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.

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.

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.

The Day Before The Journey

Yesterday The Husband told me, in passing, that he thought he needed a butler.

And just as quickly, I responded (with my typical sardonic wit) that he married one.

His fascinating observation was mentioned in the context of our labourious packing exercise for our latest adventure. While he loves to travel and adores the exciting experience of visiting the world's hotspots, the actual preparation for the event seems to flummox this incredibly knowledgeable and monumentally brilliant man. If entirely left to his own devices, he might actually wear the same t-shirt and jeans for the entire two-week period. And while that might suffice for a teenager who is summer backpacking through European hostels, it really doesn't work for a slightly middle-aged man with various social needs at various locations with various climates dictating various clothing demands. 

Now...don't get me wrong. I am all for packing light. I loathe excess baggage, or more explicitly the excess weight it forces us to shlep. So when I say that I have got this preparation thing almost down to a science, I am not exaggerating. 

All of our belongings anally packaged in Ziploc Bags!

What I think The Husband is trying to express through his own procrastination is the fact that while travelling is exciting and adventurous, the preparations needed to facilitate the excursions are far less so. As a matter of fact, in recent years they have become downright onerous. Everything from added airline fees, to baggage weight restrictions, to fighting for overhead compartment space, to security measures that limit my Purell and choice of footwear, to middle seats, to angry passengers and pissed off crew, to the real consideration of whether or not I need to scarf down a heartburn-inducing bagel before I board, can all conspire to make for a truly miserable kick-off of what should be the latest trip of a lifetime. What The Husband has failed to grasp is that my overly compulsive preparations (see the above photo), along with a few luxurious perks provided by American Express Platinum, will serve to alleviate some of the stress that accompanies all of the afore mentioned. 

We make a great team, The Husband and I. I worry about the details and he doesn't. I make lists and he doesn't. I wake up in the middle of the night concerned that I have forgotten something important and he....doesn't. Oh how I wish I had his cool and calm demeanour. How I wish that I could see the forest for the trees. How I wish that I could let the water roll off the duck's back. 

How I wish that he would pack for himself. 

The Husband has a wonderful philosophy about travel. He believes that as long as you have your passport and a credit card you can get anything and go anywhere. He is absolutely correct. And I believe that next time, he should use that credit card to actually hire his butler.

***Check back daily for my travel blogs for the next couple of weeks. The Husband and I really do make a great team. My words and his incredible photography. 

My Travel Paradox

Here's a paradox for you. I love to travel but travelling makes me sick. How does one reconcile this mess?

Some needed history.

The Husband and I have always talked of extensive travel. There is after all, so much out there that we want to see and experience, and only a fraction of that can be found within a ten mile radius of our home. Pictures are nice and so are travelogues, but we have always had a desire to get out there and view the world face to face. Sounds great, right? Except that travelling requires motion; movement by planes, trains, automobiles, boats, buses, and maybe even the odd helicopter. And therein lies my problem. I am a desperate wanna-be world traveller afflicted with chronic motion sickness. 

Now, I'm not talking about typical lightheadedness or the odd "I don't feel well" moment. I'm talking full on nausea, head bent over the toilet, vertigo inducing, crashing waves of rolling sickness that can strike at the most inopportune of touristy moments. I have been sidelined at some of the most beautiful places in the world. Really! The Blue Grotto in Capri? The Husband took stunning pictures for me, because I was cleaning up in a "pay for play" restroom after a particularly horrendous bout brought on by a mercilessly bouncing hydrofoil ride over from Naples. Sausalito? The ferry from San Francisco rocked for 40 minutes until I was so green that we had to sit for an hour on a park bench after disembarking. Saint Lucia? The pitons were great to see going up, but the van ride coming down had me hanging my head out of the window like a labrador retriever with my tongue blowing in the wind. Santorini? I actually stuck my head under a closed-flap tarp on a tender boat so that I might have fresh air. These stories are but a sampling and I tell them with massive embarrassment and zero embellishment. I have witnesses. They love to share in my humiliation. Oh the horror! There is absolutely nothing that compares on the shame scale like being stone cold sober and puking in public.

