The Canadian Adventure

Part 15 - 27th October 1997

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It's been a long, long time comin'...

Hiya folks,

Yep, it's been a long time since I last threw together some of my collected musings on the curiousness of life in general, and the bits of it that poke me in the tummy specifically. The next line of the song reads "but ... a change is gonna come" - and that can be my first excuse. In fact the song would more appropriately read "but a change is already happening" but that would be too tricky to set to music. I'm pretty much in the eye of the storm to tell the truth - but, ah! I'm getting ahead of myself, and I'll get to all that later.

The second excuse for not having provided further details of the quirkiness of Canada is that I'm pretty much part of the scenery now, and Vancouver has to throw a fairly monstrous curve ball to phaze me now. Maple syrup on bacon? No problemo. Wearing shorts in the rain? What could be more natural? Crappy cheese? Well perhaps I'll never fit in 100% but it's pretty close I can tell you.

In fact, recent history has given me the chance to see England as an outsider, and I can tell you right now that in the great casserole dish of life, the UK is something of an amusingly shaped vegetable...

Eve and I hopped aboard a jumbo three weeks ago this very evening, armed with nothing more than a sturdy umbrella and a suitcase of thermal underwear, and quicker than you could say "God, these seats are cramped" we were touching down in Heathrow. As we sat on the tarmac waiting to dock (or whatever it is that planes do) the sun was shining. Eve said "Do you feel like you've come home?". I noted that it wasn't raining, so the answer had to be "No". But sure enough, by the time we'd sauntered through an entirely unstaffed customs hall the drizzle was in full effect, and the trip to the car rental courtesy bus was thoroughly unpleasant.

We'd pre-booked the rental car (UK residents: hire car) in advance, so naturally Alamo asked us if we'd wait for half an hour while they removed the remains/evidence of the previous occupants from the footwells, doorhandles and gear knob. We'd only gone ten yards from the car park when a dashboard warning light sprang to life - a quick flip through the owners manual revealed it to be the "severe but unidentified problem" light and directed us in no uncertain terms to return at once to our approved Vauxhall dealer. Not having one of those we plumped for the easy option and reversed the ten yards back into the Alamo car park.

"Oh, you don't need to worry about that," said the receptionist, "you just need to wiggle the key a bit". She proceeded to violently wrench the ignition on and off "...about twenty times normally does it..." but by this point I had decided that I'd really rather have one with a light that didn't come on at all. Attempt number two was warning free, and a rather fetching British Racing Green. The other one was a disconcerting shade of cool-point losing metallic beige which, you'll be entirely unmoved to learn, is the most popular colour of car sold in Vancouver. What is British Racing Green called outside of Britain, do you think? "Dark Green" wouldn't attract many punters, nor would "Compost". Perhaps "Lustrous Conifer"...

Diving into the deep end we pointed the snout of the car at the M25 and pushed the pedal. The gauge needles surged. The skin on my face was pulled back by the extreme velocity. Surely we must be close to the sound barrier? Actually I was doing 65mph and a guy in a Transit van was overtaking me, but you get the picture. At one point I pointed at the dash and asked Eve if she noticed anything strange. I wasn't breaking the speed limit. Haven't been that legal for ages.

The rain was now pretty torrential, the traffic volume was scaring the wits out of me, and so now was naturally the exact right time for one of the windscreen wipers to detach itself from it's arm and flap around in a useless and entirely un-wiper-like fashion. Fortunately we were close to a service station so we pulled off the M25 and reattached it. Given that until that day the UK had been basking in an unnaturally warm late summer, and given that the car was only two months old, I would guess that the wipers had never been used. Happily I can report that over the course of the two week stay they were rarely turned off...

The next few days passed in a whirl of driving, visiting friends and relatives, buying cheese, listening to BBC Radio 4 (almost, almost, almost enough to make we want to stay in the UK, but not quite) and wondering where we might find real coffee -

(Interlude, sparked by the memory of sachets of instant Nescafe in an English hotel room: Canadian hotels have a coffee machine, with a sachet of ground coffee and some filter papers. Frequently you have to hunt for the kettle, but the coffee machine is always in plain view. English hotels have, as their saving grace, real milk instead of mini-pots of cream. No hotels, regardless of country, ever have sufficiently cosy bed-linen)

- then we were off to Preston for Mike and Rachel's wedding. In the spirit of equality I offered the driving seat to Eve, a decision she was to regret considerably when, sitting in a traffic jam outside of Birmingham, she observed that we had gone about six miles in the previous two hours. We found the hotel with no trouble, had a fantastic pub meal, and subsequently chanced upon the happy couple in the bar. As they retired to their separate beds, Eve and I (as is the custom on entering a hotel room for the first time) opened every drawer and cupboard, tried the taps and the toilet flush, examined the contents of the mini-bar, the complementary toiletries basket, the folder of local tourist info, bounced on the bed, sat in both of the armchairs, and engaged in a round of TV channel surfing. Everything passed the test (although it was a close call on the shower rose - not so much proudly upstanding as disappointingly flacid in its stance, but functional nonetheless) so we drank cups of tea and went to bed.

