-sees is the Writer’s Museum. You wear a headset spouting out all sorts of facts about Ireland’s great writers – Swift (the father of satire), Yeats, Wilde, Joyce, Beckett and Synge (both phenomenal playwrights), among others. It is a really great museum with so much fascinating information in the ornately decorated rooms of a beautiful old house. Among the old artifacts on display are: a 1685 Old Testament, the first one translated into Gaelic; an original copy of Ulysses signed by Joyce; and a program from the first performance of Synge’s most famous play, Playboy of the Western World.
I had a truly wonderful visit with Adrian and thoroughly enjoyed my solo literary day. I made the kind of stops (and did the amount of walking) that not everyone would have the stamina for, especially since the landmarks I checked out were all related in some way or another to Ireland’s great literary geniuses. Now I'm back in London, hanging out with my latest visitor, my sister Lindsay,and getting really excited about this weekend's trip up to Scotland, the homeland.
Friday 23 July 2010
The (Perhaps Surprising) Joys of English Food
England may have history and it may have culture, but there is a general consensus around the world that English food is just not good. There are bangers and mash (sausage and potatoes), tatties and neaps (potatoes and turnips), English breakfast, fish and chips, Cornish pasties, and all sorts of filled pies.
Despite the stereotype, I am quite fond of all of the above.
Some of my favourite (English) writers characterized the label best, like Virginia Woolf in ‘To the Lighthouse’ with: “What passes for cookery in England is an abomination … It is putting cabbages in water. It is roasting meat till it is like leather. It is cutting off delicious skins of vegetables … A whole French family could live on what an English cook throws away," and W. Somerset Maugham who said: "To eat well in England you should have breakfast three times a day."
Well, I agree about the breakfast. While I do miss real Canadian bacon and maple syrup (not necessarily in combination) along with my favourite weekend brunch spots in Toronto, I am also rather fond of the spread that counts as a proper English breakfast here: bacon, sausage, eggs, cooked tomatoes, baked beans (I could take or leave these), toast, and sometimes black (also known as blood) pudding.
The latter is probably the most disturbing, but actually quite tasty when it is done well. It is a type of sausage that is made by cooking blood with a filler – typically oatmeal, barley, bread or suet – until it is thick enough to congeal when cooled. According to my father, it originated during bitter-cold famines in northern Scotland when peasants simply bled their farm animals and mixed it with whatever was lying around so that they could infuse some protein into their diet. Yes, it sounds gross but is not at all bad. Not quite as tasty as haggis – my favourite Scottish dish – but I will break down that one once I return from my homeland in mid-August.
I think I could write a weekly blog on food over here, because I am constantly discovering weird combinations, flavours and names for things. I have had prawn cocktail crisps, curry on my chips, the delicious Branston pickle in ploughman sandwiches, more malt vinegar than any person needs, and squash (which is essentially concentrated juice that you dilute with water).
Besides the weird and the wonderful, there are also amazing cheeses, cured meats and outstanding beers, proper English tea, and all sorts of delicious fish and game birds (At my cousin’s one evening, I ate a pheasant that was so freshly killed that I got a little shot in my mouth). For me, Borough Market is the best place to find all these cheeses and meats, plus amazing beer-battered fish and chips, the best cup of coffee in the city, falafels, raclette, fresh fruit and veg, and a selection of curries one could only dream of.
It is my favourite Saturday excursion and, this past weekend while my friend Paul was visiting, I had my most learned outsider tour of the market. You see, Paul is currently working as a chef at a Michelin-star restaurant in Paris and knows more about food – where it comes from, how to cook it – then anyone really needs to. Saturday morning at Borough Market was just the opening of my culinary education that spanned the six days he was in London.
Part of living in an amazing city like London is dining out at amazing restaurants. I have been to some truly outstanding Thai, Japanese, Indian, French, Cuban, Spanish, Turkish and Greek establishments in my 10 months here. When Paul arrived he had a few choice spots he wanted to check out as well but he also wanted to cook a little something up for us. So, after spending far too long at Tesco’s, we returned to Marge’s flat one night, laden with grocery bags and watched the magic happen.
The homemade burgers – consisting of ground beef and pork, chopped parsley, shallots, eggs, and more – were about to hit the hob when suddenly the power went out. Gathering on the stoop with neighbours and multiple bottles of wine we waited out the blackout. We started off very hungry, then rather drunk, and ended up having a hilarious evening with local West Kensingtonians, the culmination of which was a spectacular 1:30 am feast of homemade Shropshire cheese burgers and a delicious, simple, salad of rocket, tomatoes, parmesan, lemon and E.E.V.O. Thanks Paul!
I was unable to partake in the big feast out that week because I had a work dinner with my editorial team, hosted by a company that specializes in the communication of employee benefits and pension schemes. It actually turned into two big feasts out. My work dinner was at the Coq D’Argent, a gorgeous French rooftop restaurant at 1 Poultry Street. It started with cocktails on the gardened terrace followed by, for me, my first oyster, a sumptuous piece of foie gras, duck confit and crème brulee, interspersed with multiple bottles of superb French wine. It was gluttonous and incredible. The rather large oyster went down smoothly, the foie gras blew my mind, the duck melted in my mouth, and the crème brulee was perfection. The only complaint was that the service was slow and kind of discourteous. It was just like being in France.
Around 11 pm I hopped in a cab and headed up to Smithfield where I found Paul and Marge, plus Michelle and Dom, at St. John’s, a truly English restaurant (especially when compared to the French restaurant I had just dined at) that celebrates eating the animal from head to tail. My friends had eaten all sorts of delicacies – Marge even ate ox heart! I showed up for the best part of the night: dessert. I snagged a few bites of Paul’s crème brulee ice cream and some of the freshest madeleines ever (literally made while we waited). It was the climax of a week of absolutely great food.
I could write much more in this blog about all the interesting food in England. Even if some of it is not technically English food, the melting pot of ethnic flavours in this country is enough to rebuff the stereotypes of eating in England. And then there are the standard staples that I mentioned above. I mean, if you really think about it, at least England has defining foods – even it they are fish and chips or steak and kidney pie. In Canada, we don’t really have a cross-country standard dish, just a favourite in each province. (Poutine in Quebec, beef in Alberta, salmon in BC or lobster in PEI). Even if it might be in a mocking tone, at least people talk about the food in England.
Despite the stereotype, I am quite fond of all of the above.
Some of my favourite (English) writers characterized the label best, like Virginia Woolf in ‘To the Lighthouse’ with: “What passes for cookery in England is an abomination … It is putting cabbages in water. It is roasting meat till it is like leather. It is cutting off delicious skins of vegetables … A whole French family could live on what an English cook throws away," and W. Somerset Maugham who said: "To eat well in England you should have breakfast three times a day."
Well, I agree about the breakfast. While I do miss real Canadian bacon and maple syrup (not necessarily in combination) along with my favourite weekend brunch spots in Toronto, I am also rather fond of the spread that counts as a proper English breakfast here: bacon, sausage, eggs, cooked tomatoes, baked beans (I could take or leave these), toast, and sometimes black (also known as blood) pudding.
The latter is probably the most disturbing, but actually quite tasty when it is done well. It is a type of sausage that is made by cooking blood with a filler – typically oatmeal, barley, bread or suet – until it is thick enough to congeal when cooled. According to my father, it originated during bitter-cold famines in northern Scotland when peasants simply bled their farm animals and mixed it with whatever was lying around so that they could infuse some protein into their diet. Yes, it sounds gross but is not at all bad. Not quite as tasty as haggis – my favourite Scottish dish – but I will break down that one once I return from my homeland in mid-August.
I think I could write a weekly blog on food over here, because I am constantly discovering weird combinations, flavours and names for things. I have had prawn cocktail crisps, curry on my chips, the delicious Branston pickle in ploughman sandwiches, more malt vinegar than any person needs, and squash (which is essentially concentrated juice that you dilute with water).
Besides the weird and the wonderful, there are also amazing cheeses, cured meats and outstanding beers, proper English tea, and all sorts of delicious fish and game birds (At my cousin’s one evening, I ate a pheasant that was so freshly killed that I got a little shot in my mouth). For me, Borough Market is the best place to find all these cheeses and meats, plus amazing beer-battered fish and chips, the best cup of coffee in the city, falafels, raclette, fresh fruit and veg, and a selection of curries one could only dream of.
It is my favourite Saturday excursion and, this past weekend while my friend Paul was visiting, I had my most learned outsider tour of the market. You see, Paul is currently working as a chef at a Michelin-star restaurant in Paris and knows more about food – where it comes from, how to cook it – then anyone really needs to. Saturday morning at Borough Market was just the opening of my culinary education that spanned the six days he was in London.
Part of living in an amazing city like London is dining out at amazing restaurants. I have been to some truly outstanding Thai, Japanese, Indian, French, Cuban, Spanish, Turkish and Greek establishments in my 10 months here. When Paul arrived he had a few choice spots he wanted to check out as well but he also wanted to cook a little something up for us. So, after spending far too long at Tesco’s, we returned to Marge’s flat one night, laden with grocery bags and watched the magic happen.
The homemade burgers – consisting of ground beef and pork, chopped parsley, shallots, eggs, and more – were about to hit the hob when suddenly the power went out. Gathering on the stoop with neighbours and multiple bottles of wine we waited out the blackout. We started off very hungry, then rather drunk, and ended up having a hilarious evening with local West Kensingtonians, the culmination of which was a spectacular 1:30 am feast of homemade Shropshire cheese burgers and a delicious, simple, salad of rocket, tomatoes, parmesan, lemon and E.E.V.O. Thanks Paul!
I was unable to partake in the big feast out that week because I had a work dinner with my editorial team, hosted by a company that specializes in the communication of employee benefits and pension schemes. It actually turned into two big feasts out. My work dinner was at the Coq D’Argent, a gorgeous French rooftop restaurant at 1 Poultry Street. It started with cocktails on the gardened terrace followed by, for me, my first oyster, a sumptuous piece of foie gras, duck confit and crème brulee, interspersed with multiple bottles of superb French wine. It was gluttonous and incredible. The rather large oyster went down smoothly, the foie gras blew my mind, the duck melted in my mouth, and the crème brulee was perfection. The only complaint was that the service was slow and kind of discourteous. It was just like being in France.
