Reykajvik: Where the Water Falls and Falls and Falls

Our guide told us at the beginning of our daylong trip through Iceland's Golden Circle, that the word Reykajvik comes from the Old Norse meaning "bay of smoke". 

I'm fairly certain that he was just fucking with us.

After our experience today, I am absolutely certain that the word Reykjavik means "water that cascades from the heavens...and the earth...and the trees...and the rude bastard sitting next to The Better Half."

The Husband and I have travelled to all parts of the world and have experienced Mother Nature in all of her menopausal glory. We have endured searing desert heat in the Australian Outback that melted our shoes. We have lived through miserable cold and wind in Alaska. We have come face to face with ocean storms so severe that both of us were barely conscious in our bed. We have travelled in cold and heat and rain and snow and every combination one could possibly imagine. But I have little doubt that today was by far the absolute worst travel day either of us has ever experienced.

Iceland isn't really known for its stellar weather. We came well prepared for the possibilities of cold and rain and were not surprised when the forecast today called for showers. We had our raingear and umbrellas and our waterproof hikers. I packed gloves and earmuffs. Yup. We were ready for the exciting beauty that awaited us at Gullfoss and Geysir. We were eager to hike the volcanic rocks, learn of the mysteries of shifting tectonic plates, feel the immense power of a rugged waterfall, and to watch the geysers explode. We wanted to smell the sulfur and to feel the moist heat of the geothermal springs. We were however totally unprepared for the Pandora's Box of misery that hit.

Photo Credit: Kathy Stein

The rain was heavy and cold and it started before we even left the hotel. By the time we were on the bus, we were already damp. The wind was blowing from all directions and umbrellas proved useless against the blustery gusts. Our hikes through the volcanic caverns were slick and often treacherous. I saved one woman from certain injury as she lost her footing on the slippery rocks. The water was everywhere. It came at us horizontally and diagonally for hours. Our raincoats and hoods were no match for Icelandic climate. We were soaked from stem to stern and everywhere in between. We couldn't access anything in our pockets because it had all turned to pulp. We couldn't take a selfie because the rain and wind would blow directly at us. At one point, I began to feel envious of drowned rats. I swear that I actually saw flocks of swans swimming in a flooded farmer's field. No joke. We are fairly certain that The Husband's camera became a drowning casualty. There was so much water pounding on it constantly, that he thinks the electronics got fried. We are desperately hoping that it can be resuscitated at home. Anybody who knows him and his feeling for his photography know this to be a great potential loss.

All of this is really unfortunate. I had been looking forward to this weekend for the entire trip. I was excited to see Iceland and what I did manage to view through the mist, fog, and my rain-soaked glasses is beautiful in its starkness. Nature has been kind to this part of the world. I am often in awe of how desolation can carry such beauty. I loved the volcanoes in the distance and would have loved to venture closer. Sometimes, the best-laid plans though....

We have a bit more time here before heading home tomorrow. Given the forecast of more of the same, we have decided to head to the airport with memories of a wonderful vacation still in our thoughts and dry clothes still on our backs. Hopefully, we will get another chance to visit this unique country. I will remember to double layer the raingear.

Photo Credit: Kathy Stein

It is So Much More Than a Beach

There are times when less is more. 

There are times when listening is better than talking.

There are times when silence is better than words.

I will offer only a few soundbites from our day trip to Normandy with stops at Juno Beach, site of the Canadian Forces’ landing on D-Day, Gold Beach, and Beny-Sur-Mer. It seems more appropriate that way.

*The Centre at Juno Beach is a must visit. It is stunning in its depth and breadth and is staffed by dedicated young Canadians working towards university degrees. The explanations, films, artifacts, and even the building itself are extensive and chilling.

*I loved that all of the people on our tour were Canadian. It made the journey to Juno all the more poignant. There was no having to explain Canadian history or roles in the conflict. My guess is that the Americans touring Omaha or Utah Beaches felt a similar kinship.

*The walk along the beaches themselves was mind-altering. We arrived at low tide, about the same time as the Allied Forces did, and were stunned by the amount of distance needed to travel from water up the sand to higher ground. There was a quiet stillness everywhere and even while some kids were laughing and splashing in the water taking kayak and paddleboard lessons, there was an understanding that we were walking on sacred soil.

*We spent a long while just walking Juno Beach. It just seemed like the right thing to do.

*I hated the gift shop. I realize that much of the continued funding for the centre relies on tourist purchases but the silk scarf festooned with poppies or the onesie adorned with “D-Day, June 6, 1944” was far too much for my taste. I loathe the commercialization of war and death.

