This theory for interior design also applies to the use of chilli in Bali. And if there isn’t enough chilli in the dish already, there is always sambal. This Indonesian red hot chilli relish will ensure that food in Bali is never boring.
(This table decoration was not originally intended as a spice rack, but is one of the oldest known games in the world. Congklak can be traced back to Ancient Egypt, and was probably brought to Indonesia by Arab or Indian traders. It is a challenging, strategic game, played with about a hundred small cowrie shells or beads, divided evenly between the indentations.)
The heat of the day had accumulated on my skin in much the same way that chilli does. You know, that frog in the pot scenario, when the water heats up gradually until – suddenly – it is overwhelming and you are being boiled alive. A day in Bali’s dense and humid heat has left me feeling like I’ve hit a brick wall. So, the fact that our friends have chosen a modern, airconditioned restaurant for dinner makes me immensely grateful. For half an hour I relish the fact that my body heat is slowly dispersing in this cool haven.
Then the food begins to arrive and the heat from my skin quickly becomes centred in my belly, as almost every dish has fresh chilli, chilli paste, chilli sauce… chilli, chilli, chilli!
At some point – too late – I remember that wine never reduces the effect of chilli but rather exacerbates it. Water is not enough, either – I have guzzled two large bottles to little effect. Finally, I resort to stealing gulps of beer from the One & Only’s glass. Beer has never been my drink of choice, but as it turns out, it is incredibly effective at quenching the heat in my mouth. And unexpectedly, in this moment, it my favourite drink in the world!
Which is not to suggest that there is anything wrong with the food. The food is fabulous. Just hot.
Nusantara, it transpires, is the name of the new capital of Indonesia, based in East Kalimantan on the island of Borneo. It is also the name of a great dining experience in the heart of Ubud. Nusantara is an Old Javanese word derived from nūsa – ‘island’ – and antara – ‘between’. It means “outer island” which seems to make more sense in relation to Bali than to Indonesia’s new capital. However, in modern Indonesia, nusantara reflects the country’s status as an archipelagic state of islands between the Indian Ocean and the Pacific. Enough with the geography lesson, back to the subject at hand. Food.
Nusantara is a high end Indonesian restaurant, a sibling of the popular Restaurant Locavore. Focussing on Indonesia’s culinary heritage, the band of talented chefs at Nusantara introduces visitors to wonderful flavours from all over this equatorial archipelago.
Having been warmly welcomed into the delightfully cool and airy Nusantara Restaurant, we are asked to choose between the set menu or à la carte. We all feel that à la carte means too many choices and decisions are too hard to make when my brain has melted into a claggy mess, so we cheerfully opt for the set menu. Let the show begin!
Our lovely waiter emerges with a tasting platter consisting of nine small dishes – Berbagi Rasi – complete with a descriptive chart to ascertain what we are eating.
Wafer thin potato fries and peanuts marinated in chilli and kaffir lime leaves; tiny, salted fish like crispy whitebait, and ‘young’ bananas braised in gulai spice paste, all served in small, round dishes. (Gulai spice is a complex paste that consists of turmeric, coriander, black pepper, galangal, shallot, garlic, fennel, and lemongrass. And chilli pepper, of course. There are pineapple pieces dipped in dried chillis, shrimp paste and palm sugar (my favourite blend of heat and sweet) and a rather surprising deep fried tapioca served with sambal and leek. Surprising, in that tapioca does not usually curry favour with my taste buds, but this morsel is delicious. In the centre of the platter, large, crispy amaranth leaves have been marinated in turmeric, chilli and coriander seeds and deep fried – a most sophisticated and tasty papadum. And are you seeing a theme? Barely a single dish escapes a chilli invasion in some form, be it dried, fresh or paste, sambal or sauce. And the theme continues through the main courses.
After indulging in a bowl of delicately flavoured soup broth filled with slices of fresh coconut meat, I dip into a hearty meat dish: goat leg braised in coconut milk, a divine array of spices and a sprinkle of candlenuts to thicken the sauce. And, of course, the ubiquitous chilli.
Moringa leaves I remember from the Philippines as malunggay. Native to the Indian subcontinent, this plant is used extensively in South and Southeast Asia and is packed with potassium and anti-oxidants. Tonight, it has been cooked in a young coconut over an open wood fire with a base genep – a traditional blend of 15 local spices, including chilli, that gives Balinese cooking its distinct flavour.
Then there is an array of seafood. Pacco Tuna from South Sulawesi is the Balinese version of sashimi, although this adaptation is marinated in a chilli and garlic paste, which adds spice, but does rather blot out the delicate flavour of the raw tuna. Nonetheless we all dip in for more.
From Western Sumatra, a prawn dish known as Udang Bakar Padang. These King prawns have been marinated in a light, satay-style sauce, then grilled over an open wood fire. We can peel them from their shells with ease. Fabulous.
And Sambal Cakalang from Manado, North Sulawesi is, in English, shredded smoked mackerel, with chillis and shallots.
The other ubiquitous ingredient in our Balinese feast is rice. Steamed with pandan leaves, lemongrass, and salam leaves – an essential ingredient in Balinese cooking, apparently – this heritage rice from Central Bali is subtly flavoured, cooked al dente and served in a pretty pot.
Then we are introduced to Babi Masak Dibulu. This dish from North Sulawesi consists of pork shoulder marinated in turmeric, kaffir lime leaves, kemangi leaves (a lemon basil) and coconut milk, cooked in a bamboo tube on an open wood fire. This one is surprisingly mild – but the sambal sauce is at hand if you feel the urge to season it. For the vegetarians, there is a snappy corn fritter, which we are kindly invited to share. We finish up with a light coconut milk pancake flavoured with pandan.
And there it is. A meal that engages all the senses: flavour, texture, colour, aroma, the crunch of the teri goreng and a tendency to pick out a piece of pineapple or an amaranth leaf with my fingers so I can engage all my senses with a final flourish.
Bali. An island of contradictions and contrasts. Modern technology and ancient crafts. Modern tourism and ancient rice fields. Modern shopping malls and ancient temples. Spicy food and soft smiles. Up in Ubud for the Writers & Readers Festival, I have found the perfect haven on this volcanic island, to escape – just occasionally – from the Madding Crowd.
It is early morning and still dark. I am sitting on our veranda with a cup of tea when a tiny, palm-sized tree frog appears, jumping tentatively along the balcony rail, all her daylight vibrancy muted by the shadows of early dawn. Hearing my voice, she raises her head cautiously towards the sound, pauses, then leaps – a spectacular leap – up onto a thin rope two feet above her head. From there, she jumps sideways onto the pillar, her legs splayed, suction-pad toes glued to the brick. I glance away towards the sunrise… and she is gone…
Somewhere behind the veil of cloud cover on the horizon, the golden sun emerges, and it is as if Helios has flicked a switch, as the shadowy landscape suddenly brightens…
…and I am facing a lush landscape of vibrant, intense colour, mostly tropical green, so at odds with my homeland of sparse, khaki eucalypts and sandy soil that repels the rain. Here roots do not need to burrow deep for a subterranean water source. The bushes amass in a thick hedge of huge, shiny leaves, dense and luxurious. The air is soft and damp like a warm hug, not remotely resembling the sharp, dry bite of a north wind blowing off a red desert, leaving grit in your eyes, a harsh red burn on your skin…
Here, many miles north, small birds swoop and dive over the rice paddy playing hide and seek among the feathery panicles, small kids in a viridescent playground. One pair settles quietly on a cable across the field, still as statues, almost touching…
An irregular white dish of frangipani flowers, white petals tinged with pink and yellow, leak a light scent of summer into the air, teasing my nostrils, welcoming me to a breakfast table set with fat omelettes, fried rice, inky porridge and strong, grainy coffee…
A long and winding road through jungle as familiar as Mowgli’s, full of sacred Banyan trees whose aerial roots hang like loose threads to the forest floor, and worn, overgrown Hindu temples. Up and up to rice terraces that climb in tidy fashion out of the gorge, each bank packed neatly with rice plants like a well-made broom with its individual clusters of brush while the upper slopes are thickly thatched in jungle. Single, lanky coconut palms sway precariously in the mild breeze and the noisy burr of cicadas radiates discordantly through the quiet stillness of the early afternoon…
It is late afternoon, and the heat builds like a wall and sucks up my energy. The smoky aroma of a Korean barbecue wrestles with the cloying fumes of car exhausts, leaving an invisible imprint on my clothes fresh from the laundry…
…and I am floating in bloodwarm water beneath the lacy filaments of a giant tree fern and watching gloomy grey clouds chase away a sanguine blue sky as frangipani flowers drip into the pool leaving barely a ripple on the surface as the sound of a gamelan, like wooden wind chimes, drifts over the wall – no melody, but a gentle waterfall of sound trickling into my ears and blotting out…
… the noise of the scooters and trucks hurtling furiously along the main road where footpaths, unfit for unwary feet, threaten weak ankles with up-turned bricks, miniature earthquake chasms, cracked and crumbling concrete, thick tree roots escaping the earth. Torn and tatty rubbish bags beflower the bushes, and thick electricity cables loop and tangle overhead like long strands of skipping rope…
…and the sun sinks behind the trees, and the heat fades with the light.
I realize I have already told you a lot about our Canadian trip, but while presenting a talk to the Lyceum Club about our trip, I realized how much I had left out, and for my own benefit,at least, will record it here.
When considering a trip to Canada, it is wise to think about the weather. We didn’t.
In 1993, (as I may have mentioned), we drove across Canada with a small baby, a two man tent, and an olive green Chevrolet Caprice we had bought in the USA for $800. It was early spring. Our first campsite beside Niagara Falls was so cold I spent the night worrying that the baby would freeze. As I poked icy fingers down the back of her neck every hour to check she was still alive, I seriously considered moving to the heated bathroom block for the rest of the night.
