Respect

Last night as I was just settling down to sleep I thought "I'll just see what's happening on the other side of the world" and I checked in to read my penfriend Beth's blog -
http//:elizabethkaplan.blogspot.com/

I found a series of very moving posts about the premature death of Jack Layton, leader of Canada's National Democratic Party. He had led his party to prime position to challenge the current Conservative government and he was the great hope of so many in a country which is by long tradition liberal, tolerant and egalitarian.

My first response was that I can't imagine that the UK would come out to show of respect and regret at the passing for any single politician. No-one since John Smith, briefly leader of the Labour Party who died suddenly of a heart attack in 1994, has been held in such universal high esteem.

Last night I wrote all of the above and then accidentally deleted it. Instead I tapped in a brief sentence about the passing of Jack Layton on my Facebook page (PennyJeanRea). This morning my son (TomSmith) replied "I'm still mourning John Smith". So, 17 years on, the good man is remembered by the next generation.

I hope they meet up - John and Jack - over that sunset horizon - and hatch a better plan for us.

Railed in

Upper Wincobank Chapel now has smart new railings and gates, along with well-stocked flowerbeds and silver birch trees to replace the hedges that were stripped out when new houses were built behind the Chapel garden.




The housing construction company KeepMoat, has kindly paid for the work and in a burst of whirlwind activity, a series of contractors turned up over the summer and completed the installation.

There was a Chapel here in 1817, in the coach house of Wincobank Hall and a Sunday School was held in the laundry until this lovely building was opened in 1841 as a Day School for 180 local children. And it is still bursting with life.

Cupboard love

Most cities are proud of their history and consider it an important part of their tourist industry. Sheffield, long known as a socialist stronghold, decided to demolish its castle after the Civil War to discourage any Royalists from sitting out further sieges. The remains are kept in a cupboard below what is known as Castle Market.

This chunk of wall is the only piece accessible to the general public and if you creep through a door and down a staircase into the concrete bunker you can squeeze round it in single file and stroke the stone work lovingly.

My Canadian friends and possibly some Americans would love to have a pile of ancient rubble like this. Perhaps we could just sell it and then we would have more space in the cupboard.

Addressing a problem

My lovely neighbour Alison just came round to help me stash six boxes of books in the loft. I have more unread books than I could possibly read in my lifetime and yet still I buy more. I was trying to explain to her how painful it is to part with my collection of stuff, how trying to make decisions whether to keep or discard the most trivial of items brings tears to my eyes. Alison told me to watch the documentary "Me and My Hoarding Mum" in which a pretty young TV presenter and her two brothers try to persuade their much loved Mum make some space in her home for their younger brother who can't even find space in the bathroom never mind in his bedroom because of her collection of treasures largely puchased from charity shops.

I'm not that bad I thought, then noticed that I have seven address books spread over my kitchen work surface. I also have two more at work and two BlackBerry address books. Even when I transfer addresses I just can't throw the old one away. The psychiatrists on that very sad programme said there is no hope, no cure for hoarding. Doomed I am. Just save me from my children, please.

My babies

Here is my beautiful Rosy and if you look carefully you will see that she is cradling her unborn baby, my first grandchild.

My friend Vicky explained the most miraculous fact that this tiny child was within me even before Rosy was born. As a girl child develops in the womb her eggs are ready waiting to bring the next generation into the world. Ok, I know the fathers have something to do with it all as well, but still ...isn't it all just amazing?

Reality

Home. To glowering grey skies and just a spot of cool rain, to my own little castle on my very special hill, to my tiny garden, a pile of
post, a flashing telephone and the 312 emails I went away from. My lovely neighbour Carolyn had kindly watered my plants and most thoughtfully, had left me fresh milk in the fridge for a nice cup of tea.

I stayed awake long enough to check in with my children and unpack then went to bed and slept for a while before waking up to check my emails to find to my relief that Beth's recall for a second mammogram was a false alarm then I slept for another twelve hours, cosy beneath a fluffy duvet instead of hot beneath a cotton sheet. I am just made for the damp and the cold. I love the rain. I think I must be a direct descendant of the Ancient Britons, made to survive life in a draughty mud hut.

