Scargazing

It was innocence from a distance. An innocuous pot of oil on a freestanding burner waiting for its next assignment; a twenty pound turkey. Up closer it revealed its true nature, a malicious churning pot of pain waiting for someone foolish to come close. But those who knew it, knew its nature and it was caged behind a chainlink fence, denied visitors and isolated for the good of society.

Mike loves his family. He also loves smalltown life and his home in Sechelt is the perfect balance of closeness to the Sibs in Vancouver and isolation from Vancouver’s big city nastiness. Mike also loves to celebrate and being from a large family and living on a large property with more than enough room for tents and trailers, meant that a few phone calls would mean a large celebration. The August long weekend was chosen, the calls made and the menu set.

It was decided that each of the individual families that attended, led by one of the sibs, would be responsible for one meal. Mike chose Saturday night’s supper, John chose Sunday morning breakfast. Neither one happened. What happened instead was a family doing what it does best; pulling together in a time of crisis, supporting one another as best they could.

John arrived late on the Friday with his family and quickly settled into the family warmth. Bevvies flowed, stories were told and beds staked out. The morning after was similar to the night before so after a respectful nod to respectabilty (after the breakfast dishes were cleared away), the first beer of the day was cracked open.

With his feet up, John looked down the legs of his 52 year old body and reflected aloud to no-one in particular on how he’d achieved the various imperfections to his skin. John loved to tell stories and scargazing was an excellent source. “And those marks there”, he said pointing at three tiny lines on his left foot, “I got stepping over some coral in the Red Sea. I made it redder. They say sharks can...”

The weather was warm, bocce and volleyball stoked the appetites and soon Pave was laying out her lunchly duty. It was a perfect afternoon moving at a perfect pace.

Around four Mike started setting up for the turkey deep fry. He filled a pot with 20 liters of oil and placed it on a freestanding burner in a fenced area near the house. Near the house turned out to be a bit of a problem. The burner was attached to a propane tank and soon the thermometer said the oil was ready to go to work. Somewhere around 400 degrees. And Mike brought out the first of two turkeys.

Now, a twenty pound turkey will cook in about an hour in a vat of oil and leave it yummy crispy on the outside and juicy delicious on the inside. Given the numbers, Mike felt two turkeys were needed and the first entered the oil with little fanfare. It quietly slipped into the oil suspended on a rack as Mike held a hook in his glove-enclosed hand. There was perhaps a little extra oil in the pot so it was near the top when the bird was fully submerged but safe enough under current conditions. Mike did the math, proclaimed it would be ready in exactly one hour and cracked a beer.

About 45 minutes later , Mike’s sisters are saying “Smells like she’s done, Mike.”
“Nah, 15 more minutes”
“Hmmm”

The bird comes out 15 minutes later and is blacker
than coal. Those few who had a taste of it later said that deep within the remnants of that bird were the juicy delicious bits the whole bird had been destined for. So the bird was smaller or the oil was hotter than previous thought but “no matter”, thought Mike, “bits will be edible, let’s let ‘er cool and get this second one going”. And while he’s thinking that, John’s thinking, “that was cool. I want to try that”. Thus far John’s training consisted of drinking beer and watching Mike do it. But it looked easy enough and had a hint of danger to make it exciting.

Leather gloves were donned and John hoisted the freshly washed and skewered turkey with the hook. The freshly washed part also turned out to be a bit of a problem. Bird held high, John shuffled out the door in his flipflops for a barefoot deepfry. At least the hands were protected. If it weren’t for gravity, the next ten minutes would have been entirely different.

He positioned the bird over the oil and instantly heard the oil hiss, “I don’t like water!” It spit it out with an angry, threatening tone and continued to spit back at the intruder. “Gonna have to take this slow”, thought John. The second bird was slightly larger than the first, heavier with more displacement. The heavier part means it couldn’t be held at arm’s length as long and more displacement meant a higher oil level. And the fresh washed part meant disaster.

“Slow”, says Mike.
“Oh yeah”, says John and slowly lowers the turkey. The oil protests louder but John figures he’s in good shape. He’s seen himself in the mirror. But halfway in the bird’s getting heavy and too full of oil now to pull out with his remaining strength. Best way out is in.