Around 11 pm I hopped in a cab and headed up to Smithfield where I found Paul and Marge, plus Michelle and Dom, at St. John’s, a truly English restaurant (especially when compared to the French restaurant I had just dined at) that celebrates eating the animal from head to tail. My friends had eaten all sorts of delicacies – Marge even ate ox heart! I showed up for the best part of the night: dessert. I snagged a few bites of Paul’s crème brulee ice cream and some of the freshest madeleines ever (literally made while we waited). It was the climax of a week of absolutely great food.
I could write much more in this blog about all the interesting food in England. Even if some of it is not technically English food, the melting pot of ethnic flavours in this country is enough to rebuff the stereotypes of eating in England. And then there are the standard staples that I mentioned above. I mean, if you really think about it, at least England has defining foods – even it they are fish and chips or steak and kidney pie. In Canada, we don’t really have a cross-country standard dish, just a favourite in each province. (Poutine in Quebec, beef in Alberta, salmon in BC or lobster in PEI). Even if it might be in a mocking tone, at least people talk about the food in England.
Monday 12 July 2010
World Cup Final, Red Light District and Van Gogh
Let me first recap the last 24 hours of my life. Yesterday afternoon I was pounding the pavement in Amsterdam with my brother Kyle, Heineken in hand amid a sea of orange football fans. The weather was peaking into the 30s, with sporadic rain providing some respite, but I had already sweated through every piece of clothing I had packed for the short weekend visit to Holland. We swelled with the crowds towards Rembrandtplein, a secondary choice for World Cup Final viewing as Museumplein had been closed off at 3pm, a full 5.5 hours before the first whistle would blow. Kyle and I found my friend David, who traveled in from Den Hague for the event, and his colleagues from the International Criminal Tribunal (ICTY), prosecutors donning red, white and blue facepaint, an orange cowboy hat and a Netherlands football jersey. We crowded around a flatscreen television on the patio of a bar and contemplated the absolute madness around us. Then 8:30 came, the crowds quieted to an almost anti-climactic concentration, and the World Cup Final between Holland and Spain had begun.
Roughly 45 minutes later it was a scoreless half-time. I hugged Kyle and David, said goodbye to some new friends, and sprinted off to Waterlooplein to catch an intercity bus down to the Eurolines bus station. For the second half of the game, and the apparently very tense overtime, I listened to the almost incomprehensible Dutch play-by-play from the inside of a bus that would take me overnight from Amsterdam to London. Despite the intonations from the announcer I was still unsure what the outcome was. Not until we stopped to pick passengers up in Eindhoven around midnight did I notice the dejected orange fans moping around the city, collapsed onto front stoops and unenthusiastically lifting their flaming vuvuzelas to their lips. I was really glad I wasn’t in the middle of the Rembrandtplein mob and I wondered how my brother would make out.
Kyle was on Day 6 of a ritualistic post-uni European backpacking trip. The first stop had been in London to visit me, where he proved to be very anti-tourist, having been to the city multiple times, but humoured me with some Soho pub visits and spent time with our British cousins. With Holland advancing into the World Cup Finals and Kyle’s intended next stop after London being Amsterdam it seemed only fitting to accompany him on the second leg of his adventure.
Sure, most 29-year-olds would be weary of a 6:15 Saturday morning flight out of Luton, two days spent in a stifling, tourist-filled Amsterdam capped off with one of the worst hostels of all time for €55 a night, and then a Sunday to Monday overnight bus across Holland, France, the Chunnel and southern England before arriving 10 hours later at the office for a very productive day of employee benefits features writing. But, you know what? You only live once. How often do you find yourself in the very country competing in the quatro-annual biggest sporting event of all time?
So, Saturday morning found me in the Red Light District at 9:30am, sipping an ice-cold Heinie on a patio overlooking the canal. The middle-aged prostitutes were out in full force and the city appeared to be swarming with Brits. I was happy to be in Amsterdam again but wondering what I had gotten myself in to. Kyle was arriving mid-afternoon on the train (he has a Eurorail ticket and youth card so must make the most of it) so it was up to me to find us two beds to sleep in. The city, as seems predictable now, was filled to the limit, hotel and hostel prices were through the roof, and it was looking likely we were going to have to sleep in shifts leaning against our backpacks in Vondelpark.
And then I stumbled upon the sorriest excuse for a hostel that ever was (though truthfully, in my six months on the road back in 2004, I did see worse, and a lot of it). It wasn’t the best way to introduce Kyle to the hostelling life. However, I reminded myself that it could only go up from here. His reaction, upon his arrival at 3pm, made me slightly concerned that this kid was a bit too high maintenance. Granted, we did get charged €55 each to share a dormroom with six other boys, one communal toilet/shower room and ventilation that left a lot to be desired. But we were centrally-located in the RLD on perhaps the biggest weekend in Holland’s history so I think we should feel lucky with what we got. (The next night Kyle endeavored to find a different accomodation but to no avail, and had to instead take the train out of the city to Rotterdam following the match where he hopefully settled into a 120-bed dorm for €12.50 a night.)
Anyways, before the kid arrived, I managed to take care of my tourist-tendencies. I wandered around the RLD, the canals and Nieumarkt to reacquaint myself with the city I so loved. Since navigating is not my strong suit, I wanted to get my bearings before Kyle arrived so that we wouldn’t be constantly lost. I also took the tram out to the Van Gogh Museum which, three visits later, I had still not managed to see. I swallowed the rather inflated price (still stinging from my €55 hostel bed) and enjoyed a couple of hours among Vincent’s masterpieces such as my favourite sunflowers, a few self-portraits and the scarecrows over the cornfield.
Back to the Centrum in time for Kyle’s train and right into the swing of a much-younger traveller’s plans, and all that goes with the quintessential Amsterdam visit. The city was still throbbing with tourists and football fans amping up for the following day, and I was afraid that Kyle was going to be disgusted by the crowds and whores and sex-tourism. He sort of was. But we wandered outside the city centre as the sun set and the humidity took a break. We didn’t have the wildest Amsterdam night, which I feel guilty about for Kyle’s sake, but we spent a good quality evening together. We were both fading fast, having each slept for three hours the previous night, so returned to our sketchy hostel for cold showers and our threadbare beds.
Hours of much-needed sleep later we emerged into another scorcher, expertly maneuvered the growing crowds of orange people, and ventured out of the downtown core to book Kyle a hostel for that evening, plus find the Bloomeinmarkt which I love. The first project, though attempted intermittently throughout the day, was fruitless, but we strolled through miles of tulip bulbs and found less busy patios to enjoy our sparse, but delicious, diet of Heineken, Amstel and chips with mayonnaise. Mid-afternoon we concocted Kyle’s plan to flee Amsterdam for greener pastures (Rotterdam) and arranged a meeting spot with David Gault.
At this point our plan was to check out the once-empty green field that is Museumplein but were definitely noticing that fans decked out in all sort of orangery – wigs, fluorescent overalls, knee-high boots and simple t-shirts – were flowing down Dam Rak to that exact location. It turned out that the police had to close the place off around 3pm because it was busting at the seams. So, instead, we joined David and his friends in Rembrandtplein. I was full of hope for Holland, but didn’t really care that much about the actual football game. And it turned out that it was best that I didn’t stick around. I’m not sure yet if the crowds rioted when Spain was declared World Cup 2010 winner in overtime but I sure hope that Kyle and David made it out of there in once piece.
It is still not 100% official that I did. I made it through an 8-hour workday (one that I thought I was a half-hour late for until I turned up at the office ready to apologize and realized that I was the first one in – and still on Amsterdam time) after sleeping randomly on a bus with a serious snorer right next to me. But at least I made it through a really wild weekend with moments of great fun. Loved spending time with my brother, though not at all envious of his impending adventures. I know he is going to have an amazing time but I also know that there is a time and place for backpacking journeys, and that is in your early 20s outside of the brutal tourist season. I don’t hold Amsterdam responsible either. I have had 10 amazing days there over the course of 10 years and I intend to have many more. Maybe just not over World Cup Final weekend next time.
Roughly 45 minutes later it was a scoreless half-time. I hugged Kyle and David, said goodbye to some new friends, and sprinted off to Waterlooplein to catch an intercity bus down to the Eurolines bus station. For the second half of the game, and the apparently very tense overtime, I listened to the almost incomprehensible Dutch play-by-play from the inside of a bus that would take me overnight from Amsterdam to London. Despite the intonations from the announcer I was still unsure what the outcome was. Not until we stopped to pick passengers up in Eindhoven around midnight did I notice the dejected orange fans moping around the city, collapsed onto front stoops and unenthusiastically lifting their flaming vuvuzelas to their lips. I was really glad I wasn’t in the middle of the Rembrandtplein mob and I wondered how my brother would make out.
Kyle was on Day 6 of a ritualistic post-uni European backpacking trip. The first stop had been in London to visit me, where he proved to be very anti-tourist, having been to the city multiple times, but humoured me with some Soho pub visits and spent time with our British cousins. With Holland advancing into the World Cup Finals and Kyle’s intended next stop after London being Amsterdam it seemed only fitting to accompany him on the second leg of his adventure.
Sure, most 29-year-olds would be weary of a 6:15 Saturday morning flight out of Luton, two days spent in a stifling, tourist-filled Amsterdam capped off with one of the worst hostels of all time for €55 a night, and then a Sunday to Monday overnight bus across Holland, France, the Chunnel and southern England before arriving 10 hours later at the office for a very productive day of employee benefits features writing. But, you know what? You only live once. How often do you find yourself in the very country competing in the quatro-annual biggest sporting event of all time?
So, Saturday morning found me in the Red Light District at 9:30am, sipping an ice-cold Heinie on a patio overlooking the canal. The middle-aged prostitutes were out in full force and the city appeared to be swarming with Brits. I was happy to be in Amsterdam again but wondering what I had gotten myself in to. Kyle was arriving mid-afternoon on the train (he has a Eurorail ticket and youth card so must make the most of it) so it was up to me to find us two beds to sleep in. The city, as seems predictable now, was filled to the limit, hotel and hostel prices were through the roof, and it was looking likely we were going to have to sleep in shifts leaning against our backpacks in Vondelpark.