Today I had an important appointment - a Speed Awareness Course, intended to cure me of my occasional tendency to drive faster than the speed limit permits as well as save me three more penalty points. On the last occasion this happened I was in Hertfordshire, visiting my sister. I'm not sure exactly where the misdeed was done, but I noticed neither the signs or the speed camera. I think I will in future.

Packed into our classroom were 24 reluctant participants who were all as vague as me about stopping distances, were equally unaware of the dramatic difference between injuries sustained from impact at 30 and 35 mph and were generally fairly confused about road markings, maximum speeds for various vehicles and unaware even of the meaning of speed when translated into ground covered per second.

It has made me realise how dangerous our roads can be, for both drivers and pedestrians, how easily an accident can happen. I am lucky to have stayed alive so long. It is nearly forty years since I took my driving test. Perhaps it is time for another.

Strawberries in the jam

I am sitting at Toronto Pearson Airport waiting to board my plane home. My head is stuffed with the most wonderful memories and new ideas.

From Montreal we flew to Ottawa to visit to Beth's beautiful mother, her very tall brother Mike and his young and very lively son Jake. And 91 year-old Aunt Doe who seems to have more energy and determination than us all. An inspiring family with many fascinating stories to tell. It was a delight and privilege to meet them all.

Yesterday was just the icing on the cake, each gem of wisdom and experience gleaned from the inspiring writers I met at Beth's Garden Workshop was like a juicy strawberry in the most delicious jam , the taste of which I will remember for years to come. And Beth the most inspiring of teachers, the most honest of writers. I realise how lucky my sister was to have such a penfriend to give her a window on the world and how blessed I am to have had the opportunity to step through the glass into a garden of creativity on the other side of the world. Thank you Beth and thank you to all the new friends I have made.

And now I am going back to find out what the state of play is at home. Watch this space ....

Glenn's garden

I have met some lovely people on this adventure and here is the wonderful Glenn.

Despite never having met either Beth or myself before, Glenn ( who is a friend of the Louise who came with us to Niagara Falls), offered us free accommodation in the self-contained apartment on the first floor of his home in Montreal. Not only accommodation in a luxurious apartment containing a spectacular potted fern with at least a six foot canopy, but also a dip in his cool and sparkling pool.

Over a meal of sushi in his favourite restaurant he allowed us a moving insight into his life. Thinking himself doomed to a single life he met his beloved partner Jean-Pierre at an HIV conference only to lose him after an unsuccessful battle with cancer. To live in the shadow of AIDS and die from cancer seems a particularly cruel twist, but nevertheless Glenn somehow remains positive. Despite his loss and his own difficulties, the sun still shines and in his beautiful garden the flowers bloom. I wish you much more love Glenn. Take care.

Shady City

This city has the best of two worlds: the exotic attraction of the south of France and the easy friendliness of Canada. A walk through the Latin Quarter, China Town, Gay Village and Victorian style shady avenues, it reminds me of a great theme park.

Once, French speaking Montreal was a bastion of Catholicism, but the sixties swept in on a tide of free love, contraception and tolerance. Religion was was pushed aside for new values.

Now there is apprehension that a right-wing government is on its way that will challenge past liberalism. For the time being though life is easy-going, culture is rich and accommodation is still reasonably affordable. And in the summer at least, the sun shines over Montreal.

Training

We have been travelling by train. Union Station Toronto, has the calm ordered feel of an airport with its boarding queues and check in. Once on the train each passenger is courteously seated by attentive staff.

No standing room on these trains despite the spacious carriages. A stewardess came to show us how to break the emergency exit window and sick bags are provided. Rolling gently through suburbs and settlements, following the line of the great lake, the giant train hooted and tooted from major to minor in a continuous lament as it skimmed over unattended crossings and drew up at stations without platforms where passengers climbed down onto enormous portable step stools.

I am not complaining. Our British network has many tentacles and a multiplicity of routes. As we saw on a BBC TV documentary Britain from the Air, the rush hour is a phenomenal logistical exercise for a complex service running on Victorian lines. The dimensions of the rolling stock restricted by bridges, tunnels and platform length. This is simply another experience that makes me reflect that there are other ways of doing everything and sometimes it is the small things that make a big difference.

