The Sun Never Sets on the British Empire

It may never set but it rarely seems to shine. Another school break means another adventure into the unknown. What better way to celebrate the arrival of spring than to visit a place where all four seasons feel like winter. I know many of you are now interested to hear about our adventures in Newfoundland, so I will set the record straight: our goal this time was Ireland, with a dash of London thrown in for good measure. It occurs to me now there are many places on the planet where the inhabitants complain about their weather. However, there are few places that can claim crappy weather all the time, and most, but not all of these, seem to be somewhere in the British Isles.

The first few days consisted of hitting the high notes in London with some friends who were on their way home to Saskatoon. London is a busy, busy place. There looks to be a good bit of construction going on, no doubt for the Olympics and the Queen’s jubilee. We were able to watch the changing of the guard, along with a few thousand of our closest friends, all of whom seemed to have arrived just before we did (we mostly just imagined what was going on). We also took in a couple of shows, rode the tube with the unwashed masses, had a fabulous Indian meal, and checked our watches against Big Ben. The curious part of London for me, other than the bone-chilling unseasonably cold weather, was the international feel of the place. Closing your eyes and listening to the street chatter, you would be hard pressed to believe you were anywhere near England, let alone the capital. 

Reader's Digest version of London

Changing - but slowly...

Who's your bobby?

Not falling down, as it turns out.

A quick bus ride, which best describes Ryan Air, and we found ourselves on the emerald isle. Dublin seemed quite sedate compared to London although the weather was essentially the same (crappy). One other clue to the change in venue was the local variation on English. It’s fun to listen to the rolling lilt of the Irish, but for me it was only a slight improvement over French: I got about 40% of what was being said. 

We spent some time on the Hop-on-Hop-off tour bus, which provided both educational tidbits and shelter from the weather. Dublin has some history, some of which is actually interesting. I found this a foreign concept having studied Canadian history. Ireland seems to have a disproportionate number of writers. I will suggest the recipe of poor weather, attractive but temperamental women, and easy access to whiskey, creates an ideal writing environment.

We took the tour of Kilmainham gaol, the infamous prison for rebellious Irishmen, as well as women and children (they had inmates a young as 6 years old). In the late 16^th century it was considered the latest in thoughtful incarceration. By 1924, when it finally closed, It had been the site of many significant executions throughout Ireland’s somewhat disturbing history.

Scared Straight?

The next day we took the train to a little town up the coast called Dalkey. It reminded Ann of west Vancouver; there was constant drizzle and big houses. Apparently the renowned pop-lit novelist Maeve Binchey and U2 guitarist Edge live there, along with van Morrison, when he’s not out on tour. On our walk through town, we met a friendly cat, and a very friendly old man who was happy to share his comprehensive view of the town with us. I’ll give the Irish full marks for being friendly and chatty. A quick stop at the chemist's for some toothpaste resulted in a lengthy discussion with the proprietor covering many of the finer points of the pharmaceutical and legal industries. I am proud to say I held up my end of the conversation (it was in English, after all). On the way back to Dublin we decided to bend the rules around our return ticket and go a couple of extra stops past where we started, to save a few pennies and perhaps an unnecessarily long walk. As it turns out, the Irish train system is specifically designed to prevent deadbeats like us taking advantage of the system, by requiring your ticket to get you off the railway platform. Our tickets were ... not completely valid, and therefore we were trapped, unless we confessed our sins to security. We huddled to discuss strategy and settled on the old classic ‘dumbass tourist ploy’, then stepped forward to accept our punishment in the form of the inevitable eye roll and lecture. Fortunately, chaos is opportunity, and in this case opportunity presented itself in the guise of an unruly drunk being ‘assisted’ off the platform by four sturdy security guys. Another security guy, distracted by the excitement, was happy to buzz us through without even inquiring as to the nature of our problem. What lessons Perri learned that day I cannot say.

This could be Newfoundland if there were fewer buildings.

Nova Scotia maybe?

Although I’m not a big fan of Guinness beer, we felt culturally obligated to take a tour of the Guinness brewery. Here is a company that has turned what many people consider to be liquid love, or perhaps an unholy union of barley and hops, into a global brand. The gift shop was hard to resist. 

