Canadian Pacific, carry me 3000 miles... We know a song about that...

 It had been a long time coming but we finally made it to Canada for our 30th wedding anniversary celebration, now our 33rd.

You will remember that a few years ago I was taken ill? Well, this caused us to miss out on the big holiday. Then COVID happened and it seemed that we would never get there. But we did. A couple of weeks ago we flew out from Heathrow and after a long flight, we landed at Vancouver International airport. I must say that airports in other countries are much more attractive than ours. Heathrow is a functional building, all concrete and melamine, whereas Vancouver was carpeted and there were native artworks and projected images all over the place. 

Anyway, to cut a long story even longer, we were picked up in a large SUV and taken to our hotel. 23rd floor, corner suite, open the curtains and there was a view out over downtown Vancouver that took our breath away.

Now to people like us who have only ever been to London this was a sight that was special. It ranked alongside our first view of the banks of the Nile when we went to Egypt. 

I'm not going to go on about what we saw or did, you'd get bored. I could show you the hundreds of photos we took, bored...🥱

This time I am going to wax lyrical about food, beer, and the ever-polite Canadians.

Food. North Americans seem to be able to put together a burger that is almost perfect. When I present a burger at a BBQ the minute that you bite into it all the filling tries to escape out of the back. Canadians put together a burger that stays inside the bun, almost as if it wants to be eaten. It is full of fresh ingredients, I even liked the pickles! 

I have found my spiritual home. The first menu I looked at almost made me cry with joy! Brussel Sprouts! As a starter, crispy and spicy and lovely in their cloak of green joy. 

Then there is breakfast. It seems that Canadians aren't big on brekkie. They seem to prefer brunch. However, there is Canadian bacon. Maple cured bacon. Crispy and tasty...

Now to beer. In England we have mass-produced beers. Lager, cold and fizzy. Ale, warm and insipid, sometimes harsh and bitter. Occasionally we get some good ones, I'm rather partial to Blandford Fly but, on the whole, they are pretty average. Even the microbreweries seem to make rather bland stuff. cloudy and dull. Feel free to prove me wrong.

But Canada seems to be able to brew beers that are fit for the Gods themselves. Sweet or sharp, cloudy or clear, fizzy or not. 

It just seems to me that British brewers are missing a trick. Maybe they are trying to be too clever or just aiming to keep the tradition of warm, bitter brews. The rest of the world has great beer, we have warm, insipid, brown liquid fit for the older gent with a beard and a cardigan. 

Canadians themselves are amazingly polite. Those in hospitality especially so. It may be an act as they want a tip at the end of your meal, but if it is, it is a well-practiced one. The act never seems to drop. They will seat you, automatically placing drinking water on the table, take your order and be polite and friendly all the way. Imagine that happening here. Everywhere we ate we would go back to in a heartbeat. From the Steamworks in Vancouver to the Umbrella bar at the top of Whistler Mountain. 

In the meantime, I need to get my act together and lose the weight I have put on with all this beer and burger.

Next time, spectacular places, bears, eagles, seals, and upgrades.

Have a great day!

Regards

Giant68 :-)

 I feel that I have been disowned by Half Portion, or Mini Giant68.  He reckons that I have turned to the dark side. 

What have I done to earn this? I am now the proud owner of a caravan.

For years I have been in agreement with Jeremy Clarkson, not something that many people will admit to, it seems. But caravans have been the bane of any driver's life on the road since the wheel was invented and the caveman decided to use it, or them, to hitch a box to the back of a dinosaur and go on holiday. But I have now joined that group.

Some years ago, we started out with a tent. We would load the contents of our house into the car, unload it in a field then, a couple of days later, load it all up and take it back home. I got tired of that. All that sleeping on an inflatable mattress on the floor was getting more and more difficult. So we moved up to a trailer tent, or folding camper if t=you want to be technically correct. It had sofas, proper beds, sort of, and a kitchen. That was great. It was like moving from a flat to a mansion. I could sit on the sofa, in the morning, with a coffee and my book while waiting for Mrs Giant68 to wake up. 

But we still had to get out in the night and go for a walk in the cold if we wanted to use the loo. 