Beautiful Bourbon

I am not generally a doggy person, my only puppy experience many years ago having been fraught and misguided. The wonderful Bourbon, despite his own difficult puppyhood, was impeccably behaved and won my heart. He allowed me to sleep undisturbed on the bed settee in his lounge whilst he quietly lay on his own bed from the moment his owner and trainer Lani said goodnight until she signalled that he could arise next morning.

Mind you, I would probably do exactly as Lani bid as she is a redoubtable no nonsense woman who will not be swayed, whether into eating vegetables (a lifetime horror), or allowing her lovely husband Maurice to succumb to the throat cancer from which he has just been given the all clear.

Maurice is a sculptor and wood-carver. He has also just recovered from a badly broken hand managing to avoid the usual pins and plates and regaining full control of his smashed fingers. Maurice cooked for us the post tender pork marinaded in coffee grounds (a cowboy recipe, making the most of left-overs), divine and sophisticated vegetable dishes and the most pure, light corn on the cob I have ever tasted, bought straight from the field.

Food for Thought

As it happened, there was a bit of a theme running through the three shows and the talk that we were booked in to.

I last saw the powerful rock opera Jesus Christ Superstar in about 1972 and was glad that it still retained its hippy tinge. In the interval I found myself trying to give Beth, who is half Jewish, a brief synopsis of the life, times and work of JC.

The following day we listened to Ghandi Peace Prize winner Dr Izzeldin Abuelaish talking about his campaign for an end to hate, for the education of women and for the world to understand the terrible plight of the Palistinian refugees who are virtually imprisoned in the Gaza strip. I felt I was hearing the same message as from the day before and with it a challenge to stand up and be counted. If you don't know what to believe, go and see for yourself, he said. And then tell the world.

John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath, masterfully adapted by Frank Galati, follows the Joad family, turned off their Oklahoma land, heading west to the the land of plenty. Their story of idealism, disappointment, hardship and desperation is tragic. Referred to by others as "Okies" they are dismissed as dirty, lazy and ignorant. I could not help but think of the many asylum seekers risking all for safety to be so shamefully treated in my own country.

So what I wondered, would Titus Andronicus add to this maelstrom of emotions? One of Shakespeare's earliest plays, some say his worst, some say not his at all, it is a tale of relentless revenge, each atrocity building on the last until it is impossible to see any reason in the dying. Despite the many mutilations and murders, all the gore was saved for poor Lavinia, raped, her hands cut off and tongue ripped out. But still she named her violators and they were brought down, served up as a dainty dish for their mother. And for why? Because the same foreign mother's son had been sacrificed and she wrought a terrible revenge.

A familiar story.

Stratford Ontario

The British immigrants who settled along the north of the USA border brought their country with them.

Loyalists who did not want to share American independence dedicated patches of the the New World to the memory of the home.

Stratford lies on a landscape flatter than the rolling hills of England but with an Avon river every bit as beautiful as its namesake. The Shakespeare Festival has grown from theatre in a tent to a season of inspiring world class productions in a network of state of the art venues, drawing audiences from across North America to this small rural town.

Aspiration Alley

On our way to the train station we cut through a most wonderful space. Hanging from the soaring archways were a series of banners with words of advice, encouragement and challenge. A series of photo panels carried the words of some of the great personalities of our generation.
Willie Nelson: Be here. Be present. Wherever you are,be there."
Vanessa Redgrave: "The most important thing to treasure, to be defended and advocated and followed scrupulously, is international human rights law, as being the highest law there is to date, superseding sovereignty"
Nelson Mandela: There are few misfortunes in this world that you cannot turn into a personal triumph if you have the iron will and the necessary skill. It is what we make out of what we have, not what we are given that separates one person from another."

Then on to Stratford and four more portions of food for thought....

Mother and Son

All week I have been meeting Beth's friends and she has many amazing friends, just as I do.

Today we made our excursion to Niagara Falls in a Mini, owned by Louise and driven by her lovely son Corey.That was very kind of them as it is a long way and Beth no longer owns a car having become a serious cycle commuter. What is extraordinary is that Louise and Corey have only known each other for a month as he was adopted by another family at birth, 46 years ago, when Louise was 16. And, apart from the obvious differences in size and age, they are like twins, so alike in body and soul it is uncanny.

Louise is a bright and sunny person who travels the globe to talk about HIV and community health care. She wears yellow, has blue fingernails and doesn't like water, but we all went out on the boat together. She said she hadn't done this with her son before. To catch up with 46 years of motherhood is a quite a challenge.

