Blue Remembered Hills

The people we've met in Vancouver have been friendly and positive except one (half Swedish admittedly).  He interrogated us: "Where are you going?"  The Art Gallery.  "You'll be disappointed.  Where else?"   The museum. "Even worse".  But he did accept the Museum of Anthropology was quite good so we managed a face saving Canadian compromise.  Mostly he wanted to convince us that house prices were impossible in Vancouver.  His girl friend looked suitably embarassed as he demanded to know how much we'd paid for our house and what our salaries had been at the time.  We hurried off the bus to the art gallery.

We liked some: Emily Carr (very big in Canada) reminded us of young Georgia O'Keefe (but, being Canadian, rather more into dark forests).  A touch of theosophy inherited from her teacher may explain the tendency of some of her pictures to look as if we were seeing just the wrapping around something.  The pictures were counterpointed with a series by a Chinese painter, Lui Shou Kwan, which we preferred.

And, though I can imagine our sullen Swedish Canadian's response, I liked the anime and manga influenced irreverence and exuberent silliness of Takashi Murakami.

ù

The Museum of Vancouver was almost a history of protest: Chinese immigrants; Japanese interned in WW2; women wanting education, jobs, the vote; opposition to big freeways; hippies; feminism; gay rights and even neon signs.

But eventually there is always acceptance or compromise.  The First Nations have gone to court over their lost lands but are adamant they aren't trying to take back ownership - just a degree of stewardship to ensure burial sites and sacred places aren't abused. 

Today we visited Stanley Park and walked back on the path beside the wintery beach.

Two people were swimming (it's 4°C) and several kids played.  People jogged .  The park benches have the usual dedications, some silly, some personal, some, well, Canadian: "sit here, share",  "see from my perspective", "enjoy what they enjoyed".  

From the small bit of Canada we've seen, and from what we've heard of the country generally, there is a quiet respect for others, openness, politeness, and being prepared to help and contribute.

Canadian people are just NICE.  I don't know how often we've stopped to look at a map and someone has asked if we needed help.  On buses passengers frequently get up for us and nonchalently nod at the vacated seat, offering it to us.  Buying tickets for a play and not having enough cash, we were told we could take the tickets and pay later.  In cafes people automatically take back plates having scraped left overs into a 'composting' bin, and put plastic into recycling. And so on. 

It's not Utopia, there are people sleeping rough and in the city centre people do walk past them as they do everywhere.  In Kitsilano one local homeless man has a tent on the sidewalk - some people stop and talk, the duvet in it's plastic wrapping is presumably a gift.   Two other men have made a 'den' by an empty shop.  They don't seem to be hassled and sit in the shop doorway chatting amiably.  We've yet to see a police officer anywhere in Vancouver.

Tomorrow we go home to a land of snow and occasional minor earthquakes.  In some ways we're looking forward to being back but long holidays are unsettling. They make you homeless.  The wheel's still in spin and there's no telling who that it's naming.  We always ask each other: could we live here? what would be lost? what would be gained?  Today, near the end of our walk, we sat in the warmth of Granville Market (once a fish market, now just about everything and every sort of food you can imagine) and relaxed, Eleanor with a sophisticated Iced Mocha, me with a banana and strawberry milkshake.  "Could we live here?" I asked.  Unfortunately we fail to meet the strict niceness criteria insisted upon by the Immigration Department so it has to be "No".

But we'll remember.

See you all soon.

Old Friends

Canada is a big place (in case you hadn't noticed) and we'd only been in one part of it (British Columbia) and so far seen only a tiny bit of one city (Vancouver - population approx 2.5 million) the time had come to branch out, embrace the pioneering ethos, and visit friends on Vancouver Island.  It's an easy trip: walk through the early stages of a snow storm to the bus stop; then take the Skytrain (metro) to where we can get the next bus for a one hour journey to the ferry port.  We'd looked forward to this stage as a chance to see outside Vancouver but the snow closed in and we were coccooned in whiteness.

I can't recall how many times we've been told that snow is rare in Vancouver.  I'm beginning to get a bit nervous.  In every cafe, shop, gallery, museum, theatre or bus stop someone tells us that the weather is exceptional this year.  It's never this cold.  Is it our fault?  Have we brought it with us, signalling some catastrophic climatic tipping point?  They do admit it can be wet in winter (as I write this, it's pouring with rain; I can't see the mountains though the bay is starting to struggle towards visibility).  Enough paranoia, it's not our fault any more than New Zealand being deluged with tropical storms as soon as we arrived or blizzards being forecast for our return to the UK.  Probably.