Sometimes you don't want to have to wake up too much at 2am. 

So we decided that we needed a caravan...with a toilet. We went and bought one. So now I drive around  the countryside at the weekend dragging a tin box behind the car. It hasn't just got a toilet. It has a bathroom. With a shower. We have hot water, heating, beds, a cooker with an oven. And it is great. Waking up in the countryside, great views, birds singing, the smell of frying bacon. what more could a man want? Beer. Actually, a man would also want beer. Or copious quantities of alcohol, be it whiskey, brandy, rum or just plain and simple wine. 

I won't have a TV. There comes a line that, when crossed, you may as well stay at home. And the TV is on the other side of that line as far as I can see. 

We went to a site in Canterbury a while back and there was a camper van that had a bigger TV than I have at home in my living room. While they were all sat around inside watching Eastenders, or whatever, there was a marvelous sunset going on outside. The stars were starting to come out, as were the night creatures. 

One thing I have found; since I started towing this box around, is that it is not the caravans that are the problem. It is, generally, ordinary drivers. People who have no idea how to enter a motorway from the sliproad, forcing other drivers to either slow down or dodge them as they force their way on. I was under the impression that the sliproad onto a motorway is a lane where drivers should accelerate to match the speed of those already on the motorway. Several times lately, I have been forced to slow down to ridiculously slow speeds because some dickhead is joining the lane at 30mph. I have a caravan on the back, I can't always move over to lane 2 to make room, I know why truck driving friends get so stressed out. I can almost imagine what it is like to have 44t under my right foot. It is bad enough with 3.5t. 

With the caravan on the back, I am restricted to 60mph. Any faster and it becomes unstable. I am not permitted in lane 3. And there are other rules and problems. 

But in the end, I have a caravan. No.1 son thinks I have sold out. But I get reasonably cheap holidays. 

And, more importantly, I have a bathroom in that metal box.

Regards

Giant68 :-)

   

Big Chief Eagle Crest

 It's been a long time since I have written a blog, life seemed to get very busy, even with all the restrictions of the pandemic. But here I am giving it a go again.

Some time ago I wrote a blog about the stories that my grandmother used to tell when I was a young boy. They were all remembered, not written down, so once she passed away I thought that they were lost forever. Not so. You have already read about Bobtail Bunny and now you can read about Chief Eagle Crest. Bear in mind that these stories came from a different time, the world has changed and Indian means something different. Today we would refer to native Americans. But it was of its time. 

I feel that there should be more of it, that there is an ending missing from this but I'm not sure what it is. These stories were told to me over 50 years ago when all things were different.

Here it is:

Chief Eagle Crest

Dick found this box beside his bed

One morning when he woke.

“For the big Indian Chief,” it said.

It really was a joke.

He cut the string and peeped inside

And gave a whoop of joy!

An Indian outfit, fine, he cried

“I am a lucky boy!”

In half a minute I’ll be dressed

And then I’ll be Chief Eagle Crest!

Chief Eagle Crest has spied a Joe,

“Your doom has come!” he cried.

And fixed an arrow to his bow

Straight to the mark it flew.

The wounded paleface has to yield

It’s just a scarecrow in a field.

Then mounting on his trusty horse

The great chief rode astride

Until he reached a watercourse

A river deep and wide.

“I’m coming now to rescue you!” 

Called out the Indian brave.

“I’m paddling in my small canoe

Your life I mean to save!”

The maiden was indeed distressed

She’d fallen from the bank.

But just in time Chief Eagle Crest

Arrived before she sank.

He hoisted her in his canoe

She looked a dreadful sight.

And paddling swiftly to the shore

He took her to dry land once more

For she was dripping wet right through,

Her cheeks were pale with fright.

He set her on his trusty steed

And swiftly rode away.

“A squaw” he said “is what I need

So maiden you shall stay”

“And in the wigwam you will dwell

And hear the tales I have to tell”

He helped the maiden to alight 

Within a pretty glade.

A box of chocolates they shared

They are delicious each declared… 

Maybe one of you, out there will know how this ended. But, like Bobtail Bunny, it remains a Googlewhack.

Regards

Giant68 :-)