In 2024 we flew to Canada in July – and the heat was oppressive. Everyone said the humidity was unusual, but with the profusion of lakes and rivers in Canada, we probably should have seen that coming! So, the best time to visit Canada? Late Spring to early summer. Or early Autumn… sorry Fall. We’ll take our own advice next time.
Nonetheless, travelling through Canada was a never-to-be-forgotten experience. Both times. So what were the biggest differences? Most notably, in 1993 we had a small baby. with a lot of parphenalia. This time it was just us and our suitcases. In 1993, we only had a small Kodak camera, and going on the limited number of photos, only one roll of film! This time, we took a squillion photos on our phones. Our first trip was made on the smell of an oily rag, so we were either camping or staying in cheap motels. This time, absent a kind friend or relative to provide a bed, we made good use of Airbnb . Interestingly, this often involved basement accommodation – an ubiquitous part of Canadian housing which we kept saying might have been a sensible addition to housing in South Australia, to escape our hot summers!
Back in 1992, we were living in Ireland and expecting our first child. Having decided we should probably head home to show her off to the family, we planned a three month road trip en route to prove that a baby was not going to change our nomadic ways.
So, the One & Only started writing to every National Park in North America, and for weeks, he had been accumulating hefty piles of brochures and maps with which he carpeted the floor of our tiny cottage. No internet back then!
Initially we had planned to drive across the States. Given the comparative cost of petrol, I’m not sure why we changed our minds, but it was not a decision we regretted. It was going to be a long drive, but I was prepared, too, and had collected a large pile of novels to read aloud to my chauffeur, while the baby – who had slept little for the first weeks of her life – slept like an angel on the back seat. In 2024, we considered a train trip, but decided it would be quicker – and cheaper – to fly. So, thus, we used West Jet to fly between cities, from Toronto to Vancouver. There was less capacity for luggage, but I swear my one suitcase grew heavier at every airport!
In 1993, we drove north from Pennsylvania, where we had bought the car, through New York State to Niagara, where we boarded the Trans Canadian Highway and headed east. The Trans Canadian Highway claims to be the longest national road in the world, stretching almost 5,000 miles from the North Pacific in the west to the Atlantic coast in the east, passing through every province on the way. (Actually, Highway One around Australia is almost double that, but who’s competing?) In 1993, we drove from Montreal to Kamloops, and this year, we picked up the trail in the Okanagan Valley and made it down to Mile Zero Park on Vancouver Island, but we have yet to make it all the way across to its eastern-most point on Cape Breton Island.
On that first trip, we knew virtually nobody in Canada, apart from my grandmother’s first cousin in Ottowa, a family friend just north of Toronto and a bloke in Montreal. Thanks to their hospitality, we got a bried look at those cities, but with a tent and a baby in tow, we largely kept to country towns. This time, we were able to visit several cities we had missed in 1993, namely Winnipeg, Regina, Vancouver, and Victoria.
Another big difference between Trip One and Trip Two. With a baby that was still waking for a meal every three hours, round the clock, a lot of that first trip passed by in a blur of sleepless nights that felt like chronic fatigue. In Montreal, I can vaguely remember inspecting the Olympic Village from the 1976 Games. In Ottawa, I remember a wonderful story about the businessmen who would ice skate to work in winter, along the frozen canal, briefcase in hand. Just north of Toronto, there was an amazing rocking chair, where I sat up every night, calming our colicky baby. And I think there may have been an ice hockey match…
This time, I got to sleep a lot more, so my memories are clearer! This time we were able to catch more than a glimpse of Toronto, as we went down to the city for a couple of days, to visit a cousin. This meant the chance to see the fascinating extension to The Royal Ontario Museum. First opened in 1914, the ROM is a museum of art, world culture and natural history, and has been regularly expanded and reorganized over the past century. In 2007, the Michael Lee-Chin Crystal was opened, although sadly, when we were there, it was wrapped in scaffolding for renovations. Instead, we had a long and beautiful walk through all the green park lands surrounding the university and parliament buildings.
My cousin lives in a pretty area to the east of the city. Church and Wellesley is known affectionately as “The Village” which has become the heart of Toronto’s gay community. In Canada, homosexuality was punishable by death until 1869, and gay men were branded as “criminal sexual psychopaths” until the 1960s, and once upon a time, not so long ago, homophobes would frequently attack known homosexual businesses, But by early 1980s there were many openly gay bars, clubs, and businesses in this pretty area of Toronto, and even an annual drag queen contest. Today, it is a cool and friendly environment where people can live, work and play safely, whatever their sexual orientation. And my cousin, although not gay himself, is more than happy to give the queer community all the credit for gentrifying the area and restoring its beautiful old houses that had become horribly rundown. This, and its historic significance as one of the oldest surviving corners of Toronto, has fortunately kept the neighbourhood largely free of all the modern high rise apartments that have swamped the rest of the city.
Back to 1993, we left the outskirts of Toronto to head north west, following the edge of Lake Huron and Lake Superior to Thunder Bay. Where there was snow. In late April. So we stayed in a lovely B&B. From Thunder Bay we drove on through Manitoba, Saskatchewan and Alberta, barely pausing for breath, the flatline that was the horizon broken only by the occasional silo beside the railway track. My Ottowa cousin had provided the name of another cousin in Portage, where we paused for two or three nights and learned a lot about canola, a relatively new crop on the Canadian prairies. It certainly added vivid splashes of yellow to the landscape, when we flew across the prairies thirty years later…
… to land in Winnipeg, where we had organized to meet a handful of ‘new’ cousins. Winnipeg is flat as a pancake, and threaded with rivers, which has led to terrible flooding in the past. Fortunately, flooding has largely been averted since the government spent millions to build a giant floodway around the eastern edge of the city. And while the outlying prairies were as flat and lacking in trees as the Nullarbor, the inner city suburbs were full of pretty weatherboard houses and tree-lined streets, especially around the French quarter of St Boniface, on the eastern bank of the Red River, or Riviere-Rouge. Across the river, at the confluence of the Red and Assiniboine rivers, and an area known as The Forks, for obvious reasons. This has been a meeting place for indigenous hunters for over 6,000 years and was similarly used by the European fur traders in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. In the 180s, it became the site of the railway yards of the Canadian railroad companies and the immigration sheds for new migrants.
Over the last 30 years, the abandoned railway yards have been transformed into museums and accommodation, food and retail outlets, playgrounds and parks. The Forks Market – once horse stables and haylofts – now contains a Food Hall with two dozen restaurants and cafes, where you can find anything from Filipino to Caribbean cuisine, Sri Lankan to Greek, and various bakeries and coffee shops. There is a River Walk, through parks full of ground squirrels racing about and burrowing beneath the lawn. And just beyond this playground for rodents, stands the Canadian Museum for Human Rights, which came highly recommended by all the Winnipeg cousins.
Portage la Prairie is about an hour’s drive west of Winnipeg. Since our last trip, and now on a concentrated search for family history, I had learned that this is where my extended family had first settled in 1903. So, we drove out one day to search the cemeteries for my ancestors and to knock on the door of the farmhouse that was built by my great great aunt and her husband, when they first arrived in Manitoba.
Then it was up, up and away in a small prop plane heading for Regina, which we had by-passed in 1993, en route to Jasper. Then, we drove north west, past the record breaking shopping mall in Edmonton, that covers 49 hectares – the equivalent of 104 football fields – and which has become not only the prime shopping area for locals, but a significant tourist attraction. Given the long, severe winters in Canada’s most northern city, where better to build such an extravaganza?
By the time we reached the Rockies, the season was warming up at last, and we were finally able to resurrect the tent. Our first camping site in Jasper National Park was closed for most of this past summer, due to extreme bushfires. In 1993, I was a little nervous about camping here. Not because of fires, but because there had been so much talk of bears. And moose. In fact, the campsite was awash with moose pairing up to make baby mooses. How would we escape a hungry bear with a baby strapped to our chest? Or get out of the way of those enormous antlers, angry to be coitus interruptus by unwary walkers? Luckily, the moose preferred their own company to ours, and the bears were presumably still hibernating. So, we saw nothing more threatening than the dams and detritus from the logging efforts of a colony of busy beavers.
We drove on unmolested, heading south down the Icefields Parkway past Lake Louise – as pretty as the pictures – to Banff, passing several glaciers en route. We stopped half way to clamber up the Athabasca glacier – the largest and most accessible of the glaciers in Glacier National Park – with one small bean snuggled inside her papoose.
From Banff we turned west again to the Okanagan Valley, where pink and white blossom was in full bloom. This lake-filled valley was first settled by Europeans in the early 19th century, and was quickly recognized as a great place to plant fruit trees. The 180km-long Okanagan Valley is now home to orchards of peaches and apricots, apples and pears, nectarines and cherries and – more recently – scores of wineries. Unfortunately, this year, a late cold snap resulted in the loss of their annual peach crop. The frost also affected the grapevines, and many farmers were preparing to start over with new, hardier trees and vines.
Since our last visit, thirty-odd years ago, the suburban sprawl has expanded exponentially, roads and bridges have been widened and the rural areas have been planted with acres of grape vines, an industry that was only just starting up in 1993. Now Okanagan wines are sold across the country. Tourism has become a major industry in Kewlona, too, both in summer, for sailing and golf, and in winter, for skiing and snowboarding. Despite the pall of smoke from a huge bushfire to the north, we spent a lovely afternoon swimming at a sandy, lakeside beach near the aptly named Summerland, and a wonderful evening dining at the Sailing club in Kelowna, overlooking the water and hundreds of boats. On our last night, a fresh wind finally blew the curtain of smoke aside, and we could see the stars – and the eagles – as we sipped a local wine on a balcony above the lake.
