‘Because in the end, you won’t remember the time you spent working in the office or mowing your lawn.’ Jack Kerouac
Horseshoe Falls
Niagara Falls
Although Balls Falls was beautiful and hilarious I really wanted this adventure to have a BIG finish! Boasting a drop of 165ft with more than six million cubic feet of water hurling over the crest of the falls per minute and a free firework display, well, it seemed rude not to. (Go that is)
I booked a night in the iconic ‘Tower Hotel’ which apart from welcoming the likes of Marilyn Monroe and Frank Sinatra looked like it was straight out of a 70’s disaster movie. Perfect.
Because the modern American tourist has to have a room the size of a football pitch with a unicorn shaped Jacuzzi, the faded splendour of the (perfectly sized for human beings) Tower Hotel’s rooms comes at a surprising bargain price. Even more so when you see the view. I think I scooped my chin off the floor and wet myself all-in-one-go:
Sadly disappointing view from The Towering Inferno Hotel Niagara
You can explore the falls in an abundance of ways from boat, to zip-wire or the more traditional falling-over-the-side. I chose the exciting ‘Journey Behind the Falls’ experience, I really just wanted to get up close for a photo without dying. I’d watched the ferry passengers on ‘Maid in the Mist’ and wasn’t convinced everyone got back alive. So I donned my not-at-all waterproof mac and shuffled underground with the rest of the minions.
Shepherded into large lifts you plummet 125ft whilst a tired, spotty teenager regurgitates the required statistics with the enthusiasm of a dead parrot. You arrive into a wet concrete tunnel and are propelled forward, trance like, towards the light . . . and thunderous wall of sound.
Now I think its worth mentioning at this stage dear reader that I was utilising my diving-proof-phone -cover again (so successfully used whilst snorkelling if you remember?!). No I wasn’t clutching my phone in fear and wiping it on my soggy jeans like the other minions, oh no, smug is the word. The thing is. Well. It seems that you should probably wipe the cover occasionally to keep the lens clear. For a decent photo an all.
So Ladies and gentlemen I present ‘Jane at Niagara Falls!’:
Its a wonder she survived . . . the talented Miss Beckley
I think this is my favourite, I queued for 15 minutes to get this photo of me right behind the falls:
Me behind the wall of water. . .once-in-a-lifetime-selfie . . .
Of course I hadn’t got this far without learning that it was prudent to take at least two hundred photos so maybe one would turn out sort of OK.
Apart from being very wet and monstrously loud, it was of course. . . stunning!
Bender Street
Now after the excitement of not slipping to my doom at Horse Shoe Falls I had a little wandering time before the anticipated majesty of the evening fireworks. Niagara Falls is part beautiful natural history and part Las Vegas. Where fairground rides sit next to Casino restaurants and every few minutes there is a wild explosion of fire from the top of a huge fake volcano. Unbelievable.
So I was already sauntering around smirking to myself when I happened upon an unexpected treat. Yes, I hadn’t planned Bender Street, it wasn’t on my Jane’s-world-map-of stupidly-named-places but here it was the icing on my Niagara cake. I literally laughed out loud and while other tourists looked on perplexed I gleefully took a picture:
Bender Street, the cherry on the cake
Final Finale
Every night throughout the summer season the generous folks of Niagara put on a free fireworks show over the falls. The delight begins as the sun sets and a giant rack of lights are shone directly at the water. The effect is luminous. So shake a martini, slip on your fluffy mules and enjoy the Turner-esque beauty of the falls at night:
This slideshow requires JavaScript.
Moon River
It was the perfect last night. I loved it. A celebration of every where I’ve been.
All of which I owe to my wonderful grandparents Bob and Joyce from whom I inherited not just a talent for drawing and cheating at cards (!) but a chance to see the world. I’m sure that many people might suggest this adventure was a reckless use of funds but I have no regrets. Having a mortgage, owning a car are not the important things.
Jack is right you see.
‘Because in the end you won’t remember the time you spent working in the office or mowing your lawn.Climb that goddam mountain!’
Stepping out from union station Toronto looms over you like an impressive Gotham City. A mixture of 19th Century municipal edifices and glimmering giant glass skyscrapers. Ooooooooooo!
Gotham city
Greater Toronto, however, is . . . well. Shabbier. Even Toronto’s renown ‘coolest-street-in-the-world’ Queen Street West, is oddly grubby. My Air BnB host Annie acknowledged its tatty-at-the-seams-style, ‘when my sister first visited she thought Toronto was a dump’ she laughed ‘but its just got that kind of style’. (What run down Margate? I wondered to myself).
However there are many arguments against gentrification and what it lacks in looks it makes up for in proactive kindness. I arrived during Toronto Pride. It was hard to miss, every shop, bank and hotel had rainbows slapped across them. One thing I noticed on my travels across Canada is the Canadians are ‘nice’ and very concerned about acceptance, especially of the LGBT community. Toronto pride is big and befitting the city a bit shabby-chic. I stood for three hours in a puddle to be part of it and despite the rain, it was fabulous!
Rainbow-tastic Toronto Pride
It was a colourful celebration of difference, and in present political climates seemed all the more important. Being easily pleased with a fancy costume I appreciated the more RuPaul elements of the parade but one uniquely surprising group were my stand out favourites. A little like finding a Scottish fudge shop in a rain-forest village, dear reader, I give you Toronto Pride’s dancing hot-dogs:
LGBT Hotdogs . . . Of course
Yes. A dancing hotdog helping us celebrate our unique differences Toronto Pride 2018
Balls Falls
So. All of a sudden here we are at the penultimate stupidly-named place on our ‘Woolley Butt Street to Useless Bay’ Very-Serious-Adventure. Balls Falls. The little known cousin to Niagara. Overlooked by honeymooners world wide. Balls Falls. No not a reference to Ed Balls Strictly dalliance but a humble waterfall in Ontario Canada.
Once again the trip to find Balls Falls was scuppered by my ‘I don’t drive’ (phrase of the leper). I spent a good 45 minutes in the Toronto Information centre with two twelve year old assistants trying to find a way there on public transport until the lad finally looked at me and said ‘yeah you should hire a car’. ‘Yes. But that would be illegal. And is why we’ve spent all this time trying to find a bloody bus which goes anywhere near because as I mentioned when I arrived ‘I DON’T DRIVE’ you Instagram-attention-span- ignoramus!’ (obviously I didn’t put it quite like that, I thanked and left. I would have had to explain ‘ignoramus’ anyway).
So a train, coach and taxi journey later saw me arriving at Balls Falls Conservation area. And it was a total delight! A grown up would have left early, packed a picnic and enjoyed the whole day there. (I recommend that) I had one and a half hours (mmmm not really recommended) but I made the most of it dashing into the information centre then charging off down to the lower (reportedly larger) falls. The whole area is a beautiful natural reserve which includes walking trails, original settlement buildings and small but charming waterfalls.
Make that cup of tea and join me for a stroll . . .
This slideshow requires JavaScript.
Balls Falls Conservation Area Ontario
Towards the end of the day I noticed that locals were turning up with their kids and dogs for an early evening walk and I could see why. It was tranquil, home-spun, comforting. On the way back to the car park I could here a loud croaking on further inspection it was coming from small pond. Now I know I spoil you with my BBC Natural History quality videos, such as ‘Rainy up the inside passage’ and the fascinating ‘ Life on the Seattle Monorail’ but I think you’ll agree this has ‘award winning’ all over it, enjoy:
spot the toad (or frog) (or troll)
The David Attenborough Award Winning ‘The Croaks’
Balls Falls may not have had the blistering power of Niagara, the wall of sound or the fancy firework displays but if I was on a honeymoon . . . well maybe I might like the gentle walks and passing butterflies. I might prefer to be surrounded by nature not crowds. To listen to the croaking brook and have the time to sit and stare. Maybe Kant is right . .
‘The hill’s are alive with the sound of music, with songs they have sung for a thousand years, The hill’s fill my heart with the sound of music, My heart wants to sing every song it hears’
I’m sure if you filmed the whole ludicrous mix up from above it would have looked very funny like a proper 1960’s farce (without the air hostesses). All I had to do was wait for a coach to Banff. It was booked, paid for, I had printed out my ticket, the pick up location on the ticket said: 13:35 ‘Whistlers Inn, 105 Miette Avenue’. I left my digs at 11 am, went to the post office, wandered round the green, watched the outdoor yoga class, had pancakes in the cafe on the corner, phoned my Mum then at 13:10 went and stood on Miette Avenue outside Whistlers Inn and a door that said Hotel Lobby. All good I thought, so I waited.
Now picture this dear reader, Whistlers Inn is on a corner, part of it on Miette Avenue (a road facing the green) and part of it on a main Avenue that runs through town. On the very corner there is a souvenir shop so you can’t see what’s on either road without literally walking around the shop. But my ticket said pickup on Miette. So I waited there. Well you would (wouldn’t you?). Now meanwhile unbeknownst to me, a coach had arrived, on the avenue, the driver got out and looked around, went into the ‘other’ hotel lobby entrance and asked if they’d seen a ‘Jane Beckley’ ‘She’s probably wearing black and mumbling to herself?’ (Obviously he didn’t say that, well he might have done)! No one had heard of me so he looked up and down the road once more, got in the coach and exited stage right. I was, oh . . . 5 metres away.
Yes dear reader I had phoned the office, yes they said it was all fine (they lied) yes it was a series of unfortunate events. Eventually I called again to be told the coach had left for Banff . Apparently it was my fault, ‘coaches always pick up from the front of the hotel’. I pointed out what it said on my ticket. ‘Yeah I don’t know why it says that, the coaches always pick up from the avenue’ the girl from the office kept repeating this as if it would help the fifteenth time. ‘But I’ve never been to Jasper before, I don’t quite understand how I’m supposed to know that?!’ I try to draw on my inner Margo Ledbetter to demand compensation and hotels and taxis but all I can manage is a tearful Barbara Good. There are no later coaches, no buses, no trains to Banff today. I am put on hold. There is a long silence then ‘I can give you a ticket on tomorrow’s coach free of charge’. So generous.
So the next morning, (no I didn’t sleep in the park or try to hitch I apologise for the hilarity which could have ensued but my over-arching objective was to stay alive for the whole trip) (luckily my air bnb was available for the night) I felt like I’d stepped into the film ‘Groundhog’ day. I left my digs at 11 am, went to the post office, wandered round the green, watched the outdoor yoga class, had pancakes in the cafe on the corner, phoned Josh, then at 13:10 went and stood on the avenue outside Whistlers- bloody-Inn and waited. And like a slightly demented octogenarian approached any coach (mini bus, van, motorhome, car, child on scooter) that stopped. Declaring I was ‘Jane Beckley’ ‘Going to Banff!’ and waving a ticket in front of them. After a few false starts it worked, I was on a coach drivers list, he was going to Banff, in a coach, this had to be it. I dragged Wilson up the steps, plonked myself in a seat, pulled on a seat belt and stared wildly ahead like a cornered Rottweiler. I was going to Banff. If anyone so much as suggested I had the wrong ticket or should leave my seat I would literally gnaw their arm off.
The mood, however, didn’t last long. There is one main road from Jasper to Banff and I think it possibly has the most beautiful views from any stretch of road in the entire world. The sky was clear and after a few snow capped mountains your soul becomes utterly uplifted. You want to fly with the eagles. Oscar and Hammerstein got it right, your ‘heart wants to beat like the wings of the birds, that rise from the lakes to the trees.’ It is truly awesome. It is overwhelming. I thought the views from the train to Jasper were something but when you drive into Banff National Park and along the highway you run out of superlatives.