*We visited the Canadian cemetery at Beny-Sur-Mer. It is an immaculate place that overlooks Juno. I had gathered some stones from our walk on the beach and placed them on the Jewish headstones. I’m not sure how many of those soldiers still have any family but I wanted somebody to know we were there.

*It was a day well-spent in France. I honestly can’t think of a better way.

They shall grow not old
As we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them
Nor the years condemn;
At the going down of the sun
And in the morning 
We will remember them.

We will remember them.

~Laurence Binyon

Indulge in Your Passions

I knew it when I signed up for this trip.

Today’s date has been circled with big, bright, red circles for weeks. As much as The Husband and Twin Son loved the varied places we have visited so far, and even if they truly enjoyed the tastings across Ireland and now Scotland, a pilgrimage to the Royal Mile in the heart of Edinburgh was the real whisky attraction. A full mile of whisky shops, pubs, tasting bars, and Scotch accouterments dot a beautiful cobblestone street extending from Edinburgh Castle at the top to Holyrood Palace at the foot. It took the four of us a bit of hiking through the downtown core to find it, but find it we did and suddenly the boys had discovered Disneyland.

Valhalla. Gan Eden. Nirvana. Heaven. B’olam Ha-ba.

The question wasn’t whether or not they were going to sample and then buy but rather what rare types and how many bottles. It was to be expected. If fate and fortune had found me in rare music mecca, I would have behaved much like they did today. When one’s passion is suddenly splayed out in front of you and every conceivable option is available for the taking, it is so very difficult to control one’s emotions and impulses. I’m so very happy that they didn’t even try. It is a rare day when there are so few words to describe unfettered joy.

We wandered into each and every shop and tasting bar. I managed to slip out for a bit of Scottish souvenir hunting while they indulged and imbibed but I was around to witness their fun. The guys left the shops empty-handed with promises to return. They wanted to experience all the rides before making final decisions.

They finally stumbled on their brass ring. A small and less than impressive store at the end of the mile called Cadenhead’s proved to be their unicorn come to life. The blackboard at one end of the shop provided a whisky that melted his tongue, he threw me a glance that was so electrified I thought he might be on fire. Once again, I will leave it up the connoisseurs to express their opinions and their delights. Let’s just say there was a lot of good sips taken today.
open ledger of what was available. The proprietor was more than eager to allow them to taste whatever struck their fancy and the looks on both of their faces reminded me of the first time by boys tasted ice cream. When The Husband found one particular

I have never been so happy to give up a day of vacation to drinking as I was today. Everybody should be allowed to indulge themselves in their passions and hobbies from time to time. Today was a day when I got to see a giddiness in The Husband that was fun and beautiful. I have no doubt that we will return to Edinburgh for another productive stroll along the Royal Mile.

We leave the British Isles tonight and sail on. Tomorrow is our last sea day. We will chat again from Normandy, France.

The Greyness of Scotland is Lovely

Loch Ness

There is a definite authenticity factor to be considered when a day in the Scottish Highlands comes complete with a very light drizzle, a greyness that is the colour of wet steel, and a mist coming off of the braes in the distance that is eerily reminiscent of a highlight reel from Brigadoon. It is almost as if the locals purposely provided the atmospheric backdrop for our journey. The spring heather on the hills (yes, it really does exists) is still brown and damp but come summer it will illuminate the mountains with swaths of purple and white. Oh, how I wish I could see that.

The Great Glen of the North was our gateway to Inverness, Culloden, Loch Ness, and Beauly. Fans of Outlander (both the books and television series) will be well acquainted with the names and the historic battles waged here. The Battle of Culloden in 1746, saw the Highland Clans and Jacobites band together with the impetuous and foolish Bonnie Prince Charlie in an attempt to overthrow the government forces and send them packing back to England. The massacre that ensued is legendary and it was the last military battle ever fought on British soil. The Highlanders of today still mourn the loss of their clansmen and the Culloden Moor is today a museum and ancient burial ground. I happened upon the gravesite for Clan Fraser and couldn’t help but think of Jamie (Yes, I am an Outlander aficionado.) and his kinsmen fighting for the honour of Scotland. Without venturing too far into this time-warping thing, it doesn’t get too far afield to imagine what could have happened had the idiot Charlie been smarter and successful in his bold endeavour. He would have restored his father to the throne of England and Scotland, sent George II scurrying back to Germany, George III would never have ascended the throne and the entire American Revolution might never have occurred. Just a ‘pondering.