We never made it to Vancouver in 1993 but headed south from Kelowna and crossed into Washington State. This summer, we had a few days to explore this last Canadian city before reaching the Pacific. We spent a wonderful day on the water, exploring False Creek, named by surveyor George Henry Richards, because the creek proved to be a dead end. Having bought a day pass for False Creek Ferries, we boarded a pocket sized boat beside the Maritime Museum. The ride gave us some spectacular views of this surprisingly high-rise city. By fluke, we exchanged the little ferry for a beautiful launch on the way back, and a young captain eager to tell us all he could about his wonderful city.
From Vancouver, we took another boat trip, this time on a large ferry across the Salish Sea to Vancouver Island. This is a beautiful trip that weaves through the Gulf islands and made me long to have another month and a sailing boat up our sleeves.
456 km long and 100 km across at its widest point, Vancouver Island lies off the south coast of British Columbia, and is home to Victoria, the elegant capital city of British Columbia. Around half the population of the island live in Victoria, but with only 45,000 inhabitants, it has the easy-going calm of a large country town, despite the daily influx of tourists from mainland Canada and Washington State.
Our first stop was Nanaimo on the east coast of Vancouver Island. When the Europeans first arrived here, the major industry was coal mining. By the 1960s, this had been supplanted by forestry. Today, the largest employer is the provincial government, with retail, hospitality and tourism not far behind.
We spent one sunny morning strolling along Nanaimo’s Harbourfront Walkway to the Bastion – an octagonal wooden tower built in 1853, to defend the Hudson Bay Company’s coal mining operations. Just down the road, we stopped for coffee and tried the incredibly sweet eponymous Nanaimo Bar. The Nanaimo bar requires no baking, and consists of three layers: a wafer, nut, and coconut crumb base; custard icing in the middle; and a layer of chocolate ganache on top. It was way too sweet for me, and even the One & Only, who doesn’t mind the odd sugar fix, could only eat half!
A few days later, we moved down the island to Victoria for our last days in Canada. On Fisherman’s Wharf, we considered living on one of the pretty floating homes, and decided the volume of tourists peering through the windows would probably put us off. Wandering back across town, we strolled across the lawns in front of the handsome Legislative Building, that was opened in 1898. In front of it stands the Knowledge Totem Pole. This was carved by Cicero August, an indigenous sculptor from the island, and raised on February 2, 1990. The pole refers to the oral traditions of the Indigenous peoples of the northwest coast. The top figure, the loon, represents “the teacher of the speakers” as well as an interpreter of all the Indigenous languages spoken. The fisherman represents the traditional way of life of coastal Indigenous peoples. Below the fisherman is the bone player, who represents a non-verbal game that can be played by people who do not share the same language. The bottom figure, the frog, is a symbol of stabilty and is also used used on Haida house posts for that purpose. Frogs also represent wealth, abundance, ancient wisdom, rebirth, and good luck.
I was sad to leave this welcoming, wonderful country. but luckily there are plenty of good reasons for going back. Not least to do that last stretch of the Trans Canadian Highway to the Atlantic Coast, to visit Anne of Green Gables territory on Prince Edward Island!
*With thanks to the One & Only for allowing me to use a few of his squillions of photos – and for finding a couple of the old ones rom our original trip!The oneof the ROM is an artist’s impression from the internet, as it didnt look this good wrapped in plastic!
This Japanese saying encourages us to live in the present and not worry excessively about the future. And as Japan is our final stop on this year’s circumnavigation of the globe, I am happy to take advantage of such useful advice during our week in this fascinating country. We are spending our last week away in Tokyo for a conference at the Tsuda University. Founded as one of the first institutions of higher education for women in Japan in 1900 by Umeko Tsuda, a pioneering woman educator, it is a fitting venue indeed for the International Federation of Research in Women’s History!
To my surprise, the most populous city in the world is not in India, nor in China, but is in fact Tokyo, with a population of 37 million people. This becomes apparent as we learn to navigate the vast and incredibly efficient rail network, often passing through Shinjuku Station, a huge terminal station that was certified by the Guinness Book of Records as “the world’s busiest station” with an average of 3,640,000 passengers per day. Busy it may be, but everyone is calm and quiet, queuing patiently behind the requisite lines for their train. There may be a little pushing at rush hour, but most of the time commuters are polite and unobtrusive.
I have booked a tiny, shoe-box apartment through Airbnb, in a suburb on the outskirts of the city. It isn’t as close to the university as I had hoped, but it is a super area to stay: easy to get around, and far quieter than a more central location, with the feeling of a comfortable village. And despite the fact that almost no English is spoken in the neighbourhood, and we have barely a word of Japanese to offer, somehow there is always a kindly soul happy to stop and point the way, as soon as they see us looking bemused. One elderly lady simply puts out a hand to say, ‘Welcome to Japan, I hope you enjoy your stay.’
Our kind host, Kenji, sends endless messages to let us know the best places to shop and the best places to eat. His tips include a shopping mall with plenty of anime stores ‘for BIG Anime Fans.’ We’re not. More usefully, he mentions a great little supermarket-cum-deli right next to our nearby railway station at Tanashi. Seijyo Ishii proves to be a great spot to pick up ready-made Japanese dishes on our way home. Oh, and a bottle of Japanese gin…
Kenji also provides daily weather reports, and the offer of umbrellas.
Two of the local restaurants he has recommended are only a few minutes’ walk from our apartment. We by-pass the first, unable to fathom fresh, live fish from the tank where they apparently serve ‘still living’ sashimi. I hope to heaven that is a mistranslation, but we haven’t been brave enough to check!
However, the little place next door does take our fancy: a genuine sushi and sashimi restaurant, where we can sit at the counter and watch the chef at work. Kenji explains that to eat high quality food like this in the centre of Tokyo would cost three times the price.
Sushi Tamahachi is only a two minute walk from Tanashi Station. This authentic Edomae sushi restaurant has its ingredients delivered almost daily from Toyosu, one of the largest wholesale fish markets in the world, on the Bay of Tokyo. With only three or four tables, and six stools at the bar, there is no sense of rush and flurry, just a calm, peaceful atmosphere. One man is seated beside us at the bar, enjoying his soup: snapper head in clear, dashi broth, rich in vitamins, minerals and healthy fats. Two women sit by the window, chatting quietly as they tuck into a huge platter of assorted sushi and sashimi. And a father and his young son sit behind us, sharing their delight in the food.
Sushi dates back to Japan’s Edo period, (1603 -1868) when the Tokugawa family ruled Japan. Edo was then the name of modern-day Tokyo, where the Tokugawa shogunate had its government. The previous Sengoku period was a time of chaos, but the Edo period was characterized by economic growth, strict social order, isolationist foreign policies, a stable population, perpetual peace, art, culture… and sushi. Today, this is one of Japan’s most popular fast food options.
At the bar, we communicate with the chef surprisingly well using “Google Translate.” Bit by bit, he provides a succession of simple, fresh and delicious dishes. Every time we guess the fish successfully, he beams at us, as if we are clever children. He also goes to a lot of effort to advise us that we have no need to season our food, as he had already done this for us.
Initially, he gives us a platter to share, then one each, then he simply adds anything we ask for. Having long ago decided the best way to eat scallops was by searing them on a hot skillet, this version, marinated in lime is a joyful discovery. Ceviche is basically raw seafood that is marinated in lime or lemon juice. The citrus acid cooks the seafood without heat and tenderizes the scallop at the same time, so it almost melts in your mouth.
The squid, similarly, had been ‘cooked’ in lime juice, and is served up with caviar. Then there is a piece of sashimi tuna accompanied by a pile of sliced ginger. Known as gari shouga or ‘pickled sushi ginger,’ it is preserved with vinegar, salt, and sugar, giving it a sweet, sharp taste. This sharpness makes it exceptionally good as a palate cleanser, as well as a tart accompaniment to sushi and sashimi.
The next plate has a selection of fish, sushi style, wrapped over rice: red snapper, squid, shrimp and three varieties of tuna. Delicious! Then there is a seaweed wrapped sushi topped with bright orange, lustrous salmon roe, much larger than the tiny, orange tobiko or flying fish roe used to garnish sushi rolls.
I’m afraid to admit that I avoid the sea urchin. Well, that’s not entirely true, I do try a bite to see if I loathe it as much as I remember. I do! Texture, taste, colour – I find the whole thing unappetizing, and would much rather have left it to live out its life in a rockpool or reef. So, moving quickly along…
… to the tamagoyaki or Japanese omelette, made by rolling several layers of fried beaten eggs together. Prepared in a rectangular omelette pan it has an unexpected sweetness that makes it less of a savoury dish and almost a dessert.
The One & Only has chosen to drink beer with his dinner, but I have a long-standing love of the silky, smooth saki. And this one has been warmed and served in a pretty, blue and white carafe with a small cup. At last we have had an elegant sufficiency. (A very appropriate term in Japan, where every aspect of life seems elegant.) And I have lived in the moment and enjoyed every mouthful.
*With thanks, as ever, to the One & Only for sharing his photos.
Vancouver Island. An island off the south coast of British Columbia that is 456 km long and 100 km across at its widest point. The population of Vthe island is around 90,000, half of whom live in Greater Victoria on the southern tip of the island. The Brits and the Spaniards arrived in the late 18th century, and squabbled for a while over who would take charge, both countries oblivious to the fact that indigenous peoples had been living there for thousands of years. By the mid-nineteenth century, the Hudson Bay Company had established a fur trading post on the inner harbour of what is now Victoria, (then known as Fort Albert) and today, Victoria is the elegant capital of the province of British Columbia.
A trip to Vancouver Island has been on our ‘to do’ list, for years. However, the ten days we spent there came at the end of a month of travelling across Canada, from east to west, in search of family history and distant cousins. As we hadn’t been sure how much time we would have left at the end, it became rather an ad lib affair. Luckily, despite it being mid-summer and school holidays, we managed to find a couple of great places to stay at the last minute. And at last we set sail across the Salish Sea.