Banff National Park
First views out of Jasper including some wild mountain goats just having a munch of grass by the roadside
The drive is five hours but it feels like thirty minutes. Part way down you come to the Colombia Icefield Glacier in the heart of the Canadian Rockies. It is one of the largest non-polar ice fields in the world. Our driver stopped so we could view it from across the road and take a million selfies. You can take excursions where you hike out onto it and whizz down on your bottom then make snow angels (well I imagine that’s what these excursions do?). I did of course get carried away and take A-LOT of photos and rather like my student teenage self I decided that black and white would make it moodier and more dramatic (!) (Feel free to roll your eyes)
Panoramic view across the road to the Columbia Icefield
Ice ice baby
Now I did hint I took a million pictures, and despite best efforts (pressing my iPhone against the coach window) (highly sophisticated photography) it’s still not as glorious as the real thing but it gives you some idea. So sit back, kick your slippers off, grab that last viscount biscuit and enjoy a coach ride through Banff National Park:
This slideshow requires JavaScript.
Disappointing views of Banff National Park
Beaver Street
Well. It would be rude not to include a least a bit of beaver on a trip to Canada. Yes, during my now even shorter stay in Banff I was living on Beaver Street, in Beaver Cabins to be exact, and they were delightful. A little group of ‘historic’ cabins actually a ‘Class B Alberta Heritage site’ I’ll have you know! (Essentially some sheds built in the 1950’s) (so really old). Actually it had been a little tourist accommodation spot since 1910 ish when the owner just had tents up but I fortunately had the very sweet little ‘Lnyx’ cabin and I thoroughly recommend it. Just a road back from the main drag, but super quiet and within walking distance of everything. Perfect. And the owner who knew I’d had trouble with transportation had left a little note and chocolate bear to cheer me up. How lovely.
Unfortunately Banff itself is a shabby, ugly, mess of a town with no good views. I don’t know how anyone manages to live there:
So I settled easily in to my fairytale Alpian-esque town and as usual I picked up the free local paper to have a read. Now I always like to check out the local newspaper, it gives you a flavour of the place (and sometimes there’s money off pizza coupons.) The front page was innocuous enough, if the top news was a girls rugby match well this should be full of Church fetes and sponsored walk photos I thought.
Local newspaper Banff
So you can imagine my surprise (and frankly my alarm) when I opened the paper to find: a woman had nearly died when she fell out of her kayak in the river, a black bear had wandered into a hotel lobby in Canmore (the next town) a local man had died from a fall while out climbing and a grizzly bear had attacked a man on the walking trail round lake Minnewanka. What no school performance of ‘Grease’? No protest over local bypass?! Lawdy. This was not the Wimbledon Gazette.
Just the normal, gentle, day-to-day life in the Canadian Rockies
Lake Minnewanka
So you can imagine it was with some trepidation that I set out to find Lake Minnewanka the next morning. I suppose the good news was that someone had already been attacked for me, like a royal taster, taken the bullet as it were and now that part of the trail would be closed. I would stick to areas where there were more people about and hopefully some I could out run. I didn’t have any bear spray as it was pretty expensive on my budget and so I decided pushing an old American tourist over may suffice.
Or always walk with the less able. . .
Some of my expeditions to stupidly named places have been just that, expeditions, traipsing about on buses, ferries, trains! So it is always a delight to find a bus that goes directly to where you want to be, and even more of a delight when it has the name emblazoned on the front:
Stupid names on buses. . . still so so funny
Lake Minnewanka ‘Water of the Spirits’ is just five kilometres outside Banff town and at twenty one kilometres long it is the second largest lake in the Canadian Rockies. The journey to Minnewanka was about the easiest and most beautiful to an amusingly named place I’ve taken (Yorkey’s knob obviously a rain forest classic too). On the way we passed more mountains, lakes and some more goats. These a little smaller with charming white bottoms. (Obviously their official Latin name)
Lake Minnewanka didn’t disappoint either. For a start it had lots of great signs.
Minnewanka has a bit of a mysterious and interesting past. People have hunted and camped along the shores for more than 100 centuries. The First Nation Stoney people called it ‘Minn-Waki’ or ‘Lake of Spirits’ it seems they respected and feared the lake for its resident spirits. Early European settlers called it Devils Lake. . . slightly sinister don’t you think? I’m not sure what those spirits were, perhaps a relative of the Loch Ness Monster lived here or perhaps it was just a story to keep other hunters away? Nonetheless quite intriguing and the intrigue continued; in 1886 a beach house Lodge was built on the shores and by 1912 a summer village was established with hotels, restaurants and alike. A dam was built to supply the town with hydro electric power. Then in 1941 a bigger dam was needed to supply the growing town of Banff so the lake was raised by 30 metres and the town of Minnewanka Landing submerged forever. The inhabitants were made to move away and the village is still lying underneath the lake, a sunken watery ghost town. If there weren’t spirits before I’m guessing there are definitely spirits about now.
However on the surface all appears blissfully tranquil. . .
Lake Minnewanka
Given more time, bear spray and a friend to hike with I’d love to walk round the lake but it’s always good to have things to look forward to isn’t it? And I know dear reader, you think I exaggerate (as if!) but you have to respect nature, the warnings were serious:
I just read that Lake Minnewanka has been fully closed down due to an incident this Monday evening (9th July) when a bear trampled a tent. No one was hurt and all campers have been evacuated. The park had only just posted restricted access to the lake the day before, with advice requiring people to hike in large groups, carry bear spray and leave their dogs at home. So maybe my decision to have a nice sandwich in the cafe and enjoy the view was not so ‘unadventurous’ but prudent after all. Contrary to popular belief it seems I am capable of ‘sensible’ thought. Lawdy.
More Lakes
And anyway I had to hurry on the bus back to Banff to pick up my afternoon excursion to Lake Louise. The high mountain lakes of Louise and Maligne are a good hours drive from Banff so I booked myself on a little tour like an elderly Miss Jane Marple. (Really I just felt I hadn’t seen enough good views yet.) (I mean honestly there must be something worth photographing in this dreary backwater mustn’t there?!)
Nah. . .
So I do have yet more ‘postcards’ from the Rockies but before you switch off entirely with festering jealous thoughts and make a mental note to scratch me from the Christmas card list for being ‘undeserving’ or ‘think-she’s-been-spoilt-enough-this-year’ memos. I want you to watch this. The water in the lakes is glaciel, so although it was a lovely June day in the mid twenties the water is cold. Very cold. I mean . . . 5-6C cold. You don’t swim in it. That’s why falling out of your kayak is extra treacherous, you don’t have long till your body is in a lot of trouble. But. Doesn’t stop the Japanese does it? I’m sorry I didn’t catch the initial stampede into lake Maligne, I heard it, I think everyone for a few miles heard it, mass hysterical screaming echoing against the mountain sides. By the time I had rounded the path I could only catch the stragglers but they so entertained me with their joyous life affirming abandon. I give you . . . Water torture for fun:
Such fun!
It was impossible to be amongst the mountains without sticking The Sound of Music on your playlist (especially with goats everywhere). To be honest I needn’t have worried so much about bear spray as most days I would be found traipsing around repelling bears and hikers alike with ‘the hills are alive with the sound of music, ar-ar-ee-ahhhh!’ and the words of the Mother Superior we’re never far from my thoughts. So for this slideshow, kick off your flip flops, find the gluhwein, stick your fancy dress Nun outfit on (oh come on, I know you have one) and sing like Julie! (Everybody now, after three, one, two, . . .)
‘High on a hill was a lonely goat herd, lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo, loud was the voice of the lonely goatherd lay ee odl lay ee odl-ooo’
‘Being brave isn’t the absence of fear. Being brave is having fear but finding a way through it.’ Bear Grylls
Back on Track
If there is one thing I’ve discovered on this adventure (apart from there are two Vancouver’s and when a barista in Canada asks you if you need ‘room’ in your coffe they don’t mean room for a swim or a glacé cherry but if you want milk) it’s that I much prefer travelling by train than plane. It’s not the flying, it’s the being squeezed into a suffocating indeterminate space, and being fleeced for the pleasure of any single comfort (on my last flight you even had to pay for headsets). So I was very excited, not just to be leaving Prince Rupert, but that I was travelling this next part of the trip by train. I had a seat booked on an old silver streamlined VIA rail train from Prince Rupert down to Jasper in the rockies. It would take two days with a stop over night at Prince George. Giddy with anticipation even the sun started to come out to see us off.
The clouds begin to clear as we chug chug chug out of Prince Rupert
There didn’t seem that many people getting on the train at the station but I was in that focused London-concentrating-on-getting-a-window-seat mode and it wasn’t until much later I realised how hilarious I was. There were four other travellers. Two of which were obviously local students and had just gone straight to sleep. I ventured from my seat to see the ‘buffet car’ and get a coffee.
It is now dear reader that I must introduce to you ‘Walter’ our on board steward. Imagine if you will a Johnny Depp like, very camp, listless, First Nation (Indian) perfectly turned out butler who missed out on his one ambition to become a drag queen in downtown Bangkok. Walter was so excited someone had wandered into the dining car he almost fell over. ‘Did I want a drink? Yes of course I could have a drink. Shall I bring it to the viewing car, of course I shall’. I wasn’t quite sure what had just happened but I paid and went up to the saloon and sat down. The train was in fact made up of three carriages, the engine, the seating carriage and the last carriage which was part sleeping compartments, part dining car, with saloon at the rear and a viewing area above. ‘Don’t you want to go up to the viewing lounge?’ Walter was hovering with my coffee in one hand and a drinks napkin in the other. ‘Can I?’ I ventured. To which Walter became a bit more Mr Humphries and waved his napkin hand around wildly ‘You can do what you want darling! It’s your train!’ He squealed.
He wasn’t wrong. A few other folks got on and off (literally in the middle of nowhere, Walter said sometimes people will go into Prince Rupert to shop and they will get off at these three shack stops and just walk off into the forest ‘I mean how could you live like that?!’he groans. It is clear that Walter needs to be near a decent nail bar for survival) but apart from that, the train belongs to me and Richard & Jennifer a bright healthy young New Zealand couple. Such a squash in the viewing car and a goddam nightmare to move in the saloon as you can see. It was awful for us all.
Difficult to spot amongst the crowds but that’s me, and Richard & Jennifer at the front.
At first the views are sort of infectious and you can’t stop staring and smiling. Then as landscapes become more stunning than the last, you grow a little numb to their affect. Until if like me, you find yourself alone in the viewing car, with the warmth of the sun pouring down and it is possible to have a delicious nap. This is how I think I missed ‘Loos’, although it could be possible to miss it awake too. It is one of those three shed places between Prince Rupert and Jasper. I considered pretending and showing a picture of some beautiful hills and telling you this was Loos but. . . Well either have a look on a map or choose a view you like the look of from below. (Sorry if you’re disappointed but I’m sure it’s not the first time you’ve wanted the toilet in the woods).
This slideshow requires JavaScript.
Some very dull views ‘n’ stuff
After an overnight stop at Prince George (apocalyptic zombie film territory) you literally have to book a hotel and meet up again in the morning. It was a bit like a school trip. Richard and Jennifer had found their hostel and had a good night sleep, I was still alive, we grabbed what sweets we could from the tourist information shop, Richard filled up his flask from the free tea urn (very sensible,I thought) Walter did a head count and we scrambled back on.
Apart from epic landscapes I did see deer, eagles and four black bears. They were brief but very clear and such a complete delight to see in the wild. One of the bears was scratching his back on a tree, one climbing the rocky siding and just watched us go past. One I saw when we were moving very slowly, he was chewing berries by the rail track and again just watched us roll by. Just as we had gone by I decided to take a picture, it is another in my collection of National Geographic masterpieces that I have so diligently worked on for you. Let’s call this ‘spot the bear’ 20p if you get the cross is in the right place:
The views got more impressive the nearer we got to Jasper in direct correlation with Walter’s customer service. Apart from sometimes being asleep when you wanted a coffee or so lethargic he would roll his eyes at having to put another brew on, he had also taken to giving little ‘commentaries’ on where we were. Lovely, yes I know, but it was the languid teenage delivery that was so funny , ‘Soo…this is like Yellowheaded pass, this is Moose lake, I’ve never seen one though so . . . .ah but you can sometimes see a special heron, . . . ummm I’ve forgotten the name, so everyone Yellowheaded pass!’ (That is honestly a direct quote) He would always end with a flourish a bit like a six year old who’d just done a ‘show’ in the kitchen. I think I just laughed out loud at one point, it was comic genius, Basil Fawlty eat-your-heart-out.
