New Year 2009

THE NEW YEAR

Before I knew it, I was looking out the window of a large plane, staring at the wonders of the volcanic Mt. Baker, poking its 10,000 ft stately crown through the clouds of Washington State. The plane was a Boeing something or another, and I was heading east, up through B.C. over the snow capped Rockies, then Greenland and eventually heading south and settling on Holland. I find that flying over the Rockies on a cloudless day is one of the most awe inspiring experiences imaginable. How did these original pioneers, engineers, and surveyors possibly manage to wend their way through this formidable sky high mass of unforgiving ice and rock? A quick change of planes at Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport soon had me peering out over the Strand then the Houses of Parliament as were approaching Heathrow. Then I took a bus.

What is all this got to do with living in a wee boat located three hours north of Vancouver? As previously mentioned, my little job at The Rockwater Secret Cove Resort & Spa was becoming littler. A colder than usual winter on the west coast, combined with a downright chilly economic climate, had me wondering about possible future short term employment, so I laid myself off! The timing was perfect, they thanked me for my thoughtfulness and there I was, courtesy of KLM, landing in the U.K.

The bus, or coach as it is referred to there, had me out of Heathrow’s maze, into the English countryside and two and one half hours later, I had arrived at my sister Dorothy’s place in the beautiful Cotswolds in Gloucestershire. I had great admiration for the young driver who managed to negotiate his large coach around the tight lanes on these roundabouts. As I looked down it seemed we were within inches of the little cars all around us. I felt I would stand out if I gave the driver a standing ovation at each roundabout, so I quietly sat there thinking he must be Jackie Stewart’s son. Dot, an avid hiker, had me out there daily taking in the beautiful hills and dales that encompass this stunning part of southwest England. For the most part, the weather was about 6 or 7 degrees very similar to that of my Sunshine Coast in British Columbia. Snowdrops were appearing, which had us Canucks beaten I admit. Ten hours of hiking over five days gave me the required warm up for my next venture, which was to do some serious hill walking in Scotland.

Before reaching Scotland I took a train, which was to be my mode of transport for the next few weeks, north through Manchester to Cheshire, to visit Dot’s eldest son Alan, his wife Louise and darling little daughter Holly, who has to have the cutest smile imaginable! I was fortunate to have seen them all last year when they visited me at Madeira Park but my stay in Tarpoley was all too short. Next morning, a train from Crewe to Dundee, via Edinburgh got me into Scotland, in four hours. I love trains. You sit back, it does all the work, and you take in the countryside and observe. Having been in real estate these many years, I found the materials used to build houses would change as you traveled. In the southwest the homes were constructed of stone, by Manchester they were brick and in Scotland a combination of both, plus a rather boring stucco and plaster mix on newer houses. And, ah the quirkiness of the Brits, hanging the clothes outside to dry, in the rain!

My brother Sandy and his dear wife Irene were hosts for the next few days. They live in a tiny village, Auchterhouse, with wonderful walking hills right behind their house. A three hour hike in the fog was a fun challenge on day two. Visiting my Mum, who has since turned 94, lives in a care home in the town of Arbroath on the North Sea coast and not far from Sandy’s, was a priority. She hasn’t been too well of late, and I am most grateful having a brother and two sisters who can and do visit on a regular basis.

Twin sister Kay arrived on the scene, and off north I whisked to the small picturesque town of Aboyne in the stunning Deeside area, west of Aberdeen. I am very fond of this area with the Cairngorm Mountains on the door step. The day after I left England they had the worst snow fall in 18 years, and was chuckling at my good fortune. The day after I arrived in Aboyne, the snow caught up with me, and we were dumped on in a major fashion. It kept us house bound for a day or so but joined Kay’s hiking group on February 6th and without the benefit of snow shoes, had a very pleasant three and half hour hike. Kay has surrounded herself with family. Her youngest daughter Morag, husband Richie, and fabulous wee lad Harrison, sold their successful company last year and moved from the Edinburgh area to Aboyne and were simply great company. Not to miss out anyone, that small town is also home for Kay’s other daughter and Morag’s sister, Carol, who with husband Chris and three kids, are presently living in Dubai and having a grand time of it.