Misty Maid made it

The Falls are an amazing misty marvel that mankind has failed to diminish with the gaudy trappings of tourism. You can stop over at a Travelodge that seems to be an integral part of a Haunted House, ride the ghost train with the Pirates of the Caribbean or venture into the foaming jaws of the Horseshoe Falls where last week a woman slipped in, some time ago an eight year old boy survived being swept over the top in just his bathing trunks and water wings and a 62 year-old woman made the same journey in a barrel.

We donned our regulation blue rain macs and fearlessly rode one of the many Maids of the Mist deep into the spray. The boat which seemed a reasonable size when we boarded was as nothing more than a toy when tossed and pitched by the torrent of water pounding down onto the rocks. But Health & Safety rules, and we live to shake off the water, to tell the tale and to buy a sparkling souvenir snow globe.

Sunday lunch

In the rustic Rectory Restaurant on Wards Island, we lunched. Seizing an opportunity which may never come my way again I ordered a bison burger which was delightfully juicy. Neither this, nor the very tasty beef burger I ate for supper this evening, resemble any burger I have ever eaten. My failure as a vegetarian is complete.

This delightful eatery is where Beth's son Sam had worked for several summers and it felt like we were given extra special treatment. It was a shame then that I completely miscalculated the bill and underpaid by ten dollars, a fact brought to our attention by the flustered waiter who returned to seek us out as we were leaving. I really can't take me anywhere.

To the islands

Toronto lies on the northern shore of Lake Ontario.

One of the founding fathers was Colonel John Graves Simcoe, a British officer who had fought in the American War of Independence and who, according to the Short History of Ontario that I am currently reading, regarded the American victory an unfortunate outcome that gave the rabble majority supemacy over the educated elite.

Simcoe was a relative of philanthropist John Graves after whom the Art Gallery above Sheffield Central Library is named, which may account for the Yorkshire flavour of the settlement (originally named York), with its Rivers Don and Humber. It adopted the native name of Toronto in 1834.

The city, with its impressive skyline, has crept to the very brink of the waterfront, so pleasure seekers must take the ferry out to the nearby islands which have been designated a no car zone dedicated to the wholesome business of recreation.

On Sunday, Beth and I set out early to beat the rush. We were on the ferry by 9.30am and cycling through the manicured parkland by 10am. It is a measure of this egalitarian community that there is one beach for naturists, another where clothing is optional and a third at the opposite end of the island with clothing mandatory. My squeamishness made me opt for the latter, not out of consideration for my neighbouring bathers but to preserve in my mind the hopeful ideal of perfection. Besides which, I burn easily.

Which way?

I am at a crossroads. I can take the road to Niagara Falls and see a wonder of the world or I could set out on the bleak trek north and hope that eventually I will find Father Christmas in his igloo and the North Polar Bear outside. Then again I could take the more straightforward options of Halifax or Vancouver.

It is not everyday one has such destinations to ponder, but often the scale of choice is as enormous. Will I remain in my well paid job and enjoy sensational splendours or pack my thermol underwear and head out on the less trod path? Perhaps I will just settle for the simple life and bake cakes.

The stunning paintings of the Group of Seven who set out to capture the magnificence of the Canadian wilderness, are working their magic. Nature is beckoning me away from civilisation, maybe just to sit on my own wooded hilltop and play with paint. Much depends, of course, on whether the promised letter of contract renewal is on my doormat when I return home. There are always other options. It's just that some are more comfortable than others.

Upmarket

Great excitement - I have a comment on my last blog from my firstborn, so I must respond. He asks - did we go into the market? We did indeed and it was a sublime experience - not the cheap and cheerful four caulies for a pound market of East Enders nor even the east meets west of Sheffield's unique three storey Castle Market. No, this is quite the place to be seen in your Saturday best.

In this temple of spotless shiny floors, smart shopfronts, bright light and polite queues, lobsters floundered in a smeary tank, clawing their way down to the bottom of the heap in a forlorn attempt to escape the delving hand. The meat smelt fresh, the fruit glistened, the bagels tasted good and the salami was expensive.

It was a truly aesthetic experience but for some things, I am told, it is still best to shop at No Frills.