This is the view chugging in to Jasper National park:
Jasper
Jasper has just stepped out of a fairytale story book. It is practically perfect. The air is clean, crisp and smells of fresh pine. The houses are charming rugged brick or wooden chalets. The whole town takes up just three blocks but has a library, hospital, fire station, primary school, high school, art gallery, churches and a cinema. It is slow paced, friendly and surrounded by the spectacular mountains of Jasper national park. I liked it a lot. I decided this week I would be more Canadian, be more ‘out-doorsy’! So I booked myself on a white water rafting trip and set off on a hike on one of the trails that run straight out of town. Oh it was dreary:
The Athabasca River and squirrel trail Jasper National Park
After sitting down by the bridge to see to some of my more persistent blisters I watched as the white water rafting tours started to roll in. Oh. I knew straight away it was the company I’d booked with, the colours and logo were exactly like the pictures online. Oh. I gulped and watched a bit more. First of all you only needed to be near the river to see how fast it was going. It was icy cold and a strong current. The people in the tour boat I’d booked looked like they were all about twenty, wearing full wetsuits, life jackets and helmets. They were kneeling in the boat paddling with the oars and lithely bounding out of the dingy happily ripping off wetsuits in the middle of the car park. There were lots of high fives and back slaps. Oh. How was I even going to get in to a wetsuit (without a pot of Vaseline?) or for that matter in or out of the dingy without dislocating a knee cap? If I was with friends I wouldn’t mind being rolled across the car park like Mr Blobby and strapped in by some local youth, but on my own? How was I going to do this on my own?
I was struck with fear, perhaps a bit of realistic know-your-physical-limits, but mostly fear. I checked my phone app. Could I cancel? No. I could change the raft to an easier level of rapids. Another raft rolled in, this one was slightly different no one was in a wetsuit, or helmet, they still had life jackets on and seemed to bounce out of the larger raft with ease. Oh shit. I changed the level of jeopardy and started the long festering rot of self doubt all the way home. I was never going to get in or out of the raft without dislocation. I was going to look like the Mr Stay Puft in a life jacket. I wouldn’t have the core stability to stay in the raft, everyone would think I was pathetic. I would have to cancel.
This continued until the day of the raft trip. The new trip said it was easy, beginners level, it would be fine. I had a good talk to myself, already upset that I wasn’t facing the big rapids. ‘Do one thing every day that scares you’ wasn’t that the sage advice from Eleanor Roosevelt? Wasn’t that what you’d been doing all trip?! Come on Beckley. I literally stood across the street from the meeting point. I’ll see what everyone else looks like. I watched, mumbling like a loon shuffling around the park. There was a small group that looked like a family. They didn’t look like superhuman triathletes, I started walking. And you know what happened? A minor miracle.
The tour guide soon caught my eye so I couldn’t veer off, he checked me in and thrust the ‘in-case-you-die-waiver’ in front of me. If you could sign this. I did and started making jokes about it, the family laughed. Mmm. I explained I was scared. So was the daughter in the family. Really? But she was a twenty something year old yoga practioner? And within seconds all my own fears started to fade. I had met them. Friends. In fact I had stepped into a sort of Canadian national lampoons vacation. They were hilarious together, Mum a serial giggler, Dad with the driest sense of humour, oldest daughter whose 21st they were celebrating looking slightly terrified and younger cheeky teenage son. By the time we climbed on the bus I was part of the clan.
We were also united by the fact that the rest of the group were from an old folks home. Yes. An old folks home. Apparently once a year it’s ‘old people’s week’ and they give them a free ride. (Clearly some sort of survival of the fittest euthanasia programme) This was definitely going to be a white knuckle ride but this time because half the group would possibly die en route.
National Lampoons: Shania, Tawna, Don, and Landon, my saviours!
Our fellow rafters
We decided (as a new family unit, me being Aunt Jane from England) that we would suffer less humiliation without the waterproof rave outfits so we just went for the life preservers. It seemed however that it would, after all, take some time to get the rest of the bus on a raft, so we were allowed to go ahead with a few posh folks from the smart hotel. I was relieved I wouldn’t be responsible for accidentally knocking anyone’s pacemaker overboard. We listened to our ‘how not to die in the rapids’ talk and clambered in. It was GREAT!
Rafting on the Athabasca River
I took my waterproof phone cover and despite a 100% improvement on my last Aquatic photographic attempts (Manly Beach snorkelling). It seems I was concentrating rather more on hanging on, than capturing the real ‘getting soaked’ shots. Which we did. Tawna more than most but yes it was cold and I did look like I’d wet my pants the whole way home. However. I did it. I faced my fears and did it anyway! Not maybe what Bear would find frightening but we all have different fears. I found a way through my fear with laughter. With the help of my new lovely friends who accepted me just as I am. A complete idiot. But now a happy one!
Olympic Kayaking Medalist Jane ‘the rapids’ Beckley
Epilogue
We never did find out what became of the old folks. We hadn’t seen them on the river despite looking back and expecting to see walking frames waving wildly on the horizon. When we finished (an hour and a half later) we were told they were still trying to get them all onboard. . Mmmm . . . So probably lost a few to over exposure. . may be they’re still drifting now? Mmmm maybe. Maybe just a great way to clear those beds.
‘I have measured out my life with coffee spoons’ T.S.Eliot
Prince Rupert
After going as far up the inside passage as modesty allowed, I disembarked at the ambitiously regal port of ‘Prince Rupert’. I don’t know what to say about Prince Rupert. I suppose one could suggest it’s not quite as salubrious as Port Talbot. Yes, you’re right of course dear reader, the weather had something to do with first impressions. As you can see it had brightened up beautifully:
View from the ferry at the port of Prince Rupert. . .
The good thing about Prince Rupert was that I was staying just out of town. Although I only got to my digs by the kindness of Kee, who had sensibly got some cash out already, as I blundered about the tin shack arrivals hall like a mystified Margo Ledbetter going ‘where is the A.T.M machine my good man? Why can’t I get WiFi? My Uber app isn’t working! Oh lawdy will the taxi accept MasterCard? Meanwhile Kee had quietly wandered outside, got a signal, booked us a cab and had time to take a call from her colleague. So I think it was out of pity (or fear for the local wildlife) that Kee made sure I was dispatched safely to my BnB, (and I am ever grateful).
I was staying at the Dragonfly BnB run by the lovely Greg and Sheila, two busily retired teachers. I was bustled up to a steamy kitchen on arrival, made a cup of tea and introduced to two (very soggy) chocolate curly coated retrievers, two beautiful granddaughters and a grown up son (tired science teacher) (trying to hide in the living room). It was blissfully homely. I soon forgot the rain and fell into my sumptuous double bed, a far cry from the dirty carpet of the ferry lounge . . . and I slept and slept.
Cow Bay
Cheering the the spirits no end and just a short stroll away was the wonderfully titled Cow Bay. It seems that this area, a railway right of way, was known originally as Cameron Cove but in 1908 renamed when a Swiss man John Nehring unloaded a herd of cows for his diary from a barge. This apparently monumental event in the lives of locals (cows wandering around eating grass) lead to the new moniker and the now ‘Historic Cow Bay’. Which to my delight is festooned with black and white cow painted items from flower pots to rubbish bins and the quite perfect ‘Cowpuccinos’ coffee shop.
The Historic Cow Bay, Udderly great
To be honest I spent quite a lot of my time in Cowpuccinos. For many reasons, not least because it was surprisingly run by Bruce Willis:
Photos courtesy of Cowpuccinos Facebook page
Thankfullly Bruce can make a fantastic soup and cake (in fact everything I tried was delicious). But really the most magnificent thing about Cowpuccinis was it was warm and dry. I was in Prince Rupert for two days and I visited Cowpuccinos four times. If you are ever there (?!) I recommend it, especially the M & everything flapjack. (Yes it had M&Ms in)!
As well as Cowpuccinos, Cow Bay did have some good mouch-around shops (the sort you find on holiday) and in fact it had a ‘Lake District’ feel about it, as apart from the rain most people were in Rohan walking trousers (the type that you can jauntily unzip to become shorts and are universally unflattering) storm proof jackets and were desperately trying to look like they were having a good time. There was an occasional break in the cloud and I spent a while just sitting in the park by the bay watching the eagles. Yes. Real bald eagles in the wild. I was mesmerised. I tried to get a photo, well they look so close! and amazing! and in your mind you are taking National Geographic award winning shots. In reality. . .
Eagles soaring . . . Yes, that black smudge . . .see it? . . Mmmm
On my second day Greg was kind enough to drive me out of town to the historic North Pacific Cannery. I had missed going to the cannery museum in Steveson so I was genuinely interested to see an original. The canneries were once a huge economic force in the region. Men, women and children were involved in the skilful, stinking task of fishing, filleting (the expert Chinese could fillet four fish every sixty seconds) slicing, canning, cooking and then exporting the salmon. In fact the U.K was a very big market, who didn’t want a salmon and cucumber sandwich in Victorian and Edwardian times? Although I come from the rolling countryside of Sussex and the middle-class-twin-set-and-pearls that is Chichester, it also happens to be where Shippams Paste was made. The factory used to be in town and as you rode to school in the morning you would get the familiar whiff of fishiness. (Awful I know, but there you go, my poor industrialised upbringing) So of course I felt I had a natural affinity with the 1800’s Canadian cannery worker. So much in common. So much.
North Pacific Cannery Port Edward British Columbia
The North Pacific Cannery company was founded in 1888 and operated until 1968. After that the site continued to run as a maintenance and reduction facility for the fishing fleet of Prince Rupert until 1981 when it closed completely. In 1985 a group of local historians saved it from demolition paving the way for the museum it is today. It’s hugely interesting. This cannery was like a little village in itself where everyone was housed, fed and worked in the same place. It was a hard and grim existence- for the factory workers. Most of the place still stands (albeit precariously) on original timber stacks. I took a little guided tour, which consisted of me and four lumberjacks (well they looked like they had just walked off some site or another, dirty jeans, steel capped boots and plaid shirts, they were like a group of builders on their lunch break) and a twenty year old college tour guide. We were the most bizarre group.
Old workshops and stores at the North Pacific Cannery
Our guide was only two weeks into the post, extremely earnest and well read. The place was facisnating, the company rugged, but . . .that didn’t stop the rain. It was pouring and pouring and pouring! Possibly due to nerves our guide continued relentlessly; standing us outside shacks, stores, on boardwalks and talked and talked. She was great, but even the builders had given up being polite to me and were standing under any semblance of cover they could find. I had that sensation you get when you think the shower of water is pouring off your jacket hood only to find it’s actually just dripping off your nose. We thanked her prefusely of course. Edified but soggy we fled.
And imagining T.S.Eliot would nod with approval, I knew exactly where I was headed . . . and yes, it had ‘Cow’ and ‘Puccino’ in its title.
‘The way I see it, if you want the rainbow, You gotta put up with the rain’
The Museum of Anthropology Vancouver
Before I left Vancouver I had one last little mission to complete. Friends of mine (Stuart and Phil) had visited Canada a few years ago and they had been waxing lyrical about the Museum of Anthropology. I must, they insisted, visit whilst I was here. It was apparently truly amazing and I would love it!
What it was, was a pain to get to on public transport. It’s part of the British Columbia University complex and is a little stuck out of the way. A train and long bus journey later had me delivered at the University Transit centre but after that you are on your own. There are no signs from the bus station to the Museum and google maps didn’t account for the vast building work going on at the University, so by the time I arrived at the entrance I was somewhat peeved.
However, that didn’t last long, after refuelling in the cafe I walked through to the main gallery and caught my breath. It was remarkable. A cathedral like space wall to ceiling windows and full of the most extraordinary First Nation sculpture.
