Go Stay Work Play Live

Did that just happen?

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 09 Jul 2023 06:00:00 +0000

London has given me some remarkable experiences. The Olympic Opening Ceremony springs to mind. As does one memorable morning on the Thames. And recently, London served up an episode so astonishing that it left Piran and I sitting in a pub three hours later, staring into our pints, shaking our heads, and occasionally giggling in disbelief.

As one does, Piran had put some old stone carving tools up for sale on eBay and ended up meeting a lovely guy named Tim, who turned out to know a great deal about chisels. This was because Tim is not merely a trained mason (already off-the-scale cool) but also employed as a stone mason at St. Paul's Cathedral.

I am completely delighted at the thought that: 1. There are still people who train to become stone masons and 2. Places like St. Paul's and other cathedrals have such people on staff. So when Piran revealed Tim had offered a "behind-the-scenes tour of stone masoning and bits and bobs" at St. Paul's and asked if I was interested, I think any Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Reader can guess that my answer was "Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!"

I've already blogged about St. Paul's Cathedral. But this visit to St. Paul's was... well, you'll see. Tim met us outside the main steps but quickly ushered us to an underground back entrance where we signed in and got special visitor's passes. Tim then employed his impressive set of skeleton keys to whisk us through a "Staff Only" door into the crypt and straight to a previously unknown-to-me lift up to the triforium level without climbing the 141 steps involved in the public tour.

The triforium is the area above the side aisles of a church, and though I've toured St. Paul's triforium before, this was much better. For one thing, it was just me and Piran and Tim. There was no timeline, no badge-wielding tour guide on a schedule, and, best of all, no irritating other people. And Tim seemed to be in no hurry (it was his afternoon off) all the while providing an unscripted, sometimes slightly acerbic, and completely absorbing commentary on the cathedral, the stonework that's everywhere, and stone masonry in general.

We saw the shelves stacked with seemingly random bits of Old St. Paul's (before the Great Fire), which were charmingly labelled by period/architectural style - Gothic, Norman, etc. the same way Tesco might label shelves "Eggs, Flour, Sugar, etc."

And we got to see inside the library, currently closed because they're just finishing renovations. It's "a complete and untouched Wren designed interior" and houses manuscripts dating back to the 13th century.

We also got into the Trophy Room, which houses Wren's famous Great Model. Oddly, this is not actually the design that was used in the end, and there are no good records that indicate exactly why it was rejected, despite having taken ten months to design and a year of master carpentering to build.

It's really big. Big enough that there's actually a tiny door in the side of the plinth it sits on that allows you to crawl in and poke your head up - Gulliver-like - into the inside of the model, where you can see that the interior is also finished. Tragically, Tim did not have the key to the tiny door, but we forgave him, and I suspect he has since rectified that lack in his key ring.

After the library and the Great Model, we paused briefly at the top of the Geometric staircase, and then proceeded to the north side of the triforium, past the large west gallery window. This is the spot where they stuff a gigantic Christmas Tree though a small bit of the window and set it up on the outer balcony-ish level every year. The tree itself is hoisted up from a point in the ceiling of the cathedral where we could just see a heavy hook dangling from what must have been a chain motor in the roof.

Around the corner, "this is where they keep the spare pulpits". Of course. Because you're St. Paul's Cathedral. You're not just going to have one lousy pulpit are you?

A little further along the magic keys were produced again and we popped out onto the trumpeter's gallery. Which is exactly what it says on the tin - the place where trumpeters stand to blow fanfares when the monarch arrives, or for whatever other thing might require a fanfare. (The Changing of the Pulpits, perhaps?) There we could look down at the public in the nave of the church.

Then it was on to the collections room, a dusty assemblage of old models, plaster bits, signage, and of course more random bits of stone. As Tim rightly said, "This is just genuinely full of interesting things."

I particularly like this photo, so even though I have no idea what these stones were, I'm including it.

And this may be a carving by Grinling Gibbons, the most famous English wood carver ever. Best known for his intricate swags of greenery, "it was said a pot of carved flowers above his house in London would tremble from the motion of passing coaches". (Thanks as always, Wikipedia.)

And this has a lovely tone, don't you think? I wonder what sort of extreme measures the Dean and Chapter were considering as a punishment for foolish scribbling? Hopefully it involved dangling from the Christmas Tree hook.

This is the point when things got even cooler. (Hard to believe, I know, but brace yourself, it gets so so so much better.) Once again the keys came out and we started to make our way through a long series of narrow corridors and stairways sandwiched between the inside and outside walls of the cathedral.

There was a lot of this.

After many winding corridors and tiny doors and low hanging beams, we finally popped out on the roof. Of St. Paul's Cathedral. The freaking roof.

Thankfully, well-equipped with handrails.

Here we got to see the sort of work Tim does, because besides helping put up the Christmas Tree, one of his main things is making new stone balusters to fit into the balustrade that runs around the roof.

This photo shows how eroded the old stonework is compared to new.

The balusters are made from Portland Stone, and each one is carved by hand from a template taken from the original work. Then they're craned up to the roof and carried by hand (which takes two guys) to be fitted into place. Other than the electrically winched crane it's all impressively analog.

And the views are not bad either, with the Walkie Talkie on the left and The Shard centre-right.

More interesting than the view in this photograph is the evidence of major erosion shown. Those wide horizontal stones sitting on top of the balusters were laid about 300 years ago, and the seams between filled with molten lead.

Look how much stone has worn away compared to the height of the original lead seams. No wonder they need stone masons on staff.

After hanging out on the roof for a bit, we went back inside to more backstage-iness, this time directly above the nave of the Cathedral, where we could see the tops of the domes that make up the ceiling.

This is the upper side of the stone vaulting that forms the ceiling. Which we walked all over. I hasten to add that it is much more than just ONE layer thick. And those wooden pegs sticking out of the floor? Those are plugging holes in the ceiling used for dropping lifting points when needed. Tim blithely pulled one out so we could look down to the floor, one million feet below. Oh, and those wooden beams! This photo doesn't really show it, but viewed along their length you can see they're hand-hewn and twisted and look very much like the trees they were 300 years ago. So cool.

Other than the overall amazingness of the tour in general, one of the best things was being in that big stone building and learning about the stone itself. So many of London's great buildings are made of stone, but the stone itself never gets much attention. For instance, up above the nave, we looked at an unassuming corner of stonework along the wall.

Each of these stone blocks was probably cut by someone different. Tim pointed at a rough one that was likely done by an apprentice (second full course from the bottom), another that was sawn (fourth from the bottom), and another that was shaped with a stone axe (fifth). So much history and information hiding in plain site.

We also got to pop out into the famous Whispering gallery, closed to the public since 2019. They're currently getting ready to install safety fencing, and doing other renovation work on the gallery before it reopens. And of course one of the things being renovated is the stone floor.

Here you can see two new pristine white stone flags cut and shaped by Tim and showing their new, very intentional tooling marks, next to ones worn smooth, with their remaining blackened tooling marks just visible at the edge.

Our last stop might have been my favourite of the day - the mason's workshop back in the modern car-park-ish area where we entered. (I take that back. Of course my favourite was the roof, but I love a functioning workshop. Love, love, love.)

The Mason's Workshop at St. Paul's was not big or grand. But it was well-kept and well-lit and appropriately dusty and just excellent. I mean look at this tool cabinet!

So many hammers and chisels.

These are the zinc templates they use for making bits of cathedral. Top of the pile is the baluster.

And here's a baluster under construction.

In looking at this shape it seemed obvious to me that you'd start with a rectangular block and rough-saw the basic shape, then chisel out the detail. But of course that's not how they do it. Yes, they start with a big rectangular blank, but from there the whole thing is chiselled by hand. Every chip. By hand. Chip. Chip. Chip. Chip. Chip. The first one took Tim three weeks, though he's faster now. And he calculated that if you chisel for a whole eight hour work day with an average hammer, that's eight tons of weight wielded by your hammering arm. Apparently that can net you an impressive six pack on one side. A three-pack, shall we say?

We hung around in Tim's workshop for quite a while, and he showed us a bit of mason-ing, which looks just like you'd expect. Guy with a hammer and chisel chipping off tiny bits of stone over and over and over again. Impressive, repetitive, and really, really... old. You get the impression you could transport Tim back to the 17th century stone yard where they cut the original blocks for St. Paul's and he could pick up a hammer and chisel and fit right in with the rest of the gang, except for his modern steel-toed boots.

We tried to persuade Tim to let us buy him 100 pints at the nearest pub as thanks for the most amazing afternoon, but he had other plans. So Piran and I wandered off to slake our own parched throats and sit in disbelief.

In the immortal words of John Denver: "Some days are diamonds, some days are stone".

But the best days are both.

Amersham Fairground Organ Museum

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 12 Mar 2023 07:00:00 +0000

I’ve been spending a lot of time on the boat lately, and am happy to report that engine is now running again! (Pause for wild applause.) Also, the new batteries are installed and the new alternator seems to be functioning, even if the digital battery monitor isn’t exactly reporting that fact correctly. And I finally fixed the cracked and crappy top of the sliding hatch that covers the main entryway, which has been cracked and crappy since the day I bought the boat (there's no sense rushing into these things). And if it ever warms up properly I may make a dent in the exterior paint touch-ups that I started but had to abandon until the temperature outside cooperates. I know that compared to the reported -38 degrees from Saskatchewan a few weeks ago, I’ve got nothing to complain about. But that doesn’t change the fact that the rust treatment I applied to the back deck on a Wednesday was still not completely cured by the following Sunday.

So yeah, I've been doing a lot on the boat. But it's also quite easy to get busy with that for days on end and then suddenly realise that it's really time to get out and interact with other actual humans instead of just engine parts. Luckily, I'm on a few mailing lists that drop a tantalising rotation of diversions into my inbox every week (Thank you IanVisits). And that's how I found the Amersham Fair Organ Museum.

Note the charming mock Tudor building in the background is NOT the Amersham Fair Organ Museum. It's also not a pub, which is what I was hoping.

Amersham is a leafy Metroland suburb at the nether reaches of the Metropolitan line, and is home to the Amersham Fair Organ Museum, a collection of mechanical fairground organs tucked into a small industrial building next to a removals company and a crossfit gym. Run by volunteers, it falls squarely into the Small-But-Plucky category of museum also inhabited by the likes of the Pumphouse Museum and the Beatles Museum. Once each month, the good people of AFOM open the doors, turn on the tea urn, and crank up the machines, making it a perfectly bloggy destination for a grey Sunday.

This small-ish room is pretty much the whole thing, and it houses eight or nine different mechanical organs. So when one is playing, you know it.

Mechanical organs, as any Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Reader will easily deduce, are pipe organs that are played automatically by a combination of air pressure and complicated mechanisms instead of human hands and feet. They were popular on fairgrounds through the 1800s because their loud volume helped attract crowds and could be heard over the general din of people and fairground machinery. They remained a fixture until electrically amplified music started to take over in the 1920s. Luckily, many have survived thanks to dedicated collectors such as the good folks of the Amersham Fairground Organ Museum. (In fact, there are apparently SEVEN collections of fairground organs in the UK alone. Who knew?)

Limonaire Freres was a particularly well-known manufacturer of fairground organs, so much so that "limonaire" became the generic term in French for this sort of pneumatic-mechanical instrument.

At first, mechanical organs operated sort of like giant music boxes, with rotating barrels covered with pins used to direct to air from mechanical bellows to the various pipes. Known as "barrel organs", these devices were cumbersome because changing the tune meant replacing the entire pinned barrel completely - a costly proposition. The barrels were also large and heavy to store. Other systems used paper rolls like a player piano, but they were fragile and required careful handling. To alleviate the shortcomings of these two systems, the Gavioli company patented a system of heavy cardboard pages linked together in accordion style which operated like a computer punchcard or a Jacquard loom. The Amersham museum has a LOT of these books.

This was just one shelf of many, most of which were tucked behind the machines. Each machine needs its own books, because each has different instrumentation.

I was surprised to see that the organs didn't simply feature air pushed through traditional organ pipes, but also included percussion! The same air pressure that moves past reeds in the pipes to create different instrumentation and pitches is also used to operate tiny bellows that move drumsticks!

Here you can see the book pages being expelled from the machine and the little white bellows that inflate to play the snare drum on the right, including some pretty impressive drum rolls. (Also, my profound apologies for the vertical letterboxing that Youtube has done on this video. It was very much a portrait orientation sort of situation, which Youtube seems unable to deal with in a visually appropriate way.)

The same air pressure also operates cymbals, hi-hats, bass drums and other assorted percussion. And you may have noticed the little conductor man in front of the Limonaire organ in the photo above. Naturally, he waves his arms in time with the music.

As did the conductor of this fancy gang. The ones on the sides have little wands that hit the brass bells at the top of their staffs.

The complexity and decoration of these machines was fantastic and right up my alley. As was the the enormous woodstove that was cranking out heat on an unseasonably cold and grey Sunday afternoon. And, more importantly, the excellent selection of cakes and sandwiches on offer.

Victorian Sponge (tick), Lemon Drizzle cake (tick), Carrot Cake (tick), Cookies (tick)... excellent job Amersham Fairground Organ Museum!

As we know, a nice hot beverage and a bit of cake is a vital component to a successful bloggy day out, so I was kicking myself when I discovered that the AFOM did not have a card reader, and I did not have cash. This necessitated a long walk almost all the way back to the station to what appeared to be the only cash machine in Amersham. And then all the way back. Luckily it was a good sandwich (brie, bacon and red onion marmalade, for those keeping track at home) which I of course supplemented with a credible piece of lemon drizzle cake, and a really really good cup of tea, so all was forgiven.

As the afternoon progressed, each organ in the room got its air time. Of course I missed a few while on my quest for hard currency, but there were still plenty in the queue when I got back. And the closer I looked, the more curious I became about how the relatively few "lines" in the cardboard music books could control so many different elements. I'd hoped that there'd be some explanatory text on display, or perhaps a break in the action for a bit of technical Q&A, but that's not how they roll at AFOM. Instead I had to flag down a friendly volunteer to get an explanation.

Honestly, there are hundreds and hundreds of pipes, bells, whistles, drums, cymbals and miscellaneous waving arms. How is that all controlled by what looks like a maximum of about 20 lines?

Luckily, Paul The Volunteer was very friendly and managed to shout some information over the din of the nearby organ. Better still, HE LET ME BEHIND THE VELVET ROPE and opened up the back of an organ while it was playing to show me how hundreds of air lines are routed through the machine.

So very cool. It seems a lot of different elements get combined and are controlled by a single "line" in the book. For instance, the conductor's arm, the high hat, and the bass drum might all be controlled from the same line in the book. Still, I'd have liked the chance to understand it more clearly.

Paul did really know his stuff. As we watched the cards being fed into the machine he could call out what was coming, "Drum roll here. Here come the piccolos..." etc. And, pleasingly, the higher pitched elements were at the top of the page and the lower ones further down, with the percussion at the bottom, which is obviously how it should be. Plus, and I simply can't overstate this enough, HE LET ME BEHIND THE VELVET ROPE. So he definitely wins a GSWPL Award of Merit.

Also pleasing is the fact that many of these organs have been restored to life by a company just down the road in Chesham. Kevin Meayers Organs has been in business since 1984 and not only restores and repairs mechanical organs, but builds new ones too. It frankly did not occur to me that, in the age of Spotify, anyone would still be making new mechanical organs from scratch, but Kevin Meayers will happily take that on. They also manufacture blank cardboard books for perforation, and create arrangements of new music as well, perforating the books on site with fantastic machines like this.

This photo is from the Kevin Meayers website, and demonstrates that it's perfectly obvious that Kevin Meayers should team up with the AFOM people to offer tours on the same day so you could do a whole northwest London mechanical organ outing in one go.

And to illustrate the wide range of musical genres Kevin Meayers can provide... how about a little Tammy Wynette?

The last organ in the round-the-room tour was a bit different. While all the others in the collection were a category I'm calling "Mostly Pipes Plus Other Bits (MPPOB)", this one was in a more modern style, and had a lot of real instruments on it.

Accordion, drum kit, xylophone, saxophone, and those wacky coconut shell things in the top corner. Let me tell you, you haven't lived until you've heard an autonomous accordion accompanied by what I think was a disembodied slide whistle playing "The White Cliffs of Dover".

The best part is that all those instruments were not just for show - they were all really playing! The accordion opened and closed and you could see the keys depressing. This makes a lot of sense, because the accordion is a natively bellows-operated thing to begin with, but the moving keys... that was lovely. And there's the line of little mallets played the xylophone. Even the saxophone had tiny wire linkages working the keys. My favourite, though, was the quartet of coconut things. They had a lot of personality for a collection of pneumatically-actuated smackers and hollow wooden shells. This organ was a definite highlight, which I lovingly videoed for the good of the blog:

Go Go Gadget Coconuts!

By the time I'd had my fill of the ghost accordion, I felt like I'd fully embraced the entirety of the Amersham Fairground Organ Museum experience, lemon drizzle cake and all. On the way back to the station I made a quick stop at the half scale model of the Metropolitan One steam locomotive as a nod to the Metroland origins of Amersham. (Yeah, now you see that you really should have clicked on that Metroland link at the beginning. I put effort into those links you know!)

Nicely painted in the colours of the Metropolitan Line, of course.

And because it was going to be a long trip back to the boat, I did the only sensible thing and made a pitstop in Harrow-on-the-Hill between the tube and bus portions of the journey. It just made sense.

I have no regrets. (Actually, that's not true. I regret that the pub was out of sausage rolls. Boo.)

In other GSWPL-related news... positively SEISMIC changes are afoot here, but I'm saving that news for another blog. Meanwhile, enjoy posts when they appear, which I know is less and less frequently, but as I like to remind everyone, I've now been blogging somewhere-or-other for more than fourteen years. So really, be thankful I'm still here at all, that's all I'm gonna say.

On the random excellence of London

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 15 Jan 2023 22:02:00 +0000

Sometimes you make a plan, and sometimes that plan falls by the wayside. This was the case on a recent Monday morning just before Christmas. I'd been in Southend-on-Sea for a very jolly Christmas Party the night before, and then for a group breakfast by the seaside the morning after (Salmon Bubble Stack, since you asked). I also had plans in the West End that evening, and since Southend-on-Sea is in the far southeast, and the mooring for the boat is in the far northwest, it wasn't really practical for me to get all the way home to the boat and then all the way back to the West End in time for my rendez-vous. Despite having not even started packing for my Tuesday flight home to Canada for Christmas, and even though there was a lot to be done on the boat otherwise (more on which later, if I can bear to recount the sad tale) I decided that sometimes you just need to let fate intervene. So on the train back towards central London I made a plan to visit one or more small London museums, most probably the Freemason's Hall, as a pleasant diversion to fill the time before my evening engagement.

The train from Southend-on-Sea terminates at Fenchurch Street Station, one of London's smaller rail termini. From there it's a short walk to an Underground station for the journey to Holborn, which would have been maximally efficient, but that's not the kind of mood I was in. Instead I thought I'd walk, since though it was cloudy and threatening, the weather was much warmer than it had been for ages and there was no urgency to my mission whatsoever. Moreover, I decided once again to put away Google Maps and find my own way. So began a meandering journey that should have taken 45 minutes, and ended up clocking in at about three hours and six kilometres. Because, as any Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Reader will understand, if you've got the time to stop and look when you're walking through London, you can't help but see some really cool stuff.

I figured it would be easiest to stay oriented if I was closer to the river, so I turned that way down a small side street near Fenchurch Street and was quickly distracted by the entrance to a nearby church - St.Olave's. And this perfectly illustrates my point about the density of cool stuff in London. Just by chance, less than a hundred metres from my starting point, I'd found one of the only medieval-era churches in the City of London to survive the Great Fire of 1666, which is also the final resting place of the famous diarist, Samuel Pepys.

St. Olave's. It still sometimes surprises me that you can wander in and out of most churches in this country. I always hesitate, but I'm rarely disappointed when I take the plunge.

This version of St. Olave's (named for the Norwegian saint) was built around 1450, though there was a house of worship on the site from about 1050. (So that's less than a thousand years. Pfft.) The churchyard is quite nice too. Small but pleasant, with a mosaic labyrinth and a stone entryway dubbed the Ghastly Grim Gate (by Charles Dickens, of course) because of the tympanum of the gate features carved skulls. That gateway leads onto the melodiously-named Seething Lane.

From Seething Lane I turned west and south again before walking down St. Mary at Hill street. This time I didn't bother visiting the eponymous church, though I did linger outside Waterman's Hall, the home of The Company of Watermen and Lightermen of the River Thames, a livery company. From there, a slight deviation to the northwest brought me to The Monument. (Which really deserves its own blog, so I'll just mention that I thought it fitting that a fire truck went past as I was reading one of the inscriptions on the base of the column.) Notably, one of the designers of The Monument was Sir Christopher Wren, who has, of course, been mentioned in the blog several times before and who will feature again very shortly. But first, I headed towards an often-overlooked landmark near Cannon Street Station.

The London Stone

It's believed this unassuming lump of oolitic limestone has sat at or near this spot (barring a few relocations for safekeeping) since (they think) the Roman era (maybe). And you can take my multiple parentheses as an indication of how little is definitively known about the stone. Most of its history is myth and conjecture, though it does definitely appear on the Copperplate Map of London from the 1550s. This fancy Portland stone enclosure is very new - completed in 2018. I fondly remember its former, much less grand home behind an unassuming cast iron grill at street level, which made it look more like a storm drain than the resting place of a (possibly) ancient and (sort of) mystical (-ish) artefact.

By this point it was becoming clear that the goal of visiting Freemason's Hall was fading fast and my afternoon was going to be spent in an aimless but diverting and fruitful wander through London, an idea that I wholly embraced en route to my next diversion, a dome that I spotted over the rooftops a few streets away and seemed worth a look.

St. Stephen Walbrook. It was really, really worth a look.

The plaque outside indicated that St. Stephen's was another effort of Sir Christopher Wren, but even if I hadn't been told that I'd like to think I would have recognised this right away as a Wren church. Characterised by rounded arches and white walls, Wren's churches are a marked departure from the darker gothic style you can see at St Olave's. Apparently St. Stephen's was Wren's parish church, so he took particular care with it, crowning it with what some consider his finest dome. In all, Wren was commissioned to rebuild 51 churches after the Great Fire, of which 13 survive in their original form, St. Stephen's among them.

And because it's London and the history is laid on with a trowel, inside the church there was also this:

St. Stephen's Walbrook is where the Samaritans was founded, in 1953. The Samaritans are a charitable organisation dedicated to providing support to anyone in emotional distress, and are best known for their telephone hotlines. They respond to millions of calls each year, and are largely staffed by volunteers.

I lingered for a while at St. Stephen's, before wending my way past the Mansion House and the Bank of England, stopping to read this plaque set in the pavement.

"The Great Conduit lies beneath this spot. Built by the City of London in 1245 to provide public water supplied by pipe from Tyburn Springs. Removed after the Great Fire of 1666 and found during the construction of One Poultry in 1994" *heart*

And then, of course, there was another church. Another Wren Church.

The famous St. Mary le Bow

St Mary le Bow is the home of the famous Bow Bells. I've said it before but just for clarity (and word count), the Bow Bells are significant because a true Cockney must be born within the sound of their peal. Wikipedia helpfully notes that in 1850 the sound of the Bow Bells could likely be heard as far as Hackney Marshes, Limehouse and possibly even south of the Thames in Southwark. Tragically, urban noise pollution and the lack of any maternity hospitals in the vicinity make the birth of any genuine 21st century cockneys unlikely (though not impossible).

See what I mean about the Wren Churches? Round arches, white-washed walls, restrained (ish) baroque finishing

The Bow Bells also feature in the famed nursery rhyme "Oranges and Lemons" a Who's Who of London churches:

Oranges and lemons. Say the bells of St. Clement's.
You owe me five farthings. Say the bells of St. Martin's.
When will you pay me? Say the bells at Old Bailey.
When I grow rich. Say the bells at Shoreditch.
When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney.
I do not know. Says the great bell at Bow.
Here comes a candle to light you to bed,
And here comes a chopper to chop off your head!
Chip chop chip chop the last man is dead.

Next up were a few more livery halls - the Saddler's Hall and the site of the former Broderers Hall ("formed to promote and protect the fine art of embroidery"). And of course I wouldn't make it out of the City without another Wren church, this one the oddly named St Vedast-Alias-Foster, which sounds more like a What Three Words location than a place of worship. (For the record, one of the What Three Words locations covered by St Vedast is Sleepy.Covers.Fantastic.)

Inside St. Vedast. Again... soooooo Wren.

St Vedast-Alias-Foster follows the formula of so many City churches: founded in the middle ages, damaged or destroyed in the Great Fire, rebuilt by Wren, bombed during the Blitz, and restored once again in the 1950s. Interestingly, this church was Wren's most economical effort, built up from the medieval foundations for a mere £2,958, as compared to a whopping £15,421 for St. Mary le Bow. (Only St. Paul's Cathedral was more expensive.)

St. Paul's was just down the street, but having been there before I skipped that most obvious of Wrens, past a gigantic construction site of what looks like it's going to be an awful lumpish office development just behind the cathedral. The last Wren site of the day was the former Christ Church Greyfriars which follows the above formulas up to the point of its substantial destruction in the Blitz. The outer walls and tower survived, and today surround a public garden. The nearby vestry building is now home to a dentist's office. Of course.

A brief diversion down Warwick Lane lead to the Cutler's Hall (another livery company) that boasts a really lovely terracotta frieze by Benjamin Creswick, depicting the different steps in the process of knife-making: forging, grinding, hafting, and finishing.

Cutler's Hall survived the Blitz, which destroyed the Royal College of Physicians next door (commemorated by the rectangular blue plaque just to the left of the main entrance)

Thank you to Look Up London for this close up photo.

By this point I'd been dragging myself and my not-insubstantial overnight luggage around the City for a couple hours. A stroll past the Old Bailey was next, but we've heard about that already. Instead, I was still gamely diving down side streets and following my nose wherever it looked like something interesting might be found.

Which is how I found this excellent thing. It's a very clever bit of shadowplay that tells office workers for that building where they can securely store their bikes. So it wasn't all Wren and livery companies.

Nearing the home stretch, and now slightly damp with intermittent drizzle, I headed along Fleet Street, famously the home of the printing trade and, by extension, to newspapers and journalism. Printing started in the area around 1500, and the first newspaper was published there in 1702. Dickens Pickwick Papers is partially set on Fleet Street and it's also the home of the equally fictitious demon barber. This was familiar territory, since Fleet Street is a major thoroughfare. However, I'd never noticed one laneway off a side street: Magpie Alley

The alley features a long mural of custom tilework detailing the history of the print and journalism trade in the area.

By now it was well past time for cake and a hot beverage, and I was gratified that even though I was still navigating by feel, it wasn't long before I found my way to High Holborn Street, and a nice cup of tea. I did also eventually end up going past my originally intended destination - Freemason's Hall - but we'll have to save that for a whole other blog because by that time I was in very familiar territory and on my way to something even better than a nice cup of tea... a friendly few pints in a nice pub!

That was just one relatively short walk on a quiet Monday afternoon, with no overarching theme or purpose, that still managed to take in what I think is an astonishing number of unique or beautiful or quirky sites. Because... well, because it's London. And more than twelve years after I arrived, and nine years after I wrote this, I still love it.

Scouse and scouse and scousers

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 25 Dec 2022 07:00:00 +0000

Merry Christmas! I got you a blog.

When last we left our doughty blogger, she was enjoying the delights of Liverpool. And while the Beatles may be inescapable in that northern city, they aren't the only game in town. So let's rewind to the start of the visit, but skip all that Beatles stuff you've already heard about.

One of my first stops in town was trip around the grounds of St. Luke's Bombed Out Church. (I promise that's really what they call it.) Set at a prominent intersection, the church was completed in 1832 and then struck by a German bomb in May of 1941. The interior of the church was completely destroyed by the ensuing fire, but the outer walls remained standing. Derelict for many years, the now-outdoor site has been redeveloped into a community space for live performance, markets and other community events, one of which was a vinyl record sale that afforded me a chance to wander the site on Saturday morning.

I particularly liked this statue commemorating the famous Christmas Truce of WW1. The poppies around the base were a temporary addition for Remembrance Day

Very clever re-purposing of plastic water bottles!

The inside of the church

Much of Saturday and Sunday was taking up Beatling, but I did have a nice wander around the nearby Georgian Quarter of the city after my disappointing breakfast (about which you have already heard me rant, so I will spare you). The morning was clear and chilly and I had some time to kill and a lot of sub-standard french toast to burn off, so it seemed a perfect time to check out the neighbourhood.

The Georgian Quarter is a small residential area of central Liverpool that boasts a lovely collection of Georgian streets so impressive that it's frequently used as a filming location. (You may have seen the Georgian Quarter in "Peaky Blinders".) It was very pleasant for a stroll and found myself humming and tripping along the streets in a very contented mood.