And then I stumbled upon the sorriest excuse for a hostel that ever was (though truthfully, in my six months on the road back in 2004, I did see worse, and a lot of it). It wasn’t the best way to introduce Kyle to the hostelling life. However, I reminded myself that it could only go up from here. His reaction, upon his arrival at 3pm, made me slightly concerned that this kid was a bit too high maintenance. Granted, we did get charged €55 each to share a dormroom with six other boys, one communal toilet/shower room and ventilation that left a lot to be desired. But we were centrally-located in the RLD on perhaps the biggest weekend in Holland’s history so I think we should feel lucky with what we got. (The next night Kyle endeavored to find a different accomodation but to no avail, and had to instead take the train out of the city to Rotterdam following the match where he hopefully settled into a 120-bed dorm for €12.50 a night.)
Anyways, before the kid arrived, I managed to take care of my tourist-tendencies. I wandered around the RLD, the canals and Nieumarkt to reacquaint myself with the city I so loved. Since navigating is not my strong suit, I wanted to get my bearings before Kyle arrived so that we wouldn’t be constantly lost. I also took the tram out to the Van Gogh Museum which, three visits later, I had still not managed to see. I swallowed the rather inflated price (still stinging from my €55 hostel bed) and enjoyed a couple of hours among Vincent’s masterpieces such as my favourite sunflowers, a few self-portraits and the scarecrows over the cornfield.
Back to the Centrum in time for Kyle’s train and right into the swing of a much-younger traveller’s plans, and all that goes with the quintessential Amsterdam visit. The city was still throbbing with tourists and football fans amping up for the following day, and I was afraid that Kyle was going to be disgusted by the crowds and whores and sex-tourism. He sort of was. But we wandered outside the city centre as the sun set and the humidity took a break. We didn’t have the wildest Amsterdam night, which I feel guilty about for Kyle’s sake, but we spent a good quality evening together. We were both fading fast, having each slept for three hours the previous night, so returned to our sketchy hostel for cold showers and our threadbare beds.
Hours of much-needed sleep later we emerged into another scorcher, expertly maneuvered the growing crowds of orange people, and ventured out of the downtown core to book Kyle a hostel for that evening, plus find the Bloomeinmarkt which I love. The first project, though attempted intermittently throughout the day, was fruitless, but we strolled through miles of tulip bulbs and found less busy patios to enjoy our sparse, but delicious, diet of Heineken, Amstel and chips with mayonnaise. Mid-afternoon we concocted Kyle’s plan to flee Amsterdam for greener pastures (Rotterdam) and arranged a meeting spot with David Gault.
At this point our plan was to check out the once-empty green field that is Museumplein but were definitely noticing that fans decked out in all sort of orangery – wigs, fluorescent overalls, knee-high boots and simple t-shirts – were flowing down Dam Rak to that exact location. It turned out that the police had to close the place off around 3pm because it was busting at the seams. So, instead, we joined David and his friends in Rembrandtplein. I was full of hope for Holland, but didn’t really care that much about the actual football game. And it turned out that it was best that I didn’t stick around. I’m not sure yet if the crowds rioted when Spain was declared World Cup 2010 winner in overtime but I sure hope that Kyle and David made it out of there in once piece.
It is still not 100% official that I did. I made it through an 8-hour workday (one that I thought I was a half-hour late for until I turned up at the office ready to apologize and realized that I was the first one in – and still on Amsterdam time) after sleeping randomly on a bus with a serious snorer right next to me. But at least I made it through a really wild weekend with moments of great fun. Loved spending time with my brother, though not at all envious of his impending adventures. I know he is going to have an amazing time but I also know that there is a time and place for backpacking journeys, and that is in your early 20s outside of the brutal tourist season. I don’t hold Amsterdam responsible either. I have had 10 amazing days there over the course of 10 years and I intend to have many more. Maybe just not over World Cup Final weekend next time.
Friday 2 July 2010
Canada Day In Trafalgar Square
When Canada turned 143 yesterday, Queen E was in the capital, telling everyone on Parliament Hill that “Canada is an example for the world.” I have spent only three Canada Day’s away from Ottawa and I have to admit, besides the frenzied patriotism that fills the capital on 1 July, London is my favourite non-Ottawa Canada Day so far.
My previous ones, which include the Forks in Winnipeg, a lack-lustre Toronto and a long weekend with black bears in Algonquin Park, just didn’t show up the way Canada Day in Trafalgar Square did. I swear, every single expat Canadian living in the country was down there yesterday.
In order to create more of an authentic atmosphere, London imported the following:
• a makeshift Tim Horton’s complete with M22’s and timbits
• a ball hockey tournament in the square
• a food stand selling, among other things, non-curded poutine
• Sleemans on tap and by the can (though they ran out and started peddling Carlsberg)
• performances by Cirque du Soleil, Sarah Harmer, Hawkesley Workman and Jully Black
• tourism booths set up for each and every glorious province
It was a pretty special day. I was already in a fairly nostalgic place, having returned from a visit to both Ottawa and Toronto earlier in the week, so it didn’t take much to get me in the spirit. Despite a 5.0 earthquake and the G20 protests, I had a truly amazing eight days in Canada and was still running on the homeland fumes.
Since we don’t get a national holiday here, I had to squeeze my Trafalgar Square visits into my lunch hour and later evening. I made my colleague Nicola come down with me at lunch. She had a somewhat vested interest since her Dad is Canadian and she lived there for three years when she was growing up. But I don’t think she was quite prepared for the spectacle on hand (or for the enormous Canadian flag I pulled out of my bag and draped over my shoulders). I sipped a Sleemans and wandered around the square before we had to head back to the office.
After work I had to head to Shoreditch for a work event but I escaped early and headed back to Trafalgar Square around 8pm. En route I picked up a six-pack of Molson Canadian cans then met up with a variety of Canadian friends all around the Square and Covent Garden area.
It wasn’t a late night – the full day even came to an end sans fireworks around 10pm, which was fine by me as I was in dire need of one early bedtime this week. So, despite the fact that I didn’t spend it in Ottawa, I still had a great Canada Day in the heart of London.
My previous ones, which include the Forks in Winnipeg, a lack-lustre Toronto and a long weekend with black bears in Algonquin Park, just didn’t show up the way Canada Day in Trafalgar Square did. I swear, every single expat Canadian living in the country was down there yesterday.
In order to create more of an authentic atmosphere, London imported the following:
• a makeshift Tim Horton’s complete with M22’s and timbits
• a ball hockey tournament in the square
• a food stand selling, among other things, non-curded poutine
• Sleemans on tap and by the can (though they ran out and started peddling Carlsberg)
• performances by Cirque du Soleil, Sarah Harmer, Hawkesley Workman and Jully Black
• tourism booths set up for each and every glorious province
It was a pretty special day. I was already in a fairly nostalgic place, having returned from a visit to both Ottawa and Toronto earlier in the week, so it didn’t take much to get me in the spirit. Despite a 5.0 earthquake and the G20 protests, I had a truly amazing eight days in Canada and was still running on the homeland fumes.
Since we don’t get a national holiday here, I had to squeeze my Trafalgar Square visits into my lunch hour and later evening. I made my colleague Nicola come down with me at lunch. She had a somewhat vested interest since her Dad is Canadian and she lived there for three years when she was growing up. But I don’t think she was quite prepared for the spectacle on hand (or for the enormous Canadian flag I pulled out of my bag and draped over my shoulders). I sipped a Sleemans and wandered around the square before we had to head back to the office.
After work I had to head to Shoreditch for a work event but I escaped early and headed back to Trafalgar Square around 8pm. En route I picked up a six-pack of Molson Canadian cans then met up with a variety of Canadian friends all around the Square and Covent Garden area.
It wasn’t a late night – the full day even came to an end sans fireworks around 10pm, which was fine by me as I was in dire need of one early bedtime this week. So, despite the fact that I didn’t spend it in Ottawa, I still had a great Canada Day in the heart of London.
Friday 11 June 2010
Catching World Cup Fever
It probably doesn’t quite capture the mood to simply say that England has World Cup fever. To be fair, if you are anywhere outside of Canada, it is safe to say you know what I’m talking about. And maybe that’s not fair either. Canada may not have qualified for South Africa but they do have a lot of fans. I remember spending a few nights in Little Italy down on College Street last time round and it would not be fair to say that there aren’t football (soccer) fans in Canada. I’ve seen Italy, Portugal, Greece and even England fans get rather rowdy in the streets of Toronto. But for some reason it feels very different over here.
The fever has been building for months and months with pubs proclaiming screening schedules, offices coordinating ways to manage World Cup-related absences (I work at Employee Benefits after all – it’s been big news here), and England flags popping up on every house, flat and storefront. I even purchased a Team England jersey so that I could fit in when heading out to watch the matches.
Don’t get the wrong idea. I don’t actually like footie. Sure, there are some fine-looking men involved in the sport but, no matter how long I live in England, I will never follow football the way I follow hockey. Despite this promise, there is still something about the spirit of the World Cup that makes you want to be a part of it – even if that means just being the token Canadian ex-pat in her England t-shirt, drinking beer and asking stupid questions during the matches.
At the office we just kicked off a World Cup lottery. Editorial and sales staff alike paid £2 to choose a country out of an envelope – or two once we discovered there were leftovers. Even though most of us will be cheering for England, we have our lottery teams to support as well, just for a little extra competitive spirit. Whoever comes out on top wins the envelope of money – a whole £64.
My first pick is Germany and my back-up is Paraguay. Could be worse (I could have picked Slovenia and Honduras like my friend Tynan) or better (I could have picked one of the perennial favourites like Brazil, Portugal or Italy). And while I enjoy supporting the underdogs, I rather doubt the Paraguayans have much of a chance.
Germany, on the other hand, was singled out as a favourite early on. Unfortunately, injuries to the captain, goalkeeper, defender and two midfields could really hurt their chances. Even Franz Beckenbauer, who led his country to World Cup glory as captain in 1974 and then as coach in 1990, does not have a lot of optimism for Germany’s success. Maybe this is for the best though as I hardly want to be caught cheering for Germany in an English pub (If the reason for this is not completely obvious just consider this: 2 World Wars and 1 World Cup).
England, despite its own unfortunate last-minute injuries, also has a good chance. At least according to English bookies. Earlier this week England captain Rio Ferdinand saw his World Cup dreams crushed when he suffered ligament damage to his left knee during the team’s first training session in South Africa. But despite this setback, manager Fabio Capello is being called the reason that England can win the World Cup. And all you have to do is believe it.
So enjoy the kick-off weekend, starting with the Opening Ceremonies earlier today and the first couple of matches – which we were slyly screening on an old tv in one of the meeting rooms at the office this afternoon – and culminating in England first match against USA tomorrow evening. And if you’re interested in a little light reading, check out the news alert I sent out this afternoon at the following link: http://www.employeebenefits.co.uk/item/10814/23/5/3.
