Voyage to the Arctic; Day 2, The Big Boat.

(Previous episode here) 

Waking to a clear morning, the view was sharp. 

Clear enough to see that our ship had arrived. 

Our heads, on the other hand, were less than clear. The time difference was currently nine hours behind, increasing by another hour in the next day or two (who knows?) as we enter Alaskan waters.

Time to leave. 

The photos that I remember admiring in the 1965 edition of 'Beautiful British Columbia' looked nothing like this.

And so to our boat. A Big Boat. So big that the word 'big' is hardly big enough. It is paradoxically too big to see, as you can only see a part of it. 

This is all that was within our range of vision upon boarding.

But from a distance:

(This photo was taken later in the week whilst on another boat.)

Boarding gave us a preview of the week to come. People everywhere, crazy long queues, organised disorder. The first queue (after the traffic snarl up from Adam's flat to the harbour) was USA Immigration. The ship we were getting onto was to go to Alaska, which belongs to the United States (sold to them for loose change by Russia). This process involved all 4,000 of us queueing obediently, in fear of deportation. Thankfully, after the removal of only a couple of fingernails, they learned all the necessary information about our love and admiration of King Trump, and allowed us through.

We were a speck amongst over 4,000 other specks. An earlier 4,000 had already disembarked that morning. And yet, despite the ship's enormity, on board it was strangely small. The corridors are claustrophobically narrow. The bedrooms no bigger than an average to small bedroom at home, the washroom matching that of our camper van. 

This was to be a very strange week.

We left harbour majestically, sipping our champagne. What do you mean that champagne is not included in our 15 drinks a day?!? There's many a slip twixt the cup and the lip. Everyone is out to make a fast buck here...

We were there to celebrate the marriage of my cousin Adam (technically my first-cousin once-removed), to Sonia, soon to be my first-cousin once-removed-in-law. (?) 

This is she...

As the sun went down on this exhausting day, we got to know over fifty new friends and family, most of whom can be seen towards the end of the short video below this photo of the sun going down on me...:

Next episode here...

Voyage to the Arctic; Day 1, Into Vancouver.

 Day 1: Into Vancouver

A short abridged and censored history of The Hyde family:

I grew up in a small terraced cardboard box near Croydon, the Concrete Capital.  My dad, Victor, named after something to do with some war or other, worked with computers. These were immense structures built in giant barns and run on cards with holes punched in them. They were difficult to carry around on your wrist. 

One day, we moved away from our cardboard box south of London, into a huge mansion north of London (size is, of course, inversely proportional to age) where we accidentally moved to a house around the corner from one of my dad's brothers, the one that we had hardly ever seen before, from the 'posh' side of the family. Now, living so close to them, we carried on hardly ever seeing them. 

Dad had two brothers and one surviving sister. One brother, Louis, was down to earth and married the life and soul of any party involving 'Knees Up Mother Brown'. The other brother, Clary, didn't mix well with us poverty stricken lot, and married into the upper class. Well, the accent was upper class if not anything else. His sister, Olive, lived in sin, which, as a young child, I was quietly informed is in West London near the Chiswick flyover. 

This family politics was well out of my sphere of comprehension. However, moving closer did have two unforeseen consequences. First was a rare visit to their house to bid farewell to their son Alan, someone that I knew not at all. With him was a cot, inside of which was a mewling baby boy. Babies were also well out of my sphere of comprehension. This particular baby had been named Adam. And still is. Although he is no longer a baby. He is, in fact, the reason we are now heading to Canada, for Alan was emigrating with his family to British Columbia.

That's the top left-hand bit of North America, just below Alaska.

The second unforeseen consequence was that Alan would, every few months, send over copies of a magazine called 'Beautiful British Columbia' rammed full of amazing photos of Vancouver and the surrounding area. From this came my fascination with photography.

Fast forward to today. An invitation to Adam's wedding on a cruise to Alaska.

Some of you may be aware of my fondness for weddings and for cruises. You may also be aware of my fondness for sarcasm...

We very nearly didn't make it. Canada has recently introduced the same visa waiver system (eTA) that is being introduced in the EU and the UK. It is not without its flaws. Despite us having received emails confirming our acceptance on the eTA system, on arriving at Toulouse airport we were found not to exist. 

Looking around me I had the feeling that we did exist, but maybe in an alternative reality. A stressful alternative reality.