The ferry crossing to Victoria passes between beautiful islands and rugged forested bays and coves.  It takes about 1.5 hours and Jane and Mark collect and take us to their house.  They moved to Canada from Edinburgh about fifteen years ago and have never been back. Their fabulous house has views that are equally magnificent: across the bay are the Olympic Mountains of Washington State.  Geese and Bald Eagles drift across the the sky, orca's splash in the bay, there are cougars in the woods.  And lots of other stuff I know nothing about.

We last visited them about twelve years ago and so there's not much to report other than we talked, ate, talked, drank, talked, and played with Zoey (sorry for putting 'y' when it should be a diaeresis but you're too kind a dog to take offence).  We had a lot of catching up to do.  The next day we ate breakfasts that would have felled lumberjacks, went for a walk and talked some more - all against a backdrop of sea, mountains, trees, green fields and spring flowers.  All the usual things which make life worth living.  Mark gave us a copy of his latest book, inscribed with a message looking forward to seeing us again in another 12 years  .... would you mind if it's a bit sooner?

Zoey - A new friend.  A bit grey like the
rest of us but still a puppy at heart.

Would you like a walk on the beach in February? 

Mark, the author of the must-read, soon-to-be bestseller ....

Buy this book!

Jane, Mark, Zoey  thanks again for everything, with love from us both.

The Damage Done?

"During these gatherings they lose months of time, waste their substance,  contract all kinds of diseases and generally unfit themselves for being British subjects in the proper sense of the word."

These are the conclusions of an Indian Agent, William Halliday, on the potlatch gatherings of the First Nation tribes of the NW American coasts ("First Nation" is Canadian, "Native American" is the US equivalent).  Potlatchs were the backbone of First Nation culture.  Paraphrasing a modern FN woman, they were where disagreements were resolved, children were named, tribal leadership was confirmed, marriages celebrated, goods of all sorts shared out, the old stories retold and the tribal dances performed in fabulous costumes.  The reference to "waste their substance" reflects the the gift culture of the FNs.  At potlatches the wealthy gave stuff away.  In the wonderful Museum of Anthropology at the University of British Columbia are any number of fantastic things, among which are carved structures like short canoes with wheels.  These would be filled with goods for people at a potlach to take and/or eat.  In one example, several are joined like into a train at the front of which is an elaborately carved fish head from whose mouth a giant spoon extends for extra goodies.  The potlatch gives birth to the hostess trolly!

William Halliday's report was written in 1918, when large parts of the world had just lost four years in war,  wasted the substance of millions, spread disease on a global scale (Spanish Flu began in an army base and killed at least 3% of the world's population).  

European settlers did their best to wipe out potlatchs and impose Western assumptions about work and ownership.  And now, writing about modern life almost always seems to bemoan the "loss of community".  

Every blog is allowed one rant.  This was mine.  Now some pictures.

Scary totem - most are more friendly

Some sort of birdy thing

Salish Rugs - Woven from wild goat hair, woolly dogs' hair and feathers.

Big Birds Across The Sky

At the entrance to the departure lounge in Auckland airport stands a huge vaguely Viking figure, a twelve foot high warrior resting on his sword.  It looks neither Maaori nor recognisably European and turns out to be from the set of Lord of the Rings - an oxymoronic giant dwarf!   With this unlikely tutelary figure to protect us we set out for another 13 hours of breathing recycled farts and watching unintelligible movies swamped by engine noise between being fed meals you would, I hope, eat nowhere else.

Eventually we arrive and stumble bemused, dazed and blinking into a blindingly sparkling view of snow streaked mountain tops and dark green forests.  It must be Canada.  And this is just the airport.

"Canada", said Saki, "is all right really, though not for the whole weekend".  Based on this first sight alone we could probably manage several years. It isn't 29°C any more, maybe 29°F though.  Refreshing.  And what is this white stuff? 

We commute with relative ease (if you look lost for more than a couple of seconds here, someone asks if they can help) to our airbnb flat in the upmarket, hipsterish Vancouver district of Kitsilano.  Things are different here.

If you see two images, please adjust reality.

The view from the apartment isn't bad:

A short walk to the sea.

We spent yesterday wandering down to the cold sea shore then along it to Granville Market. A collection of shops selling everything but mostly food and drink.  It was cold and we were happy to sit, watch what was happening and chat.  We eat and drink then cross the river as it begins to snow.

We take shelter in the vast warm attrium of HSBC, a very welcoming bank. Hot air comes from ducts in the floor next to which sit about twenty or so people, mostly cycle couriers, some shoppers or tourists, one or two more ragged people who may have no where else.  A vast pendulum - maybe 30ft long - swings slowly back and forth.  Time passes.  The bank operates insouciantly around us.  How very Canadian. The snow stops.