A typical street in the Georgian Quarter. You can just picture an episode of "Bridgerton" or "Downton Abbey", can't you?

After a short wander, I eventually found my way to Liverpool Cathedral. The Georgian Quarter is actually the site of two cathedrals, which could hardly be more different. The more modern of the two - the Roman Catholic Liverpool Metropolitan Cathedral - is popularly known as Paddy's Wigwam, for reasons that will be obvious to those who follow this link. I did not elect to visit that spot. However, the Anglican cathedral was definitely worth a visit, being the largest cathedral in Britain, and the 8th largest church in the world. (Other size-related facts of note: Liverpool Cathedral is the longest in the world, and the 5th largest by volume. So by whatever metric you use, the place is a behemoth.)

Liverpool Cathedral, moodily backlit.

The cathedral is also surrounded by a very nice cemetery garden which I walked through. The cemetery and gardens lie in a sunken area around the cathedral site that makes the building itself even more imposing. Their sunken-ness is because the site is a former 18th century stone quarry from which the stone for many of Liverpools public buildings was cut. It became Liverpool's main cemetery between 1825 and 1936.

It's a bit overgrown and Highgate-y now.

I also took some un-blog-worthy photos of a chalybeate spring coming out of one of the high cut banks surrounding the gardens. What is a chalybeate spring, you say? It's a natural mineral spring containing iron salts of course! Rather you should ask how one PRONOUNCES chalybeate, because I can virtually guarantee it's not what you expect. Certainly not CHAL-ee-beet, as you might think. Ho ho, of course not! Not in a country where Cholmondeley is pronounced CHUM-lee. How do we pronounce chalybeate? Kuh-LEE-bee-utt. Yup. I know. Don't bother questioning. Let's just move on, while slowly shaking our heads.

Once I finally made it inside, Liverpool Cathedral is equally massive.

The reddish sandstone and the light coloured mortar give the whole place an unusual stripey appearance, like the columns are wearing jolly socks. And as you can see it's just HUGE. And despite it's quite traditional appearance, it's a relatively modern building. started in 1904 and not completed until 1978 (!). The arches are apparently the largest Gothic arches ever built, and the pipe organ is the largest in the UK (with a staggering 10,268 pipes. How is that even possible?). More exciting still, it also has the world’s highest and heaviest ringing peal of bells, housed in the monumental central tower. Even better, you can buy a ticket to ascend the tower and view Liverpool from above. Even EVEN better, there are lifts, for the comfort of both bell-ringers and tourists.

When you finally emerge from the last of the lifts for the climb to the roof, you get a fantastic view of the bell support structure, which features a great tenor bell weighing 4.1 tonnes! (3rd heaviest in the UK, after Great Paul and the Olympic bell, neither of which are currently rung.)

Naturally, the views from the roof of the tower are excellent, and I hit it at the perfect moment, when the day's rain had cleared off and the light was golden. Here's that same bit of the Georgian Quarter we saw moments ago, looking particularly fetching.

Other than the cathedral, I visited a lesser-known and more down-at-heel Liverpool site, the (formerly) grand Adelphi Hotel. Situated very near the main railway hub, Lime Street Station, the present Adelphi is the third hotel to occupy the site and is a Grade II listed building completed in 1914. It's very much in the grand tradition of railway hotels, which also extended to Canada, as Asute Go Stay Work Play Live readers will of course recall. (The second iteration, which opened in 1876, was for a time regarded as the most luxurious hotel in the UK outside of London, boasting, along with standard-issue sumptuous dining rooms and lavish guest suites, a set of heated tanks in the basement for keeping live turtles to be used in the making of fresh turtle soup. That's proper decadence.) (Also a bit creepy.)

A colleague recommended I check out the hotel, with the caution that I must not, under any circumstances, consider patronising the Adelphi as an actual overnight guest. The public rooms were worth a visit, but the quality of the guest rooms, and the service in general, has fallen to a precipitous degree since the days of fresh turtle soup.

He wasn't kidding about the public spaces though! Here's the Central Court, with skylights and pink marble pilasters.

Closer inspection showed just how poorly maintained the place is. The furniture was an odd and bedraggled collection, and the skylights appear to have last been cleaned when Margaret Thatcher was in office. Given that rooms for the night go for as little as £38, I can't imagine they're pushing the boat out there either. Indeed, that seems to be borne out by this investigative video.

I foolishly tried to get a cup of tea, and maybe a bit of cake, based on the advertised flyer stating that afternoon tea was available, but despite wandering through several public rooms I could find no evidence of service, at which point it became clear that the correct move was a tactical retreat to the pub. Of course. Following that diversion (to the Philharmonic Dining Rooms, about which you've already read), I finally made my way back to the scene of the previous night's disappointment to try, once again, to sample the famed local delicacy, scouse.

Liverpool is famous for its scouse, so much so that the residents are affectionately and proudly known as Scousers and the Liverpool accent is also called scouse. (And happily, scouse is pronounced exactly as you'd expect: sKOWs.) And here I'm required by UK law to mention that scouse is a contraction of 'lobscouse', which, despite the fact that it's a traditional stew eaten by sailors in northern Europe, has absolutely nothing to do with lobsters.

I realise now that I actually had very little idea what scouse was, so I'll admit to being slightly disappointed to discover it's nothing more than a bowl of beef (or sometime lamb) stew.

My eventual bowl of scouse, served with the traditional accompaniments of bread and butter and pickled red cabbage. I found this particular pickled cabbage quite harsh, but I can appreciate the concept. You can also get a vegetarian version that's always called Blind Scouse, which I find a charming appellation.

What was delightful was that this bowl of traditional scouse - beef, onion, carrot and potato - tasted exactly like the beef stew my mom used to make. I suppose when you combine those particular ingredients in a big pot and add stock and time the result is always going to end up tasting the same, wherever you make it and whatever you call it. So while it wasn't a new and exciting food, it was still a very pleasant and satisfyingly homey dinner for a cold night, and a fitting end to my time as a tourist in Liverpool.

And now I'm tucked up on the boat in the middle of a cold snap. There's ice on the canal basin and the coal stove is belting out heat. I've also recently invested in an electric blanket, which is a REVELATION. Don't get me wrong - I'm still a big fan of the classic hot water bottle, and use that frequently to combat icy toes. But having the ability to pre-heat the bed to toasty perfection before getting in at night is utterly delicious and still makes me squeal out loud with delight when I snuggle in. These days, when the temperature has been solidly below freezing for days on end, I even leave the blanket on all night at the lowest setting, which is very cozy indeed. It's not done wonders for my electricity consumption, the price of which has more than doubled recently (thank you, cost-of-living crisis) but it's cheaper than a space heater and much more efficient. It's also still disspiritingly cold when I get home after a long day away - usually in the 3-9 degrees range - but such is the price we boat people pay. (Along with the price of the new starter motor and the impending new alternator, new battery disconnect switches, new leisure batteries (x5!) and whatever else comes along.) Not for the faint of heart, that's all I'm saying.

Ticket to Ride

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 11 Dec 2022 13:30:00 +0000

She got a ticket to ride and she went there! There being Liverpool.

I had a work meeting in Liverpool on a Monday so it just made sense - at least in the logic of blogdom - to get the train on Saturday morning and spend the weekend. Best know as the birthplace of the most influential and best selling musical act of all time (no points for guessing this one), Liverpool is a port city of about 500,000 in the northwest of England situated at the mouth of the River Mersey. (Yes, the one with the ferry 'cross it. Because it's not JUST about the Beatles. There was also Gerry & the Pacemakers of ferry fame. Also Elvis Costello, Echo & the Bunnymen, Frankie Goes to Hollywood and some others that people younger than me might care about). The Beatles may be inescapable in Liverpool, but there are actually non-Beatles things to do as well, so I booked a cheap hotel and set the alarm early Saturday morning to get to the train station.

I arrived just before lunch and dropped my bag at the cheap hotel, which can best be described as "basic" and reminiscent of my hostel-dwelling days. (Though not nearly as bad as some in my experience.) After a bit of lunch, and some local knowledge from a friendly waiter, I headed towards the docks to start my Liverpool Beatles Magical Mystery Tour. (Note: not actually magical or mysterious, but we all know I still had to say it.)

Me and the Fab Four, at (supposedly) the UK's most-photographed statue. And given the queue of people waiting for photos, I can believe it. I was roped in to take a photo of a large group and they reciprocated by taking some of me, so here's one of those, showing off the fancy new tweed jacket that Karen made me buy.

(Aside: What is it with people taking photos in portrait mode when the subject matter is clearly wider than it is tall? I know I've ranted about lots of other things , but this one is sooooo on The List. When I was taking photos for that group - in landscape mode, because the statue, the group of people, and the horizon were all obviously proportioned that way - they stopped me and asked me to switch the phone around to portrait mode. What the hell? And what is it with people who have the orientation of their phone LOCKED to portrait mode? What is that? Kids these days! Pffft!)

After the statue it was a short walk through the refurbished Albert Docks area to the Beatles Story. Naturally I'd done some research about what to see before I got to Liverpool, especially on the various Beatles sites, which include two different museums. (Note: for "research" here read "hasty Googling on the train journey north".) Those two museums could not be more different, and the flashier of the two is the Beatles Story, a self-described "incredible immersive journey". Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers can probably hear my eyes rolling from here. Regardless, it had to be done.

The Beatles Story is a series of recreated locations from the history of the band, some more approximate than others, accompanied by a bit of explanatory text and an audioguide. It was pretty good, though somewhat style-over-substance, with a few vexing top-notes.

The best section was the recreated Cavern Club, which was quite good. (But that grafitti does say "Jerry and the Pacemakers", which is an unforgivable spelling error. Seriously Beatles Story, sort yourself out!)

Other sections seemed a bit... mixed up. The early bits were basically in order - Lennon and McCartney meeting at a Quarrymen gig at the local Church fête, the addition of George Harrison, their time in Hamburg, booting Pete Best and bringing in Ringo, signing on with Brian Epstein, Ed Sullivan, Beatlemania, and so on. But after Sgt. Pepper, things got a bit confused. It seemed to skip to the break-up of the group jarringly quickly, then into sections about each individual band member, before then back-tracking to deal with the band's time in India and then abruptly dumping out into the inevitable gift shop. I'm glad I went, but it was a confusing ending and it all felt a bit too "theme park" for my tastes.

Because I'd had a very early start, I was ready for a nap after the Beatles Story. This is the beauty of traveling on your own - you can check out of the day's activities at any time with no negotiation and no guilt. (To be fair, this is also true when traveling with Karen. Our recent trip involved many instances of the tactical late-afternoon retreat to the hotel for a little quiet time.) I followed this up with a long walk to a restaurant for the famous local delicacy - scouse, but was thwarted in that quest because the place I went to was all out of scouse by the time I arrived (more on scouse in a later blog, if you're lucky). This meant a long walk back through the centre of town. Luckily, I found a friendly neighbourhood place for a very credible plate of pasta, so the evening had a very pleasant ending (due in no small measure to the large glass of red wine that I had along with my pasta).

Central Liverpool is quite small and very walkable. Many of the streets are closed to vehicle traffic, which meant that on a Saturday night there were lots of people out enjoying the city. I passed several credible buskers, and what seemed like an over-representation of Hen Parties (this was later confirmed by my local contact: Liverpool is apparently home of the Hen Night.) Still, it was fun to be out in the buzz, and one group did do a very enthusiastic, if tuneless, rendition of "Mamma Mia" as I was going by.

Because I was in the area, I took the time to check out Matthews Street, home to the Cavern Club - the famous underground music club where the Beatles performed almost 300 times. (And, I hasten to add where "Gerry and the Pacemakers" was correctly spelled on the back wall of the stage.)

Matthews Street now.

The original Cavern Club - the one where the Beatles played - was closed in 1973 after a compulsory purchase by British Rail to do with the construction of the underground Merseyside railway. It reopened across the street, but then closed again. And while efforts were made to revive the club at its original location, that proved to be structurally impossible. Instead, they salvaged many of the original bricks and recreated it a few doors down. (5,000 of the bricks were also sold as souvenirs for £5 each, with the proceeds going to Strawberry Field Children's Home, which is no longer a Children's Home, but another Beatles attraction, of course.)

It was fun to see Matthews Street on a Saturday night, with the hen parties and tourists and other assorted revellers. The street also has other venues and bars with live music playing. In fact, as I wandered towards my back-up dinner venue it seemed like every pub in central Liverpool was featuring live music. I guess the city's reputation as a musical hotbed doesn't begin and end with the Beatles. And I also guess that if you want a quiet drink in a pub you don't want to be in central Liverpool on a Saturday night.

Sunday morning I planned a big treat breakfast at another local spot which was perhaps a bit too hipster for its own good. I decided on the peanut butter and jam french toast, which promised "two pieces of sweet brioche bread griddled in a homemade egg and vanilla batter. Deep filled with peanut butter and jelly. Served with Canadian maple syrup". All those are good things, so anticipation was high (though tempered by the fact that when I ordered the waitress cheerily informed me the peanut butter and jelly french toast was Elvis's last meal. I said "I hope that's not indicative of how the rest of my day will go" but she didn't seem to find that funny, so she is dead to me.) In the end, the french toast was profoundly disappointing, consisting of two comically thick slices of brioche that were very dry and utterly lacking in the soaked cooked egg-custardy joy that is properly prepared french toast. And what purported to be genuine Canadian maple syrup lacked any maple flavour whatsoever. And the bacon was bland. Disappointing, Moose Coffee, that's all I'm saying.

For the sake of completeness, I decided to visit the other Beatles museum on Sunday, which is a very different experience than Saturday's Beatles Story. The Beatles Story was flashy but superficial and sort of corporate. The Beatles Museum is more in the "small but plucky" category. Formed from the personal collection of Roag Best, it consists of three floors packed with posters, photographs, and artefacts. Roag Best is the brother of Pete Best (the original drummer for the band). His father was Neil Aspinall (the Beatles road manager for years and later head of Apple Corps) (not that one) and his mother was Mona Best (founder of the Casbah Coffee Club, where the Beatles practised and performed in the early days.) Hence, it's a much more personal, and almost ridiculously detailed.

These glass cases contain a seemingly endless amount of ephemera, some things more relevant than others.

For instance, one of George Harrison's guitars is right on point.

Paul's abandoned stamp collection, however, seems... largely peripheral to the overall Beatles story.

Nonetheless, I was pleased I took the time to visit and came away with a much greater depth of knowledge than I did at the Beatles Story.

At this point it was well past time for a pint, so I made my way to the famous Philharmonic Dining Rooms. Known locally as "The Phil" it's one of the most ornate and beautiful pubs in the country and is Grade 1 listed (other Grade 1 buildings include Buckingham Palace and the Tower of London). I was told to make sure to check out the toilets, but sadly the Ladies is of no interest whatsoever. Apparently the Gents is a sight to behold though, with urinals constructed of rose coloured marble. Indeed, photos online do indicate it would be a very fancy spot for a wee.

John Lennon was known to drink at the Phil, but I was drawn to a more recent Beatles connection related to an episode of James Corden's Carpool Karaoke. (For the uninitiated, this is an ongoing series on The Late Late Show in which the host James Corden drives around in a car with a celebrity, singing along to their own songs.) So as I enjoyed my pint and my cheese and onion crisps, I watched this, which I found really lovely.

It's long, but if you have the time settle in and watch it. Obviously this struck a chord with me because I was in a particularly Beatles-y head space at the time, but the ending especially is very fun, and it's gratifying to think that Paul McCartney might be as genuinely nice a guy as you hope he is.

It's hard to escape the Beatles in Liverpool, and there are lots of Beatles things I didn't see. Strawberry Fields is now an interpretive centre about John Lennon's Childhood, Penny Lane is a real street, you can visit the boyhood homes of both John Lennon and Paul McCartney, and Mona Best's Casbah Coffee Club is open to visitors as well. But there are also non-Beatles things to see and do and I've cleverly saved those up for a whole other blog. So... watch this space for cathedrals, Georgian splendour and, of course, scouse!

GRUB!: Parkin

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 13 Nov 2022 10:17:00 +0000

Right, where were we? Ah yes, er, June.

A lot has happened since then, though apparently none of it worth blogging. For one thing, I helped successfully deliver both the Opening and Closing Ceremonies for the Commonwealth Games in Birmingham. Then I had a brief three-week stint at home on the boat at the end of August, which was lovely. I met my new next-boat-neighbour Tim, and managed to repaint the roof of the boat (which really, really needed it), and went another round with the boat engine. For the record, despite replacing the starter battery, glow plugs, ignition switch, and glow plug wiring, the engine will still not start. A whole new starter motor has now been acquired and is sitting in the box tucked away until I find the heart to resume the struggle.

On the plus side, the various repairs required me to buy a hydraulic crimping tool! (Pause for sotto vocce "oooooohhhhhs!" from tool geeks and "huuuuuhhhs??" from everyone else.)

And then, all too soon, it was off to the next job. This was, bizarrely, in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. The event was the opening show for the 2022 Riyadh Season, which I will describe here with Wikipedian exactitude as "a state-sponsored annual entertainment and sports festival". Life in Riyadh was... fine. No, really. Things have relaxed a lot there in the last few years. Women no longer have to wear the abaya in public - as long as your shoulders and knees are covered, you're good. And there was no requirement for a "male guardian" to accompany me if I went out. Not that I went out. The work was busy enough that there wasn't much opportunity. I didn't run either, because while there was a gym with treadmills in the hotel, the hours were segregated by gender and - unsurprisingly - the women's hours were decidedly inconvenient. (Call me crazy, but a brisk 5k on the treadmill at 9:30pm was not appealing.)

I did get out of the city once, and saw a bit of the "desert" which was much rockier than the Lawrence of Arabia sweeping sand dunes sort of thing you're probably expecting.

Oh yeah, there was also ten-day break in the middle of that whole thing wherein I flew back to the UK to meet Karen for a vacation we'd been planning long before the notion of Saudi Arabia reared its head.

Guess where we were? (Also, what is that slightly crazed expression on my face??)

Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers will recall that Parkin is a traditional gingerbread cake associated with Bonfire Night and usually found in the north of England, especially Yorkshire. It features lots of butter and sugar, mostly in the form of golden syrup and black treacle. And I suppose because it's from The North it's also got a good measure of oatmeal. Butter, sugar, golden syrup, treacle, oatmeal... sounds a lot like flapjacks. Sadly... not. (Oooooohh! Foreshadowing!)

The now-traditional staged photo of ingredients.

We've talked about Golden Syrup before on the blog (though let's face it, it's been ten years, we've talked about pretty much everything on the blog) but haven't touched on treacle yet, beyond a vague threat to blog about treacle tart. So... treacle is basically the British equivalent to molasses. It's a by-product of refining sugar created when sugar cane or sugar beets are boiled down until the sugar crystallises, at which point the crystals are removed to become sugar and the remaining syrup goes on to become molasses or treacle. In both cases, the darkness of the resulting syrup depends on how long the liquid is boiled. Molasses tends to be boiled longer, resulting in a darker syrup, whereas treacle is usually lighter. Unless, however, you're dealing with black treacle, which is very black indeed.

Black Treacle. It literally does what it says on the tin. And I say that as one who literally knows what "literally" means and how to use it properly.

All this is to say that North American AGSPWL readers who want to try this recipe would probably be just fine substituting molasses for the black treacle and corn syrup for the golden syrup.

I decided to use the recipe from BBC Good Food website, maybe because it's the BBC, and maybe because I use the BBC Good Food Roast Timer whenever I roast a chicken and it has never failed me.

Unlike a traditional sponge cake where you might start by creaming together butter and sugar, this parkin started by melting all the good stuff in a saucepan and then adding the flour, raising agents and liquids. I also decided to spice things up a bit by adding a small amount of freshly grated ginger root, because I figured it's gingerbread, right?

Things were looking and smelling great when the parkin went into the oven, and even better when it came out an hour later. I was worried it might not be cooked through, since the recipe called for a 9" cake pan, and mine was 8". However, the old toothpick in the middle trick confirmed that all was cooked through, so out it came to cool.

I looked at a few different recipes for parkin before settling on the BBC one, and they all had small variations. However, they all agreed on one point: this is a cake that improves with time. Every recipe I read said that you should make parkin up to a week before you want to eat it because it gets softer and stickier the longer it sits.

I know that not everyone who reads this blog has met me personally (I estimate that only about 85% of you have). But even if you haven't, you may have picked up on a slight tendency I have towards impatience. So it will likely not surprise any Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Reader to learn that the notion of baking an entire cake and then NOT TOUCHING IT FOR A WEEK was simply not a thing that was going to happen on this blog.

So yeah, this happened.

And how was it? This warm, spicy gingerbread cake that smelled so lovely and came with such a beguilingly seasonal back story?

Meh.

It was a bit dry. Pleasant enough, but certainly nothing to write a blog about. "Ok", I thought. "I guess they weren't kidding about the waiting thing." So I wrapped up the remaining 15/16ths of the cake tightly and set it aside. And then, in a supreme triumph of willpower wherein I shared the exceedingly tight confines of my 200 square foot boat with almost an entire cake, I DID NOT TOUCH the parkin for DAYS. About three days later I unwrapped it to check for the promised soft-and-stickiness. Not much appeared to have changed, but I had a piece anyway.

Meh.

And now, as I write this fully a week after baking, the parkin remains the same sorta dry, slightly crumbly, decidedly unsticky thing it was when it emerged from the oven seven days ago. Maybe I overbaked it? Maybe I didn't wrap it tightly enough for the magical stickifying effect to happen? Maybe I picked the wrong recipe. For instance, this one comes with whisky caramel sauce, which I suspect would make a massive difference. Or maybe Big Parkin has just been perpetuating this myth of stickiness for centuries. It's not inedible by any means. It's still cake, after all. Let's just say it's no Cartmel Sticky Toffee Pudding and leave it at that.

So parkin was a bit of a bust, though it's not like every other GRUB! post has all been an unalloyed success either (Welsh Rarebit, I'm looking at you). So in the interests of completeness, I'm giving you the recipe here. Because it's entirely possible I just didn't do it right and someone else could turn this into the soft and sticky delight I was promised (Karen?).

Go Stay Work Play Live Parkin (taken in its entirety from the BBC Good Food Website)
Ingredients:
200g butter
1 large egg
4 tbsp milk
200g golden syrup (or corn syrup)
85g black treacle
85g brown sugar
100g rolled oats
250g (2 cups) flour
1 tbsp ground ginger
half a thumb grated fresh ginger (this was entirely my addition)
Heat the oven to 160C / 325F / Gas Mark 3 (In retrospect this This seems quite low. Gas mark 3? Maybe I dehydrated this cake instead of baking it?)
Line a 9" square cake tin with baking parchment.
Beat the egg and milk together.
In a saucepan, melt the butter, syrup, treacle and sugar together until the sugar dissolves. Turn off the heat and mix in the oatmeal, flour and ginger, followed by the egg and milk.
Pour the batter into the tin and bake 50 - 60 minutes, until the cake feels firm and a little crusty on top. Cool in the tin and then wrap in more parchment and foil. Keep for up to five days before eating if you can - it'll become softer and sticker the longer you leave it, up to two weeks.

Suuuuuure it will.

Last Weekend

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 12 Jun 2022 06:00:00 +0000

It really was the last weekend. Because rehearsals have officially started, so now my life consists of six-day weeks at a windy outdoor rehearsal site, and Mondays off filled with laundry, errands and other boring life admin. This meant that when Tom (he who so callously rejected the Needle Museum) mentioned the idea of slipping down to London for a visit, I was all for seizing that last opportunity for a proper weekend. Which is how I came to book an AirBnb in an unexplored part of London and hop a train for a few days of being a tourist in the city where I (nominally) live.

First up was perhaps the most exciting event on the agenda, at least for those of us who grew up in the 80's. Eight month ago, when the beloved supergroup ABBA announced that they were back and producing a new album and a revolutionary new "live" concert in London, I was pretty excited. Because... ABBA!

(ABBA haters please leave now. Because, like raisin-hate, that attitude disqualifies you from reading my blog. I can't put it better than my friend Nathan, with whom I had this brief exchange on the topic:

So well put, Nathan.

I'd heard the hype when this new ABBA venture was all first announced, but then it faded into the background until Needle-Hater Tom mentioned that he was going down to London, and might be seeing the show with tickets from a mate who was working on the gig. And I might have had this reaction:

Sorry for shouting, Tom.

Fast forward a month or so and it turned out that Tom's mate was also someone that I'd worked with, and several other previous work colleagues were also involved, and yes, we did get tickets to see the very first time they did the show for an audience. This is definitely one of the perks of a life in show biz. And it really doesn't happen all that often. And I really try not to take advantage of any connections I might have. But dammit... ABBA!

Despite the fact that the press sometimes mention holograms when talking about the show, we knew it wasn't going to be that, but we really didn't know what to expect otherwise. I knew motion-capture was involved. I think I knew that the actual 70-year-old members of ABBA had gone into the studio to record the songs in the show. And we figured, cynically, that we were in for a sort of glorified music video. Keep your expectations low and you won't be disappointed, that's my motto.

(Aside: In researching this post I watched several promotional videos about ABBA Voyage, both the album and the arena show. And I have to share a quote from Bjorn. When he was asked about the decades that have passed since their last album in 1982 and this new one he said, "It's a well known saying, in the music industry, that you shouldn't leave more than 40 years between albums." And I always thought Benny was my favourite...)

Tom and I Ubered to the ABBA Arena in east London and met up with a couple of the colleagues who were working on the show to get the lowdown. Naturally, we also got a couple drinks and took a mandatory selfie to send to Karen, who has to endure a lot of these kind of "look at this cool thing I'm doing" photos, often while she's shovelling herself out of a snow drift in Winnipeg. Sorry about that, Karen. Your time will come.

I can't remember what that drink was but it involved passionfruit and vanilla and several types of alcohol and it was utterly delicious.

And the show? It was GREAT. It was also LOUD. The cynical side of me says that it is indeed a glorified music video, but it's also much more. You do spend the whole 90 minutes staring at an enormous, insanely high-definition video screen, but there's also a live band off to the side, and there are a lot of lighting and physical effects inside the auditorium that integrate seamlessly with images on the screen. And the digitally-produced de-aged avatars of Agnetha, Björn, Benny and Anni-Frid dancing and playing on what looks like a normal concert stage in front of you work surprisingly well. They've been extremely clever with how the video is designed and the illusion of depth and "realness" is excellent. The moments when they break from that convention and get into music video style are less successful, and the avatars still have a touch of the Polar Express Effect, which is magnified when they're gigantic close-ups, instead of human-sized figures on stage.

Regardless, it was great fun, and the audience clearly loved it and people sang and danced along and I think it's going to be hugely popular and successful. And after the show we got to have drinks with our friends who were all a bit loopy from an impromptu party backstage with Benny himself (!) and universally relieved that the show worked, and people liked it, and they could now take a breath and maybe relax ever so slightly, and maybe stop hearing "Fernando" in their dreams, which was a nice vibe to share in.

In summation: I give ABBA Voyage two thumbs up, but recommend ear plugs. (As the sound guy said, "When Benny tells you to turn it up, you turn it up.") And get a ticket on the floor, you Dancing Queens!

With one huge tick on our list, we met early the next morning for another of those things Karen gets annoyed about missing while she's busy in a snowbank. This one was also Tom's suggestion: an installation at an empty church in Mile End that an Australian artist turned into an enormous snow globe.

Note the telltale scattering of "snowflakes" on a warm May morning.

Knowing how popular an insta-firendly event like this was likely to be - especially on the last few days of its run - I pushed Tom to arrive well in advance of the 10am opening time. (Not my first rodeo...). He was sceptical but agreed, and we met at the church an hour before opening, where we were already about 30 deep in the queue. It was a sunny morning and we had a lot of ABBA to discuss, so the time passed pleasantly and we felt more and more smug as the queue snaked further down the street the closer it got to the opening time. We London-savvy folk were ushered into the church in the first batch of punters allowed to enter for our allotted fifteen minutes, right at 10am.

And it was unexpectedly excellent.

Big blowers were mounted to a scaffolding structure on the roof outside and fed the confetti through several holes. The press photos I'd seen in advance did not do justice to the sheer volume of eco-friendly white confetti that blanketed the inside of the church. I suspect those photos were taken at the very beginning of the run, and we arrived at the very end, after the snow had been accumulating for at least nine days, and it was deep!

Deep enough for people (who were not me) to do this. And deep enough that we soon understood the warning we got on entering to hold tight to phones, glasses and wallets, because if they ended up in the snow the odds of getting them back were slim indeed.

Even without the confetti, the church itself would have been quite lovely on its own. It has an appealing rundown quality and though it's sad to see a beautiful building in a state of disrepair, at least it hadn't been torn down and was being used for something great.