"I'm just having a wee taste."

Later in the day, through a reckless disregard for our map, we found ourselves in a slightly shady part of town looking for the train station to get back to our hotel. A local chap recognized our plight and went out of his way to get us where we were going. I’ve never heard stories of leprechauns doing good deeds, and I can’t say for sure if he was one, but he sure looked and sounded the part. Further observations confirmed that any Irish male shorter than me constituted a potential leprechaun. I apologize to the entire nation.

The next day meant a real train ride through the Irish countryside to Belfast. I’ll admit the change from Dublin was subtle. Other than switching euros to pounds, things were ‘kinda the same’. Belfast seems a bit cleaner than Dublin, but the people have more of the same Irish friendly and chatty attitude. If you ask someone from Belfast about the difference and they’ll tell you Dublin has lost it’s Irish character where Belfast has not, although they will spend at least twenty minutes doing so. I guess its all relative as Dublin was definitely more cosmopolitan than Belfast (but much less so than London). 

And then we focused on the whole point of the expedition north: the new Titanic Museum. 

If you listen carefully, you can almost hear Celine.

My extensive experience with museums has taught me one thing: if it takes me more than 45 minutes to go through the whole museum, there’s something wrong with it. In this case, we were at least a couple of hours from tip to tail, and, with the benefit of a few Kilkennys under my belt, I will admit the place was better than most. I tend to resist most pop culture tripe, and the 100th anniversary of a cruise ship sinking certainly qualifies as tripe, in my view. However, in spite of the Hollywood spin on this story, there is something strangely compelling about the whole business. Come to Belfast and see for yourself.

An aside on food:

I don’t understand how the entire Irish population has not expired from scurvy. Fruits and vegetables are rare sights on the menu. Deep fried foods in their many variations, along with creative uses of the glorious potato, dominate the culinary landscape. The food is generally good and filling, but I found myself craving fresh produce. And this from someone who generally passes on salad of any kind.

Maybe vegetables are good for you.

Our last day was a guided bus tour from Belfast to the Giant’s Causeway. We expected it to be meteorological nightmare as the northern tip of Ireland is competitive with Scotland in terms of wind, rain, and cold. The weather up to that point in the holiday had been consistently rainy and cool, so we had accepted our fate. Being provisioned for an arctic adventure, the weather refused to cooperate, and we were bathed in sunshine and light breezes all day. C’est la vie.

The trip itself was pleasant enough in spite of the managed feel of the excursion (e.g. “We’re only stopping here for 15 minutes people. Please take your pics and get back on the bus as soon as possible.”). An overhyped rope bridge, and a brief stop to look at a medieval castle (from about a mile away) brought us eventually to the Giant’s Causeway. 

Only 100 feet to the water. 

Not much of a beach vacation.

Is that a castle way over there?

We were told the Giant’s Causeway is the number 3 natural tourist destination in the world, after the Grand Canyon and Niagara falls. If that is true, I expect it is a distant, distant third, and I worry about whoever finished in 4th, 5th, 6^th etc.. I found it a bit disappointing until I got up close, as the columnar basalts are pretty cool.  Ann was giddy. However, I simply can’t believe there are that many tourists with the same interest in structural geology.

A volcano did all this? Yippee!

Finally a quiet moment.

Train, cab, plane, plane, car and we’re home for supper the next day (after a quick detour to San Sebastian for a couple of cases of good Riojas).

Irish Holiday ratings:

Food 5

Beer 8

People 9 (almost 10)

Sites 6

Overall 7

author's note - don't let the pictures fool you, most of the days were chilly and rainy.

The Season of Love

At the risk of offending those who have had a full winter of darkness and cold, spring has definitely come to the Arcachon Basin. The warm weather (20c+) and sunshine do much toward putting one’s mind at ease. For me it means we won’t need the full load of firewood we ordered during the coldest of cold snaps back in February (did I mention our house has no insulation?).  The nice man delivered it the day after our sub-standard heating system elected to strike after being asked to do it’s job, in the French tradition. At the time, I was so happy to see such a huge pile of nicely split oak, I failed to notice how curiously heavy it was. Needles to say, it didn’t so much burn as sizzle.  Next time we’ll ask for seasoned firewood. On the bright side, six or eight good drying months from now we’ll be ready.