We find ourselves some cheap warm clothes at the Army and Navy Store.  The store itself feels vaguely sinister, it is dusk and the men's section is "across the alley", a prototype for every alley way you've seen in an America movie: it's dark, steam seeps from pipes, dumpsters (wheelie bins) probably contain zombies or shield mafiosi.  Ahead of us a man with three large unwieldy carrier bags seems to be having an argument simultaneously with himself and the door.  I open the door and he staggers through only to cross the alley and restart his argument on the other side.  I open that door as well but he doesn't notice and continues to disagree with himself. I think he is losing the argument. The men's section seems to contain several other customers with similar problems. We shop quickly and return to our hipster pad. I am now equipped to be a lumber jack and Eleanor would be a credit to any chic ski resort.

A rather busy day by our New Zealand standards.

Raglan

On the coast, west from Hamilton, is Raglan, our last camp place. It provides a natural complement to Russell which is genteel and full of people like us with grey hair. Raglan is a surfer's town - the average age of visitors is about 30 years lower. If I buy a shirt at the opportunity (charity) shop wll I look like a surfer dude?

The campsite reminds us of Spain with lots of pitches permanently occupied by old, slowly mouldering, caravans with sun-faded awnings.  It a great working class gathering place - every day groups of friends are reunited and new groups form.  It is noisier, brasher than Russell, people talk to each other more: we've heard several peoples accounts of visiting the UK.  London, York, Oxford and Bath - a museum covering a whole country - but one person remembered my home city of Norwich which made me fleetingly nostalgic.

There is a safe bay to swim in.  You can almost walk across.  If you're lucky you might see an Orca - if you're very unlucky, one might see you!  It has wonderful sunsets.

On Saturday the whole town seemed to turn out beside the river.  The bridge has signs warning against jumping off which are casually ignored.  On the banks children amost too young to walk totter into the water alongside siblings, parents, grandparents and probably great grandparents.  Fresh fish sizzles on barbies, gazebos blow in the wind, teenagers go off in disgust to share their grievances about unreasonable parents.  The sun shines and all is well with the world.  Except that the sand is black rather than golden.

Black sand like a small Milky Way - with one step for mankind

At night we walk across a narrow stretch of grass to the bridge. The Milky Way sparkles, Orion is still disconcertingly upside down.  Kids have gathered to talk, bikes in piles, at the point where the river meets the sea (which seems appropriate). 

In the river a few couples are still swiming in the warm black water.  We can hear their relaxed chat.  The bridge supports are illuminated making it seem the elegant arch floats on beams of blue light.  The light attracts insects which in turn brings shoals of fish which jump and roil the water.

On the other bank is a backpackers' and surfers' hostel. A different, slightly older group lounge around in the darkness, laughing and joking to the clink of bottles. Inevitably one young man sits apart from the rest practising his guitar.

Next stop is Vancouver, but this is a good place for a few days of quotidian contentment.

New Zealand is a garden,

And gardens are not made

By saying "Oh, how lovely!"

And sitting in the shade.

But the makers of the garden did a great job - so we can sit in the shade.

That sunset feeling.

Leaving Coromandel, Visiting Hamilton

The people who mend NZ roads are wonderful.  We came into Coromandel along its west coast.  Storms had just washed away bits of road for a 25 mile stretch.  One way systems and traffic lights had been set up.  Thousands of traffic cones had been planted in neat rows.  Everything worked smoothly.  Eleanor was driving so I could just enjoy the view of the beach - about six inches from the wheels horizontally and a yard vertically.  The SatNav showed the road against a background of water (must be next year's model).  The gap between road and beach had once been wider:  telephone poles now ran across the the beach, at one point into the sea, later looping out again and ultimately back to the side of the road - victims of earlier storms.

I didn't take any pictures, just clung, white knuckled, to my seat.  Eleanor drove on unperturbed.

Leaving Coromandel Town several days later we took the mountain road after a couple of days of tropical downpour.  There were rock falls on the road, new streams sprang from cliff faces, sticky mud slides glooped onto the road.  Hundreds more cones had been deployed around the piles of rock and mud and the new water courses had been diverted back into culverts.  And it was still beautiful.

On the other side, after a short band of farm land we reached Whitianga, Coromandel's new gold coast (for those selling real estate at least).  Big modern houses sit back from the highway on the other side of which a landscaped buffer between road and sea has curving paths for walkers, cyclists and skate boarders.  There is a large marina and newer ones are being built with luxury homes attached.  Whitianga is the new New Zealand.

We weren't sure we'd be able to afford a coffee at any of the elegantly laid back bars so drove on into more farming country, eventually reaching Hamilton which is NZ's most boring city or its most vibrant depending on your point of view.  The city regions give a hint of what is coming: St Andrews (with golf course), Chartwell, Hillcrest, Silverdale, Chedworth Park, Glenview, Fairview Downs and Forest Lake sound like Edwardian suburban villas.  (There are of course Maaori names but I don't know what they mean) 

On the first day we walked though tidy suburbs with wide quiet roads to visit the museum which is wonderful.  One large display of art works titled "Modern[isms]"  looked at sources, blending Western, Maaori and Oceanic responses to European Modernism. Is the incorporation of Maaori motifs and styles  "cultural appropriation"?  I don't know but liked the pictures.  