And at least they haven't removed this.

Fifteen minutes may not seem like much, but it was enough. We had time to take lots of photos, and to watch other people interacting, and to get annoyed by the amount of time and attention given by other people to taking selfies. And yeah, we took a few fun pictures ourselves.

Tom's Insta-friendly snow globe moment

Arty bit.

A quiet corner

Once we'd had our fifteen minutes of snow, we wandered back towards the tube station trailing eco-friendly confetti along the street with us, as many had clearly done before. I'm sure the local residents were getting a bit tired of the installation and will be grateful when the rain finally dissolves the last flakes. Though as anyone who's ever done a snow effect on stage before knows, they will surely still be finding flakes of the stuff in that church decades from now.

Since it was a decidedly East End-ish weekend, our next location was Spitalfields for a lovely late breakfast before the next site of the day. I'd given Tom a few suggestions of slightly quirky London things to do, He picked Dennis Severs' House. It's a spot I've blogged about before, so I won't go into it here, but it was nice to revisit the place years later, especially while sharing it with someone new. (The other suggestions are ones you've already heard about here and here. Also, I admit to feeling a bit smug at being able to offer a menu of activities that might appeal. It's almost like I've been here a while.)

After Dennis Severs we wandered around Spitalfields for a while, enjoying how successfully we were spending our time that weekend. So for an encore, Tom checked out which West End shows might have matinees the next day, since an afternoon performance would still leave time to get back up to Birmingham by early evening and be rested and ready for work the next day. And yeah, "Life of Pi" had tickets. So Tom bought a pair on his phone as we were sitting in a pop-up food court outside Brick Lane Vintage Market, while I ate vegan cashew "ice cream". And lo, our self-satisfaction knew no bounds.

Tom had other plans for Saturday evening, so I took a long walk back to my AirBnb in Wapping. And rather than spending the whole journey with my nose stuck in Google Maps, which is my default state when navigating London (or anywhere, really) I decided to put my phone away and find my way home by instinct. And it worked! It may not have been the most direct route, but I found some streets I've never seen before in the City, and I walked a lot of the Thames path, and I got back to the AirBnb in time to pick up a few supplies for a picnic dinner at home and also rest my tired feet and enjoy a pint in one of several very nice neighbourhood pubs nearby. And then I binged three episodes of "Bridgerton" and went to bed early. Perfection.

Sunday went precisely as planned, and the show was very good, and the train journey back to Birmingham was fine. But you don't need to hear about that. What you need to hear is that yes, I know that was kind of a magic weekend. And I know I'm very very lucky to have been able to design my life in the last decade in a way that means I'm able to spend a few days seeing ABBA, and frolicking in a life-sized snow globe, and hitting a West End show on a whim. Very lucky indeed. But I also don't own a home, and my retirement savings are not what they could have been if I'd been sensible and stayed employed in Canada like a normal person. And I don't exactly have a solid plan for my fast-approaching golden years. Or even know what continent I'll spend them on. So I'm kind of hoping that Karen's garden shed might be available, because she is totally my backup plan.

And she and are definitely going to the ABBA show together. With prosecco.

Because we are Dancing Queeeeeeeeens!

Forge Mill Needle Museum

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 15 May 2022 16:33:00 +0000

Welcome to the triumphant return of OG Go Stay Work Play Live! And by that I mean you’re about to read a normal post about a bloggy location here in the UK. There are now more than a decade of such posts, so Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers are very familiar with this classic formula:

1. Take the train a modest distance on a sunny weekend morning, while doing the crossword.

2. Visit a diverting museum, gallery, castle, ancient ruin, park, village, trail, hill, barrow, stately home, bunker, etc. (Bonus for anything with Victorian machinery and exposed gears, most especially if powered by a steam engine that is actually running).

3. Take a lot of pictures and make notes while formulating bon mots in head for the blog.

4. Have coffee and cake in the tea room, preferably operated by smiling volunteers who are very friendly, if slightly harried, and maybe not entirely sure how the contactless payment thingy works. (Bonus if they have home-made flapjacks)

5. Poke around the gift shop. (Purchase optional.)

6. Go home and blog.

GSWPL is now coming to you from a temporary posting in Birmingham, working on the Opening and Closing Ceremonies of the Commonwealth Games (starting on July 28 for those who want to mark their calendars). In the Venn Diagram of my current schedule the overlapping area that includes both the Living-in-Birmingham circle and the Not-Too-Busy-To-Do-Bloggy-Things circle is exceedingly small. There are just three two-day weekends before we start rehearsals and the six-day work week starts. So on my first weekend in Brum I decided to check out a museum that Piran rated very very highly, despite its outwardly dry sounding name: the Forge Mill Needle Museum.

Located in Redditch, about half an hour from the central station in Birmingham, the Forge Mill Needle Museum is dedicated to the history and practice of needle manufacturing, commemorating a time when Redditch made 90% of the world’s needles. (Just in case you were thinking that it might not be what it sounds like. Oh no. It is EXACTLY what it sounds like.)

The restored(ish) Forge Mill.

I did try to get someone to come with me for this adventure. But Piran is now based in the far south and I'm now in the middle north, so I turned to my friend Tom, who's an Aussie interloper also working on the Commonwealth Ceremonies. (We colonials need to stick together.) Sadly, Tom did not immediately leap at the opportunity to join me, even when he found out that it wasn't just ANY weekend at Forge Mill

Tom made little effort to disguise his lack of enthusiasm for the fascinating world of Victorian needle making. Clearly, he's not ready for this sort of varsity-level blogginess. Perhaps I needed to ease him in a bit.

So I set off on the train alone, which left more time for the crossword puzzle anyway (see above). It was a pleasant walk from the station to Forge Mill, and the evidence of 1940s weekend was apparent, with some jolly bunting up and a few folks wandering about in period dress. (Aside: I've done a lot of ceremonies now, and disappointingly small number of them have made use of a festive string on bunting here or there, which I think is a damned shame. It really cheers a place up.)

I mean come on! Who doesn't like a bit of bunting?

One of the things that excited me most was that the Forge Mill website promised "Much of the original Victorian water powered machinery remains and is working on Tuesday afternoons and weekends (March to October)" (Once again see above, including much-beloved working machinery!). Sadly, the waterwheel at Forge Mill is currently utterly immobile and covered by a tarp (despite the fact that it was a weekend between March and October) so I couldn't even get a nice photo. Major disappointment, and one which I may take up with the management at a later date, though in the moment I soldiered on.

The museum is set up to take you through the whole process of needle making, which you are now going to hear about in excruciating detail. Because that's how we roll here at GSWPL. The signage in the museum claimed that there were 30 different processes involved, though I struggled to define precisely all 30. Nonetheless it was certainly painstaking, starting with a heavy coil of thick steel wire, which requires the first step: drawing. The heavy wire is drawn through a series of increasing smaller dies to bring its diameter down to that of whatever size needle is being made. Originally this was done by hand by winding the wire on a large drum turned by a handle to give some mechanical advantage.

Step 2 is to cut the wire to the length of two needles, because when making needles you do them two at a time for the first bits, so you can stamp and cut the eyes for two needles from one die, saving time. Step 3 - rubbing - straightens out the lengths of wire, which retain a bit of curve from having been drawn and coiled.

Rubbing is done by packing hundreds wires into the centre of rubbing ring - two flat iron donuts (not one of Tim Horton's more popular varieties) connected together at the bottom but left open at the top. Once packed with wires, the whole double donut is placed upright so it can roll left and right. Along the open top, the Rubber sets a long flat piece of curved metal called a rubbing iron between the flat donuts and on top of the wires so he can press down hard on the hot iron, rolling the ring and wires back and forth under the weight of the rubbing iron, thus straightening the wires. (And yes, that would have been easier to explain if I'd taken a photo, but the whole rubbing ring display was under a very glare-y bit of plexiglass and - shockingly - Google images returns nothing appropriate for the search term "Victorian needle making rubbing ring" so you'll just have to use your imagination, aided by my brilliant description.)

Next up, Step 4: Pointing, as demonstrated by this mannequin wearing a jaunty paper hat and some pretty inadequate PPE in the form of a kerchief tied over his face.

Pointing was a notably dangerous job (even by Victorian standards) therefore highly paid. Pointers sat at a spinning stone grinding wheel holding five or six wire blanks flat between their palms, rolling them back and forth while pressing them against the grinding wheel to create the sharpened needle point. This process naturally created a toxic cloud of stone dust and metal filings which the pointer breathed in constantly, causing a condition known as Pointer's Lung (a form of silicosis). Not only that, but the grinding wheel itself was known to break apart completely on occasion, which would have been at first surprising and then almost always lethal. Pointers rarely lived past 30. The display in the museum noted that hand-pointing is still used (with modern dust-extraction methods) for specialist surgical needles. Though judging by the sideburns on the gentleman in the accompanying photo I question whether that's still the case in the 21st century.

After pointing, the blanks needles must be skimmed (Step 5) to remove the scale created by heating and rubbing, leaving the middle of each wire clean for the next steps: stamping and eyeing (Steps 6 and 7). Stamping is accomplished with a kickstamper - a large press with a stationary bottom die and an upper die that drops on top of the blanks to create an impression where eyes of the needles will be. The Stamper raises and lowers the heavy upper die with a rope-and-pulley system operated by his right foot, and the best could process three blanks per second.

Skimming machine, with kickstamper and fly press in the background. Steps 5-6-7.

The stamped blanks are then passed on for eyeing. Usually done by women, eyes in each two-needle blank are punched with a fly press, which Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers will remember from our visit to the Coffin Works, also in Birmingham.

The next comes spitting, heading and cheeking (Step 8-9-10 for those keeping track), also usually done by women, often working at home. This sort of piecework was common and meant that women could remain at home and care for children (who might also be put to work) while also earning a wage. Stamping and eyeing leave sharp edges and flashing around the inside and outside of the eye which cut any thread thus rendering the needle largely non-functional. Spitting involved threading the two needle units onto metal spits which were placed in clamps to allow the flashing to be ground off by hand.

Needles - still stuck together, threaded onto spits.

After grinding the outside, the needles are (finally) broken apart and the area at the break filed clean. Then batches of needles could be threaded onto wires and spun around, cleaning out the inside of each eye.

At this point, the needles go back to the mill. Because they're made of mild steel wire, they must to be laid out on heavy iron trays and put into a furnace to harden them and prevent them from bending (Step 11). Once the needles in each tray reach a temperature high enough to turn cherry red, the tray is carefully removed with heavy tongs and its contents quickly dumped into a barrel of oil to cool. (The best oil for hardening came from sperm whales. Obviously. Nowadays, nitrogen gas is used.) At first water was used for cooling, but this had a tendency to curve the needles, thus negating the hard work of the Rubber back in Step 3.

Trays of needles ready for the furnace.

After the furnace the needles are hard but also incredibly brittle and fragile. This requires another trip into a cooler furnace for tempering (Step 12), and another oil bath.

And at this point, gentle GSWPL Reader, I sense you may almost be fed up with the minutiae of Victorian needlemaking, but the fun is not over yet. Oh no! There are five more steps before we end up with a lovely packet of sharp and shiny needles. It's time to move into the next building where the water-powered machinery runs the scouring mill (or doesn't run, even if the website says it does. Boo.) Scouring is how the needles acquire their fine, shiny surface, and involves packing 50,000 needles and soft soap into a tightly bound sausage wrapped in burlap and called a sett.

A tray for packing setts with a completed sett in the background of what we're going to call an art-shot, as opposed to an over-exposed failure.

Creating these setts is Step 13, after which two packed setts are placed under a runner of the water-powered scouring mill where they are pressed and rolled back and forth (Step 14). This process could take a day for lower quality needles, or up to a week for the brightest and best quality needles.

The scouring mill in action. Obviously this is not my photo, but that of the lucky Chris Allen who took it eleven years ago and posted it to Geograph (A seemingly-defunct bit of the internet that promises to be very useful for future blogs.)

Chris also posted this excellent description, which I see no need to edit: "The waterwheel drives a crankshaft via gearing and this drives scouring runners on two floors. The runner closest is moving while the two on the right are disconnected with their drive rods roped up. The white vertical wooden beams oscillate back and forth and pass up to the floor above to drive a further 8 sets of runners - the white beams have the onomatopoeic name of whee-whaws." Whee-whaws! Fantastic! (Chris also noted that this machinery was in commercial use until 1956!)

Following days of scouring, the setts are re-packed with a mixture of olive oil and tin oxide and put back in the scouring mill for 2-3 hours to glaze the needles for a final time. After glazing (Step 15), the needles are removed from the setts and washed (Step 16), then placed in rotating barrels of hot sawdust to dry.

Barreling is Step 17. These barrels of sawdust were rotated with power from the waterwheel and could dry a load of needles in about 20 minutes.

In order to separate the dry needles from the sawdust, the mix is placed in a fanning out tray, which, when skilfully tossed in the air, separated the heavy needles from the lighter sawdust. (Step 18... it's the home stretch now!)

The fanning out process is similar to panning for gold or winnowing chaff from wheat.

Finally, finally, finally, the finished needles are individually poked through a small sheet of carefully folded, black, acid-free paper and set into little books to be sent out to distributors.

A collection of decorative needlebooks in an upstairs display at Forge Mill. Apparently these novelty books of needles were sometimes given as small change instead of coins when making a larger purchase. Which, given how elaborate the whole process of making them was, seems a bit sad.

I think that's 19 steps overall, though each of those steps could probably be broken down further. Regardless, I think we can agree that the whole business was incredibly painstaking and also pretty clever. I think it's great that there was a time when we where smart enough to make big heavy machines to manufacture things, but still needed dozens of highly skilled people to operate those machines. Yeah, those people worked in pretty awful conditions, and some got horrible diseases, and they were paid meagrely, and worked long hours. But at least they had work.

Though really, those hours are shorter than some of the days in my upcoming schedule.

Just sayin'.

Once I'd made sure I thoroughly understood the whole scope of needlemaking so that I could spend 2,000 words explaining it to you in unnecessary detail, I spent a bit of time poking in the upstairs displays. The mill wasn't confined to the manufacture of simple hand-sewing needles, they also made pins, knitting needles, surgical needles, fish hooks, hat pins, sewing machine needles, gramophone needles, bookbinding needles and gigantic mattress needles, used for stitching the two sides of a mattress together. There was even an example of what was claimed to be the longest needle in the world, at 6'1". These were made for attaching buttons longways through the sides of mattresses, and are definitely not something you want to encounter in a dark alleyway.

When I finally emerged into sunlight, I enjoyed a mandatory coffee and cake (carrot, though naturally Victoria Sponge was also available) and had another crack at the crossword puzzle. I also wandered around the 1940 Weekend displays of the Worcs 9th Batt. C Company Home Guard re-enactment group which was charming but fairly standard WWII fare. Lots of stuff about ration books, gas masks, and machine gun emplacements, with Glenn Miller on endless repeat in the background.

Still, it was a warm, sunny day and there are worse ways to spend a day like that than watching an octogenarian try to explain the model Enigma Machine he'd made in his basement to an utterly baffled pair of under-ten-year-old boys.

I also bought a few needles in the gift shop, including some useful looking curved ones, and a pair of wicked mattress needles about a foot long. Because how great is it going to be when some weirdo task crops up that requires a foot-long needle, and I've got not one but two standing by? Very great. Then it was back to the train station for a quick trip home, aglow with the satisfaction of having ticked all the appropriate bloggy boxes for the first time in far too long.

Don't get me started

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 27 Feb 2022 03:00:00 +0000

I'm back in the desert. Did I tell you that? Probably not, since I haven't really said anything for ages. You knew I was in Dubai for the Expo Opening Ceremony because that's when I discovered the canoeing. And you knew I got back to the UK because that's when I had the Cheesey Fries Of The Gods. Well now it's Dubai again for (obviously) the Closing Ceremony. It's a shorter stint this time, and that's a good thing because everything just seems more annoying now. This is the case a lot of the time these days. Is it my advancing age? COVID Fatigue? Just my default state? Whatever it is, sometime during lockdown I started an actual list of annoying things.

Others of you may also have a list, but I suspect yours is a casual thing you keep in your head in a sort of "man, I hate it when..." kind of way. Mine is categorised in Evernote, because that's how I roll. I add to it whenever something excites my peevishness, which is often. And sometimes I share it. I recently shared it on a day when I had to be at a four-hour meeting that started at 7:00am on a Saturday (because it was coordinated with a gang of people in Los Angeles, where it was 7:00pm). The meeting was long and difficult and sometimes frustrating. So following that a few of us went for lunch on the Expo site.

(Aside: this is one of the good things about being back. Last time, the wider Expo site was still under construction so the hospitality options were thin on the ground. Now there is an embarrassment of riches just steps from my door. This means I sometimes share texts with friends like, "I'll meet you in Belgium." Or "We're at that place upstairs from Estonia." Or "Let's go to Denmark because the beer is cheaper." Which, incidentally, is definitely not true in actual Denmark. Nor is it really true at Expo Denmark. It's just that in comparison with everywhere else on site, the beer in Denmark is somewhat cheaper. For instance, I went for drinks recently at an outdoor beer garden on site where a pint of Heineken was £9.62. It was lovely: great company, good food, nice evening. But for that price, those pints of Heineken should come with my own private Dutch person to feed me hand-peeled mini Babybels.)

Anyway, it was a long meeting, so we went for lunch across from the UK and next to Solomon Islands. And then one beer with lunch turned into another round, as it does. And another round turned into a few more after that and then it was 9pm. And somewhere in there I shared my list with the table, which was the cause of some amusement (and some debate). So I thought perhaps I should share some with you, because I haven't blogged in a while and even though I literally live at a world-class tourist attraction, it hasn't occurred to me to blog about that, but it has seemed quite natural to rant at you about my pet peeves, which is an insight into my current state of mind. And oh yes, this is going to be rant-y.

Here we go.

Single Lever Faucets:

I know they are supposedly better for people with difficulty gripping, or with arthritis, or... I don't know. I don't care. I hate them. Partly because I sometimes find it difficult to tell which way to manipulate them to get either hot or cold water. Normal taps are fine - hot on the left, cold on the right.

But look at this. What the hell? So to get hot water I move that handle thing... back? Left? Out? All of the above at the same time? No. Just no.

Yes, some single levers are more intuitive than the one in the picture. The ones with the lever on top will pretty reliably give you hot if you move them left and cold to the right. But even those are still on the list. Why? Adjustment. Separate twisting taps give you much better fine adjustment of both temperature and volume. Threaded things are perfectly designed to translate long turning movement into small movements of the tiny valve inside them. Single level faucets... not so much. How hard is it to get a small volume of water at a specific temperature with a single lever? Hard. Like one of those McDonalds Happy Meal toys where you have to get three baby ball bearings into three different holes at the same time. You end up doing tiny semi-calibrated taps on the lever to try and get in juuuuust the right spot. And you fail. You know you do.

Single Lever Faucets, you are On The List.

Still on plumbing:

Automatic Faucets:

The ones that make you do intricate Tai Chi moves with your hands to try and figure out how to trigger the sensor. Then force you to hold your hands in an unnatural position to keep the thing triggered. Then turn off anyway. Those ones. They're on The List.

Faucets that are too short:

The ones that don't extend far enough into the sink so you have to bash your knuckles up against the back of the sink to get your hands under the water and then end up splashing most of it out of the sink. List. Them. On it.

Still in the bathroom:

Centre Pull Paper Towels:

Thank you Google, for teaching me the name of this annoying variation on normal rolls of paper towel.

Obviously paper towel is supposed to come off the outside of the roll so that you end up with a wide flat sheet of material with maximum surface area, which then wraps conveniently over your wet hands and dries them efficiently.

Centre pull paper towels, by design, turn into a long, twisted ropey thing with much less useful surface area, so you use more paper and obtain poorer results. It's not better just because it's different people. Centre Pull Paper Towels, welcome to The List.

Open Concept Bathrooms:

This one requires no justification. Because any normal person knows at the very core of their being that this is wrong wrong wrong. I don't care how much you love the people you live with. I don't care if the door to your fancy modern open concept master suite is always closed to the rest of the world. I don't care if you often leave the bathroom door open anyway. Leaving the bathroom door open and not even having walls (let alone a door) are clearly very different things, which normal non-sociapathic people understand.

A flagrant example from my hotel room in Xi'an China. I ranted about it then and I maintain that stance today. And this one actually had walls, albeit glass ones. Still not good enough.

And before we leave the bathroom:

Wet Rooms:

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD whose idea was it to let water spray around all over a room that also contains things that really should not get wet like toilet roll and towels? And don't tell me it saves space. I live on a freaking BOAT. My shower can basically only be found with the aid of a scanning electron microscope and I still managed to fit in a shower curtain.

How did wet rooms become a trend? Is it also now trendy to walk around in wet socks because the floor of your bathroom is ALWAYS covered in water?

Wet Rooms you are soooooo on The List.

Speaking of socks:

Ok, I'm 53 now and I'm warming to the idea that sometimes you might wear socks with sandals. And I say this because I have a pair of sort of hybrid Birkenstock Croc kind of things are like walking on actual pillows and I wear them on the boat all the time - usually with socks - because it's cozy. (Also I never wear them out in public.) (Pause for cries of outrage. Yeah yeah, whatever. Go start your own blog and make your own list.) But my Crockenstocks are slides, where your whole foot is under a big strap that goes all the way across the top. Not the flip-flop kind with the bit that goes between your toes to hold the straps to the sole. Those ones are the problem, because some people wear socks with those by shoving the damned flip-flops onto their feet OVER their socks so the poor socks get stretched and shoved between your toes and you look like an idiot. Sorry, yes you do. (Also: not really sorry.)

Socks with flip flops. You + List = True

(Exception: Japanese tabi socks with the segregated compartment for the big toe which are specifically design to work with sandals. Note: this exception only applies when wearing traditional Japanese garb. While in Japan.)

Branching out into the kitchen:

Pedal Bins:

First, the leverage is all wrong, so the lid pops opening really abruptly and usually smacks against the wall. "So move it away from the wall", I hear you say? Ha! Then it will just slide around when you're trying to get foot on the pedal until it finds a wall it can smack into. On. The. List.

Drawers behind Cupboard Doors:

Drawer, yes. I fully support drawers. Easy access. Fewer things get shoved into darkened corners never again to see the light of day. Yay drawers!

Someone please tell me why we're now hiding the drawers behind doors. What is so offensive about drawer fronts that they need to be hidden? Did drawer fronts insult your grandmother? Are drawer fronts doing 5-10 years of hard time behind closed doors because the ladle that normally just barely fits shifted position again and now you can't get the drawer open? Get over it! Free the drawers!

(#freethedrawers #drawerlove #drawersbehindcupboarddoorsareonthelist Freethedrawers.com Donate now.)

Phew.

Well I feel better getting that off my chest. And that's just the kitchen-and-bathroom part of the list. Wait until I get into the Vocabulary section! You'll be begging for the old two-month break between posts.

The brakes don't work backwards

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 19 Dec 2021 07:00:00 +0000

I’ve visited Brighton a few times before, though haven’t done some of the more classically touristy things there. Luckily, back before the Lord Mayor’s Show and before work got busy and before the winter weather arrived, I found a weekend to visit. This was mostly because Piran moved to Brighton during lockdown, which means I’ve lost a London-based friend, but gained one on the south coast, who now also boasts a very comfortable guest suite.

I went down on the train Friday night, and we spent Saturday tromping around the South Downs, with stops at a couple ancient hill forts and a dew pond and, most notably, lunch at the Gunn Inn in Findon. Piran rhapsodised about a lamb dish he’d had there once, so it seemed a good bet. And indeed it was. The fact that I can’t remember what I ordered as my main course detracts not at all from the story because what I do remember, indeed what still fills my dreams at night, is that we started by splitting a portion of cheesy fries which were disturbingly, astonishingly, addictively delicious. They came dressed not just with melted cheese but with chunks of fried chorizo, garlic aioli (yes I know that’s a tautology) and a drizzle of spicy oil. (Probably the fat from the chorizo. With a liberal dusting of crack.) They were so good that we did not even pause to photograph the dish when it arrived but did manage to finish our mains and a pint or two and were even persuaded to order dessert.

Dessert was this. Prompting the above expression for me, which clearly translates as “Are you kidding me?”

So that was Saturday in Brighton. Rambling, cheesy fries, and dinner with some of Piran’s Brighton gang at another pub. Good day, but just a warm-up for Sunday which started with a leisurely breakfast but had two very Brighton-y gems in store. First on the agenda was the 125th London to Brighton Veteran Car Run, the world’s longest-running motoring event and a perfectly quirky, perfectly photogenic, perfectly bloggy thing.

Established 1896, the first event was dubbed The Emancipation Run”, to celebrate the enacting of the Locomotives on Highways Act 1896. This legislation marked the end to some of the more restrictive limits to the use of horseless carriages on English roadways, including a speed limit of 4mph in the country and 2mph in towns. It’s commonly believed the 1896 legislation also repealed the infamous Red Flag Act, which “stipulated that self-propelled vehicles should be accompanied by a crew of three; if the vehicle was attached to two or more vehicles an additional person was to accompany the vehicles; a man with a red flag was to walk at least 60 yd (55 m) ahead of each vehicle, who was also required to assist with the passage of horses and carriages.” The Red Flag act had, in fact, already been repealed in 1878, but it’s an enduring myth of the Veteran Car Run commemorated by the ceremonial tearing in half of a red flag at the start of each year’s run.

Back in 1896, with a exhilarating new speed limit of 14mph, a group of 33 vehicles left from the Metropole Hotel in London (after a commemorative breakfast, of course). 17 of the 33 managed the entire 54 miles to Brighton, with the first finishing in 3 hours and 44 minutes, just squeaking in under the limit at an average speed of 13.9 mph. This rather dismal percentage of finishers is an enduring feature of the race, with vehicles regularly conking out, sometimes being revived by specially-trained mechanics from the Royal Automobile Club, and occasionally having to be pushed across the finish line hours after the leaders arrive. However one shouldn’t be too dismissive, as the central requirement to participate in the Veteran Car Run is that the vehicle entered must have been manufactured before 1905. The oldest car to participate this year was made in 1894.

Harry Lawson, organiser of the 1896 Emancipation Run, and his wife, at the start of the inaugural event

So on a dazzlingly clear and unseasonably warm morning, Piran and I headed to the sea front to witness the arrival of the first cars, expected around 10:30am. The traditional route starts at Hyde Park and runs past Buckingham Palace, through Brixton and Croydon and down the A23, finishing on the Brighton sea front at Madeira Drive. However, at 10:30 there was nary a car to be seen. Nor at 11am or 11:30 or even 12. So we filled the time with a stroll down Brighton Pier and along the sea front and through Brighton’s famous Lanes. And since I’ve talked about sea fronts and piers before, let’s just skip over that and get to the part where the cars finally stared arriving.

Here’s the final stretch, viewed from above, where each car stopped and the driver was interviewed about their journey, their vehicle, and, especially notable, the general excellence of the weather that day, all of which was broadcast over speakers to the assembled throng.

We made our way down to street level and found a spot near the pedestrian barriers to watch the cars trundle past close up.

Like this one.

Finally we fetched up at the paddock where the cars were parked and where the drivers took a well-deserved break for refreshments in a nearby tent. Each car is also required to carry at least one passenger, and many people were wearing period dress, which definitely adds to the festive atmosphere. (Though I can imagine that in years when the weather does not cooperate one might fervently wish they had chosen Gore-Tex over tweed.) Some participants also carried picnics in special wicker baskets that were clearly part of the car’s design. Those were the days! Screw the satnav and the anti-lock brakes. Give me brass lanterns for headlights and a dedicated storage area for my stilton and champagne!

This fetching green-and-yellow beauty lurched into its spot with the aid of the his-vis-clad Royal Automobile Club Official, who helped stop it in place after the driver uttered the phrase of the day: “The brakes don’t work backwards!”

This paint job was particularly festive, though all the cars we saw were clearly well-loved and well-kept. Many have been in the same family for generations, and at least one was bought new by the current driver’s great-grandfather or great-great-grandfather or some such. Possibly in France. (Perhaps I should have been taking notes.)

The parking area was an ever-changing feast of antique motoring, because cars were constantly arriving, parking up, then leaving and being replaced by new arrivals. There were more than 300 cars entered, along with a smattering of vintage bicycles (including four penny-farthings) and one 1903 Minerva single cylinder motorcycle. After a suitable rest period, some cars were then loaded onto car-carriers to return from whence they came. However, other drivers proudly declared they’d driven their cars from home to the start line in London, then to Brighton, and would then drive straight back home to their garage in Little Snerglington-by-Snort or wherever it was they came from.