Trying to speed its entry, John sees, hears and feels the oil getting angrier and with its newer, higher level it starts spitting and boiling over the side onto his feet. Damn gravity. Moving away from the splashes means holding the turkey further away and what little strength remained evaporated quickly. “This isn’t good”, thought John and it was confirmed by shouts from the crowd.

“Don’t pull it over!” And it was true. In his efforts to get away, John had pulled the bird up against the side of the pot and it was starting to tip. There was three inches of bird left to get into the oil and no room left in the pot. Well, there would have been if the last couple of inches hadn’t been taken up by the blustery war between the oil and the water.

It was let go or pull over the pot in retreat. John dwelled on that moment in the hours and weeks of recovery. At first the moments were a sudden hyper arousal of panic symptoms that caught his breath and held it. But later it became easier to dissociate and examine the moment, the decision-making process. Neither memory yielded much, even the minutes that followed were only snapshots of the events as they unfolded. No ‘should I or shouldn’t I?’ revealed itself.

It was let go. And run. With a “Shit!” he turned and crashed into the fence, breaking the corner post. The oil surged over the side splashing fully on his right foot. As he turned, the oil splashed up off the foot and ground and landed on the backs of his calves.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck”, he screamed as he ran. The pain and the panic were everything. He ran in circles. His sister Helena was able to tackle him and get him to lie still. His sister Mary Anne, a trained icu nurse, quickly covered the foot with a cloth and covered it in ice. And from his vantage point in the center of the yard he watched events unfold.

The escaped oil found the flame that was heating its backside and decided to bite back. It took the flame to the ground for a little wrestling match and the summer dry grass wanted to get involved. Mike courageously reached into the flames and turned off the tank but this party had taken on a life of its own. The bushes that intertwined with the house railing didn’t want to be left out either so the grass invited them to the party. The bushes were announcing their happiness with dancing flames and scaring the heck out of the house and tent trailer (who definitely did not want to get involved) when the fire department showed up.

“What was it they said at that pre-natal class? Pant? Blow?”, thought John. “Blow, breathe, blow, that’s it , you can do this, breathe, blow, deep breath, slow it down, blow, focus, ok, ok, ok...”

“I’m a doctor”, said the fireman. “Any allergies?”
“No”
“Give him the gas”

Pain gone now. What? Huh? Voices don’t match lips. Oh, oh, pain, breathe deep, ahhh. Wow, weird echo.”I must be in the ambulance”, he thought. People near but far. Voices on the radio, “We’ve got one more, hold up for a bit.”

Another sister, Anita, had gone into the smoke-filled house and taken her asthma with her. With the flames licking the eaves it seemed the birthday present she’d brought for Mike was about to be consumed and there it was just sitting on the coffee table. “I can get that”, she told herself and she got it. Her success emboldened her. Her makeup bag was still in there but now the smoke in the house was thick. “I’ll have to crawl”, she instructed herself as she re-entered the house. This time the smoke attacked her lungs and breathing was suddenly difficult. Ten minutes on oxygen interspersed with her puffer and she was still having trouble pulling air into her lungs. She joined John in the ambulance.

The fire was quickly contained by the firemen and fans placed in the house to clear the smoke. The turkey that refused to accept its fate quietly was glazed in fire retardant and given an unbitten burial. The casualties went to the hospital.

John was given a few shots of morphine which dramatically improved his mood, so much so that he was posing with his skin-free foot for the camera with a big smile. “This is fine”, he told himself and anyone nearby. Reality had not set in.

The doctor said, “Hmmm, can you feel this?”
“Yep”
“And this?”
“Yep”
“How ‘bout here?”
“Nope”
“Hmmm”.

“Looks like third degree to the foot and second degree to the calves. I’m making a referral to the burn clinic but I don’t think you need a skin graft. Unfortunately we’re at the start of the long weekend so they won’t get my message until Tuesday. Call them then for an appointment.”

The nurse wrapped the leg in flamazine and gauze and told John it needed to be changed daily. “Come back tomorrow at 11 and I’ll change it. I don’t think you’ll need a skin graft”, she said and deployed another shot of morphine to his arm. Armed with crutches and a bottle of dilaudid he went home to start puking and shaking. Anita stayed in the hospital.