My good friends, Donald and Doris Petrie, were next to kindly open their doors and I spent a couple days in their renovated stone ex farm house/cottage, hidden behind large sand dunes that protect them from the tides of the North Sea, just north of Montrose. A fascinating setting. I spent my teenage years, from age 11 to 21, over the hill from there, in the Howe o’ the Mearns. (see attached snowy panoramic view of the farm land of the Howe). We toured the area and the town of Laurencekirk where new houses had sprouted up at an alarming rate since my departure. People commute to Aberdeen from there now, a concept which was unimaginable in the 60’s.and 70’s.

The final port of call was to cousin Mhairi and husband Alaistair in the Fife village of Anstruther. A relaxing two days was spent exploring the beautiful fishing villages of Crail, Pittenweem and Anstruther, which also is home of the number one fish and chip shop in all of the UK, no less. Their claim to fame should really be their Scottish Fisheries Museum which outlines in stark details the harshness of the lives of the early fishermen and women of the east coast of Scotland. An afternoon by myself walking through St Andrews, presented an enlightening contrast of the old and new, the old being the ruins of both the St Andrew’s Castle and St Andrew’s Cathedral, originally going back to 1120 to 1200. Over the centuries and thanks to religion and egos, these places had been attacked, burned and looted numerous times but the remains we see go back to the mid 1500’s. Now that is history! Walking to the other end of town, brought me out on to the 18th hole of the most famous golf course in the world. A couple hardy locals were playing, but for the most part it was closed. That allowed me to stroll across the 1st to the road hole, the 17th, then over the Swilkin Bridge on the 18th. (Non golfers, I apologize, as this will mean nothing. To golfers world wide, this was the Holy Grail, and with the Royal & Ancient Golf Club being founded in 1754, I was spiritually strolling these hallowed grounds, hand in hand with Tom Morris, Gene Sarazin, Jack, Arnold, and Tiger. A man can dream, can’t he?)

Deep in thought about how humble all this was to me, I was suddenly brought out of this reverie by an amazing sight. Dozens, then hundreds, of chatty exuberant students from the famous University poured out of their classes, all heading to meet friends, have a coffee or share a pint perhaps. What a delightful contrast! As I dodged out of their way, thoroughly enjoying their youthful enthusiasm, I realized I had, in 15 minutes, transcended through 6 centuries and was back in 2009. Denims, fleeces, Core-Tex and Reeboks combine just fine with 15th century red sandstone buildings.

Within 24 hours, the quiet of Scottish villages, towns and countryside was behind me and I was sitting in a cab heading from Euston Station to Paddington, in the morning rush hour in downtown London. I could have taken the tube, but with two suitcases and a computer case, at 8:30 am I thought better of it and spent ten pounds and a ten minute chat with a gregarious cabby, who complained how hopeless London cabs are in the snow. Now we know.

BACK TO THE BOAT.

There is a lovely Scottish saying, used after a period of extra expense, and then returning to basics, that “It’s back to auld claes an’ cauld porritch”. Effective February 21st, I had my living- in- a- boat clothes on and, thanks to Carl, the marina’s manager, I had my new water pump installed, and began enjoying, thankfully, hot porridge.

She missed me…. the boat that is, as did The Rockwater Resort, who had me working a few days after my return, and for eight days in a row no less. I thought I was doing this part time? As previously mentioned this is a quiet community in the winter so I am very pleased that Rockwater is as successful as it is turning out to be, and thus requiring my services. I get a great sense of satisfaction after a day’s work, particularly if it involves, as it does some days, outdoor manual assignments. Covered in mud after landscaping in the rain, cutting back the winter grasses, or clearing the pine needles, all leave me with a grin on my face and wondering wistfully why I ever went into financial services when a day in a field could have provided true happiness!

“The ploughman homeward plods his weary way” Thomas Gray, 1754

(Or is it “The weary ploughman plods his homeward way”? Actually it could be “Homeward the ploughman plods his weary way” Oh, what the heck, you get the drift.)

As I look out of the boat’s cabin, all hell is breaking loose. A gale force wind is causing ”Second Choice” and her pals to sway from side to side in a violent, yet controlled manner. We are all tethered securely to the dock, yet it is comical looking out and seeing the boat next to you appearing to move past you, only to be overtaken seconds later as you zoom past it. Inside the cabin, all is remarkably peaceful, although if it continues tonight there could well be some interesting sounds. I’m listening to the remarkable Neil Young, oblivious of these other sounds, and enjoying this late afternoon’s ride to nowhere.

“I want to live, I want to give,
I’ve been a miner for a heart of gold
You keep me searchin’ for a heart of gold
And I’m getting old”

Neil Young, 1972.

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