Ok. So what gets me on the topic of spring? I’m glad you asked. A few things got me pondering how spring here is defined so differently from my experience, which is: 1. daylight savings time 2. snow melts 3. snow mold kills grass 4. leaves come out, although mostly on the stupid trees like poplars who don’t understand there’s at least one more blizzard coming. Here, many of the deciduous trees (one’s with real leaves) don’t waste their time losing their leaves, and those that do get naked seem to prefer producing blossoms before they leaf out.  I have no idea why.

This is a mimosa (with leaves).

This could be some kind of fruit (?)

I don't know what this is but the blossoms are tulip-sized.

That being said, the big trees, like oaks and sycamores, don’t seem in any real hurry to get leafy although the weather certainly indicates they could start any time.  

This is a tee box but those are oaks down the sides.

Another reminder was the cacophony, a word I love but rarely get to use, which greeted Bertrand (my new golf buddy – a retired lawyer from Paris) and I as we passed a water hazard on the golf course the other morning. We tend to start fairly early in the day.

Another busy day at the golf course.

Bertrand explained it was “the season of love” for the local frog population.  I thought it was a delightfully French thing to say. In Canada we would be more clinical (e.g. ‘mating season’ or simply ‘spring’).  The local bird population, including the woodpeckers, have also embraced the concept, and the morning air is filled with songs as foreign to me as French; pretty, but unfamiliar.

I would say we weathered the first winter fairly well, with some qualifiers. I know Ann missed a proper dose of skiing, although we did get a few days over the Christmas break. For me, I found it was difficult to miss something so out of sync with the local weather. I tend to think about skiing when I see snow, and golf when I see grass. In Calgary, that amounts to an 80/20 split, where I find myself pining for something green that isn’t salad. This winter, with the exception of one weekend in the snowy Pyrenees (see previous blog), I didn’t give skiing much thought.

Another stark lowlight of the winter season was the occasional bought of loneliness experienced by all members of the crew, an occupational hazard of expatriate work. I know both Ann and Perri are social animals (those who know me know I’m not) and the dark days of winter following a brief visit home illuminated our solitary existence (I promise to stop the conflicting lighting imagery from here on in). Simply put, the girls miss their peeps. Fortunately, we have been able to find ways to ingratiate ourselves into the local social scene. Perri has started to spend some non-school time with a few of the girls in her class. Ann has become a prominent member of the local smelly squash club, and I do not use that adjective lightly. It could hold it’s own against any hockey change room you could name. We have been invited to two (count them, two) dinners at the homes of locals. I can assure you nothing is more difficult for me than to sit quietly while the mealtime banter is both jovial and incomprehensible.  On a positive note, I can now add wild boar to the list of ‘animals I have eaten’ (it doesn’t taste like chicken). And, although I have found a few members of the local golf club who aren’t completely offended by spending a couple of hours with one so hopeless at their beautiful language, I too find myself missing a some parts of my previous life (e.g. there are some things said at card games which, although quite funny, are acceptable only to people with a long shared history). I’ll live, as long as I’m doing this stint with my girls, my cats, and the acceptance of the neighbor’s cats.  It doesn’t hurt that the golf season is twelve months long either.

Looking forward, we must now gird our loins for the onslaught of fleets of ships of guests. As the season of love finishes, 'la saison d'invité' begins...

post script - I was wandering along the other morning, while looking for an errant tee shot, when a noise from the trees gave me pause. It sounded like someone's Swiss wall clock was stuck. I always believed the cuckoo was the creation of some clock-maker's sleep-deprived imagination and yet here one was, earnestly cuckooing in hopes, I should think, of attracting another cuckoo with similar tastes. Another illusion shattered. I am now actively searching the tree-line for yetis, bigfeet (bigfoots?), and unicorns.

Africa Version 1.0

Ok, so now you've figured out how we decide where to go. So let's go!