The fever has been building for months and months with pubs proclaiming screening schedules, offices coordinating ways to manage World Cup-related absences (I work at Employee Benefits after all – it’s been big news here), and England flags popping up on every house, flat and storefront. I even purchased a Team England jersey so that I could fit in when heading out to watch the matches.
Don’t get the wrong idea. I don’t actually like footie. Sure, there are some fine-looking men involved in the sport but, no matter how long I live in England, I will never follow football the way I follow hockey. Despite this promise, there is still something about the spirit of the World Cup that makes you want to be a part of it – even if that means just being the token Canadian ex-pat in her England t-shirt, drinking beer and asking stupid questions during the matches.
At the office we just kicked off a World Cup lottery. Editorial and sales staff alike paid £2 to choose a country out of an envelope – or two once we discovered there were leftovers. Even though most of us will be cheering for England, we have our lottery teams to support as well, just for a little extra competitive spirit. Whoever comes out on top wins the envelope of money – a whole £64.
My first pick is Germany and my back-up is Paraguay. Could be worse (I could have picked Slovenia and Honduras like my friend Tynan) or better (I could have picked one of the perennial favourites like Brazil, Portugal or Italy). And while I enjoy supporting the underdogs, I rather doubt the Paraguayans have much of a chance.
Germany, on the other hand, was singled out as a favourite early on. Unfortunately, injuries to the captain, goalkeeper, defender and two midfields could really hurt their chances. Even Franz Beckenbauer, who led his country to World Cup glory as captain in 1974 and then as coach in 1990, does not have a lot of optimism for Germany’s success. Maybe this is for the best though as I hardly want to be caught cheering for Germany in an English pub (If the reason for this is not completely obvious just consider this: 2 World Wars and 1 World Cup).
England, despite its own unfortunate last-minute injuries, also has a good chance. At least according to English bookies. Earlier this week England captain Rio Ferdinand saw his World Cup dreams crushed when he suffered ligament damage to his left knee during the team’s first training session in South Africa. But despite this setback, manager Fabio Capello is being called the reason that England can win the World Cup. And all you have to do is believe it.
So enjoy the kick-off weekend, starting with the Opening Ceremonies earlier today and the first couple of matches – which we were slyly screening on an old tv in one of the meeting rooms at the office this afternoon – and culminating in England first match against USA tomorrow evening. And if you’re interested in a little light reading, check out the news alert I sent out this afternoon at the following link: http://www.employeebenefits.co.uk/item/10814/23/5/3.
Tuesday 1 June 2010
Up North With The Yorkies
My first visit to the English county of Yorkshire did not disappoint, despite the questionable weather that greeted me. I spent the bank holiday weekend staying with my amazing family up north in Knaresborough and venturing around the region to see as much as possible.
I arrived via train to Leeds and then onto the old spa town of Harrogate on Friday night where I was greeted by my cousin Clair’s husband Murry. He nominated himself chief tour guide for the weekend, along with the children from time to time, and Clair when she was up for it. Oliver is 15, which provides him an excuse for spending too much time with us, but the girls Molly (12) and Jessie (9) did join in on most of our Yorkshire activities. It makes me so happy to get to know this extended part of my Holmes family and I can hardly wait to spend more time with them in Tiree in August.
On Saturday morning in the misty fog and sporadic rain I was introduced to Knaresborough, a town that dates back to 1100 when it began to grow as a market town around Knaresborough Castle. The town has been passed through the centuries from Hugh de Morville, who led the four knights who murdered Archbishop Thomas Beckett at Canterbury Cathedral, to John of Gaunt in 1369. The castle fell in 1646 during the Civil War when citizens looted the stone. As a result, much of the town centre buildings are built with the very same castle stone.
Clair, Molly and I wandered along the waterside and had coffee and teacakes in a café that used to be a houseboat. Then we explored the Castle grounds, now just a scattering of ruins and a small museum, and carried on to the market square where England’s oldest chemist shop stands alongside modern shops and local pubs. We also visited Saint Robert’s Cave, a medieval hermit’s site along the River Nidd, which attracted thousands of pilgrims in the late 12th and early 13th centuries.
In the afternoon the whole family (minus Ollie) piled into the car to drive around the Yorkshire Dales and North York Moors, landscapes which would normally be stunningly colourful and stretching for miles. Due to weather restrictions we mostly peered out the windows at heavy mist and wet fields, but this did add to the tragically romantic atmosphere that I expected anyways, thanks to my youth spent reading the novels of the Bronte sisters. The Blubberhouse Moors, which inspired ‘Wuthering Heights’ (wuthering is a Yorkshire word that means turbulent weather), are up here. Because of the mist and fog, I could almost see tragic Heathcliff pining for his true love Catherine.
We continued on to Brimham Rocks, balancing formations on the moor of the same name, which have been around for hundreds of years, formed by erosion, glaciation and wind into the shapes of various animals like the Sphinx, the Watchdog, the Camel, the Turtle and the Dancing Bear. After walking around in the rain for a while we rewarded ourselves with local Risplith ice cream. I tried the gin and tonic flavour (with real gin), which started me on a downhill drinking spiral that carried into the early hours of Sunday morning.
Next we stopped for a pint of a Yorkshire-brewed lager, the Copper Dragon, and I spent the rest of the evening trying to sample as many more as I could, like Timothy Taylor’s and Black Sheep. After Clair cooked us a delicious dinner of fish pie Murry took me out on a pub crawl of Knaresborough where we sampled locally-brewed half pints along the way. We even stopped by a music hall where the 70s rock group Wishbone Ash were performing then carried on to Blind Jack’s where I was allowed behind the bar to pull a pint. Very fun.
The next day Murry, Molly and Jess took me into York for the day. If you’re not going to spend your hangover lying in bed, this is the town to recover in, with walks along the River Ouse, wanders through the shambles and along the old city walls, and a brisk climb up 275 steps to the top of the York Minster (though the actual count is in dispute thanks to Jess’s accurate tally the whole way up and down). We saw straight across Yorkshire from the very top and looked down to see exactly what else we wanted to visit in the town.
York is a walled city with a rich history and the site of major political events in its two millennia of existence. Founded by the Romans in 71 AD and called Eboracum after the British tribes who inhabited the area, it was the capital of Britannia Inferior until the end of Roman rule in 415 AD after serving as court for the Emperors Hadrian, Severus and Constantius I. Over its history it served as the capital of the Anglian Kingdom of Northumbria, the capital of the Viking settlement once it was captured in 866 AD, and following the Norman Conquest was named York. Situated halfway between the capitals of London and Edinburgh, the city has had a long past, and is certainly an interesting visit for anyone who enjoys both classic and modern history.
On bank holiday Monday, my last day up North, we drove to the east coast, since the Evans’ were going to be spending the rest of their half-term holiday at a friend’s place near the beach. Besides the slow pace we took in getting there – with traffic that brought me back to commutes out of Toronto on camping and cottaging weekends – it was definitely worth a windy afternoon on the beach before heading back to London. Jess, Molly and I ran into the freezing cold sea up to our ankles then we wandered along Filey Beach where I was introduced to the traditions of a typical British seaside holiday.
I am so lucky to get the chance to visit different areas of this country with family as my tour guides. I had such a fun, historic and relaxing weekend in Yorkshire, and am now counting the days down to more family time in the Scottish Hebrides come August.
I arrived via train to Leeds and then onto the old spa town of Harrogate on Friday night where I was greeted by my cousin Clair’s husband Murry. He nominated himself chief tour guide for the weekend, along with the children from time to time, and Clair when she was up for it. Oliver is 15, which provides him an excuse for spending too much time with us, but the girls Molly (12) and Jessie (9) did join in on most of our Yorkshire activities. It makes me so happy to get to know this extended part of my Holmes family and I can hardly wait to spend more time with them in Tiree in August.
On Saturday morning in the misty fog and sporadic rain I was introduced to Knaresborough, a town that dates back to 1100 when it began to grow as a market town around Knaresborough Castle. The town has been passed through the centuries from Hugh de Morville, who led the four knights who murdered Archbishop Thomas Beckett at Canterbury Cathedral, to John of Gaunt in 1369. The castle fell in 1646 during the Civil War when citizens looted the stone. As a result, much of the town centre buildings are built with the very same castle stone.
Clair, Molly and I wandered along the waterside and had coffee and teacakes in a café that used to be a houseboat. Then we explored the Castle grounds, now just a scattering of ruins and a small museum, and carried on to the market square where England’s oldest chemist shop stands alongside modern shops and local pubs. We also visited Saint Robert’s Cave, a medieval hermit’s site along the River Nidd, which attracted thousands of pilgrims in the late 12th and early 13th centuries.
In the afternoon the whole family (minus Ollie) piled into the car to drive around the Yorkshire Dales and North York Moors, landscapes which would normally be stunningly colourful and stretching for miles. Due to weather restrictions we mostly peered out the windows at heavy mist and wet fields, but this did add to the tragically romantic atmosphere that I expected anyways, thanks to my youth spent reading the novels of the Bronte sisters. The Blubberhouse Moors, which inspired ‘Wuthering Heights’ (wuthering is a Yorkshire word that means turbulent weather), are up here. Because of the mist and fog, I could almost see tragic Heathcliff pining for his true love Catherine.
We continued on to Brimham Rocks, balancing formations on the moor of the same name, which have been around for hundreds of years, formed by erosion, glaciation and wind into the shapes of various animals like the Sphinx, the Watchdog, the Camel, the Turtle and the Dancing Bear. After walking around in the rain for a while we rewarded ourselves with local Risplith ice cream. I tried the gin and tonic flavour (with real gin), which started me on a downhill drinking spiral that carried into the early hours of Sunday morning.
Next we stopped for a pint of a Yorkshire-brewed lager, the Copper Dragon, and I spent the rest of the evening trying to sample as many more as I could, like Timothy Taylor’s and Black Sheep. After Clair cooked us a delicious dinner of fish pie Murry took me out on a pub crawl of Knaresborough where we sampled locally-brewed half pints along the way. We even stopped by a music hall where the 70s rock group Wishbone Ash were performing then carried on to Blind Jack’s where I was allowed behind the bar to pull a pint. Very fun.