Eventually we tired of the never-ending rows of polished brass and glossy black and wandered to the city centre to try and catch a few of the cars in traffic. This was, for me, the most surprising part of the whole event. For some reason I’d assumed that the Veteran Car Run had some sort of priority lane from London to Brighton to keep these precious vehicles and their startlingly-poorly-protected passengers out of the regular flow of 21st century traffic. Not so.

All those cars were mixed in with everyone else on the road for the whole 54 miles! And some of them are so small. I mean look at those poor guys… that thing is basically a one hundred and twenty year old go-cart with a numberplate. Thankfully, participants in the Veteran Car Run and not allowed to exceed an average speed of 20mph.

By this time we'd had our fill of cars, however photogenic, and no one was offering US any stilton and champagne, so we wandered off. Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers will no doubt remember that I promised two very Brighton-y gems in the opening paragraphs of this post. However, it took me six weeks to get this written and posted, so I've decided to take my time and keep that in my back pocket for a future edition. In the mean time, I've opened a theatre show in London and done some work on another upcoming project, and continued battling with the boat engine, and put up the Christmas decorations and safely topped up my mince pie levels for another year. This post is shorter than some, but I'm taking the "done is better than perfect" view on this one. So, by the power vested in me as Supreme Leader of the Go Stay Work Play Live Global Consortium, I hereby declare this blog post DONE.

Doing something

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 21 Nov 2021 07:00:00 +0000

Maybe this happens to you too. It starts with a list of Things To Do pinging around your brain. Perhaps your list is something like this: go buy diesel injector cleaner, take out the garbage, book flights home for Christmas, go for a run, replace the starter battery, go to Lord Mayor’s Show, properly dispose of contaminated diesel fuel, write blog about your weekend, book a flu shot, just please for the love of God get off the damned couch, etc. Or perhaps you don’t live in London and also pretend to regularly write a blog and also qualify for free NHS flu jab and also own an aged narrowboat with an exceedingly temperamental diesel engine. Nevertheless, whatever is on your list, sometimes deciding what to do is a bit paralysing. You start one thing, but then bounce off that and towards something else that you can’t concentrate on, and then on to a third thing you don’t finish, then back to the first thing, and eventually it all just feels stuck.

Stuck like my boat is stuck… in the process of having a nasty bit of fuel contamination dealt with by way of a new fuel lift pump, fresh fuel filter, clean diesel, and, for good measure, a new starter battery, glow plugs, and ignition switch. Because it’s never just one thing.

While your list may not be the same as mine, I suspect you'll still understand how I felt one Saturday not long ago, when the sky was sort of clear but my brain was definitely not. Luckily, Piran plucked me out of the mire with a short phonecall and reminded me of something I knew already, but needed to be told again: Doing something is almost always better than doing nothing. So I got off the couch (one thing done already!) and got properly dressed and headed to the City for The Lord Mayor’s Show.

So… there’s quite a bit to explain here. Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers have certainly already internalised the concept of the City of London so I won’t beat that dead horse again. However, we haven’t yet covered the Lord Mayor of London yet, let alone his show, so settle in.

The Lord Mayor of the City of London is, naturally, the mayor of the City of London and also the head of the City of London Corporation (the municipal governing body of the City). The Lord Mayor of London has nothing to do with the directly elected Mayor of the Greater London Authority. Clear as mud? Good. Within the City, the Lord Mayor is accorded precedence over everyone other than the Queen and in modern times their role is about supporting and promoting local residents and businesses - especially the financial sector - by delivering lots of speeches, hosting visiting dignitaries, being driven around in a Rolls Royce Phantom, and looking good in ermine and tights.

The Lord Mayor of London is elected yearly on Michelmas, and in November the new Lord Mayor is sworn in. One of the ancient requirements of the office dates back to the reign of King John in 1215, when the King granted the City the right to elect its own mayor. (Prior to that the mayor had been appointed by the sovereign.) (Yes, prior to 1215. This is not a recent phenomenon.)

"Know ye that we have granted … to our barons of our city of London, that they may choose to themselves every year a mayor, who to us may be faithful, discreet and fit for government of the city, so as, when he shall be chosen, to be presented unto us, or our Justice if we shall not be present… and he shall swear to be faithful to us…” (from the 1215 London Charter)

Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers will note that this charter requires the Lord Mayor to be presented to the sovereign or his Justice and swear fealty, a requirement still observed today. In medieval times, this meant the newly minted Mayor sailed up the Thames from the City to the seat of royal power at Westminster. That trip gradually attracted more and more hangers on and eventually grew into a festive terrestrially-based parade now known as The Lord Mayor’s Show!

So the Lord Mayor’s Show is a parade! And who doesn’t love a parade?

Fun Fact: The term “float” used for parade vehicles originated with the decorated barges that made up the Lord Mayor’s procession along the Thames.

Actually, it’s not just one parade but two. First, the entire menagerie travels from Guildhall - the ceremonial and administrative centre of the City of London Corporation - to the Lord Mayor’s official residence at Mansion House and then to the the Royal Courts of Justice on the Strand. Whereupon everyone in the parade hangs about on the street for a bit while the new Lord Mayor swears an oath of allegiance to the Queens Bench. Following that, everything starts back up again for the triumphal return to Mansion House.

This is where I came in, because my busy morning of dithering meant I didn’t arrive on scene until the procession was already at the Royal Courts. The parade is now so extensive that it’s actually longer than the distance between Guildhall and the Royal Courts and has to budge up into side streets between the Strand and the river before the return journey.

Carriages waiting outside the Royal Courts

This meant that when I finally arrived, I was the one parading past the muddled floats, lounging marching bands, the odd tank surrounded by soldiers drinking cups of tea, and a lot of signs like the one on this excellent vintage horse-drawn double decker bus:

Presented by the Worshipful Company of Wheelwrights, a City of London livery company. Livery companies are a whole other rabbit hole we’re about to dive down, so I hope you have a fresh cup of coffee and are sitting comfortably.

Livery companies started life as medieval guilds and have evolved into modern trade organisations for various crafts, fields, and professions. Many show their medieval roots in their names, such as the Mercers (general merchants), Fishmongers, Haberdashers and Goldsmiths. Livery companies are normally styled as The Worshipful Company of Pewterers or, to cite a more modern addition, The Worshipful Company of Management Consultants (which really does not have the same ring). The term “livery" originally referred to the specific dress or uniform worn by the household servants of noblemen and by extension came to mean any special dress denoting a particular status or trade.

There are currently 110 livery companies registered by the city of London, including the mellifluously named Worshipful Society of Apothecaries and the less romantic Worshipful Company of Tax Advisers. The list of livery companies is maintained in a strict order of precedence established in 1515 (when there were only 48), and is based on their economic power at that time. The remaining 62 companies are ranked according to seniority, which explains why the Launderers outrank the International Bankers. Go Launderers!

Bonus Fun Fact*: The Worshipful Company of Merchant Taylors and the Worshipful Company of Skinners have long disputed their ranking in the order of precendence, so each year at Easter they swap places between six and seven on the list. This is thought to be the origin of the phrase “at sixes and sevens”. (*Note: not guaranteed to be a fact)

Extra Bonus Fun Fact**: Membership in a livery company conveys upon the liveryman the Freedom of the City of London. Now largely a formality, it once conveyed other privileges, including the right to drive sheep across London Bridge, as demonstrated by Stephen Fry in this diverting 45 minute dive into the City. (**Note: Actual fact!)

One of the other privileges of liverymen is the election of the Lord Mayor of London. Each year, the members of the City’s livery companies come together for the election in Common Hall, which is not a physical location but rather the name given to a gathering of liverymen. The physical location of the Common Hall is Guildhall, which is all appropriately medieval-sounding, given the Lord Mayor of London occupies one of the world's oldest continuously elected civic offices.

Back at the parade route, I was getting a bit peckish and decided to find a nice cafe to sit down, warm up, and possibly get a start on the blog while waiting for the parade to get going again. Sadly, even through the Lord Mayor’s Show attracts thousands of people to the area, very few of the local places were open. This is quite common in the City, which is utterly dependent on the 500,000 people who work there during the week (pre-COVID), as opposed to the mere 9,000 who actually live within the City’s boundary. On weekends the City is normally quite deserted and most shops, pubs and restaurants don’t bother opening up.

Instead, I wandered into St. Bride’s, a lovely Christopher Wren church complete with a crypt that boasts a bit of Roman paving and spire that’s said to have inspired the design of traditional multi-tiered wedding cake.

St. Bride’s is also known for its association with journalism and the printing trade, which is no surprise given its location just off Fleet Street. And the church enjoys a close relationship with the Worshipful Company of Stationers and Newspaper Makers. The City is like that - it’s just utterly packed with history and connections that fold back on themselves over and over. This is true all over England, but in the City it’s concentrated to an almost ludicrous degree. This is evidenced by the amount of time it took me to write this post. I normally spend a fair bit of time clicking around semi-purposefully soaking in information about whatever is the topic at hand. For this post that process was notably longer because there is just so much to soak in.

Anyway, St. Bride’s was open and, more importantly for me that day, they were serving tea and coffee and had a tempting array of packaged treats so I made a donation and settled into a seat in the quire to relax for a bit. By this point AGSWPLRs will note that we’re now 1,700 words in and there’s still no parade in sight. What can I say? It was that kind of day. But fear not, I finally made it out of St. Bride's and onto the parade route where I stood outside Blackfriar’s Station waiting for what seemed like ages. Luckily, there were Morris Dancers, so that was as bafflingly diverting as Morris Dancing always is.

I appreciate a bit of traditional folk dancing as much as the next blogger, but you don’t have to watch these guys for long to understand why people make fun of them.

And, finally, finally, the parade could be heard approaching, led by the Band of The Grenadier Guards and the Band of The Coldstream Guards.

And then it was really was a proper parade.

These look like they belong in an opening ceremony somewhere in my past.

The Guild of Young Freemen, with wicker representations of Gog and Magog, two legendary giants who are the traditional guardians of the City of London. Gog and Magog also famously appear as large wooden carvings at the Guildhall. (See previous note about everything connecting to everything else...)

The Bank of England, taking their gold out for a walk

And a pipe band!

Of course it’s not a proper parade without a skip covered in astroturf full of giant fuzzy green chickens...

Is it possible these guys also need a new fuel lift pump?

Or might they consider a houseboat call?

And finally, after the fancy dress and the soldiers and the liverymen (soooooo many liverymen) the man of the hour appeared.

The Right Honourable Vincent Keaveny, Lord Mayor of London. And the utterly Cinderellian Lord Mayor’s State Coach, the oldest ceremonial vehicle in regular use, which dates from 1757.

And then it was over, except for the cleaning up. As with any parade that includes livestock, street-cleaning is a necessary part of the aftermath. But because it's London, even that comes with a footnote. The phrase "after the Lord Mayor’s Show, comes the dust cart" has long meant a disappointing or mundane event occurring straight after an exciting or magnificent one. As in, "We were expecting a great game after last week's barn-burner, but it was all a bit after the Lord Mayor's Show." Which accorded perfectly with the next item on my agenda that Saturday: a trip to the Marble Arch Mound. The Marble Arch Mound was very, very after the Lord Mayor's Show.

And eventually I booked flights for Christmas, and got my flu jab, and, obviously, I wrote a blog.

Don't ask about the boat.

Whatever Paddles Your Canoe

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 31 Oct 2021 18:19:00 +0000

Hmmm… a solid six months since the last blog and I’ve definitely lost the habit. Then again, I did blog pretty consistently for eleven years, so I think I deserved a sabbatical. (Also everyone should really get a pass for pretty much anything that they were supposed to do but didn’t, or did do but weren’t supposed to for about the last eighteen months, right?) Now, though, I’m properly back in London and life has sort of calmed down again and I feel like I really should get back into it, partly because Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers deserve better (all twelve of you), and partly because it’s actually a good mental exercise and it's nice to flex those writing muscles and force myself to get out and do things and pay proper attention to them while I’m doing them.

When last we left out humble blogger it was May and she’d just got out of enforced quarantine at HMP Heathrow. I only had a very short amount of time back on the boat once I was paroled, much of which was taken up by all the life admin stuff that needs doing when I’ve been away for a while, with the added bonus that my phone was hacked AND my wallet stolen in the same two day period, which necessitated a whole lot more life admin and meant I didn’t really do or see much. I did manage a nice day out tromping across soggy fields with Piran, which included my first proper pint in a very very long time, and I got to a few hash runs, and failed to get the boat engine running (of course), and got my first jab, and then I packed my bags again and took another taxi to the airport. Considering how little travel most people have been able to do in the last year and a half, I feel like perhaps I may be overcompensating.

The destination this time was Dubai, once again. I returned to do the Opening Ceremony for the World Expo in Dubai, which was frustrating and time-consuming and not too COVID-y and eventually came off reasonably well. I didn’t have a ton of spare time while I was in Dubai, and even when I did, I didn’t have much motivation to get out and do things. For one thing, I was there from May to October, which is the hottest part of the year. And it really was hot. So hot. Ridiculously hot. AND humid. You probably think it’s dry and desert-like in the UAE right? Well Dubai is on the ocean so the humidity gets very high, which, coupled with the 45+ degree temperatures, and the UAE’s strict policy requiring masks one hundred percent of the time, even when outside, makes the whole business of being outdoors just insanely unpleasant. (Actually you’re allowed to take off the mask if you’re doing vigorous exercise outdoors. Which is good, as we shall see.) Also, I was in Dubai to do a job, and the more time I spent out mingling with the COVID-y random public, the greater the risk. So even when I had time off I often spent it in the comfort of apartment because leaving was just not worth the effort.

I did meet up with the local Dubai hashers when schedules permitted. And I took the metro to the nearby mall occasionally, and I had one boozy Friday brunch. So there really was not much to blog about. That is until I innocently messaged my local hasher friend Caleb about whether there was anything to do over the weekend and he replied "Saturday morning 6am Kite Beach - outrigger canoe paddling.” This is the exchange that followed:

There were going to be pastries! And it’s not like I had anything else to do at 6am on a day off.

And that’s how I ended up hailing a taxi at 5:30 in the morning to get here.

So… outrigger canoes. They exist in lots of ocean-going cultures, but the ones used by the group in Dubai are Hawaiian/Polynesian style. (Outrigger canoeing is actually the state sport of Hawaii.) These six-seat canoes have a deep, narrow, very heavy fibreglass shell and the outrigger to the left. The outrigger is called the ama (“AHH-muh”) and the arms that attach it to the canoe are the iako (“YA-koo”). As with traditional North American canoes, you face forward and use a single paddle (often called a blade) and alternate paddling on either side of the boat. Normally half the occupants paddle on one side and half on the other side of the boat. Each paddler has a different focus, depending on their position in the boat. The front seat - one - is also called the “stroke”. They set the pace of the boat, with those behind them trying to exactly match their stroke rate. Two’s job is to match the rate of the stroke for the paddlers on their side. Three and four are mostly there for power, and Three usually also calls the changes so that everyone switches sides in unison. Seat six, at the back, steers. And five is where they put the newbies.

Of course seat five is where I ended up. I really didn’t know what to expect, except Caleb said it would be vigorous - two hours of hard paddling. He also sent me a YouTube video of a famous outrigger canoeist (who knew there was such thing?) outlining the precise details of the stroke, which all seemed a lot more intense than I’d imagined. My response after seeing the video: "This seems quite technical. How serious is this group? I was kind of relying on my innate Canadian canoe-sense and Girl Guide training to get me by…”

Here’s what the big canoes look like - this one’s rigging was being checked to make sure the ama and iako were securely fastened. Because without the ama, these canoes would be impossibly tippy. (Actually, even WITH the ama they are not the most stable… more on that later.)

It turns out I was right to be concerned. First of all, it was an exceptionally humid day, even by Dubai standards. And the guy at the front setting the pace took off with what seemed like an insanely high stroke rate. I hadn’t exactly been expecting a casual sight-seeing trip, but equally I was not expecting a gang who appeared to be planning to get to Bahrain by lunchtime. Nonetheless, my Girl Guide training did me proud and I sort of managed to keep up, though mostly I was just concentrating on keeping hold of my paddle when changing sides, which happened about every fifteen strokes.

One of the many things I did not understand about outrigger canoeing is that it’s really an endurance sport. Races tend to last hours, not minutes. This was not Olympic canoe sprinting. This was cross-the-ocean-to-populate-a-new-continent kind of stuff. (One of the most famous races is the Molokaʻi Hoe between the islands of Molaki and Oahu - 41 miles.) And did I mention it was humid? Sooooo humid. And hot. Like the sun was trying to kill us.

Of course we took breaks. But because it’s an endurance sport, the sessions between breaks tend to be fifteen or twenty minutes long which is approximately eleven lifetimes when it’s your first time in the boat and you can barely manage to hang on to your paddle. On the breaks you drink a lot of water, and if you’re lucky you also get frozen section of oranges which are the most delicious oranges IN THE UNIVERSE. And sometimes on a break you jump out of the canoe so you can cool off in the water. But the joke is on you because BWA HA HA HA the water is as warm as a bath because THERE IS NO ESCAPE FROM THE SUN and then there is another 14 years of paddling and then it’s only five kilometres back to the beach which is ok except one of your arms has literally fallen off and floated away and you’re hallucinating and losing feeling in your legs because your ass is actually three inches wider than the canoe that you’re wedged into.

And then it’s over and you’re lolling in the water at the beach and it’s all kind of ok.

I really can’t overstate how difficult that first paddle was. But after we’d regained consciousness and hauled the canoe back up the beach and rinsed it and swaddled it in its special canvas covers and put away the paddles and laid in a daze in the nearby hut for a while, we really did go for coffee and pastry. And I managed to dump half the beach on the floor in the Costa Coffee disabled toilets while changing into dry clothes, and it all seemed like it might have been kind of fun. So clearly at that point I was still hallucinating.

But the next week I went back anyway, much to the surprise of anyone who’d been there the week before. They’d been certain they’d never see me again because even the experienced paddlers admitted that the previous week had been insanely hot and difficult and not exactly the kind of introduction to the sport that would encourage a return visit. And yet there I was again. And I kept going back whenever my work schedule permitted. And I even bought a giant insulated water bottle to fill up with ice, and a beach towel, and a big droopy caftan to change clothes under, which I think the cleaning staff at the Costa Coffee must have appreciated.

Pam + goofy grin + really beat up hat + guys in the background tying off an ama.

I did get more comfortable and confident in the canoe, and the group was very friendly and welcoming, and it was really nice to be out on the water with a lovely bunch of people doing something physically challenging as a team. I even tried the single seater canoes a couple times, on days when there weren’t enough people to take the six-seater out. Which is when I discovered, as I mentioned earlier, that even WITH an outrigger, these canoes are still quite unstable.

The term for when the canoe flips over is “huli” (“HOO-lee”), and I’d only been on the single seat canoe for about 90 seconds when I managed to huli for the first time. A slight shift of the weight too far to the right, the outrigger tips slightly too far up out of the water, and everything goes over much faster than you’d expect. It’s even more dramatic when one of the big six-seater canoes goes over. We spent an hour one morning on a Huli Drill, where we deliberately tipped the big canoe so we could all learn what happens and how to recover. It was weirdly fun.

(Tragically, I lost my sunglasses on that first single-seater huli, when they came off my head and went to a watery grave not far from the beach. This was sad, because I got those sunglasses for free when they’d been left in the rental car I had in Winnipeg for Christmas 2019. So they had history, those glasses. Miraculously, the incident was merely another chapter in the history of those sunglasses. Because the next morning I was out with the gang again, this time in the 6-seater (the only time I went two days in a row) and we actually located the sunken treasure where it had landed on the seabed the previous morning! Caleb dove in and retrieved them, and I’m pleased to say I still have those sunglasses, though they now sport a snazzy blue lanyard to keep them on my head. Those sunglasses have a real story to tell, and I don’t want to lose them again!)

Thanks to Caleb for this shot, which shows a whole boat on the water.

Eventually though, work got busy and I had to stop going out to paddle. Because it turns out that you can’t be 52 years old and get up at 4:45am and paddle hard in hot weather for two hours and then go to work until 10pm without literally falling asleep at your desk at some point during the day. Or at least I can’t do that. But once the ceremony was over and the packing was done I found the time for a couple more early-morning runs. On my last outing, there were a lot of very new people and Caleb and I ended up being the two most experienced people in the boat (after our steerer and fearless leader Tina, of course). So Caleb sat stroke, setting the pace from the front and I sat in three calling the changes. Which was kind of a cool way to end things.

My other “last paddle” that week was in a single seater, when Caleb snapped this amazing shot which is totally going in my “Funeral Photos” file, along with the picture of me riding sidesaddle on the back of a scooter in Bali, and the picture of me standing in the water at the very edge of Victoria Falls.

Outrigger Canoes. Who could have predicted that would be the most satisfying and enjoyable part of my four months in Dubai? Luckily, I’m supposed to be heading back there in the New Year to work on the Closing Ceremony, and I’m definitely planning on setting the 4:45am alarm again.

H.M.P. Heathrow

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 09 May 2021 06:00:00 +0000

First thing first: I’m back. Back in London. Back on the boat. Back after 391 days.

The boat. Still floating but… well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

Yes, I’m back. But of course it’s not that simple because it never is. I’d intended to return around March 22 to make it an even year away, which seemed like a nice punctuation mark. However, things did not go to plan. It turned out that the long-postponed job I’d had on the Opening and Closing Ceremonies for the Dubai World Expo finally lurched back to life in the new year and they decided to have an in-person workshop in Dubai in mid-April. I was asked to attend in order to make cheap-and-cheerful prototypes of various actual physical objects to be carried, waved, flapped about and otherwise manipulated in the actual performance space by real people actually in each other’s presence. What a weird idea.

That left me with a choice - fly back to London as intended and quarantine for 10 days on the boat, then have a week of “freedom” before flying to Dubai for the workshops. Or, hang around freeloading off my sister for an extra few weeks and fly directly from Canada. Naturally I took option number two, because the Dubai business meant I’d have to quarantine on returning to London anyway, and I didn’t fancy ten days quarantine on the boat in March, and another ten days after Dubai in April.

Thus, 391 days. And my first days back were, of course, in quarantine. But instead of arriving from a “Amber List” country (Canada) I was arriving from a “Red List” country (UAE). Thus, instead of ten days in the cramped but familiar and much-missed confines of the boat, I’d have to spend ten days at Her Majesty’s pleasure in a managed quarantine hotel. Luckily, the production company paid the £1750 cost of the quarantine package, which included the hotel, three meals a day, and the two COVID tests I’d need before they’d let me out. In my naivety, I sort of thought that quarantining in a hotel might be simpler than quarantining on the boat. For instance, there’d be unlimited wifi. And unlimited hot water. And food would just show up without me having to figure out how to get groceries delivered. And I could raise my arms above my head.

Ha. I truly was naive. Then again, I’m no stranger to quarantine. Before I landed at Heathrow I’d already done 35 days in total, so I thought I knew what I was in for. Sure, it wouldn’t be the same luxurious environs of my first quarantine in Canada. I could accept that a hotel room wouldn’t offer the same space and facilities as a carefully chosen AirBnB, but my thinking was coloured by the comfortable and pleasant week of quarantine in Abu Dhabi. That room was spacious and well-equipped with a small fridge, generous storage space, a separate couch-ish area, and a large window that faced the sunrise. The Holiday Inn Express at Terminal 4 had exactly none of those things.

Welcome to what I came to think of as Her Majesty’s Prison Heathrow.

But let’s back up a bit again. Because it was by no means a quick and simple process getting from the landing gate to my cell at H.M.P. Heathrow. And while I appreciate that the whole hotel quarantine thing is relatively new, they’ve had a bit of time to work out the kinks now and I was expecting a slightly smoother process.

Stupid Red List.

First, there’s a lot of paperwork required when travelling internationally during a pandemic. Of course I needed proof of a negative COVID PCR test, performed within the proscribed period (differing depending on destination and - word to the wise - sometimes even required when you’re only transiting through an airport not staying in the country. More on that another time…). I also needed a completed “Passenger Locator Form” and proof that I’d booked the managed quarantine package. And for some reason that documentation had to be checked at several stages by several people reached by standing in several long queues of passengers who seemed to have forgotten about trying to stand two metres apart.

And then there was an extended period spent in a small alcove near the baggage carousels while an ever-growing group of exhausted travellers waited for buses to the various hotels. This was especially frustrating, because there was no queueing system, and no sorting of people according to which hotel they’d been booked into, of which there are many. When I finally got on a bus it was full of people going six different places, meaning that the bus had to stop at a hotel, unload the unsorted luggage from the compartment under the bus, check and cross-check the people and the luggage with the information at the hotel, close up the luggage compartment, and then proceed to the next hotel to repeat the same process. Naturally I was in hotel number six and was the only person left on the bus when we finally arrived at my stop. From the time the plane landed to the time I got to the reception desk it was four hours later.

Eventually I found myself in Room 508, and it was not good. My hotel room in Abu Dhabi had a huge window that even opened a tiny bit. Room 508 had a window of course, but it was a solid pane - no fresh air for me! Worse, though, was that the window faced INTO THE BUILDING. And I don’t mean it looked onto another building. I mean the window looked into the hotel itself. Whatever genius designed that place created a large covered atrium area surrounded on all sides by hotel, meaning that each guest had a 50-50 chance of getting a room facing out at the actual world, or one facing… other hotel rooms.

A slightly distorted panorama, but you get the picture. Not even a hint of sky. And this light level was enhanced by the camera on my phone.

This was the amount of natural light that reached the room at solar noon. Again, the phone camera makes it look better than it was. And the navy blue walls didn't exactly help.

Of course there was no min-bar fridge. No drawers to unpack into. No proper desk. And certainly no couch. A Holiday Inn Express is not designed for long term guests. It’s designed for overnight stays by people who have an early flight the next morning. Emphasis is on providing a comfy bed, a giant tv and a good shower. Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers will not be surprised to hear that my first day at H.M.P. Heathrow was not a happy one.

Oh, and that first day? That’s not Day One of quarantine. That’s Day Zero. So even though I’d landed at 7:00am, that day didn’t count. Welcome home. I can understand why page 11 of my 28-page Welcome Pack included a list of eight different mental health services I could contact if it all got to be a bit too much. (Including one called C.A.L.M. - Campaign Against Living Miserably. And I am NOT making that up.)

Once I’d resigned myself to Room 508 and memorised the C.A.L.M. number, my next job was the menu. Along with the Welcome Pack, I’d also received full page menus for every day of my sentence.

A typical day’s offering. Each meal came with some default settings and also had one or two options, including hot dishes.

Charmingly, I was required to choose my options for every meal of my entire stay on the morning of Day Zero. So, for instance, I needed to report whether I wanted a cheese omelette or a vegan sausage roll with my breakfast the following Saturday. Now I’m generally a person who loves having a plan, but even I found this a bit much. Then again, it actually turned out to be fairly simple, because who in their right minds would want “Vegetable Nasi Goreng” for breakfast when they could have a Bacon and Egg Omelette Bap? All my choices were duly entered into a web-page and, I thought, properly recorded for my future dining pleasure.

Ha.

On Day Zero I waited two hours for both lunch and dinner, and had to call to follow up in order to be fed. I put this down to that fact that I’d arrived too late for the computer system to record my choices and had to indicate my preferences on paper at check-in. No matter, because surely all would be fine for Day One breakfast, which arrived at 7:30 the next morning in a brown paper bag outside my door.

Not. My Cornish Sausage Roll was conspicuously absent, with a cup of porridge in its place. I managed to flag down the delivery guy, who changed out the porridge, and sat down to breakfast trusting that the mix-up was an isolated incident.

This is really a lot of food. Every breakfast came with milk and cereal, water, juice, fruit, pastry, some kind of snack and the hot option. The other meals were equally generous. Quarantining was definitely not a waistline-friendly situation.

Then Day One lunch was wrong. But this time the woman doing the delivery wouldn’t exchange things, because I’d touched the erroneous sandwich, therefore potentially slathering it with the plague. So she brought me the salad I’d asked for and I kept the sandwich too. Again, not diet-friendly. But surely supper would be correct.

Not. This pattern repeated for most meals until on Day Four I was finally able to express my frustration adequately to the guest services people, who told me to request a security escort to the reception desk and fill out a paper form for the remaining meal choices. Because obviously the computer system was - and I’m going to use a technical term here - utterly fucked. I did that, and went to bed with a glimmer of hope that the next morning would deliver my Bacon and Egg Bap without drama.

Which it did. Sort of. In fact, it delivered TWO Bacon and Egg Baps, along with the rest of two complete breakfasts, in two brown paper bags. Well-played, Holiday Inn Express, for finding a new and interesting way to screw up. By this point I was beyond caring, and simply had a double Bacon and Egg Bap and put the extra cereal, juice and snacks to my growing hoard of uneaten non-perishables. Eventually you have to accept that you have no control at all and just take the double bacon when you get it.

