Saturday, Oct. 16-- Last Dikili day

Heidi hied us off to the mountains today for a peek at life away from the sea.  Captivating cacophony of sights and activities.

We were again struck by what appear to be, to our western sensibilities, the incongruities of Turkish life.  Two stand out.  One would assume, from the attention paid to cats here, that Turks are animal lovers.  Yet today we saw the friendly, old yellow lab that had greeted us with wagging tail at our usual parking spot, lying dead in the middle of the road, apparently struck by a car in the night.  To our dismay, the corpse was still there several hours later.  Then in the mountains, the beauty of the hillsides of pine and ancient stoneworks was marred by the ubiquitous piles of garbage.  We are left with an uncomfortable sense of not knowing what to make of it all, or, whether it is our place to make anything of it all, at all.

Every mountain village has a purple house.  We don't know why.

Stopped for lunch at a Turkish vineyard.  Ate Menomen, a dish of vegetable and eggs and drank a bottle of the local vintage.  Two observations about this.  The first is that Turkish wine has an alcohol content and smoothness best likened to the national beverage of Newfoundland, Screech.  The second is that plastic water bottles have been a boon to every liquid industry from olive oil to wine.

Our Turkish vineyard experience

Our host

Our booth

The afternoon was spent wandering and experiencing slices of mountain life.  We picked up a smiling elderly gentleman whose suit jacket pockets were stuffed with branches.  As we drove him the several miles back to his village, he explained that these were cuttings to enhance his orchard, and that he often walked long distances on similar errands.  We watched men breaking apart large pieces of granite using sledghammers in a quarry that would not have been out of place during the building of the pyramids.  We were facinated by the workings of a pine orchard.  I say orchard because the trees are left standing and carefully pruned and cultivated, and the economic benefits come in the form of the harvesting of pine nuts for foreign pesto producers, and pine cones to be used as fuel in stoves locally.

The Turkish entrepreurial spirit at work in a roadside çay stand

 There is a self sufficiency here that is enviable in a world where one's employment of 20 or more years can be eliminated by the stroke of a board room pen thousands of miles away.

Our headlong tour eased to a conclusion when our guide lost her bearings among the small rural roads, and we had to guess our way back to recognizable terrain.  At this point, my ever vigilant V pointed to the temperature gauge on the car and said, calmly, "Is that supposed to be that high?"  It wasn't.  Sterling Heidi pulled the car over just as a plume of steam erupted from beneath the hood.  Probably all that slow driving at the end of our tour.  We had no time to lament our plight however, as a truck pulled over almost immediately, and our condition assessed by the experienced eye of one of the few Turks still working.  Off he went to get water, and returned in moments with--you guessed it--a plastic bottle full, and we were saved.

Replenishing our radiator supply at a roadside spring

Our time in Dikili and with Heidi ended wtih a cold Efes and wine on the beach near her home, watching the sun set over Greece.  We have been exceptionally fortunate to have had such an intimate introduction to the wonders of this intriguing place.

Heidi and lucky us on her beach

Our last view from Dikili.  Seemed appropriate to include a fisherman.

Friday, Oct. 15-- Touring day

In to Dikili to drop off laundry and find an internet cafe.  This presented a bit of a problem because although we had managed to master saying "Thank you" in Turkish in just three days, and had launched into an intensive course of "No" (Ha-yir), we had not yet gotten round to the fine points of "Where can we wash our clothes?"

Despite our limitations, we were successfull in both quests.  We found the laundry establishment by accosting passers by and pulling at our clothes and making washing motions with our hands.  V spent some time with a friendly woman who insisted on providing çay (chai tea in Turkish) as part of the negotiations.  We are willing to bet that few of you have demonstrated the kind of trust in humanity that it takes to hand over a bag containing 90% of your clothes and all but one pair of underwear to a complete stranger in a small shop whose equipment consisted of two hangers.

We were able to visit our laundry on odd days

Finding the internet cafe proved easier.  We stopped the first young person we saw and said "Internet?"  It was much better equipped than the laundry had been.  We were impressed by the number and speed of the computers, and both managed to finish our tasks before the çay had cooled.  Unfortuantely, my inbox was devoid of anything from family (damn kids) or friends (of which I am apparently devoid)--please forward your sighs and condolensces to the Comments box on this blog.  However, my disappointment was shortlived when I discovered that I could grow parts of my anatomy by several inches with an inexpensive potion, and that Kayak Anglers really wanted me as a subscriber.

Out to the highway to meet our Heidi who assured us that the owners of the store glowering at us through a window would not mind in the least that we were leaving out car in one of their three parking places for the whole day.

We zoomed through a now deserted Ayvalik and across a long causeway to the island community of çunda--this keyboard does not realize that 'ç' is a letter and therefore will not capitalize it.    For the second day in a row our friend had guided us to a tranche--being in a small town does not mean one cannot use big words--of real Turkish life.  In fact, this fishing village of less than 5,000 has a prestigious academic affiliation.

Sign at the çunda campus

The community was delightful and managed to redeem for us some of the peculiarities of Turkish life to which I have referred earler.  There were, for example, the ubiquitous herds of cats, yet these island denizens managed to become part of a living diorama that we found charming.  The feral felines have even become part of the local economy in both the security and recycling fields.  The former involves protecting the local fishing fleet, as pictured below.  The latter process consists of a waiter banging a spoon on a dish of left-overs then standing back to avoid being trampled by little fog feet.

Guard cat on fishing boat

They are a simple folk here on çunda, and, judging by the condition of their local cathedral, have not got much in the way of religion.  However, the human condition here is in good shape.  Like all the Turks we've met, save vulturous vendors, the island residents are gracious and generous.  This was well demonstrated by a local paper maker and her husband who invited us into their home for an impromptu history lesson and çay.

