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.
Monday, 12 July 2010
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.
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