Here’s what the hoard of uneaten food looked like on the morning I checked out, along with all the paper bags and plastic containers that I brought with me back to the boat.

The food situation certainly kept me on my toes. But the lack of natural light was a downer, and it was weird to have no sense of the outside world at all. Eventually I realised I could get YouTube onto the giant tv and found a nice live-streaming camera of a street in Oxford that I just kept on all day. Oddly, I couldn’t find a nice view from a London camera, but the Oxford one was a street I remembered from my visit during the Grand Tour, and was a close enough shot that I could see people moving around, which was nice.

Kind of like having a window. It also helped to play random cafe noises in the background during the day.

The most exciting development - other than the double bacon - was the arrival of my Day Two COVID test kit. This was a self-administered test of the stick-up-the-nose variety that came with a thick instruction book and a lot of little sticky barcode labels.

By the time this test kit was delivered, I estimate I’d had fifteen different PCR tests done. Still it was a novelty to be wielding the stick myself.

The reason this self-test was exciting is that once I could report a negative test result I could be allowed OUT OF THE ROOM. So when I finally got the all-clear late on Day 4 I quickly pulled on my running clothes and waited for my security escort. (Anyone leaving their room for any reason had to be accompanied by a security guard. I suppose to prevent them from making a break for freedom. Fair call, I guess.) And where did my guard lead me?

To the prison yard, of course. Where I and my fellow inmates did desultory laps, watched over by men in hi-vis vests. It really did feel like yard time. Still, it was glorious to see the sky and breath fresh air, even though I was doing 180 metre-long circuits of a dis-used carpark in the back end of Terminal 4.

And thus the days passed. I was doing remote work on the Dubai project, with the standard-issue ration of Zoom meetings and paperwork. And the wifi was good, and there was Netflix, and I found a routine that passed the time. Luckily, I was free to order in alternative food or other essentials if I’d wanted, though I’d stocked up on the flight back. There was a short layover in Bahrain where I made sure to pick up a few non-perishable snacks, a fresh book for Non-Fiction Hour, and - crucially - two bottles of duty-free red wine. I even made my peace with the ridiculously tiny and non-functional table in the room, which was clearly designed by the same misanthrope who did the window.

First, does it really have to have that many weird corners and angles? And second, when you’ve already made a table that small, why, in the name of all that is holy, would you put a big stupid hole in it? It’s pure form over function. Smarten up!

I've complained a lot here, but it's clear the people at the hotel were genuinely trying to make quarantine an ok experience. I think they were just overburdened and under-staffed and trying to implement a system on the fly. I'm sure most quarantine rooms actually have proper windows, for instance. (Occasionally I got a glimpse of the sky from the window of the guy across the hall, if he happened to open his door at the same time I did. Lucky Room 507!) And really, it was only ten days.

On the morning of Day 11 I was free to go. In fact, I could have left at one minute past midnight, but I had a good night's sleep and enjoyed one last bacon bap and then treated myself to an Uber XL for the trip home, because I had a lot of luggage and I was in a celebratory mood. And this Uber did not disappoint.

It came with bottles of water, gum, hand sanitiser, blue twinkly stars in the ceiling, two separate video monitors, and diamanté-encrusted tissue boxes. Because I’m fancy like that.

My return to the boat was not without issues, but that’s a story for another day. For now, I’ll just say I’m ok, and despite the issues, it’s good to be back. And I’ll close with these words to live by:

Just take the double bacon.

Yamnuska Wolfdog Sanctuary

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 04 Apr 2021 13:00:00 +0000

Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers will have noticed a distinct dearth of blogging in 2021, which I can only say perfectly reflects the amount of bloggy things that I’ve done so far this year. That total being, obviously, zero. Yes, there was a post in January that I pulled out of thin, frigid air without leaving the house. But it was a pale effort. Not so any more! Today I’m pleased to bring you the tale of a day trip to an actual outside activity at an actual touristy destination with an actual friend I’m not related to by blood or marriage. Heady stuff.

It all starts in Calgary, where I’m on what I like to think of as my Farewell Tour, which is basically just me hanging out at my sister’s place for a bit before finally heading back to London. Or at least that was the plan. Now it’s altered slightly to allow me to spend a week in Dubai on Expo-related work stuff first, after which I get the pleasure of spending my ten days of quarantine not in the loving and much-missed “comfort” of the Lucky Nickel, but in a random airport hotel not of my choosing. This is because the UAE is on Boris Johnson’s Red List of countries that require hotel quarantine, while if you’re coming from Canada they trust you to quarantine at home. (Don’t ask me to explain the UK’s semi-porous borders policy. All I know is that it’ll be ten more days before I’m properly home, but at least during those ten days I won’t have to worry about getting groceries, or monitor whether I’ve got enough water left to shower. And I’ll also have enough room to raise my arms above my head. So, you know, swings and roundabouts.)

But back to our exciting and bloggy destination: an outdoor, socially-distanced, fully masked visit to the Yamnuska Wolfdog Sanctuary. This thanks to my friend Patti, with whom I've been doing regular outdoor walks to catch up and get some sun and air. On our last walk Patti mentioned she’d been planning to visit the sanctuary, and considering the most exciting place I’d been in months is Costco, I happily agreed to join her there. (In my defence, Costco actually was kind of exciting, because I got a pair of the new AirPods that Apple started making once they finally admitted that all ears on the planet are not identical in size and shape, and maybe a bit of squishiness on the ends would be a good idea. And all I can say is... noise-cancelling? Life. Changing.)

So… The Yamnuska Wolfdog Sanctuary. It does exactly what it says on the tin. It’s a non-profit site that takes in wolfdogs who are surrendered by their owners or other organisations who can’t care for them, or are rescued from abuse, neglect, abandonment or euthanasia.

And what is a wolfdog? That, too is exactly what it sounds like: a cross-bred animal that’s part wolf and part domesticated dog.

The Yamnuska Wolfdog Sanctuary offers a few ways to experience the animals. You can simply do a self-guided walk around the site, observing the wolfdogs in their enclosures and reading the copious informative signage. You can also take the Intro Tour, a guided visit to a fenced viewing platform inside one of the enclosures. Or... you can do the Interactive Tour where you actually go into two different enclosures and get up close with the wolfdogs themselves. Of course that’s what we did. Because nobody goes to a wolfdog sanctuary without wanting to pet the wolfdogs. Yeah sure, we had to sign a waiver that clearly stated, in bold print, the risk of “serious injury and possible death”. Nevermind that, because… fluffy doggies! And regardless of how you decide to partake of the wolfdog experience, there are a couple of unusual rules that apply to all visitors: Take no bags or loose items into the enclosures. Do not wear any fur or fake fur. And whatever you do, do NOT bring your dog. I wisely decided to leave my mink stole and any extraneous labradoodles at home.

Rocky and Loki, the two friendliest wolfdogs. These guys are much more dog than wolf.

And now, a wolfdog primer: Wolves and dogs don’t naturally cross-breed. Wolves are monogamous and highly territorial, therefore very unlikely to accept another canine for mating in the wild. They’re also fertile for a very short time each year. This means that wolfdogs are almost exclusively the result of intentional crossbreeding by humans to supply the exotic pet trade. So it’s important to point out that the folks at the Yamnuska Wolfdog Sanctuary are not breeding or encouraging the breeding of wolfdogs, they’re simply trying to care for existing animals who need a home, educate the public about the unique challenges of wolfdog ownership, and advocate for wolf conservation.

Most wolfdogs are not simply half wolf and half dog; they’re more often the result of breeding two wolfdogs or a wolfdog and a domesticated dog. Wolves (Canis Lupus) and domesticated dogs (Canis Lupus Familiaris) are, of course, the same species. Domesticated dogs are simply the result of years of selective breeding, and though they’re a different sub-species they remain, on a biological level, the same animals. This is why the offspring of a wolf and a cocker spaniel can go on to have more little spaniolf puppies.

Categorised by how much wolf is in them, wolfdogs divide roughly into high-content (85-99% wolf), medium content (50-85%) and low content (less than 50%). Interestingly, the sanctuary doesn’t determine a wolfdog’s inherent wolfiness by DNA testing, which you’d think would be the obvious way to do it. Apparently accurate testing is very expensive and involves taking a 30-second oral swab, about which the wolfdogs are naturally not overly cooperative. Instead they use phenotyping, which involves simply observing the physical and behavioural traits of each animal, and making an educated assessment. This doesn’t sound as cool as DNA testing, but probably results in fewer stitches and missing fingers.

The Yamnuska Wolfdog Sanctuary was founded in 2011 by Georgina de Caigny, who was drawn to wolfdogs from a young age. When she was nineteen Georgina got her first wolfdog, a high-content animal called Kuna, and quickly realised that she didn’t have the skills or resources to deal with her new "pet". Owning a wolfdog is exceptionally challenging. High-content wolfdogs lack the affinity for humans that we’re used to in domesticated dogs. They have no instinct to please us, instead being naturally fearful of humans. They tend to be destructive, have a strong prey drive, don’t enjoy being indoors, and usually can’t be walked on city streets or taken to dog parks to interact with other dogs. They’re really apex predators, not pets. On realising this, Georgina made the remarkable decision to re-design her life in order to provide the right environment for her wolfdog and eventually founded the sanctuary, which is dedicated to the rehabilitation and rehoming of these often misunderstood animals.

Our trip started in the visitor centre / gift shop (of course) where we met Skookum, the sanctuary greeter. Despite appearances he’s not a wolfdog, he’s a Giant Alaskan Malamute (emphasis on Giant). They also have a pack of three Irish Wolfhounds, though we didn’t get to meet them. I guess they like ‘em big at the sanctuary.

After a brief intro, we headed to the first enclosure, home to a pack of five high-content wolfdogs. Kuna, the animal that launched the journey that resulted in the Yamnuska sanctuary is the dominant female of the pack and still resident, though she was not there when we visited because she was recovering from a leg operation. We did, however, meet Zeus, the short, dark and handsome dominant male, and the rest of the pack. We were directed to sit in a semi-circle of socially distanced lawn chairs and NOT GET UP. Then we each got a handful of assorted treats to tempt the animals. Our guide explained that these high-content wolfdogs were unlikely to approach close enough to eat from our hands, but could be lured closer with treats tossed on the ground nearby.

Here’s the pack, sniffing out their treats. The youngest female of the pack, Ylva, was boldest, though even she would come no closer that a few feet from the ring of chairs. And these are animals with years of experience of human interaction. Again… really not pets.

The enclosures themselves are generously sized - up to two acres each - and completely surrounded by high fences with dig guards, overhangs, electricity and double-doors (no escapees so far!). The sanctuary sits on 160 acres of land and has eleven enclosures. It's currently home to 35 wolfdogs, including several rescued from the infamous Milk River seizure of 200 malnourished dogs in 2015. Each enclosure houses its own pack - sometimes as few as two wolfdogs. There’s even one enclosure separated from the overall layout with no public viewing, for a pair that are exceptionally skittish. The enclosures are separated by pathways that run between them and the public are free to wander along the paths and see the animals going about their lives.

High, inward-facing fences and additional low barriers to keep curious human fingers from being sampled.

The whole place is also generously scattered with informative signage about its inhabitants and about wolves and wolfdogs in general. This, for instance, totally blew my mind.

Once we’d exhausted the attention of the high-content wolfdogs, we moved inside the enclosure of a low-content pack where things got more interesting. These animals were much doggier, very food-focused and clearly knew the routine. Of the three wolfdogs in that pack, Rocky and Loki were positively friendly.

They even have strong likes and dislikes about their treats and will snuffle in your hand to root out what they want.

Rocky, a venerable 18-year old, has bonded so strongly with one of the young keepers that he goes home with her at night. Clearly, there’s not a lot of wolf in Rocky. These low-content wolfdogs were much more approachable but once the treats ran out even they didn’t stick around for belly rubs and cuddles. And I’ll admit the force with which they did their snuffling was a bit unnerving.

Interacting so closely with the wolfdogs was definitely the highlight of the visit, but it's not the only thing to do. As I mentioned, visitors are free to wander the paths between the enclosures, and the sanctuary also has a few non-canine inhabitants, including chickens, goats and sheep. The guides were quick to point out that these other residents were absolutely, positively NOT there as food for the wolfdogs. They were themselves rescued and were simply living their best lives at Yamnuska. The goat enclosure even had a tiny trampoline, which was very cute, though I'm sure not as cute as it would have been to actually see baby goats bouncing on said tiny trampoline. Almost as good as baby goat yoga.

The goat enclosure, with goats barely visible in shade, top right.

The Sanctuary also schedules regular "enrichment activities" in the different enclosures each day. We caught the tail end of a feeding session designed to help more skittish animals get used to human contact with the keepers. And they also planned a special set of Easter activities, including an easter egg hunt for the wolves with actual eggs. (I guess the chickens earn their keep.) And of course there's a gift shop with all the usual items - stuffed toys, sweatshirts, mugs etc, but also with matching sets of fluffy wolf paw slippers and mitts (photos on Flickr). I resisted, though they probably would have gone really well with the mink stole.

Eventually the hours of strong winds and chilly temperatures got the better of us and it was time to head home, heady with the excitement of an actual day out, and with that particularly satisfying sort of well-earned weariness that comes from being outside for long periods on a blustery day. Not to mention the excitement of interacting with other humans for hours on end. Nevermind the wolfdogs, it's we humans who need the enrichment activities these days. I wonder if they have any free enclosure space available?

Home Town Tourism

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 31 Jan 2021 06:30:00 +0000

Hey. Me again. I’m here. Because I’m here because I’m here because I’m here. I made it back from Abu Dhabi without incident and had a very relaxing 14 days of quarantine in another Airbnb. That makes 56 days in quarantine so far for this pandemic, with at least another ten to come when I eventually make it back to the boat. The virus is worse than it’s ever been here in Saskatchewan, but it’s at least twice as bad in the UK, and there's no pressing need for me to travel to be back there any time soon so... I’m here.

Christmas was a very small, very local event with intermittent FaceTime gift-opening and not much else. New Year’s was a non-event. January was unseasonably pleasant for a while, which made running on the prairie grid roads quite nice. Now it’s turned properly, truly cold, and even a short run is a serious undertaking.

With windchills comfortably in the -40s, it’s hard to find enough layers of clothing for running.

Then again, the extreme cold weather does make for some pretty scenery, what with the hoarfrost and the piercing blue skies and all.

Actual unretouched prairie loveliness.

Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers will have noticed a distinct lack of blogging, largely because there’s really nothing to say. This will come as a surprise to no one, but nothing new happens, and I’m just marking time. That said, there is a lingering guilt about not blogging, and it’s not like I’m struggling to fit everything in each day, so in a nod to the GSWPL tag “landmarks”, I’ve decided to have a look at a few hometown sites that might be vaguely interesting, and toss in a bit of Canadian history to bulk things up. (Homeschooling parents are welcome to use the blog for a small fee.) We’ll start with what’s probably Saskatoon’s most iconic landmark: the Bessborough Hotel. (Pronounced "BEZ-ber-oh”, but most often known locally simply as "The Bess”, to rhyme with fez.)

Not bad, eh? (Thank you to the Delta Hotel Bessborough website for this photo. The GSWPL aerial photo crane gets cranky in temps below -30.)

The 10-storey hotel was completed on its verdant riverside location in 1935, and was the tallest building in the city until 1966. It was then surpassed by Marquis Towers, an utterly unremarkable apartment building a few blocks away. (And as long as we’re pronouncing things correctly, in Saskatoon “marquis” is “MAR-kwiss”, not “Mar-KEE”. Much in the same way that Portage Avenue in Winnipeg is “POR-duj", not “por-TAZH”. And don’t even get me started on Mozart, Saskatchewan.) The Bess was named for the 9th Earl of Bessborough, the fancifully named Vere Brabazon Ponsonby, who was Governor General of Canada at the time of the hotel’s construction.

The Bessbrough may seem outlandishly grand for a small prairie city, but it’s actually the local variant of the famed Grand Railway Hotels which were built across the country in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Canadian Railway Hotels are, with a few exceptions, utterly excellent. Canada may not be blessed with pyramids or Roman ruins or castles, but we do have the railway hotels.

The first railway to cross Canada was the Canadian Pacific, completed in November of 1885 with the driving of the “Last Spike” at Craigellachie, near the Eagle Pass in British Columbia. Though the construction of the trans Canada railway was driven by commercial interests, its completion is often regarded as the event that knit the country together both physically and symbolically.

The iconic image of CPR Director Donald Smith, hammering the last spike. (Great beard, Don, though Mr. Top Hat behind you is no slouch either.)

In fact Smith needed two attempts at the thing, because his first swing went off course and bent the first Last Spike. However, that bent one was actually the second Last Spike. (Try to stay with me here, this will get complicated). The first Last Spike was made of silver and commissioned by the then Governor General Lord Landsdowne. However, Landsdowne was called back to Ottawa on business before he could deliver the fancy spike, so Donald Smith was left to rustle up an ordinary iron spike for the ceremony. The bent (second) spike was given to Smith after the ceremony, who proceeded to have bits of it cut off and made into commemorative jewellery. What was left eventually made its way to the Canadian Science and Technology Museum in 1985. The silver first Last Spike is now at the Canadian Museum of History. The spike that Donald Smith actually drove - the third Last Spike - was extracted shortly after the ceremony to discourage souvenir hunters. It made its way back to the CPR offices in Montreal, where they managed to lose it sometime in the 1940s. The fourth Last Spike was the one that remained in place so that the rail would actually be attached to the tie. Comforting that in all the fuss they actually remembered to do that.

Having finally created this marvellous ribbon of steel, the railroad’s owners needed a way to get people to use it not merely for freight but for tourism. The railroad hotels were intended both to serve patrons of the railroad, and as an attraction in themselves. The president of the CPR at the time, William Cornelius Van Horne, famously said “If we can’t export the scenery, we’ll import the tourists”. The first great railroad hotel, the 1878 Hotel Windsor in Montreal, was not actually built by a railroad company, but it was located close to the Windsor Station and became the permanent headquarters of both the the Grand Trunk Railway and the Canadian Pacific Railway. (The Hotel Windsor is, therefore, where they managed to lose the third Last Spike. Has anyone looked in the basement? Just asking.)

The first hotel built by a railway company was the CPR’s Hotel Vancouver, opened in May of 1888, closely followed by the iconic Banff Springs Hotel, a mere two weeks later. (Though the familiar Banff Springs pictured below was actually built to replace the wooden 19th century original, which burned down in 1926.)

I don’t actually have a Bucket List per se, but if I did, staying at the Banff Springs Hotel would definitely be on it. In the Chocolate Room. With Harrison Ford, please. (Picture credit: By James Levy - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0)

The best of the railway hotels are built in what came to be known as Chateuaesque architectural style. As its name implies, Chateauesque architecture is a style drawing on the French chateaux of the 15th to 17th centuries, though it also includes elements of the Scottish Baronial style. It’s characterised by heavy ornamentation, abundant towers and turrets, oriel windows, quoins (good Scrabble word, that), steeply pitched roofs with dormers and other assorted excellent touches like machicolations, all of which are amply employed in the Bessborough, an excellent example of the style. (As, incidentally, is Cinderella Castle in Disneyland.)

Though the Canadian Pacific Railway came first, Canada’s other main rail company, the Canadian National Railway (CNR, or often just CN) was formed in 1919 from the assets of several defunct rail companies. CN built up its own trans-national rail network and naturally built a small string of seven railway hotels to go along with it. The Bessborough is a CN hotel, as is the Hotel Vancouver. However, CP definitely holds then record with 22 railway hotels to its name, half of which are still in operation as hotels today. Among the great CP hotels is the Chateau Frontenac in Quebec City, Chateau Lake Louise, and the largest railway hotel in the country, the massive Royal York in downtown Toronto, which sits right across Front street from Union Station. With over a thousand rooms and standing at 28 storeys high, The Royal York was the briefly the tallest building in the British Empire when it was opened in 1929.

You can see that the Royal York isn’t as excellently Chateuesque as the grandest of the railway hotels. Many of those that were built in the 20s and 30s didn’t push the boat out quite so much.

That makes the Bessborough all the more remarkable, since it was built in that same period, and just up the road from the positively lumpish Hotel Saskatchewan in the provincial capital, Regina ("ruh-JIE-nuh", please). Indeed the construction of the Bess was spurred in part by the standard inter-city rivalry, so perhaps that’s why they decided to do things up right here in Saskatoon.

The Hotel Saskatchewan. Yaaaaaaaawn. Sadly, of all the fantastic grand railway hotels in all the land, this is the only one I’ve ever actually stayed in. I recall the rooms being exceedingly small. And that’s coming from someone who lives on a boat. (By Drm310 - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0)

The last railway hotel to be built was the exceedingly ordinary Queen Elizabeth in Montreal, opened in 1958. A pale echo of the sprawling magnificence of examples like the Chateau Frontenac, the Queen Elizabeth marked a whimpering end to a glorious tradition. In 1988 CP bought out CN Hotels and now manages eleven railway hotels as Fairmont Hotels and Resorts. In total, 24 Grand Railway Hotels are still in operation across the country, including a smattering of Marriotts and Deltas, and a number of independently run operations. They’re a lovely reminder of the golden age of rail travel. Or, indeed, simply the age of travel.

Sigh.

The Odyssey

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 08 Nov 2020 06:14:00 +0000

I knew that working on an international job during a surging global pandemic was not going to be business as usual. And when it came to the logistics of actually getting here… well thereby hangs a tale. Buckle up, kids, it's going to be a bumpy ride!

COVID rules in Abu Dhabi require incoming travellers have a negative COVID test within 96 hours of their departure. And though I knew what day they wanted me to fly, for a long time there was no flight booked. Frustrating though it may be, this is normal for these sort of jobs. Often the flights are booked by a third party and they tend to leave things to the last minute because changes are common. It’s usually not an issue, but when you’re trying to schedule a COVID test to leave the most possible time for test processing, but not so much time that a slight change in plans means the 96-hour window expires, then not having a confirmed flight and not knowing test processing times is a toxic combination. Add to that an extra layer of faff caused by the fact that I’m not actually a Canadian resident anymore, so I’m not covered by the Canadian health system. This means I can't log onto the government web portal to get a test appointment or receive results. Instead I have to pay a consultation fee to a doctor at a randomly-chosen local clinic to get referred for the test, then have the same random clinic get the results to me, sidestepping the unavailable web system.

Luckily, the people at the local clinic were unfailingly friendly and helpful. This is the first time I’ve been back in Canada for any length of time since I relocated to the UK, and I must say that anyone I’ve dealt with here in a professional setting has just been really, really nice. Whether it’s the guys at the Bolt Supply House who special ordered 5/16” aluminium hex nuts for me, or the clinic doctors who renewed a prescription so fast that it was available at the pharmacy next door before I hung up the phone, or, well, kind of everybody. It really is true. Canadians are generally nice, friendly, and disposed to help if they can (or commiserate if they can’t). I probably notice it more because I’ve been away, but it’s clear. Sure we have our share of assholes. But I think the average Canadian is much more likely to jump-start your dead car battery than steal your hubcaps. Way to go, Canada!

The clinic referred me for a COVID test and the people at the testing centre phoned me back so quickly that I actually had to request they defer my appointment a bit to preserve more of the precious 96-hour window. Of course they were happy to reschedule because… Canada. I was also slightly concerned that the production company hiring me had asked for a very specific sort of documentation of the test results, largely based on the system in the UK, where most people were traveling from. Actually the fact I was coming from Canada threw everyone for a loop in general. For instance, the UAE airline's list of acceptable global test centres didn’t even have an entry for Canada. (Really?) Also, I was asked to suggest the best way to get from Saskatoon to a flight in Toronto, as if they expected that part of the journey would be by float plane or dogsled with a short portage between. (“Just use Google Flights,” I said. “And make sure you click the CANOE option.")

Nonetheless I got the test booked and I alerted them it was for travel, which I hoped meant it would be flagged for especially timely processing (cue ominous background music). And on a Tuesday morning I went and got the stick shoved up my nose. In the interim, my flight was booked for the following Friday around noon. With nothing else to do but wait, I got to grips with packing, having decided I was going to bring the fabulous rolling toolbox workbench for its maiden voyage.

Meanwhile, back in London, the helpful Piran volunteered to drive to the marina to visit the boat and root around in my drawers extracting things I didn’t bring with me to Canada in March, but are mission-critical for a job, like my steel-toed shoes, hard hat, hot weather work clothes and spare bourbon cream biscuits. He even arranged a rendezvous with the equally helpful Kieran to hand over the goods, which Kieran then schlepped to Abu Dhabi.

And unasked, Kieran also brought me TWO giant jars of Marmite. For their good works, both he and Piran are officially awarded the Go Stay Work Play Live Honourary Canadian Maple Leaf Award for Excellence in the Field of Inherent Niceness. (GSWPLHCMLAEFIN for short.)

Back in Canada, I fretted. Wednesday passed with no test result. On Thursday I waited as long as I could stand it before calling the friendly random clinic (FRC), and they called the test processing lab to see if anything could be discovered. (I was, after all, scheduled to fly in less than 24 hours, so I don’t think I was being overly needy.) They clinic called back quickly with the less-than-heartening news that the lab had placed my test sample “in the wrong batch” and hadn’t even started processing it. At this point I may have started hyper-ventilating because the whole precarious house of cards was tumbling down around me. With no test result I couldn’t fly the next day. And I knew there were very other few flights from Toronto to UAE that fell inside my precious 96 hour window of time. This might mean cancelling the existing flight, scheduling another test, and then booking another flight. And there was the intervening weekend to throw off test-result timing. And and and… it was just awful.

Gratuitous photo of grey October weather on the prairies, which matched my mood appropriately.

I spent a disconsolate Thursday evening texting with friends and trying to decide what to do. Eventually I determined the best option was to get up early and be ready to fly, on the ridiculously slim chance that a test result manifested itself in the tiny window of time between the clinic opening (9:00am) and the moment when the production company would have to cancel my flight (about 10:00am), which was also when I’d have to leave the house to get to the airport in time. Let’s just say it was not a restful night.

The alarm rang at 6:00am and I packed half-heartedly, because it really felt like it was wasted effort. At 9:00:01am I called the FRC and the receptionist remembered me and promised to get right on it. So with the clock ticking I sat, unshowered and already exhausted, stared at my packed toolbox that wouldn’t quite close, and waited for a call back.

And then a miracle happened.

At 9:19am the clinic phoned and the I heard the words “I have your test results IN MY HAND.” Then there was a frantic 45 minutes in which I called the production company to tell them to please not cancel my flight, had a shower, finished packing and got everything into the car.

I call this photo “Luggage and Snow”

We drove to the clinic on the way to the airport so I could pick up a hard copy of the coveted test results. (Negative, obviously. Phew.) Check in for the Saskatoon-Toronto part of the trip was smooth, and surprisingly, they marked the box to travel straight through, which I did not expect. And even at 60.4 pounds, it was within the luggage weight limit for my ticket, so no excess baggage fees! Things were definitely looking up.

The Box, ready to fly the nest. Travel safely, little box!

As expected, the airport was mostly deserted and it was quick getting through security. That emptiness made it all the more inexplicable when I finally got to the airside Tim Hortons and they were COMPLETELY OUT OF DONUTS. How is that even possible? It’s like McDonalds running out of fries or Donald Trump running out of stupid. Hadn’t I endured enough already? (Spoiler alert: Oh no, I certainly had not.) And how can they not have an emergency system in place for this kind thing? There should be Donut Special Forces shock troops that abseil in from a helicopter with a dozen each of old fashioned plain and maple dip. (Full disclosure: there were actually a few French Crullers left but they are basically just deep-fried air and do not count.) Luckily, I managed to secure the last six Timbits and a large coffee and finally got to draw my first deep breath in about 18 hours.

The flight to Toronto was uneventful, which is good because it turns out I was going to need what strength I had left for what came next. Back in Saskatoon the agent had tried to issue my Toronto-Abu Dhabi boarding pass, but couldn’t get it to work because they’d only resumed International flights into Abu Dhabi a day or two earlier, and there were apparently still some bugs to work out. I’d assumed this would be the case, because Kieran flew a day earlier from London and said there was a whole rigamarole at check-in that involved the agent having to email someone in Abu Dhabi, then follow up with a phone call. What could possibly go wrong?

