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2019

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

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

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

Here be photos:

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

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…surprised me on my arrival back in the UK for the first time since leaving the country for British Columbia nearly four years ago…

The first was that on landing, coming through customs and leaving the airport I had the strangest sensation that I was entering a foreign country. I can’t quite put my finger on what it was that made it feel that way, but it undoubtedly did so.

Now – a day and a half later – the feeling has diminished somewhat but I still find myself experiencing the sensation of being a little disconnected from everything I see about me.

The second oddity is quite the opposite. I had been rather concerned that, having driven only in Canada for the past four years, I would find it difficult to deal with a right hand drive car on the ‘wrong’ side of the road. This would have been made worse by the fact that I had hired a manual (stick) vehicle as opposed to the automatics that I have been driving for the past four years. That I had immediately to set out on that bear-pit of a road – the M25 ( the London orbital motorway) did not help at all.

In the event – and for reasons I need not go into here – the vehicle was upgraded to a better model, one with a hybrid transmission (to all intents and purposes an automatic).

Further – and to my surprise – it felt as though I had never been away and driving on the left felt entirely natural. In the last couple of days I have driven into London twice but not yet felt out of my depth once. Fingers crossed (and wood touched) that this state of affairs continues.

The visit is already massively busy – but at the same time really rather lovely (with the sorry exception of badly missing The Girl!) and everyone is being most kind and massively generous.

My heartfelt gratitude to all…

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Photo by The Lazy Artist Gallery from Pexels“Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.”

Jack Kerouac

The Kickass Canada Girl and I have been most fortunate in that during our time together (not far short of a decade and a half now) we have been able to travel both widely and well. We might not have ventured to quite such far-off and exotic places as have other friends of ours, but we have derived nonetheless a great deal of pleasure – joy even – from our joint excursions.

It probably goes without saying that foremost amongst those trips were our Atlantic crossings to Canada. We visited in 2006 (my introduction to both the country and to British Columbia) and 2008. We were back in the summer of 2010 to get married (whoopee!) and again in the spring of 2011 for less happy reasons. Those who have followed this blog throughout will recall that The Girl came to Victoria early in 2012 for a job. In the ten months that she was here and I was still in England we both traversed the ocean several times to see each other before her return to the UK in the November of that year.

Finally we visited at Christmas time in 2013 with the additional pleasure of celebrating my sixtieth birthday at the Wickanninish Inn on Chesterman Beach outside Tofino.

I say ‘finally’, but of course our real final crossing – to date – was in July of 2015 when we moved with all of our goods and chattels from the UK to Vancouver Island.

In the nearly four years since that momentous event we have not ventured in the direction of the United Kingdom or Europe… until now! (For those who have not been following these scribblings – I leave for the UK in two days time).

A dear friend here in BC asked me the other day how I felt about going back to the country of my birth. I told him the truth: I am really not at all sure how I feel about it. I am certainly looking forward to seeing family, friends and acquaintances and it will be good to visit some of the old haunts again. Beyond that I currently feel somewhat ambivalent – a feeling most likely re-enforced by the current political chaos there. I will just have to be prepared for any eventuality and I will – of course – document the experience in full in this journal.

Even more pertinently, perhaps, the friend asked me how I thought I would feel when – after nearly a month away – I returned to Victoria in June. I told him what I expected to feel. We will just have to wait to see how accurate is that expectation.

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A downside of disappearing to the UK (and to elsewhere in Europe) in the middle of springtime is – of course – that one’s little acreage here on Vancouver Island is still only just getting into its stride when it comes to the Glories of the Garden. We will vanish across the ocean and by the time we get back some of these beautiful shrubs and flowers will have been and gone for another year.

As least I got to take pictures of these ones:

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidThough not – of course – the (non-fruiting) cherry tree!

Photo by Andy Dawson Reid

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

Bill Nighy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is – however – ‘suitably’ splendid!

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Photo by Andy Dawson Reid …more Canadian – or what?!

OK – now I know in reality that the mere acquisition of power tools is no signifier of national characteristics, but I think I can safely say that – had we remained in the UK instead of crossing an ocean and a continent to come to this delightful spot – I probably would not now be the proud part-owner of a gas (petrol) power washer.

I can further safely say that the thought of (part) owning such a thing would never have crossed my mind. Nor – in all probability – would I have known what to do with such a beast.

Out here on the wild west coast, however, there is apparently sufficient use for such a thing (for cleaning one’s deck – getting the crud off one’s patio and pavers – cleaning the stucco or sidings with which one’s house is most likely clad) that it is worth forming a partnership (in our case with a dear friend from Saanichton also in possession of deck, pavers, stucco etc) to jointly invest in same.

And of course, if one is going to do such a thing it makes no sense at all to go with a namby-pambly, wussy electric version (for pussies only!). No – the only real option is to go for the all-Canadian, hard as nails, tough as you like gas model – preferably with a Honda power unit (like the one here!). I have to say, it made short work of cleaning two year’s worth of gunk off our deck.