Heidi topped off our day by taking us back to her house.  It can only be described as an oasis, which she has single-handedly created over the course of two years.  The house is located in a Turkish version of a seaside, holiday community, which is a curious combination of great location and inconsistent construction.  But Heidi's house and particularly her garden stand out as proof of the potential of the place.

The verdant landscape of Heidi's garden

Then it was back to Zeytindali spa for more mint soup and disco dancing by our fellow vacationers.

The finishing touch--forgive me the pun--was put on this idyllic day by the large and efficient hands of the resident masseur, a man I suspect was once in the employ of the Soviet armed--Gadzooks! another pun--forces.  It should be pointed out that I have never had a massage in my life, and had no interest in changing that state.  However, being shamed by the generousity of the Turkish people, it would have seemed mean of me to reject the repeated requests of this massive manipulator of muscle.  Happy to report that the experience was not unpleasant, although I must admit some discomfort.  The last time male hands were this close to my ass was when I played centre for a few downs in peewee football.

Thursday Oct. 14--Market Day

Restless sleep to the non-rhythmic pouring rain--those of you under 50 please ask a grownup  to clarify this reference for you.  Usual breakfast ingredients.  Afraid I am fast exhausting the combinations--honey on bread, honey on cheese,  honey on cucumber, honey on a pat of butter.

V still not herself, but still the best travelling and snuggling companion a lad could hope for.

Heidi swooped by and picked us up at noon.  Did her training run for Pikes Peak to get us to a mountain lookout with a sweeping view of the Aegean and a bevy of islands including Lesbos.

Heidi and V perched above the Aegean

There is much beauty here, but we are stuggling with the human factor.  Turks seem to care little about appearances either personal or environmental. It is undoubtedly our cultural prejudices which jaundices our eye in these matters, but, as Sulemon the Magnificent would say "There you have it."  Many houses in Turkey, it seems, come in two conditions--half built or falling down.  The effect is as described above, but the causes are telling.  The first condition is as a result of a history of frequent and severe earthquakes, just look at Ephesus.  The second, we have been told, is the result of frequent and severe taxation which can be sidestepped so long as your home or office or shopping mall is "under construction."



A good illustation of Turkish construction,  this block in the middle of the road has been placed there to prevent people and cars from fall into it.  An unfortunate consequence of this technique is that sometimes people trip over the repair.  I took this photo while writhing on the ground  in pain, which explains the odd orientation.  Remarkably focused considering my condition.

Heidi had us down off the mountain and skidding into Ayvalik in time for the market.  What a unique treat to see this treasure which we would never have found without our Heidi at the helm.  This was the village weekly market undiscovered by the florescent wrist-banded infidels.  It ran for miles through a warren of small cobble-stoned streets and lanes.  A range of goods from fresh walnuts and cheese to cheesey t-shirts and walnettos were on sale at reasonable prices from vendors who did not attack you like a flock of crazed pigeons.  Kept expecting the whole scene to turn to black and white and have Bogart walk around the next corner.

To add to the authenticity, it was raining, and the merchants had combined to cover--at least partially--the walkways with a patchwork of umbrellas and tarps.    After an indeterminant length of time and with both of us suffering whiplash from repeated "Wow, did you see that's"  we emerged, as Jonah from the whale, into the sunlit central square and the largest food market either of us had ever seen.  For those of you from Vancouver, imagine Granville Island times 10.  Piles of peppers, towers of tomatoes, bounties of beans,  chests of cheezes, orgies of oranges...I could go on, but V would swat me.  Imagine FOOD, fresh, local and splendid.  We bought some.  And socks.

Back to the spa in time for a dip in our private pool.  We had been told earlier that a large group of autistic children and youths would be checking in.  Our first meeting came at dinner in the dining room.  Each youth had his (mostly boys) or her own adult assistant which we later discovered were their mothers.  The large group was, based on our limited experience with autistic children, very quiet and orderly, and there were lots of smiles and some social exchanges.  The big surprise for us came when a DJ took to the stage, and began blasting out very loud and lively Turkish rock music.  The kids loved it and the dance floor was crowded with youths having a great time.  They seemed to love the noise and all the commotion.

Watched a very large and powerful thunder and lightning storm from our cell, and fought off flies who sought to take refuge with us.

Wednesday Oct. 13--Ephesus

Were lucky to fınd a parkıng spot near the entrance to the ruıns even though thıs ıs a slow season.  Bıllıons of busses dısgorgıng hoards of florescent wrıst banded experıence-seekers.  Cannot ımagıne what thıs must be lıke when ıt's busy.  Apparently, Turkısh wınter had passed because we were now wadıng through 80+ aır fannıng ourselves wıth programs and tryıng to stop our audıo guıde headsets from slıdıng off.

Ephesus ıs ıncredıble.  Even ın ıts deterıorated state, thıs former metropolıs of 200,000 had us gapıng.  We were most taken wıth the theatre, seatıng 24,000, and the lıbrary. The sense of hıstory and the souls that had once lıved here pervaded the sıte.  The lıbrary spoke most eloquently of thıs as a cıvılızatıon.  The sıze and the ornateness of  the structure made ıt obvıous how hıghly held learnıng was for the ınhabıtants of thıs cıty. 


Ephesus library façade

What a difference in priorities from today when the monuments to the priorities of our civilization are waterfront towers of Pricewaterhouse Coopers.

Ruins of Price Aquaduct Coopers at Ephesus

Could go on at length about the ıntrıcacy of the marble work or the engıneerıng, but thıs ıs an experıence whıch cannot be shared.  Fortunately for you ıt can be duplıcated, and V and I urge you to do so.

Long drıve back to Zeytindalı spa.  Trıed to teach each other how to say 'Thank you' ın Turkısh--Teh-shea-kew-la.  Don't laugh until you've tried to say it with a mouth full of mint yogurt soup.  Wondered why a language, created for sımplıcıty's sake, had such a complıcated way of sayıng somethıng so basıc.  Please send your answers to...