The ferry ride from Vancouver is beautiful, as the ship weavse between the islands in much the same way the American border does. We landed in Swatz Bay and found our way south and east to Nanaimo. After weeks of enervating humidity on the Canadian prairies, the air on the island was crisp and fresh. Decidedly sick of dragging our suitcases about, we renegotiated the notion of a two week road trip. I needed a base, two at a pinch, where I could dump my bags and travel light. I also had a paper to finish for a conference. So, we found an Airbnb on the outskirts of Nanaimo, which gave me a place to plug in my laptop, while the One & Only headed off with his hiking boots to explore.
I didn’t spend the whole time cuddling with my computer, you’ll be glad to hear. I took the weekend off, and we headed across the island to Tofino. Blue skies in the east gave way to cloudy western skies as we drove over the Vancouver Island Ranges. These mountains run north to south along the length of the island, dividing it neatly in two: the west coast is frequently foggy and damp, its rugged outline smothered in pine forests; the east has a drier, more mediterranean climate.
En route, we pull in on the side of the road to visit Cathedral Grove, where we stroll along a boardwalk through the cool and shady old-growth forest of giant Douglas fir trees. Fir trees quickly became the common feature of the whole trip to Vancouver Island. Coastal roads are hedged in by hundreds of Sitka spruce and Douglas firs that effectively block any view of the sea. To reach a beach often meant clambering through dimly lit pine forests, along narrow paths covered in knotted tree roots like varicose veins, and descending down steep staircases of endless, uneven steps.
Luckily, we find it a lot easier to reach Florencia Bay. We park above the beach and stroll along a level path to a short staircase that leads to the shore. Here, the beach curves around the bay for five kilometres, and the bay is scattered with small, rocky islets. Florencia Bay got its name from a ship of that name that capsized off Vancouver Island in 1860 and was wrecked against the rocks.
We scramble across several metres of large grey pebbles that devolve into light grey sand. The sea is grey and uninviting, but the beach is covered in sea-sculpted drift wood, shells and kelp that has drifted in from the dense, offshore forests. Anchored to the sea floor by a ‘holdfast’ – not roots – giant kelp can grow as fast as half a metre a day, and up to 80 metres high. To help it remain upright in the water, each kelp blade or leaf has an air-filled pod that floats, like a small buoy. The kelp strewn along the beach looks like sunbathing triffids with their orb-shaped pods, which burst with a pop more satisfying than bubble wrap. Out at sea they form mats on which the seabirds can rest, and apparently sea otters will wrap themselves in giant kelp to keep from floating away while sleeping.
Lost Shoe Creek, which we have crossed several times on the main road from Port Alberni, finally reaches the sea here. Brilliant name, isn’t it? At the end of the beach, we spy several large rock pools that provide hours of exploring, despite my very poor footwear. Apparently, Florencia Bay can also be a great spot to see dolphins and sea lions. They fail to appear today, but we are perfectly happy with multitudes of sea urchins and fat, happy star fish. As a light rain begins to pock the sand, and the fog drifts in, the empty beach starts to take on a rather eerie atmosphere. We also notice that the tide is coming in surprisingly quickly. It’s time to scuttle back to the cliffs and get out of the rain.
***
In Tofino, we find coffee and a wonderful art gallery, built and owned by Canadian First Nations artist, Roy Henry Vickers. Vickers, the son of a Haida fisherman, began his career as a printmaker, later moving into painting and wood carving. His work blends traditional indigenous art with a contemporary style, that we both find intriguing. Vickers is now something of a national icon, which unfortunately puts most of his glorious paintings beyond our pockets – and the capacity of our cases – but one of his fabulous childrens’ books will make a perfect birthday present for a small girl who is about to turn two…
The One & Only has miraculously managed to find us a night’s accommodation in Tofino, within walking distance of a lovely restaurant on the quay. By now the drizzle has set in with grim determination and shows little sign of abating any time soon, but we are prepared, and don raincoats to potter down the road, dodgling small rivulets and wishing there had been space for our gumboots.
‘Shelter’ provides the perfect haven from the weather. We are greeted by the friendly and enthusiastic staff, who are more than happy to talk us through the menu and trade travel stories. Not surprisingly, the menu consists largely of fish, fish and more fish, with which we are delighted. But where do we start? Will he choose a seafood chowder crammed with a veritable glut of seafood: smoked salmon, surf clams and sockeye salmon, ling cod, clams and gallo mussels? Maybe I will have a Red Thai curry filled with all those same ingredients? Or perhaps just have a simple bowl of Salt Spring Island Mussels?
In the end, we opt for a shared tasting plate – “Taste of the Sound” – with a pretty array of seafood and various accompaniments. There is local salmon, pepper smoked and baked, and Salt Spring Island mussels escabeche. (Escabeche is another name for marinated fish cooked or pickled in lemon juice or vinegar, and flavoured with paprika, citrus, and other spices. Think ceviche or kinilaw.) Then there’s a cauliflower pickle and focaccia toast to dip in a roasted artichoke caponata. I choose a light, lovely unoaked chardonnay from the Okanagan Valley, and sip slowly – for once!
The One & Only can never resist fish and chips, so he is thrilled with two pieces of tempura ling cod and crisp, chunky chips – sorry, fries! – served with a cabbage and kale slaw. I opt for a Tofino surf bowl of local wild salmon and vegetables mixed with teriyaki sauce, sesame jasmine rice, spicy yogurt, cilantro (coriander) and red cabbage. The serving is incredibly tasty, and so generous we will both be able to enjoy the leftovers for lunch tomorrow. If there had been an ounce of room left, I might have succumbed to the chocolate trio of salted caramel pot de crème, espresso mousse cake, and chocolate truffle. Suffice to say, I did not.
***
Another highlight of our time on Vancouver Island is a sunny afternoon on a catamaran, for a spot of whale watching. Eagle Wing Tours leave from Fisherman’s Wharf, and we are accompanied by three wildlife experts who share a running commentary on the marine life we might, and do, see.
Heading out of the harbour, we hear about the Orcas who live hereabouts in small pods all year round. The humpback whales, on the other hand, migrate from Mexico and Southern California, in search of krill, herring and other small bait fish. Heading round the coast, we spot a cormorant posing on a rock, and a pack of seals lazing about on an intertidal ledge, waiting for high tide to feed.
Our guide talks about the sea otters which were virtually extinguished by fur traders, eager to claim their ultra-thick coats. Recently re-introduced from Alaska at Port Renfrew out on the Western Highway past Sooke & Shirley, they are slowly growing in numbers. But only one pup is born at a time – in the water of you don’t mind, so they are born swimming – so it may take some time to significantly build the numbers. River otters, on the other hand, give birth to multiple, smaller pups in a den on the river bank.
We sail around Trail Island and its manned lighthouse, and spot Mount Barker in the distance; a snow-topped mountain across the water in Washington State. We dodge around several huge, ungainly container ships and head out across the Salish Sea towards the coast of the USA.
Apparently, it should be easy to spot a Humpback, as they blow out a spout of water 15-18 feet high when they emerge above the surface. Then the sleek back of the whale and the dorsal fin will follow. When they dive, you might see them flick up their tailfin or fluke. And so, it is. A juvenile male pre-empts his arrival on the surface with a jet of water. Then, his smooth, black, back appears about a hundred metres from the boat. Several times – elegantly, effortlessly – he surfaces and submerges, before his tail flicks up into the air and he dives gently down, leaving barely a ripple. Our guide tells us that the average size of a Humpback male is between 46-49 feet long, a female several feet larger, and they can reach a weight of about 44 tons. Once hunted to the brink of extinction, their numbers are growing steadily.
We watch two Humpback whales that afternoon, but eventually, we must edge away and leave them in peace to feed. As we move on, we pass a small flock of seabirds floating on the water – resting on the kale, I guess – and see several Moon jellyfish pulse by.
Further north, we circle the Race Rocks Ecological Reserve, which consists of a small island, reef and a collection of rocks. Including the surrounding sea, the reserve covers an area of about 620 acres. The rocky island, with its 19th-century lighthouse and keeper’s cottage, is a nesting ground for gulls, oystercatchers, and pigeon guillemots. Easier to spot from the boat than the darting birds, is an assortment of golden Steller and chocolate brown California sealions. The smell, when the wind blows our way, is not the most attractive of aromas, to say the least. They are also surprisingly noisy. One huge Steller sealion is growling ferociously as lesser males try to encroach on his rock. This outcrop is heavily covered with both varieties. There are even a few Harbour seals on the periphery. And most of them are male, seals and sea-lions. It’s what is known as a haulout, when male pinnipeds – seals, sealions and walruses – leave the water to moult or mate, while the female sealions tend to gather separately with their babies in a rookery.
“What is the difference between sealions and ordinary seals?” I ask. Apparently, the Harbour seals are much smaller and less agile on land than sealions. They have shorter, fused fins whereas sea lions have pectoral fins with ball and socket joints and are therefore able to move across land more easily. Seals also have pinholes rather than the visible ears of the sealion. As we are moving away past the lighthouse, someone spots the resident bull elephant seal. Found in the north Pacific, a male can weigh up to four tons and has a strange, trunk-like proboscis, hence its name.
And on that note the catamaran heads for home. And we must too, after a final day driving around the Pacific Marine Circle Route, along the rugged western coastline, lighthouse spotting and plodding through endless evergreen forests, and up to Lake Cowichan where the temperature is 10 degrees warmer and the kids are ‘tubing’ down the river…
Colonialism is not a beautiful picture sometimes. When we talk about Native people, we’re wards of the Crown, we are under separate citizenship. It’s a polite way of saying you’re a slave to colonialism. It’s still “us and them.” ~ Lawrence Paul Yuxweluptun Quw’utsun/Okanagan
This was the first inscription I read on wandering into the Museum of Anthropology at the University of British Columbia recently. I had misunderstood the One & Only, and thought we were visiting an Inuit Art Gallery. Instead, we have been introduced to the culture of some of the Indigenous Canadians, and learned how they were pushed aside by colonizers in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, dispossessed of their land, their culture, their ancestral connections. Sound familiar?