A big gallery upstairs showed the work of NZ artists influenced by cubism. The work of Louise Henderson effortlessly dominates the show.  Her subjects include portraits, studies of people, views from an attic studio in Dieppe, N African views (suggestive in colouring of Klee's pictures of the same region), still lifes and abstracts.  An attendant told us (slightly exasperatedly) that Henderson had turned one of her pictures upside down before signing it.  An awful lot of visitors had helpfully pointed out that one picture had been hung upside down.  The joke was wearing a bit thin.  The picture is called "Houses in Dieppe".  We thought of two possible points to the joke.  What do you think?

(from Auckland Art Gallery) 

On our second day we visited Hamilton Gardens.  We spent the whole day there, it's very different from Singapore's Garden by the Bay but equally impressive.  Substituting plants as necessary they've recreated gardens from Renaissance Italy, Tudor England (also an Arts and Crafts example), Moghal India, China, Japan, 1960s California, a Maaori kumara patch, a sustainable  garden, .... I've missed some and lots more are planned.  The layout is almost a maze (think Ikea) where, somehow each garden is complete and doesn't overlook its neighbours.

Japanese Scroll Garden
(raked gavel and rocks out back) 

English country garden

California poolside

There was a rabbit nibbling the grass in the Arts and Craft.  I congratulated a gardener on this charming bit of verisimilitude: " .... aaaargh a rabbit!  Must contact the head gardener!  Quick!"  A bit like velociraptors getting loose in Jurassic Park.  I was told that if they didn't act vigilantes might. 

Anti-rabbit guard  

In an earlier blog I mentioned how noisy the countryside is.  Here is one culprit.

And here are several of them in a bamboo thicket (Chinese "cosmos" garden).

We only had two days but you've probably guessed where we stand in the "Is Hamilton Boring?" debate.

Not Being There Yet

Today was to have been the next Kiwi Experience.  Beyond Coromandel Town are the mountains, a small road twists through them offering stunning views of peaks and bush, not to mention the exciting prospect of falling off the road - like bungy jumping without ropes.  The sense of romantic mystery is intensified by the layer of fine mist covering the peaks.

Unfortunately the fine mist has thickened. A bit.  The first ridge is just visible as a hazy outline but the rest of the mountains are quite gone.  Chance of dramatic views, zero; chance of rope-free bungying much improved.  Rain begins to fall steadily. Then it gets harder, and harder, a 24 hour deluge.  The Kiwi experience they don't advertise.

A brief lull and we walk into town to buy a few things.  It may rain for forty days and nights so we buy rather a lot.  Jokingly, I ask the cashier if I can borrow the trundler (NZ for 'trolley') to carry it all.  "I don't have a problem with that", she says, "just bring it back later."  Imagine Tesco saying that.  Taking it back is more of a problem.  The rain has paused for long enough to get people onto the streets.  I push the trundler round and through bare foot boys on bikes, hikers sorting their packs on the sidewalk, chatting friends, giggling school girls, silver ponytailed bikers and an old Maaori guy singing Midnight Train to Georgia.  I feel a bit silly.

The rain starts again.  The groundsman looks worried. He's cordoning off more and more of the site with the sort of tape you see at crime scenes.  "It's the gloop", he says,  "Grass forms a mat, but when it rains the gloop gets everything."   I had a silly thought - maybe vans could be absorbed whole: glooped.  Maybe it wasn't gloop but 'The Gloop', like The Beast, The Old House, The Shining.  The Haunted Campsite - an idea for a horror story.   "What about our pitch?"  He looked, I thought, a bit nervous. "Should be OK" he said, uncertainly, and hurried off to get more tape.

Our pitch was fine, a few inches higher than the rest.  We were on a tiny plateau about three or four inches above the surroundings.  Perfect size for a van - might have been measured for it.  Maybe the Gloop had swallowed one and we were parked on top.  A silly idea.  Except for the mushrooms.

They'd appeared with the first rain. Unurprising except the colour.  Flesh pink.  Grouped like obscenely swollen fingers trying to drag themselves from the ground.  What weird, unholy eldritch horror was this?  What unspeakable chthonic force, could it be?

Then the rain stopped and the sun came out.  It was time to leave, I turned off the Kindle leaving H P Lovecraft's classic "Camping in the Mountains of Madness" unfinished.  I've always wanted an excuse to use 'eldritch' and 'chthonic'.    











.