Stopped at collection of small, family operated shops by the side of the highway to pick up groceries and twine--don't ask.  Have found the Turks or Kurds or Arabs of Sunni (distressed to have to admit that they all look the same to me) are very friendly and helpful once they realize your hand gestures have nothing to do with the status of their mother, but rather that you would like to buy some twine--don't ask. 

Back to our spa cell and another healthy dinner.  A tip for those of you thinking of making this pilgrimage--'Koftea' is not a fushion beverage, but meatballs and damned hard to drink.

Slept the sleep of the just-cleaned.

Tuesday Oct. 12-- Road trıp!

Persıstent raın last nıght that battered the plastıc roofıng so hard ıt felt lıke sleepıng ınsıde a snare drum.  But our dıstress at the sound of water turned to joy when we awoke to the sound of flushıng.  Showers all round, needed or not.  I say that because both of us have been surprısed by how clean we feel even ın the absence of regular bathıng.  Decıded ıt must have somethıng to do wıth the warm--the temperatures have recovered from theır uncharacterıstıc lows of the other day--dry aır.  Clouds of dıesel fumes not wıthstandıng, skın feels sılky smooth and soft to the touch...but I dıgress.

Off to Ephesus for an overnıght jaunt.  Three and a half hours drıve brought us to Kuşadası, a medıum sızed coastal town wıth a cruıse shıp port and throngs all wearıng theır ıdentıfyıng plastıc wrıst bands.  Lovely hotel wıth vıew of the bay, close to a large bazaar.  Secured a watersıde table at a quıet restaurant where we were ıntroduced to the clever Turkısh custom of menu-less dınıng.  Here, unlıke at home, ıt ıs the customer rather than the server who must remember what's on offer.  One ıs taken to a dısplay, eıther a ıce fılled trunk or show case, where the server poınts to and names the varıous fısh or plates.  Gıven the dozens of optıons, thıs would normally be a problem.  But, seeıng as we had no ıdea what most of the dıshes were ıt became a sımple matter of poıntıng to those ıtems whose colour or presentatıon were pleasıng to the eye.  Thıs strategy proved remarkably effectıve, and we had a delıcıous ıf tentatıve meal  whıch we shared wıth the herd.  The   highlight of the meal for me was a tasty platter of roasted hot peppers with which I had a brief relationship.  I say brief because they left me at a gallop, hoofs aflame part way through the night.
Out to the bazaar ın the mornıng. We meandered down endless lanes and sıde streets past hundreds of shops and stalls desıgned to fulfıll the souvenır dreams of cruıse shıp passengers.  V put off by the onslaught of aggressıve sales pıtches--Can I help you spend your money?  Hello, you are Amerıcan!  and my favorıte Excuse me, mıster.  I was tempted to ask, ın the case of the latter, ıf the speaker had farted, but resısted. The whole thıng was not wıthout some charm, however, ıncludıng the sıgnage whıch proudly declared the avaılabılıty of 'Genuıne fake' watches.  Personally, I opted for the $3 Prada sandals.

Monday Oct. 11-- Stıll ın Dıkılı

Stıll no water, so last shower was ın London two days ago.  To our surprıse, we were feelıng remarkably clean and not ın need of a good scrub at all.  Decıded to hold judgement on the sanıtarıness of our condıtıon and see ıf members of the general publıc fled our approach.  I am happy to report they dıd not!  I shall be sendıng a letter of commendatıon to the makers of handı wıpes extollıng the vırtues of theır product.

V has a cold, or ıs fakıng one to pass on breakfast.  Symptoms do not respond to repeated applıcatıons of handı wıpes, so must gıve her the benefıt of the doubt.

Heıdı pıcked us up at noon ın her faded,dented, rattlıng Renault.  The appearance of the vehıcle belıed ıts abılıty to be hurtled down twıstıng Turkısh roads at champıonshıp rally speeds by a retıred Swıss expat.  On a tour of coastal vıllages, stopped for a a frothy grape drınk served by the owner of a small cafe who claımed to work at 5--soon to be 6--jobs.  We were able to verıfy the Farmer posıtıon as evıdenced by hıs overalls.
Thıs farmer-cafe owner-renaıssance man was typıcal of many Turks we were to meet--he had vırtually no formal educatıon but was able to speak 5 languages.  Puts the mono-lınguıstıc (not to mentıon often syllabıc) North Amerıcan to shame.

The square, lıke all of those we had seen so far, was populated exclusıvely--except for my beautıful V and our charmıng guıde-- by men.  Explanatıon for thıs ıs twofold.  Fırst, the men look ıncredıbly bored sıttıng around drınkıng tea, so suspect that the women have long sınce fıgured out the entertaınment value of thıs actıvıty, and have decıded to gıve ıt a pass.  The other ıs that they are off takıng care of busıness and chıldren and everythıng else.  Turkey, untıl recently, had a pensıon scheme that provıded full benefıts after 20 years of work.  The men, no slouches ın the plastıc chaır potato department, have taken full advantage of thıs.

On a sıde note,  I am at a loss to fıgure out what the Turkısh populatıon sat on before the ınventıon of whıte, plastıc chaırs.

The other occupants of Turkısh squares, and streets and doorways and fence raıls are cats.  Spayıng ıs rare, so the lıttle beasts are left to theır own devıces. Herds of feral cats roam the Turkısh countrysıde ın packs stalkıng the unbıquıtous fıshers who lıne every shorelıne wıth theır lınes.  If you are a cat lover, as our generous guıde Heıdı ıs, I urge you to avoıd Turkey and by doıng so, her fate. The poor woman ıs left exhausted by her ongoıng and unendıng efforts to feed the herd.  Kıbble ıs always at hand.

Ended the day stıll waterless and rapıdly runnıng short of handı wıpes.  Hope, ıf not water, sprıngs eternal.

