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Friends

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Photo by Andy Dawson ReidA couple of weekends ago we were fortunate enough to be invited by splendid friends of ours to dine with them at The Union Club in Victoria.

Those native to Victoria will – of course – know of The Union Club. It is – as their website describes it:

A landmark institution in the heart of downtown Victoria, with an imposing neo-Georgian design inspired by the classic clubs of London.”

The club’s position adjacent to The Empress hotel facing the Inner Harbour is a prime location and – as you can see from the photo galleries that grace the club’s website – the building and facilities do not let it down. Those who know The Girl and I will not be the slightest bit surprised that the whole ambience appeals to us enormously.

Much as I have cast envious glances in its direction many times, however, I have always felt somewhat guilty about my attraction to the place. The whole institution feels somehow redolent of privilege and entitlement, which sits rather uncomfortably with my left of centre inclinations. Friends and acquaintances will scoff at these sudden scruples, pointing out that I worked at several extremely ‘posh’ boys schools in the UK and lived in a Georgian Manor (part-of anyway).

I suppose that a component of this ambivalence comes down to the belief that to belong to such an organisation requires contacts in the right places and a fair bit of cash. Except that it doesn’t! Union Club membership is surprisingly good value, the restaurant is by no means expensive and staying in the club’s most pleasant rooms is considerably cheaper than doing so at The Empress next door. Membership of the club also rewards one with significant benefits such as attractive rates at affiliate clubs in other countries – such as the RAC in London, or Stoke Park in our old stamping ground in Buckinghamshire.

Not that I am thinking about applying for membership…

…well – maybe not anytime soon! Hmmm!

Still – it was a very good dinner and a splendid evening with our dear friends. After dinner they gave us a tour of the club and it’s facilities. We were heartily impressed…

…as you may have gathered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A grateful thanks – say I!

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“Old wood best to burn, old wine to drink, old friends to trust, and old authors to read.”

Athenaeus

This old friend was given to me by another old friend almost twenty years ago.

The shirt is from Venice Beach in California and features Kokopelli – of whom Wikipedia informs us:

Kokopelli is a fertility deity, usually depicted as a humpbacked flute player (often with feathers or antenna-like protrusions on his head), who has been venerated by some Native American cultures in the Southwestern United States. Like most fertility deities, Kokopelli presides over both childbirth and agriculture. He is also a trickster god and represents the spirit of music.”

You can probably see why he appeals to me.

This much-loved garment has been in my care for a long time – first as a frequently worn fashionable item – then as slobbing-around-the-house attire – subsequently (once we had acquired a yard) as a gardening shirt – and then finally as a painter’s protector (throughout our recent renovations) and general handyman’s outfit for use when maintaining the boat or replacing the brakes and bearings on her trailer.

As a result – and as you can see – this dear companion may well be nearing the end of the line. I am nervous about offering it even once more to the washing machine, for fear that it might disintegrate completely therein. Perhaps it has one more role to play in the garage rag basket!

Now twenty years is a pretty good run for a t-shirt and this one has been particularly loyal – which I appreciate. As a Scot I naturally expect my clothes (and indeed my other possessions) to last as long as possible, but even I can have no complaints in this case.

I believe that it would be most appropriate to end this post with a toast to friendship!

“There are good ships,
and there are wood ships,
The ships that sail the sea.
But the best ships, are friendships,
And may they always be.”

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Image from PXHere“There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired.”

F. Scott Fitzgerald

When I put the boat in the water at the start of July I toyed with the notion of keeping her there for two months instead of one. It would have been nice to have been able to take her out at a moment’s notice throughout the whole of summer.

Wisely (as it turned out) I deferred making the decision regarding a second month until near the end of July. My concern was that August might turn out to be a sufficiently frantic month that getting away to sit contemplatively upon the waters could turn out to be merely a pipe-dream – and the good ship ‘Dignity’ might simply bob about, sadly neglected, in her slip in Portside Marina for a month.

My fears proved to have been well grounded – with August slowly building up a powerful head of steam as it unfolded.

The latter part of the month is these days (as previously reported) given over to the Victoria Fringe. The Girl and I will have seen half a dozen shows by the end of the festival (upon which I will report in a subsequent post) but in my Intrepid Theatre BoD ‘Fringe Ambassador’ role I will have ‘schmoozed the queues’ for a dozen shows, spent an evening selling 50/50 raffle tickets at the ‘Fringe Preview‘ night and given a Saturday afternoon over to manning the Cardboard Castle at the ‘Fringe Kids‘ event.

I also have another term contract for post-secondary IT Literacy teaching for the fall term. This term starts in the first week in September, so preparation – including a fair round of meetings, INSET sessions and lengthy email exchanges – has been underway for a while now.