En route (that’s French for ‘on the way’) to our first real African experience, we had a healthy 6-hour layover in Amsterdam.  A short train ride into town made sense as even the impressive Amsterdam airport can wear a little thin after a few hours.  Besides, I’d always wanted to experience the city best known for it’s open-mindedness, if only for a short time. After leaving the train station, I realized the ‘dam’ in Amsterdam stands for ‘damn, it’s cold!’. Packing for a vacation in equatorial Africa didn’t prepare me for wandering the streets of Amsterdam in February.  It was chilly, but not so cold so as to deter the legions of cyclists utilizing the extensive bike path system in the city (note to pedestrians  - walking on the bike path, which looks just like the sidewalk to me, is potentially fatal). 

The ultimate goal of the experience was to find the flower market, famous for its displays of tulips. In spite of suffering from mild hypothermia, it dawned on me the market might not be in full flower during the last leg of the Dutch winter. Still, a good soldier follows orders, especially when issued from the sugar momma. 

Along the way we noticed the slightly tippy nature of the architecture in Amsterdam (none of the buildings seem perfectly vertical) although there seems to be no immediate danger. As we walked along a side street, I watched a fellow step behind a curious structure made of curved metal walls. He then turned around in such a way as to stare through a conveniently placed, eye-high gap in the wall. It occurred to me it was a public urinal just as we made eye contact. Quickly averting my eyes toward the building we were passing, I immediately made eye contact with the full-figured, scantily-clad woman standing in the window. I didn't think we were in the red light district but apparently independent operators can be found anywhere downtown. In retrospect I hope I didn't breach window shopping protocol . Since my viewing options were suddenly severely restricted, I promptly took great interest in the sidewalk directly in front of me. Ann and Perri were oblivious to my plight. I’ve just got to stop being so observant. And speaking of observations, the smoke drifting from each coffee shop we passed confirmed the Dutch legal opinion on cannabis use was being fully embraced by the populace. We eventually made it to the market and back to the safety of Schipol International airport, where our Kenyan Airlines jet waited patiently.

She knows how to dress for Europe in February.

You won't find this at the  Calgary farmer's market with Harper at the helm.

After a quick red-eye special to Nairobi, and a short flight past Mount Kilimanjaro (quite spectacular in the morning sun as seen from 20,000 feet), we found ourselves on the island of Zanzibar. As we drove across the island to our all-inclusive beach resort, it was impossible not to gag on the irony as we passed a decidedly 3^rd world environment. It was all there: oxcarts, tin-roof shanties with no electricity or running water, buses of suspect structural integrity, packed to rafters, and let's not forget the women doing most of the work. The first thing that caught my attention, however, was the spectacular rainbow of bright colors adorning the local women.  Zanzibar is primarily Muslim, and the local women seem to have tapped a vein of vibrant colors for their wardrobes, reminiscent of a Turkish pottery shop (see October’s blog).

The resort itself was of the disturbing all-inclusive variety, complete with swim-up bar and buffet suitable for binge eating, not to mention the pasty Belgians who overdo it on the first day and spend the remaining 2 weeks in the shade. The staff, who were friendly to a fault, were always willing to share Swahili words with you if you showed the slightest interest. Apparently, we were the only ones who did. One significant difference from previous vacations was the variety of guests' nationalities, hailing from countries like Belgium, the Netherlands, Finland, South Africa and Australia. Eavesdropping on poolside chatter was not an easy proposition (for me they all could have been speaking French). Another difference was the unbelievable water temperature. The surf was literally bath temperature and the water color was that perhaps-not-so-fake turquoise you often see in vacation ads.

This could be a picture off the website, but I really took it from our balcony.

While we were there, we took part in the usual touristy day trips: snorkeling, a spice farm tour, and a poorly guided trip through Stone Town, a Unesco world Heritage site, featuring such highlights as a 19^th century slave market, and, much more importantly, the birthplace of Freddy Mercury. I'm not sure the local Muslim community realizes he was a flamboyant pop star who died of AIDS, but maybe they do and don't care. Other than the fantastic seafood lunch on the snorkeling trip (best lunch ever!), I can’t say the first few days were remarkable. Perri added some drama by being sick to her stomach for a couple of days, much to the chagrin of our driver. But to her credit, she refused to be left behind. We managed to disregard every traveller website about eating in Africa by having lunch in a local restaurant in Stone town. Although it looked a bit dodgy, I had the curried mussels and lived to tell the tale. Perhaps my intestinal parasites are territorial and won't tolerate any incursions.