We headed through the picturesque landscapes passing all manner of wildlife on our way to Inverness. North Atlantic seals, Shetland ponies, pheasants, partridges, and even a few “Heilan Coo” (that’s Highland Cow to those not familiar with the local dialect) were visible. The surrounding area is dotted with old ruins, castles, and enough fabled monsters, witches, and kelpies to fill several children’s books. Inverness, which likes to call itself the gateway to the heart of the Highlands, is a quaint town marked by Inverness Castle. A castle has stood here in one incarnation or another since 1057. The Ness river runs through the town south to its famous Loch.

Which brings me to what is possibly the biggest tourist scam ever perpetrated on visitors to any country on earth. I used to think that designation should rightfully belong to the people of Pisa and their dumbass sinking tower. Nope! I was mistaken. Keeping alive the story of a fabled water creature that cannot be categorically proven nor disproven, even using the brilliance of modern science, has moved Loch Ness to the top of my list. The Highlanders are brilliant. They draw people to the lake, which is actually quite eerie and mysterious in the Scottish mist, in busloads. They try and sell them boat tours (of what I am still not sure) and regale them with stories of sightings and drownings and other magical mumbo-jumbo.

And then….

They point you to the gift shops.  And of course, we buy. Who wouldn’t buy their new granddaughter a stuffed Nessie? What am I? A complete monster?

Our guide Ian told us that he hopes they never prove or disprove it. The tourism boom just to stand at the shores of the lake is phenomenal and frankly a whole lot of fun.

A few side notes from our day.

**I won’t discuss the haggis that I watched Twin Son and His Better Half eat for lunch. This vegetarian could barely imagine it. The cauliflower was delicious.
**I sometimes forget just how beautiful the world can look in the rain. While I wouldn’t want to spend 80-90% of my time in the gloom, there really is a lovely sheen to the earth in the mist of this area.

**You have to know that you have a really good guide when he regales you with Scottish Mouth Music toward the end of your trip. I love hearing all of these old tunes that eventually made their way to the Appalachians and other areas of North America. This Scottish folk music, like its Irish cousin, is the basis for much of our Country, Bluegrass, Delta Blues, and eventually Rock and Roll.

**Men in kilts is a look that I could learn to like. Not as unattractive a kit as one might imagine.

You Take the High Road

Our introduction to Scotland came in the wee small hours of the morning. It was well before 7:00am when I first heard that unmistakable drone that replicates the sound of a cat mutilating a squirrel. (We should have only been so fortunate.) Pipers and their “instruments” met us at the pier right outside of our cabin. Being the morning person and the all-around positive soul that she is, The Better Half jumped onto her balcony to take photographs. I, on the other hand, utter a few nasty epithets, prayed for a nasty case of chapped lips to blight them both, and hid underneath my pillow.

Yup. 

Welcome the f*** to Scotland. 

Where the men proudly show off their hairy legs even in the dankest and Moorish of climates and the women wonder to themselves how they ever could compete with such a look.

We arrived in Greenock, outside of Glasgow, in brilliant sunshine and warm spring temperatures. Every single person we met today, told us that this weather is a treat and very unusual. The Scots, much like the Irish, are infatuated with the weather. We Canadians thought that we cornered the market on climate bitching? We’ve got nothing on the residents of the British Isles.

Today’s excursion featured a quick trip to Loch Lomond, home of the famous song and then the alcoholic portion of our trip continued at Glengoyne Distillery. The market research and product testing need to continue otherwise we can’t write-off this vacation, right? Imagine an eye-rolling emoji in this space.

In all seriousness, I had acquiesced to a certain amount of tasting on this trip and I did promise to partake. Glengoyne is a beautifully picturesque place just outside of the Scottish Highlands. A still independent distillery in a world of conglomerates, we were treated to a full tour and tasting of the wares. The rest of this post will answer some basic questions.

Did you actually drink Scotch in Scotland?

Yes, I did. A 12-year-old that The Husband implored me to finish and an 18-year-old which I poured into his glass when his back was turned. Honestly, it is all just furniture cleaner to me and the subtleties are lost in the burn in my throat.

Can you taste the difference in various brands or whisky? (no “e” in Scotland because they like pissing off the Irish.)

Me? Hell no. Remember that furniture cleaner thing. My whisky palette is stuck in the development of a child despite the fact that The Husband is a collector of the stuff and owns hundreds of individual bottles and brands.

Is there really a difference in taste between Irish and Scotch whisk (e) y?

Apparently so but who knew?

Is there a really a difference in taste between Isla, Scappa, and Highlands?

Apparently so but who knew?

Will there be other tastings on this trip?