The next day Murry, Molly and Jess took me into York for the day. If you’re not going to spend your hangover lying in bed, this is the town to recover in, with walks along the River Ouse, wanders through the shambles and along the old city walls, and a brisk climb up 275 steps to the top of the York Minster (though the actual count is in dispute thanks to Jess’s accurate tally the whole way up and down). We saw straight across Yorkshire from the very top and looked down to see exactly what else we wanted to visit in the town.
York is a walled city with a rich history and the site of major political events in its two millennia of existence. Founded by the Romans in 71 AD and called Eboracum after the British tribes who inhabited the area, it was the capital of Britannia Inferior until the end of Roman rule in 415 AD after serving as court for the Emperors Hadrian, Severus and Constantius I. Over its history it served as the capital of the Anglian Kingdom of Northumbria, the capital of the Viking settlement once it was captured in 866 AD, and following the Norman Conquest was named York. Situated halfway between the capitals of London and Edinburgh, the city has had a long past, and is certainly an interesting visit for anyone who enjoys both classic and modern history.
On bank holiday Monday, my last day up North, we drove to the east coast, since the Evans’ were going to be spending the rest of their half-term holiday at a friend’s place near the beach. Besides the slow pace we took in getting there – with traffic that brought me back to commutes out of Toronto on camping and cottaging weekends – it was definitely worth a windy afternoon on the beach before heading back to London. Jess, Molly and I ran into the freezing cold sea up to our ankles then we wandered along Filey Beach where I was introduced to the traditions of a typical British seaside holiday.
I am so lucky to get the chance to visit different areas of this country with family as my tour guides. I had such a fun, historic and relaxing weekend in Yorkshire, and am now counting the days down to more family time in the Scottish Hebrides come August.
Monday 24 May 2010
Back In Time To Tudor England
After postponing our excursion on two separate occasions due to gloomy weather and stranded friends thanks to a certain ash cloud, I finally made a visit to Hampton Court Palace this past weekend on a particularly stunning warm day.
The royal palace, which was built by Cardinal Wolsey in 1514 and subsequently passed on to King Henry VIII when his chief minister fell from favour in 1529 (due to his failure to secure an annulment of the King’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon so that he could marry Anne Boleyn), is located in the London borough of Richmond-upon-Thames in the southwest. Over the years the palace has been enlarged, first by Henry and then by William III in the following century in a bid to rival Versailles.
The palace spans years of English architectural styles, transitioning from the domestic Tudor to the perpendicalur Gothic to the Italian Renaissance classical style. Henry VIII enhanced the Gothic-inspired Tudor style but the hybrid architecture would change again when Inigo Jones introduced strong classical influences from Italy to all the London palaces of the first Stuart kings.
The palace has been home to many Kings and Queens since the 16th century, but for me, the most interesting history it has seen is the Tudor years. It might be because I love watching the television series 'The Tudors', that sexes up Henry VIII’s (played by Jonathan Rhys-Meyers) tumultuous marriages and unstable rule.
Many of the most famous moments in the Tudor dynasty took place within the walls of Hampton Court Palace. In 1537, the King’s only male heir, the future Edward VI, was born at the palace and his mother, Jane Seymour, died there three weeks after the difficult birth. Four years later, while attending Mass in the palace’s chapel, the King was informed of his fifth wife’s adultery. The Queen, Catherine Howard, was dragged away screaming from a gallery that leads to the chapel and it is said that her ghost still haunts it.
When Henry VIII died followed by his only son, the throne went to Mary I, the King’s daughter with his first wife, Catherine of Aragon. Hampton Court Palace is where she and her husband, King Philip II of Spain, spent their honeymoon. That marriage was a childless one and when Mary’s half-sister Elizabeth I (Henry’s daughter with Anne Boleyn) became Queen she had the Eastern kitchen built – which today is the palace’s public tea room.
Besides the history that echoes throughout the palace, it is also a really interesting place to spend the day walking around – even if you are not a history junkie. When I ventured out here with Diane and Lauren we were lucky enough to have a warm and sunny day, which are few and far between in the UK. Though we went indoors to see the various wings, the apartments, the chapel and Great Hall (where William Shakespeare and his players performed for the royalty) and the haunted gallery, we spent a lazy afternoon enjoying a boozy picnic and lying in the grass amid the spectacular gardens.
The garden grounds as they appear today were laid out in the 17th century. Apparently, there are no authentic remains of King Henry VIII’s gardens. The dominating feature of the gardens is the great architectural landscaping scheme that was constructed for Christopher Wren’s (also the father of such feats as the dome of St. Peter’s Cathedral) new additions. A water-bounded semicircular parterre covers the east front with three avenues radiating out in a crow’s foot pattern. The great canal, which is known as the Long Water, was excavated during the reign of Charles II in 1662 and is another immediately recognizable influence from Versailles.
Once we had soaked in the sun and semi-napped on our picnic blanket, drowsy from two bottles of rose, cheese, crackers, meats and sweets, we headed off to explore two of the most famous aspects of the palace grounds: the Great Vine and the Hampton Court Maze. The Great Vine is currently housed inside a conservatory for protection. Planted in 1769, by 1968 it had a trunk 81 inches thick and spanned a length of 100 feet. It still produces an annual crop of grapes. The Maze was planted in the 1690s for William III of Orange. It covers a third of an acre and contains half a mile of paths. I quite enjoyed walking through it, until I felt like we weren’t going to get out, and then I had to use the emergency exit.
It was a great day out and really makes for a wonderful day-trip from downtown London. With the right weather, the grounds offer a beautiful place to enjoy the season while boning up on your Tudor and Stuart dynasties. Just read that over and I sound like I am selling tours. Well, if you want to come visit I would be more than happy to run that tour for you.
The royal palace, which was built by Cardinal Wolsey in 1514 and subsequently passed on to King Henry VIII when his chief minister fell from favour in 1529 (due to his failure to secure an annulment of the King’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon so that he could marry Anne Boleyn), is located in the London borough of Richmond-upon-Thames in the southwest. Over the years the palace has been enlarged, first by Henry and then by William III in the following century in a bid to rival Versailles.
The palace spans years of English architectural styles, transitioning from the domestic Tudor to the perpendicalur Gothic to the Italian Renaissance classical style. Henry VIII enhanced the Gothic-inspired Tudor style but the hybrid architecture would change again when Inigo Jones introduced strong classical influences from Italy to all the London palaces of the first Stuart kings.
The palace has been home to many Kings and Queens since the 16th century, but for me, the most interesting history it has seen is the Tudor years. It might be because I love watching the television series 'The Tudors', that sexes up Henry VIII’s (played by Jonathan Rhys-Meyers) tumultuous marriages and unstable rule.
Many of the most famous moments in the Tudor dynasty took place within the walls of Hampton Court Palace. In 1537, the King’s only male heir, the future Edward VI, was born at the palace and his mother, Jane Seymour, died there three weeks after the difficult birth. Four years later, while attending Mass in the palace’s chapel, the King was informed of his fifth wife’s adultery. The Queen, Catherine Howard, was dragged away screaming from a gallery that leads to the chapel and it is said that her ghost still haunts it.
When Henry VIII died followed by his only son, the throne went to Mary I, the King’s daughter with his first wife, Catherine of Aragon. Hampton Court Palace is where she and her husband, King Philip II of Spain, spent their honeymoon. That marriage was a childless one and when Mary’s half-sister Elizabeth I (Henry’s daughter with Anne Boleyn) became Queen she had the Eastern kitchen built – which today is the palace’s public tea room.
Besides the history that echoes throughout the palace, it is also a really interesting place to spend the day walking around – even if you are not a history junkie. When I ventured out here with Diane and Lauren we were lucky enough to have a warm and sunny day, which are few and far between in the UK. Though we went indoors to see the various wings, the apartments, the chapel and Great Hall (where William Shakespeare and his players performed for the royalty) and the haunted gallery, we spent a lazy afternoon enjoying a boozy picnic and lying in the grass amid the spectacular gardens.
The garden grounds as they appear today were laid out in the 17th century. Apparently, there are no authentic remains of King Henry VIII’s gardens. The dominating feature of the gardens is the great architectural landscaping scheme that was constructed for Christopher Wren’s (also the father of such feats as the dome of St. Peter’s Cathedral) new additions. A water-bounded semicircular parterre covers the east front with three avenues radiating out in a crow’s foot pattern. The great canal, which is known as the Long Water, was excavated during the reign of Charles II in 1662 and is another immediately recognizable influence from Versailles.
Once we had soaked in the sun and semi-napped on our picnic blanket, drowsy from two bottles of rose, cheese, crackers, meats and sweets, we headed off to explore two of the most famous aspects of the palace grounds: the Great Vine and the Hampton Court Maze. The Great Vine is currently housed inside a conservatory for protection. Planted in 1769, by 1968 it had a trunk 81 inches thick and spanned a length of 100 feet. It still produces an annual crop of grapes. The Maze was planted in the 1690s for William III of Orange. It covers a third of an acre and contains half a mile of paths. I quite enjoyed walking through it, until I felt like we weren’t going to get out, and then I had to use the emergency exit.
It was a great day out and really makes for a wonderful day-trip from downtown London. With the right weather, the grounds offer a beautiful place to enjoy the season while boning up on your Tudor and Stuart dynasties. Just read that over and I sound like I am selling tours. Well, if you want to come visit I would be more than happy to run that tour for you.
Saturday 8 May 2010
Great Britain Gets Hung
On the morning of 7 May, the UK woke up to a hung parliament. Since I was unable to vote – or, as I later learned, was able to but just missed registration – I went to bed mainly unbothered by whatever results would greet me the following day. I was aesthetically annoyed with Tory leader David Cameron, whose smug little face I could do with never seeing again, and already discouraged by my own liberal attitudes being disregarded back in conservative Canada. So you could say I am politically lackadaisical at the moment.
But from my point of view, it looks as if the mother country is following in the footsteps of its Commonwealth child. The UK has been continually disappointed by the Labour party (in power since 1997 when Tony Blair came in) in the same way that Canada was with the Paul Martin liberals. The comparisons are rather striking, actually, with MP scandals and older, crusty prime ministers who could just not connect with younger voters. The result for both has been – in a certain widespread cry of “out with the old and in with the new” – a movement to the left side: doughboy Stephen Harper and try-hard David Cameron. The two could be brothers, really. If only GW was still around to form a plonker triumvirate.