Though we and our dear friend will be taking turns at having fun with it, for the moment the machine is sitting in our shop alongside our gas mower, our gas weed-whacker (strimmer!) and our unfortunately girly electric leaf blower (ooops!).

Oh well – there’s always next year!

 

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Following on from my last post – which featured some beautiful photographs of this beautiful part of the world by a most welcome guest contributor – here is the promised second batch. For many of these images photos of natural sources have been used as the basis for further creative expression. It is easy to see why this part of the planet draws to it artists of all persuasions from far and wide.

Many thanks once again to The Chanteuse.

Image by Siobhan MonaghanImage by Siobhan MonaghanImage by Siobhan MonaghanImage by Siobhan MonaghanImage by Siobhan MonaghanImage by Siobhan Monaghan

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This online journal has once before featured a guest poster (none other than the Kickass Canada Girl herself) but now – in another first – it offers a collection of images of this west coast paradise kindly donated to the cause by one who shall (temporarily at least) go by the soubriquet – The Chanteuse! In the perhaps unlikely event that gentle readers have not yet been persuaded of the many beauties of this part of the world –  contemplate this two part series and become so!

As ever, double-click for the full effect:

Image by Siobhan MonaghanImage by Siobhan MonaghanImage by Siobhan MonaghanImage by Siobhan MonaghanImage by Siobhan MonaghanImage by Siobhan Monaghan

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Tree fellers

Paddy and Mick are out walking on a logging road in the depths of British Columbia. They see a sign nailed to a big Douglas Fir. It reads:

‘Tree Fellers Wanted’

“Ah!”, says Mick – “‘Tis a pity that Seamus isn’t with us. We could have gone for that job!”

I’ll probably get into trouble for that! Oh well…!

We have had the tree fellers in and they have been felling a tree (and lopping some branches). The tree was a little cherry tree at the back of our (croquet) lawn. It didn’t fruit but it did blossom gloriously each spring for all of a couple of days. The main problem can be seen in this photo of the view from our new deck:

That picture was taken at about this time of year two years ago. The tree had grown considerably in the interim and was seriously impacting our view toward Mount Baker.

As can be seen from this comparable shot – taken just this morning – we also had the experts nip out a few of the lower branches from one of those big Doug Firs:

The next step is to persuade our neighbours down the hill to trim back the cedars at the back of their garden, to give our lovely vista another couple of years of unimpeded viewing pleasure.

Since virtually every house in our neighbourhood has views that are not dissimilar to ours this sort of negotiation is quite common. One usually offers to pay the costs and since it makes little difference to the residence further down the slope, those concerned tend to be co-operative.

Let’s hope we also get lucky!

 

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Image from PixabayThe transitory nature of human existence is a familiar enough concept in all of its many guises (as a metaphysical notion – as a motivation to live a better life – as an unwanted burden – as a drive to spirituality) that we are all – in one way or another – already well versed in its contemplation and consideration.

Though we may tend in later years to an unexpected and (for some) unwelcome conservatism we more or less accept that all things must change – that decay and decline are inevitable – that entropy is the norm and that the steady churn of the seasons inevitably involves death and loss, if only so that things might be reborn once again come springtime.

Most of us wish, to be sure, to be able to get through our lives with the bare minimum of grieving (certainly of the kind that should just never happen, such as parents burying their children) whilst at the same time rather admiring the fact that we have acquired such an effective mechanism for ensuring survival and sustainability. If we were dishonest enough with ourselves to take any credit for this evolutionary strategy we might even feel rather smug about it. Though the shocks that accompany such major life events are always unwelcome (even should such a loss be anticipated) we, are at the end of the day, quite accomplished at dealing therewith.

There are – however – some occurrences of destruction, disaster and loss that render us speechless; a shock to the system that is felt almost viscerally. Such was the feeling I had the other day at the spectacle of the Notre Dame burning in Paris; watching the steeple come cascading down in a torrent of fire. Was this – the destruction of something that we had all unthinkingly believed to be eternal, permanent – not shock enough to shake our firmly held convictions to the core. I found myself unable to think clearly for some time.

A day later we can finally stop holding our breath with the news that it looks as though the structure of the cathedral itself is largely intact, protected in the greater part by the vault itself and, of course, by the heroic efforts of the Parisian Sapeurs/Pompiers. Had the wooden structures in the west towers – those that carry the enormous bells – caught light the story might have ended differently.

We know – not just from the pronouncements of Monsieur Macron – but also from past experiences at York Minster, Windsor Castle and Hampton Court Palace that the Notre Dame will be rebuilt. One might question the dedication of the requisite vast sums of money to such a cause; I for one would make the case in favour thereof…

…but that should in any case wait until another day.

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