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Flotsam and Jetsam

Green and pleasant

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Oldest friend and his good lady live in a part of rural England that is perhaps the epitome of all that is considered to be the most English of Englishness.

They did not always do so of course. When we were growing up we all lived in a small town by the river Thames in Surrey that the locals to this day (or at least until not that long ago) insist on calling (without irony) ‘the village’.

We have each now disappeared in our own directions – us to western Canada – they to the borderlands of Worcestershire and Herefordshire. Naturally I made the pilgrimage to the heart of the country to get a look at our friends’ new home (the which I had previously only glimpsed briefly in estate agents particulars online) and to re-connect with them. A thoroughly lovely couple of days in the countryside ensued.

These images give a general impression of the area – and if you can hear strains of Elgar playing somewhere in your subconscious as you view them I would not be in the least surprised.

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson Reid

Painshill Park

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Readers from ‘the old country’ – and in particular those from the south east thereof – will doubtless already know of the delights of Painshill Park. This post is really for others who do not (yet!) but who will no doubt be happy to be introduced thereto.

Painshill was established in the mid-18th century by the Hon Charles Hamilton (MP) and was one of the early examples of the fashion for creating ‘natural’ landscapes adorned with Gothic follies such as ‘ruined’ abbeys, grottos and hermitages. Those familiar with Tom Stoppard’s ‘Arcadia’ will know whereof I speak.

The reason for this post is that the old and dear friends with whom I have been staying for the first phase of our UK adventure live in part of the Georgian mansion that adjoins the park. A visit was thus in order.

Here be photos:

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson Reid

A jacket man

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“I’m a jacket man. And if I’m without one, I am kind of seriously disabled. I don’t know how to operate in shirt sleeves.”

Bill Nighy

I have mentioned several times now in previous posts our forthcoming trip to the UK, but I am conscious of the fact that I have not really gone into much detail. Needless to say a great deal of planning has already been done, involving multiple lists, spreadsheets and a wide and extensive variety of transatlantic communications.

The most important detail at this point is that I leave for the UK in about a week and a half’s time. I say ‘I’ because The Girl is following in my footsteps a week later. I am now outwith my teaching contracts and thus free as a bird, whereas she is still bound by the strictures imposed by her employment with regard to leave entitlement. Since I intend making a number of visits to those with whom it was I who was primarily connected this seemed to be the optimal solution.

Once she has joined me in the UK we will spend a further week and a half being splendidly and lavishly entertained by family and friends, before flying to Athens for the even more indulgent part of the trip.

This latter – which features a seven day cruise in the Greek islands – caused an unexpected addition to our pre-trip preparations.

When I started visiting this neck of the woods nearly a decade and a half ago (well before even considering that I might one day end up here) I brought with me a jacket – the which I wore on the outward and return journeys to save having to pack same. On each successive trip I followed the same practice but I cannot now recall a single occasion on which I actually wore the jacket whilst in Canada. On one trip I even left the thing in the closet at the friends’ home with whom we were staying without noticing that I had done so.

“This is the west coast” – I was told. “No-one wears a jacket here“.

When I ‘retired’ from the world of work and we packed up our lives to head west I naturally pruned my (meagre!) collection of garments to remove items for which I would likely have little use in BC. That (for the reasons outlined above) included practically every jacket that I then owned.

Thus far the maxim has held (with the exception of the odd formal occasion, for which I am still equipped) and though the forthcoming trip to the UK should itself cause no problems the cruise is a different matter. Even on an informal voyage such as this there are a couple of ‘dressing up’ occasions. Practicality dictates that one meet the differing requirements of these events with but a single garment which, given my now clearly precipitate purge, meant that I would needs must go out and purchase a jacket to suit all eventualities.

As you might imagine – given the Victorians’ general eschewal of such apparel – finding a suitable item took some doing. When I finally did so – courtesy of the estimable Kane Straith Clothing (who have been in business hereabouts since the gold rush!) it weren’t cheap!

It is – however – ‘suitably’ splendid!

Judy Blue Eyes

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Image from Wikimedia CommonsWhen booking tickets a while back for last night’s Judy Collins concert at the McPherson Theatre in Victoria we were not without qualms. Nagging reminders of the hugely disappointing visit to the same venue by Gordon Lightfoot the year before last persisted. Treasured memories are sometimes best kept in the mind and not revisited in real life.

Such fears were little allayed when Collins took to the stage – accompanied only by her long-time pianist/musical director, Russell Walden – and during the first number her voice cracked several times. She seemed entirely un-phased by such teething problems, however, explaining that she was recovering from illness and implying that all would be well once she had warmed up.