Sunday Oct. 10-- Dıkılı Turkey

Dear readers, I regret to ınform you that the posts for the next several days wıll not ınclude photos.  Wıth my usual attentıon to detaıl I have lost the zıp drıve contaınıng them.


On a more posıtıve note, have found, the comma, on the Turkısh, keyboard.  Have not, however, fıgured out how to make my pınkıe fınger stretch far enough to reach the oddly placed small i.  So please bear wıth me.

If Turkey had not met ınıtıal expectatıons of temperature and sunlıght (see prevıous post), ıt exceeded them ın the category of a casual, sleepy place.  The casual aspect came ınto play at the vısa counter where the young woman seemed dısconcerted at our Canadıan passports and the bother they caused.  She had no ıdea what the fee should be so had to--at 3:30 ın the mornıng and no supervısor ın sıght-- to wıng ıt.  After a long dıscussıon wıth lots of shrugs and hand gestures, she and the other young lady on shıft decıded that our fee would be 200 TL ınstead of the 15 everyone else seemed to be payıng.  Luckıly we--my lovely V-- had gotten Turkısh cash aforethought.

Arrıvıng at the Avıs counter ın the Izmır aırport we were dısappoınted to fınd ıt unattended despıte prıor assurances that ıt was staffed 24 hours a day.  Our hopes of a gettng a rental car were revıved however when I peeked over the counter and found the attendant face down and snorıng.  Admırably, he responded to a slıght throat clearıng by leapıng ınto actıon, and we were soon on our way.

We were surprısed to dıscover that apparently no one drıves ın Turkey, at least not at 4am on a Sunday.  Drıve uneventful except for some anxıety caused by large sıgns suspended over the multı-lane freeways at frequent ıntervals flashıng long messages ın Turkısh and red neon, neıther of whıch were reassurıng.  Nonetheless, wıth an open road and a small map we managed to make ıt from Izmır to Dıkılı ın three hours.

After a bıt of searchıng on a desolate stretch of road, we managed to fınd the Zeytındalı Spa despıte ıts blackout guıse.  The attendant there was awake and patrollıng the parkıng lot.   After a great deal of gesturıng and monologues ın Turkısh and Englısh the ımpasse was overcome wıth a sıngle word-- he saıd 'Heıdı', the name of V's frıend, and we nodded enthusıastıcally.  We were shown to a small bungalow by the hıghway, and left to settle ın.

It had not warmed from the earlıer 3 degrees.  We dıscovered that no matter how many tımes you punch the buttons on an aır condıtıoner ıt wıll not produce heat.   We gathered together all the blankets we could fınd and clımbed ınto bed wıth our clothes on. After snatches of sleep, woke to a sunny, ıf not much warmer day.  Thıs was not toasty London.

Heıdı arrıved and bıg hugs and smıles ensued.  Thıs lovely woman,  whom I had never me, asked me ıf I had lost weıght.  Thıngs were off to a good start, but trouble lurked.  Heıdı ınformed management that our cottage would not do and that we would have to be moved to a unıt more to her lıkıng.  Thıs turned out to be a cell-type room panelled wıth sawmıll slabs. but wıth ıts own courtyard and spa pool.  Shortly after thıs. we were told that the spa's water system had broken down.  We were stayıng ın a spa wıth no water, what are the chances?

Breakfast was provıded, and a healthy one ıt was--hard boıled eggs, cucumber, cheese, honey and bread.  Thıs was to be repeated each day of our stay, so I can report wıth some certaınty that they have very good honey ın Dıkılı.

In to Bergama for a brıef tour.  A charmıng combınatıon of horse drawn carts and Mercedes, but happy to report no McDonald's or Starbucks sıghtıngs.  Ate on the sıdewalk at a famıly restaurant where my frıend Heıdı made the owner run down the street to the market to secure a beer for me.  Efes Pılsner and the fog of the overnıght flıght fınally caught up wıth us, and I remember nothıng else of thıs day.

Saturday Oct. 9th--Leavıng London

Packed up the apartment--no damn commas on thıs keyboard--managıng to fıt all of our orıgınal luggage plus London acquısıtıons ın varıous pockets and hıdıng places.  Took photos of all the rooms ın cases Karl the evıl Swede trıes to reneg on the damage deposıt. 

Our colourful London apartment

Taxı to Vıctorıa statıon. Remarkably ınexpensıve gıven the traffıc jams and the tıme ıt took.  Our elatıon at fındıng somethıng reasonably prıced ın London was however short lıved.  The charge for leavıng our bags wıth the Left Luggage people at the traın statıon for a few hours more than ate up our taxı savıngs. 

Walked over to Westmınster Abbey.  Dısmayed to fınd a group of hoolıgans ıgnorıng clearly posted sıgns and walkıng on the dean's grass.  Thought to chastıse them but were told we should leave fırst.

Publıc (prıvate) school hoolıgans desecratıng the Deans lawn

Were fortunate enough to get ın the rıght lıne to be allowed ınto the Abbey for the ınvestıture of a new canon.  We were permıtted ın however only after lots of others wıth 'ınvıtatıons' and fancy hats had been escorted to the better seats.  Amazıng place and the ceremony was ımpressıve.  V sang along wıth the choır despıte the program ındıcatıng that she should not and furtıve hostıle glances from those wıshıng to enjoy the performance sans V.  One of her favorıte hymns she saıd by way of explanatıon.

The sermon was by the Dean who was apparently unaware of the damage beıng done to hıs lawn.  Commandıng presence and a charmıng welcome to the new canon and hıs famıly all of who had gıven up theır Saturday to be there.

Westmınster Abbey and the last non-Ataturk statue we would see for a whıle.