I was braced for this when I landed in Toronto, but the first step was to get the shuttle to the international terminal. Simple, right? Bwahahahaha! Instead of a normal, uneventful shuttle trip, here are the steps I took, because apparently things weren’t stressful enough already:

Wait on comfy bench between two train platforms.
Notice signs on the right indicate that’s where the next train will arrive.
Realise there’s a bit of time to wait. Take some things out of carry-on bag to get at something on the bottom.
Notice train arriving on left side of the platform.
Realise at the last moment that left-hand train is actually going to the correct place before right-hand train will arrive.
Dash for left-hand train, board, and congratulate self for getting to check-in a bit sooner.
Realise that things taken out of bag are still sitting on bench on platform.
Itemise things in head: brand new hand-made notebook, Kindle, iPad Pro with Apple Pencil.
Immediately swear loudly and effusively.
Disembark at new terminal, swear more, pace, sweat profusely.
Wait ONE MILLION YEARS for train back to previous terminal.
Get on train, continue swearing, desperately hope aforementioned niceness of Canadians means everything is still there when I arrive.
Arrive.
Become suffused with joy at goodness of my fellow man, recover abandoned items.
Go back to Step 1.

It was an interlude I really did not need. Still drenched in sweat, and definitely in no state to pass a temperature check, I found the check-in desk and braced myself for whatever fresh hell awaited. The agent at the desk was friendly and helpful, and accepted my passport, my precious COVID test paperwork, and my visa, and then started tapping away on her computer. Minutes passed. There was more tapping. Photos were taken of the visa. More tapping. Phone calls were made. More minutes passed. Hope dimmed. There was a problem with the visa. “How could that be?” I asked. I had colleagues who’d flown from London the day before on the same type of visa! “Yes” she said, “But this visa is only valid for travel from the UK, not Canada."

Of course.

Finally, the agent escorted me to a chair, murmuring apologies all the way, and promising that it would be sorted out, it would just take some time. Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers will of course realise that time was not something I had a lot of. If I didn’t make my scheduled flight, I only had until about 2pm the next day to get on a plane to Abu Dhabi, or my COVID test results would be invalid because of the magic 96-hour window. If I was still sitting in Toronto at 2pm Saturday I’d have to start the whole cycle again, but as an added bonus I’d be doing it from a hotel room in Toronto. Or possibly from back in Saskatoon where I’d retreat to lick my wounds. It was all a bit much, I don’t mind telling you.

Eventually, after a lot of waiting, and with growing certainty it was all doomed, the agent came back and reported that whatever “special permission” that was needed had been granted, and I was free to check in. Angels sang. Crowds gathered in the streets spontaneously to celebrate, heedless of social distancing rules. CNN news helicopters circled the airport reporting live, and I was finally, finally, issued my cherished Toronto-to-Abu Dhabi boarding pass. (You probably saw the live stream.) And as a parting gift the lovely agent put me in an exit row, on the aisle, with three whole seats to myself.

Soon after I secured this very large glass of wine and breathed again.

The exit row seat turned out to be a much-appreciated, because a flight from Toronto to Abu Dhabi is very long. Very, very long. Like, twelve hours long. I watched a few movies, and slept a bit, and hoped that my little toolbox was safe in the cargo hold. And then because I was bored and a bit fuzzy-headed and this is just how my brain works, I started anthropomorphising the box. It was kind of nice to feel like I wasn’t alone. That me and the box were in this together. So I sat in the darkened cabin with my recovered iPad and drew this guy:

Introducing… J. S. Bachs. (Name courtesy of the one and only Anne Tanaka.)

Finally we landed in Abu Dhabi, and after getting the stick up my nose again and making it past passport control, I finally got to the baggage carousel with my heart in my throat, hoping J.S. wouldn’t arrive broken and bleeding out underwear and KD Snack Cups.

J.S. Bachs’ triumphant arrival! Still in one piece, though now with one wonky wheel. Somehow it seems appropriate that we both came out of that journey with some scars.

And now I sit in quarantine in a pleasant hotel room, kind of over the jet lag after seven days, and just having had the stick up my nose again (third time lucky!). I’ve been working from here, spending hours conferring with Kieran on speaker phone, even though he’s just down the hall. Meals arrive packed in a thousand plastic containers, and the days are passing agreeably. I’m also proud to report that J.S. Bachs is performing exceptionally well, tucked away in the corner of the room. We’ll both get to relocate to the work site soon.

Let’s just hope that journey is a little bit smoother than our last one.

The trusty J.S. hard at work.

A cabin in the woods

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 25 Oct 2020 13:19:00 +0000

Another long break between blogs. It’s the new normal, and that’s all there is to it. Let’s just move on, shall we? When last we left your humble blogger she had settled into a borrowed cabin in a national park. There were abundant groceries, a significant but manageable list of small home reno projects to complete, a lot of videos downloaded for evening viewing, and a host of places to run, hike and kayak in the cooling autumn weather. All of this centred around that lovely cabin that was occupied by me and me alone. It was, in short, perfect.

First I should clarify, especially for UK-based Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers, that I’m not talking about a log cabin hewn by hand from local timber and set on an outcrop of Canadian Shield surrounded by nothing but trees for miles, and with only beavers and the haunting cry of the loon for company. Despite any of your romantic notions of the vast Canadian forests, I was not trapping my own food, hauling water from the lake, or washing in an icy waterfall with a loaded rifle nearby to ward off curious brown bears. Apologies for bursting your bubble. Places like that exist here, sure. But most cabins (or cottages) cluster in neighbourhoods or long roads surrounding a lake, with power, plumbing and other useful amenities like ice cream and mini golf and gift shops selling anything/everything with a maple leaf on it.

Here’s what my immediate surroundings looked like.

It’s a cluster of about 500 tiny houses set onto five parallel streets running down to the lake. This used to be a campground filled with temporary structures that had to be hauled away each winter and replaced each spring, like glorified ice fishing huts. They’ve gradually become permanent, and now many are new, fully modern homes with granite counter tops and cathedral ceilings (which I think is not really in the spirit of things, but as usual no one asked me). Happily, there are still some original cabins that barely cover 200 square feet and don’t even have indoor plumbing. (“The Lucky Nickel” would be spacious and well-equipped in comparison.) Residents of those cabins simply use the many toilet blocks and shower facilities dotted around the neighbourhood.

I know it looks much like a typical residential street. But here’s here’s what’s at the end of that street:

A wide clear lake, generously equipped with docks for diving from or for launching yourself in a canoe or kayak for an afternoon of adventure.

And here’s what’s a few minute’s walk from the other end of the street:

A hiking trail through a marsh, with floating boardwalks and resident beavers.

That was my home for about five weeks. The cabin is owned by some of my oldest and closest friends, who five years ago had an extension put onto it to accommodate their growing kids and their desire for indoor plumbing. The extension is very sympathetic, and the cabin itself is just big enough, and has just enough of the mod cons you might need, but maintains a cozy feeling that is most definitely perfectly in tune with the surroundings, with not a granite countertop in sight. However, the builder who did the extension was not a mad fiend for finish work, so five years on there were still windows missing trim and tiny bedrooms without baseboard (skirting board) and a general sense of unfinished-ness that was starting to get a bit wearying for my lovely and generous friends.

Which is how a perfectly synchronous arrangement evolved wherein I got to live in the cabin and have some much needed alone time in an idyllic setting. And while there, I could spend a bit of time each day gradually finishing up all the little things that needed doing. I also hasten to add that my friends would not stop pointing out that I was very very welcome to stay in the cabin even if all I did was lounge around and eat bon bons while floating on the lake. But this is the kind of work I find genuinely enjoyable, and being able to do a favour for them while they were similarly doing me a big favour just made everything better.

So it was that I pitched up with a car full of tools and spent a day or so getting myself set up and making a big list of everything to be done.

First I made this workbench to hang off the deck so I had somewhere right outside the door to put the saw. And I made those little sticky-up bits of 2x4 (4x2) clamped to the railing to support the ends of long stock while cutting.

Days generally went like this: Wake up in the upstairs bedroom surrounded by giant windows and trees, do some yoga, have breakfast, and then get out the tools and start work on the day’s project. One day it might be adding framing and trim to a downstairs bedroom window. Or hanging a window blind. Or installing some baseboard.

Once it was transforming this sad little nook/shelf, set between the studs in a wall...

… into this. Which was super satisfying.

Of course I also had a break mid-morning for coffee and a toasted cinnamon bun from the local bakery and a few minutes with the cryptic crossword. And I stopped for lunch too. And I was usually wrapping up in the late afternoon with plenty of time for a run through the woods before settling in for a little pandemic habit I’ve developed called “Non-Fiction Hour” which involves settling into a comfy chair after a run and a shower but before supper, with a small bowl of snacks, a cold drink, and a good book (generally non-fiction but exceptions can be allowed on a case-by-case basis). In a fit of Canadiana, I made it through Pierre Burton’s book on the Great Depression and then managed a solid start on “Merchants of Doubt”, which was a bit out of date and hard going but had some interesting stuff to say.

Occasional alternate activities for non-fiction hour include: continuing to bash away at the crossword or drawing something either on the iPad or in my actual sketchbook.

Like this, which I was absurdly pleased with. Enough so that I made a frame for it from scrap wood and left it as a gift for the cabin. I call it “The View From Upstairs”.

And of course sometimes I just took the day off. Especially on days when the lake was calm and the sun was out. One notable Tuesday in late September it was unseasonably warm and sunny and I made it all the way across the lake on what turned out to be an epic 8km paddle that lasted all afternoon, with a few stops to linger on various shorelines for a photo op.

Warm, sun-browned and happy.

And even better, Karen managed to come visit for a few days and we hiked and kayaked and drank red wine and watched cheesy movies and roasted a chicken on the BBQ.

We also took Non-Fiction Hour snacks to a whole new level with blood orange gin & tonic, assorted crackers and cheese, hummus, hot pepper jelly, chip dip, cherry tomatoes, smoked oysters, pretzel chunks and ripple chips. Because that’s how we roll.

And we tried paddle boarding.

Paddle Boarding is an activity whose appeal I’d never understood. And now, having tried it, I still don’t. Why would you want to stand up on something that unstable? It’s just awkward and uncomfortable. I seemed to end up frozen in a hunched position, afraid to shift in the slightest. Also you’re constantly having to switch what side you’re paddling on to stay straight. I did find it interesting to try out some yoga moves on the paddle board, but only because that was challenging and on a hot day it was fun to end up in the water after a wobbly triangle pose went wrong. But paddle boarding as a pleasant means of propelling yourself across the water? No thank you.

Paddle boarding aside, living at the cabin was, without a doubt, the best month I’ve had since this whole disastrous pandemic thing started. Granted that’s an unprecedentedly low bar to clear, but it really was excellent. Then gradually the weather cooled off, and the real world started to intrude. And one morning I woke up to an email about a job. An actual job on a big show. I know I mentioned that the show I was working on in London in March was trying to start up again. This was not that. This was the Abu Dhabi National Day show, which Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers will recall from 2015. And 2018. And 2019. Pandemic or no, a show would go on. Smaller audience. Smaller cast. Smaller staff. Socially distanced and bubbled and sanitised to within an inch of its life. But it would go on. And they wanted me. So after consulting with family and friends and colleagues and hearing about how they proposed to do a large show in the middle of a surging pandemic, I took the job. Because as nice as the cabin was, I haven’t had a pay cheque since February and six weeks of work at international rates will go a long way to keeping me going until something else emerges.

So my last couple weeks at the cabin were marked by mornings spent on the phone with colleagues in London and Abu Dhabi, catching up on everything that happens when you’re several time zones behind the rest of the show. And since my internet access was via a hotspot on my phone, there was an awful lot of additional expensive Canadian mobile data used. And a lot of logistics to sort out. And there were still some things to finish on the cabin.

By the time thanksgiving arrived, the list was done and my friends arrived for a last weekend at the cabin before closing it up for the winter. They were appropriately thrilled at the improvements, which was gratifying. And we made an excellent dinner for thanksgiving and played games and watched movies. And most importantly, I got to just hang out with my good friends in a way that hasn’t been possible for ages. And we even got a few last moments of kayaking in, though the wind whipped up the lake to such a froth that we had to abandon that plan on the last morning after the kayaks were swamped with waves before we could even leave the dock (or in my case, before I could even get in).

Not optimal kayaking conditions.

I stuck it out at the cabin for a couple more days after my friends left, but by that time my head and my heart just weren’t in it anymore. My brain was bubbling with work, the internet constraints at the cabin became untenable, and they moved my flight date up to allow for a longer quarantine time in Abu Dhabi. The writing was on the wall, so I gave in, packed everything up and shut down the cabin.

As I write this closing paragraph, I'm quarantined in a hotel room in Abu Dhabi after an international odyssey that definitely deserves a blog post all its own. It's bizarre to be back, and the giant steel mesh bracelet bolted to my arm monitoring my position at all times is heavy and disconcerting, but I'm grateful for the work and it's actually nice to have a bit of time to settle in and get used to this all again. I think the biggest immediate challenge is going to be the combination of not running added to three ridiculously generous room service meals a day. I already feel like I've consumed my bodyweight in pita bread and hummus. Luckily for you, there's an excellent chance you'll get at least one more post from me before work gets crazy. It's the little things, right?

How I Spent My Summer Pandemic

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Mon, 14 Sep 2020 14:22:00 +0000

I’m still here. Here being Canada. Because the world is still broken, and I’m still unemployed and there is literally no reason for me to be back in the UK, other than that I miss having my own place, tiny and occasionally leaky though it may be, and I’m running out of Marmite. (Humanitarian aid packages from friends in the UK gratefully accepted. Please also include a pint of Doom Bar if you can swing it.) And yes, it’s been three months since I’ve blogged, but it really hasn’t felt like there’s anything to say. When last we left our humble blogger, there were fresh butter tarts and the weather was turning properly warm. Now the weather is swinging back the other way and I’m forcing myself to get back into it.

So… how did I spend my summer pandemic? It turns out I did manage to keep busy, mostly with odd jobs and small projects.

For instance, I helped build a raised garden bed with my niece CB, who got pretty handy with the screw gun.

And I did a bunch of associated landscaping with patio stones to tidy up a corner of the yard. And made some additional planters from scrap lumber salvaged from an old deck. There were also three light fixtures installed, and three window blinds, and one new towel rack.

Oh, and there was this homework project of CB’s that I might have helped with a bit too much. But it was cool! Very Rube Goldberg / Heath Robinson. You had to fire a water hose into the cups to spin the wheel to wind up the string to pull the watering can down enough to activate the watering process. Not overly complicated or pointless at all.

And CB and I perfected a recipe from America’s Test Kitchen for Lemon Olive Oil Tart, which you should all go make right now because it is amazing. (Note you have to sign up with their website to see the full recipe but I am telling you it's very worth it.)

I also revised my tiny robot card game many, many times and play tested it some more, including with the all-important Pomeranian demographic.

I even revived a different card game that I invented while on vacation from my Big Trip. This entailed re-drawing the existing 60 cards on the iPad (the original version was pencil crayon, but naturally I had the foresight to scan them all ages ago so I could reproduce them remotely without needing the original deck, which is still tucked away on the boat). Then I added and drew 40 new cards to expand the game. As an aside, all of that drawing with the heavy iPad held in my outstretched and twisted left hand managed to exacerbate an old pain in that wrist, which nudged further to the top of the list of bits of me that are breaking down. I think this process is known medically as “getting old”.

Oh, and I made a few different versions of packaging for the various card games, and built some custom wooden card racks for the future deluxe edition, and packed them into the Hyper-Mega-Duo Fun Pack, containing both card games and the lovingly crafted racks.

Of course I also did Zoom pub quizzes, because I think at one point almost the whole population of the planet was doing Zoom pub quizzes. Mine was the one that started back when I was in quarantine and only finally fizzled out in late June. To that end I also set four different rounds of questions for the quiz: one on identifying various flags of the world from tiny close-up images, one on various audio logos, one “What do they Have in Common?”, and the round I’m most proud of:

Name that ’Stache!

With the help of my brother-in-law Don (He of the Chelsea Pensioners Tour) I also tackled a reno project in my sister’s basement that involved gluing laminate flooring onto the wall. Apparently that’s a thing now - flooring on the wall. Normally, you can just nail it up but of course in this case it was covering an 8’ x 8’ section of glass mirror. This meant that the only thing holding up the fairly heavy laminate was construction adhesive. I tend to get a bit wigged out when I can’t put a few mechanical fasteners into things so this was mentally taxing, plus it had the lurking threat of accidentally breaking the mirror behind the stuff, which was exhilarating. But it did mean that I got to invent an 8’ wide spreader clamp with built-in wedges to hold each course in place as the glue set.

And it worked!

And it looked great in the end, though it does now lack that 70’s vibe.

I’ve also done some experimenting with sewn book-binding, which is much easier than you might think. And to supplement my iPad drawing and give my deteriorating joints a break, I’ve started sketching with actual pencil and paper. So retro!

Really, though, there was one big, cool project that I took from idea to completion that I’m particularly pleased with. I’ve been thinking for a while now that I’d like to start bringing a few tools with me on big International jobs. There always seems to be a moment in these gigs where we’re based in an office and any kind of workshop space is a distant dream, but I still get asked for early prototypes of things. This means I inevitably end up going out with a wad of pettycash to buy another batch of crappy matte knives and glue guns and rolls of tape from the nearest Junk-o-Mart and end up making stuff from bits of string and bubble gum and re-purposed cardboard scrounged from the office. This process has its charms, but would be much improved if I could simply arrive at a job with a basic set of tools, so I started thinking about a traveling toolbox. Of course the sensible thing would be to order a knock-off Pelican Case, which would be durable and, more importantly, lightweight - a key consideration for something that will end up going as excess baggage. But where’s the fun in that?

What if instead of that, you made a light(-ish) weight wooden box to pack things into, but then the box itself converted into a workbench when you arrived? How cool would that be? (Spolier alert: It would be really quite cool).

This turned out to be an excellent project, and consumed most of July, spent happily puttering away in one side of the garage while my dad and a gradually emerging Triumph hard-top occupied the other. And because there was no rush, I got to take my time and be much more careful and methodical than I usually am. And along the way I got to learn how to solder aluminium, which it turns out is not difficult and quite satisfying.

Especially with expert assistance from the automotive division on the other side of the garage.

YouTube also taught me how to give my sheet aluminium work surface a brushed finish and how to weave paracord into an attractive custom handle for the box. And I got to know the guys at the local Bolt Supply House and Steelmet by name. I’m pretty sure I’m on their Christmas card lists now. And in the end, there’s this very pleasing thing:

This rolling case. Pay attention to the angled aluminium on the corners... they become more important below.

It opens up all the way flat.

And converts into this - those long aluminium bits and wheels become the legs. It’s not a huge work surface, but actually quite comfortable. And I can also set it up at workbench height for standing work.

I'm super pleased with how the toolbox/bench turned out. (Tool Bench? Boxtable? Benchbox? Hmmm...) Then for an encore I dug out a folding director’s chair that my dad made for me for Christmas many years ago. Mice had shredded the canvas back and seat while it was in storage so I decided to remake those pieces and revive the chair, since it would go so nicely with my new desk. And because I could, I decided to do something a bit different.

Note to self: Next time you decide to remake the seat of a director’s chair with denim, find a piece of denim that does NOT have a high percentage of lycra in it.

So that was the summer. All in all, I think I’ve filled my time usefully. I’m on my fourth different 30-day series of “Yoga with Adriene”, can sort of do real pushups and even touch my toes some days, and I’m still running four or five times a week. I guess I’m used to having long breaks between jobs, so occupying myself in a constructive way is second nature. Also because I’m used to having long breaks between paycheques, I keep a solid chunk of cash tucked away to keep me going, which has been super helpful and saved me from the stress that I know other people are dealing with.

I recently found out that the theatre show I was working on in London in March is starting up again, which has left me feeling conflicted. On the one hand, I’d like to go back and finish the job I started, even in whatever weirdo fashion that might take. But practically speaking that’s just not happening. Given that I definitely want to be in Canada for Christmas (as usual), it would mean I’d have to fly to London, quarantine on the boat for two weeks, then fly back to Canada for the holidays, quarantine again here, and then go back to London in the New Year and spend another two weeks in quarantine then. Instead, I’ve decided to stay here through to the New Year, because it just makes more sense, and because Canada seems to be doing a better job of dealing with this pandemic business than the UK (blessed as it is with vastly lower population density and a somewhat less shambolic government).

Also - and this was the clincher - I was offered the use of a summer cabin belonging to some old friends. It’s in a sublime location five minutes from a wide, clear lake and ten minutes from a bakery with excellent cinnamon buns, in a freaking National Park. It’s been about six months since I left London and I’ve spent all that time in the spare bedrooms of generous and tolerant family members. And while it has been LOVELY, I am a person who normally lives alone, so that’s kind of a long time to be with other people so, so, so much. This way my family get their spare rooms back for a bit, and I get to settle in by myself for a month or so. Happily, there are a host of small home reno jobs I can do while at the cabin, so my friends get their baseboards and windows trim installed and I get things to putter with, and some much-needed time on my own.

I also get to do go kayaking, like on this early morning when I had the lake to myself.

So that’s where I sit now: happily ensconced in the cabin, where I arrived a few days ago with a rental car, a borrowed chop saw, and what seemed like enough groceries to withstand the siege of Leningrad (if Leningrad had been stocked mostly with Pop Tarts and gin). It is, to be blunt, fucking fantastic. I kind of can’t believe how perfect a situation it is, and I'll be forever grateful to my friends for their generosity in trusting me with their place for such a long time.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work do do. I think they’re gonna love the new jacuzzi extension and home cinema. And the underground parking and helicopter pad should be finished before the snow flies…

GRUB!: Butter Tarts

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 24 May 2020 06:00:00 +0000

It’s been two months since I left London, which seems simultaneously aeons and also the mere blink of an eye. I won’t bother trying to encapsulate the experience here, or try to express my thoughts on the pandemic, the lockdown and the state of the word in general in the form of interpretive sourdough sculpture or whatever because there is everything to say and yet also there is really nothing to say. So instead I’ll just report that weather is finally properly lovely and warm and things are green and there have been two orioles at the bird feeder recently. ORIOLES!

What have I accomplished in the two months I’ve been here? Well, I’ve drawn more that sixty tiny cartoon robots, and developed a card game revolving around them that is actually kind of playable.

Prize for anyone who can figure out the gist of the game from this random array of cards...

I also drew some other stuff and made a couple actual physical postcards to send to friends. And my cryptic crosswording skills may just be at an all-time high. And I’m one film away from finishing watching the entire Marvel movie franchise, in order. Oh, and the downward dog is… better.

Also I built a birdhouse. For the discerning wren, looking to get away from it all. No comment on whether this may be a model for my next plan, once the boat starts to feel just a bit too big and expensive. You know, what with the total collapse of the live performance industry and all.

Here are things I haven’t done in lockdown: wrap up the year-end business accounts, banish the email address from my last gig that keeps popping up annoying messages telling me it can’t log in, finish the “Boat Manual” I started ages ago, purge the photos on my computer so the hard drive isn’t bursting at the seams, clean up my online passwords, keep up with the Russian, or make banana bread.

I did, however, make something infinitely better than banana bread. I made buttertarts!

As I reported to Karen.

I’ve mentioned butter tarts before, but it bears repeating if only because I know I’ll struggle to get this post up to a normal word count. Butter tarts are individually sized sweet tarts made with short crust pastry and filled with a cooked mixture of butter, sugar, vanilla, egg and raisins. They occupy the same category as treacle tart, tarte au sucre, and shoofly pie, being a sugar/syrup-based filling in shortcrust pastry. Butter tarts are iconically Canadian and were recently celebrated by Canada Post in a set of truly excellent commemorative stamps that also included Saskatoon Berry Pie, Nanaimo bars, Tarts au Sucre and Blueberry Grunt.

What an outstanding collection. I’ve never had Blueberry Grunt but all the rest of those are absolute keepers.

Though I must protest at the characterisation of butter tarts as “Ontario-based”. I mean sure, they had to give the prairies the Saskatoon Pie, but really?

So I decided to make butter tarts. They’re actually pretty simple, even more so if you shortcut and use pre-made frozen tart shells, which are obviously not as nice as homemade pastry but clearly still inifintely better than no butter tarts at all. I wanted to make the pastry too because it’s nicer, and I’m not exactly short of time, and because the butter tarts of my childhood have lovely folds in the sides where the round disc of pastry wrinkles to fit into the muffin tin in which they’re baked. And I think the foldy sides are important. As, apparently, does Canada Post, because you can see the type specimen butter tart they used for their stamp is exceptionally foldy.

Thus the famed Robin Hood Prize Winning Recipes cookbook was unearthed.
(Published in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan in 1947.)

The locally-favoured pastry recipe I used featured Crisco vegetable shortening instead of butter, which apparently produces a flakier crust. I’m not a pastry expert by any means, and not about to get into the great debate over the right fat to use in pastry. I just went with it. Oh, and the pastry recipe called for in the Robin Hood cookbook is a sweetened one and I think these are actually better with regular unsweetened pastry, since they are not exactly lacking in the sweetness department and the plain pastry sets that off well.

Though I must register my deep disappointment that the Beehive Syrup people have abandoned the iconic yellow beehive-shaped bottle of my childhood in favour of the insipid and utterly uninspired offering shown in the photo above. Shame on you! Shame!

Pleasingly, the pastry did make somewhat foldy sides when it went into the tray.

With the pastry shells chilling in the freezer it was on to the filling, which is very simple to make, and even easier if you soften the butter in the microwave instead of bothering with a stovetop melting scenario outlined below.

The Robin Hood butter tart recipe. Surprisingly little butter for a recipe that has butter right in the name. I don’t know why they’re called that so don’t bother asking. (Also note that the bit about using one egg or two lets you produce a more liquidy oozy filling with just one egg, or a more structural, set filling with two. I went for two and I have no regrets. The flavour is the same, and they’re just easier to eat.) (Also also note that UK-based Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers lacking the correct locally sourced Beehive Syrup could probably substitute golden syrup with acceptable results.)

Also also also note that you definitely want the full 2/3 cup of raisins in this. And don’t even think about coming in here with any of your raisin-hate because it’s my blog and this blog is a place of raisins. Raisins in pie. Raisins in brownies. Raisins in Chicken Salad. Raisins anywhere I damned well want. And especially, emphatically, raisins in butter tarts.

And when I googled around about raisin pie in general, and the prairies + raisin pie filling in particular I came across this post from Facebook that is so perfect I’m including it here. It’s from someone named Wanda (already awesome) to the E.D. Smith pie filling company:

"Hi, I’m wondering why we cannot get the raisin pie filling anymore? We used to buy in the big pails to make pies for our local curling rink kitchen and it’s no longer available in Saskatchewan, Canada. We can’t even get the tins.”

So so sooooooo prairie. She can’t get enormous vats of canned raisin pie filling to make pies for the local curling rink. Because, tragically, E.D. Smith no longer make raisin pie filling AT ALL. I feel your pain Wanda. Stay strong!

To summarise: Raisins rock. Raisin haters shut up. Moving on.

The filling mixture. Note I didn’t bother with the “beaten just sufficiently to combine” business. I just dropped the eggs in and whomped the bejesus out of it and it was all fine.

Spoon the whomped up filling into the unbaked tart shells, being careful to get the raisins relatively evenly distributed. Do not hesitate to add raisins where lacking.

These went into the hot oven on the bottom rack, as required by Robin Hood himself, normally not one to be trifled with. But here I have to report that Mr. Hood led me wrong and I would recommend the middle rack, because they were very cooked and started to brown excessively after less than ten minutes so I moved them up and cracked open the oven to cool it off some and kind of watched them and hovered, but you could probably avoid that drama by using the middle rack. (Edited to add that it turns out the oven was acting up and was probably 25 degrees too hot so perhaps all the drama was a particularly local phenomenon and maybe you should just pay attention to the King of Thieves after all.) Also note that the filling puffs up a lot when baking but settles right down once the tarts are out of the oven.

Butter tarts cooling on the porch. As you might note, the pastry was perhaps excessively flaky, which is an unusual thing to complain about in pastry. However in a handheld individual tart I feel like a bit more structural integrity might be helpful.

Flakiness aside, the butter tarts were a hit, and even better on the second day, and third. And lots of them had the requisite foldy sides. And it goes without saying that these are really really good with coffee.

Reviews were good too… "excellent raisin to filling ratio, good consistency. I like the sweetness level, good pastry, over all good bake.” Great British Bake Off, here I come.

And just to really stick it to any lingering raisin-haters still hanging about, as a special bonus I include the Robin Hood Prize Winning Recipes offering for Raisin Pie.

“Good pastry is an accomplishment that brings more happiness to the world than the ability to sing a high C or fell the Sheriff of Nottingham’s deputies with a single arrow loosed from a stout English longbow!” - Robin Hood.

Grid roads, prairie fables, and other tall tales

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 10 May 2020 06:00:00 +0000

Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers will know that Saskatchewan is undoubtedly the tourist hub of Canada. Forget Vancouver (too rainy), Toronto (too crowded), and Montreal (too historic). Right in the middle of everything, Saskatchewan offers an endless supply of delights for the average tourist, as evidenced by the rich offerings seen on a single 10k run down the grid roads of just one small corner of this diverse, varied and multifarious province.