That indeed turned out to be the case and apart from the occasional memory lapse on the lyrical front (the lady is seventy nine for goodness sake!) the remainder of the evening was the stuff of memories itself.

Much as I have always loved many of Judy’s multitude of classic recordings I have always found her a little cool and a touch distant. Two things rapidly became apparent last night – her voice is now warmer and richer than it was of yore (whilst just as affecting) and she has a keen and wicked sense of humour. The form of the evening was a trip through her sixty year music career, spinning hilarious anecdotes about a pantheon of greats – Pete Seeger, Woody Guthrie, Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Joan Baez, Steven Stills, Leonard Cohen and Stephen Sondheim (amongst others) interspersed with memory-inducing renditions of their (and her) songs.

The ninety minute show passed in a flash and included such classics as ‘Both Sides Now‘, ‘Chelsea Morning‘, ‘Mr Tambourine Man‘, ‘Send in the Clowns‘, ‘My Father‘, ‘Suzanne‘, ‘The Moon’s a Harsh Mistress‘ and ‘Amazing Grace‘. I was particularly moved by her rendition of Dylan’s ‘Masters of War‘. This is the stuff on which we (and, quite clearly, the remainder of the packed audience of those also in their second childhoods) had grown up – and it meant something. It was impossible not to be touched.

We learned things that we had not previously known, such as the fact that – had it not been for her cajoling – Leonard Cohen would have remained an obscure poet rather than morphing into the singer/songwriter that he became.

Also most impressive is that even at her age (did I mention that she is seventy nine!) Judy still averages a hundred and twenty live concerts a year!

Inspiring stuff and a fabulous evening!

O Canada (post!) – 2

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(The second in what I fear may become a less than occasional series…)

Whereas The Girl and I do have a TV component to our cable contract (the big fat broadband connection being our prime concern!) I think it is fair to say that the majority of the content that comprises our televisual viewing is in fact streamed across the InterWebNet. The exact ‘what’ and ‘where’ of that which we stream is immaterial and will thus – for the purposes of this anecdote – remain an enigma!

The TV that we acquired with our property is plenty big enough (in my book) and whilst it may not be equipped with all of the latest bells and whistles (and indeed may not run at the sort of resolution that seems de rigueur nowadays) does plenty well enough for an old Luddite like me. The Girl may well disagree (she does!) and I feel sure that – at some stage – a fancy new device will be purchased.

For now, though, streaming video to the TV screen requires the intervention of a separate box of tricks and we have – since our arrival in Canada – utilised for this purpose an old computer that one of the terribly smart techie chaps in my team at my last school kindly refurbished for me. This device was pretty long in the tooth even then and is a lot older now. As is the way of such things it eventually developed a fault – the which manifested itself in the display of random lines across the screen at vital moments. This grew steadily worse until the challenge became to spot what was actually going on on the TV behind a blizzard of random visual effects.

This was – naturally – causing some friction within this happy home so I contacted said tech wizard (the one who had put the system together) and – as is the way these days – he connected to my humble computer from the other side of the world and investigated it remotely. He gave me his diagnosis:

“It’s f*cked!“, he told me.

Time to buy a new machine. Naturally it is now possible to replace the hulking tower that we had cobbled together with a tiny wee box about the size of a paperback novel, which will do everything and more at three times the speed. I ordered a prime example of same and sat back to await delivery.

Over to Canada Post…

Now – being keen to be able to follow the rugby again (and indeed to indulge in food ‘porn’) I carefully followed the online tracking most helpfully provided as part of the service. I was delighted to see my package on target to be delivered ahead of the advertised schedule. I watched it make its way across from the mainland in the middle of the night and saw it leave Victoria to head for Sidney before finally being delivered into our community mailbox.

I happily trotted up the road and unlocked our box.

Nothing!

Now – the way the community letter boxes work is as follows: each house has a letter sized locker and at the bottom of each stack there are a couple of larger lockers for parcels too big to fit in the normal one. If one receives a package it is placed in one of these larger lockers and the key thereto is posted into one’s normal locker. One retrieves the package and pops the key back into the posting box.

In this instance there were three possibilities: the package had not after all been delivered – or it was in the locker but no key had been posted – or it was in the locker and the key had been posted into the wrong mailbox! Naturally I called Canada Post and opened an enquiry. I also visited my local Canada Post office and pleaded with them and I repeatedly scanned the online tracking to see if anything further had been logged. All told me the same story. They would look into it but it might take three days or so to figure out what had happened.