It took an hour. A whole hour of phoning and begging before they finally accepted our existence and let us on the plane. 

We feared that we would suffer a similar fate upon arriving in Vancouver. But no, they couldn't give a shit.

So here we are:

The view from Adam's window.

And a few hours later:

The same view from Adam's window.

Not bad eh? 

The houses around here are pretty smart, with always the ultra neat gardens and immaculate hedges. All you need is a few million Canadian dollars, which is a lot of dollars whatever kind they are.

The view from here was pretty good too, although you had to stand in the middle of the road to peer over those hedges.

On popping down to the local harbour...

A local variety of goose.

...we realised that the weather was changing. I suspect that the weather will be a recurring theme on this cruise, as the forecast was dire. Rain, snow, wind and woolly underwear.

Incoming weather.

At least the birds were excited.

Evening sets in on our first day in Canada.

Tomorrow we attempt to get onto our cruise ship. We are to face the immigration department of the United States. 

El Salvador he we come...

Next episode here

Breathe

As unlikely as it seems, in these troubled times, this post is to contain no religion, no politics, no kittens, no puppies. 

No clowns. 

Well, maybe one...

If you're feeling stressed out by the chaos of the world around you. If you feel slightly irritated by 'He Who Shall Not Be Named'. If you feel that the oncoming apocalypse could upset your daily routine. If tarifs are totally taboo to you. If your pension has just disappeared down the plughole. If reality seems more disturbing than an episode of 'I'm a Celebrity, Get me Out of Here'. Then this video is for you.

Otherwise, don't watch it.

Release that stress. 

Breathe in.

These photos were taken between the 1st February 

Breathe out.

And the middle of April.

And then, well, keep on breathing would be a good idea...

Breathe in, breathe out

I feel the time is coming near

Breathe in, breathe out

I know that it was meant for me

If I knew the right question

Is there an answer to be found?

Breathe in, breathe out.

RPWL

There & Back Again

“Roads go ever ever on, 

over rock and under tree, 

By caves where never sun has shone, 

by streams that never find the sea;”

An Unexpected Journey. 

It was one of those days. You know? One of those days where you spend a couple hours chopping wood, then cooking a five-star meal, before retiring for a game of snooker and three and a half pints or so of gnat's piss.

"Let's have a quiet night in" I suggested. 

There was a knock at the door and, before I knew it, my larder was in shock.

It was a shock to me that I even had a larder.

I may have dreamt of a quiet retirement in the heart of nowhere, but clearly this was not meant to be. 

A fellowship was formed and I was persuaded, by dint of multiple bottles of local beverage, to go on an adventure. A search for golden treasure hidden at the other end of elsewhere.

An adventure! Hadn't I already lived a full and meaningful life? What did I need of wild adventures? Or even a slightly docile one? 

Surely another bottle of wine would cure me of this infuriating need?

...

The next morning I awoke in a haze. Bloody weather. 

A note had been left on the kitchen side. "Do the damned washing up, then we're off!"

So we left, leaving the ponies (and washing up) behind. Instead we travelled in our battery-driven knock-off American automobile, heading ever onwards. 

After many twists and turns (roads are like that) we came across a wide gorge and, clinging precariously to its side...

...a strange village with an even stranger name; Saint Cirq Lapopie.

Our fellowship was made up of four humans and, well, that was it actually. We were with two old friends (I also have young friends...)

...and a young wife...

Thankfully, this strange and perilous village provided us with second breakfast, merging, after an appropriate amount of wine, into lunch, before we headed across the barren landscapes to further our quest.

The Breaking of the Fellowship:

It finally happened. Our erstwhile friends had had enough. Too many forced meals had turned their livers to foi gras, their blood glucose to new heights. 

They left us, alone and forlorn, searching hopelessly for aid in our now all but hopeless quest.

Enter Nomad, son of Gnome. 

With the help of our new trusty steed, we faced the long journey north towards Arctic regions, beyond which lie such realms as Groinland and other Subservient States of The Trump Empire. 

Such a long journey required many stops for coffee, sleep, and more coffee, until we finally reached our goal: the Aged and Wise One. 

From our window (yes, our steed has windows) we could see the oracle's home 'Les Airelles' which, in the elven tongue, means 'Hotel California'.

Here we met with the ancient one who gave us words of sage philosophical advice such as "Who are you?" and "What am I doing here?" before we left for our final goal, the Dordogne. 