Not formal excursions to any distilleries but we are headed to a street in Edinburgh known in whisky circles as the Royal Mile where I’m told that the brands and drams flow like the Nile. I plan on searching out Outlander paraphernalia while the boys drool and shop. Claire and Jamie forever.

**Sea day tomorrow. See you all from Inverness on Monday.

We've Come To The North, Jon Snow

As a child of the seventies, if you would have told me that one day I would visit Belfast in Northern Ireland, I would have laughed and said,

“Sure…and maybe after that, I’ll go and tour Beirut.”

When I was a kid, Belfast was in the news every night and for all the wrong reasons. The “recent conflict”, as the locals here term it, brought nothing but sadness and horror on an almost hourly basis. Since the uneasy truce, that still thankfully exists between the angry Protestant and Catholic neighbours, Belfast has seen its fortunes rebound and the tourist industry boom. The filming of HBO’s Game of Thrones in areas all over Northern Ireland has brought an economic lift to the entire country. There are still reminders that the “recent conflict” is still simmering. An ugly wall that divides neighbourhoods is still intact and the gates close every evening at 7:00pm. The Sinn Fein has a headquarters in the same area as the infamous Gaol that once held the hunger strikers and IRA terrorists. There is a life-sized mural of Bobby Sands on the side of a building and a memorial at the Bayardo Bar, the site of one of the most infamous bombings which were dramatized in the movie In the Name of My Father. But all of that somehow disappears into memories as the quaintness of the Belfast streets and the magnificence of the surrounding landscapes comes closer to the fore.

As we travelled the winding country roads outside of the city, the striking greenery buttressed up against the blueness of the ocean almost defied descriptions. Today was the day of natural wonder and the weather and the sites did not disappoint. I had seen photographs and videos of The Giant’s Causeway but they simply cannot do it justice. A strange coming together of volcanic eruptions and rock formations, the Causeway is a simply breathtaking experience. We would have been happy to stay all day. We spent our time hiking around

and up the basalt stones and stood at the top of the crests admiring the vistas. I said a few thanks to my exercise regime as we climbed because frankly, even though it can be seen without too much physical exertion, it cannot be experienced without at least some. I cannot recommend this visit highly enough. If you find yourself in the north, you absolutely must make a trip to The Giant’s Causeway.

We headed a bit further up the coast to Carrick-a-Reede which offers some of the most stunning and awe-inspiring views available in Northern Ireland. Once again, we hiked. This time we crossed a small and very narrow rope bridge in order to scale the rocks to the top of a cliff overlooking the North Atlantic. The Husband and I sat for a few minutes on a grassy knoll breathing in the sea air, the spring wildflowers, and the warm grass. There was a spiritual moment as surely God was in this place.

The drive back to Belfast was along the Coastal Road. Imagine the Pacific Coast Highway out in California but quainter and more rustic. Lobstermen and salmon fishermen were everywhere and the summer homes that line the ocean are just starting to show signs of life. The small villages that dot the Coastal Road are sleepy but full of activity. Spring has certainly sprung here in the north and they are embracing every day of fine weather as a blessing.

It was surprising to discover the wonders that exist in Northern Ireland. The Belfast of my youthful memories still quietly simmers under the surface for some of the citizens but mostly they want to show off their home. That wall is an embarrassment to most people here. They are far more anxious to discuss Game of Thrones and the magical natural beauty in which they live.

The Jewish/Irish Experience

I have often been fascinated by the shared experience that seems to exist between the immigrant Jew and the immigrant Irish. Obviously, there is the whole “stranger in a strange land” adventure that continually draws our two ethnicities in two intertwined circles upon our arrival on the North American shores but at its roots, there always seemed to be a simpatico response. It was like we empathized with each other on a much deeper level. While we have been touring Ireland, some of that bond has revealed itself. Both of our peoples have been shaken to their cores by a cataclysmic event that robbed us of our safety, our sustenance, our family bonds, and even threatened our very existence. For us Jews, The Holocaust stands apart as a period in our history from which we will never fully recover. For the Irish, there is a similar feeling about the Great Potato Famine of the 1840s.

Everything about the famine is still woven into the fabric of how the Irish see themselves as a people; how they view the world beyond their shores; how they look to replenish their native-born children; how they maintain their culture and heritage; and how they are now looking to future with the modernization of their economic and social growth. This is a damaged people, but one with resilience and fortitude. They take pride in their survival and refuse to allow the world to forget the injustices heaped upon them during that period where over one million souls perished from starvation and millions more fled in search of something better and didn’t always find it.