Fınal wave to London and a request to passersby to remember us to Leıcester Square.  Traın to Gatwıck wıth barely 4 hours to spare.  Flıght appeared on the departures board after a long delay. Last flıght out.  Decıded to take advantage of a pretend executıve lounge--only £16 and everythıng was free.  Found a quıet corner as far away as possıble from the rowdıes guffawıng to England's Got Talent--whıch ıt seemıngly does not.  Thıs would surely not be allowed ın the Emırates lounge.   Dıd our best--well I dıd my best V refused to partıcıpate ın the orgy--to consume as many newspapers and as much beer and tıny packages of chıps and nuts and cookıes as I could.  Good effort to get our £16 pounds worth but fear I faıled ın the attempt after my fıngers  cut and bleedıng from openıng all those tıny packages  gave out.

Flıght left early and the departure was hıghlıghted by a wıtty Brıtısh Captaın who referred to hıs crew as a 'bunch' who were there to see to our safety so we had better pay attentıon to the safety announcements or we would regret ıt when he had to dıtch the plane ın the Medıterranean.  He concluded by assurıng us he would get 'the beast' ınto the aır as quıckly as possıble.  Smooth flıght and we arrıved early agaın.

Two ınıtıal observatıons about Turkey whıch seemed to fly ın the face of what we had been told
1.  The sun does not always shıne here.  We can report that ıt ıs exceptıonally dark at 3:36 am.
2.  Neıther were we ımpressed by the heat.  Our odd captaın cheerfully reported that ıt was '3 degrees ın Izmır' .  It was nowhere near that warm.

Frıday Oct. 8th--London, South Bank

V has come down wıth a cold,  probably as a result of all the publıc transıt--Damn you #94.  There has been a terrorıst alert ıssued by the French ıntellıgence warnıng that England ıs an ımmınent target--or tarjet, as they say ın Parıs and Lıttle Rock.  Englısh.  ın a typıcal "Up yours, Frenchıe" mode, have ıgnored the threat. 

Back to Portobello Market to a watchmaker to have my watch repaıred.  Cost, 10 pounds.  Jeweller at home told me ıt would be $200.  Love thıs Portobello Market, ıt's nothıng lıke the Vancouver Flea Emporıum at all.

More busses,  thıs tıme to the South Bank to stroll the promenade. No strollıng, just elbowıng and shufflıng sıdeways to get through the throng at the base of the Eye.  Once past thıs tourıst trap, the crowds thınned and there was strollıng aplenty. Came across a bıg stıck besıde the walk, claımıng to be a tree dısguısed as a flagpole gıven as a gıft by the people of Brıtısh Columbıa.  V posed besıde the plaque, although to tell the truth neıther of us knew anythıng about thıs "gıft", and were certaınly not consulted before the gıvıng.

Don't let the smıles fool you we're much happıer than we appear

Lunch ın a small restaurant wıth outdoor tables.  Watched the Thames tıde rush by, carryıng or buffetıng boats of all sızes.  Thought of Lıttle Pıp rowıng agaınst the tıde ın a desperate attempt to save hıs benefactor.  Fılm crew doıng a pıece on a man fıshıng from the promenade and thrılled to capture hım actually catchıng a fısh.  Amazıng for a body of water one could walk across only a few years ago.

V's haır was made to stand on end by the magnetıc fıeld of thıs fake Brıtısh Columbıa tree.  A sharp note to the approprıate authorıtıes ıs defınıtely ın order.

We thought London a busy place earlıer ın the week but those days were nothıng compared wıth the Frıday evenıng throngs.  Impossıble to walk so clımbed aboard our trusty #94 and headed back to the apartment of a quıet evenıng.

Thursday Oct. 7th-- LONDON

Quıet day---must explaın that thıs ıs beıng wrıtten on a Turkısh keyboard so...there ıs no easıly accessıble  small i so ıt mıght appear as an ı  neıther ıs there an apostrophe.  There may be other anomalıes of whıch we are unaware so read wıth some cautıon.

Off for a walk through Nottınghıll neıghbourhood of snappy townhomes and crescent parks and the worlds supply, apparently, of Mazeratıs.  Lovely tree lıned streets.  Arrıved at Portobello Market,  whıch ıs not a market but rather a street lıned wıth small shops and booths.  To say that the mechandıse ıs not ıntended for those lıvıng ın the townhouses we passed would be an understatement.  The market ıs a London versıon of the Vancouver Flea Market but wıthout the fallıng-down-warehouse motıf.  Major dıfference as far as I was able to tell ıs the sweatshırts have "I heart London" ınstead of the orıgınal "I heart Vancouver". Damned Englısh copywrıte thıeves!! 



Was ımpressed, however, wıth the qualıty of theır antı-shoplıftıng securıty systems.  Managed thıs shot despıte large sıgn sayıng No Photos!!



Out to dınner wıth famıly frıends.  He a retıred chaır of the World Bank commıttee that evaluates the ımpact of foreıgn aıd, and she a magıstrate ın London.  Interestıng unassumıng people.  Upshot of our conversatıons were ınformatıve. The Bank apparently really screwed up ın not seeıng the fınancıal crısıs comıng, and as late as mıd 2008 was stıll beratıng Canada,s bankers for not behavıng more lıke theır Amerıcan neıghbours.  Had just fınıshed readıng Yob Natıon about...well... yobbery ın the UK. Cases comıng to court are not any more numerous, but seem to be more vıolent.  Dısturbıng trend regardless.

Monday Oct. 4th to Wednesday Oct. 6th -- LONDON

Sunday Oct. 3
Another rainy day; feels just like home.  Out for a walk along Kensington High Street to get the feel of London.  Verdict is that London is busy, and that people in Guernsey and Wales and Exmoor are all so cheery because they've banished all the frowners to London.  Tried escaping the downpour under our trusty, small, collapsing umbrella, but after several blocks of V. and I trying to coordinate our strides, gave up and splurged on a second bumbershoot.  Strolled through Hyde Park where we encountered what, from a distance, looked like a lawn covered in plastic, pink flamingos, only these ones were animated.  A closer look and listen revealed a breast cancer fund raising aerobics group splashing around in the rain to Donna Summers--what would the fitness people do without the 80s??--and responding to the headphone-enhanced exhortations of an excited, Rubenesque leader.  Two lessons here: 1. There are cheery people in London.
 2. The UK has not succumbed to the myth that being fit does not necessarily equate with looking like Twiggy.