Totem poles and other sculptures in the main gallery
Outside the Museum. . .impressive architecture and tranquil views
Back inside, the Museum becomes more and more extraordinary with modern works from First Nation artists like Bill Reid, touring exhibitions and a grand selection of rooms which house anthropological artefacts from around the world. It looks like an eccentric Victorian explorer just wandered in and threw up their entire collection. Cabinet after cabinet of masks, pipes, hats, oars, canoes, gnus, bamboos, old loos (well you get the picture)! There are even display cabinets with drawers in that you can pull open to find even more treasure, it’s a true feast for the eyes and senses.
Incredible collections. . .
This slideshow requires JavaScript.
After a while it almost becomes overwhelming as your brain and senses are on overload. At this point most sensible grown ups head for the cafe but I did that endless wandering thing where you are almost in a hypnotic trance like the delirium of Christmas shopping, dribbling into your own scarf. So when I first saw them I thought I must have slipped into a hallucinogenic state. But no. No. Apparently they were real and I was in fact staring straight into a cabinet that contained two . . . Mick Jagger dolls.
Mick Jagger Anthropological sensation
It turns out they are dolls that were used in some ceremonial dancing (which seemed apt). However, I admit I wasn’t concentrating much on the artefact labels as I had already begun mumbling my best Mick impersonation and sniggering into my boots. As it happens, best friend Mel (of the Cocking sign) her husband Duncan and I are endlessly amused by attempting Mick Jagger impersonations. Encouraged by Rob Brydon and Steve Coogan (from The Trip) we spent my leaving supper drinking rather a lot of red wine and impersonating Mick-impersonating Michael Caine. (If you haven’t seen Rob Brydon do this I urge you to YouTube it) (one of these days I will work out how to add hyperlinks!)
Undeniably Jagger
The thing is, once Mick is in your head he is impossible to shift. After I saw him in one place I couldn’t help seeing Mick everywhere:
It was probably time for the gift shop.
Up the Inside Passage
Now during my very serious adventure many people have asked (does the pyshchiatric ward know you’re missing?) (aren’t you hot in that?) . . . why? Why visit stupidly named places? Of course the first answer is why not? Or . . I’m just a bit immature. But I usually begin with the example of Josh (of Pity Me sign) and his visit to Canada in 2016. When he told me he was cruising up the inside passage. Well. I am English. I responded in the natural way, with a sort of Frankie Howard snort. It started me thinking, if there was a body of water known as the ‘inside passage’ what other fantastically unfortunately named places were there?And could I find some of them?
So you see ‘The Inside Passage’ is something of the holy grail for my adventure. It’s almost what everything has been lurching towards. Having gone up and down the ‘Backstairs passage’ in Australia it was the natural progression. Roald Admunsen was famous for reaching both the north and south poles. Jane Beckley could be the first person, in one expedition, to go up the backstairs and inside passage. It was a solemn and historic undertaking. But encouraged by the inspirational words of Shakira ‘ I want to try everything, I want to try even though I could fail, oh . . .oh . . .oh . . .oh . . .oh . . Try everything’. (Try everything) ( Zootropolis) I was ready to meet the challenge and it’s obviously a total understatement to say I was indeed rather overexcited.
So I left Vancouver full of giddiness, took a ferry from Horseshoe Bay to Nanaimo, Vancouver Island. It was a beautiful calm crossing, with enough time to practise my Mick Jagger pout. (Sometimes you just have to get these things out of your system). Then I rested up for a few days at the lovely Departure Bay beach before heading up on the coach to Port Hardy.
Mick Jagger on the ferry crossing to Vancouver Island
Now I say ‘headed up on the coach’ as if it was the breeziest undertaking ever, in truth I had spent two days on the phone and two migraines to organise it. The ferry I was booked on left at 18:00, the one and only coach to the ferry terminal arrives at 17:10, perfect. You’d think. But reservations were determined we had to check in two hours before hand. Mmmmmm. ‘why does the only coach running arrive at the ferry terminal just in time for everyone on it, to be too late, and watch the ferry sail without them?’ I ask. ‘Umm you could phone the terminal, they might make an exception’ Right. She gives me the number and the next morning nice and early I phone. The wait time to talk to ‘an agent’ is 90 minutes. But I need to know if I have to hitch up a day early and stay at a local hotel. I wait, 90 minutes. This time I get ‘You’ve got the wrong number, you’re through to reservations’. I sink.
‘What you needed to do was choose the Lost Property option’ the agent says quite reasonably. Of course. Of course, why had I been so STUPID!? ‘The good news is you won’t have the long wait this time’ he tries desperately to be encouraging. I am now having a migraine. I call Port Hardy lost property and get through to what seems to be a small kitchen in the back of a charity shop, Renee answers. I explain. ‘Yes, you’re coming on the coach, yes, gets in just after five doesn’t it,’ Renee shouts across lost property ‘Jean! The coach gets in just after five doesn’t it, she’ll be alright for the ferry won’t she?’ Jean shouts back half way through a digestive ‘on the coach yes, they just walk on’, Renee then explains to me that I can put my luggage in holding vans etc.. It’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be? Why can’t they communicate this with reservations??!
The coach when it arrived, looked like something from the fleet of Terry Thomas’s ‘Dreadnought Motor Transport Co’ (Blue Murder at St Trinians) the seats like benches from a 1950’s church, I wonder wether we will make it out of the car park? But the journey, it turns out, is rather lovely and with only six people and a small dog at least we get to spread out and the views are wonderful. We go through an unexpected ‘Fanny Bay’ (what are the odds?) it had three houses, a beach and an old BnB. So small it missed my stupidly named map radar but I was charmed however to know there were at least two in the world and I’d been to both! This Fanny Bay was not at all hot and sweaty, although it did smell of fishy seaweed. We trundled on until it was time for a half hour food stop and all found ourselves lingering in the one roadside cafe.
This was where I first got talking to a quite remarkable local woman, Kee. It seemed we were the only two people getting the ferry. ‘I wasn’t sure wether they’d let me on’ she remarks and it turns out had had the same worries and enquiries. We both agreed we were glad we were not alone in our venture to make that ferry. Now Kee lives in Nanaimo but works a fortnight on and off as a counsellor on one of the tiny islands off Prince Rupert. She usually flies there this is her first ferry adventure. Kee is a compact, grey haired, Indian descendant with a kind face and has that almost ethereal quality of calm wisdom, (so like me) But she’s interested in my travels and looks at me with a warm, quizzical ‘what is this girl?’ way. So we make friends. (No, she didn’t have a choice). We arrive at Port Hardy, the ferry is still being boarded by camper vans and cars and no-one blinks an eye at our arrival or even suggests check in was over an hour a go. Bless Renee I think and I stow Wilson (my bag) away on a cart for safe keeping.
Leaving Port Hardy, Wilson’s luggage cart boards the ship.
It was a drizzly evening when we eventually left harbour. Kee found her cabin and I had a good wander round the ship. There was a large seating lounge, children’s play area, gift shop, restaurant and lots of outside viewing decks. The cabins were on the deck below. Now the journey is quite a hefty one. We left at 18:00 to arrive in Prince Rupert the next day at 16:00. So although some of the journey would be spent in darkness I knew I had plenty of time the next day to enjoy the spectacular inside passage. I couldn’t afford a cabin but I wasn’t alone, although a lot of people seemed rather more ready for this though, with sleeping bags and pillows in tow. Mmmm, I had a light weight poncho and an anorak. Had I under estimated this?
The ship wasn’t even half full and people had started laying claim to areas in the seating lounge, creating little nests on the floor and taking over entire rows with duvets, onesies and teddy bears. I decided I would sit up and write, then when everyone was settled see which little corner was left. Unfortunately due to my city-dwelling ways I forgot there were still places in the world where you couldn’t get WiFi (like Wales) Apparently a small channel of water between hundreds of mountains in the north-west-of-nowhere-Canada is one of those places. So there was nothing to do, I had to go and settle down for the night.
The good news was I had a whole row of five seats to myself and the dirty carpet in between. I sat for a while then decided to try the floor like everyone else. Unlike everyone else I was woefully under-equipped. I used my bag as a pillow and fashioned a sort of blanket out of my poncho/anorak affair. I looked like a transient vagrant or an abandoned member of a Manchester hen night. I might have got half an hours sleep. At one point I thought I must be dreaming because the floor was moving under me and the walls seemed to be changing shape wildly. I sat up to realise we were in very, very choppy waters, swaying quite dramatically. I reminded myself whatever happened to hang on to the ship for as long as possible, the water was so cold you’d only last 10-15 minutes max, (even with a lightweight anorak). But there was, thankfully, no titanic moment so at about 5 am I excitedly decided it was time to get off the grimey cold carpet, wash and go and see that spectacular scenery!
The spectacular inside passage
Well what can I say?
Not surprisingly the inside passage turned out to be murky and dark, and a little wet.
This slideshow requires JavaScript.
Fifty shades of grey
Of course it wouldn’t stay like this, would it? Well I made an effort, it was certainly bracing outside and awesome in a weird entrance-to-Hades way. I made one of my national geographic standard films for you dear reader (best to watch it with your mac and wellies on)
From the viewing deck
This was about as visible as it got. In stead of brightening up, the inside passage became even more impenetrable. . . Until in the end, you could only see mist and they eventually put a film on for us all in the seating lounge.
Yes, I was disappointed. This cruise was part of the trip I was truly excited about. This was the holy grail! The original passage to beat all other passages! The formidable, difficult to navigate Inside Passage! The queen of euphemisms. The gem in my carry-on nonsense crown! But, I reminded myself, I had in fact witnessed a unique and awesome sight. On my adventure I’d seen the red earth of the desert in Australia, the rolling green hills of the shire in New Zealand, the cobalt blue skies of California and now the mysterious grey mists of the inside passage. All the colours of our extraordinary world.
And you know what? Dolly is right, if you want the rainbow?
‘I’m Slim Shady, yes I’m the real Slim Shady All you other Slim Shadys are just imitating. So won’t the real Slim Shady please stand up. . .’
Grouse Mountain
Now I don’t know about you dear reader, but when someone mentions the chance to see a ‘Lumberjack show’ to me, all I can see is a glorious vision of red plaid shirts, rugged beards and muscular torsos. I don’t stop to think. I just go.
And so it was I found myself on a train, boat and bus heading out to North Vancouver’s own Grouse Mountain. Hayden had suggested it for its ski lift, raptor shows, bears, incredible views and lumberjacks! The views he promised me were spectacular, the wildlife amazing and the lumberjacks not only revved up thier chainsaws, manhandled their logs but mounted long poles in contests of pure muscle. All of which sounded like I’d have enough euphemisms to last for the rest of the trip. I was very excited!
The journey up the mountain is in a cable car, reminiscent of many a James Bond encounter and seventies disaster movie.
Cable car of doom
It’s almost impossible to stop yourself from imaging the worst, or that you will at least find yourself clinging to a broken cable scrambling over pushchairs and American tourists in a bid for safety. To help with that they do like to tell you how far up you are but forget to say the car will swing quite violently as it crosses over the intersections. I honestly caught myself doing a quick assessment of my fellow passengers. Thankfully there was a large group of silver haired septuagenarians from one of the cruise ships. My odds were looking o.k.
Now Vancouver that day was a fine May morning, 24 centigrade, sunny with a little cloud. The journey up the mountain apart from perilous had some pretty amazing views.
‘Blue sky’ views on way up
But what I’d totally forgotten (which, I know, is glaringly obvious) was that I was going to the top of a mountain. To the summit. The sort of mountain that from a distance is beautifully snow peaked. Quite high in fact. So yes, when we reached the top it was a chilly 12C, covered in snow and basically in a cloud.
‘No sky views’ at top
The chair lift to the very summit was closed, the paths had been cleared but there was a cold and eerie fog leaving visibility at about eight metres. I wandered a bit to see if there was a timetable for the Lumberjack show or sign saying ‘this way to pure brawn’. It was difficult to see. There was at least a large cafe, gift shop and sporting apparel outfitters so if I was stranded in some desperate survival movie, at least I wouldn’t have to eat any of my own body parts. I went to find an information booth.