In the capital city of Dublin, those reminders are everywhere. We toured the Jeannie Johnston immigrant ship, one of the first to set sail for The United States and Canada with hundreds aboard. The Emigrant museum across the street is a fully interactive and multi-media experience that takes the guest through each and every wave of Irish emigration to all parts of the globe. (Did you know that former Israeli President Chaim Herzog has a grandparent from Ireland or that former US President Barack Obama’s great-grandmother was Irish?) The ability to maintain Irish culture and heritage so far from home has been nothing short of astounding and the number of people across the world who can trace some Irish ancestry numbers in the tens of millions.

Perhaps the most poignant memorial we encountered here in Dublin is an art installation that is right down on the banks of the river Liffey. A series of seven bronze statues, each depicting a starving Irish emigre, is shown getting ready to board a vessel bound for…wait for it…Toronto. Entitled Famine and created by artist Rowan Gillespie, shows the seven desperate, hunched over, and with terrified vacant expressions. There is the realization that they must board this boat, but a knowledge of all that they are leaving behind. They know that they will probably never see their homes or families again. The really cool part of this work is that there is a corresponding gathering of bronze figures in Ireland Park at the foot of Bathurst and Queen’s Quay in Toronto. There are only five statues in Canada as the artist wanted to diminish the set to account for the thirty percent lost during the journeys. A woman sculpted in Dublin appears pregnant in Toronto as many women became pregnant on their voyages. From Mr. Gillespie himself.

“Possibly the most dominant feature of the site are the huge grain silos which seem to symbolize the abundance of food in Canada, in contrast to the situation in Ireland. So there would be another figure of a man (they were mainly men who make the journey) in humble prayer and gratitude as he looks in almost disbelief at these symbols of plenty.”

I honestly never knew that these sculptures existed and that they are located not ten minutes from my home in Toronto. I am so terribly excited to visit them when we return.
The Irish experience has touched me deeply during our visit her in Dublin. I think I understand our bounds a bit better.

In Dublin Fair City

There are a warmth and a self-deprecation to the Irish people we have met that is instantly charming and comforting. Every single person with whom we have conversed has been gregarious, easy-going, solicitous, and amenable. I know that it isn’t that way for everybody, but we have been so fortunate so far to stumble upon the best that Ireland has to offer.
Dublin is rapidly climbing the ladder as one of my most favourite world capitals. There is an energy here that I search for when we travel and so much culture and history is embedded here it might take several trips to drink it all in and that is excluding the Guinness which I am still trying to avoid like the infamous potato famine of the 1840s.

An aside. Every person we have met still talks about this horror in Irish history as if it were yesterday. An episode in the past that fully devastated a country and a people. One million souls died and another four million emigrated out of a total population of only eight million. There are more Irish descendants living in other countries than there are in all of Ireland today. The country is just now rebounding to its full footing one hundred and eighty years later.

We are blessed with two full days in Dublin. It is giving us an opportunity to take in so much more than a normal port of call and it is affording us a great gift of sampling two evenings in the Irish capital.

I knew that when The Husband and Twin Son first started talking about this trip, there would be a healthy number of distillery tours on the itinerary. Marriage is a give and take after all, so I was down with the idea in theory as long as we could combine the tastings and corporate mingling with a fair bit of art, history, and culture. The literary lineage of Ireland, and Dublin, in particular, is rich and varied. I have already stated my affinity for Maeve Binchy, (I feel like I am actually walking in the footsteps of her characters from Tara Road, Circle of Friends, or Dublin 4 as we wander the old cobblestoned streets that mix easily modern restaurants and architecture) but just passing by the old haunts of Wilde, Shaw, Joyce, Yeats, Synge, and Swift is almost too much for this English literature student to bear.

I totally geeked out at the Book of Kells exhibit at Trinity College. I will admit that Christian iconography is really not my thing, but this manuscript is fascinating. Dating back to the 9th century, it is one of the oldest and most complete books finds in the world. I couldn’t have cared one whit that it is a rendition of the four Gospels. The calligraphic pages with their medieval colourings are stunning and the preservation and study of it have been meticulous. Trinity College Library itself is a glorious place and you can almost hear the ghosts of greatness that roamed these halls. Their portraits line the stone parade of literature at St. Patrick’s Cathedral and their works are forever etched into the hearts and minds of Dubliners.

But, eventually, all good trips to the British Isles must turn toward the amber liquid. The boys had been itching to visit Teeling’s and I did promise, after all. It was fun to view them in their natural habitat and while the distillery tour was fun for the amateur, it is old hat for them and they were anxious to get to the tastings. I will leave their impressions of the wares for them to expound upon, but for me the subtitles of whiskeys (apparently the Irish keep the “e” in whiskey for the sole purpose of sticking it to the Scots. They also age their barrels for a day longer for the exact same reason. Cheeky buggers, aren’t they?) is totally lost on this heathen palette.