“You need a skin graft”, said Dr Papp, grand poobah of the burn clinic, “and we have an opening tomorrow at 8AM”
“Uh, ok. You sure?”
“Yup. Be at pre-op by 7”

John never thought to ask what a skin graft involved. Where do they take the skin from? How much? How deep? Scarring? Recovery? It didn’t matter, he decided in the weeks that followed, it is what it is and knowing would change none of it. It wouldn’t have made any difference if he’d known the donor site was going to hurt more than the burn or that removing staples would hurt more than the two combined. His 52 year record of having never spent a night in the hospital had come to a painful end but a new scar was added to his repertoire of boring stories.

Oh My!

I've been back in Canada for two weeks and while I'm not entirely unpacked, it's starting to feel like home again. The last time I posted I was in Rome and still looking forward to Florence and Venice and getting home. But I'm back at my desk in the country's poorest postal code and swamped with the minutiae of getting restarted so the next post about those cities and what's been happening since I got back (lots!) will have to wait til I get some time to sit still.

Stay tuned...

Italy Up Close and Impersonal

The show was about a search for a new co-presenter for a variety show. The contestants were all model-quality blondes who had to perform some skill - such as making a martini - and then do a sexy dance for the audience.

The show was a talent search where the audience votes after every two contestants. The two contestants await the audience’s decision as they stand over trap doors. Beneath them are large tanks of water. The loser goes swimming.

The show was a game show, one team vs another. They had to perform various skits and dances to score points. Only here the teams were labelled Hetero vs Gay.

The shows are all on Italian primetime TV and it felt like American reality TV on steroids. Just how offensive, sexual and in-your face can we be? It must have been the question the Italian producers asked themselves as they went into planning this year’s crop of crap. Can North America be far behind? Oh well, at least there aren't any suicide channels...yet.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

First impressions of Rome: grungy and multi-ethnic. We arrived via train from Avenzanno on Sunday morning. A Lui cousin was kind enough to get up early, early on Sunday to drive us from Peschina to Avenzano where a train whisked us to the heart of the Roman Empire. And what a busy heart. Tourists from every nation mix here, anxious to walk the ancient walks, see the ancient sights but mostly find their hotel and find their way out of the train station. They say all roads lead to Rome; well apparently so do all train lines. The station was a humming hive of comers and goers located in a rough part of town.

Outside the station African and Asian hawkers show their wares, competing with one another for our attention. Graffitti adorned most walls and the refuse lining the cobblestone streets added their texture to the car fumes and heat. Our luggage identified us as fresh meat for the machine but a year of travel has made us veteran gauntlet runners. She hunted down the hotel, He and I hunted down breakfast.

She had booked us a shared apartment not far from the station, so still in Grungeville but, as it turned out, very clean and comfortable. A tiny elevator that once operated on coins creaked to the 5th floor of the two hundred year old building where we met the two young couples we were sharing the apartment with. Like us, they were out most of the time so interaction was minimal and pleasant. The kitchen allowed for leisurely starts to our days; I’d hiked back to the train station where I’d seen breakfast basics for sale. With coffee, eggs and bread in the cupboard we could start our days slow, planning what to see and where to go.

And what we planned to go and see that first day was Appia Antica, the first major road built for the military. It had been recommended by the guide book and as that’s Her bible, we also got the bicycles it recommended. Good thing too because it’s a loooong road. And bumpy - my ass was sore for days. But a fantastic introduction to Rome and far from the Colliseum crowds. Over 2300 years of artifacts lined the road amongst the villas and catacombs, and if we’d stop to examine each and every, we’d still be there. Three quarters of the way down the road we veered off to see the aquaducts and then circled back to The Road for a vibrating end to the afternoon. We finished our first Roman day roaming around the Colliseum and chowing down at restaurant serving up that most recgnized Italian dish, pizza.

Day two saw us early at the station cuz the next train brought sis, sis and hubby, hubby to Rome. We all got on the wrong hop on/hop off bus and spent the better part of the day listening to commentaries about this church and that church when what we really wanted was that site and this site, you know, the big stuff. But there we were on the Christian tour of Rome, stopping at chapels big and small.