It was not good news. ‘Where can I find your world famous lumberjack show?’ I asked the girl at the desk. (In all their advertising it says ‘world famous’. Exciting eh?) ‘oh um it starts tomorrow, they just had a rehearsal this morning’ (my shoulders sagged) ‘Really?!’ ‘Yeah it’s just the season doesn’t really start till tomorrow’ (I can feel the letter writing ‘disgruntled of sussex’ start to unleash) (as passionate an emotional state as David Banner’s don’t-make-me-angry but almost imperceptible to the Johnny Foreigner) ‘Oh,’ I mumble. ‘What about the raptors?’ ‘No sorry’ ‘Chair lift?’ ‘No it’s shut at the time being’ ‘Death slide?’ I offer (despite this being the very last thing I would do). ‘No sorry, sorry have you come a long way?’ I stare at her and my mouth opens then shuts again. My inner monologue has gone into a vitriolic tirade, yes, yes I might have come a bloody long way via Australia actually. But I outwardly sigh and say ‘oh never mind thank-you’ then turn on my heels and whisper ‘so essentially a very expensive coffee shop?!’ Which is enough to satisfy my confrontational angst.
The good news was despite there still being snow the bears had woken up from hibernation and were in their enclosure. They were orphaned bears who had been saved as cubs but too reliant on humans were now kept in the bear sanctuary. So you could go and see them, if you could find the enclosure. The one helpful thing was that there were big painted bear tracks on the paths to show the way. They past the now mournful looking Lumberjack amphitheatre.
Apocalyptic remains of the World Famous Lumberjack show
I was, it’s fair to say, quite chilly by now. It was a strange sensation after all the sweaty heat I’d grown accustomed too but I laughed as I realised I was actually wearing exactly the same outfit I’d worn for my river cruise in Bangkok. This time I was very glad of the scarf (And at least no one was saying ‘aren’t you hot in that?’) But I soon forgot my shivers when I turned a corner and saw the bears. Not in the wild I know, but very much in their natural environment. They were stunning.
Grizzlies . . .just woken up.
I watched them, enraptured for a while, these are the fellas you don’t want to meet in the woods. There is no one clear piece of advice for surviving a grizzly attack. You can’t out run, out climb, or out swim them and they most definitely have a better right hook. If you’ve annoyed them they won’t care if you do or don’t look them in the eye. They won’t care if you have a baby with you or try to make yourself look big or offer them a marmalade sandwich. Although a marmalade sandwich might be your best bet.
Slightly frozen now (in my linen shirt!) I walked back to have a look at the ‘spectacular view’ I’d been told about. It was certainly something:
Panoramic view from the top of Grouse Mountain
I decided it was time for a hot chocolate and the gift shop.
There were fewer tourists around now, although to be fair I could only see the ones within five metres anyway. But there were a prolific amount of hill runners, locals who do the ‘grouse grind’ (I know). They run up the mountain and get the cable car down. In fact from this view all you could see were the first two rows of trees and then emerging from the forest at regular intervals sweaty lycra clad uber humans bounding up to the cafe checking their fit bits (oo-er missus).
I went to get the cable car down and felt over dressed for the first time. The conditions had worsened and although the view was scary on the way up, the lack of view going down was an even more frightening prospect. And this time on a quick assessment of my (grouse-grinder) fellow passengers I realised my odds of survival had seriously diminished.
View descending Grouse Mountain
As we descended we gradually emerged from the clouds just in time to see a man standing on top of the intersection. We were told not to worry, he was just going to climb on top of our cable car. Of course he was. Of course. We swung in the air for what seemed ages while hearing bangs and clangs above us expecting at any moment to see a man swing down and crash against the glass. To add to the heart in-mouth-ness the cable car going up had stopped too and all the passengers were staring up at us slight horror on their faces.
The emerging view of Vancouver and a man about to climb on our roof. . .
So. . .I hadn’t seen Lumberjacks manhandling their logs, I hadn’t seen eagles in flight or a clear view to the coast but if this had been rebranded as a ‘twilight zone experience’ with grizzly bears, ‘world famous cloud’ and ‘actual human jeopardy’, then I couldn’t have been more satisfied!
Intermission
Just by way of an amusing interlude I thought you might like this, from Gas Town in downtown Vancouver (a steam punk’s delight) I give you the steam clock:
Shady Island
Shady island is a long thin strip of an island just at the mouth of the Fraser River, off the south Vancouver coast at a place called Steveston. It was an hour and a half to get to by bus but I was excited by the prospect of eating at the wonderfully named ‘shady island seafood bar and grill’. Which was, I imagined, frequented by mackintosh-clad trilby wearing slicks looking ‘shady-as’.
Steveston turned out to be utterly charming. It’s a small town with a busy fishing port, roughly 600 boats work out of the port of Steveston, making it actually the largest commercial fishing harbour in Canada. The salmon industry was once so big in Steveston that the town was also known as Salmonopolis (how great) because of all the canning factories in the area. These factories have since moved to bigger cheaper locations or disappeared entirely due to new refrigeration techniques. It is despairingly cheaper now to freeze the salmon and fly it to China to be canned than actually do the job locally. But the fishing continues and the busy little harbour has a fresh seaside feel with its old wooden board walk and abundance of fish and chips.
The quaint charm of Steveston
If the town looks familiar to you it might be because it is also the fictitious town of ‘Storybrooke’ from the ABC TV series ‘Once Upon a Time’. (No I had no idea either) (but some of you might) It is filmed here in Steveston. So there you go. I will have to seek it out when I return. However I could see why it would be used, it felt very ‘Cabot Cove’ like to me with all its clapper board houses, antique shops and cafes. I could just see Jessica Fletcher cycling past and although it is on the other side of the continent the film makers must have thought the same as ‘Storybrooke’ is supposed to be set in Maine U.S.A.
But I was here for a shady island and shady island seafood bar and grill! It’s actually called Steveston island but is known locally as ‘Shady’. I honestly can’t tell you why, no one had a conclusive answer, (which was a little shady in itself) but it seems the shade and protection of the trees/island is one answer. As recently as the 1920s the island was little more than a sand bar in the river but because of dredging, to help protect the waterfront and divert the river it was gradually built up by silt, damming and a long rock breakwater that runs along it’s length. It is now a piece of undeveloped natural land home to rare species of plants and many types of birds. Only accessible by low tide it can be hazardous though, tourists and locals have been caught stuck waist deep in the mud and there have been drownings so although it is used by some as a little escape for picnics I decided against wading out to see for myself!
The Shady, Shady Island stretching down the Fraser River
So Shady island found, I turned my attention to food. Well quite. I had been excited about eating in the Shady Island Bar and Grill since I discovered its existence online when I was preparing for my adventure. So you can imagine I was somewhat giddy with it. Well dear reader, all I can say is it was like ‘world famous Lumberjack show’ deja vu.
The very much closed for the day Shady Island Bar & Grill
I was actually crest fallen. What was going on Vancouver?! Did they know who I was? How far I’d come for an amusingly named cafe? A lumberjack? It wasn’t even a usual occurrence, apparently they were ‘usually’ open on Tuesdays but had clearly seen me coming.(The world revolves around me you understand?) Annnd there had been a seriously disappointing lack of shady characters or behaviour amongst the good people of Steveston. (Although I realised what with all my lingering about and taking photos of shut doors and closed cafes I was probably making up for the shadiness.) So with great hardship I had to eat at Pajos fish and chip stall which as you can see was just awful for me:
Really quite fabulously delicious fish n chips and another ‘world famous!’ Who knew?
Apart from the fish and chips cheering me up a bit (well yes, quite a lot then) I found my new ‘best bookshop ever’ in the delightful Steveston Village books and coffee house. Like stepping into . . .um, a book shop, but you see what I mean:
And in partaking of one of my favourite travel pass times, reading the local paper, I found something I had been looking for. Shady behaviour. It seems the Mounties are after the shadowy named ‘Dr Poltergeist’. Now not one to make light of criminal behaviour (no really) I was still rather taken with Dr Poltergeist. He has been breaking, entering and ‘meticulously moving objects and re-configuring them in a new location’ (shuffling things about).
He has only terrorised one address, so one can imagine it’s his version of cutting up his ex partners clothes, or selling their stuff on eBay so I kind of admire the effort he’s gone too (or hired someone to go to). Or maybe he was a disillusioned traveller who found the advertised lumberjack show wasn’t on and that the stupidly named cafe was randomly closed? Mmmmmmm it gave me an idea. Would Shady Island Bar and Grill notice the condiments were re-arranged, the forks in the spoons tray, the menus stacked upside down or the napkins folded left to right not right to left? Who knows??
But I know who the Mounties will suspect . . .
and it wouldn’t be me Dr Poltergeist . . . Mu-hah-harrrr (maniacal laugh)
‘The truth I do not stretch or shove, When I state that the dog is full of love’
Train to Vancouver take II
So once again I head off from Mountlake Terrace on the bus to Everett, to get my train to Vancouver (this time Vancouver BC). I arrive early, check my luggage and head to the cafe. The girl there recognises the strange English woman from the day before and suggests I get a loyalty card. I have to explain that, no, this will be the last time (this year, let’s hope) that I will be here and then explain the whole farcical – two Vancouver’s – story. To my astonishment (and delight) the cafe girl didn’t know there was another Vancouver in WA either? (and she works at the station!) Maybe I wasn’t such an idiot. The train arrives and all is well. It turns out that the journey hugs the coastline and goes through very dull unspectacular scenery. After all that effort, what a shame:
The beautiful majesty of the west coast up to Canada
Moody Park
You may be quite relieved to hear that on my arrival in Vancouver, my Air BnB host Hayden, had no elaborate welcome involving clinically insane friends or car accidents. (Let’s think of this week as a palette cleanser, a breather, or a short seaside break in respite care). But to make up for the lack of life-threatening-excitement I was thrilled to find my stupidly named place on my very first day in Canada.
The not-so Moody Park
My first visit to Moody Park was really just a passing-by-to-get-to-supermarket-glance, not so much a visit but a nod towards one. However it was only two blocks from Hayden’s flat so I ventured out again the following day, but this time I had company. Tia. Now Tia is Hayden’s dog and we got on so well at first meeting I was allowed to take her for walks. He got her as a puppy from the dogs home, not quite sure of her unique pedigree she is American Staffordshire terrier mixed with what must be greyhound or similar because her legs are so long now you could practically put a saddle on her and ride her round the flat. She is a supermodel of the dog world. All long legs and sideways glances. I wanted to film her putting on her harness as from experience of a certain border terrier I know called Dexter (who when presented with his harness goes into a frenzy of scurrying about like a demented Ewok) I couldn’t believe my eyes. Tia simply raises one leg at a time and steps in, like she’s popping on her stilettos. (But the challenge of holding the camera and harness and collar proved a bit tricky). However with my new dog friend we went to seek out the ‘moodiness’ of Moody Park.
The spring-green Moody Park
There was no moodiness that we could see. Possibly the mood here was a sort of smiley-happy-spring-day mood and made more so because apparently Kenny Rogers was here! We paparazzo-ed him. (Is clearly Kenny) (I think I could hear Islands in the stream playing on his iPhone too)
Kenny Rogers sharing denim-on-denim style tips with friend Willie Nelson
It seems Moody Park was named after a Colonel Moody who established New Westminster in 1863. (New Westminster is the area I was staying in and now a suburb of Vancouver city) The towns council declared a space ‘no less than 20 acres should be reserved in the suburbs as a legacy of public space for citizens and to commemorate the founder of the township’. Moody it seems was an important land owner and town planner who we may hear of again later.
So after a thorough investigation of Moody Park, Tia and I headed to the dog play area. Unlike our parks at home, here you are only allowed to let dogs off the lead in an enclosed area, tricky for the anti social pets but at least they are not going to run into the road. It would be fine. Wouldn’t it?