Sure enough, three days later I had a phone call – from Canada Post. They assured me that the package was indeed in one of the bottom lockers (where it had been all along) and that a key had now been posted for me. All very well – I thought – but that means that a postman had visited the community box three days running and stood within inches of my sad, cold package and not done the decent thing and provided me with a key.

Now – how difficult would it have been to check this on the day that I reported it?

Hmmm!

I wish

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Image from PixabayThough I habitually listen to a great deal of music, the gentle reader – as least those who know me at all – will be unsurprised to hear that I long ago stopped following the ins and outs of the popular music scene. As a result I have only the most tenuous of ideas as to who Lady Gaga is.

Yes – I am well aware that she has clearly sold a lot of ‘records’ (if such one still does in this digital age) and made a lot of money, but I fear that I could barely name one of the tracks on which that reputation has been built. I am also aware that her career has involved acting, though the fruits thereof have likewise passed me by. I get the impression that she was all over the Oscars this year – though that too failed to register on my radar (save for the award won by UK National Treasure – Olivia Coleman).

I was moved the other day, however, to go online to track down a version of Stevie Wonder’s ‘I Wish‘, so that I might remind myself how the bass line goes. It is a relatively simple walking bass part –  the fundamental spine around which the song is built – but it is a wonderful exercise because it is simply relentless. Once you drop a beat you have an absolute beast of a time recovering the rhythm.

I found Stevie’s own version on the YouTube thing, but also another by the aforementioned Lady Gaga. This latter was one of a number of artist’s tributes to Stevie Wonder at the 2015 Kennedy Center Honors Gala Event.

If I knew nothing about the Lady beforehand I certainly do now. Holy cow! She can sing and she – and the band – totally smoked it!

If you want to give your ears a bit of a treat – or if you are in need of little exercise – fire this up, whack up the volume, and make some room for dancing (or find something on which to drum!).

Bass players may care to play along!

Rugby roundup

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Having threatened a few posts back to bore everyone rigid with rugby related updates the gentle reader will be no doubt wondering what could possibly have happened to that eagerly awaited content. (No – no, he or she is almost certainly wondering no such thing!).

Previous experience might suggest that should I not be forthcoming on such (important) topics it is most likely because the subject is just too painful to mention. Well – I don’t know about that, but it must be said that the fortunes of the sides that I follow have of late been rather – er – mixed!

The Scots have really not got going at all in this Six Nations. They warmed up against the Italians well enough but then let current champions, Ireland, get the better of them at home. The trip to Paris – even given the current woes of the French side – was never going to be easy. That the Scots were suffering from a surfeit of injuries didn’t help and the bravehearts are thus no further forward. They now face the cocky Welsh – who last week outsmarted an English side that had won its first two games convincingly. The final game is against the English themselves in their fortress at Twickenham. Hmmm!

Bath Rugby are busy doing that thing that all evidence suggests they are currently the kings of – namely all but winning games only to throw them away at the death. For the last two weeks now they have lost the match on the final play deep into overtime. Given that they have done this three times this season already it is no surprise that they are beginning to get themselves a reputation.

The Girl and I have ventured twice in as many weeks to Westhills to catch Canada playing their home fixtures in the Americas Championship. As I reported in the aforementioned post Canada started their championship run also by losing at the death to Uruguay and they repeated the feat the following week away to Brazil (of all people!). What is it with the teams I follow not being able to go the whole eighty minutes?!

Anyway – last week they entertained Chile at home on a night which was distinctly – er- chilly! It certainly was for the visitors who didn’t get a look-in, as Canada wreaked revenge (of a sort) by trampling them 56 – 0. This week they faced the Argentinians – albeit only the Pumas second string (the first team being far too busy losing to the All Blacks to worry about small fry like Canada!).

Even the Argentine second strand is a very dangerous prospect and the Canadians were expected to lose handsomely. It was, as it turned out, a most exciting game. Having given the Pumas a head-start by gifting them a charge-down try in the first minute the Canadians did well to stay in touch until near the interval. Unfortunately they then gave up a couple of soft-ish tries. Whatever was said during half time certainly had an effect because after the break the Canadians threw themselves at the Argentinians with a ferocity that I don’t recall seeing from them before. With fifteen minutes to go it was a two point game. Sadly the superior fitness of the Pumas – assisted by some dubious decisions by the officials (including a frankly ridiculous penalty try to wrap up proceedings) – told in the end and the Argentinians won the game 39 – 23 and the championship with a match to spare.