Interesting pasties.

This tortoise was alive during Victoria's reign even though it doesn't look like he is now (just sleeping, probably).

Before the vacation, Ann suggested we load up with school supplies in France and make a donation to a local school in Tanzania. So, one day, while Ann was off snorkeling, Perri and I befriended a Maasai fellow on the beach who agreed to take us into the local town to visit the school. We arrived during recess and the headmaster gave us the overview: lots of students and not enough supplies. On the way back, I realized we could have done a lot more. For those of you who have a conscience and plan to visit developing nations in the near future, look up the ‘packing for a purpose’ website to give you some ideas.

The English teacher at work?

She might go to school.

I was able to have a nice chat with our Maasai escort who explained he and his buddies come from the mainland to Zanzibar during the tourist season to ‘run the business’, which included selling knick-knacks and doing traditional dances at the resorts as after-dinner entertainment. We eventually wandered down the beach to see the shop, which was comprised of a half dozen tents filled with carvings, necklaces, and traditional Maasai skull-crusher clubs (I got one and I’m dying for someone to break into our house while I’m home, although I think I’ll put it somewhere out of Ann’s reach).  After some haggling, Ann remarked that although the Maasai salesmen spent the whole day on the beach, where it gets very hot, they all smell like they just stepped out of a very soapy shower. It’s true but I couldn’t say why.

Ole and Jackson - they really are Maasai. Don't let the sunglasses fool you.

The next day we were the only passengers on a 12 seater Cessna for a 20 minute flight back to the mainland, where we had an exciting landing (big-time cross winds) on a dirt airstrip within sight of the ocean. Saadani national park is a recently converted hunting reserve of about 1000 km², and is one of the smaller parks in the country. We had few expectations about our accommodation and what we might see while we were there. I had visions of suspect food, pesky biting insects, and long crowded drives where the guides would apologize for seeing nothing more than distant specks which may or may not be antelope . Since I only brought a small camera with no big lenses, I was prepared for the worst. The camp was truly rustic with thatched-roof cabinas right on the beach (we were 5 steps to the high tide line), the occasional bat in the bathroom, monkeys trying to steal your lunch, and boardwalks between structures. However, our mosquito spray didn’t seem necessary and was used only as a precaution should we actually encounter any mosquitoes. There were other guests although we only ever saw them at dinner. And the food was fresh and excellent.

Our first expedition was a late-day river trip, which was exciting when we first saw hippos. Then less so when we kept seeing them for the next hour or so (there are a few hundred who live along that stretch of river). Perri may have seen a crocodile slipping quietly into the water, and we all saw a goodly number of strange birds (at least, strange to us).  Again, we were the only three on this excursion, which I expected to be unusual, but proved to be the norm.

There were many of these.

The next morning Ann and I got up early to watch a local watering hole about 40 meters from the camp, complete with an observation hut. After about an hour of discussing the numerous and sizeable ants sharing the hut with us, we had just about given up on seeing anything. I know most of you are thinking maybe something would turn up if you shut-up for a few minutes and that is just what you would think, except it was while we were chatting a troupe of baboons showed up for drink.

Later in the afternoon we climbed aboard one of the range rovers for game drive, where we once again had a private experience. We were delighted to see some monkeys, baboons, antelope, a few zebra and a bunch of giraffe. All told, we were quite happy about the trip. We weren’t sure what we missed, although at dinner another group, who had been there almost a week, assured us it was unusual to see anything more interesting. They were hoping to see some elephants before they left, but weren’t counting on it.

Our guide spoke quietly, but was certainly effective.

I'm not even sure what this is exactly.

Warthogs - they're just funny.

Giraffes are cool and very photogenic.

On our last night we were surprised by a bushbaby (no photos but there are such things) while we played cards after dark. Imagine a large squirrel, then notch up the cuteness factor about 5 clicks. They make a funny sound that suggests they're disappointed and upset at the same time, even when they're happy, or frisky. I honestly couldn't say where this one was coming from, emotionally, but it returned to our hut for a noisy encore at about 3 a.m..