It certainly struck a chord with me after four years of immersion into the history of our own First Nations peoples and the treatment they received at the hands of settler colonial Europeans. In Canada, as in Australia, the epithet – or should I say ‘epitaph? – ‘terra nullius‘ stated that these lands were uninhabited and therefore available to European colonizers for the taking, nonchalantly extinguishing hundreds of thousands of human beings in a single Latin phrase. In Canada, as in Australia, settler-colonial governments, ignoring Indigenous sovereignty, went to work to dispossess Indigenous nations, preventing access to resources and destroying sustainable economies that had been in place for thousands of years.
As a child, I knew nothing of the history of our country. I heard little about the history of our State. And we were no more acquainted with First Nations history than the settler colonials had been a hundred and fifty years before. The little we knew of Australian history was focussed on the era after the British landed in Botany Bay. We heard only about New South Wales, its penal colonies and its sheep farming. I had never even been to Sydney. Our history classes back then in the dark ages were completely Anglocentric, and as colonization had made that country – and the European continent – rich, its methods – the little that we knew of them – were lauded. After almost five years back in Australia, my knowledge of Australian history and the inequalities inflicted by ‘my’ people upon the Indigenous people has been on fast track. And most of it has made my stomach churn.
Back at the MOA, I found another thought-provoking reference to colonisation:
Today we have concrete. We don’t have any real forests. We don’t have salmon-bearing streams. We don’t have plants for medicine or plants to make our homes. We have to import all of that from someone else’s territory. That’s part of the colonial system: you come in and you harvest everything and leave behind devastated people. That’s how I feel: that it’s progress, but it’s not sustainable progress.
I will try to resist quoting everything I read, and at least paraphrase it. Yet it has been so compelling that I feel I must share it all with you. The parallels between Canadian settler-colonial policies and those in Australia are strikingly similar. And why not, when the origins and attitudes of those Empire Builders were exactly the same?
***
To back track a little, to where we are. UBC is a huge campus on a peninsula at the northern end of Vancouver. In the summer, the wide boulevards and shady trees are a joy, but I imagine it can be quite bleak through the winter months, when the skeletal trees bare their naked branches to the icy winds that must whistle in from the sea. Our older son was here for a semester a few years ago, and the shock of that first winter after four years in the Philippines must have been intense.
Meanwhile, as the flower beds bloom with multi-coloured roses and the blackberries are beginning to ripen, welcome to the Museum of Anthropology, a place to explore the First Nations peoples of the West Coast of Canada, and other cultural communities that have journeyed here from every corner of the globe. The architecture of the building has been inspired by the cedar post and beam structures found in traditional Northwest Coast Aboriginal villages, with a modern twist that involves lots of glass.
We arrived on the doorstep of MOA half an hour before it opened, but once inside, our lonely vigil was over, as school children and tourists swarmed into the foyer. A quick coffee to charge our batteries and then we were off to join the fray.
Huge totem poles stand both inside and outside the Great Hall. What is a totem pole? Carved from red cedar trunks, they depict a family’s ancestry and its connection to the land. The figures of animals and supernatural beings are “crests” or symbols that represent specific ancestors and their history.
The Whaler’s pole for example, depicts – from the bottom up – the waves, a grey whale, a drowned whaler, a shaman, the crew and the harpooner carved into red cedar. Art Thompson, the sculptor, has family roots among the whale hunters on the west coast of Vancouver Island.
Haida artist Bill Reid was originally a goldsmith, but he found inspiration in the totems of his mother’s village of Skidegate and created six huge totem poles for the University of British Columbia in 1959.
Five of these stand outside, beyond the huge windows at the back of the gallery, overlooking the Salish sea. Inside, one towers above us, reaching for the sky. All portray the main crests that have been used by southern Haida over the centuries. Thus, a native artist draws on generations of ancestral knowledge, and needs to know the crests of his own and other families, their origins, and the meaning behind the symbolism. And for this, as well as his artistic talent, he is revered among his people. Many years later, Reid also carved and raised a memorial pole in Skidegate to honour his ancestors. Apparently, it was the first pole to be raised in that Haida community in over a century.
We came across Reid’s work throughout the museum. One piece in particular, was a stunning sculpture called The Raven and the First Men, which he carved from yellow cedar. The legend behind this beautiful sculpture I have paraphrased below:
A great flood had covered the earth. When it eventually receded, the sand of Rose Spit, Haida Gwaii, was exposed to the air. Raven was walking across the sand when a flash of white caught his eye. Half buried in the sand at his feet, he spied an enormous clamshell. Peering inside, he saw that the shell was full of tiny creatures, cowering in terror at his appearance. Eventually, he was able to coax and cajole them out of their shell to play with him on the sand. These tiny creatures were the first humans – the original Haidas.
***
For thousands of years, Indigenous peoples have been respecting and caring for the land, waterways, supernatural beings, flora, and fauna. They have created reciprocal relationships between human and non-human kin. This philosophy and way of being helped to maintain wealthy, complex societies with lineages connected to specific landscapes.
One Voice tells how the Indigenous Canadians learned from their ancestors to read the environment. Another Voice describes how the Elders would watch the children to see what talents or skills they displayed and then train them to excel in that particular skill.
Yet, for over a century, children were forcibly removed from their families and sent to residential schools by a government that was set on assimilating every native into its own system. It was not until 2016 that the Canadian government recognized this practice as cultural genocide; that this process actively destroyed families and communities and prevented the transmission of knowledge and language from one generation to another.
The MOA describes the mid-20th century as a turning point in the Indigenous political-rights struggle. For decades, these dispossessed peoples have been taking action. They have fought for recognition and equality, and against racism. And they are determined to reclaim their history and heritage. When the government banned dancing, they danced. When the government forbade potlatches – ceremonial feasts to display wealth or enhance prestige – they feasted together anyway. While the Christian beliefs of the colonizers were often forced upon First Nation peoples, many Indigenous communities quietly persisted with their own spiritual practices. When the Canadian Government made it illegal for any Indigenous group to pursue their land title in the courts, they fought back. They challenged conscription of First Nations men in World War II, criticized the Indian Residential School system, demanded autonomy in education, sought better healthcare and the right to vote. Refusing to be marginalised or erased, they spoke out with their voices, with their art, with their artefacts. In public spaces, where they could not be ignored, they displayed their culture and themselves, thus gaining support from prominent figures, and reminding those in power of their accountability. Subversion in plain sight!
Post World War II, human rights became central to international policy. Canada, facing increasing criticism both at home and abroad, revised the Indian Act in 1951, and dropped the Potlatch Ban from legislation. First Nations are now free to hire legal counsel and pursue land claims. Then, finally, in 1960, they were granted the right to vote in federal elections.
Today, First Nation artists and researchers wish to re-establish a relationship with the ancestral materials that were removed from their communities by colonizers who sought to collect local artifacts. Thus, we were able to examine not only recreations of the family totems and canoes, but traditional masks, feast dishes and painted chests used for storage, as furniture or for dowries. Such items were inherited, exchanged and traded among First Nations families along the Northwest Coast.
These days, First Nations, Inuit and Métis artists are using their art to re-establish a cultural identity in Canada. When Eric Robertson was asked to create a piece for the Museum of Anthropology, he wanted to find something that linked all the coastal Indigenous nations. His explanation of these two totems reads:
Lahal, or the “bone game,” is an ancient and contemporary practice that relies on non-verbal signals and gestures, and brings people together. Another common link…is the persistent assertion of rights, title, and sovereignty… Despite the accumulating wins, this particular game continues.
The game continues indeed, both in Canada and Australia. Ted Walkus, hereditary chief of the Wuikinuxv Nation in Rivers Inlet, B.C. is quoted at the MOA: ““We’re survivors… we’re still here, we’re still practicing our culture. We carry our ancestors with us. This is our story. This is who we are.”
Like us, many non-Indigenous Canadians are trying to promote a national focus for reconciliation between Indigenous and non-Indigenous Canadians. They, too, use an acknowledgement of country to shows respect for the Traditional Aboriginal Owners of the land on which a meeting or event is being held. I recently found a sign in a small park above the sea in Tsawwassan, Vancouver that put it beautifully:
The City of Delta acknowledges that this is the shared, traditional, ancestral, and unceded territories of scəw̓aθən (Tsawwassen), xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), and other Coast Salish Peoples. We extend our appreciation to these First Nations for the opportunity to enjoy this land together.
I love that last sentence. It gives me hope.
*The photos were taken by the One & Only and me – but I can’t remember whose was whose!
The road from Toronto to Jasper goes on forever, and mostly in a straight line. It makes you believe in the possibility of a flat earth, and I find myself watching the horizon fearfully In case we should tumble off the edge. And yet I know it is really a long. lazy curve meandering for mile upon mile along the rim of a vast, wintry lake, then sailing on, graceful as a galleon, across endless oceans of wind-tossed wheat and bright yellow canola, through Manitoba, Saskatchewan and Alberta. Daunted by the distance, we weigh anchor at Portage La Prairie, where my grandmother’s cousin and her husband welcome their foreign cousins with incredible warmth and generosity. Their log cabin farm house has a ship’s wheel above the fireplace. We find this rather strange considering we must be further from the sea than almost any place on earth. It is only later – thirty years later – that we realize that Lake Manitoba – a vast inland sea – lies only 40 miles north. Meanwhile, the house is ankle-deep in shag-pile carpets, to mirror the sea of crops that stretch to the horizon in every direction. I wade through waves of pastel pink, lemon yellow and lilac, and gather my strength for the next long haul across the Canadian prairies, a northern Nullabor, bereft of trees and hills, on and on and on under vast blue skies…
… until the earth begins to rise before us like a stirring giant, and the Rockies erupt violently from the land, ragged and tree-laden, scarring the beige landscape with angles and peaks and colour and cloud, and at last we are back on dry land.