We ended our day with a visit to a traditional Irish pub for a house party. I was desperate to hear some folk music and found this really cool experience on Trip Advisor. The musicians were phenomenal and while we had to suffer through Danny Boy yet again, listening to their skill and experiencing a few new instruments (I could do without the whine of the Irish pipes but they are fascinating) was everything we’d hoped for and more.

I think that I could be happy in Dublin if it weren’t for the weather, the affinity towards ale, and driving on the left.

Another day is still to come.

The Ireland of My Dreams

I love Irish names.

They are so odd and yet so familiar. The Gaelic spelling and pronunciation of them is just off-English enough to set an anti-immigration dude’s teeth on edge. There are Saorise and Maeve and Cirran and Domnhall. There’s Siobhan and Aisling. They are just so fricking poetic. Our guide for the day went by the moniker Aoife. Try and sound it out. Go on. I’ll wait. It is pronounced Eeffe. An Irish sounding Eve. I knew as soon as we stepped off of the boat that we were finally in Ireland.

I have wanted to visit Ireland for so long. Favourite authors like Joyce and Binchy have given me such a clear mental picture over so many years that I really thought I could navigate the roads from Cork to Dublin all by myself. Of course, that is nonsense, but I will admit that there were times today that I wanted to jump out of the bus and yell “Ms. Binchy described this place to perfection.” 

There are some things that do need to be seen with one’s own eyes to be believed. This place is really really really green. (I mean it. This isn’t a stupid cliche.) GREEN! In all possible hues and imaginable possibilities. Sometimes it felt as though I was looking through emerald-coloured glasses like in The Wizard of Oz. The meadows run the verdant spectrum from avocado to meadow to lime. It is a cornucopia of green. The trees, still in bloom, are the deepest shade of kelp and the buses are decked out like leprechauns on St. Paddy’s day. Green isn’t a colour here. It is a lifestyle choice.

The hills here really do roll. And undulate. And crest. The roads curve through the towns like somebody purposefully bent them. There were times today when I honestly thought I was in a scene from The Quiet Man and Barry Fitzgerald was about to pop his head out of the first shop we wandered into in Kinsale with Maureen O’Hara working as a shopgirl. This was the Ireland of my dreams and while there is some measure of that still here, in reality it is an IT hub with some of the best food and restauranteurs in the world. Ireland is a foodie’s paradise. If only I were a foodie.

The Irish are also the only people who seem more infatuated with the weather than are Canadians. In Ireland it doesn’t just rain. They get all manners of rain, sometimes within hours of each other. There is no such thing as a good weather day. It is about how much can we get done before the rain hits.

Today it is Twin Son’s Better Half’s birthday.

And in order to celebrate all things her, we decided to visit her ancient homeland for the very first time. Watching her set foot on Irish soil for the first time was all the birthday glory we needed. She even removed her shoes on a grassy knoll to truly feel the earth. She was so very happy and it made the grey skies of Ireland so very worth it. I told her that if we ever visit Poland, I’m pretty sure that I won’t have a similar attachment but I suppose it is possible that I will crave cabbage borscht and pirogies when the time comes.

We took a coach (nobody dares drive in Cork if they want to live) over to Blarney in order to visit the famed castle. Built by King Cormack McCarthy (not the author), Blarney castle is but a shell of the old medieval haunt. The famous stone that everybody seems to want to neck with is at the very top of the only turret still standing and it requires some real gymnastics to access it. We asked one of the guys who worked there if the place is ever not teeming with tourist and his answer was quick and concise winter. A continual single-file line moves slowly up the ancient steps and through the very claustrophobic tube. Once at the top, one is treated to the most magnificent views of the surrounding countryside and vistas near Cork. But then, it is your turn to press lips with a rock….and it requires the motions of a contortionist. Lying prone on your back, the idea is to slip your upper half through the open turret and then lean up in a half-crunch to kiss an obviously very germ-laden stone, all while a bored young man is holding onto your belt with your life literally in his hands. I pity the asshole who doesn’t slip this guy a euro or two. The lineup was a bit of a frustrating challenge, but I have to admit that there was something truly exhilarating in completely a challenge that is truly the stuff of legends and the gardens surrounding the castle are simply breathtaking.