A few short hours later, we climbed into the truck for our last drive (still, just the three of us). The morning held little promise as the wind was up bringing the distinctive odor of rain, or was it failure. I was convinced we would get a nice, wet three-hour drive where indistinct blobs sitting under distant trees would be described as possible examples of African wildlife. In the first hour I was reminded of the Jeff Goldblum character in Jurassic Park explaining how he hates being right all the time. Just when we were all resigned to seeing nothing more than a few bush bucks, and Perri and I had begun taking pictures of trees, the guide stopped the truck and pointed to the horizon. “Elephants”, was all he said, before racing the truck off the road in the general direction he had been pointing. Darned if he wasn’t right. He parked the truck in such a way that the entire herd of perhaps 25 animals, including a number of little ones, walked right past us. Very cool. They made almost no sound except the occasional tearing sound when one reached out and grabbed a substantial amount of foliage off a passing tree and shoveled it into his or her mouth, an eating style with which I am familiar.

Perhaps we were a bit too close for his liking.

Mark it down as a successful day!

On the way back, Perri and Ann were jabbering away like a couple of kids on Christmas morning. At least they were until the guide quietly said ‘lions’. And darned if the guide wasn’t right again.  This time we found ourselves literally parked in the midst of a pride of lions happily enjoying the remains of their breakfast baboon. We were gob-smacked (I’ve been dying to use that word). After ten minutes of listening to the sounds of bones being crunched a few meters away, I was reminded I hadn’t had breakfast yet. There was also a non-eaten baboon, who was at the top of a nearby tree (the only nearby tree) loudly voicing his displeasure at the demise of his buddy. I think he also realized it was going to be a long day waiting for the lions to have a nap and move on.

I think she had breakfast...

But I don't think this young male had, and I really didn't like the way he was looking at me.

On the way back to camp, we decided it would be best if we weren’t too vocal about seeing both the elephants and lions since none of the other guests had. I’m not sure about safari etiquette, but what with all the Maasai skull-crusher clubs available, I didn’t want to tempt fate.

Breakfast – packing – flight to Dar es Salaam for a nice meal then 4 ½ hours of sleep before the marathon travel day home.

Overall – both Tanzania and Zanzibar are pretty cool.

The Winter of Our Discontent

I decided to take a little walk through the trees the other day. Being in a forestry district, the difference between a residential street and wilderness is about 20 steps. 

This goes for miles.

During hunting season, which I have been told has been extended into March, due to the high numbers of wild pigs snuffling about, a walk in the forest can be your first step on the stairway to heaven. Fortunately, hunting is not allowed on Wednesday afternoons. Is it a coincidence school is out on Wednesday afternoons? In France it probably is.  I did stumble upon a hunting blind, although I’m not sure what you hide from:

Blind: That garbage is spent shotgun shells.

The only thing I could see from the blind was a bunch of houses across the vale. I’m guessing they don’t get many sleep-ins in the fall, especially on weekends. It would be the hunting equivalent of having your bedroom window face the first tee box on a golf course.

There were a few interesting stretches of trail along the valley bottoms, where moss dominates the landscape.

Filtered?

Another filter? What do you think?

For a long stretch, I imagined I was walking through the set of the Blair Witch Project.  Looking around, everything looked kinda the same, like this:

and this:

And the sky looked like this:

I might've been a little lost, but certainly not scared. What can a bunch of wild pigs do to a guy? I've heard they're clever but I know they're tasty, so I concentrated on ham rather than the concept of hunting in packs.

I was able to overcome any directional confusion through the use of my Iphone’s google maps application, which got me safely home, eventually. But first, a quick stop at the mall.

The little mall here is like the mall anywhere: a big store and a bunch of little stores where muzac is piped in for the listening pleasure of the shoppers. What caught my attention on this trip was the hard-core rap being played, and the generous use of F-bombs and MF-bombs being dropped by the vocalist. No bleeping out words for these guys. As the song was in English, it appeared that I was the only person aware of the verbal assault. Some might suggest the locals display a high level of tolerance for non-traditional art forms. I might suggest the kid in charge of music that day knew exactly what he could get away with. Nicely done.