Next day, and since it was only ten miles up the road, I took Eve to "my" old university. Spookily the whole place was almost entirely unchanged from when I was there five years ago. The same posters (well, they looked the same, I suspect a five year old piece of paper would look something the worse for wear given the inclemency of the Lancastrian climate), the same cracks in the walls, the same slightly disconcerting aroma outside Cartmell bar, the same fights for world supremacy in the laundromat. If anything the place seemed a little smaller than I remembered, but the atmosphere was unchanged. Except that none of the faces were familiar, and I could feel myself wanting say "I was here back in the eighties, laddie" well aware that today's freshers would have been still in primary school when I first went there. For those of you who know it well, County college still commands a view over that rather squelchy field - apparently the university has decided they could never drain it sufficintly to build on it, so County's domination of the north-east corner is secure.

The wedding was a peach - the bride was resplendant in #insert description here#. As a male member of the species my vocabulary is ill-equipped to describe wedding finery, but take it from me, it was good. Sort of creamy coloured, I think. Possibly oyster, whatever that is. I met up with a few people I hadn't seen for a while, and we had a good sing in the church, a good feed at the reception and a good bop at the evening do.

With that we plummeted southwards to Dartmoor, a big and largely desolate area of national parkland in the south west of England, where my gran lives (in one of the pretty bits). We'd decided that after the flitting around we had done in the previous week we would stay here and play tourist for a few days. Eve was formally welcomed into the family with a crazed-puppy once-over by gran's dog. With the canine seal of approval the assent of the rest of the family was assured, and three days of feasting began (I kid you not). On the touristy side we tramped through dense and moist forest, along country lanes, to waterfalls, to quaint country towns (providing they sold good cheese), to the pub, to stoneage settlements (which looked considerably more comfortable than my university accommodation), around a country estate or two, including Blenheim Palace, Churchill's old house (as it were) where the grass was green and the sheep were friendly. Or something.

Farnborough, my final residence in the UK, was the final port of call en route to the airport. We caught up with friends who have either remained with Data Sciences, or escaped only to be recaptured. The toddler-fest continued - a feature of the holiday was the ubiquity of young children, ranging from minus three months (my sister (she's not minus three months, her baby is)) to positive two and a bit (Matthew). Interesting to see the different abilities at different ages. Abigail (positive 1 year) was entirely unmoved by my winning smile and attempts at social interaction, preferring instead the obvious entertainment of a fluffy raisin she found stuck to the carpet. I'll have to retool my armory if I'm to win her affections on the next trip, I can see. Matthew was impressed by my ability to tell the difference between a tractor and a dump truck, so I'm in with him. Good to catch up with you again chaps.

Then home. Top deck on the plane, still cattle class, but a bit more spacious than on the flight over.

Since then it's been pack pack pack. Or rather it should have been. Instead I've proved remarkably good at finding other things to do instead, all of them more entertaining. However, and against all odds, I was ready when the removal men (Two Small Men With Big Hearts) arrived at nine this morning. I thought about asking for my money back because neither was at all small, but they had monster-muscles, and that was all that was needed to transfer my entire life's possessions to the back of a seven tonne truck. They were momentarily diverted by the woman in the flat at the end of my corridor, who was standing in front of the window completely nude, in full view of the people arriving at the church opposite. A couple of extra Hail Mary's earned there, I'll bet.

So that brings me pretty much up to date. My apartment is empty of everything apart from a futon mattress, my computer and TV (which are going to Steve's later in the week) and a rather artistically arranged heap of assorted rubbish. I have one mug and one plate, one set of cutlery, the kettle, and a cupboard full of cleaning materials, all of which I expect to make use of in the next few days. Oh, and a fridgefull of beer, which may also receive some attention.

Eve phoned on Friday to say that she made it to Australia safe and sound. I'll be joining her in less than a fortnight. My next missive will be from a sunnier place than Vancouver - my mail (e- and snail-) will be forwarded, so keep on sending to the usual address. Those of you in Sydney, I'll see you pretty soon. For everyone else, drop in if you happen to be passing.

Now, where did I leave that suntan lotion... ShaunyC