First of all (though all Canadians should know this well), what exactly is a hung parliament? It is a term used to describe a parliament in which no political party has an absolute majority of seats. In countries like Germany and Ireland, where legislatures have proportional representation, this is a common situation. In Canada, our current parliament is hung, as were the two before it. However, we don’t use the term across the pond. Back home we say minority government or minority parliament instead. Our 40th, 39th and 38th parliament were also not “hung” in the sense that there were no clear precedents allowing the leader of the party with the most seats to form a government.
A hung parliament inevitably leads to an uncertain period following election. For example, the widespread “d’uh” that was heard around the UK yesterday. This is apparently quite common in countries that are not used to it. Despite some confusion around overcrowded polling stations, the Tories are expected to get 305 seats (just short of the 326 needed for an outright majority), Labour is expected to end up with 255 and the Lib Dems (the UK’s NDP essentially) will have a disappointing 57.
According to the BBC, past practice under Britain’s unwritten constitution grants the sitting prime minister in a hung parliament with the right to make the first attempt at forming a ruling coalition. But apparently, the Queen is the only person who can actually invite someone to form a government and become prime minister. She has no tie-breaking power, however, so the ceremony is mainly symbolic. If the outcome of the election is inconclusive, as it is today, it is for the political parties to determine who will become prime minister, and then that decision is communicated to Buckingham Palace.
Meanwhile, back in the ring, the gloves are coming off – not that things didn’t get dirty during the run up to election night. Yesterday morning, the leaders’ rhetoric is mature and edifying. Tory Cameron has accused Labour PM Gordon Brown with “losing his mandate to govern” but Gordo came back with a statement that as prime minister he still has “a constitutional duty to seek to resolve the situation for the good of the country.” In the meantime, Lib-Dem leader Nick Clegg, who created early positive buzz during the three pre-election televised debates, said that the result gives the Tories the right to seek to govern first.
As I post this, the situation has still not been resolved. The government of the UK is still hanging in the balance. Cameron has offered an olive branch to the Lib-Dems, effectively inviting them to join forces and create a “stronger, more stable, more collaborative government.” Former Tory prime minister John Major told the BBC that offering cabinet seats to the Lib Dems was “a price, in the national interest, that I personally would be prepared to bear” for the formation of a stable government able to manage the economic crisis.
No one has moved out or into Number 10 just yet, but it is likely that sometime this weekend, the change will come. Prime minister Brown will probably pack up and head out to Buckingham Palace with Cameron in his stead. When the motorcades arrive, Elizabeth II will invite someone to form a government. And then it will be interesting to watch the political drama unfold. Living in the UK during this historic election (these televised debates were the very first of their kind over here) has been exciting, even if I am not that invested in the result.
But from my point of view, it looks as if the mother country is following in the footsteps of its Commonwealth child. The UK has been continually disappointed by the Labour party (in power since 1997 when Tony Blair came in) in the same way that Canada was with the Paul Martin liberals. The comparisons are rather striking, actually, with MP scandals and older, crusty prime ministers who could just not connect with younger voters. The result for both has been – in a certain widespread cry of “out with the old and in with the new” – a movement to the left side: doughboy Stephen Harper and try-hard David Cameron. The two could be brothers, really. If only GW was still around to form a plonker triumvirate.
First of all (though all Canadians should know this well), what exactly is a hung parliament? It is a term used to describe a parliament in which no political party has an absolute majority of seats. In countries like Germany and Ireland, where legislatures have proportional representation, this is a common situation. In Canada, our current parliament is hung, as were the two before it. However, we don’t use the term across the pond. Back home we say minority government or minority parliament instead. Our 40th, 39th and 38th parliament were also not “hung” in the sense that there were no clear precedents allowing the leader of the party with the most seats to form a government.
A hung parliament inevitably leads to an uncertain period following election. For example, the widespread “d’uh” that was heard around the UK yesterday. This is apparently quite common in countries that are not used to it. Despite some confusion around overcrowded polling stations, the Tories are expected to get 305 seats (just short of the 326 needed for an outright majority), Labour is expected to end up with 255 and the Lib Dems (the UK’s NDP essentially) will have a disappointing 57.
According to the BBC, past practice under Britain’s unwritten constitution grants the sitting prime minister in a hung parliament with the right to make the first attempt at forming a ruling coalition. But apparently, the Queen is the only person who can actually invite someone to form a government and become prime minister. She has no tie-breaking power, however, so the ceremony is mainly symbolic. If the outcome of the election is inconclusive, as it is today, it is for the political parties to determine who will become prime minister, and then that decision is communicated to Buckingham Palace.
Meanwhile, back in the ring, the gloves are coming off – not that things didn’t get dirty during the run up to election night. Yesterday morning, the leaders’ rhetoric is mature and edifying. Tory Cameron has accused Labour PM Gordon Brown with “losing his mandate to govern” but Gordo came back with a statement that as prime minister he still has “a constitutional duty to seek to resolve the situation for the good of the country.” In the meantime, Lib-Dem leader Nick Clegg, who created early positive buzz during the three pre-election televised debates, said that the result gives the Tories the right to seek to govern first.
As I post this, the situation has still not been resolved. The government of the UK is still hanging in the balance. Cameron has offered an olive branch to the Lib-Dems, effectively inviting them to join forces and create a “stronger, more stable, more collaborative government.” Former Tory prime minister John Major told the BBC that offering cabinet seats to the Lib Dems was “a price, in the national interest, that I personally would be prepared to bear” for the formation of a stable government able to manage the economic crisis.
No one has moved out or into Number 10 just yet, but it is likely that sometime this weekend, the change will come. Prime minister Brown will probably pack up and head out to Buckingham Palace with Cameron in his stead. When the motorcades arrive, Elizabeth II will invite someone to form a government. And then it will be interesting to watch the political drama unfold. Living in the UK during this historic election (these televised debates were the very first of their kind over here) has been exciting, even if I am not that invested in the result.
Tuesday 4 May 2010
Cows in the Cornish Countryside
I have just returned from a lovely weekend in Cornwall, an area of Great Britain that forms the tip of its southwestern peninsula. It counts among its borders the Atlantic Ocean, the English Channel and the county of Devon, so the scenery is as breathtaking as any I’ve seen across the continent. The sheer cliffs, rugged coastline, nude stretching sand and aquamarine waters are reminiscent of parts of Portugal’s Algarve and portions of the coast of Italy. But like their European doppelgangers, the Cornwall beaches are not often warm places to sunbathe and tan. They are picturesque but windy coves that offer excellent surfing, windsurfing and kite sailing.
Newquay, the areas most popular surfing destination, was also our locale for the weekend. Six Canadian gals – myself, Lauren, Diane, Christine, Erin and Belle – rented an adorable cottage called the Barn Owl with exquisite views of rolling green (cow-filled!) fields, a short distance from the seaside. Though exuding a definite charm that echoes Greek’s island towns, Newquay has fallen prey to the tourist bug. Its rustic chippies, old-fashioned souvenir shops and pastoral B&B’s are now overtaken by American surf shops, three-tiered nightclubs and gaudy indoor amusement centres. The town has become very well known for hosting wild stag and hen do’s, so its nightlife has grown to accommodate this.
Despite the town’s glaring tourist appeal, we had a quiet and pleasant long weekend. The days were cool but gloriously clear and sunny so we wandered through fluorescent green fields, along the top of craggy cliffs overlooking the sea and on firm expanses of sand that were occasionally licked by the white-foamy tongues of the Atlantic. Our only instances of rain were early and late in the day, so we were tucked cozily into our cottage, sipping wine or tea, eating baked Camembert and chocolate, playing board games and euchre, and listening as the downpour played the windowpanes like a drum.
Quite a serene picture I am painting, isn’t it? Well, I have returned to the city very relaxed but with one noted difference. I am now quite afraid of cows. I always considered myself to be rather fearless but, as I get older, my tolerances have been gradually decreasing. On top of an alarmingly mounting fear of confined spaces, heights, clowns and people dressed as animals, I am now not too fond of the doe-eyed farm creatures.
Minding our own business on a delightful stroll through an area labeled a public walking path, we approached a congress of cows. As we mounted the fence that separated woman and beast, the cows looked up with interest, hunger and, I observed, a touch of rage. Though we stuck close to the fence as we headed down the hill, cows from across the pasture turned from their meals and began to rush towards us. Belle, confidently our leader, carried straight down to the bottom while the rest of us turned back. Then the cows lost interest and dispersed, so Erin, Diane and I hustled back over the fence and began to walk down the hill, eyes to the grass to avoid making eye contact with the bovine ladies. I was shaking like a leaf, and wearing questionably appropriate footwear, but managed to reach the bottom without getting trampled (though the cattle did come close). Christine and Lauren, too terrified of the aggressive animals and educated by the two demonstrations the rest of us had provided, opted to climb over a barbed-wire fence rather than face the beasts.
The cowherd has been haunting my dreams ever since. You may consider me a wimp, and you might be right in relation to a number of additional fears, but it is apparently known in the UK (no one bothered to tell me) that cows quite often attack humans. The typically placid creatures have been known, especially when protecting their young calves, to charge at humans, and dogs. Just search ‘cow attacks’ on the BBC website and you will see a plethora of stories. Last summer a vet was trampled to death by a herd of cows while walking her two dogs and MP David Blunkett was left with a black eye and a cracked rib after a tussle with a bovine. Statistics from the Health and Safety Executive released in 2009 say that 19 people have been killed and 481 injured by cows since 2001.
At least our countryside stroll avoided tragedy. We carried on past the cows, and past an old-fashioned mini BMW rally, towards a picturesque beach with towering rock face and then into Newquay for some fish and chips and fresh Cornish ice cream. (The seaside wandering was balanced out with some truly devilish eating.) The Cornish seaside was a welcome adventure from my recent long workdays and tourist jaunts around London with Mom, despite my newly acquired fear of cows – as well as a camera mishap involving sea and sand, a slight return-train incident that added further expenses, and a delay en route to Plymouth while a drunk was thrown off the train for assaulting a member of the staff. Despite all that drama, the air was crisp like Canada and the sky a clear blue, offering a much-needed respite from the congestion of the city.