Have I mentioned that we drove across Canada many years ago, in a large avocado-coloured car with a small baby on the back seat? The boot (trunk) was laden with ridiculous amounts of paraphernalia for such a small person, including a pink washing up bowl she used as a bath. It was a long, long, long, long drive.
This time we are flying. (With no babies!) Yet, even by air, we see mile upon mile of prairies, covered by canola and low-lying grassland that turns swampy when wet. These vast plains are also responsible for 80% of Canada’s agricultural production, which has replaced virtually all the tall grass prairies in the region. And yet again, the distance has been relieved by some wonderfully hospitable relatives, wherever we touch down.
Winnipeg – perhaps a little short sightedly – is built on a flood plain. Today, a canal or floodway loops around the edge of the city like a giant moat, designed to prevent severe flooding along the Red River and Assiniboine River basins, as happened during the spring of 1950. Heavy snow melt caused the Red River to reach flood levels in Winnipeg by April 22. A fortnight later, unusually heavy rainfall caused the river to rise over 9 metres (30 feet), and remain at flood level for 51 days. ‘Duff’s Ditch’ as it was nicknamed by critics, cost millions, and moved more earth than the Suez Canal. However, it did not prevent further flood damage in 1997. So, in 2010, the government increased the capacity of the floodway. (Perhaps they should have considered moving the city to higher ground – it might have been cheaper!) As we experience a number of summer thunderstorms, I find myself looking about for sandbags.
The other thing to look out for – and there are signs everywhere – are the white-tailed deer. These are not native to the Canadian prairies, but migrated north from America, ignorant of passport control or customs. It seems they are also ignorant of road rules, so will often dash across in front of cars at dawn and dusk. According to Wikipedia, the earliest account of white-tailed deer in Manitoba was in 1881 along the Rivière-Rouge Red River – close to the border with Minnesota. (That must have been the one we saw, on our last night in Winnipeg, just near the Rivière-Rouge, as we were returning to our rural B&B after dark.) Apparently, the native mule deer are larger, but they prefer arid, rocky environments and they also prefer to sty away from humans, who are often bearing guns. Unfortunately, we were also in the wrong part of the state to spot an antelope, as these only grow further west, around the border with Alberta – which is a shame, as they look rather pretty in the photographs.
Once upon a time, the huge lakes north of Winnipeg covered most of the state and were home to the mosasaur – a marine dinosaur with a hinged jaw that could presumably swallow Jonah and his whale in a single gulp. Now they have become as legendary as the Loch Ness Monster to the Manitobans. Needless to say, we didn’t see one of these either.
We spend a sultry afternoon by the lake, however, watching dogs and kids splash through the shallow waters, trying to imagine this stretch of water turned to ice, the countryside, now lush and green, deep in snow, ice crystals frosting the windows. Now, Gin & Orange on the deck keep us cool, if slightly sozzled, oblivious to the bites of some vicious, unrecognizable insects. Better than a mosasaur bite at least!
To a girl from an almost waterless state, such an abundance of fresh water is almost overwhelming. Even the Crescent Lake in Portage la Prairie – an oxbow lake once a sharp bend in in the Assiniboine river – seems like a generous stretch, though locals consider it no more than a puddle. Similarly, an attractive housing estate to the west of Winnipeg is situated around a serpentine lake with walking paths, and the option to skate across it in winter.
We drive out to Burnside, where the shag pile carpets once grew, and find an old family homestead down a dirt road, squatting above the unromantically named Rat Creek. It wanders through a block of poor agricultural land, once sold to an ignorant pioneer who was eager to build his own kingdom reminiscent of the landed English manor houses from a rapidly vanishing empirical era. Today, the 640 acres has shrunk to a more manageable size for a hobby farm, its remaining fields better used for horses than crops, the rather grand house renovated to suit a modern family – although family legend suggests it was ahead of its time even in 1905, with electricity from a generator and hot running water from a cistern in the attic. One cousin recalls his father describing how the house could be all lit up like a Christmas tree with electric lights, when every other farmhouse in the district ran on candlelight. We chat to the new owners, take some photos, and head back to the highway.
Flying west again, we take a prop plane to Regina. The capital of Saskatchewan was once known as Wascana – in my humble opinion a much better name than one to rhyme with female genitalia. Nonetheless, it is a very pleasant city of moderate size (pop.250,000), full of parks and leafy trees and open spaces. There is a long, manmade lake shaped like a leafy sea dragon where the kids can canoe and the Canada geese gather in abundant profusion. Regina is considerably drier than Winnipeg, where we found the air as heavy and steamy as if it were on the equator. It seems a tad unreasonable that such oppressive heat keeps the locals inside as surely as the long, dark, snow-filled days of winter.
Here in Regina, however, an evening walk through the tree-lined streets is a joy, and we admire the unfenced front yards, the weatherboard houses, the Canadians basement rooms. (Why did we never think to make that a standard addition to our Australian houses?) Later, we sit comfortably on the veranda as the sun sets, with a cup of tea, watching the jack rabbits laze fearlessly on the lawn – at least until the interminable biting insects start using our limbs as dart boards.
And then it is time for another airport, another airplane heading west. Our next flight will carry us over the Rockies and down to Lower Mainland BC…
*Photos of artwork from WAG-Qaumajuq in Winnipeg, a fascintating gallery shaped like a slice of cake, taken by the One & Only.
According to an article I have been reading on line there were once about 30 to 60 million buffalo roaming across the Prairies and through woodlands of North America. Although, in fact, they were probably bison, as the buffalo is native to Africa and Asia. Today, you can knock off around four zeros to calculate the number roaming free in Canada. Overhunted in the nineteenth century, they were facing extinction. Luckily, thanks to projects to reintroduce them, there are now about 2,200 Plains Bison and about 11,000 Wood Bison roaming wild in Canada.We haven’t seen any yet, but then again, until today, we have been hovering around Toronto and the suburbs, where we have only spotted small fry: buckets of tree squirrels, ground squirrels and chipmunks.
And I have been getting déjà vu. It is more than thirty years since we last travelled to Canada. We arrived in the early weeks of a chilly Spring, with an infant daughter asleep on the back seat of an old green Chevy Caprice that we planned to drive across to the west coast. Today, we are sitting in the same living room of the same friends we visited all those years ago, and no time seems to have passed at all, except that our infant daughter now has one of her own. And this time we have decided to fly across the country instead of having to spend countless hours crossing the prairies by car. In the meantime, we are heading north for a day of exploring a more rural Ontario. Hopefully, too, we’ll find a breath of fresh air, as it is incredibly muggy in Newmarket. And perhaps a buffalo or two?
Rosemont. This small, wayside hamlet is the home of a well-known local restaurant, The Globe. Originally, this lovely old building was a regular staging post, where weary passengers, drivers and horses could have a well- earned rest from bouncing over the rough country roads. Exploring the internet, I discovered that the hotel was established in 1859, and even found an article about the number of ghosts residing there. Today, we will meet the man who helped to establish it as an iconic restaurant and put Rosemont on the map. Although he no longer cooks for the restaurant, he is keen to cook for us at home. A chef of suitably rotund build, Arthur Needles worked at the Globe for well over thirty years, so he is well connected in the area, and – before feeding us – took us on a Cooks Tour (literally) of his neighbourhood.
Our first stop, only a few minutes from his house on the outskirts of Rosemont, is at Maple Grove Farm and Market in Mulmur, Ontario, owned by the Wallace Family. This popular spot consists of a renowned bakery, a café, and a shop selling locally made and locally grown produce, including their own delicious strawberries. We get a brief peek behind the scenes, when Arthur introduces us to the baker, who is busily whipping up fresh scones filled with fresh, but slightly damaged raspberries and white chocolate.
It is something I am rapidly discovering about North Americans: everything is garnished. Usually with sugar, maple syrup or some other sweetener. I understand at last the influence behind the Filipino sweet tooth! Roaming the wide aisles of a local supermarket, I discover a plethora of flavours for every product, and struggle to find a box of plain black tea, or a sausage without a dozen added extras. Soda water has a hundred fruity flavours, and mayonnaise a million iterations. Add to the enormous volume of packaged, preserved food a propensity to jump in a car for every minor chore and suddenly, the modern obesity issue makes sense. Although I must admit the last factor is understandable. Local roads are as wide as English motorways. And the strip malls stretch for miles. In this humidity, or through winter snow, who would choose to walk?
However, the day is sunny, we are in a farmyard, not a retail park, and all the produce here is freshly made or grown. Wandering through the barn-sized store, we gaze upon trays of cookies, cakes and the quintessentially Canadian speciality, butter tarts. And surprise, surprise, the butter tart is a rich, super-sweet dessert: a pastry cup filled with corn syrup and caramelized brown sugar, eggs and butter. For me, a dollop of cream or some pecan nuts added to the mixture is vital to cut the incredible sweetness, but it’s a firm favourite with Canadians, and is often adapted to regional or personal tastes.
For the more savoury toothed gourmand, there are sausage rolls and sandwiches, cheese bread, artisan pizzas and home-made quiches, some of which we will enjoy later for lunch. Local producers sell their pickles and preserves, fresh meat and fresh vegetables.
Maple Grave market was established five years ago. It is a labour of love, according to Chris Wallace, a place where he can sell his fresh produce direct to the consumer. Starting out as an engineer, the land he grew up on called Chris home in 2004, when he and his wife Robyn bought a property near his parents farm. Here, they have raised their five kids, and here they grow strawberries and soy beans, sweet corn, field corn and straw for the horses that are bred and trained in the neighbourhood.