One last thing that I promised Twin Son’s Better Half I would do in honour of her special day…I tried a sip of a dark ale called Murphy’s. Apparently, it is lighter and sweeter in taste than is Guinness, but I honestly thought I was eating pine tar. If this shit is the poor man’s Guinness, then I am doomed come Dublin.

Happy Birthday, dear friend. We were so happy to journey to the land of shamrocks and leprechauns in order to share in your special day.

A few postscripts from the day.

**The Irish, like the Brits, are very fond of honouring shipwrecks. There are monuments and museums for both The Titanic and The Lusitania which went down just outside of Kinsale. I must say that cruising to these destinations has not gotten any less unnerving.

**We were treated to some traditional Irish folk music today and manage to hear Danny Boy for what I expect will not be the last time on this trip. It reminded me of my all time favourite rendition which you can hear below.

I Went To Guernsey and Saw Nary a Cow

We went to Guernsey and didn’t see a single cow.

There is some disappointment in that, but I can honestly say that there were greater highlights of the day rather than viewing some flatulent old namesake bovine or sampling her ice cream or chocolate.

There is great history to be devoured here in Guernsey and in the Channel Islands as a whole. The Castle Cornet has been guarding the harbour against pirates and smugglers for centuries. Guernsey has ping-ponged back and forth between British and French control for hundreds of years, finally settling in under Her Majesty’s control and protection. The still-functioning lighthouse at the point is reminiscent of Victoria and Albert’s time.

We hopped aboard a stuffed, cramped, dank, hot, and miserable tender in order to cross the rocky channel and onto Guernsey. God bless the decent and lovely woman sitting beside me who allowed me to penetrate her space so that I might look out the window and keep my breakfast where it belongs. There is no doubt in my mind now as to how badly the Nazis underestimated the fickle prevailing winds and rocky seas of that small strip of English water. We are experiencing glorious weather today and still the winds and waves crested almost at will. When we finally hit terra firma once again, the best remedy for all of us was to walk and regain our bearings. I kept having this recurring image of German soldiers and sailors disembarking in Guernsey during WWII and promptly puking their lungs out. It actually lightened my load just a tad.

The Channel Islands were the only British land that was occupied by the Nazis during the war. They used Guernsey and the other islands as supply depots and were hoping to utilize it as the next step toward Great Britain. Slave labour built the Underground Hospital and Munitions Store. Today, that incredible space houses a war museum dedicated to keeping alive the history and resilience of the Islanders during their five-year occupation. It was there, I met Molly.

As we viewed the German war paraphernalia, dated propaganda posters, and photos and stories of island resistance, I noticed an elderly woman sitting in front of a display with a table full of books. The poster behind her told the story of a young girl and what she had lived through during the war. There were faded photographs of the girl and her family and I was struck by how much the girl in the photos resembled the senior sitting at the table. Her pale blue eyes danced as she followed me and finally it hit me.

“Are you her?” I asked.

“I am indeed,” she replied with a smile.

Molly was just nine years old when the Germans invaded her home on Guernsey in 1940. She and her family lived out the war, and pretty much the entirety of her childhood, with Nazi soldiers occupy her house and others on the island. She told me stories of the large guns that were directly behind her house and how her grandfather quietly tried to get messages back and forth to the mainland. They stayed, even as they ran short of food and clothing, and even as the Germans began to pillage the community for anything still usable. She had written her stories down into three self-published books and was selling them for a modest sum at the museum. I insisted we buy one and Molly happily autographed it and dated it for us. I was just so amazed that there was still a survivor of the times willing to share her tales. She happily posed for me. I will remember those blue eyes for the rest of my life.

I think I can handle not seeing a cow after that experience.

Where They Built The Ship Titanic

We have arrived!

After travelling for twenty-nine hours (plus a loss of five to Sir Sanford Fleming’s invention) aboard planes, trains, (ours actually split in two during the trip from London and went in separate directions) and a cab ride piloted by a maniac from Hell’s own NASCAR, we finally made it to Southhampton, England. I can’t honestly say that we are totally in one piece as I believe we left our consciousness somewhere over the North Atlantic. The Husband, never one for sleeping while en route, was the ironman amongst us by staying vertical for the entire day plus hours trip. Sleep is definitely wasted on the young. By 7:30pm, both of us were passed out in front of the telly (when in Britain!) watching reruns of The Big Bang Theory. Apparently, Sheldon and the gang are incredibly popular over here.