Newquay, the areas most popular surfing destination, was also our locale for the weekend. Six Canadian gals – myself, Lauren, Diane, Christine, Erin and Belle – rented an adorable cottage called the Barn Owl with exquisite views of rolling green (cow-filled!) fields, a short distance from the seaside. Though exuding a definite charm that echoes Greek’s island towns, Newquay has fallen prey to the tourist bug. Its rustic chippies, old-fashioned souvenir shops and pastoral B&B’s are now overtaken by American surf shops, three-tiered nightclubs and gaudy indoor amusement centres. The town has become very well known for hosting wild stag and hen do’s, so its nightlife has grown to accommodate this.
Despite the town’s glaring tourist appeal, we had a quiet and pleasant long weekend. The days were cool but gloriously clear and sunny so we wandered through fluorescent green fields, along the top of craggy cliffs overlooking the sea and on firm expanses of sand that were occasionally licked by the white-foamy tongues of the Atlantic. Our only instances of rain were early and late in the day, so we were tucked cozily into our cottage, sipping wine or tea, eating baked Camembert and chocolate, playing board games and euchre, and listening as the downpour played the windowpanes like a drum.
Quite a serene picture I am painting, isn’t it? Well, I have returned to the city very relaxed but with one noted difference. I am now quite afraid of cows. I always considered myself to be rather fearless but, as I get older, my tolerances have been gradually decreasing. On top of an alarmingly mounting fear of confined spaces, heights, clowns and people dressed as animals, I am now not too fond of the doe-eyed farm creatures.
Minding our own business on a delightful stroll through an area labeled a public walking path, we approached a congress of cows. As we mounted the fence that separated woman and beast, the cows looked up with interest, hunger and, I observed, a touch of rage. Though we stuck close to the fence as we headed down the hill, cows from across the pasture turned from their meals and began to rush towards us. Belle, confidently our leader, carried straight down to the bottom while the rest of us turned back. Then the cows lost interest and dispersed, so Erin, Diane and I hustled back over the fence and began to walk down the hill, eyes to the grass to avoid making eye contact with the bovine ladies. I was shaking like a leaf, and wearing questionably appropriate footwear, but managed to reach the bottom without getting trampled (though the cattle did come close). Christine and Lauren, too terrified of the aggressive animals and educated by the two demonstrations the rest of us had provided, opted to climb over a barbed-wire fence rather than face the beasts.
The cowherd has been haunting my dreams ever since. You may consider me a wimp, and you might be right in relation to a number of additional fears, but it is apparently known in the UK (no one bothered to tell me) that cows quite often attack humans. The typically placid creatures have been known, especially when protecting their young calves, to charge at humans, and dogs. Just search ‘cow attacks’ on the BBC website and you will see a plethora of stories. Last summer a vet was trampled to death by a herd of cows while walking her two dogs and MP David Blunkett was left with a black eye and a cracked rib after a tussle with a bovine. Statistics from the Health and Safety Executive released in 2009 say that 19 people have been killed and 481 injured by cows since 2001.
At least our countryside stroll avoided tragedy. We carried on past the cows, and past an old-fashioned mini BMW rally, towards a picturesque beach with towering rock face and then into Newquay for some fish and chips and fresh Cornish ice cream. (The seaside wandering was balanced out with some truly devilish eating.) The Cornish seaside was a welcome adventure from my recent long workdays and tourist jaunts around London with Mom, despite my newly acquired fear of cows – as well as a camera mishap involving sea and sand, a slight return-train incident that added further expenses, and a delay en route to Plymouth while a drunk was thrown off the train for assaulting a member of the staff. Despite all that drama, the air was crisp like Canada and the sky a clear blue, offering a much-needed respite from the congestion of the city.
Tuesday 27 April 2010
Maybe I was A Tour Guide In A Past Life
It is somewhat abnormal, the enjoyment I get out of touring people around my current hometown. Just based on the amount of photos I’ve posted to Facebook since I moved here, I’m sure this doesn’t come as much of a surprise. But besides running my own unofficial tours, I still consider myself to be a tourist in a lot of ways, since this is the kind of city it takes many, many years to really know.
I have been lucky enough to have a few visitors act as guinea pigs as I craft my favourite routes around the city. Since I moved here in September, the fortunate victims have included: Kelly Wyatt (twice and thus Friend of the Year), Steve Marriner, Brian and Mary, Lexie Buchanan and Julia Thompson. Each of these visitors has gotten my special brand of London wandering, whether they wanted it or not. Favourite Thames-side landmarks, museums and galleries, parks and theatre have all been stops along the way.
And now it’s my Mom’s turn. She arrived in London last Friday, the final stop in her three-week traipse around Europe with her four sisters. Before she, and my aunt Mary Lou (ML), flew from Nice to London, they had spent some time in Paris, Venice and Rome, relaxed in a Tuscan villa for a week with day-trips to Florence, Siena, San Gimignano and Pisa, hiked around the five villages of Cinque Terre, and drove through the French Riviera. I was burning with jealousy, even though a similar route with my own sister was some of the best weeks of the Great Backpacking Adventure of 2004.
With guided tours around Italy and France, I was confidant that Mom and ML were well-trained for the kind of excursions I had in mind. The only problem was, with more than two months of sitting in an office (and my idea of footwear more stylish than practical), it turned out I was not. Over the weekend we walked all over the city and I was the only one feeling the pain. And by pain, I mean throbbing feet and legs that tingled as I tried to fall asleep hours later. (On Saturday night I was in bed at 10:30, utterly exhausted.) I know, I know, I brought it on myself.
Mom has been to London many times before, the first time in 1972 when she was backpacking with my Dad, a subsequent three times with me and another one without. Her sister Mary Lou was a London virgin until this past weekend so I was eager to show ML the requisite sites while also reintroducing my Mom to all the nooks and crannies that I’ve come to love.
On Saturday we left Pearl’s right after breakfast with plans to take advantage of a very warm sunny day and check most of the Thames-side sites off the tourism list. We disembarked from the tube at Tower Hill and proceeded to walk around the Tower of London, across Tower Bridge and around Bermondsey. We stayed south of the Thames to explore Southwark, stopping at Borough Market for lunch, Southwark Cathedral, Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre and the Tate Modern. Next we wandered across Millennium Bridge for a visit to St. Paul’s Cathedral then back across the Thames via Blackfriar’s Bridge for a stroll along the South Bank and searches for a patio and a shandy in Gabriel’s Wharf. Sticking to the south side, we passed the London Eye, Waterloo Bridge and the big complex that houses the London Aquarium before crossing Westminster Bridge to see Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey. Next we wandered through St. James Park, where I allowed the ladies to sit on a pond-side bench for 10 minutes, before we saw Buckingham Palace, and the set-up for Sunday’s marathon, followed by a stroll up the Pall Mall towards Trafalgar Square. Here we were overwhelmed with an outdoor concert to celebrate St. George’s Day (England’s St. Patty’s but not as popular) before having afternoon tea at the upstairs restaurant of the National Portrait Gallery. Finally, we dragged ourselves up Charing Cross to catch the bus home, soak our feet and collapse in a pile on the couch.
On Sunday I was rather grouchy but had organized a day that involved less walking and more shopping to cheer myself up. I took Mom and ML through the Columbia Flower Market, down Brick Lane and into the Sunday Up Market before making our way over to Spitalfields. They made some purchases and I got some late birthday presents so the day was a great success. On Monday, I went back to the office, relieved to return to my desk chair, but did meet the ladies for lunch in Carnaby Street before sending them along Regent towards Picadilly Circus then up Shaftesbury Avenue, through Leicester Square and Covent Garden.
ML has departed for Canada, a well-timed flight that has avoided the ash cloud, while Mom will hang out with me and Pearl for the rest of the week. All in all, it has been a really great visit and I do feel that I got to show both Mom and ML the London that I love. However, I am so wiped out that I am grateful for the fact that my next major visitors (my sister Lindsay and brother Kyle) will not be here until the end of July, so I have some serious recuperation time to take advantage of.
I have been lucky enough to have a few visitors act as guinea pigs as I craft my favourite routes around the city. Since I moved here in September, the fortunate victims have included: Kelly Wyatt (twice and thus Friend of the Year), Steve Marriner, Brian and Mary, Lexie Buchanan and Julia Thompson. Each of these visitors has gotten my special brand of London wandering, whether they wanted it or not. Favourite Thames-side landmarks, museums and galleries, parks and theatre have all been stops along the way.
And now it’s my Mom’s turn. She arrived in London last Friday, the final stop in her three-week traipse around Europe with her four sisters. Before she, and my aunt Mary Lou (ML), flew from Nice to London, they had spent some time in Paris, Venice and Rome, relaxed in a Tuscan villa for a week with day-trips to Florence, Siena, San Gimignano and Pisa, hiked around the five villages of Cinque Terre, and drove through the French Riviera. I was burning with jealousy, even though a similar route with my own sister was some of the best weeks of the Great Backpacking Adventure of 2004.
With guided tours around Italy and France, I was confidant that Mom and ML were well-trained for the kind of excursions I had in mind. The only problem was, with more than two months of sitting in an office (and my idea of footwear more stylish than practical), it turned out I was not. Over the weekend we walked all over the city and I was the only one feeling the pain. And by pain, I mean throbbing feet and legs that tingled as I tried to fall asleep hours later. (On Saturday night I was in bed at 10:30, utterly exhausted.) I know, I know, I brought it on myself.
Mom has been to London many times before, the first time in 1972 when she was backpacking with my Dad, a subsequent three times with me and another one without. Her sister Mary Lou was a London virgin until this past weekend so I was eager to show ML the requisite sites while also reintroducing my Mom to all the nooks and crannies that I’ve come to love.
On Saturday we left Pearl’s right after breakfast with plans to take advantage of a very warm sunny day and check most of the Thames-side sites off the tourism list. We disembarked from the tube at Tower Hill and proceeded to walk around the Tower of London, across Tower Bridge and around Bermondsey. We stayed south of the Thames to explore Southwark, stopping at Borough Market for lunch, Southwark Cathedral, Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre and the Tate Modern. Next we wandered across Millennium Bridge for a visit to St. Paul’s Cathedral then back across the Thames via Blackfriar’s Bridge for a stroll along the South Bank and searches for a patio and a shandy in Gabriel’s Wharf. Sticking to the south side, we passed the London Eye, Waterloo Bridge and the big complex that houses the London Aquarium before crossing Westminster Bridge to see Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey. Next we wandered through St. James Park, where I allowed the ladies to sit on a pond-side bench for 10 minutes, before we saw Buckingham Palace, and the set-up for Sunday’s marathon, followed by a stroll up the Pall Mall towards Trafalgar Square. Here we were overwhelmed with an outdoor concert to celebrate St. George’s Day (England’s St. Patty’s but not as popular) before having afternoon tea at the upstairs restaurant of the National Portrait Gallery. Finally, we dragged ourselves up Charing Cross to catch the bus home, soak our feet and collapse in a pile on the couch.
