Canada in instalments: 3 Its People

As mentioned previously, size matters in Canada. People there have big visions and they live in huge log cabins (you could carve a Titanic-type cruiser out of one of those logs!). Inside their enormous homes, they drink lots of spirits out of gigantic bottles (photographic evidence to follow in the slideshow below). They are also biiiig party animals. Every night they hold five-course meals for themselves and the legions of their many friends. Did I mention that Canadians are extremely sociable, chatty and generally great mixers?

But when in Canada one tends to go searching for the Last of the Mohicans. As did we. We tracked them down in the end and, although they didn’t resemble Daniel Day-Lewis closely, I felt like I caught up with the ghosts of the land. And I felt honoured to speak to those amazing – and elusive – people. That brought back memories of my childhood when I would always be an Indian when we played Cowboys & Indians. I even had a bow with arrows and a feather headdress!

Slideshow:

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Canada in instalments: 1 Port Edmonton

Canada is big. You will hear a lot of that in this travelogue. The country is big. The mountains and the lakes are big. Animals are bigger than our equivalents of them. People are big and they are also big-hearted. Following in this tradition, Port Edmonton is big too. You don’t know where it begins and where it ends. It just sits there in the windswept and open plains, which may be prairies, or may not be prairies at all, but they are vast, flat, blanketed with weather-beaten grasses and punctured with coniferous trees. So to me that equates prairies. Port Edmonton is sprawled in the middle of that vastness.

Whilst there, our wonderful hosts took us back in time to Port Edmonton of the yesteryear. You might think that there is no history to speak of in Canada and you might even be excused in thinking that any trip back in time will take you straight to the Stone Age. But you will be wrong. Take a look at this little gem of the Wild (Canadian) West:

 

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Bath – time

 

My gorgeous bestie back from the ancient days of our primary school visited me this month, all the way from Canada. Naturally, we concurred that we had not changed (or aged) one bit: me – still deliciously chubby and pale, her – still tall, slim and gorgeous.

First thing first: Dog had to be bribed and made friends with. It took just a few minutes and plenty of treats.

Having conquered the dog, my friend was free to take over Bath. Bath is the most wonderful place on Earth if you’re into history, culture, shopping and Jane Austin (or Mr Darcy by proxy). So, we shopped. Oh yes! Big time spenders, us! Then we detoxed through the cultural experience of watching the yummy Laurence Fox (Hathaway in Lewis for those who don’t know him – yet) in The Real Thing in Bath Theatre Royal. Finally, escorted by my husband to avoid scandal, we bathed, sweated and performed heat-yoga at Roman Baths. Hot stuff! And decadent!

Of course, we dined and we wined. I’d recommend the oldest eatery in the world, Sally Lunn and her amazing buns filled with hearty, finger-licking food.

And finally: did you know that Bath is the stag-hen parties capital of the world? Now you do! We found ourselves a hunk of a stag to drape ourselves over and Husband wormed his way into the heart of a sitting duck ( I mean – hen!).

 

Spot the difference

It’s our anniversary – whoop, whoop! We always make our own cards; never buy, no matter how cheap 🙂

This year we’re a having a bit of a… misunderstanding. Spot the difference:

Husband’s card to me:

Now, my card to Husband:

Hmmm…. the devil is in the detail. Maybe, my marriage feels longer because of the extra luggage I bring?

Challenge No.2: What’s our favourite word this year?

Bad hairday brushed off

Daughter and I were having a bad hairday. Something had to be done. I went to a hairdresser. Daughter went to a witch doctor. We are both happy.

I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my pigeon toes…

I am delighted to inform the world that our resident lone-ranger Pigeon has a girl-friend!

He used to live on the ground, waddle about aimlessly, picking up leftovers from under the tree feeder, dropped by other airborne birdies. You could say he suffered from depression and low self-esteem, as any overweight, lonely pigeon would.

But no longer!

Pigeon has been seen whispering a sweet-nothing into a lady-pigeon’s ear on top of a wall, observed jealously by a blackbird. There was also some canoodling and a couple of mounting attempts. Oh dear, I hope they are taking suitable precautions!

Jealous blackbird applying to join hatch.com

And look! There are plenty of fish in the sea, or hot birds in the sky, as the case may be:

 

 

Survival of the fittest

It is a constant battle between Dog and Husband. Husband wants to eat his dinner. Dog, too, wants to eat Husband’s dinner. Husband is not having the bitch have it her way (yes, the dog is actually a bitch, or to put it nicely, she is a girl-dog). So the battle of wills commences…

At first Dog approaches Husband in a casual manner.

Dog:’Daddy, why don’t we share your dinner?’

Husband: ‘I don’t think so.’

Then it becomes more forceful. Dog: ‘Come Dad, don’t be selfish! Look at me, you bugger!’

Slowly it transforms into blatant begging. ‘Daddy, daddy, spare me a chunk of beef! Pleeeeaaase… I’ll love you forever!’

Husband: ‘Go away, Dog! It’s MY dinner!’ As an only-child, Husband is unfamiliar with the idea of sharing his property.

Finally Dog adopts a new approach. She begins to look rather faint and dizzy.

Dog: ‘Daddy, I fear I may faint … I’m starving… If I don’t make it, Daddy, you can have my toy bone. If only I got a morsel off your plate, I could just make it…’

Husband won’t surrender his dinner. It’s a matter of life or death for him. For both of them. But that’s only until the last crumb is polished off the pate. Then they are friends all over again.

Ghost in the shower

We didn’t put two and two together when, five months ago, our shower room was flooded due to someone plugging in the sink plughole and turning on the taps in the wee hours of the night. We blamed each other. Everyone shouted and swore innocence, and no one believed any of the other two. Of course, we didn’t have a clue that it was the Ghost.

A couple of nights ago the Ghost returned to haunt the shower room. It clearly has a huge problem with that particular room in the house. This time, he (or she) turned considerably more violent and punched the shower door. It was 3am when glass shattered and spluttered to the floor, sending us all into a state of panic.

Clever Ghost, managed to utterly annihilate one glass wall but left the parallel shower door intact.

That experience was marginally more unnerving that the flood, but again we blamed unspecified vibrations and an old house inadequacies on this unfortunate development. So the following night the Ghost attempted to paint the bathroom door white. He (or she) didn’t do a half-decent job of it so we washed the paint off.

Now, I’m not one for believing in ghosts, especially if they choose my home for their antics, but the damage to the property is a touch too much! How on earth are we going to explain this ghostly invasion to our Insurer?

Did I mention that our home is located in the middle of a lovely and, until now, peaceful graveyard?

Introducing Mango, the dog

Mango has been rescued from a kill shelter in the depths of Romania by a bunch of enthusiasts from Trowbridge. She is now part of our family, or what she would say: a member of our wolf pack.

Chewing on everything and anything that moves (or stays still) she has grown over the two months of living with us and now takes up much more space than originally. Unfortunately, she has eaten her bed so her time is spent under Daughter’s piano stool:

I appear to be the pack leader (in Mango’s eyes); Husband and Daughter are just gang members, and they get trampled over, jumped upon and chewed at the ankles. All is good (until Husband decides to put his foot down).

Mango and I bonding before bed:

 

Oh, I do love to be beside the seaside!

Went to Burnham-on-sea to recharge the batteries because, let me tell you, I’m hardly a Duracell-man (or -woman, as the case may be). My batteries had been running low for a while, especially after a few near-lethal short circuits experienced this year.

So we went paddling by the boats –

Head-butting the goats –

Sitting on a fence –

Losing common sense –

Being swept away –

Calling it a day –