Loading us into the family ‘bus’ Chris has kindly taken time out of his busy day – the grass needs harvesting today, but he must wait for it to dry off from the morning dew before he can start – to show us over his property. As we pass the various crops, Chris explains the process of growing and harvesting each one.
We admire row upon row of strawberry plants and hear about the complicated process of growing strawberries that will continue to produce fruit throughout the year – or at least until Thanksgiving. We learn that the straw produced for livestock consists of alfalfa (lucerne) and Timothy grass, a primary source of fibre in a horse’s diet. Originally from Europe, Timothy is now popular in Canada, where it is grown predominantly in Manitoba.
And the difference between field corn and sweet corn? Sweet corn has a higher sugar content, picked before the natural sugar has a chance to turn into starch, and is still plump, sweet and juicy. Field corn is taller, tougher and dented. Popular for animal feed, it needs to be milled for human consumption, before being converted into corn syrup, corn flakes, cornflour or corn chips.
We also pop in to say hello to some of Chris’s herd of cows, but sadly I don’t get to meet Isla and Fiona, their new Highland calves that I have noted on their Facebook page. These smooth coated, creamy cows are currently camping with Ken, a neighbouring farmer who leases out a paddock or two, while producing maple syrup on the rest. Ken points out the forests of maple trees beyond the house, interspersed with the skeletons of several dead trees. These are ash trees, deciduous trees that can live up to a hundred years. Yet they are being systematically destroyed by the emerald ash borer, a species of East Asian wood-boring beetles which have killed millions of trees in Canada alone.
On a happier note, Ken teaches us about the production of maple syrup. Although not quite the iconic product in Australia that it has become in North America, we are nonetheless delighted to take away a small sample. Canada produces almost all the world’s maple syrup – 88% of it coming from Quebec, according to Ken. No wonder the maple tree has become the national emblem and its jagged leaf takes its place at the centre of the Canadian flag. In Canada, maple syrup must be made of pure maple sap, with none of the ‘added extras’ that may be used in the States, and the syrup must have a specific density to be marketed as maple syrup. Nonetheless, many Americans prefer the imitation corn syrups because they are both sweeter and cheaper.
On the way home, we drop by to inspect the local fire station, with its four huge and shiny fire trucks. Apparently Art was a volunteer here for many years, and he is keen to introduce us to Captain Mike and his new drone for spotting fires, and Fireman Andy, who shows us round the station and introduces us to the complicated procedure of fighting country fires.
Then it is home to Art’s house, overlooking a verdant hillside, where a cool breeze blows away the heat of the day, and the local cheese bread melts in our mouths and goes beautifully with a crisp, dry rosé. We don’t spot any bison, but Art is keen on ‘birding’, so perhaps we can settle in for a spot of bird watching instead…
But no, we are off again. This time to talk books and cooking around the kitchen table with Art’s brother, Dan, and Dan’s wife Heath, while we try out some snappy Canadian gins. Dan Needles is a local author and playwright. Think along the lines of James Herriott. Dan is no vet, but he loves living in the country. We talk at length about the years he travelled and worked in Australia. Later I read about travel experiences in France and British Columbia, speech writering for a Canadian politician and a popular newspaper column. How he took his columns and created a long-running TV series about the fictional Wingfield Farm. And those columns are now in book form, one of which I am reading with glee. (It’s always good to have something to read aloud to the One & Only on a long car trip!)
Heath, too, has a story to tell. As we sip on a lilac-coloured gin, she shows me photos of many of the glorious wedding cakes she made in her large over-crowded kitchen. And sip lilac-coloured gin. Empress 1908 Indigo Gin is made by Victoria Distillers, and it is a nod to the legendary Fairmont Empress Hotel in Victoria, British Columbia. Combining a classic Empress tea, a handful of botanicals, and of course a splash of gin, they claim to have created ‘a unique gin that pairs traditional juniper notes of a London Dry with a modern flavour profile.’ It is certainly very easy to drink on a hot afternoon, as the dogs mooch around our feet, and the volume rises…
…Until we are dragged away by the wonderful and ever-enthusiastic Arthur, who had made plans for our dinner by the pool, with his lovely wife Linda and a large, friendly Weimaraner with a craving for steak…
A superb end to a fascinating adventure, and many thanks to our wondrous and hospitable hosts.
*With thanks, too, to the One & Only for his photos, and with apologies to Maple Grove Farm for cheekily borrowing the snap of their gorgeous Highland cows.
I went and looked at one of these great cathedrals one day, and I was blown away by it. From there I became interested in how cathedrals were built … interested in the society that built the medieval cathedral. It occurred to me … that the story of the building of a cathedral could be a great popular novel. ~ Ken Follett
The Golden Age of cathedral building began in the 11th century, hot on the heels of the Norman invasion of Britain in 1066. The Normans were a bunch of French brigands from across the English Channel. I learned something else today, however. The Normans were, in fact, a blend of Norse and Norman. Danish Vikings, who invaded Normandy in the 10th century, adopted the culture and language of the French, while continuing the tradition of their Viking ancestors as mercenaries and adventurers. Landing at Hastings in October 1066, they defeated the last Anglo-Saxon King, Harold Godwinson, with a single arrow to the eye. The Norman conqueror was crowned King William I in London, on Christmas Day. He quickly decided that the best way to subjugate the rebellious Saxons was to overwhelm them with the impressive size of the castles and churches he could build.
Thus began a period of prolific construction, sturdy castles and vast cathedrals popping up all over the British Isles, to prove that these Norman conquerors had the financial and spiritual muscle to call the shots and were not going to be easily swept aside. Previously unheard of in Britain, one thousand castles were built in strategic positions up and down the country within two hundred years. Cathedrals, too, in Canterbury and Chichester, Durham and Gloucester, to name but a few. The competition was on, as newly appointed Norman bishops competed to build the largest churches and the tallest spires. While some collapsed under the pressure, Salisbury won the race, and still has the tallest spire in England at more than 400 feet.
And yet, it is not simply about the size, but about the imagination, the skill, the faith and the creativity that goes into making these monuments to God.
This summer, as we roam through an exceptionally chilly English summer, we have often found ourselves wandering through yet another mediaeval cathedral. It hasn’t been intentional, but cathedrals seem to have become something of a theme. Last year, the One and Only walked between Winchester and Salisbury, and along the Pilgrim’s Way to Canterbury. This year, he has been to St Paul’s Cathedral for the first time, finally succumbing to the outrageous entrance fee that helps to keep this iconic building in one piece. We also popped into Ely Cathedral, for which we have long had a soft spot. We passed by Lincoln Cathedral as we headed north, but there were others to be found in Sheffield, Birmingham, Hereford and Bristol. However, the highlight so far is Wells Cathedral. In fact, I am writing this in the Crown Inn as the One and Only watches Denmark draw with England at soccer.
Before he realized that tonight’s match started at the same time as the service, he had agreed to accompany me to evensong at the Cathedral. We rarely go to church these days, but, in England, it has become a special treat. Last week, we were in Birmingham, too busy trying to find a pint and a wind-free suntrap in this chilly city to do more than offer a passing nod to their baroque Cathedral – summer, my foot, I’ve had to buy a thick, woolly jumper – but we did find a dear little church beside a moated manor, in which to warble a hymn or two.
Tonight is a different matter. The Vicars’ Choir is singing Evensong in Wells Cathedral, and we are invited to sit right behind a row of choristers in the northern choir stalls. How eleven choristers could produce enough volume to make the psalms rise to the top of that vaulted roof proves that not only are those voices beautifully trained, but that the acoustics are superb. Their voices filled the choir stalls with ease. Luckily, no one has invited us to join in and spoil the effect. (As a wondrous bonus, just before the service began, we watched the local high school was rehearsing for a performance of Romeo and Juliet in the Lady Chapel, accompanied by the school orchestra. I can only say that the cello gave me goosebumps.)
***
A few miles down winding country lanes hemmed in lush hedgerows lies the city of Bath. Bath does not have a Cathedral, but an Abbey. What is the difference? Well, an Abbey was once a monastery, the home of nuns or monks. A cathedral is the principal church of a regional diocese, the seat of a bishop, attended by local parishioners. Bath Abbey, however, did get converted from a Benedictine Abbey to a Cathedral, although it has been the Anglican parish church since 1572. Confused? Me too! Yet, despite its perplexing nomenclature, Bath Abbey is worth its entry fee – especially if you toss in the tour of the tower.
Here, in 973 AD, Archbishops Dunstan of Canterbury and Oswald of York crowned Edgar the King of all England in the Saxon Abbey. Since then, the headline act among Bath’s religious community has been rebuilt and abandoned, demolished and renovated countless times over the centuries.
The nave of the Abbey is awash with memorials to illustrious citizens of Bath, mostly those who inhabited the town during the 17th and 18th centuries. On the walls there are 635 mural monuments, while on the floor, there are 891 ledgerstones (two new words for the day) including one containing ‘the complicated dust of the Reverend Charles Hoskyns’, with no explanation as to what made his dust so complex. One very extravagant memorial to ‘Sir Philip Frowde, knight’, is topped by a bewigged bust – presumably of said knight – with skulls engraved into his eyeballs! Others chose to commemorate their loved ones in stained glass. A chatty guide is eager to show me one such window that depicts, among other memorabilia, the coat of arms of each of the colonies in which that family had served: Canada, South Africa, India, New Zealand and Australia. This last panel shows an early version of the escutcheon on the recently federated Australia’s coat of arms. Containing the heraldic badges of each state, most nod to their commonwealth status. Apart from two. Western Australian flaunts the native black swan, while South Australia’s piping shrike or magpie warbles to the rising sun.