We had a couple of hours to kill before heading over to the ship, so we spent our Sunday morning meandering through the lovely port city of Southhampton. I had forgotten what “blue lawed” Sundays are like. While the city did start to stir at around 11:00am, there was a contented hush that hovered over our early walk. The park, which is all abloom with spring blossoms, was sprinkled with young families and happy couples taking in the lovely weather. The British really do understand their flowers and they take their gardens very seriously. There is such ordered chaos to the gardens that it just works. I love thinking about the patience involved in such an endeavour. Imagine planting perennial wildflowers in the fall without the satisfaction of seeing the colour displays until spring.

Today’s Southampton is much more an active college town than it is home to much industry. There is a weird fascination here with anything involving The Titanic and a small cottage industry has sprung up around it. While I understand that this was the very last place that the doomed vessel saw land, I’m not entirely certain why the city takes pride in such a dubious distinction. There are shops all throughout the downtown core that sell Titanic shlock and we did pass by two separate monuments honouring the ship’s crew, one for the officers who remained at their posts, and one for the musicians who stayed in place and legendarily played Nearer My God to Thee as the ship sank. We walked all over the area to find the latter which is about the size of a medium-sized flat screen. A true fool’s errand.
I kind of get it. Titanic does hold some mystical sway over the seafaring types. There are also the romantics out there who think that Rose losing Jack on that ice floe is love incarnate, but I find it unnerving as hell to be thinking of the most famous of all ocean disasters just as I am about to embark on a ship for twelve days. That is some kind of sick irony.

The walls of the old medieval city have been smartly incorporated with the modern architecture. There are ruins and archways everywhere. It is a fascinating place that is almost a thousand years old. When we dig up stuff in Toronto it either has a link to Native Canadians or is a ninety-year-old sewer pipe. We happened upon the location of Jane Austen’s home. Crazy as it sounds, that really did excite me. The thought that this could have been the place where she conceived of Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy gave me tingles. The Husband and Twin Son looked at me and Twin Son’s Better Half with a complete lack of understanding as to why this mattered but I just shrugged and said: “It’s a girl thing.” She nodded at me with a knowing affirmation.

And so…we are now aboard what we hope will be a better experience than those who boarded Titanic endured. The meds have been taken and there are no icebergs in sight.

The Great British Isles Pilgrimage

Planes, trains, automobiles, boats, and buses.

It is the mantra that condemns all of us who suffer (and I mean suffer!) from chronic motion-sickness to the fiery bowels of hell or at the very least, the sterilized bowl of a flushable toilet. But it is also the chant of the world-traveller and without the aforementioned modes of transportation, we screamers of "stop the world, I want to get off" would be confined to our bedrooms and bathrooms at home for a lifetime.

I resolutely and absolutely refuse to suffer such a parochial fate. The world is a wide and wondrous place and there are so many locales yet for me to explore. And so, I drug-up, eat the dreaded ginger, take medication prescribed for chemotherapy patients, (no...seriously!) down copious litres of tomato juice, (It helps me. Go figure?) and bind my wrists with prophylactic sea bands, all in the name of adventure and travel.

The Husband, ever my support, would rather sit at the back of the plane, train, automobile, boat or bus rather than deal with a puking Dawn, but he has grown ever more humane about my issues over the years and would rather travel with me than without, so he does everything short of disavowing me in order to make my travel comfortable when the plague strikes. He has come a long way from that time in Capri when he pretended that I was the wife of the guy on the other side of me. He has upgraded us, Amex-ed us, business-classed us, mini-suited us, and purchased me my very own stash of sickness bags, all in the name of travel and adventure.

And so we are off again, motion-sickness be damned. We are going to Britain to meet the Queen and wish a hearty Mazel Tov to Hank and Meg. Ok. Not really. Instead, we are about to explore the lands of leprechauns, kilts, James Joyce, Maeve Binchy, J.M. Barrie. J.K. Rowling, and many many angry British subjects who wish that England would just go Brexit themselves and leave them alone in the EU. We will walk in the footsteps of Victor Hugo, Robert Burns, Robert L. Stevenson, and all of those members of the Night's Watch who have defended the Wall and Castle Black. (Game of Thrones for you newbies.) And for good measure, we will trek across volcanic rocks and geysers in Iceland.

Apparently, I will be forced to taste all manners of whisky under the guise of corporate research, and I will be subjected to the cat-strangling cries of bagpipes on more than one occasion, but it is all in the name of travel authenticity.

I will be keeping up with the goings-on through this space. Follow along if you choose and if you don't, well that's ok too. This is my way of keeping a travelogue and remembering what we saw. A few photographs will accompany these missives. The cast of characters on this voyage are The Husband, Twin Son, and His Better Half. I will tag them as well on Facebook when I post these updates.

Lock up the whisky. We're coming for you, Ireland and Scotland.