Tia the supermodel
Tia: ‘THROW THE BALL!!!!!’ . . . . . . And : ‘Don’t even think about touching the ball’
After playing nicely (sometimes) the playground started filling up with friends and new friends until it resembled a mixture of circus dog act gone wrong with backstage at ‘Crufts’.
Tia and pals Bob, Mollie, Colonel the terrier and everyone else!
It reminded me of the Hairy Maclary books by Lynley Dodd. (If you’ve never read them just find Hairy Maclary from Donaldson’s dairy, it’s great) With his dog pals like: Schnitzel Von Krumm with a very low tum, Blitzer Maloney all skinny and boney, Hercules Morse as big as a Horse and Hairy Maclary from Donaldson’s dairy.
One of the most hilarious for her pals is Bob who is possibly trying to challenge ‘Digby the biggest dog in the world’ for his title. Bob is a cross between a black Labrador and a Great Dane. He’s like a very cheerful pony. From a distance, when she’s walking him up to the park, his owner looks like she’s running the donkey rides at Blackpool beach.
Tia and I walked quite a few times down to not-at-all Moody Park. It was refreshing to do something normal, something day-to-day amongst all my crazy travel, I got to chat to other dog walkers and hang out like a regular Canadian. Albeit one that would say things like ‘oh lawdy, gosh I’m terribly sorry, she’s not my dog!’ ‘Is it your ball? Oh do excuse us!’ ‘could you glue it back together?’ ‘Oh it’s alright look, I can see the other part of your sandwich!’ whilst Tia would delicately step into a harness and we’d both flounce off.
Port Moody
Yes. Vancouver is quite a Moody place as it happens, so on another bright morning I found myself crossing town and heading for Port Moody. Maybe this time I would find frowns and huffs?
Moody Centre train station and Moody street
What I did find was the belly button of the Moodys, ‘Moody Centre’ train station. I didn’t even try to hide my chuckling this time, no, I stood quite happily laughing and most probably snorting and audibly saying things like ‘oh come on, oh how brilliant Moody central hahahaha’ etc… whilst taking pictures of signs on a train platform. (Yes it is a surprise I haven’t been arrested. Yet…)
But as I walked down Moody Street (we’ve all been there) and crossed the bridge into Rocky point park and Port Moody itself I was greeted with yet again, the polar opposite of what one imagines a Moody port to be. A wide expanse of lush green grass set against a rocky bay, rippling water crossing to pine clad forest with a backdrop of white peaked mountains and bright blue sky. Awful. And in the middle of this scene a large outdoor bandstand with orchestra playing to an audience of picnicking, dog walking, fresh faced Canadians enjoying the weekend while the Canadian flag waved jauntily in the breeze. It was almost sickeningly lovely.
Port bright & breezy Moody
And it just got worse, I was forced to buy some award winning fish ‘n’chips and sit on the bay with a ginger beer. The performances on the outdoor stage continued throughout the day. There were a collection of local school and youth orchestras playing, and as background noise very pleasant. However this group I loved for their perfect imperfections and joyous rompinous through various tunes. Here is the rousing 76 Trombones from ‘The Music Man’:
Port Moody was named after a certain ‘Colonel Richard Clement Moody’ of the royal engineers who with his regiment helped defend the area from the threat of American troops in the mid 1800s. (Yes. It’s the same Moody) In 1879 there was a new surge of interest in the port as it was declared the terminus of the Canadian Pacific Railway. The first transcontinental train arrived on July 4th 1886. Real estate prices soared, the area boomed until a branch line was built to Vancouver in 1887 and businesses moved with it to the real end-of-the-line and the port of Vancouver. So this is when perhaps Richard and pals got proper Moody. Many people lost a lot of money and the town was passed over for richer pickings. Yet that is probably what makes it so delightful today. It’s a quiet functioning little port, not too industrialised or built up but with enough civic pride to have a large outdoor performance stage in its most beautiful of parks. I liked Port Moody very much.
I could also see why it was a hit with our canine friends as the very popular ice cream shop has its own doggy sized entrance and dog friendly ice cream. This lucky black Labrador called ‘Hunter’ was being looked after by friends and in an obvious desperate attempt to gain his affection they were spoiling him with his own doggy cone. It totally worked.
The dog sized door that children could also use was very tempting but just as I felt myself giggling towards it I could suddenly see the headlines ‘English tourist gets stuck in doggy door’ ‘serious adventure for fat bottomed girl’ ‘Teacher can’t read height sign’ ‘Firemen scoop women out of ice cream blunder’ etc, etc, etc…
And anyway, I reminded myself, I needed all limbs in tact. I still had, after all, a shady island to find. . .
‘A house alone has little meaning, its the people who live there that give it character,’ John-Boy Walton
Now I don’t know if my American air BnB hosts were trying to ‘out-do’ each other in first impressions but it certainly felt like some shock-an-awe tactics were being employed. So forgive me dear reader, but once again I want you to imagine you have just flown in to another new city, made your way by train and bus until finally you drag your little case up a hill to your new home. Following instructions you find your way ‘round-the-back’ and begin fumbling away at the key lock unsuccessfully. Rather exhausted by now you check and double check the code given then begin to stab at the combination like a demented chimp until suddenly the back gate is flung open and Natalie Portman rushes forward enveloping you in a huge hug before deftly opening the lock like it was an early years toy. Continuing the all-American welcome she abandons an excited dog and daughter (hobbling in some ankle strap) to shove you in a car and drive you to the grocery store where you can get supplies. It seems Natalie Portman is, in fact, Argentinian by birth and as you chatter on, weaving our way round the supermarket car park there is suddenly a loud crrrrrruuunnchatchackchhh sound and the whole car is being pushed sideways. You panic, is it a clone attack, or Leon, or Thor?? No. A car is reversing straight into you.
None of us is harmed.
Natalie Portman (Marina) is shaking and the driver of the hatchback is getting out, he is sheet white. He is also about 12 years old and just in his socks. It turns out it’s Mum’s car, he’s just been in the games shop and is off to see the new Avengers movie. Marinas latin blood is now thundering round her tiny body whilst our hapless geek is trying every excuse to wriggle out of his blame. So you do what every self respecting teacher does and start to take charge, (in a gentle helpful way) (of course)! You hold onto car keys, insurance papers, tell the geek to put his shoes on and text his Mum and hug Marina (whether she likes it or not). You do however almost lose it with excitement when the Policeman arrives and it takes all your strength not to ask for a selfie and shout things like ‘book ‘im Danno!’
But after an eternity of grown up conversations with insurance people we eventually stumble in to the store, forgetting what we came for, but sweeping up bottles of wine and head home. I am of course feeling wretched as I was the reason for us being there in the first place but Marina is born generous and dismisses my worries. Joe greets us with laughter and comedic raised eyebrows. The rest of the evening is sublime, I unpack in my boutique-hotel worthy room (with four poster bed so high you have to take a running jump to get on) Joe sparks up the bbq and I regale Marina and daughter Zoe with woolly butt streets, disappointing mountains and my reason for staying, Useless Bay. We laugh a lot. The back yard is full of the signs of spring including (not a shanty town this time) an old air stream, a neighbour to the back is practising throwing meat cleavers at a wooden target, lily the dog is charging round our knees and Lucy the (big boned) black cat is watching me from a distance. Joe grins with amusement ‘Welcome to Mountlake!!’ He says with a glint in his eye. And I feel welcome indeed.
Seattle
The most shocking let down about Seattle was that ‘Frasier’ (one of my favourite American sitcoms) wasn’t filmed here. At all. Not even some outside scenes, so you can’t go and have a coffee at the same place as Niles, or hang out, outside the radio station. Nothing. Apparently the opening shots for Northern Exposure (where the moose walked down the street) were filmed nearby and Twin Peaks but no Frasier. I felt like writing a strongly worded letter to the Times! So the best I could do was take a ride on the famous monorail to see the Space Needle which creates that iconic skyline on the credits.
Now I wasn’t going to include this, but in retrospect it may be so awful that it’s funny. I laughed filming it and have to stop abruptly as I was bouncing so violently up and down with the motion of the rail. It is the truly uneventful view of the journey of the monorail. It’s a contemporary piece I like to call ‘the monorail journey’:
View from the monorail
The Space Needle from below
The Space needle is an observation tower that was built as part of a 74 acre sight for the 1962 Worlds Fair. The site is now called The Seattle Center, and is an arts, educational and tourism center in downtown Seattle. The center also includes the Chihuly Gallery and that, apart from pretending I was in an episode of Frasier, was why I was really here.
I first became aware of Dale Chihuly’s work after the exhibition in Kew Gardens some years ago and then when my mad friend Carol used it as inspiration for her art classes and had 10 year old boys blow torching old plastic bottles into weirdly melted organic creations. (Can you imagine how addicted to art you’d be if at primary school you had been allowed to blow torch anything?!) Chihuly a local Seattle artist began blowing glass in 1965, after much study and a masters degree in sculpture he travelled to Venice to work at the Venni factory on the isle of Murano. This was where he learnt new team approaches to blowing glass and after losing an eye in a car crash and a shoulder injury he became more a conductor/director in creating art. His work is exhibited internationally and at this permanent gallery in Seattle. Inspired by natural forms and indigenous craft his work is, well, it’s . . . ‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the Chihuly room. . .
‘Hold your breath, make a wish count to three. . .’
Come with me and you’ll be in a world of pure imagination . . .
This slideshow requires JavaScript.
‘Take a look and you’ll see . .’
If the gallery was like stepping into Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory the glasshouse and gardens were like being at Chelsea, Kew and Wisley all at once. I was enchanted. You can probably tell and immediately I wanted all my friends to see it too. What a splendiferous day out! (Of course I did spend a certain amount of time trying to take a selfie so it looked like I was wearing the greenhouse piece as an Ascot ladies-day fascinator) (wasnt a huge success, clearly wasn’t trying hard enough)
The glasshouse flowers at the Chihuly Gallery Seattle and my hat for the wedding
Point No point
Point no point is a lighthouse, (yes, I know, honestly I’m not making these things up). I only found out about it because it is opposite Useless Bay. (No really, they are both on the map) (yes a real map). I suppose the whole area is just one unique failure? Excited by its existence I wondered if I could bag a two-for-one on stupidly named places? Well, I think I should say gently at this point dear reader, don’t get too excited. It turned out I needed to get a bus, ferry and then hike three and a half hours to reach the lighthouse as there was no bus route on the island, that’s all fine of course until you have to get back home.
Now it’s here I feel I need to take a moment to praise the community bus services. When we were having our post-car-crash-supper Joe had said that the local bus drivers were very kind, he would let Levi (his son, I’d yet to meet) ride on his own and they would see he got to where he needed. Well Joe wasn’t wrong.
In a recent bus blunder (which turned into full blown lawd-lummy-I-think-I’m-on-the-wrong-bus-my-good-man!) I was told to sit down (before I fall down) and that I was on the right bus, just going in the wrong direction, but the driver explained he was just about to turn round. So he’d get me home. After a while the driver strikes up a conversation sort of yelling down the bus to me ‘so where are you from? I like your accent!’ I can’t hear him properly from my seat, and not really wanting to shout replies across other passengers heads, I go and stand at the front, and that is the start of a lengthy chat with my new best bus driver friend Glen. (Well he chatted, I did good listening, wobbling and hanging on to anything which would prevent me from going head first through the windscreen) Punctuated by passengers getting on and squeezing by me, most being addressed personally ‘Hey Greg, Alright Chad! Evening Susie how’s your Dad?’ He seems to know everyone, and at one point stops the bus randomly, opens the doors to a passing pedestrian hollers their name, jumps out of his seat gives them a full hey-come-here-hug ‘good to see you!’ I like Glen.