Onwards and upwards. Leaving our bags at the foot of the 212 steps we must climb to the top, we set off with our two guides, to explore behind the scenes. Bath Abbey has ten bells, including a tenor bell which, at 1.7 tonnes, is the weight of a full grown female rhino. Big Ben, once the largest bell in the British Isles, was long outdone by “Great Paul”, the 17-tonne bell in St Paul’s Cathedral, that cast in 1881. Ethel may not be a lightweight compared with ‘Great Paul’, but she still needs two people to ring her. Our guides regretfully refrain from giving us a performance, but they do show us how the clapper strikes the inside of the bell as it swings. Having recently stayed with bellringing cousins in Yorkshire and learned the lingo, I am delighted to see these ones in action.
Henry VIII apparently sold off the six original bells of Bath Abbey to Spain during the dissolution of the monasteries, when the newly divorced king was trying to fund his expensive lifestyle. Boat and bells sadly sank in the English Channel. (Perhaps the Armada was sent to retrieve them?)
We clamber cautiously through a low door – not because people were shorter, but because the parishioners were stingy, according to our irreverent guide, Summer – to view the vaulted ceilings inside out, and peer through a tiny hole into the nave. Tourists stand far below and I long for a handy acorn.
We also get to see the back of church clock facing north towards the Guildhall and the market place. Originally, the clock and its very heavy mechanism were set too high up the tower, and the weight cracked the tower, so that the clock had to be reset lower down. Now run on electricity, in the past the clock required winding manually, every day, for decades. Our guide explained how one man kept the clock going for forty years. And when the clocks went forward an hour for British Summer Time or backwards in winter for Greenwich Mean Time, Fred would either have to hold onto the mechanism for an hour because you couldn’t turn it backwards, or turn it forward by eleven hours. (Don’t quote me on that, I am a bit blurry on the story line.)
Another narrow spiral staircase not made for size six feet, and we are on the roof of the nave, watching the buskers performing in the squares to the south and west of the Abbey. Eventually, breathless and hobbling – where have they hidden the defibrillator? – I make it to the top of the tower, where the view is definitely worth the effort. Bath is a UNESCO world heritage city, and from this vantage point, you can see why. On this calm sunny afternoon (at last!) we have plenty of time to admire the beautiful 18th century Palladian architecture dressed in honey-coloured Bath stone, designed by father and son architects John Wood the Elder and John Wood the Younger. Clambering down the spiral staircase far more quickly than we went up, my head is spinning by the time I reach the bottom, and I am more than happy to cross the square for a Chardonnay, to pass the time till the One & Only returns from hiking through the surrounding hills.
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I have been waxing lyrical about the National Trust for the past few months, as we made plans to travel through the UK. The National Trust – in case you haven’t heard me mention it before – is a charity for heritage conservation in England, Wales and Northern Ireland, (Scotland has its own version, like its own government). Perhaps best known for its preservation of great estates and country houses, it also protects land, coastline and wildlife. Armed with my trusty membership card (pardon the pun) I intended to visit every property we passed, signposted with the ubiquitous oakleaf emblem. Luckily, when I discovered to my horror I had left my card on my desk in South Australia, the One & Only had pocketed his, so we are still on track.
The National Trust is probably the most effective and successful socialist step that Britain has ever taken for its people, and we have three significant individuals to thank for its creation. Octavia Hill was a dedicated social reformer, keen to alleviate poverty in the UK and provide open spaces for the poor. Sir Robert Hunter, a solicitor, was also interested in the conservation of public spaces. Hardwicke Drummond Rawnsley was an Anglican priest, poet, local politician and conservationist. In 1893 these three friends agreed to set up a national body to acquire vulnerable properties and preserve them for the nation. The Trust was founded on January 12, 1895 as the “National Trust for Places of Historic Interest or Natural Beauty”, which is still its legal name.
Since 1895, the National Trust has grown enormously in members, funds, land and properties. Large areas in the Lakes District, the Peak District and along the Devon and Cornwall Coast were donated to or bought by the Trust through the 1920s and 30s. After World War II the National Land Fund was set up by the government as a “thank-offering for victory”, using money from the sale of surplus war stores to acquire property in the national interest. The scheme also allowed for historic houses and land that was left to the government in payment of death duties to be transferred to the Trust.
From 1970-2000, Trust membership numbers rose from 160,000 to over two million thanks in part to improved public relations and regional information officers. Opening of tea rooms and souvenir shops in Trust properties proved another worthwhile fund raising venture during the 1970s. Plays, concerts, and educational activities performed on various properties also encouraged visitors. Many are the Shakespearean plays or concerts we have enjoyed at Standen House, Ightham Mote and beyond over the years. By 2020, the Trust had 5.95 million members, and over 53,000 volunteers.
Today, the National Trust holds almost 250,000 hectares of land and 1,260 km of coastline on behalf of the British people. Its portfolio includes more than 500 historic houses, castles, archaeological and industrial monuments, villages pubs, lighthouses and barns. Financially, it is supported by membership subscriptions, donations and legacies, property income, and profits from its shops, restaurants, and investments. It also receives generous grants from organisations such as the National Lottery Heritage Fund. All this makes The National Trust the largest private landowner in the United Kingdom, providing a vast amount of green space on this small and crowded island, not to mention maintaining pockets of its glorious history for the appreciation of the British people.
Enough waxing. I shall now give you an example of one of the wonderful sites we have visited since we landed here, one I found years ago when the kids were small.
Wimpole Estate in Cambridgeshire consists of a working farm, a Georgian mansion, acres of parkland, a walled garden and a rare breed farm, where the kids can pet the piglets and the enormous Shire horses.
It was a long walk from the carpark, but at this time of year, through lush woodland, it was lovely. We went first to the house, where we were instructed as to how to proceed through the various rooms, and then began the adventure of exploring.
The acres around Wimpole have apparently been farmed since the Iron Age. Since then, it has been through the hands of many wealthy and illustrious families. The earliest map shows a moated medieval manor house within 200 acres of deer park. In the mid-seventeenth century, this was demolished by its owner, Thomas Chicheley, and replaced by a grander, more modern house. Sadly, Chicheley spent so much on its creation that he was forced to sell the entire property in 1686.
Over the next two and a half centuries, the house changed hands about a dozen times, sometimes by heredity, sometimes due to gambling debts or financial strain. At some point, Capability Brown dropped by to landscape the grounds. One resident earl collected a vast library of books and manuscripts that still exists today. Each owner left their mark on the property, by adding a chapel here or a folly there, extending the house or altering the layout. The final private owner was Rudyard Kipling’s only surviving daughter, Elsie. She and her husband, the British diplomat George Bainbridge, bought the estate in 1942, and Elsie used the substantial royalties from her father’s books to refurbish the house. Unfortunately, these were not sufficient to maintain the entire estate, and several buildings had to be demolished, including the east servant’s wing and a part of the Orangery. Never having had children, Elsie bequeathed the property and its contents to the National Trust, who have continued to maintain the property since her death in 1976.
What will I remember later? The library, certainly. Two huge rooms lined with bookshelves that reach to the ceiling, containing 10,000 books. It was designed for the Earl of Oxford by Scottish architect James Gibbs, who designed the Radcliffe Camera in Oxford, and in fact remodelled the entire house at Wimpole in the eighteenth century. The chapel, with its trompe l’oeil murals, was decorated by painter James Thornhill (who decorated the dome at St Paul’s Cathedral) around 1720 in the Italian baroque tradition. The chapel was never consecrated, however, but given the parish church of St Andrew’s is a two minute stroll across the front lawn, it seemed a bit of a needless extravagance anyway!
Lunch was a simple sandwich at the Old Rectory café, although I also succumbed to a piece of medlar cake with clotted cream. A medlar fruit looks similar to a loquat, althought the tree itself is quite different. Shrub-like and deciduous, as opposed to the ever-green loquat tree, the medlar is harvested in winter. Eat medlars too early and you will get a terrible stomach-ache, as they are only edible when over-ripe, or ‘bletted’. Isn’t that a great word? They are granular in texture, with big seeds, like the Philippine chico. Once used medicinally, it can be eaten raw with a spoon, if properly ‘bletted’. It can also be baked, roasted, made into jelly or tarts, or turned into brandy or cider. Or, in this case, a moist cake. We sat in the sun, overlooking the lawns and enjoying a little people-watching, before wandering on to the walled garden through banks of wild grasses and wildflowers.
The walled garden is a particular Wimpole delight. Its walls were constructed of red handmade bricks back in the 1790s and apparently the walls were even heated to keep the peaches warm in case of spring frosts. Its four-and-a-half-acres had been overrun by grass when it was taken on by the National Trust. Restoration began in the early 1990s, and it is now a maze of pathways, espaliered fruit, herbaceous borders and vegetables integrated with colourful floral displays. This giant veggie patch is, of course, organic, producing a broad variety of vegetables and fruit that not only supply the Old Rectory café but is sold to visitors and donated to the Harston Hub Foodbank.
The grand finale of today’s visit was the home farm, where I was able to scratch behind the ears of some gorgeous cream and copper piglets known as Oxford Sandy and Black. The oldest known breed of domesticated British pig, it was almost extinct by the end of the twentieth century. Today, it’s numbers have been restored, and if you have ever watched Clarkson’s Farm, Jeremy has the same breed at Diddley Squat.
Likewise, Wimpole has several rare breeds of cows, sheep and goats. But it is the stately shire horses that tend to get the most attention. There are five of these calm and gentle giants at Wimpole: Murphy, Jasper, Lady, Queenie and Stanley. Generally, the stallions reach about 17 hands
Long popular with farmers as draught horses to pull ploughs, there were once a million Shire horses working the land in Britain. Today, there are fewer than 3,000. A ‘normal’ riding horse typically averages 15 hands in height and will live 20-30 years. Draught horses can live up to 45 years and measure between 16–18 hands – although one exceptional Belgian gelding apparently reached more than twenty. Apparently they can be ridden, but it would take a more flexible rider than I, and a long ladder to reach the saddle!
With thanks to the One & Only and the National Trust website for the photos – although the pigs were far more coppery than they look in this photo!