Breast cancer funding supporters in the rain 

On through lighter rain all the way to the Canada War Memorial nearby.  Strikingly simple homage to the fallen. Out the Canada Gate to Buckingham Palace.  The Queen, at home according to the raised flag, had apparently not been informed of our visit, and failed to materialize on the balcony for a wave. We were disappointed along with the thousands of others who had gathered to sit on Queen Victoria and stare at the Palace gates. Walked the barbwired perimeter of the Palace, most of which looked like a factory wall from the 19th century, with nary a royal in sight. 

Buckingham palace gates and damp Canadian

Determined to catch a bit of the Ryder Cup, stopped into a pub in Belgravia.  Have no idea how we ended up in a former Soviet state.  Probably some time and space continuum thingy created by the Palace.  Informed by the rather snooty bartender that "We don't show sports here."  Curious, I asked what they did show on the several high def, flat screens hanging from the walls.  I expected the answer to be Parliamentary debates, but instead it was "The World Cup."  Was about to point out the contradiction, but thought it might compromise the quality of our lunch.  Our feet were done after walking over 5 miles on the unforgiving pavement, so took the doubledecker back to the apartment. 

Monday Oct. 4
Sleep of the just.  Walked to Shepherd's Bush to catch the bus. Heavy traffic because of Tube strike, but we enjoyed watching and listening to the world go by.  Diversity of the city is amazing.  Couldn't keep track of the number of languages we heard on the bus, but think one of them was English.  Flow of traffic impressive as buses and cars and trucks and scooters and bicycles all merged seamlessly and, amazingly, without people leaning on their horns.  Second bus to

Fleet St

, then a walk towards St. Paul’s Cathedral.  Last day of the Ryder Cup, so V. dropped me at The George pub across from Royal Law Courts. 

Judging--ha ha--from the bevy of barristers crowding every nook and cranny, there wasn't much law being dispensed on Monday.  Interestingly, ended up sitting with a lawyer from Minnesota who’s lived here for ten years.  He was the only one in the place cheering for the U.S.  Of course, the Europeans won, but just barely.  Could have heard a wig drop as the last match played out.  Great Hurrah and mass exodus ensued.

View from inside the George pub

  V. back from her walk to the cathedral and across the Millennium Bridge where she was accosted by a proselytizing Buddhist monk.  Yikes!!  Wouldn't find this in Bossington.  Out for a walk around Holborn.  Found the tiny street and house where Samuel Johnson lived while compiling the first English Dictionary and developing standardized spelling.  “Curse you Dr. Johnson.”  Shook my fist at his attic for good measure. 

Shop window in the legal district

 Wanted to walk around Gray’s

Inn Court

where the first legal proceedings are said to have occurred, but the Master of the Walks forbade it (see sign below) 

“Curse you Master of the Walks.”  Front row seat on the top of a double-decker on the way home.  Great chance to gawk at the procession of humanity to be found on

Oxford Street

in the evening. 

Tuesday Oct. 5
Back on our favourite bus—the 94.  Off at Oxford Circus…good spot to point out for those non-anglophiles amongst our readers that “Circus” in the London vernacular aptly captures the tenor of the location, despite there being a dearth of lions and tigers and bears…but I digress.  A bit of shopping, and a successful search for the home of the world’s best lamb and currant pie.  Sadly, the Black Horse pub had fallen victim to the dread Pubus terminitis, a condition to which many old pubs seem to have succumbed. 

A more recent pub - thought all you West Coast gardeners would appreciate this

On to the British Museum, home to the largest collection of borrowed artifacts on the planet.  Swell lunch at the restaurant, service provided by a tense, tight suited Eastern European.  Spectacular viewing including an exhibit of all the medications taken by two typical Brits during their lifetime, with each pill/capsule sewn into a filament sleeve.  Stretched for dozens of yards, and make one sick to see.  Waded through rooms of Egyptian mummies and jewellery and weapons, each one more grand than the last. 

Surprised by the small size of the Turkish room.  By this point we had both started to glaze over at the immensity of the whole thing.  Soldiered on through Medieval Europe, but we were finally overcome during the 18^th century.  Decided to take in a show, so off to

Leicester Square

—pronounced “lester”.  Dr. Johnson may have become the bane of poor spellers like myself, but he did nothing to bring to heel these damn weird British pronunciations.  Made the mistake of asking an elderly gent with Dickensian teeth where we could find TKTS, the ticket broker.  Still in our British Museum fog, we failed to notice his clipboard.  He turned out to be a broker’s shill and launched into a shouted dissertation about how his prices—indicated by a flapping of pages and thumping the clipboard with thick fingers—were lower than anyone “Just you check.”  When we indicated, by voice and by shuffling ever so discreetly away, that we would do just that, he blocked out path and repeated his pitch.  We finally escaped when we told him we were looking for tickets for some obscure Oscar Wilde play that he had no tickets for.  Managed two 7^th row tickets for Les Miz at TKTS.  With a couple of hours to kill and V. not thrilled with my outfit, we went shirt shopping.  Judging by the availability of 17 ½ X 36,  very few Brits come in my size.  We went from shop to shop, all of which had sales on, with no luck.  Finally, just off Covent Garden, we found an M&S, and I was saved.  Wonderful old pub for supper, packed to overflowing.  On to the Queen’s Theatre where Les Miz has just marked its 25^th year.  Century old, gilded theatre with cozy seating for 1,000.  The performance was stunning.  Voices were magnificent.  Set was an amazing whirligig of rotating scenery where shifts between scenes were accomplished magically and without interrupting the flow of the play.  The staging, where up to 40 performers at a time climbed and danced and fought and picked pockets, was a ballet.  And, apparently, this was the B team.   Hummed “Master of the House” all the way home.

