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.

A shiny day

Saturday. a bright and shiny day. This is a city of devilish geometry, quiet alien to me. When I downloaded a city map before I came I quickly closed the file in fear. No cosy crescents or winding lanes here, just a logical grid. No roundabouts, but there are scary "all direction" crossroads where turn taking comes into its own. There is no clear priority or right of way, precedence is a matter of who stopped first.

Like Sydney, it is a city of towers of gleaming glass that dwarf the few remaining heritage buildings of the 1800s, but the streets seem wider and the street car rails are mesmerising. At home we have dinky little platforms from which to board, but here you must stride with confidence into the middle of the road.


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The colour of black

10.30am on my first day in Toronto and we are in AGO, the Art Gallery of Ontario, tuning in to the troubled souls of the departed Abstract Expressionists.

Standing in front of Barnett Newman's "Abraham", I found myself back to the art room of my A' Level school studies, in debate on the concept of colour in black. Newman spent two weeks wrestling with reason, plucking up courage, before transferring his vision onto canvas. Then, the galleries refused to display it. Now, it is recognised as a masterpiece of great and soothing sublety (look carefully). It is a lesson for those who dare to think differently. Just do it.

Cabbagetown

I am staying at the home of my Beth, a penfriend quite literally inherited from my sister Barbara.

By an extraordinary set of circumstances, mystical or magical, Beth decided to contact my family on the day my mother died, nearly forty years after my sister had died. And that is why I am here in Canada, at her home in Cabbagetown, downtown Toronto.

Beth has planned for me the most wonderful fortnight of cultural activity, with time to read and to write, to meet her friends and family. These things I love to do, and Barbara walks with me.

Checking out the check-in

Manchester Airport 8.45am and I am first in the queue. My stay awake all night strategy paid off and now, at 11am I am through security and sitting in a big comfy armchair with free Wi-Fi, trying to stay awake so that I don't miss Boarding altogether. Fortunately, I banked some extra sleep on Tuesday night when I came home from our end of term meal and fell into bed at 8.30pm . Well, end of term for me - but a wedding and a farewell to celebrate and a good reason to wind down.
Back at the Sheffield Ranch the team will be under siege from thousands of enthusiastic children wanting their Children's University passports. So, leaving chaos in my wake, I can't wait to fly off overseas. Escape ! Freedom ! Sleep...