Ah well, St. Peter’s Square is big and Christian so we got off there for a stroll and grub. Good grub, great pix and fantastic company made for a memorable afternoon. Unfortunately, the family affair ended at six because all but He, She and me were heading back to Peschina leaving us to pack and prep for the morning’s departure to Florence.

But I’ll write about the awe of Michelangelo’s David next time. This is already too long and we're moving and seeing faster that I can write.

Life in the Slow Lane

There are no souvenir shops in Pescina. There's no English spoken, not even at the hotel. There are two hotels but they’re old and small and while air conditioning wasn’t invented when they were built, they’ve never had the impetus to add it in spite of Summer temperatures in the high 30’s. As a percentage of the gross domestic product for this city, tourism ranks very low.

But here we are. If we wanted to see real Italy, we’re in the right place. Not the canals of Venice or the art of Florence or even the history of Rome, but Real Italy where only Italian is spoken and the rythym of the day is unchanged for millenia. We'll see that other stuff later.

Pescina (pronounced pesh E nah) sits on the edge of what was once a large lake, purposely drained to provide fertile agricultural fields. There’s the sugar beet factory down the road that employs a few hundred and farms that employ more and, interestingly enough, a floor polisher manufacturer that displays its wares in a showroom on the main street. But if you want to buy one get there before one o’clock because like every other business in town it closes then until four thirty to allow everyone to go home to their families and enjoy the big meal of the day.

And a big meal is best followed by a siesta so if you’re tapping your toe outside the grocery, public washroom or government office, rest assured that they’ll be with you as soon as they’re finished resting. After a year of rushing from one attraction to another on a schedule that Fedex would be proud of, life has come to a crashing stop in Pescina...and it feels good.

My brother-in-law is from Pescina and seems to be related by blood or marriage to everyone we pass on the street. “Bonaseri!” if it’s an evening stroll or “Bonjourno!” if we haven’t had that big meal yet. “Ciao!” is used both for hello and goodbye and kissing both cheeks is de rigeur for both greeting and leaving. Everything else is communicated by hand signals.

We came to Pescina by way of Pescara, a teemimg metropolis on Italy’s Adriatic coast and we came to Pescara by way of a superfast ferry from the island of Hvar in Croatia. We were aware of the afternoon shutdown in Croatia but were assured by a shopkeeper that it was because everyone was on the beach so there was no point in being open, no-one was shopping. Not so in Pescara. A popular spot for Italians but rarely visited by North Americans, they follow the same traditions we are experiencing in Pescina and sampled in Croatia. But here the beach emptied at noon as everyone headed to their hotel for ‘the meal’ and hibernation. They locked the washroom and shut the snack bar as they went so hunger and bodily functions for foreigners were left unattended. Travel’s all about discovery.

We’re slowly settling into the Italian way of being. I’m typing as She sleeps off the noon feast, courtesy of another of Lui’s relatives. When it’s cool enough we’ll head out again for the stroll and too much wine on someone’s terrace. But what we won’t be doing is buying souvenirs, because there aren’t any.

Looking for Nike

It was hot in the graveyard. Dubrovnik’s noon sun was penetrating the concrete graves, walks and walls, it was being absorbed and re-radiated by the stones that lined the paths and filled every spot that threatened to be green. It was an open air oven and we were getting baked.

Walking the streets my father had walked as a youth had blown oxygen on the ember of my curiosity. I wanted to know more about where I came from and my sister’s enthusiasm fanned the flame. I’d felt a closeness - fifty-two years dormant - that took hold the moment I stepped inside those walls. I could hear his echo bouncing off the ancient stone and I wanted to chase it.

Melita was a little surprised by our enquiry. “No-one has ever asked about her grave before. I ask Angela if was alright to continue and I have all receipts!” She was worried. Graves here aren’t just burial sites, they’re a connection to the past and a plan for the future. They’re family property and are passed on to heirs like any other holding. A fee is paid annually by the holder to the government to maintain title and as my father’s last surviving Croatian relative, Melita had continued the payments and maintenance to ensure she had a place to spend eternity.

When her time comes, the lid will be lifted, her remains placed in the family crypt and a new name added to the list of ancestors. Unless some uppity direct descendants cross the ocean and want to re-connect. My grandmother was the last person added to the list and Melita, a second cousin to me, was afraid we were looking for a final resting place; we were just looking for my grandmother’s grave.