Another West End theatre

Wednesday Oct. 6
Still humming/singing  Master of the house, keeper of the zoo…Tube to Paddington.  Fast train to Oxford where we were met by the daughter of Bill’s oldest friend and her husband.  Warm friendly people who have lived and worked at Oxford for 30 years. 

V and Liz Peretz

Tea at their cottage, then through a secret gate with a key pad, at the end of their street, emerging into the magical world of the University of Oxford and its ancient colleges.  Very fortunate to have extraordinary access to the colleges and grounds thanks to our hosts.  They took us on a perambulating, two hour tour of grassy sports fields, elaborate stone quadrangles, steps worn round by the feet of centuries of scholars, amazing spires and leaded glass, and chapels with towering organs. 

Worcester College

 Standing out in all this, were two experiences.  The first was standing in the Upper Library of Christchurch College.  The room is 150 feet long, with massive gothic windows soaring several stories high at each end.  It contains over 100,000 volumes  printed before 1800, which, according to the pamphlet, “are not here to decorate the room”, but “ are available to scholars by prior appointment.” 

Christchurch college library room

 We were fortunate enough to arrive one day after it had reopened following an extensive restoration, and were given a tour by the curator.   The second treat was, incredibly, even more amazing.  Because of his status as an alumnus, Bill was able to gain entrance to the Christchurch College dining room.  Again, thanks to some fortuitous timing, we were there on the evening when this year’s freshmen were to meet their tutors for the first time, at a formal meal.  The scene and the ambience of the place and moment were stunning.  Imagine a centuries-old, wood panelled room, several stories high, two hundred feet long, with rows of tables stretching the length, each place setting a perfectly coordinated arrangement of glasses and silverware, lit by small, tasteful lamps which cast the whole room in a golden glow.

Dining Hall

The thought that this same ritual has been taking place for well over a century, is awe inspiring.  Left the grounds and returned to the reality of train platforms and Tube announcements.  Back to the apartment, drained.  Master of the house… damned song.

Quite a week

Sunday Oct.3  Kennsington, London

Have had very limited access to computer during the week, so no chance to post.  Here are the highlights with a few photos.

Monday Sept. 27
Started out with another bus adventure, the drama provided this time by the driver who, apparently new to the route, came to a T junction, sat there for some time, then said out loud and matter of factly "I don't know which way to turn."  His admission was met by a chorus from the packed bus "Go right!"  A couple of minutes later, an elderly woman seated behind the driver leaned over and said, "Did you not see those people back there?"  "What?"  replied the driver.  "Those people.  There was a stop and you drove right by them."  "Oh." said the driver, and he stopped the bus in the middle of the very narrow, windy road and seemed to be considering backing up the half mile but thought better of it and continued on.  For the rest of the trip, the passenger chorus shouted "Straight on" or "Stop coming up"  No one was angry or upset, and new passengers, after a few moments of confusion, joined in.

Waked around St. Peter Port which means either up or down steep hills.  Walked a couple of miles to the site of V's godmother's old house which, we discovered, has been torn down and replaced with tacky apartments.  Disappointing.  Bus--with no adventures--Vazon Bay where V's dad, as a lad, used to dive off rocks into rip currents, and lived to tell the tale.  Walked quite a way out to a point, braced ourselves against the whipping wind and stared at the rocks and the sea for a few moments, then headed back.  Feet sore, and both tired, so decided to take the bus the remaining couple of miles back to Cobo even though we could see it in the distance around the bay.  Long wait before the friendly green and yellow shape hove into view.  Stepped on' relieved, only to be told by the driver that "I'm not going this way" with a tilt of his head in the direction in which the bus was facing.  So, a little stunned by the claim, we got off.  We then watched him drive around the bay and go exactly where we wanted to go.  Who knows?  Long walk back to the hotel.  Collapsed into bed.

Bill's rocks at Albecque

Tuesday Sept. 28
Up and packed.  Flight out at 10:30.  Lovely last view of Guernsey in the sunshine.  Rental car at Gatwick, M4 to Chepstow.  Love driving at 80 mph.  Checked into George Hotel on main street.  Old inn above a pub, but clean and a good shower.  Out for a walk to find dinner.  Strolled along the banks of the river Wye which at the time could be better characterized as the Trickle Wye with tide at its low ebb.  Boats resting in the mud at sharp angles.  Told that this is the second highest tide(40 feet) in the world after the Bay of Fundy.  Surprisingly tasty meal at the Boat pub, a century and a half old and retaining its original character. 

Wednesday Sept. 29
Ryder Cup day.  Off to Celtic Manor via the park and ride in the pouring rain.  Overly optimistic , it turned out, about the value of our small, collapsible umbrella.  Bus dropped us at the spectator entrance located some 20 or so miles from the actual course.  No one seemed to mind the long walk along muddy paths in the rain.  As in Guernsey, people in Wales grin constantly and are cheery, apparently, all the time.  Stumbled onto Tiger's foursome, few people following him. Same with the Mickelson foursome. More rain, more mud.  Tea in pavillion full of smiling laughing people in wet clothes and sodden shoes.  Souvenirs, including a gift golf towel that ended up drying V's feet before she changed into her new Ryder Cup socks.  Found the European team.  Much bigger crowd, and a more relaxed feeling.

Westwood & Harrington



 Players were chatting to the spectators and signing autographs between holes.  Had my hat scrawled on by McIlroy and Donald and one of--don't know which--the Molinari brothers.  Highlight was following the Jimenez group for a few holes.  Big cigar and bigger smile.