Maybe not the most direct route I've ever taken...

We arrived, after a long and perilous journey, in the southern reaches of the Dordogne, in a small village of, for some unknown reason, two names; Carsac-Aillac. I guess they couldn't make their minds up.

We moored our steed and continued our search for golden treasure.

We forded a treacherous rampaging torrent.

Thankfully washing facilities were freely available.

Our progress was impeded by mysterious tree-like creatures.

Mysteriously, they actually were trees.

Would we find here what we were searching for? Maybe within this golden building protected by a whomping willow? (Oops, mixing my classics here.)

Entering this aged church, Annick was somewhat surprised and 'inconvenienced'. It seemed to be an empty space, void of humanity. However, upon entering, the lights came on and the organ started grinding. Then hallowed voices chanted their hymnic verses. Modern technology meets aging edifice. The effect on Annick was profound. Not so much a profound religious experience, more of a profound knicker-wetting experience.

The lack of local conveniences was evident.

There were no signs of golden treasure, in fact, we began to suspected a trap. 

Turning, we saw the giant rock troll towering over us...

Time to exit stage left.

Roads go ever ever on

Under cloud and under star,

Yet feet that wandering have gone

Turn at last to home afar.

And so we arrived back home, in time to see the garden bursting into the very golden treasure that we had been searching for. 

The other end of elsewhere is nowhere else but home. (How's that for some deep philosophical thought?)

Time for another garden video methinks.

Lost Time is Never Found Again.

Fourteen years ago we stumbled upon a shard of paradise, fallen to earth deep in the pyrenees. 

We instantly fell in love with the place, and it repaid us by providing us with a haven, whilst sucking my wallet dry. Worth (nearly) every penny.

However, changes crept upon us. The climate slowly (but not slowly enough) warmed, reducing winter's snow. Age reduced our ability to hide the painful cries resulting from every fall. Each and every tumble left its mark. 

Meanwhile our other responsibilities tied us more and more to our main abode, keeping us from our mountain retreat. Time's they were a'changin'. It was time to sell. Our Hydeaway, much valued and much financially draining, had to go. 

Onto the market it went. Bureaucracy knew no bounds. As much as I love France, I do occasionally wish its white collar workers could find alternative employment. Calling Mr Musk.

However, back in the real world (you know, the one Trump is trying to destroy), our caring responsibilities approached the point of overwhelming us. On gradually realising that we needed to recover our personal life, another hard decision had to be made, one that filled us both with guilt. 

All happened with surprising speed. The normal French version of 'mañana' was left behind us in our backdraft. Before we knew it, we were driving north with maman riding shotgun. Six hours of motorway driving interspersed with multiple prolonged toilet stops with the aid of our in-house wc, ending up at a nursing home near Paris. Very near many of our family. 

It's near Crécy-la-Chapelle if any of you wish to visit.

Watch out for flooding...

After initial adjustment, she appears happy. We are still racked with guilt.

Despite that guilt, in fact because of it, we intend making best use of our new time, and boring your pants off by keeping you informed.

For instance, on St Valentines day, instead of having a romantic meal in a hyper-expensive restaurant packed with heaving bodies, we sped off to Cordes-sur-ciel for a romantic yoghurt in the camper-van. No mention of heaving bodies...

A room with a view.

The view as mentioned above.

A typical street in Cordes.

Typical creatures found in Cordes.

Another typical creature.

And yet another.

Then, within days, Luke arrived with his entourage, and after a couple of days frolicking around the pool, and doing the French gourmand thing...

Chez Ernest, our favourite resto in Montauban.

...we all set off to the Pyrenees, visiting, of course, our favourite resto in the mountains.

La Soulan

Now please sit back and relax as, instead of boring you stiff with a load of photos of our stay in the mountains, I've chucked them all together in a glorious video:

It was a great week, reminding us of how much we love the place, as do our kids and their offspring.

So this got me thinking...

This is me, thinking...

We have taken the house off the market.

Result.

And to prove we're not losing any more time, we spent the last night of the month stargazing for lined-up planets close to Saint Cirq Lapopie. 

 Our van was close to it, not the planets themselves...

This thing all things devours,

Birds, beasts, trees, and flowers.

Gnaws iron, bites steel,

Grinds hard stones to meal,

Slays king, ruins town,

And beats high mountain down.

Gollum