Melita’s wariness about our intent made her directions vague and her reticence and marginal English made clarification difficult. The guy in the office wasn’t any help either. He spoke some English, but only enough to tell us that his ‘colleegu’ wasn’t in and he didn’t know how to operate the computer that held all the records. “Come back tomorrow.” Unfortunately, we were leaving the next day. This was our one shot to stand silently and stare at the foreign name chiseled in foreign stone and reflect on our past.

Dad rarely spoke of his past. It must have hurt him deeply to desert the country that bore him but the communists were in control after WWII and his time in the merchant marine had opened new horizons. He met and married an Englishwoman and after the war settled in England long enough to sire five children. He worked the mines but a sailor underground is an unhappy creature so they sold the silverware and bought passage to Canada.

Seven children followed the first five, Canadian citizens all, and other than the frequent Croatian curse from Dad, his homeland rarely featured in the lives of his children.So little that we spent the first hour looking for our family name on the tomb. Silly us.

We finally called Melita and roused her from her midday slumber. Now she was wary and cranky. “You should have done your research first!”, she reprimanded. My grandmother had remarried and died as Nika Tomic and that name would have appeared on plaque on or about the tomb. And the name on the family tomb is Urban; apparently my great grandfather was a Hungarian immigrant. My family knowledge was growing.

“What colour flower you buy?”
“Uh, we thought we’d find the grave first...”
“Ok, ok. Whatever. No matter.”

Back to the ovenyard to the spot Melita assured us we’d see our past. Not there or near there or anywhere near any other interpretation of her directions. We crossed and crisscrossed and double-checked each other’s checking. Our search revealed a lot of Dubrovnik’s history: the Russian section with its cyrillic alphabet was testament to their occupation, the large Italian immigration, the dominance of the Croatian nameform and saddest of all, the section for those killed in the war with the other former Yugoslav states. But no grandmother.

Pave finally called “Uncle!”. With our dwindling time and the increasing heat we had to accept defeat. But as we walked away without leaving flowers I realized we were taking something, the increased knowledge of my family and the nation that spawned half of me. I didn’t get the photo but I got what I came for; a sense of connection.

Time for Pix....

Sundown in Cavtat. That's a water polo net in the foreground...very popular here.

Croatia's been and is beautiful, fun and warm. I'm having the time of my life and somewhat concerned that as I start to see vacationing as work, what's it going to be like as I return to full time employment? I'll worry about that later (good ol' Scarlett). For now I'm just gonna post some pics and will write about about my impressions about being here later...honest.

The mainstay of every small town across Christian Europe, the village church.

Leapin' of the rocks just outside Dubrovnik's walls.

Damned if I can remember the name of this fort. It's right beside Dubrovnik. Damn.

Napolean built this puppy in the seventeen hundreds and the dubrovniki consider it their last line of defense. It sits on the hiil overlooking the city.

I climbed the mountain behind Dubrovnik to see what was on the other side...

OK, you decide. Black and white...

or colour?

Also at the top of the mountain were the remnants of the tram that took revellers to Napoleans fort.
The fort was a restaurant/disco. The tram's a war victim.

The Balcony People

There’s been plenty of times but it’s the fireworks I remember with the greatest envy. At five feet, six and three quarter inches I’m somewhat less than the average male altitude; I struggle to see and be seen. Seeing the parade, the movie, the whatever is always a challenge. Bigger people tend to use their size and bad manners to their advantage as they barge to the front, obliterating the view for the vertically challenged. I don’t envy them, I just don’t like them. But they’re happier thinking it’s envy, it negates their guilt.

The people I’ve envied are the ones on the balcony or yacht or other choice location to see some public display. You don’t need to be tall if you’re rich or lucky. You just buy the best seat in the house or, as we did for this past week, rent it.

When we booked our apartment for our gathering in Croatia we had no idea what it looked like, where it was located or even what was going on in town during our stay. Serendipity stepped in. We’re in two magnificent, recently renovated apartments with three bedrooms, two kitchens and one outstanding balcony.