Oh well – there is still time for all concerned to furnish us with outrageous feats of derring-do – to win those David/Goliath battles against all odds and to bring unlooked for joy to us long-suffering supporters…

…and because we are optimists we believe that it will indeed be so!

Not-bad Samaritan

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Photo by Andy Dawson ReidOn Sunday evening – just as the storm winds from the weekend were beginning to slacken but also as the first of the serious snowstorms was starting to dump its icy load all over Victoria and the peninsula – I was on my way downtown to pick up the three members of a Halifax-based theatre company who had been performing the previous night as part of Intrepid Theatre’s OutStages festival. My task was to run them to the airport so that they could start their long journey (three hops) back to Halifax.

As we started back up the Pat Bay highway the snow really set in and the residual winds whipped it horizontally across the carriageway, reducing visibility quite dramatically. It was shortly after five o’clock and the temperature had dipped below zero. The compacted snow that had already fallen began to freeze into ice and – though snowploughs had clearly been up the highway at some point – there was no sign of them nor of gritting trucks at this juncture.

The airport is at the top of the peninsula, about five minutes drive from us but around twelve miles out of the City. The road climbs steadily from Downtown and there are long stretches with gentle but persistent inclines – both up and down – as one heads north.

It rapidly became clear that most of the vehicles on the highway (which was quite busy with people trying to get home) were not equipped with winter tyres. As a result there was much lateral sliding as they fought for grip on the slippery slopes. We began to see accidents as cars and other vehicles slid into one another or off the carriageway entirely. We could see places where the traffic coming south had stopped completely.

The Lexus – with permanent four-wheel drive and fitted with a practically new set of snow tyres – sailed serenely through, though dodging other uncontrollable vehicles proved a challenge.

Slowly but steadily we made our way to the airport. The grateful thespists were decanted at the departure lounge and I headed for home. We had been checking continually as we progressed that the flight was still scheduled to depart on-time, but when I got home I thought I would check once more. The news was bad. The flight had been cancelled – as had all others by this point. Furthermore the Pat Bay highway had also been closed shortly after our transit thereof.

Much telephoning ensued on the part of the Intrepid Production Manager, to try to find an hotel near the airport that could put up our performers for the night. I headed back to the terminal so that I could transport them wherever they heeded to go. Naturally everyone else with cancelled flights was doing exactly the same thing and no rooms were be found. Thus it was that I brought a weary troupe of thesps and their equipment back to our now snowbound house, where we entertained them, fed them and put them up for the night.

When we struggled from our cosy beds the next morning (Monday) to be faced by a veritable winter wonderland outside, the first order of the day was to hit the phones again. We heard a sniff of a flight leaving within the next hour and a half so we rushed to get ready, dug out the Lexus and headed once more to the airport. After much frazzled to-ing and fro-ing it was determined that no seats were to be had after all and that many other flights were once again being cancelled. This time Intrepid managed to find our new friends a room at an Inn in Sidney and having deposited them there I headed for home as it once again started to snow in earnest.

They were now scheduled to leave on the Tuesday mid-morning. At around nine o’clock I received an urgent text telling me that they were struggling to locate a taxi. Once more I set to work digging the Lexus out of the snow. Fortunately word was received of a suitable conveyance having been found and I didn’t need to venture forth again. We anxiously watched the flight status online and traded texts with our new theatre-buddies as other flights were again being cancelled, before breathing a sigh of relief as theirs finally took to the air.

We heard later that the storms had extended all across Canada, that their flight had been diverted to Fredericton and that they had been put into a taxi for a four hour drive through the night to get back to Halifax very early this morning (Wednesday). Blimey!

The real hero of this whole adventure was a Lexus called Lorelei. I am completely in awe of this incredible machine which – equipped with the right tyres – is simply unstoppable. It goes about its work with the minimum of fuss, simply floating over anything that gets in its way. A fabulous piece of design and engineering!

A grateful thanks – say I!

The ruffian’s game

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Field Grass Rugby Sport Water Ball“Rugby is great. The players don’t wear helmets or padding; they just beat the living daylights out of each other and then go for a beer. I love that.”

Joe Theismann

Long term followers of these scribblings (and I know for a fact that some such there be) will not be surprised should one or more of the postings that will appear over the next six weeks take as its subject the very ‘ruffian’s game’ of the post title. Indeed, a brief scroll through the archive of this blog will reveal this to be something of a theme at this time of the year.