Jimenez through the rain

Relations with the crowd characterized by a fan shouting from the back row of the bleechers  "Hey, Manuel, give us a wave up here in the cheap seats", and Jimenez taking off his cap and waving and carrying on a short, shouted conversation with the guy and his friends.

Long walk back to bus in rain and mud.  Left Wales and headed for Somerset   With V navigating, decided to go to Exmoor National Reserve.  Down smaller and smaller roads until we reached the village of Bossington--look it up on Googleearth--population not many, and found Lynch House, a century-old country manor.  Friendly caretaker couple and charming room with spectacular view across the moors to the Bristol Channel. 

ff

Lynch House bedroom view

Off to Porlock, a slightly larger village, for dinner at the Royal Oak another perfect traditional pub with low ceiling beams and full of ruddy faces.  Busy for a Wednesday evening, with a throng that included two large golden retrievers being fed meat flavoured crisps, a Jack Russel being fed off his owner's plate, a boxer with an underbite problem and a scruffy terrier mix with an intense gaze.  The crowd swelled with the arrival of a van/taxi which disgourged a large group of ladies of various ages who, we discovered, comprised the Porluck Wednesday night Ladies Dart League.  Judging by the number of pints they ordered, the van/taxi seemed prudent.

Thursday  Sept. 30
Started day by watching what I thought was a pheasant race across the front lawn.  Was quickly disabused of that notion once the mating began in earnest.  Walked through the woods to an old lifeguard station high on a hill overlooking the channel.  No rain, lovely and serenely verdant landscape.  Walked along pefect stream that called for wellies and a trout rod.  Unfortuately, neither at hand.  Simple lunch of cheese and Exmoor Gold in the room.  Planned a second walk for the afternoon, but fell asleep instead.  Drove to Lyntton/Lynmouth, the "Switzerland of England". It ain't.  However, it did have a short funicular operated by an ingenious water system. Got there in part along a toll road where we had to stop and drop a pound through a slot in a door beside a gate across the road.  No attendant, and the gate wasn't locked, so could have avoided payment, but it all seemed worth the price of admission.   Had first cream tea in Devon.  Dinner again at the Royal Oak.  No dogs nor dart ladies, but there was an Edgar Winter look alike, and a parade of people from what looked like a closet.

Harbour at Lynmouth.

Every harbour we've seen has looked like this.

The rumour that the UK is an island is apparently false.

However, they try to maintain the charade by keeping lots of boats about. 

Friday Oct. 1
Packed up and reluctantly left Lynch House.  We will come back to this place. Family group holiday??  Drove in driving rain to the northeast.  Lunch in Wiveliscombe with a childhood friend of V's, and her husband.  Very pleasant couple, and damned cheery.  Beginning to think that the dour  British character is a myth.  Onwards through small towns and interminable roundabouts.   Kept looking for a place to stay, but nothing appealed.  Finally, after getting lost in Devizes--not an easy task for even the most directionally chalenged--and with darkness coming on, we stopped at the Castle Hotel in the middle of town.  An interesting old inn that reminded us of Fawlty Towers.  To reach our room, we had to negotiate several flights of stairs--some long, several of only a few steps,  some up some down--and five different doors. Out for dinner at an excellent Italian restaurant.  Pasta and Chianti--no fava beans.

Saturday  Oct. 2
Drove last leg into Heathrow, and dropped off the rental car.  Picked up by driver who brought us in to the London apartment.  Not exactly what we had hoped for, especially after being switched from Notting Hill to Kensington due to a bedbug infestation.  Met by manic Swedish owner and his partner.  He spent a long time detailing the life cycle of bedbugs, and assuring us that all of their apartments had been "test slept" by their children to ensure the bugs were gone.   Thinking of reporting them for abuse, but the "children" are adults and have probably long since been brought to the attention of authorities for other, equally horrific treatment.  The excitable Swede gave us long instructions on the neighbourhood, including the information that when we left the apartment we could either "turn left or turn right"  Good to know.  Out to get groceries right away because we had been informed that the shelves would be empty on Sunday.  Insanely loud supermarket filled with locust-like shoppers who would undoubtedly by the end of the day, have cleaned out the stock.  Stopped at modern pub/sports bar to watch a bit of the Ryder Cup because the tv at the apartment does not get the channel it's on--kind of ironic to be so close to the course and not able to see play.  V. left me to watch a while, and walked back to the apartment on her own.  I had a couple of pints then attempted the same.  After walking for almost an hour to get to an apartment which had, earlier, been only ten minutes away, it dawned on me that perhaps I had taken a wrong turn.  I had none of the following--the address nor even the street of the apartment, a phone or a phone number for that matter, a map, a hope in hell of finding the place.  I did however, remember that the Georgian embassy was on the corner of our street.  Went into a handy Hilton, and asked the concierge for help.  He pulled out a very detailed map that, unfortuantely, stopped a quarter of an inch from the area of the city I needed to see.  I had actually walked, quite literally, off the map.  Aha, I said.  Perhaps you can look up the address of  the Georgian embassy for me.  He did that on his computer and helpfully printed out a map, and put a large X where the embassy was.  Alas, even with my limited knowledge of London geography I knew that his X was nowhere near the apartment.  "I don't understand" says I.  "That's where it is."says he.  "You'd better help these ladies while I have a think"   I stared at the printed map for a few moments before it dawned on me that he had printed out a map to the Jordanian embassy.  When he was done with the ladies I pointed this out to him.  "It's the Georgian embassy I'm looking for." says I slowly so he can understand my Canadian accent.  "Yes" says he  "the Jordian embassy.  That's it there" says he pointing to his X.  No, no" says I ever more slowly, "the Georgian embassy.  You know, the one Russia .invaded."  Oh" says he, and printed out the appropriate map.  I had made the mistake of walking down Holland Park Avenue instead of Holland Road, both of which run into the same roundabout.  Several miles and buckets of perspiration later, I was back at the apartment.  V was very understanding.

A bientot.