But, I refuse to let it stop me even though some say I should. Stop cruising? Ok, but I get just as sick driving in a car. Stop flying? You can't take a train across an ocean. And anyway, subways do it to me too. What am I supposed to do? Sit on my sofa and wait for the inevitable? Nope. So I suck it up, pray a little, and hope for the best. And....I try to prepare as best as I can.

As part of my upcoming Shabbatical, The Husband and I will be taking a month off to travel Down Under. Australia and New Zealand are anticipating our arrival and we are excited beyond belief, but my enthusiasm has been slightly tempered when I read about and study all of the methods of transportation that await. I worry that I might spoil Sydney or heave at the Great Barrier Reef. Wouldn't that just suck? A person's greatest travel anecdotes should not all be about vomit! It just isn't right or fair! So, I plan and I prepare. I will take the strongest possible prescription medication available. I won't read in a moving vehicle. I will try to gaze at horizons and stay in the fresh air. I won't sit at the back of a bus or car. I will wear Sea Bands even though I am not convinced about their effectiveness. (Hey. Can't hurt, right?) I will chew on ginger even though I loathe ginger. I will carry airsickness bags with me at all times. I will even chug tomato juice because I was told that it might help. All of these meticulous plans still might be for naught, but this trip is just too important to me to be sidelined by spewing.

There is no explanation as to why some people like The Husband feel nothing of the world's continual spinning on its axis, while others like me suffer every single movement. There are theories, but very little that can be done. But there is much for me to see and fawn over during our upcoming journey and I want to enjoy it all. Here's hoping that the stories I get to tell upon our return are puke free. 

*I am not proud. If any of you have remedies that you swear by to combat motion sickness, please send them along. I will try almost anything short of sacrificing live animals and virgins.

Coming to An End

It must be said that cruises are much more fun when the ship isn't pitching around from side to side like a treadmill on steroids. All of us felt much more comfortable yesterday and were finally able to enjoy our meals and evening nightlife without the threat of another sleepless night on the good ship nausea. 

The day in Grand Turk was spectacular. I love this island! All I did was lie on the stunning beach, swim in the ocean and marvel at the coral reef. As I said on Facebook, Grand Turk is the definition of wasting away in Margaritaville! I was still experiencing the not so gentle sway of the ship, so partaking in any activity more taxing was definitely out of the question, but several of our group took to the blue waters off the coast to snorkel and play with the stingrays. Highlights? I loved listening to the youngest of our group describe in vivid detail holding, touching, and swimming with the rays. You haven't lived until you have experienced new things through the wondrous eyes of a nine year old. I loved the fact that Oldest Son went snorkeling with his grandparents. My seventy-something parents swimming and seeking out the coral reef with their 24 year old grandson. Seriously, how cool is that? The Ying to my Lil Bro's Yang collected on Sister/Cousin's win at the spa yesterday and had a full pedicure treatment. It was her idea of absolute luxury. 

Following dinner the family met in one of the bars for another round of trivia, but with a twist. The category of Motown turned the entire area into a dance hall. Watching a bunch of Jews bop to the sounds of the Motor City was a hoot. Brother/Cousin's Beshert is a demon at these music categories and she and Brother/Cousin tore up the floor. My dad found a willing dance partner. A woman came over and asked my mom if she could dance with dad. Being the good sport that he is, he boogied her around the floor to the sounds of the  4 Tops and The Temptations. Pictures to follow as this is something that could only happen to  my father. 

Today we are at sea and tomorrow back on solid ground for good. Older Son and Nephew A will be collecting on the free gourmet dinner in the steakhouse   this evening, and we will all be attempting a group photo. God give me strength for that little adventure. Next stop-The Southern Home and the task of uploading my photos. What a fitting way to help celebrate 50 years of marriage-with family!!

Some More Highlights

Sorry I haven't published for a few days, but the seas have been a bit rocky and regular readers of this space know that I don't do well with motion. I haven't let it dampen my spirits, though and as we near the final days of this familial voyage, I thought it best to update the goings on of this wild and wacky clan.