Now, this is at least in part because it is February – in the Northern Hemisphere! Nothing much else really happens in February except that we all sit tight and wait for the winter storms to blow themselves out – or at least to get bored enough of the whole winter business that they decide to kick back and to give spring a go.

I say that nothing much happens. The exception is of course – rugby!

This very weekend in Europe the 2019 Six Nations Championship has kicked off. Here in North America the 2019 Americas Rugby Championship has done likewise – though since this latter tournament includes Brazil, Chile, Uruguay and Argentina (2nds) there are at least some matches played in other than arctic conditions.

As if that weren’t excitement enough this year is Rugby World Cup year and all of the matches take on extra significance as pointers to how our favoured squads might perform in Japan come September and October.

So – how did the first weekend go?

Well, Wales and France – in Paris on Friday evening – both seemed reluctant to take the honours in the first game up. Wales were terrible in the first period – trailing at half time by 16 – 0. In the second half the French decided to help the Welsh out and gifted them a brace of tries. Wales finally squeaked through and narrowly won the match.

Scotland hosted Italy at Murrayfield and for the first seventy minutes did what was expected and ran in five tries. Unfortunately they then decided to take their collective feet off the pedal and allowed Italy to help themselves to three late scores. Scotland still won comfortably enough but – given that they next face pre-tournament favourites, Ireland – there is clearly much room for improvement.

Speaking of Ireland – their status as bookies favourites was a result of their stellar year last year, during which they won the Grand Slam and beat the fearsome All Blacks at home for the first time to elevate themselves to the number two slot in the world rankings. This weekend they faced England in Dublin (never an easy place to win away) with the visitors themselves having endured a difficult year in 2018. To everyone’s surprise England proved to have recovered their mojo. They not only beat the Irish but they gave them a serious schooling. It looks as though the championship might be more open than previously expected.

Sadly, though leading Uruguay in Montevideo by 17 – 13 to well past the eighty minute mark Canada yielded to the hosts’ pressure under the posts at the death and lost the game 20 -17. Let us hope that the Canadians have pulled their socks up by the time we see them in Langford later in the championship.

 

 

Griffin & Sabine

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Photo by Andy Dawson ReidWay back in the early 1990s (long before, of course, I had the slightest notion of even knowing anyone from the west coast of Canada, let alone of emigrating to this blessed spot) I came across a newly published and really quite extraordinary book – in the form of what I later came to know to be an epistolary novel – by artist, illustrator and writer, Nick Bantock.

Griffin & Sabine was the first in what evolved into a set of seven books which document the extraordinary correspondence between Griffin Moss – a London-based designer of postcards – and Sabine Strohem – a mysterious woman who resides on an island in the South Pacific. This communication commences with an exotic card from the southern seas.

Griffin

It’s good to get in touch with you at last. Could I have one of your fish postcards? I think you were right – the wine glass has more impact than the cup.

Sabine

But Griffin had never met a woman named Sabine. How did she know him? How did she know his artwork? Who is she?

The novels are exclusively in the form of exquisite and exotically illustrated postcards and of letters which are tucked into their envelopes affixed to the pages.

I think I was drawn to the original book not only by the sheer beauty of its design and artwork, but also by the magical and mysterious quality of its premise. I purchased a copy shortly after its publication, appreciated its allure and then tucked it away in one of my bookcases where it has languished ever since.

What I did not know then – or indeed discover until recently – was that though Nick Bantock grew up around London and in Kent, in the late 1980s he moved to Saltspring Island, British Columbia (scarcely a stone’s throw from our home on the Saanich peninsula) where he has lived ever since. I might not have discovered this fact even now had not Mr Bantock teamed up with Michael Shamata – the Artistic Director of The Belfry Theatre here in Victoria – to adapt the series of novels for the stage. On receiving The Belfry’s programme for the year and observing upon it notice of this premiere we naturally purchased tickets forthwith for the last show of the run, two days before Christmas.

With some difficulty (in the finding) I dug my copy of the book from our library. I was intrigued to know how this highly unusual graphical novel could possibly be adapted successfully for the stage. It is a challenge that I, frankly, would not myself have dared attempt (even had I the talent so to do!). I am therefore delighted to report that The Girl and I both found the production to be magical and moving and that it somehow managed to avoid all of the most obvious pitfalls that usually befall attempts at the marriage of two such wildly different forms. Let us hope that the production now travels further.

Bravo to Mr Bantock and to all concerned – say we!

 

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