Saskatchewan, like Alberta and Manitoba, was divided into square mile sections by the Dominion Land Survey, which began in 1871 and eventually became the world’s largest survey grid laid down in a singe integrated system. (Eat your heart out, Ordnance Survey!) This was to aid in settlement for agricultural purposes by making it simple to accurately describe the exact size and location of any piece of land. Each square mile section is known as a… section. Each block of 36 sections (a 6x6 square) make up a township, and each section is sub-divided into quarter sections of roughly 40 acres each. And to allow for equal access, a network of gravel roads was laid between sections, in a grid. Hence the term "grid road”. The whole system was especially important to the Dominion Land Act, which encouraged settlement and cultivation of the prairies by granting an immigrant the right to settle on a specific section of land for a $10 fee. If, after three years, at least a quarter of the section was cultivated and a permanent home was built (even if it was a simple sod hut) the settler was granted ownership of the land. Hence, we get the perfect checkerboard pattern of the prairies, and the perfect arrow-straightness of the roads.

No extraneous turns for us! Just vanishing points and sky. Historically, Saskatchewan’s grid roads were used for the testing and calibrating of plumb lines and, more recently, laser pointers. It’s also a well known that Saskatchewan is so flat, if you look carefully enough into the distance, you can see the back of your own head.

After an exciting left turn, the first point of interest I encountered on my run was this innocuous little grey box.

Often mistaken for power grid junctions or telephone exchanges these are actually what are known as Piffler Caches - emergency supply drops placed by the Royal Prairie Institute For Farm Labour Emergency Rescue.

The volunteer members of the Royal Prairie Institute For Farm Labour Emergency Rescue (R.P.I.F.F.L.E.R.) are often know by their nickname, the Pifflers. (The R was added by Royal grant in 1977 on the Queen’s Silver Jubilee, long after the 1933 founding of the organisation. I remember getting a special R.P.I.F.F.L.E.R. badge for my Brownie uniform that year.) Piffler Caches are aways placed a fixed distance apart, just off the road. The exact distance was originally calculated by testing how far an able-bodied farmhand could crawl through a snowdrift in temperatures below -30 degrees celsius (though of course the original calculation was done in Fahrenheit).

Piffler caches are supposed to be stocked with a seasonally-appropriate range of supplies and secured with a lock to minimise the chance of vandalism. The padlocks normally use a numerical combination and are currently keyed to the 6-digit day, month and year that the Saskatchewan Roughriders last won the Grey Cup, a date that only a true son or daughter of Saskatchewan could be expected to recall in a half-frozen or mosquito-addled state.

My run was a casual one, so I slowed down to check out this particular piffler. Sadly, the upkeep of piffler caches and the general health of small local R.P.I.F.F.L.E.R. branches has been on a steady decline for years so I was surprised to see this one very well-stocked. Late April is still very much a shoulder season so this one had winter, spring and summer supplies including mitts, a toque, a folding shovel, rubber boots, 90-factor sunscreen, Deep Woods Off, a thermos of black coffee, a re-used margarine container of home made butter tarts, a small flask of rye & coke, two coffee crisps and a bag of Old Dutch Ripple Chips. It was good to see that the local Piffler branch is still apparently alive and kicking. (UK readers can think of the R.P.I.F.F.L.E.R. as a kind of mashup between the RNLI and the Women’s Institute, but with fewer rowboats and Victoria sponges, and more dust and down-filled clothing.)

(And of course Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers will recognise that R.P.I.F.F.L.E.R. and the pifflers in general are the origin of the word “piffling”. The monumental task of building, stocking and maintaining the thousands of piffler caches across the entire province is obviously referred to as piffling, a word whose definition has, over time, been ironically subverted to mean its exact opposite - something small and insignificant.)

However, it’s not all butter tarts and blue skies on the prairie. We are subject to Nature’s whims, as evidenced by this catastrophic flooding.

Graphic and terrifying spring floods.

Luckily, my run was a loop circumnavigating two complete sections in a perfect 6-mile rectangle, so I only had to brave this perilous crossing once. The piffler cache did not include a canoe or even a set of water wings but I still made it across safely and on to the next landmark of my run.

Homestead of the legendary Big John - prairie tourist Mecca. Check out the reviews on Tripadvisor! (Note: the interpretive centre and gift shop are currently closed due to the coronavirus lockdown. Normally the place is heaving with visitors. It’s quite unusual to get a photo of Big John Rock without a crowd of selfie-seekers in the way.)

Big John is a well-known prairie icon whose existence may have inspired the lesser-known legend of Paul Bunyan. Big John is said to have been able to clear, plough and seed a full section of land on a single day (before lunch), and is usually depicted accompanied by Barb, the giant blue gopher. His normal breakfast was one hundred pieces of toast, half with Cheez Whiz and half with Saskatoon berry jam, accompanied by ten gallons of black coffee that had been left on the back burner of the stove for at least six hours. John could stride across the prairies at an incredible pace, covering the distance between Davidson and Girvin in just seven steps and Barb’s burrowing created tunnels wide enough for two freight trains to pass side by side.

When he ran out of Cheez Whiz, Big John would have these giant shredded wheats for breakfast, in a bowl made out of a grain silo full of gopher milk.

Not long after I passed Big John Rock, I took the opportunity to snap this shot of:

The Great Wall of Drews. Of course I won’t pretend that this edifice is anything like as impressive as its “visible from space” eastern cousin. But it is visible from… the road. And makes up for its modest proportions with very satisfying straightness.

After a second exciting 90-degree left turn, I soon found I’d unknowingly reached the literal high point of the run, the peak of Mount Valley View.

This precipitous slope is popular with the large local downhill skiing community and is also used for summer altitude training by more serious athletes. (I didn't manage to get chair lift and chalet in frame… sorry).

Not long after there was another thrilling left turn, where I ran across this local signpost.

"Watch out for board gamers left and right”

Local residents spend a lot of time over the winter cooped up inside with their Scrabble and Monopoly and checkers (draughts for UK-based AGSWPLRs). Consequently, they tend to get a bit loopy when the spring finally arrives (usually by mid-August) and spread out indiscriminately with their tokens and dice and game boards. This sign is meant to alert passing motorists to the possible/likely presence of board gamers almost anywhere, though most pressingly, in the middle of the road. I won’t quote the sad statistics here, but the Yahtzee figures alone are tragic and the spike in serious incidents that followed the Trivial Pursuit craze in the 80’s still throws off the province’s actuarial tables.

After that sobering reminder of the harshness of prairie life I encountered one more interesting tidbit, this odd device sticking up in the lefthand ditch.

Pop-up monitor

Area 51 in Nevada may be the best known spot for run-of-the-mill alien-seekers, but those who are really in the know come north instead. Nevada may feature in the media hype and the pop-culture, but Saskatchewan, with its vast open areas (convenient for landing large or multi-dimensional craft), sparse population, and open Canadian immigration policy, has long been an attractive destination. We have welcomed not just successive waves of eastern European, Vietnamese, and Syrian refugees, but those from much, much further away. Some of these immigrants prefer to homestead below ground where they can more easily maintain alternative atmospheric and gravitational variables, and this pop-up allows them proper monitoring of the surrounding local population. This means they can keep good track of the local ~~herd~~ neighbours. (And at this point I hasten to add this: All hail Zlerg, Our Benevolent Galactic Overlord! Long may his tentacles ooze!)

After that it was a quick dash back to my last left turn of the day (four turns in one run!) for a well-deserved cool down. I hope loyal Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers have enjoyed this quick jaunt around the local neighbourhood, and can appreciate the rich culture and fantastically varied landscape in this corner of the prairies. And finally, as a stark reminder of the fickle nature of life on the prairies, I leave you with one last image, taken the morning of May 9th. Yes, MAY 9TH - a full two weeks AFTER the other photos in this post. Well played, Saskatchewan. Well played.

More than 3" of heavy, wet snow. If only this, too were a joke.

Dorset Coast, Day Two (or: Ready, Aim, Fire!)

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 26 Apr 2020 06:00:00 +0000

Before we were so rudely interrupted by a global pandemic, your humble blogger was fed and showered and inhabiting an upper bunk at the Lulworth Cove Youth Hostel enjoying the righteous slumber of one who has hiked 20km in a wind tunnel and then downed half a bottle of very credible red wine. At least Sunday’s hike promised to be much shorter, though I was alarmed when the morning briefing included the warning that the day's route would be "quite exposed". ("What, compared to the cozy and sheltered outing yesterday?” I thought, and braced myself.) The weather forecast also wasn’t promising, with rain expected.

Nonetheless we dutifully packed our bags, tidied the hostel, and laced up muddy boots for a ramble to Old Harry Rocks, another of those wacky rock formations you find along the chalky south coast. First, though, we drove to the start of the hike in Swanage. One of the attractions of the group's itinerary that weekend was the chance of a ride on the steam train run by the Swanage Heritage Railway, though it was unclear during the previous evening’s planning whether the train was running that day.

Empirical evidence later proved that the train was indeed in operation.

But the train rides would have to wait, for there was hiking to be done. Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers will have noted the clear blue sky the the photo above but rest assured it did not last. Not long after striking out to the east along the beach in Swanage the skies clouded over and we all paused to put on our waterproofs just as the rain arrived. It wasn’t torrential by any means, but it was enough to dampen my spirits. It also didn’t help that not much later we passed though a small cluster of urbanity and saw a sandwich board out on the road advertising the local pub. It promised real ale and hot food and I knew that if I hadn’t been with the group I would have peeled off without the slightest hesitation to wait things out.

And yet I didn’t. I’m still not sure why. This photo doesn’t really show the rain but it was there.

Luckily, the skies did clear and we made it to Old Harry Rocks in the sunshine. The rocks themselves are the remains of a chalk causeway that once linked the Isle of Wight to the mainland. The causeway eroded over time and left towering stacks of rock, one of which includes another natural archway (like Durdle Door) that will eventually turn into two stacks.

You can also just see the beginning of cave on the mainland in the bottom left of this photo. Eventually that will become and arch and then the opening under the arch will get taller and taller until that bit of the headland is cut off. And in case you think we’re talking about a geological time scale for this stuff, think again. Our guide Lee said that new cave wasn’t there when he did this hike a few months ago, which seems positively supersonic.

Naturally there were other people at the site taking in the view - you could just make out the Isle of Wight in the distance. But there were also signs warning people to stay away from the edge of the cliff, as there are along all those high chalk cliffs that edge the south coast. Equally naturally, there were also people blithely ignoring the signs, including one notable idiot who climbed down a particularly precarious path to a lower section of the headland. And just to make it that extra bit stupider, he did it with carrier bags tied over his shoes, so he had the least amount of grip possible. It was evolution in action, and we were all expecting to have to hang around and give statements to the air rescue pilots, so we quickly pressed on for the last leg of the walk back to Swanage.

By this time you can see that the skies had cleared a bit though it was still windy. However there were sheltered areas, and they were a welcome relief, until we encountered the last of the day’s obstacles.

I’m not saying it was Passchendale out there, but for someone a bit fed up with the general environment and wearing shoes that had recently been discovered to have small holes in the waterproof lining, this was a LOT of mud. And this is just one of the long stretches of gumbo we traversed.

It’s time to retire these shoes.

The rain started up again once we reached Swanage and I was profoundly grateful that the promised group tea at the end of the walk had to be abandoned because the tea shop at the Steam Railway was closed. It was an easy excuse to quit the group, and Piran and I hurried back to the car to seek dry shoes and socks and to make our own plans for the rest of the day, which is when things got much, much better.

Because we went to Corfe Castle!

Corfe Castle is a magnificent ruin set on a hill above the town that bears its name, located smack in the middle of the oddly named Isle of Purbeck, which is patently a peninsula and not an island at all. One would think that a nation that produces maps so superlative that they differentiate between lighthouses, disused lighthouses and beacons and have different symbols for gravel pits as opposed to sand pits could have got this one right, but apparently not. Corfe Castle was built by William the Conqueror in the 11th century, and was one of the first castles in England to use stone as opposed to wood and earth. It was also one of the last Royalist strongholds during the English Civil War, before it fell to siege in 1645. After being captured, the castle was slighted on the orders of Parliament. And lest you think that slighting, in this context, means that it was not invited to the annual summer garden party, think again. This sort of slighting is a trifle more forceful than that and is a term used for deliberate damage to important buildings - especially castles - to reduce both their practical and symbolic value. In the case of Corfe Castle, they went so far as to use explosives, which is why many of the castles interior walls sit at a jaunty angle today.

Check out that jauntiness!

That weekend the castle staff were demonstrating several different medieval crafts, including a station where one woman was busily engaged in mixing up a bucket of daub near a small outbuilding that had been constructed inside the castle walls using traditional techniques. A precursor to lathe-and-plaster construction, wattle-and-daub walls are made from a lattice of thin woven sticks (the wattle) set in a structural frame and covered in a sticky mix called daub. It’s often whitewashed over, resulting in the familiar half-timbered look we usually associate with Tudor building and endless suburbs.

Small amounts of daub are usually mixed by hand, though larger batches were often mixed by animals stomping around on it. This woman’s recipe included clay, aggregate, horse manure and slaked lime. She was preparing it to repair the wall behind her.

And if you think hand-mixing animal dung into plaster is painstaking, consider the other traditional craft that was being demonstrated - the process of shaving animal horn into tiny translucent panes to be installed in a window frame, thus allowing a thin bit of yellowy light into an otherwise dark room.

This young woman, in her festive wooly cap, was using a sort of chisel to shave down the surface of a 1” x 2” bit of cow horn that had been boiled in the pot behind her. I know times were tough back then, but this seems slightly ridiculous. I know actual glass must have been rare and expensive, but who would possibly look at a bit of old cow horn and think, “You know, this stuff is ever so slightly translucent. I bet if I spent hours and hours of smelly, painstaking labour I could produce a minuscule piece of something slightly MORE translucent!"

Just visiting the castle and seeing the activities on display, especially on what turned into a lovely sunny day, would have been enough to lift my bedraggled spirits after the morning’s muddy tromp. But Corfe Castle ended up having much much more to offer because we’d arrived just in time to see the demonstration of the castle’s working trebuchet!

This is a small scale version of the traditional siege engine. However, its size is modelled on an authentic “traveling trebuchet” that was actually built at the time. Trebuchets use a counterweighted arm to throw a projectile from a sling. Modern reproductions of the largest medieval ones stand up to 60’ high and can throw an 80 lb. projectile almost a thousand feet.

The Corfe Castle trebuchet uses 3/4 ton of counterweight, and is winched into position by volunteers from the crowd, which on that day included Piran and I. And perhaps because I might have hopped up and down chanting “pick me pick me”, we were the ones chosen to assist in the firing. Yay for unbridled enthusiasm! (Screw you disappointed children - only adults allowed for this activity!) Having spent last summer winding lock gates open and shut, Piran and I were both eminently qualified for winching activities.

Once the arm was in place the National Trust volunteer running the show carefully positioned the projectile - a plastic children’s ball filled with water weighing about 12kg - in the sling. And then, in an act of supreme generosity, Piran let me step forward when one of us was given the chance to actually FIRE the loaded trebuchet. (A thousand thank yous for that!) (Also, Piran is mounting a campaign to have his own tag on the blog. Perhaps that would be just reward for such a magnanimous gesture...). And that's how this happened:

When I posted this video I titled it “Ready, Aim, Fire!”, but in my head it’s always been called: “Does this trebuchet make my ass look big?” (Answer: Yes. Yes it does.)

The trebuchet was undoubtedly the highlight of my day (week, month, life…) but later I did also enjoy a very nice warm Cornish pasty and fortifying cup of hot tea from the award winning bakery in town. And we got to meet a lovely long-haired basset hound nearby, who had a charming name I neglected to write down. Let’s say he was called Chester. I also neglected to take a picture of Chester, but he was fantastic. (And: long-haired basset hound! Who knew?)

On the way back to London we took one last detour to experience the Sandbanks Ferry, a chain ferry that crosses the entrance to Poole Harbour between Sandbanks and Shell Bay. A chain ferry, of course, is a ferry that is guided back and forth by pulling itself along a chain that’s stretched between the two banks.

Chain and ferry, with Sandbanks in the background.

Once we got to Sandbanks we took a brief spin around what, unexpectedly, turns out to be the most expensive coastal property in the world. Hard to believe, but buying a house on Sandbanks’ Panorama Road will set you back more than if you have your sights set on Monte Carlo or Miami Beach. Apparently it’s popular with footballers, though John Lennon also owned a house there. Whatever the reason, we didn’t linger and soon hit the highway back to London and real life. Despite the wind and rain and mud and group-i-ness of it all, looking back from just six weeks later it seems positively idyllic. Bunking up with total strangers crammed into a crowded hostel. Visiting public attractions. Popping in and out of shops with reckless abandon. Ah, the good old days!

Fourteen Days

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 12 Apr 2020 06:00:00 +0000

As I implied in my last blog, there’s more to say about my walking weekend in Dorset. But just like everyone else on the planet my life is upside down these days, so I'm publishing this earlier than my self-imposed loosely-followed bi-weekly schedule. For me, upside-down life manifested itself in a last-minute dash back to Canada to lock down closer to family, which meant I had to self-isolate for fourteen days after I arrived. Luckily, I was able to book a very comfortable AirBnB with a helpful and accommodating host where I hunkered down. (I hasten to add that said host was also fully informed of my potentially virulent status as a foreign traveller, and the possibility that I would be slathering every surface in the house with the plague.) And because there aren't enough lockdown diaries these days, here's mine. Just be thankful this is my outlet, as opposed to me contributing to the apparently infinitely-expanding body of YouTube videos of people re-writing songs from Broadway musicals with Covid-19-inspired lyrics and then performing them with family members and home made props. You're welcome.

Monday

Arrived late in the evening on Sunday, so I’m calling Monday Day 1, as reflected in the thoughtfully-provided inspirational message from my AirBbB hosts. Spent most of the morning unpacking and getting set up. This place is remarkably well-equipped though I can’t figure out why there are two teapots but no kettle. There seems to be everything else, including the retro felt letter-board, a salad spinner, a stick blender and baking parchment paper. I boil water in a pot on the stove to make coffee. Text with Karen about the set-up and remark that it’s no different than showing up for a long-term gig somewhere new, “Except for the End of Days, of course”. Family have stocked the place up before my arrival, including a three litre box of what turns out to be dangerously tasty red wine, and 15 cans of beer. Do they think I’m planning a house party over here? Run 10k on the river trails and enjoy a long hot shower. This is definitely an upgrade from #boatlife.

Tuesday

Woke up at 4am. Luckily I have coffee and, unlike life in the UK, I have proper cream to put in it. Also, I found the kettle! It was disguised - a blue ceramic teapot with white polka dots that has a built-in heating element. All set now. I’m also kind of working remotely on a future Dubai project and they’re all 10 hours ahead of me so being awake at this hour is actually productive. Go for a run later in the day and Karen helps remind me what to wear for winter running. I remark that I should have brought my old running tights, which are warmer. At least I’ll know for the next global pandemic.

Wednesday

Last week seems a lifetime ago. I was still in London. I was still unsure if I’d be travelling. I was still stocking up the boat for possible isolation at the marina, stopping frequently at the small local shop where (unlike the big supermarkets) they actually had pasta and tinned tomatoes and, remarkably, toilet paper. Now Prince Charles has the virus, Patrick Stewart is reading a Shakespearian sonnet every day on Twitter and I’m doing remote tech support to get my Dad’s household set up on Skype. I revive “Russian Word of the Day” with my buddy in Azerbaijan, where they’re locked down so tight they’re not even allowing travel between cities. The word is нуждаться, the verb “to be in need of". It’s reflexive, so I take the time to learn the rules for conjugating reflexive verbs in Russian. Because why not? Get a drop of a few more groceries from local friends, including an all-important additional supply of coffee. They stand on the sidewalk and I stand on the front porch. I also Skype with a designer in Shanghai about the Dubai project, even though it’s blindingly obvious that it will have to be postponed; the organisers just haven’t got around to admitting it yet. Tonight would have been the opening night of the show I was working on in London before the Zombie Apocalypse arrived.

Thursday

A buddy in Dubai proposes a rousing round of online Exploding Kittens, which turns out to be great. I download the app and spend several hours with her and colleagues in London and Baku. It’s the highlight of the day. Run 8k, and I’ve started doing YouTube Yoga with Adriene. As ever, I struggle with Downward Dog. How on earth is this considered a “rest pose”? My shoulders scream and my hamstrings tell me in no uncertain terms: “We can EITHER be tight enough to run 8k at the drop of a hat OR we can stretch enough for Downward Dog. Not both. Your choice.” Evening is spent on the couch with “Avengers: Infinity War”. I’ve been diligently working my way through the entire Marvel Movie canon over the last year or so, in preparation for watching “Endgame”. Infinity War is number 20 out of 23. The end is nigh. Please keep your spoilers to yourself.

Friday

I’m particularly proud of today’s letter-board message. I think it should be a trending hashtag: #stayINalive. I have no interest in doing anything to make that happen but Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers could run with it. Otherwise, a strong start to the day. I do loads of niggly life admin computer stuff like updating software and business accounting and downloading bank statements and such. I’ve also got lots of time for the cryptic crossword these days and Karen gives me some advice on Downward Dog that helps. Boris Johnson has the virus. People home in London are clapping for the NHS.

Saturday

A routine has formed. Get up, have breakfast, and read the Guardian cover to cover. Morning of ditzy busy work on the computer, then coffee break and crossword. Yoga with Adriene. Lunch and YouTube videos of tiny houses. Run late in the afternoon then shower and have a small glass of wine and a tightly controlled volume of snacks while reading a book, until it’s time to make supper. Supper. Videos. Bed. Rinse and repeat. Added activity today: I learn how to do lattice multiplication. Because, like conjugating reflexive Russian verbs, why not? Also, it’s cool and when we have to rebuild society those of us with a broad range of transferable skills will be in high demand. At the end of my run I go past mom’s place a block away and pick up a jar of real maple syrup that’s left for me on the front porch because tomorrow is...

Sunday

Pancake Day! Normally I’m not a big lover of pancakes - more of a French Toast kind of gal. But the AirBnB included a partial box of pancake mix, and my mid-week grocery delivery included a small bag of frozen saskatoon berries. I’ve been very careful so far to keep food intake in check, but today I’m not bothering. Pancakes for breakfast. Generous treats, including a stropwafel, with morning coffee. Gooey grilled cheese sandwich for lunch. And for supper, the piece de resistance - steak and baked potato. My sister shares her Disney+ log in so I get to watch “The Mandalorian”. Baby Yoda! I also have a long WhatsApp voice call with Uganda Rob, who’s now living and isolating in Pretoria with his wife and kids. He’s done some research and says that Saskatchewan has far more ventilators per head than London, so that’s something. Run 6k. New York is a mess.

Monday

Half done this isolation thing. I email a few more friends to check in. Winnipeg. London. Vancouver. I also add a few more time zones to my iPhone’s World Clock, which is now displaying Calgary, Saskatoon, Winnipeg, Toronto, New York, Santiago, London, Gothenburg, Athens, Pretoria, Dubai, Baku, Chiang Mai, Jakarta, Beijing, Tokyo and Sydney. There are friends, family or colleagues in each of those places. Finally, finally, I get word that my Dubai gig is postponed, though it’s not official yet and we don’t know the length of the postponement. I immediately stop working on the few things I was doing and concentrate on more important stuff like joining in a virtual Hash get together with my old peeps from the Abu Dhabi Hash House Harriers. It’s a blast, though it’s 8pm in Abu Dhabi but only 10am in Saskatoon so I refrain from cracking a beer open. That’s a slippery slope I’m still clinging to the top of. Elves from the outside world deliver fresh home made cookies and two bags of Doritos.

Tuesday

It’s practically April but there was heavy snow overnight, continuing into the morning. This is one of the things I really don’t miss about no longer living in Canada. Spend much of the day trying to set myself up with a Canadian SIM card for my phone, which I normally accomplish by walking into a store. Now I’m doing everything in chat windows and on Skype. Bell Mobility’s chat guy is so utterly useless that I end up swearing at the screen but eventually manage to set up an eSIM for local calls with another company, while maintaining my UK SIM in the same phone. Pleased that Apple has finally got on the dual-SIM bandwagon, however late. I donate some money to Yoga Adriene and download her 30 Days of Yoga videos. (Downward Dog, I WILL conquer you!) Despite the snow I manage a run outside and reward myself with sushi delivered to the airlock (A.K.A. front porch). Manitoba suspends Kindergarten to Grade 12 school indefinitely.

Wednesday

When I wake up the temperature outside is -19º C, -28 with windchill. WTF? Is this an April Fool’s joke? I used to do four hour marathon training runs in these kind of conditions, but I’m no longer mentally or wardrobically equipped for that. Rely on 40 minutes with Adriene and a bruising couple of circuits of indoor interval training rather than facing a run outside. Spend a few hours going back through the photos stored on my computer and purging to free up disk space, another of the things that’s on my “Ditzy Stuff to Take Care of List”. This means a lot of time remembering my big trip day by day, including places and people and things that I’d forgotten, which is quite nice. I have Facetime supper with my sister’s family in Calgary. It's odd but also not. In London, the NHS is converting the ExCel exhibition Centre into a 4,000 bed hospital.

Thursday

Get a resupply of coffee but it’s whole beans and I have no grinder. But no matter because it’s Quiz Night in Abu Dhabi! Spurred on by the success of Monday night’s virtual gathering, the Abu Dhabi gang have organised a virtual pub quiz, and I’ve signed up. My team spans 13 time zones - Saskatoon, Abu Dhabi and Chaing Mai. I open the Zoom link and also maintain a separate WhatsApp chat group with my team while we try to navigate a culturally UK-heavy set of questions with a team consisting of one Canadian, one Indian and one American. How many questions can there be about rugby and The Wombles?? Despite our disadvantages, we’re near the top going into the final round (music) when we flame out and have to settle for fourth place. Chiang Mai pleads sleep deprivation because it’s 1am there. Flimsy excuse. It’s still freaking cold outside so I do another round of nasty circuit training. Finished “The Mandalorian” so I start watching “Tiger King”, like everyone else on the planet. I’ve lost track of how many times a day my Apple Watch says, “Time to Stand!"

Friday

Still. Here. I get another humanitarian aid package which includes a coffee grinder and an unexpected bonus supper of frozen chicken fingers and oven potato wedges, complete with tiny jars of ketchup, chili sauce and vinegar. Do a bit more ditzy life admin work and fetch some warmer running gear from a dead drop at my mom’s. My crosswording stills have sharpened considerably in the last week, and I even managed to finish one completely, though usually the day ends with one or two unsolvable clues left hanging. I pass these on to the crossword coach currently isolated in France. Even though it’s still cold, it’s very sunny so I head out for what turns out to be a great 8k run, getting some much-needed vitamin D and earning my potato wedges and a beer for supper. The Tiger King is running for President, proof that even before the apocalypse the world was not exactly running smoothly.

Saturday

Finally get around to starting a blog called “Fourteen Days”. It’s snowing heavily, but I go for a run anyway. There’s a sense on invincibility you get after a run in really foul conditions which is exhilarating. Piran sends me a photo of himself relaxing in a hammock on his sunny balcony, wearing shorts. I send him a photo of the snow-covered street outside and I think he’s genuinely surprised that it’s still so emphatically winter here. Come to think of it, I’m also surprised at that. I finally cook up the box of Kraft Dinner that was part of my original supply drop - a momentous occasion, worthy of the letter-board. And I’ve started doodling a tiny cartoon robot every day, which is pleasingly diverting.

Sunday

Last full day in this particular brand of captivity. The tiny cartoon robots are becoming more and more diverting, and I start to dream up a game revolving around them, leading to more tiny cartoons and taking up a lot of mental energy, which is excellent. Plus once we descend to “Lord of the Flies” level chaos we who can capably use hand tools, provide amusements like cartoon robot games, and also conjugate reflexive Russian verbs will surely rule over you all. I run another 7k and order in pizza for my last supper while the UK rolls out the biggest gun it’s got in times of crisis - a message from the Queen. They must have Her Majesty and Prince Philip suspended in individual sealed bubbles up there at Windsor Castle. Boris Johnson is taken to hospital.

Monday

Free at last, free at last. Did a full fourteen days, plus the evening before and the morning and I wasn't felled by the virus, so I don’t think anyone can argue I didn’t do this isolation thing properly. My dad comes to pick me up and even though it's April 6, it's snowing heavily. Because it's April in Saskatchewan and winter is not giving up without a fight.

And that was my 14 days. No profound conclusions here, because none of this is concluded yet. I’m just bobbing along in a continuing state of limbo along with everyone else. Next time we’ll resume our regularly scheduled post from the Dorset coast with more hills, more wind, an inevitable drenching, and at least one Very Excellent Thing.