Finally – we are helping a dear friend move into a new house – in addition to hosting (this coming weekend) a birthday BBQ for her, since she is not really in a position to do so herself at the moment. To do this is, of course, both a privilege and a pleasure, but it does entail trying to knock the garden back into some sort of shape at just the time of year that it has decided that it can now relax, kick back and chill a bit.

This being retired lark is a total picnic!

 

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After a considerable period during which the summer attempted in only a somewhat lacklustre fashion to get properly started… now, suddenly, here it is! Temperatures kicked up by six or seven degrees Celsius almost overnight and the sun is now truly hot.

Nice!

We entertained friends on Saturday evening last and it was the first occasion this year on which we were able comfortably to sit out late on our now year-old deck. Indeed, ’twas so balmy that we stayed out ’til midnight or thereabouts, clad only in t-shirts, shorts and summer dresses (as appropriate to our genders and inclinations!). A splendid evening was had by all even if we were too busy chewing the fat to venture onto the freshly mowed croquet lawn. Oh well – plenty more opportunities now that summer is truly here.

On the Sunday – and only a little worse for wear – I was on Intrepid Theatre board duty. As part of its outreach program the company mans a feature at a number of Victoria public events. On this occasion it was ‘Car Free Day’, for which one of the city’s main thoroughfares – Douglas Street – is closed to vehicular traffic and given over to all manner of stalls and amusements. Next month it will be ‘Pride’ and then in August ‘Fringe Kids’ as part of the Victoria Fringe Festival.

For these events the company creates a 65 sq metre ‘Cardboard Castle’ for youngsters to paint. Those eager to express themselves are given an oversized t-shirt to cover their own clothes, a small container of poster paint in a colour of their choice and a brush, before being set loose inside the castle to cover its walls in any manner that they choose.

They may, of course, return at any point to top up with further colours and some spend a considerable amount of time creating their own masterpieces… either that or just painting each other! Either seems to work and the attraction is hugely popular, not least with parents who can come to rest for a while knowing that their offspring are safely pre-occupied within.

Golly… we are nearly at the solstice already! Now, how did that happen?

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“It is not your paintings I like, it is your painting.”

Albert Camus

Ho, ho! Little painting related joke there… which is most apposite because much of our time at present is spent with paintbrush and roller in hand – or failing that with filler and sanding block.

The main floor of our lovely home comprises a living room, a dining room area, a kitchen, master and guest bedrooms, two bathrooms, a laundry, several hallways and four sizeable built-in closets… All of which must be painted before our renovation is complete.

As painters we are most fortunate that our dry-waller – who gave us splendid new non-popcorn ceilings – also painted them as he went. Further, our excellent contractor budgeted for his painter to handle the woodwork – baseboards (skirting) and trim. Indeed, he would have done the lot were it not that I felt guilty about our playing no role at all in the proceedings (other than in the financial sense).

So here we are – with several thousand square feet of wall to be prepped (filled, sanded and cleaned), primed as required and given two coats of decent quality eggshell (or pearl for the bathrooms).

In this enterprise we are even luckier to have a dear friend who not only operates a sideline in interior decorating but is quite the most ferociously perfectionist craftswoman I have encountered. When it comes to the laborious, time consuming and delicate operation of cutting in it is my view that she has no equal. Furthermore she seems actually to relish the challenge, leaving to the ‘oily rags’ like me the prosaic duty of wielding the roller – a low-order task if ever there be one!

Even luckier (for us!) she is gifting us her time and expertise – and extensively so – on a quid pro quo basis. There can be no doubt at all as to who is getting the better part of this particular deal.

We are truly blessed!

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Giving thanks

Growing up in the UK and paying little attention to matters beyond the confines of those verdant isles, my only vague understanding of the North American tradition of Thanksgiving came from the sort of cultural osmosis that arose from the post-war mid-Atlantic homogenisation of the entertainment industry. Even then I had no idea what it really signified and indeed thought little enough at all about it, except to wonder why on earth the Americans had instigated another turkey-based festival so close to Christmas.

I most likely assumed that the celebration had something to do with the secession of the US from its former colonial state, or was perhaps somehow related to the civil war. Either way I figured that it had little to do with us Brits and that given our long and (in)glorious history we probably didn’t feel the need to hold any special festival because we were permanently thankful for who we were.

The gentle reader will be unsurprised to hear that I received a rapid education in such matters when the Kickass Canada Girl and I moved in together. I learned that the Canadian and US Thanksgivings were different things and that they take place almost a month apart. As in so many areas the Canadian variant comes first! Whilst yet in the UK we celebrated the festival on a number of occasions with a gathering of Canadian expats and most enjoyable it was too.