It’s a large patio actually but it’s located on the second floor and in the center of town, directly across from the harbour. I start my days with a coffee out there and watch the yachts slip in and out. Other than the church bells summoning the believers and the jets screaming the arrival of the latest planeload of tourists, it’s a quiet spot to enjoy the sun and view. Cavtat is touristy but smaller than Dubrovnik and the road is used more by pedestrians than cars. So our balcony is a perfect place to sit quietly and watch the world flow by. Until last night.

Last night it rushed past with a crash and a boom. It started with a marching band followed by a guy on stilts. The girls spinning their batons came next and stopped to show off their best moves right in front of our balcony; Summer Carnival was under way. Fire spinners, belly dancers and pirates snaked by celebrating the height of the tourist season and some of the ground-level onlookers looked up. I recognized the look on their faces. Envy.

We eventually filled our glasses and went down to join the revellers, oohing and ahhing at acrobats and jugglers. We tapped our feet to the rythyms of the ethnic band then shook our booties to the rocking rythyms of the dance band before retreating to our balcony to reload and relish our good fortune.

It’s taken me fifty-two years to look down instead of up. I’m here by good fortune not good planning but I’m glad I don’t feel guilty...because tonight there’s going to be fireworks.

Major Bummer Domo!

I can"t get my computer to cooperate and I"m struggling with a Croatian keyboard. Can"t upload pics or find the apostrophe key. Maybe they don"t use them in hrvatski.

Ah well. When I figure out how to make it work again I"ll share the pix and tell you a story about being balcony people.

Moved from Dubrovnik to Cavtat two days ago and loving the slower pace. Not as much to see, just great weather to do nothing in. Nice weather has a way of evaporating my desire to write so I"m logging off and going to go find my first beer of the day. More later.

Zhivjeli!

We left the “Land of My Fathers” for the last time and flew to the land of my father for the first time. As we were giving the car that had served us so well to my cousin (once removed) Kathryn , she suggested she follow us to the airport. Or was it her mom, cousin (not at all removed) Dreda, that made the suggestion? Don’t matter, it worked well as we were able to load up all the luggage as well as all the detritus of a year abroad (luggage goes with us, detritus goes with the car) and head out without having to squeeze our collective self and accoutrement into a bus.

In fact, we were able to stop at cousin Bren’s enroute for a hasty lunch and howdy-do. It was the first time we’d met (maybe) and he was not only a gracious host (there was food for an army) but an apt navigator as he took us thru the English countryside to Luton airport. Thanx, cuz!

After a year of travelling what I’ve come to expect is that the best laids plans rarely go as planned. But this was the smoothest click, click, click we’ve done. The checkin was fast and easy, the plane left on time and arrived sooner than anticipated and a guy with our name on a sign met us after we got through customs in Olympic time. All travelling should be so easy - it was like a tv commercial.

Our driver delivered us to Zlatan who met us in the street outside Rock Palace apartments. It’s essentially a big house which he’s redesigned to accomodate two suites on the top floor, him and family on the middle and two more on ground level. I thought it was named Rock Palace because of its setting in the rocky mountainside but no. Zlatan played guitar in a rock band ‘til the war broke out in ‘92 and his suites are named after rock heroes; we’re in Ziggy for David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust and the walls are decorated with his album covers. Love it.

Zlatan helped us carry the cases up and up and up the stairs to his home and up and up to the suite. We’re not far from the old city but it’s ten thousand steps to get there (ok, maybe 9,000) so the calfs are toning. The view from our suite is panoramic and the deck has become our favourite spot to watch the sun fall into the ocean.

I’ll have to tell you more about the city next time (we’re now on day three) because I can hear the city calling. I have to get out and roam the streets my father roamed as a child and strain to hear the sound of his voice echoing of the ancient walls. Or maybe I'll just sit at a cafe and raise a cold glass of Karlovacko to his memory...Zhivjeli!

Lines Written Many Miles From Tintern Abby

The hills surrounding the Abby are still forest

“No Dad, PLEASE, no more ruins!”

For our last available weekend we decided to go site-seeing to a nearby site; Tintern Abby. It was immortalized in poem 200 years ago by William Wordsworth not because he wrote about it, but because he mentioned it in the title - “Lines Written A Few Miles Above Tintern Abby”. I hadn’t read the poem since high school and in re-reading it, I don’t think I got much more out of it now than I did then.