Since last we met in Nassau, the ship has docked in two additional ports, La Romana Dominican Republic and San Juan Puerto Rico. While many of us checked out a small artisan village called Altos de Chacons in the D.R, The Lil Bro and his family and Sister/Cousin and her's went cave dwelling. There are some beautiful caverns in the area and the two families went to see what all the fuss was about. Truth be told, all my dad wanted to do in the Dominican was find the homes of Blue Jay greats George "kiss my purple butt" Bell and his all-time favourite Tony Fernandez. When told that they live on the other side of the country in San Pedro de Macoris, the look of disappointment on his face was so sad I almost wanted to call them myself to get them to meet the ship! Brother/Cousin took his family to the beach to see if he could actually find the gills on our youngest family member. 

This family is killer at trivia. So far we have won 4-count them 4-gold-painted ships on sticks and a gold medal. Pictures of the winning teams to follow. Yesterday following sail-a-way from San Juan, we added three more trophies to our collection. We definitely watch way too much TV, movies, Broadway musicals, and listen to our iPods all to often. I think that the poor blond crew in charge of the program is slightly tired of our Canadian faces and accents. We have entered the big on board contest. Keep you posted. 

We have also been extremely lucky. Sister/Cousin won a hundred dollar gift certificate in the spa which the Ying to my Lil Bro's yang is using today on a pedicure. Older Son attended an open bar reception last evening ( no surprise there!) and won a bottle of champagne and a free dinner at the exclusive fancy steakhouse. When asked what he did for a living and replying  in turn that he worked for a craft distiller, apparently the "not friends of Bill W." erupted in cheers.

San Juan was beautiful. The old city with it's blue cobblestones and fortress walls is a sight. Several of our group went to Barrachino's, home of the Piña Colada and indulged. Sister/Cousin and her adventurers went zip lining. I think that I heard her screams on Calle Fortaleza. Seriously, they had a ball. 

Today is my beach day in Grand Turk with The Husband, Younger Son, his Young Lady and Other Mother and Father, while many are snorkeling the coral reefs. So far we haven't killed each other and while I have lost weight on this cruise due to the rough seas, nobody is complaining. Speak from sea tomorrow.

Highlights Day 1

Trying to get 23 people to share their first day highlights is a bit like herding cats. Attempting to get the 23 members of my family to share their first day highlights is a bit like herding noisy, clumsy, drooling wild boar! In the interest of sanity and since I can only share what I gathered through the morass and haze of secondhand storytelling, I will try to hit the highlights.

Younger Son, HisYoung Lady and I had an up close and personal encounter with my now favorite dolphin of all time, Clifton. I think Clifton and I could make a wonderfully cute couple, but I would either have to enjoy life in the cold waters of the oceans off the coast of Nassau, or else he would have to be content living in my bathtub. Then of course there is the issue of what we would do with The Husband, but something tells me that Clifton is man enough to take him on! In all seriousness it was a magic moment that will live within me forever. Because of limited interweb access onboard ship, the photos of me with my new honey will have to wait a week. 
Sister/Cousin and her brood went parasailing and her Photographer has the pictures to prove it! Spectacular!! He is available for Bar Mitzvahs and weddings. Book now! I have come to wonder about the Judaic credentials of that family. Every last one of them cries out for action and adventure that is very un-Jewish. We are a nomadic people, not a rock-climbing, bungee-jumping tribe! We hire people to do that stuff for us. That said, hearing the stories of her squealing in terror while perched on a board with her 16 year old son, had me gripped with laughter. I can't wait to hear if she passes out on the zip line in San Juan!
My Dad, Older Son, Brother Cousin, my nephew and I absolutely kicked ass at the sports trivia contest after we set sail from Nassau. Our all Canuck team blew away the Yankee competition at their own sports history with nary a single hockey question. We knew we had it in the bag when we correctly answered the question "What is the most common nickname amongst U.S college sports teams?" I will leave you to ponder that one. Answer will be provided at the end of the next post. Our prize? A gold ship on a stick which we plan to parade around like the Stanley Cup and each keep on our mantle for an equal period of time. Once again, photos to follow!!
Thank you to my friend the Choir Director who took it upon herself to fete us last evening with wine and totally blew the boxers off of my parents with special anniversary cakes. The waiters came over and sang-at least they claimed it was singing-and my mother turned all shades of red. My father drank up the attention as his nature, and the kids devoured the cakes. You are the queen, my friend!
Today we are trying to keep our ballast at sea, me more than most. So far so good. Calm seas and beautiful weather at present and ahead. Keep you all posted.