Now to say that Glen liked to chat is a perhaps something of a misguided understatement as by the end of my half hour ride home I knew that Glen was 51, adopted, that both his parents had now died, he had recently met his birth Mum, who was lovely (but liked a drink) he was a Leo, his father was a saggittarius, Glen was worried about his weight, was soon to visit Ireland starting in Dublin, had economy plus seats, his wife had a back problem, he liked wearing fishnets, his favourite Simpson was Marge, his signature dish was a peach Melba, Glen had English and Irish ancestors, Kim Kardashian tattooed on his eyelids and loved Benny Hill! (Well, some of those I might have remembered slightly inaccurately) We say our goodbyes and he shakes my hand as I get off the bus. I’m charmed.
Well a day or two later I was attempting the expedition to Point no point (or at least on reconnaissance) which began with getting the bus to the local seaside town of Edmonds. I get to the bus stop but the bus times aren’t the same as the ones I’d found online and at only one an hour I’m contemplating my hopeless circumstances when a bus drives up. Do I want the 119? The driver asks me. ‘I don’t know my good man, I’m trying to get to Edmonds’ I begin. He pauses to think then slowly and deliberately reels off the various ways I could perhaps get there ‘wellll, seems to me if you take the 120 then the 116 or the 130 to the ridge then the 244 past the Olsens farm, you should find Olsen out on his tractor, he’d be going to Edmonds or. . .’ He catches my lost, desperately keen to understand stare. ‘Hop on now, I won’t charge ya, I’ll get you to a stop that’ll get you there, just sit up front’ And so he does. And although not as verbally hilarious as Glen he starts a chat (mostly about the wedding and how he hopes Harry will be very happy) (most conversations include the royals) and then again he shakes my hand when I get off.
The only tricky thing is although I am indeed at a bus stop that goes to the Edmonds it isn’t for another 50 minutes, so my chances of getting to Point no point and back without being eaten by wolves is looking doubtful. But my spirits are soon lifted, firstly by the little port town itself which is a bit like a Richmond-by-sea, full of interesting little shops, art galleries and cafes and secondly when I see this sign outside the local cinema:
Avengers Infinity War . . .It is Shakespeare in Spandex. . . Genius
Edmonds port, shoreline, tulips and old Fire Engine
Useless Bay
First of all I must allay your fears, the tag line might be ‘WoollyButt street to Useless Bay’ but the adventure doesn’t end here dear reader. Oh no! There are at least seven more weeks of labour-some nonsense you are now (practically contractually) obliged to wade through before we end this jaunt together. However saying that, I am keenly aware that this visit is of some importance, the weight is on my shoulders. Point no point ended in no point. I cannot escape this one with a hurriedly scrawled sign on a torn corner of a receipt thrust amateurly in front of the lense.Oh no. I must find Uesless Bay. Practically the whole adventure relies on it.
It took two buses, one ferry ride, another bus and a long walk to get to Useless Bay from my home in Mountlake Terrace, north of Seattle. The area is known as ‘The Puget Sound’ (no not a weird pugnacious noise) (that’s just my snoring) a vast large sea which crosses between land or islands. A sound is bigger than a bay, wider than a fjord and definitely easier to find than an inside passage. The Puget Sound is part of the Salish Sea but also is used to refer to the whole region including cities like Seattle. So I had to jump on my favourite bus service (no sign of Glen sadly) for an hours trot up to the little Puget Sound port of Mukilteo.
The unfortunate scenery of Mukilteo and the Puget sound crossing to Whidbey Island
Useless Bay can be found on the island of Whidbey and I’d discovered that a bus on the island would get me near enough so I could hike there and back in this decade. The crossing was delightful and calm. The ferry carried a few cars, a cyclist, an older lady and me. Packed. Just packed. Awful views. It seemed that myself and the old lady (I say old, she had grey hair) (ancient) were getting the one bus. It either goes north bound or south bound, but at least it goes. We got on pulling out our dollars ready to pay when the driver started laughing slightly manically and staring at us like we’d just landed from a spaceship not the ferry. Then a lady (knitting ferociously) who was mysteriously already on the bus, started to laugh too. I began to hear the Twin Peaks theme in my head. This was odd. ‘It’s free! Laughed the driver ‘ only free bus in Puget Sound’ Mmm it was weird, but free, jolly good.
I thought I’d better tell the driver where I was headed so he could help me out but my ‘I’m trying to get to Useless Bay’ only fuelled more laughing. Then he managed ‘Are ya? well I can get you near’. I suddenly longed for Glen, he would have taken a diversion and driven me there, the knitting lady wouldn’t care she was apparently ‘just out for the ride’ going up and down the island on the free bus knitting. (Yes. I did a double take to see she wasn’t holding a log) But we soon headed off and after a little while (in which the knitting lady launched into a feminist tirade against the dictionary, state and everyone) we came to my stop. Or rather the bus just stopped on a main road in a forest. ‘ oh thanks’ I point to the road I think it might be down (according to the bible that is google maps) ‘it’s down there isn’t it?’ I offer, ‘well it could be, if that’s where you want to go’ the bus driver laughs again as the knitting lady manically clickerty clicks away watching me with hawk like eyes. I wonder if I should leave the old lady on her own with these two? But really I’m happy to be getting off, albeit in the middle of nowhere.
There is no sign at the top of the road which leads to Useless Bay, it’s remote, obviously no pavements and I start to wonder if this is really such a great idea. But my dampened spirits do not last long as I am swiftly rewarded with
Yes in the middle o nowhere there is a delightfully useless country club. I must be on the right track (literally) so after a good old chortle I continue on. It’s warm again, the road is long, the occasional car driving slowly past as I wobble on the grass verge. I remember my Dads advice, if there is no pavement walk against the direction of oncoming traffic so you can see and be seen (or stared at in this case). We spent most of our youth traipsing across the countryside, usually with other ramshackle 70’S kids in tow and this is exactly the sort of nowheresville Peter would lead us to. I imagined he was watching on with the utmost pride.
After following the side of the golf course for a while all my wishes were answered in the sudden appearance of a veritable gaggle of stupid place name signs (there might be a competition in this, what is the collective noun for amusing place name signs? An embarrassment of? A whimsy of? Answers on a postcard) It hardly matters I was in carry-on heaven.
Useless signs
It seemed that Useless Bay was a colony?! Members only? How useless did you have to be before you could apply I wondered? Could I continue my walk down Useless Avenue without being challenged on my Useless credentials? (Although I felt satisfied that I would be more than suitably qualified in that respect).
Useless Bay Avenue, or colony, or both, is essentially a long road down to the bay, straddled on each side by a Useless golf course and some rather smart clapper board houses, with large front porches and pretty hanging baskets. Yes it did have a bit of Wimbledon common about it, but with an eerie stepford-golf-carting-Twin-Peaks feel. (If you get me?!) Named by the United States Exploring expedition of 1841 ( also known as the Wilkes expedition after the commander Charles Wilkes). This was a huge survey of the Pacific ocean and surrounding lands including the oceans around America itself. They found the bay so shallow that it was almost dry at low tide and also offered no protection from prevailing winds, therefore ‘Useless Bay’ it was.
Useless Bay Golf Course on Useless Avenue
By now I was giddy with useless signage achievements and excited about seeing the bay itself so I wobbled on (now being stared at by useless golfers, useless drivers and twitchy curtain useless housewives) (it felt like the whole colony was silently assessing my presence) (or uselessness) (or both). My good mood however ended as abruptly as Useless Bay Avenue itself. Mmmm I was confused. Where was the path down to the sea front? Where was the sea front?
The end of Useless Bay Avenue
I consulted my google map. Oh. This was it. The private colony of Uselessness had succeeded in one respect, Useless Bay was on a private estate. So unless your useless house backed onto the beach there was no access, or at least none I could find easily. It was also getting hot and my thoughts were now wandering back up the road to find the bus to get to the ferry to get on the bus, off the bus and on another bus to get home. Should I really continue this Useless wandering or bank my useless signs and get out alive? I decided on the latter. We have a similar estate at home in Sussex in Middleton and Aldwick where there is no access to the beach for the grubby general public. So after a little walking in each direction and no luck I finally decided the whole thing was actually completely and utterly . . . useless.
Epilogue
I had spent a wonderful week with Marina, Joe and the family in Mountlake Terrace. The bed was so comfortable I hardly wanted to leave it but when I did I seemed to find adventure and friends everywhere even on public transport. Approved of by animals, children and adults alike I was sorry to leave. But press on I must, next stop being Vancouver and not only a new city but a new country!
Now I had booked a train from a town further up the Puget Sound called Everett, there was a straight bus there and then a three hour or so train journey into Canada. What could possibly go wrong? I was booked on the 9:53 am train to Vancouver. I got the bus, arrived at the station, checked in my luggage, had a coffee, wandered around and had time to pick my nose. I’d been in touch with Hayden my next host, told him when I expected to be in, I had five minutes before the train left and all was well. That was until some minescual thing in the back of my brain made me wander up to the schedule board. With two trains a day there was no scrolling arrivals or departures but just a small printed board in the corner. I started to read:
There were TWO VANCOUVERS?? TWO?
I wasn’t sure what BC or WA meant but I knew that I had already been to Seattle and I was pretty sure Canada wasn’t back there. It was north. Suddenly I was in some weird slow motion, close up film shot. Like in a thriller where the detective finally works out who the murderer was. My brain was clunking into gear. I was going the wrong way!
I hurriedly went to the Amtrak desk and started waving my ticket around slightly wildly ‘I’m going to Canada! I’m going to Vancouver Canada!’ The attendant glanced at my ticket. ‘Oh No you’re not’ she replied (It was like being in some perverse Panto sketch) ‘OH YES I AM!’ I blurted without irony. I had lost all sense of proportion at this point, I was as Private Fraser would say ‘doooooomed’. Of course, I wasn’t. I hadn’t got on the train for one. The lady got my bag back off the luggage trailer (wheelbarrow) ( it wasn’t a busy place) and began trying to book me another journey. I could go on a coach that would take eight hours and arrive at nearly midnight? Or I could go tomorrow morning? on the train to Vancouver BC.? Yes! ‘Yes-please-thank-you’ I said. And texted Marina.
My mount lake terrace family found this all of course hilarious. They luckily had no one booked so Marina just laughed away and said come back come back! And so I returned some what shamefully. But, of course sometimes, although it might not seem it at first, we are exactly where we should be. That evening everyone was home, Zoe, Levi, Joe, Marina, Lily the dog even Lucy hung around. I spent the evening playing.
Zoe explained to me and Levi the entire plot of Avengers infinity (Shakespeare in spandex) without spoiling the ending but with us all agreeing you could never trust Loki. We ate gummy snakes, seeing who could balance one on their upper lip (like a moustache) the longest, decided on our b-list super hero powers which included cling film man, played exploding cat card game, listened to Zoe play the death march on her violin, ate cheese toasties and noodles, chased the dog and ended the night playing throw and catch til it was too dark to see the ball. Joe laughed at me, well you wanted the Waltons! (I had, I’d said to him in the week it felt like Walton’s mountain)
And so I got my wish, one perfect night when we were all together, and I was no longer a stranger staying in the back room but part of the family. It wasn’t the boutique hotel room, the four poster bed, the house that made a difference that week but like John-boy said, it was the people that gave the house character, that made it home.
So goodnight Joe, goodnight Marina, goodnight Zoe, goodnight Levi, goodnight Lily, goodnight Lucy goodnight night everyone . . .
‘The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time,the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow Roman candles’ Jack Kerouac
On the road . . . Again
So after having quite enough of being squidged into an aeroplane seat made for a six year old, trapped with germ laddened strangers like veal, fed injection moulded ‘meals’ at three billion thousand feet up in a tin box on top of gallons of liquid paraffin (well, fuel) I decided to opt for a road trip from Los Angeles to San Francisco. Megabus was calling, at less than £20 for an 8 hour trip (including being able to book a top deck front row seat) no extra charge for my case and scheduled lunch stops it was, as the Americans would put it, a ‘no-brainer’.