On Sunday I was rather grouchy but had organized a day that involved less walking and more shopping to cheer myself up. I took Mom and ML through the Columbia Flower Market, down Brick Lane and into the Sunday Up Market before making our way over to Spitalfields. They made some purchases and I got some late birthday presents so the day was a great success. On Monday, I went back to the office, relieved to return to my desk chair, but did meet the ladies for lunch in Carnaby Street before sending them along Regent towards Picadilly Circus then up Shaftesbury Avenue, through Leicester Square and Covent Garden.
ML has departed for Canada, a well-timed flight that has avoided the ash cloud, while Mom will hang out with me and Pearl for the rest of the week. All in all, it has been a really great visit and I do feel that I got to show both Mom and ML the London that I love. However, I am so wiped out that I am grateful for the fact that my next major visitors (my sister Lindsay and brother Kyle) will not be here until the end of July, so I have some serious recuperation time to take advantage of.
Tuesday 20 April 2010
Canada, Watch Out For The Ash Cloud
A BBC weatherman has predicted that a change in wind direction this weekend will blow Iceland’s volcanic ash cloud away from Europe and towards Canada. Northwesterly winds over the Atlantic have blown the plume across the UK and Europe, grounding thousands of flights over the past week, but a wind change in the opposite direction could disperse the ash over northeast Canada.
I am safely on the ground in London so can honestly say I have not been directly affected by the eruption of Iceland’s Eyjafjallajokull volcano earlier this month. I know the stranded will not agree with me, but I almost wish I had been affected. If I was traveling out of London sometime in the past week I could be taking advantage of a prolonged vacation that would not count as missed work days.
I can hear the cries of disagreement now. Not only from the thousands of travelers inconvenienced or the airline industry which is being hit hard or even the UK businesses that are sorely lacking staff. I have stranded friends and family as well, who are not too impressed with the questionable inconvenience.
Two of my British friends, Danielle and Natalie, are teachers, and spent the last week or two on Easter holidays in New York City and Australia, respectively. When it came time to return to classes yesterday, both were still living it up in their respective destinations, an expensive delay, I must admit. Another friend, Marge, is stranded – the wrong word, I’m sure – back home in Montreal. And a couple more, Sandra and Peter, were hopping around the Scandinavian countries for Easter holiday, and are still up there somewhere. My cousin John has been given the go-ahead to fly from London to Ottawa tonight, but I’ll believe it when I see it. And my Mom and aunt may not make it up to the UK from the French Riviera at the end of this week.
It’s not all bad news for these travelers. If they can afford it, and are comped by their airline, millions of people are being given a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. But the airline industry is losing millions of pounds and euros and dollars every day. According to a report from absence management firm FirstCare, UK absence caused by the volcanic ash jumped from 20,300 cases yesterday from a typical 3,000 on any other day. That damn volcano is costing British businesses an estimated £3 million a day (Read more at my magazine, Employee Benefits.)
When it all started last Thursday, 15 April, with volcanic ash drifting south-east from the volcanic glacier just 120km from Reykjavik, the numbers started off modestly, with merely tens of thousands of passengers grounded across Britain and Europe. As the ash moved southeast into northern Europe, a blanket ban was announced. More than 800 people were evacuated from southern Iceland, where the volcano was erupting in phases. Two days later, most airports across the continent were closed down, though some 5,000 flights were allowed to fly – a mere quarter of the 22,000 planes that are normally in the sky each day.
The UK workforce has been shattered as well. I’m sure my teacher friends are only a tiny percentage of those not able to return to the classroom after the Easter holidays. This week is a good one to be a supply teacher. International conferences have been suspended, postponed or cancelled altogether, as exhibitors and delegates are unable to arrive at their destination. And as I make my usual news week calls, I am finding a lot of HR departments short-staffed due to stranded employees.
And even the sports world is impacted, not that I really care. With the Liverpool Football Club unable to fly out of England, their only option for reaching Madrid for their match is to take the Eurostar from Paris and carry down to Spain from there. Plans for the English cricket team to reach the Caribbean for the International Cricket Council World 20 this weekend will probably see them travel by land and sea to Dubai before being airlifted directly to the West Indies for the tournament.
More importantly to me, the London premiere of Date Night and the world premiere of Iron Man 2 are now tentatively cancelled because their stars can’t reach the UK. So much for my plan to head down to Leicester Square after work tomorrow to worship the goddess Tina Fey or drool all over RDJ (Robert Downey Jr.) next Monday.
Perhaps the saddest, and most ironic, story that the volcanic ash has wrought is of the poor scientist who spent his whole career studying Eyjafjallajokull and waiting for her eruption, only to be away from Iceland last week when it happened. (Though what kind of a scientist would he be if he didn’t know the exact date of the eruption?) As a result, since no planes can fly into Reykjavik, he is stranded somewhere else while his whole life’s work is crumbling and spewing lava back in Iceland.
Though the ash particles are too small to be spotted as they sprinkle down on us (scientists have found ash cloud remnants in Sheffield, up in Yorkshire), the plume is destructive enough to enter into the engines of planes and cause massive failure. The best-known incident involving airplanes and volcanic ash took place in June 1982 when a British Airways 747 flight from London to Auckland encountered ash from Mount Galunggung in Java, Indonesia. All four engines failed but the plane glided far enough out of the plume for three of them to restart and work sufficiently for an emergency landing. No passengers were injured.
So, there is genuine danger associated with the falling volcanic ash. It’s not all free vacations and extended international hotel stays. For me, the most severe effect is waiting for my friends to return and hoping that my Mom, and aunt Mary Lou, make it here this Friday without a detour from Nice to Paris to London on the Eurostar.
Good luck to the Canadian East coast that will likely be affected this weekend. If you’re booked to fly, get out while you still can.
I am safely on the ground in London so can honestly say I have not been directly affected by the eruption of Iceland’s Eyjafjallajokull volcano earlier this month. I know the stranded will not agree with me, but I almost wish I had been affected. If I was traveling out of London sometime in the past week I could be taking advantage of a prolonged vacation that would not count as missed work days.
I can hear the cries of disagreement now. Not only from the thousands of travelers inconvenienced or the airline industry which is being hit hard or even the UK businesses that are sorely lacking staff. I have stranded friends and family as well, who are not too impressed with the questionable inconvenience.
Two of my British friends, Danielle and Natalie, are teachers, and spent the last week or two on Easter holidays in New York City and Australia, respectively. When it came time to return to classes yesterday, both were still living it up in their respective destinations, an expensive delay, I must admit. Another friend, Marge, is stranded – the wrong word, I’m sure – back home in Montreal. And a couple more, Sandra and Peter, were hopping around the Scandinavian countries for Easter holiday, and are still up there somewhere. My cousin John has been given the go-ahead to fly from London to Ottawa tonight, but I’ll believe it when I see it. And my Mom and aunt may not make it up to the UK from the French Riviera at the end of this week.
It’s not all bad news for these travelers. If they can afford it, and are comped by their airline, millions of people are being given a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. But the airline industry is losing millions of pounds and euros and dollars every day. According to a report from absence management firm FirstCare, UK absence caused by the volcanic ash jumped from 20,300 cases yesterday from a typical 3,000 on any other day. That damn volcano is costing British businesses an estimated £3 million a day (Read more at my magazine, Employee Benefits.)
When it all started last Thursday, 15 April, with volcanic ash drifting south-east from the volcanic glacier just 120km from Reykjavik, the numbers started off modestly, with merely tens of thousands of passengers grounded across Britain and Europe. As the ash moved southeast into northern Europe, a blanket ban was announced. More than 800 people were evacuated from southern Iceland, where the volcano was erupting in phases. Two days later, most airports across the continent were closed down, though some 5,000 flights were allowed to fly – a mere quarter of the 22,000 planes that are normally in the sky each day.
The UK workforce has been shattered as well. I’m sure my teacher friends are only a tiny percentage of those not able to return to the classroom after the Easter holidays. This week is a good one to be a supply teacher. International conferences have been suspended, postponed or cancelled altogether, as exhibitors and delegates are unable to arrive at their destination. And as I make my usual news week calls, I am finding a lot of HR departments short-staffed due to stranded employees.
And even the sports world is impacted, not that I really care. With the Liverpool Football Club unable to fly out of England, their only option for reaching Madrid for their match is to take the Eurostar from Paris and carry down to Spain from there. Plans for the English cricket team to reach the Caribbean for the International Cricket Council World 20 this weekend will probably see them travel by land and sea to Dubai before being airlifted directly to the West Indies for the tournament.
More importantly to me, the London premiere of Date Night and the world premiere of Iron Man 2 are now tentatively cancelled because their stars can’t reach the UK. So much for my plan to head down to Leicester Square after work tomorrow to worship the goddess Tina Fey or drool all over RDJ (Robert Downey Jr.) next Monday.
Perhaps the saddest, and most ironic, story that the volcanic ash has wrought is of the poor scientist who spent his whole career studying Eyjafjallajokull and waiting for her eruption, only to be away from Iceland last week when it happened. (Though what kind of a scientist would he be if he didn’t know the exact date of the eruption?) As a result, since no planes can fly into Reykjavik, he is stranded somewhere else while his whole life’s work is crumbling and spewing lava back in Iceland.
Though the ash particles are too small to be spotted as they sprinkle down on us (scientists have found ash cloud remnants in Sheffield, up in Yorkshire), the plume is destructive enough to enter into the engines of planes and cause massive failure. The best-known incident involving airplanes and volcanic ash took place in June 1982 when a British Airways 747 flight from London to Auckland encountered ash from Mount Galunggung in Java, Indonesia. All four engines failed but the plane glided far enough out of the plume for three of them to restart and work sufficiently for an emergency landing. No passengers were injured.
So, there is genuine danger associated with the falling volcanic ash. It’s not all free vacations and extended international hotel stays. For me, the most severe effect is waiting for my friends to return and hoping that my Mom, and aunt Mary Lou, make it here this Friday without a detour from Nice to Paris to London on the Eurostar.
Good luck to the Canadian East coast that will likely be affected this weekend. If you’re booked to fly, get out while you still can.
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