What I still had not gleaned (a fact I can only blame on the sad decline of brain activity that comes with age) was that there is after all a correspondence between Thanksgiving and a UK feast day. I refer, of course, to that excellent pagan celebration – Harvest Festival. Doh! In my defence I would point out that Harvest Festival is not a public holiday in the UK, being traditionally celebrated on the nearest Sunday to the Harvest Moon. I was also misled by the lateness in the year of the American version – way after the harvest has been safely gathered in. Nonetheless, now that I have been enlightened it all makes perfect sense.

The long and the short of this inconsequential musing is that we celebrated Canadian Thanksgiving last weekend with our dear friends from Saanichton and were treated to a truly magnificent feast. A good time was had by all and the harvest was well and truly lauded.

Hoorah!

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Given that the friends who visited recently from the UK (see previous post) had a mere four full days to spend in the provincial capital it was essential that we mapped out their agenda with particular care. Wishing to meet (and hopefully to exceed) their expectations we offered them a rich palette of options and put the choice in their hands.

For the Saturday they chose a day trip to Saltspring Island – and in particular to the Saturday market in Ganges. It would have been lovely to have cruised to Saltspring under our own power in ‘Dignity’, but a blazingly hot Saturday on the September long weekend is a bad time to fight with the queues both at the Sidney boat launch and at the public docks in Ganges, so we chickened out and took the ferry to Fulford instead.

A stall holder at the market – with whom, as is our nature, we engaged in conversation – swore that the crowd was scarcely half what it had been but a few weeks previously. Goodness knows what all of the other souls could possible have been doing – the place looked to be completely packed to us… and did I mention that it was blazingly hot?

It mattered not, of course, as we all had a splendid time, a very passable lunch and then returned home tired but contented.

The taking of photographs in the melee of the market, however, would definitely have been inadvisable, so I contented myself instead with assembling the odd assortment of images that you see represented below…

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 Reid

 

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What is there more kindly than the feeling between host and guest?

Aeschylus

As revealed in my last post to these pages my efforts at the Victoria Fringe Festival on behalf of Intrepid Theatre had to be brought to a premature conclusion with five days of the festival still to run. The reason for this unfortunate abrogation of my responsibilities was a previous engagement welcoming to British Columbia our second set of visitors from the UK this year.

Our most welcome guests were themselves only to be with us for five days; scarce time to see all that they desired on their first visit to Canada (let alone to Victoria) and only just enough time to catch up fully with dear friends that we have not seen for over two years. Nonetheless – we had a good stab at covering as much ground as possible and I kept the trusty Fuji x10 to hand to document our various excursions.

Our guests are great gardeners and horticulturalists and an extended visit to the Butchart Gardens was thus near the top of the list of things not to be missed. The recommended agenda of a daytime visit followed by a bit of a break and then a return to catch the gardens under illumination during the evening was adopted; the Kickass Canada Girl and I accompanying our guests for the latter…

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 Reid

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For the past twelve days the Georgia Strait and surrounding areas have been enveloped in a miasma of smoke from the wildfires (to which I made reference in this earlier post) which are still ablaze in the BC interior. The image at the head of this missive (and at the top of my last post) give an idea of the impact that this effluvium has had.

There have been mornings on which my customary first gaze out of the windows has given the rapid impression of a seriously hazy day, only for the realisation to dawn that the layer of vapour was not the result of any early morning micro-climatic condition, but rather a dense layer of smog lying immovably atop the sea.

The more northerly view from our deck normally reveals Moresby Island, with the higher Pender Island pair behind. On a clear day we can see further – all the way to the mountains behind the Sunshine Coast north of Vancouver. The more southerly view stretches out across Sidney Island to the American San Juan islands beyond – and then all the way to distant Mount Baker.

For the last several weeks it has been just about possible to make out Sidney Island, but even Moresby has occasionally disappeared into the murk, leaving only the Little Group visible in the immediate foreground.

It really has all been quite depressing.

The reason that this cloud of noxious fumes has hung low over the sea (and of course over Greater Vancouver and beyond) for so long is that a ridge of high pressure became wedged over the BC coast – depriving the region of the usual cleansing zephyrs that should have dissipated the pollutant.

Finally, yesterday (Saturday), the weather system began once again slowly to move, the winds changed direction and – as if by magic – the banks of smoke dissolved, leaving ‘not a rack behind’. The sun renewed its efforts and Mount Baker became once again illuminated by the late afternoon glow.

Then, as an evening of croquet and good cheer in the garden with our dear friends from Saanichton entered its twilight phase, the first rains for nearly two months began gently to fall.

Today the world (this part of it at least) is a different place!

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