It was good I got my hiking out of the way, as it looks like I may have been misinformed about the hospitable nature of the Arcachon winter. Over the next week there are forecast lows of -7c! I’ll admit I am curious to see how the locals will dress under those circumstances. After all, it appears they wear everything they own at +10c. Judging by the air quality on cold days, I guess they hunker down and ride it out at home in front of their busy little wood-burning fireplaces.

So, what does an enterprising Canadian family do when faced with the bleak prospects of a long dark winter? Why, they plan a vacation somewhere warm, of course! As usual, when faced with Perri’s school break, Ann always starts with a simple plan and modest aspirations.  Somehow, the plan unravels. This is how I think her brain works:

"I love the Canary Islands. We should go there.  Easy. The Canaries are not too far away and relatively cheap. Oh-oh. Look at those February temperatures. Daily highs in the low 20’s? That’s not serious heat. And the wind is probably always blowing. I can’t be expected to shake off the chill of winter with anything less than 25c. No problem. I’ll just keep my finger moving south on the map until I hit something else. Hey look! The Cape Verde Islands are cool and they are much further south. They must be warmer. Damn the moderating influence of the ocean! The Cape Verdes aren’t much warmer than the Canaries. Maybe this ocean is broken. We should look at other oceans. Hmmm… Atlantic’s no good, Mediterranean – it’s close, but it’s just a sea, Arctic – definitely not for winter, Pacific – too far (for now), Indian – hello. Why, there are all kinds of warm-looking places along here. Somalia? That sounds warm and familiar but not for the right reasons. Kenya – maybe. Madagascar – very cool, and hot. We should go there; I saw the movie. Wait a second. What’s this tiny island thing off the coast of … of… what country is that? Tanzania? I thought they renamed that one. And this island is … Zanzibar? Well I guess it’s decided. Nothing with a name like that gets ignored."

Author’s note - I’d like to avoid searing comments from readers by reminding them I am within the legal boundaries defined by my artistic license, recently purchased from the local French prefecture in regards to mindreading. I’ll admit with only 20 years of empirical studies on this subject (Ann), I recognize I may not have got it exactly right.

At this point, I have to step-in and admit that Richard actually described things pretty much the way they unfolded in my brain.  However, I am not offended in the least. Actually, I take pride in my goofy, unconstrained, creative thought process because it sometimes leads to some interesting ideas (not always though...)   - Ann

So, we’re off to Tanzania in a few weeks. Like any thoughtful traveller, I was compelled to check the on-line travel advisory websites for hints on safety, health, and money. Interesting. Apparently I can acquire no less than a dozen potentially fatal tropical diseases as well as a few which aren’t, but you’d generally wish they were if you actually caught them. This called for a trip to the travel medical clinic in Bordeaux. I used to believe an inoculation for something like yellow fever prevented the disease. However, after spending the last couple of days feeling like a test subject in a biology experiment gone terribly wrong, I have come to the conclusion inoculations are simply disease ' free samples'. Of course, Ann and Perri feel great.

We had another guest a few days ago and used him as an excuse to visit St. Emilion yet again. The ancient town in the heart of Bordeaux wine country will always make the to-do list for those of you planning a visit. The Chateau we visited for a wine tour lured us into joining their frequent flyers club. Maybe this is the first sign that we have a problem. I prefer to believe we are hobbyists.

One more glance at the weather forecast suggests I may be without golf for more than a few days. Cabin fever is always a danger. The two local sport channels favour European handball and field hockey. On slow days, re-runs of recent ski jumping events dominate the airwaves. Even better, the local movie channel was running a film with French subtitles a few days ago. I was a bit confused because it sounded to my untrained ears as though the film was already in French. And it was. But not the kind of French they understand around here. The film was made in Quebec and the subtitles were deemed essential for viewer comprehension. Perhaps some elocution lessons for the French-Canadian acting community are in order.

As the temperature plummets, it occurs to me our house relies on three or four radiators to heat the whole place. There is only one on the entire main floor. Six months ago I admired the generous use of windows (not the double-paned, high efficiency variety) and sparing use of unsightly radiators. Now I'm not so sure. I also used to wonder why there were so many halogen lights in the house, since they cost more to replace than standard bulbs. Now I see they may be intended as a secondary heating system!

School vacation can't come soon enough.