“C’mon, son, it’ll be fine. You can bring your soccer ball AND they have a souvenir shop”

But the mention in the title has turned this 12th century abby into a tourist destination ever since he wrote the poem. It functioned as a Cistercian abby for 400 years before it was abandoned in 1536 and went into steady decay until 1800. A good job has been done maintaining the structures since then and although scaffolding ruins pictures, without the constant restoration there’d be nothing but piles of ivy covered stones to visit.

“Ah, Dad.” “Get in the car son. And I’m going to pay you one pound for every smiling foto”

The weather was grudgingly co-operative and while it wasn’t warm and sunny the sun peeked out from behind the clouds often enough to make our jackets unecessary. It didn’t take long to see the site, it was, after all, just a roofless cathedral and remnants of the outbuildings. But as witth all the ancient sites we’ve visited in the last year, if you listen closely you can hear the sounds of its previous occupants. The thrum of the big bell, the murmur of monk’s chants could be heard if you breathe deep, close your eyes and let your imagination go. There’s been little development in the area so it’s still surrounded by forest which supplies the necessary quiet for listening.

“Dad!”
“Huh?”
“Kick it over here”
“Ok, ok”

So much for listening. Still, a wonderful connection to the distant past unavailable in North America. This is our history too but the tangible evidence of where we’ve been is across that big pond so while North Americans are unencumbered with the weight of the past they’re also disconnected from their roots. This trip has given me an opportunity to glimpse our history and make me feel I really am part of something, that there is a continuity to our lives.

“Can we go now?”

It sits on the banks of the river Wye. I say "Wye not?"

A good place for soccer practice

One pound

Two pounds

Three pounds...hard earned money

Sports Day

You know the school year is done when it's time for sports day. I've a ton of memories to share on that but not today. Today I'm just posting some video of Luka and another of a friend's child. I'm not up to speed on how to easily send it as an email or something (Yahoo won't accept anything over 10MB) so I'm posting here instead. Enjoy!


Well, I've never posted video before so it was a little more challenging than I'd anticipated. Initially I sorted the clip into its own movie in iMovie and chose it in the 'browse' feature to upload but that ran for several hours and... nothing. So then I dragged the clip onto the desktop and found it with the browse and, son-of-a-gun, it loaded.

Psych sendoff

I staggered home from the pub and in the barley haze reflected on how lucky I am. I smiled. I’d just spent the last few hours with some people I’ve had the pleasure of working with at Whitchurch Hospital. It was a beersy send-off after our brief working relationship and the conversation was never lacking. Not that I could understand most of what they said, but why start now?

I started at the hospital last November and was very fortunate to get a full time position in spite of the fact that I only intended to be there until now. It was the interviewer’s opinion that people come and go all the time and just because I knew I would be going and when, that shouldn’t preclude me from getting the job. Kool. “Oh, and I have lots of holidays planned. Is that a problem?” Turns out it wasn’t. And that was cool too because everyone here starts a fulltime position with 25 paid holidays plus bank holidays plus weekends. So I stuffed them all into 7 months and got paid while I flew to Tunisia, Amsterdam, Belgium, Egypt, Ireland, Scotland, Spain and France.

But that wasn’t the luckiest part. The best part was being able to work in psychiatry so I didn’t entirely lose my skill set while spending a year abroad. I’m on a leave of absence from my position in Vancouver. I'll be returning there shortly and while there’s a lot of things I do there that I haven’t done in the last year, staying in regular contact and assessing clients with the same illness has been invaluable. I’ve even seen alternatives we haven’t used back home and a gentler, interactive style used with violent clients. I’ve learned lots.

And I had the privilege of working with some outstanding staff who are passionate and dedicated to the work they do. Thank you to all of you for you friendship, guidance and patience (aren't you glad you don't have to repeat everything now?). I’m going to miss you all.

Ta-ra.

Weekend Retreat

To celebrate our tenth anniversary and to see more of our host country before we leave, we spent a weekend at St. David's, a former pilgrimage site on Wales west coast. Today the pilgrims are tourists who come to enjoy the well-preserved heritage in this tiny village. The biggest bit of heritage is the functioning cathedral which was started in 1181 and built on the site of St David's monastery. I don't know much about him but they say he lived to be 147 years old and became the patron saint of Wales. Bet he had a lot of wrinkles.