The Dorset Coast, Day One:

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 05 Apr 2020 06:00:00 +0000

Public Service Announcement: We here at Go Stay Work Play Live World Headquarters (A.K.A. GSWPLWHQ) continue striving to bring you top quality content in these trying times. Thank you for choosing us in between Zoom Pub Quizzes, takeaways, and episodes of "Tiger King".

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There was a time when I did quite a few touristy group activities. My days back at Go See Run Eat Drink were a whirlwind of package tours and guided walks. And more recently I’ve enjoyed several AirBNB Experiences. But group activities come at a cost. There’s the financial cost of course, but there’s also a psychological one. Being part of a group means you are relieved of much of the bother of organising an activity but it also means you are relieved of the ability to make your own decisions about that activity. Still, sometimes it’s nice to just go along with the group, and it’s never a bad idea to have options when more individualised plans are tricky or impossible. At least that’s what Piran and I figured when contemplating The Outdooraholics two day walking trip on the Dorset Coast. Mostly it was that they were planning to get to an out-of-the-way but promising village that’s been on my list, and partly it was about trying something new. And I suppose there was also a generous measure of “why not?”

Whatever the ratio of rationales, that’s how I ended up in a rental car on a Friday afternoon with Piran at the wheel, en route to a youth hostel in the coastal village of West Lulworth. I assumed my youth hosteling days were long over, and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed my decade long transition from 20-bunk dorm to 5-star hotel. But it was only going to be two nights. And then we were offered guest rooms at the lovely home of a couple of Piran’s friends who lived very nearby, so then it was only one night, and that seemed very doable.

Yeah yeah, blah blah blah. What’s the number for room service?

The trip sounded good on paper - Jurassic Coast, special village, wacky rock formations, chalk cliffs - what more could you want? Of course walking in the UK in March is a crapshoot because there’s always the chance of miserable weather (though actually that’s a risk at any time of year) but then again what’s the point of a countryside ramble if you don’t end up scaling a rocky peak in the teeth of a force nine gale so you can squat on your haunches at the top eating a soggy sandwich?

We passed a very pleasant Friday evening with our hosts in the local pub and then repaired to our private beds in our private rooms Friday night. We arrived at the hostel on Saturday morning just in time for a quick second breakfast, a rapid round of sandwich making, and the group briefing.

The common room / dining room / briefing room of the hostel. Overwhelmingly adequate in every respect.

With the briefing complete, including the warning that there were three large hills in our future, we struck off from the hostel in a group of about 30 towards Durdle Door, which is not magical portal from Harry Potter but one of those wacky rock formations I mentioned. It was a sort of warm-up walk before the main part of the hike, and the pace and terrain were gentle.

Me posing at Durdle Door, which is that arched rock formation in the background.
It’s famous, I promise.

After Durdle Door there was a quick toilet stop near Lulworth Cove (also famous, because it’s very round) and then we started out on the main part of the hike. The hike leader Milena - a slightly scary Bulgarian Woman - issued stern instructions that we needed to pick up the pace because we were falling behind schedule. “Now, we must hike!” And here I refer you back to my previous remarks about being relieved of the ability to make decisions about schedule. So hike we did, starting almost right away with a hill that the other hike leader - Lee - called "The Beast". Fun times.

A downward slope on the other side of The Beast.

We also walked a little ways around Lulworth Cove before the ascent, and the beach was pleasingly replete with roundy rocks in three colours - white, black and rusty red.

The main reason I wanted to do this particular walk was because it promised to include a visit to the abandoned village of Tyneham. Tyneham was inhabited by 225 people when, in 1943, the government ordered all the residents to leave so that it could expand the nearby tank firing range in preparation for D-Day. With just a month’s notice, all the villagers were required pack up and vacate, though they were promised they could return when the war was won. Poignantly, one resident left a note pinned to the door of the village church.

“Please treat the church and houses with care. We have given up our homes where many of us have lived for generations, to help win the war to keep men free. We will return one day and thank you for treating the village kindly.”

Despite the government’s promise, the looming Cold War led the government to acquire the village by compulsory purchase and it remains part of the military range that dominates the area. The village's families were never allowed to return.

The range is still in use and access is understandably restricted when they’re lobbing live shells around. Happily, that’s one of the things that people who organise group excursions tend to verify in advance.

One hopes this particular tank is a target and not on active duty.

Even though we'd made it as far as the firing range, it would still be a long way and a few more big hills before we reached the village. And because the walk was along the south coast, it was a trifle exposed and the wind coming off the water was occasionally irksome, there being nothing between us and France to break its stride. Normally when I go out rambling I like to make sure there’s a convivial pub on the way which one could expect to stumble into around lunchtime for a fortifying pint and a hot meal. Indeed my favoured source for walking routes (the Saturday Walkers Club), that I have mentioned before, make a point of routing past pubs at approximately the midway point of a walk. Sadly that’s not how the Outdooraholics roll, which, again, is one of the perils of a group experience.

Instead we huddled against a small hill trying to shelter from the wind and sharing out Tesco flapjacks. I’ve been trying to find a lovely half-remembered quote from Bill Bryson about the English and their love of blustery tea breaks on the side of a hill, so I might just have to nip off quickly to re-read “Notes from a Small Island” and get back to you. Until then you should all go read this because it’s fantastic.

And to demonstrate he’s generally more prepared and hardier than I am, Piran braved the unsheltered side for a bit of lunchtime recreation, also ably demonstrating the wind speed.

Finally, after a few more hills and few of our number dropping out due to exhaustion or chilblains or altitude sickness or something like that, we at last made it to Tyneham Village. Other than the remains of the stone buildings that are the heart of the village, there was a barn that’s been fixed up, a long section of fresh drystone wall, and several larger buildings further afield. It was a place I could have spent a very happy hour or more. For the Outdooraholics it was a place for a quick toilet stop and what felt like a five minute pause. And that’s when the whole group activity thing really fell apart for me and I had a bit of a melt-down. Having emerged from the church building to see the rest of the group disappearing up the road while I was just getting started, I was at a bit of a loss and determined not to shortchange myself so dramatically. One of the hike leaders, Lee, even came all the way back to chivvy us along, but luckily Piran was able to convince him that we’d be able to make our own way back to the hostel without guidance, well-equipped as we were with Ordnance Survey maps and common sense. Mollified, Lee trotted off to catch up with the group and we were free to explore.

This lovely little building was a seed store, propped up on specially shaped mushroom-like legs to prevent rodents from getting at the seeds.

And this gent was literally building a dry stone wall! The Tyneham site is used as a testing ground for the Dry Stone Walling Association. I’d have loved to have had the time and gumption to talk with this guy. (Also, I love the mere existence of the Dry Stone Walling Association.)

The heart of the village was Post Office Row - a string of attached stone and brick buildings that, unsurprisingly, once included the Post Office. (Also, I really should have issued a formal Comic Sans Warning ahead of that last link, because the website it leads to has made a very odd typographical choice, especially given the subject matter.)

The public used to be able to wander around in houses of Post Office Row, but they’ve now been deemed too dangerous.

It is still possible to go into the church, which is filled with displays and remembrances from people who lived in the village. I didn’t have a lot of time there, but I recall they ran heavily to tales of the congregation's joy upon the installation of a heating stove in the church and heart-warming stories of small boys earning tuppence to pump the pedals on the pipe organ.

The schoolhouse is probably the most interesting and well-presented building in the village, set up as it may have been before the residents left.

Young Fredrick Knight (third hook from the right) was apparently an ancestor of an employee of half of the couple who lived in the house where we spent our very agreeable Friday night.

Even though we knew the way back and had successfully extricated ourselves from the group, I still felt like we should be hurrying on to try to catch up, though there was no practical reason for this urge. Nonetheless, we headed off up the road about half an hour behind the crowd to revisit some of the favourite ascents from the walk there. I’d been expecting that the path back would follow a different, more inland route, because it didn’t make sense to retrace our steps when there might be new things to see, fewer dispiriting hills, and less Gallic blusteriness to endure. Sadly, the area covered by the military firing range is extensive enough that we’d have had to detour for many miles for that, so it was back to the high chalk cliffs and what seemed like and endless slog in a very steady gale. Cleverly, a few others of the group actually managed to blag a ride from Tyneham back to the hostel from a complete stranger in the visitor’s car park. Well played, ladies. I'd take my hat off to you if it hadn't been blown to Poole and beyond.

I think the slope of my shoulders and the colour of the sky in this photo are two good indications of my mood by this point.

We did eventually catch up with the straggling end of the group a few minutes before we reached the hostel. The day's walk had been about 20km, and the wind had been that unrelenting energy-sapping type that meant by the time we reached the hostel I was simultaneously chilled and sweaty and also quite muddy and comprehensively knackered. Naturally, the hot water system in the hostel was incapable of coping with the arrival of 30 people all in need of a shower so I think I just laid on my upper bunk in a bit of a daze for a while. The tour did include cream tea with (shop-bought) scones though, and it was nice to tuck into those and have a hot cuppa later. And eventually there was an easy amble to a pub in Lulworth Village for a swift half, and then there was finally enough hot water for a shower and then there was supper and an evening pouring over the OS map making plans for the next day. Sunday had a few high highs and few low lows, but your coffee is probably either cold or gone by now, and I’m over my self-imposed 2,000 word limit, so let’s save those tales for another blog.

Many muddy boots on Saturday evening

The Chelsea Pensioners

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 22 Mar 2020 07:00:00 +0000

Public Service Announcement: We here at Go Stay Work Play Live World Headquarters (A.K.A. GSWPLWHQ) understand these are trying times and our absolute priority is to ensure the health and safety of Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers. To that end we are committed to continuing to deliver hastily-researched blog posts about whatever might have been happening before the End of Days arrived, or whatever happens after, or whatever random bullshit happens to cross our minds. We're certain that ten minutes of distraction delivered on our usual intermittent and unpredictable schedule will help while away the hours while you contemplate what's next on Netflix and which of your loved ones will be the first on the BBQ when the ramen noodles run out. And now, on with the blog.

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There are few things more certain to stir a positive and patriotic response in the average Brit than the sight of a scarlet-clad Chelsea Pensioner. They are an unassailable icon.

A group of Chelsea Pensioners parading in the Opening Ceremony of the
London 2012 Olympics. Remember that?

For overseas or under-informed Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers, the Chelsea Pensioners are residents of the Royal Hospital Chelsea, a retirement and nursing home for former members of the British Army located in Chelsea, London. The Royal Hospital was established in 1682 by Charles II as a home for army veterans. Until that time no official provisions were made to support old or injured soldiers and Charles was said to have remarked, "Those who have served the king, the king shall then serve them". Quite right. (And don't bother questioning the source of that quote because I heard it from the lips of King Charles himself. Sort of. See below.)

Designed by Sir Christopher Wren, the hospital buildings are part of an impressive 66 acre Thames-side estate surrounded by high walls and iron gates. When it was built most people would have arrived by river, so what we think of now as the front - facing Royal Hospital Road - is really the back. The site is probably best remembered as the location of the famous Chelsea Flower Show but it’s not generally known that the grounds are normally open to the public during the day (including a post office and café) and tours of the grander buildings are also available. Recently the Royal Hospital also started offering evening “candlelit tours” as another way of showing off the place. Having seen these tours advertised, I quickly snapped up some tickets and planned a visit with the always-willing Piran and the visiting Canadian Don for a peek into the life of the famous pensioners.

(Hastily inserted note from GSWPLWHQ: Obviously there are no tours or public access during the Zombie Apocalypse, but I wrote this post back when you could still move around on the street and even go to the pub. Ah, the good old days, last Wednesday. To be known by history as "The Infectious Old Days".)

Statue of Charles II in the style of a Roman general, in the central courtyard. Designed by the famous (and excellently named) sculptor and wood carver Grinling Gibbons.

Part of what’s interesting about the Royal Hospital buildings are that they’re still being used today for the very same purpose for which they were constructed more than 300 years ago, barring a few renovations along the way. The first residents were admitted in 1692 and are still technically known as in-pensioners to distinguish them from out-pensioners who received financial assistance but didn’t live on site. The hospital is currently home to about 300 men and women. (Of course men have been eligible for residency since the hospital’s founding; the first women arrived in 2009). To be eligible to join the ranks of the Chelsea Pensioners an applicant must be a former soldier or non-commissioned officer of the British Army who served for at least twelve years, be at least 65 years old, and be in receipt of an Army or disablement pension. They also have to be healthy enough to live independently in the famous “long wards” (more on them later) and be free of financial obligations to support a spouse or other family. If accepted they surrender their army pension (which is used to fund their stay) though they do retain their state pension. Residents are also assured of later life care in a separate infirmary on site.

Our tour was on a rainy Wednesday evening and it was clear from the start that the Candlelit Tours are new, and they’re still working out the kinks. The Royal Hospital’s grounds are extensive, so finding the entrance gate was a bit of a schlep (did I mention it was raining?). Being directed to a different gate a long-ish walk away was disheartening. And then being sent back to the gate where we’d started was, well, let’s just say there may have been some strong language employed by your humble blogger. When we finally found the right spot we were greeted by a Chelsea Pensioner named Peter, wearing his scarlet coat and carrying a handheld lantern equipped with a rather dim LED candle. I suppose that’s the “candlelit” part. (Note to RHC: I can help you with that. Internally lit handheld props are genuinely one of my core competencies. Call me.)

Peter and his lantern and his smart scarlet coat. He’s wearing a less formal hat here called a shako (“shake-oh”) instead of the traditional tricorne. The pensioners normally wear a more casual dark blue uniform and shako around the hospital and local neighbourhood for day-to-day activities, reserving the scarlet and tricorne for trips further afield and special occasions.

Peter was lovely and informative, leading us through the grounds and into the state apartments for our first stop where we were greeted by... *heavy sigh*… an actor portraying King Charles II. I’ve said it before, but I truly hate this trend of presenting costumed live action characters from the past to spice up a tour. I suppose it’s nice for the actors who get the role - good steady work - but I just find it cringe-y. Usually these sort of encounters are relatively short but King Charles had a lot to tell us that night, including a large measure of Civil War and Restoration history, and it seemed to go on forever.

“King Charles II”. With all due respect Your Majesty, please move it along a bit.

Eventually we were released to make our way to the chapel, which sits opposite the Great Hall in the centre of the complex. It being dinner time we didn’t get to see inside the Great Hall, where the residents take all their meals, but which I imagine its pretty much the same as the Great Hall from Hogwarts but with more Ovaltine and false teeth. En route to the Chapel we passed the Birkenhead Memorial, a little-known tribute to the men of H.M.S. Birkenhead, which broke up off the coast of South Africa in 1852. You’ve probably never heard of the Birkenhead, but you know its legacy. After the ship foundered on the rocks, “there were not enough serviceable lifeboats for all the passengers, and the soldiers famously stood firm on board, thereby allowing the women and children to board the boats safely and escape the sinking… The soldiers' chivalry gave rise to the unofficial 'women and children first' protocol when abandoning ship…” (Wikipedia. Obvs.) This practise is also known as the "Birkenhead drill”, and came to describe courage in face of hopeless circumstances.

Approaching the Great Hall (on the left) and the Chapel (on the right)

The Chapel is undeniably impressive, designed by Sir Christopher Wren and featuring a vaulted roof and a very accomplished mural that was apparently painted freehand inside the concave surface of the quarter dome at the end of the room. Demoralisingly, the chapel portion of the tour was conducted by a living representation of Christopher Wren himself, who was even more loquacious than King Charles and somewhat frenetic, with the added indignity that he stumbled over his lines a bit and passed on some very dodgy information about the engineering properties of the arched roof that had me screaming silently. Nonetheless the room is lovely and eventually Christopher Wren stopped talking.

The Chapel. Perhaps better viewed in daylight when the large windows could show off the woodwork better. (Woodwork that was carved by the aforementioned Grinling Gibbons!)

Things picked up when we left the chapel and moved on to the area where they’ve preserved two of the original rooms where the pensioners would have lived when the building was new. Called berths, each man was assigned a 6’ x 6’ space with walls reaching only partway up, arranged in rows on a long corridor in the main hospital building. Called the long wards, each man’s berth held just a small single bed, table, and chair, with a shutter opening onto the communal corridor. Even the famous red coats had to be hung on pegs outside the door. Eventually the berths were expanded to 9’ x 9’ but much of the space on the long wards has always been devoted to the corridor outside the berths, equipped with comfortable chairs, tables and tea-making facilities. The small size of the berths and the congenially appointed corridors means that the residents are encouraged to move around and socialise more.

Carl, another pensioner, with Peter, in one of the small “heritage berths" on display in the museum area of the Hospital. Carl is wearing the everyday “blues” uniform.

The berths are the heart of the Royal Hospital and the life of the pensioners, but until recently their spartan nature meant that 36 elderly residents shared one communal bathroom at the end of each corridor. Because of this, the long wards underwent an extensive renovation, completed in 2016, that provided pensioners with enlarged bedrooms including generous windows, en suite facilities, and a separate small study. The architects cleverly maintained the wide social corridor and left the walls to the outer study lower to maintain the connection to the shared space.

The long wards after the renovation, with Wren's original oak panelling carefully preserved. Note the scarlets still hanging outside the doors. Old habits, I guess. The total number of berths on existing long wards was reduced in the renovation, but more were created in a separate building.

We didn’t actually tour the wards of course (that photo is from the interwebs) but at the end of the evening we were invited to the residents’ private lounge for a glass of wine and a natter with Peter and Carl, and that was genuinely the best part of the visit. Talking with real Chelsea Pensioners we got a true sense of what their life is like. “Happy as a pig in muck” was the quote I wrote down, and I can understand why. The place is comfortable, the meals are apparently so lavish that it’s hard to maintain a fighting man’s physique, and they get Sky Sports for £10 a month.

Nice library, big tv, comfy couches. What more could you want on a rainy evening?

As I mentioned, the Chelsea Pensioners are universally revered, and Peter and Carl confirmed that when they’re at the pub in their scarlet coats they never have to buy their own drinks. This can, however, lead to abuses of the system. Being a Chelsea Pensioner is not a life appointment for some. For instance, we learned of one who’d been chucked out for charging tourists £5 each for selfies with him, though I’m sure that’s a very rare situation. For the most part the Chelsea Pensioners play by the rules and enjoy their lives. They also pursue their own hobbies and are very active in the wider community. Every week there’s a bulletin of events requesting their attendance and each resident is expected to volunteer for an appropriate number of appearances. And being ex-military, they’re also used to being volunteered when circumstances require it. Though there’s certainly never any difficulty filling the seven seats they’re given for every home fixture of the Chelsea Football Club, with whom the Pensioners have a longstanding association. Chelsea Pensioners are also seen at Twickenham and Wimbeldon and make appearances at Parliament and Downing Street. It’s a far cry from the 17th century, when they were required to patrol the King’s Road with pikes as a public service.

Once we’d had a glass of wine, dried out, warmed up, and quizzed Peter and Carl about their lives, all that was left was to forget to take our own selfies with them and head back out into the rain. Tragically, it was bizarrely difficult to find a pub that was still serving food by the time we left, so we had to content ourselves with a warm seat by the fire at The Antelope where we attempted to keep body and soul together sharing out a single scotch egg I had in my bag, supplemented with six bags of Mini Cheddars and several pints. We probably should have just brought Carl and Peter with us. I bet nobody tells a Chelsea Pensioner that the kitchen is closed!

Birmingham Day Three: The Coffin Works

noreply@blogger.com (Pam) — Sun, 08 Mar 2020 07:00:00 +0000

Birmingham truly just kept on giving. After the Back to Backs and the Cadbury Factory and the Balti there were still a couple of sights to squeeze in before hopping the train back to London. Birmingham has no shortage of industrial history and now has many small museums dedicated to the various trades that once thrived in the city. For instance very near my AirBnb was the Pen Museum where I got to cut and stamp my own pen nib and learned that there was a time when “three-quarters of everything written in the world was written with a Birmingham pen.” Impressive indeed.

Bins of pen nibs in the Pen Museum

The Pen Museum probably deserves greater mention, being a lovely, small, volunteer-run sort of outfit that falls into the Plucky Off Beat category and deserves love and support. However, the quirkiness award in Birmingham must surely go to the Coffin Works Museum, the preserved premises of Newman Brothers. From 1894 to 1999, Newman Brothers specialised in the manufacture of brass fittings for coffins - the handles, breastplates, crucifixes, and other ornaments known collectively as coffin furniture. (Similarly, here in the UK the hinges and handles and other bits for doors are called “door furniture” as opposed to “door hardware” in North America. I use the term frequently at work but still find that hard to get used to and often find myself picturing happy families of doors pouring over catalogues of door couches and door ottomans and door dining room tables and such.) Newman Brothers was (and in some ways still is) renowned as one of the finest coffin furniture makers in the world, having supplied the funerals of Winston Churchill, Joseph Chamberlain and many members of the Royal Family, including George V, George VI, the Queen Mother, Princess Margaret, and Diana, Princess of Wales.

Astute Go Stay Work Play Live readers will perhaps have noted that I said the company ceased trading in 1999, whereas the Queen Mum downed her last G&T in March of 2002. Such is the reputation of Newman Brothers coffin furniture that the inventory still in existence (and there is a lot of it) is kept in storage for the right clients. It’s entirely likely that sets of Newman Brothers coffin furniture are currently put aside for still-breathing members of the royal family, ensuring there’s no chance a British Royal coffin will be forced to employ grubby foreign hardware.

The Coffin Works location on Fleet Street.

The Newman brothers Alfred and Edwin (and one sincerely hopes Alfred’s middle name started with an E) started trading in 1882 as a foundry for brass goods of all kinds at a site in the Eastside area of Birmingham. By 1894 they moved to the location where I found them, at Fleet Street in the Jewellery Quarter very near the canal. At that time they started trading specifically in coffin furniture and also branched out into soft goods - shrouds, robes and coffin liners. Remarkably, the business remained in Newman-run hands until 1952. There followed a period when the business was run by a small group of shareholders, but the most notable part of the company’s management history may be when it was taken over by Joyce Green in 1989. Miss Green started at Newman Brothers as an office secretary in 1949, worked her way up in the company, and finally became the sole owner in 1989. She remained in charge until the vagaries of the global coffin furniture industry finally forced them to close the doors in 1999. By that time Miss Greene not only owned the company outright but also the freehold. (For non-UK readers I really don’t have the energy to get into the whole leasehold/freehold thing. You’ll have to figure it out for yourself. And when you do, please explain it to me.)

However, Miss Green’s involvement with Newman Brothers did not end when the company dissolved. She campaigned to have the building and contents preserved as a museum and by 2000 the factory was given Grade II* listed status. Funding dramas delayed works but major resotration work eventually took place between 2013 and 2014 and the museum opened to the public in October of 2014. The only access to the factory is by pre-booked guided tours, so I was careful to book ahead and presented myself smartly at the appointed hour in the Coffin Works gift shop, where I was presented with an old fashioned timecard and instructed to punch in on the original factory time clock.

One of the other participants punching in.

The tour was led by a very enthusiastic volunteer who started us out in the courtyard of the building. Newman Brothers coffin furniture was made by two different methods - casting and stamping - which are exactly what they sound like. Casting involved creating the moulds, pouring the cast pieces, tumbling them to remove the sharp egdes, and then polishing them. And here I have to admit that it’s been more than a month since I was in Birmingham and I’ve got an intriguing note from the day that says, “Blacking shop. Green hair” that I don’t really remember anything about. I think it was something to do with the chemicals involved in one of the various nasty industrial processes turning the hair of the workers green. Yes. Let’s go with that. (I’ve also got a note that says "Coffin makers were garage lenders” which must be some kind of autocorrect situation.)

One thing I was careful to remember was about the barrelling shop. (Though not why it’s called the barrelling shop. Let’s say it was because that’s where they tumbled cast pieces in barrels to knock off the flashing). What I did write down properly was a note about how the spinning barrels in the barrelling shop - and the other large power tools in adjacent workshops - were driven by belts looped around a single central axle in the ceiling, which was powered by a gas engine (disappointingly not steam driven). This sort of belt drive system was once very common, allowing a single engine to power machines throughout a whole factory, even over multiple levels. At the beginning of a break or the end of shift rather than powering down the whole system, each tool operator was able to knock the belt for his machine off the drive pulley and onto a slave pulley to take the tool out of service, which is the origin of the phrase “knocking off”. And you’re welcome.

Handles for coffins were usually cast, but the lighter pieces like nameplates and decorative breastplates were stamped from thinner metal. To do that the original design had to be drawn onto a solid block of metal - in mirror image - and then chiselled and sanded by hand into the desired pattern, a process that could take weeks or even months for skilled workers.

Some of these stamps are a foot across, so you can see why it would take a while.

Once the design was finished it still needed a mating piece called a “force” for the stamping action to work. The force was cast inside the concave stamp and then with the stamp set carefully under the hammer and the force mounted onto the hammer above, a thin piece of metal could be pressed between the two, creating the finished design. The biggest hammer in the restored stamping room at Newman Brothers was a mighty 30 tons, though it’s no longer operational. The current workshop has a single hammer they still operate for demonstration purposes, which of course requires a lot of prep time, health and safety gear, and imprecations to stand well clear. When the factory was in operation , hammers would strike every two seconds.

They also ran benchtop presses like this one for small pieces. Called a fly press, they were often operated by women because they’re usually shorter and hence less likely to get whacked in the head by the action of the rotating arm and counterweight swinging around at the top of the machine. (I suspect given the size of the iron ball at the end of the arm that this was a mistake you’d only make once. Though I’d like to think that if they took you out of Newman Brothers in a box, at least it would be one with very handsome handles.)

Workers at Newman Brothers were paid on a piecework basis with no pension or holiday pay, and they worked six and a half days a week. However, Newman Brothers was a surprisingly enlightened employer in some ways and many of their workers were extremely loyal. Miss Green was not the only employee with an exceeding fondness for the company. Long-time employees could expect a generous lunch party on their retirement, usually held on the premises in the large first floor Assembly Room. Instead of a gold watch, the honouree was encouraged to choose their own retirement gift meaning that many were able to upgrade their living conditions with a new fridge, cooker or carpet. A surprisingly sensible approach, I think. And of course each retiring employee was given their own personal gown and set of coffin handles for future use.

The Assembly Room, where most of the stock was kept.

These boxes have been left stacked as they were when the company closed.
Each one is still full.

There was also a tea trolley for elevenses, and they played the radio for workers in the shops, an uncommon practise at the time. They even had big Christmas parties on site and a 100th birthday celebration for a particularly loved employee - Miss Dolly. Dolly Dunsby started at Newman Brothers in 1915 at just 14 years old and stayed until her retirement in 1975. Such was the loyalty of Newman Brothers employees that even after the company closed shop in 1999, some of the machine operators would still visit the factory every Friday to oil the machinery and take care of the place.

We also got a look at the second floor sewing room, where they made gowns, shrouds and coffin liners. This part of the operation was shut down during the war years so that the cloth could be diverted to the war effort. It didn’t start up again until the end of rationing.

The tea station in the sewing room, complete with a list of how each machinist took her tea.

Though the sewing room branch of the business was never profitable, Newman Brothers maintained it in order to provide a complete service to funeral homes, thus ensuring that the local funeral directors wouldn’t end up taking their trade elsewhere. They were also leaders in other crafty sales techniques. For instance, they were some of the first to create catalogues of their wares with removable pages so they could be updated easily and quickly. And they didn’t print the prices on the catalogue pages - a practice I hate, while still acknowledging its practicality.

The museum website talks some about the restoration of the building and says they elected to recreate the factory in the 1960’s style largely because the company never updated its furniture and fittings beyond that era. This was in evidence in the company office, where Miss Green’s desk is preserved and a Gestetner copier sits idle on a nearby table.

Miss Green's desk.

A computer may never have darkened the door of Newman Brothers, but they apparently had the first telephone answering machine in Birmingham. This makes sense, as the funeral business is one that happens at any hour. It was common for funeral directors to call up overnight ordering coffin furniture and for the staff at Newman Brothers to package it in the morning and dispatch it on the city bus that stopped outside the office on Fleet Street.

The tour of the Coffin Works was really excellent, partly because the topic is interesting and the building is well presented, but largely because our guide was so enthusiastic. He’d been part of the team involved in the original purchase of the building from Joyce Green and had stories about visiting the factory to meet with her about the project, most of which seemed to involve the generously stocked drinks cabinet in the office. The tour was schedule to last 90 minutes but stretched well over two hours simply because our guide was so effusive. On contemplating a tour of a factory that dealt so intimately with death you’d expect it would be a somber and morbid experience, but the Coffin Works was bright and happy and full of people who were glad to be there, myself included. So despite the cold and rainy weather outside, I left Newman Brothers with a spring in my step and generally contented with life, though most especially grateful that I've got a good umbrella.