And I Looooooovvvvveeed it! The real American freeway (or highway or thisway thatway) a rolling epic landscape right before my squashed-fly-windscreen-eyes. No one next to me, in fact no one else in front row seats at all, the seasoned student travellers behind me were all asleep as I marvelled over the sinister looking motels, and huge cattle farms. The drive was so smooth we arrived one hour fifteen minutes early. (!?!) It did mean however that I was running ahead of my expected E.T.A for my air bnb, but after a quick text and response saying ‘sure we’re here come over’, I headed for the East Bay.
Now I don’t know how they planned it, or could even reinact it if they tried but the wild maelstrom of sitcom activity that greeted me on arrival will probably stay with me forever. First of all try to imagine this, you have been dropped off by a taxi on a street you don’t know in a city you’ve never been to before. You check the address you’ve been given and walk up the front steps. The door is slightly open, (like it is in horror movies or cop shows) you gently knock. You can hear voices but there is no answer. You revert to awkward-Englishness and try again, then again, then you worry you might not be at the right place at all but have stumbled on Bates Motel. Too scared to enter and find a blodddied corpse on the rug you cautiously try the door knocker, nothing, so you push the door gently and in your best Margo Ledbetter call out ‘I say hello?!’ Still no one answers, but you have unleashed the dogs! As two crazed little fur balls appear barking like maniacs. Then to your surprise Steve Martin (albeit a more handsome, slightly John Cleese version) comes to the door and in the style of a Californian Basil Fawlty shakes your hand manically and gestures you inside. ‘Jane, Jane, come in come in, take a seat!’
The sight which greets you is a mix of every American sit com you’ve ever seen. The house is pure laid back artistic Californian living with random collections of art, pottery, vinyl and stacks of books almost purposefully strewn across the place like set dressing. Looking through the open plan rooms you can see an eccentrically built wooden shanty town in the backyard. There is much activity, possibly even hoovering going on somewhere, a bearded barefoot man wearing a baseball hat and clutching a large bag of linen is wandering past, a busy small beautiful grinning lady emerges, you start to introduce yourself, ‘Oh hi Diane, I’m …’ ‘oh no I’m Rosie’ is the beaming reply as she dashes off stage right.’Yes yes!’ (Steve Martin starts to introduce wildly) ‘oh yes this is Rosie and friend Patrick, sit down Jane, please take a seat, take a seat, TAKE A SEAT!’ Friend Patrick disappears stage left whilst the dogs continue to bark round your ankles. Then marvellously a slightly disheveled Meryl Streep appears from the vast kitchen at the back. ‘Oh hello Diane?’ You try again. This time you’re right as she greets you wiping back the stray golden locks of hair across her forehead ‘Oh Hi! Jane! Come in, take a seat, take a seat, TAKE A SEAT! Glass of wine?!’
After a few drinks, an ‘oh don’t worry if you hear a loud bang Jane, the bbq sometimes BOOM!!! . . . . explodes,’an explanation that the shed arrangement was built by their inventor son and also houses his professional metal workshop, a short lecture by friend Patrick on the continued pervasive power of the Crown and British Empire, and Rosie’s amazing cauliflower cheesey mash you realise you are totally and completely . . . at home. By the end of the evening I had explained my own silly pilgrimage (which was greeted with much laughter and enthusiasm) been given an A4 page of coffee shops, book shops and thrift stores to visit and found out Rosie’s surname was Mullarkey, which summed up the night perfectly; it was indeed a right Mullarkey.
Flower land my favourite local coffee haunt, (like a mini Petersham Nurseries)
Steve Martin is in fact Chris, and Meryl Streep – Diane, my air BnB hosts. Chris has ‘nonsense joke’ Tourette syndrome and can tell stories from the 1960s/70s that would make Hunter S Thompson proud and Lou Reed blush. Diane’s culinary skills, like my own, include opening packets of tortilla chips in one hand whilst holding a glass of wine in the other then inviting her friend round to cook (but her real super power is that she is a primary school teacher!) They are utterly fabulous. Apart from finding Nob Hill, Diane said I should wander round the local University town of Berkeley. And so I did.
The University of California, Berkeley
The University of California, Berkeley is a public research university founded in 1868, although not a member of the ‘Ivy League’ Berkeley is considered one of the finest universities in the United States. In the 1960’s it gained notoriety for student activism with the Free Speech Movement and opposition to the Vietnam War. After ‘People’s park’ protests in 1969 which led to conflict with the National Guard, the then Governor of California Ronald Reagan called the Berkeley campus ‘..a haven for communist sympathisers, protesters, and sex deviants’ oooooo! How exciting! I wondered what I might find there today?
Welllll what I did find was not quite that, but equally as enetertaining. Remember the scene in legally blonde where Elle Woods arrives at Harvard or in Pitch Perfect when the female protagonist joins the singing club? Well Berkeley, in all its studenty-American-kitschy-wonder had been kind enough to indulge me with its own enrolment fair just outside the Sather Gate. I could join the Jewish student centre, the debating society, Taiwanese association, the political review, I could save the world in various ways including contributing to the ‘succulent fundraiser’ for Cambodia, become part of the lesbian wheel chair basketball team and the Venezuelan cupcake juggling troupe. I could ‘De-stress with dogs’ (?!) and was invited to various performances from 16th century poetry to open mic:
However, by far the most pitch perfect of the lot were these boys, I’m afraid I was so excited I didn’t catch their group name but something Californian Uni choristers, Berkeley baritones, UCA sings, Go Bears! I was too awkwardly embarrassed to stand any closer but you can probably zoom in yourself. So a long way from civil unrest (although perhaps just as polarising) however dear reader, I give you the University of California Berkeley student of 2018:
San Francisco
If, like me, you grew up watching ‘The streets of San Francisco’ (with the young Michael Douglas and that man with the cauliflower nose) and were transfixed with Steve Mqueen roaring down the hill in Bullitt then you will understand the tingles of excitement I had arriving in down town San Fran. (If you haven’t seen that film, watch it now, it’s a great thriller, has an epic mustang car chase and coolest soundtrack) (watch it) (just saying).
Of course the most iconic site is probably the Golden Gate Bridge so after wandering around Fisherman’s wharf and imagining I was Rick Stein trying all the fabulous sea food and waxing lyrical about authentic taste of California (in reality I was just idiot grinning again and mumbling like a bag lady) I took a cruise around the bay.
Mmmmm. . .what should I have for lunch?
Maybe torture a sour dough teddy bear too. . .
The Golden Gate Bridge and a little slideshow of the Bay . . .
This slideshow requires JavaScript.
Of course the bridge is not the only iconic landmark in the bay, I had thought about visiting Alcatraz but there is something a little strange about a tourist attraction that was built on so much misery and crime so I decided a sail around it was enough. (What I really mean is I had no money left!)
Alcatraz Federal Penitentiary. . .The Rock
The United States Penitentiary on Alcatraz Island was a maximum high security federal prison which operated from 1934 to 1963. Apart from the prison building itself, the location of Alcatraz in the cold waters and strong currents of San Francisco Bay meant the authorities believed it to be escape-proof. The notorious gaol housed some of America’s most ruthless criminals including AlCapone, George ‘Machine Gun’ Kelly, Robert Franklin Stroud (the birdmanof Alcatraz) and the sinisterly named Alvin ‘creepy’ Karpis. Of course there were escape attempts, in all 36 men had tried. Of these, 23 were caught, six were shot and killed and two drowned. The remaining five went missing which included Clint Eastwood of course, who got away in the 1979 movie ‘Escape from Alcatraz’.
The eerie Alcatraz
Nob Hill
Of course my raison d’etre was not fashioning a life raft out of raincoats and escaping a federal penitentiary to direct and appear in two Oscar winning feature films. Oh no! I was here to bag the last nob of the tour, the historic Nob Hill. And this time there was no disappointment, it was nob-tastic.
The Nob Hill district with it’s Grace Cathedral
Nob Hill is a neighbourhood in SAN Francisco centred on the intersection of California street and Powell street and one of the city’s 44 hills. Originally called California Hill (after the street) it was renamed in the 19th century after becoming an exclusive enclave for the rich and famous. It had a central position and great views so the likes of the Central Pacific Railroads bosses and Leland Stanford, (founder of Stanford University) built mansions there. So after a while it began to be referred to as ‘Nabob hill’ (nabob is an Anglo-Indian term for a conspicuously wealthy man) this was then eventually shortened to Nob (also disparaging British slang for nobility) and so Nob Hill was born.
The neighbourhood was destroyed in the earthquake of 1906 so only a few of the original mansion walls survive. The mansion owners rebuilt further west in Pacific Heights but the area was able to maintain its affluence with swanky hotels built on the ruins of the former mansions. Now it is a rather cool, hipster area, with organic food markets, coffee shops and expensive hotels. It is apparently now derisively referred to as ‘Snob Hill’ as its home to many of the cities upper class families. It would be fantastic to think that in a hundred years time it might even have morphed again and actually be called ‘Snob Hill’. However not snobby enough to be above its own coin operated laundry still. How retro!
Nob Hill Cafe turned out to be so above itself it was actually a restaurant that opened at 12:00 am. Nob Hill Place Market was basically a small Waitrose. The huge gothic Grace Cathedral is stunning, all in all I felt very at home! Wimbledon village and Richmond upon Thames eat your heart out! But the best thing about Nob Hill is how you can get there. The other iconic image of San Francisco, the tram! There is still a couple of vintage tram lines running and though they get clogged up with tourists in the afternoon if you want to get to and from Nob Hill early morning it will be you and an old lady from Chinatown. I even got to hail a tram on a street corner and hop on, it took all my self control to not just burst out singing ‘clang clang went the trolley, ding ding ding went the bell!’ But I wasn’t sure the conductor was ready for my very best Judy Garland, not before lunch anyhow.
Epilogue
My week in East Bay was waaaaay too short. Apart from throwing every cliched American situation comedy character they could at me, I was also treated with an all American Yard sale. Not of course Chris and Diane’s yard sale, that would be way too straight forward, no, they were lending their yard (or front lawn) to an old friend and neighbour of twenty years: Heather, who has recently moved away and for reasons I could not glean could not Yard sale at home. (Although looking at the quality of general tat she’d unearthed to sell I wasn’t sure wether it was just she’d be too embarrassed to openly display these in her shiny new neighbourhood?!) (of course fine to do so at Diane’s)!
The yard sale was maybe more ‘all Californian’ than ‘all American’ in this case, partly because marijuana was made legal in the state quite recently so now all the old hippies can be even more relaxed about the whole thing. This included Heather’s ‘new boyfriend’ (an anthropologist who lives out of his car) who openly smoked dope whilst trying to help sell stuff and challenged me, in all seriousness, on the validity of my suggestion that I might have seen a horny devil lizard (horny backed toad) in Australia. He was an expert. Very much an expert. I was confused as I assumed we were just having a polite conversation about horny toady lizards, (which I’ve met a few of, I can tell you, but by this point did not think he’d appreciate the joke). It was one of the finest awkward moments I’ve had, so I thank him for that, and of course am grateful for my new knowledge on the geographical habitats, breeding rights and legalities of shipment of the American horny little wotsit.
For my last evening in Albany my new sitcom pals had devised a sequel to my first night by arranging for Rosie and friend Patrick to join us again for dinner. To say the evening deteriorated into pant wetting hysterics is absolutely an understatement. I’m pretty sure at one point Rosie didn’t breathe in at all, as her Muttly laugh had just become one sustained ten minute wheeze. Most of the hilarity was due to Friend Patrick’s manner of conversation and story-telling, to say it is ponderous and deliberate is to suggest it has at least a sense of pace. When he covered his meal with a napkin to save it for later, leaned back, raised his hands in the air as if conducting an orchestra and for the fortieth time said ‘no, so here’s the deal.’ I thought it might be kinder just to have Diane put down.
I’m not sure I believe in coincidence so I am truly grateful I was brought to this place, at this time, to meet these wonderful people. People who yes, are mad. Mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be alive. Who never yawned or said a common place thing. But burned burned burned like fabulous yellow Roman candles!
Very serious adventures.com 