Beside the functioning cathedral is the no-longer-functioning palace. It was built by bishop Gower in the mid 14th century to augment his other real estate holdings and was financed by the 'donations' from the steady stream of pilgrims. Kinda like having the parking concession to Niagra Falls or something. Apparently two trips to St David's was equal to one trip to Rome. The remnants of a huge stone wall surround the cathedral, palace and grounds and was meant to keep out the ne'er-do-wells (those that couldn't pay the pilgrimage fee) and the Vikings. Not so successful at stopping Vikings, though, it got sacked a couple of times.

A beautiful place for a walk

But it wasn't the Vikings that did the place in, it was that damn Reformation. People started to be able to read and interpreted the bible for themselves, and in a local context. They began to doubt what the learned clergy were telling them and couldn't help but notice their accumulation of wealth. Going on pilgrimages became less fashionable and pretty soon the lead roof was peeled off for scrap.

Restoration has been ongoing for the last few hundred years. They've most recently added 'cloisters' for the education of new priests and a gaggle were being ordained when we visited.

Downtown St David's


The Grove. Our funky-fabulous hotel in St David's


On our way home we decided to take the backcountry roads and stopped at Newgale beach. Nice, huh?

From the trail above Newgale

We happened across Tenby, a very popular tourist spot for boating...

...and beaching...

...and strolling.

We also happened across Pembroke which, like any self-respecting medeaval town, has its own castle.

Pembroke in B&W

In all, a great weekend of great food, great scenery and great company. But our time here is ticking down, we fly to warmer climes (Croatia) in less than two weeks...better start packing.

Chugga chugga, Chugga chugga

The Ride of My Life

We met at a wine and cheese party. She was my sister’s best friend and the party was being hosted by another sister so lots of sibs and their friends were sharing their wine and cheese. At one point in the evening, we were a group four sharing stories, She across from me and as the other two carried the conversation our eyes met. She smiled.

And that was it. I don’t think we actually spoke. I didn’t even ask her name. My wife was on the other side of the room so getting into a conversation with a beautiful, single woman would have put me on even thinner ice. The ice beneath us had been getting thinner by the day and our brief marriage was about to implode. I’d made a mistake, not my first, not may last but certainly my biggest in asking her to marry me two years previous and I don’t think she liked me any more than I liked her. But I was trying to avoid another big mistake by letting it go without trying.

So She and I didn’t speak. But her smile moved along my optic nerve and ignited an array of memory cells as it went. That was twelve years ago. A year after that party I was single and went to another party, this time at the home of the other sister, friend of She. We met at the door as we arrived and whoever answered the door asked, prophetically, “Oh, did you come together?”. “I brought some wine”, she responded. I smiled but again, we didn’t speak.

It took the better part of the evening to get up the courage to talk to her and, truth be known, she initiated. Thanks, my love. Without that initial connection, I’d have missed out on the best ten years of my life. She was the catalyst that launched me into dramatic, life-altering change.

We dated frenetically and moved in together two months later. She agreed to marry me a month after that and we bought a house a month after that. Less than a year after we first spoke we were married and working on making a family. As we waited for Him to arrive, I went back to school to start a career change, supported by her encouragement, enthusiasm and income. I couldn’t have asked for more.

We celebrated our tenth anniversary this past weekend and it was as good as our first weekend together. It must be love. Ten years is a cause for pause, a time to reflect on where we were, where we went and where we’ll go. Where we’ll go is still under discussion with plans for job changes in the works and retirement ideas still being tossed about. Where we went is a multitude of stories and includes where we went this past weekend - St David’s - but I’ll write about that next time.

Where we were was two middle-aged adults with sacks full of life-experience fuel and when we joined them it was like adding nitro to glycerin. The results were explosive. We knew instinctively that one and one made much more than two (very quickly we were three) and we continue to grow. I used to regret that we hadn’t met sooner and maybe avoided Miss Thin Ice but perhaps without those life experiences we wouldn’t have created the same energy that we’ve enjoyed.

She once described it, in our earlier days together, as a locomotive out of control. We didn’t know that the locomotive wasn’t going to slow down. We did know we were enjoying the ride.