Minnie’s Musings

Random ramblings of a middle aged, middle class, middle income woman

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  • Tis My Mission for Today

    To finish the Algonquin section of our holiday.

    Having just driven home through the late evening sunshine down winding country lanes with my back turned firmly away from the travesty that is HS2… I mused on our adventure on a random trail just off Highway 60 which goes through this particular provincial park which is dotted by lakes and happy campers who tie up their food bags in order not to tempt the bears.

    Best Beloved and I were in need of stretching our legs and the temperature had dropped from a heat wave to moderately sticky. We all piled in the car and pottered north where we found a visitor centre and a selection of trails clearly signposted for difficulty.

    The dog was excited by all the smells and people. I was excited by the prospect of consuming a large burger and fries which I could work off with a stroll through the woods.

    We found a walk that said it took 2.5 hours but wasn’t massively far at 5km. Best Beloved and I decided it was easily doable in 1.5 hours, which we loudly announced to the present company.

    The terrain was moderate but not difficult and the park provided a very useful and interesting guide to the flora and fauna we might see. Off we set.

    Well we got behind within the first hundred yards as we were reading the leaflet so thoroughly and we were not being dragged along by an over excited mutt who wanted to EXPLORE….

    We caught up only because my sister got a nasty bout of vertigo on a wobbly wooden bridge and had to turn back. Assuring them that we would return within an hour so, we set off over the same bridge and scaled the rocks on t’other side. Which rather reminded me of a similar expedition when Best Beloved hauled me up Kinder Scout (by the back of my trousers at various points).

    We had a lovely time reading the leaflet and discussing the flora. We found tiny frogs camouflaged as fallen leaves on the path and listened out for the sound of rustling leaves. Best Beloved because he wanted to see black squirrels; me because I did not want to see a black bear…. make a lot of noise and thrown stones and branches at it. Failing that, run.

    We climbed up a short but steep slope, learning that the most important critters to the eco-system are the smallest and that the trees changed the further they got away from acidic, sandy or silty soil. I stopped to take pictures with my app which identifies plants. Best Beloved likes to point at leaves and say “Can you see what that is…?” as I think his memory is consumed by his tweeting app.

    Down another very steep slope – aided by Best Beloved who learned some time ago that it is easier to pause and proffer a helping hand than wait for me to fall on my bottom (or flat on my face) which requires infinitely greater effort to get me back on my feet – we came across a ‘dead’ pond which is so acidic there are no fish at all. This is to the benefit of critters that are eaten by said fish, who bathe in their acid baths to their hearts content.

    Our only criticism of the leaflet was it was rather rude about the alder. It considered them to be unattractive. The alder is interesting because it has golden nodules on their roots specifically designed to do extract nutrients. At least that is what I think it said (must look it up before pressing ‘Publish’).

    Anyway we mozied (sp?!) back to the car to the sound of my sister shrieking “They’re here!” (that’s uncharitable, she was calling out, loudly). Somewhat disconcerted by the panic in her voice I checked my watch. Okay, so 1.5 hours was a tad optimistic…. We drove back to the cottage in the late afternoon sun…

  • Paddling Your Own Canoe

    The cottage came with two kayaks and a paddle boat as well as a box full of life jackets.

    There was some debate over using this equipment. I forget what the issue was but it culminated in my rather testy observation that I was the one with the certificate so I could be trusted with a paddle and plastic dingy.

    As stated previously, Best Beloved did swim for Middlesex and still has a good strong crawl and life saving skills. He didn’t feel the need for a life jacket and set forth the following morning to recce the lake. He found a duck and her sole remaining duckling sitting on a protruding log which he took a picture of.

    I am less confident and struggle to breathe without a snorkel but I did put myself through one-to-one private lessons a few years back to get rid of bad habits developed over the years since my father flung me in the municipal pool in Montignac in the early 70s and told me to “kick, kick, kick”. So I fished out a life jacket, adjusted the straps and sallied forth.

    What a wonderful time I had paddling around the glassy waters to view the neighbours outdoor furniture and peer through the reed beds in search of wildlife. I was told where to find the duck and her duckling but I think they got scared off by the exuberant American’s two docks up. I was careful to monitor the depth of the water to avoid beaching, identified pretty water lilies as flowers rather than the feathers of some unfortunate bird and kept my somewhat ridiculous cloth hat in place with a string.

    My sister – as sisters do – found my cloth hat to be worthy of a bout snorted laughing as she considered it to be ridiculous. I put this down to jealousy and her own lack of hat. Mine may have lost some of its body by going through the wash one too many times, but it has a paisley lining and fits like a glove. She always wanted my black knee boots from Schu on Oxford Street too.

  • Travel Diary: Off We Go!

    So, it helps to remember to set an alarm instead of relying on a third party to realise you are sound asleep at the appointed hour of departure.

    After a lifetime of getting up, suiting and booting at speed, we were in the car not 20 minutes later. Whisking around the motorway through more scarlet circles of doom we eyed the ticking clock and I worried that our hand held scales for luggage weighing were not as accurate as I hoped.

    What I assumed was standard not-a-mornings-person blues from our youngest in the back seat (present for purposes of taking the car home) turned into she-might-actually-be-sick rustling of plastic carrier bag.

    As said youngest is not a child and is perfectly capable of sorting herself out, one felt one could leave her to fend for herself so we left her on the top floor of the car park in the early morning sunshine as we rushed off to find our departure gate. Once through bag drop and security check-in (what my hair scissors were doing in my make-up bag, I have no idea, why does this always happen to me…) we had breakfast and went to find a seat in the departure lounge.

    I began to fret. The fourth heatwave of the Summer was getting going and there was no water bottle in the car. I rang our youngest. She really was quite ill. And it wasn’t drink (she doesn’t). And it can’t have been food poisoning as we had eaten together. I told her to drink clear liquids and have a nap. And then gave her long, detailed and extremely firm instructions on how and when to pull over on a motorway safely.

    I fretted some more and then texted my friend and asked her to check on youngest as we were about to get on the plane and I was worried. As mothers around the world will testify, we are prone to creeping worry and my worry was creeping at a considerable and not particularly petty pace.

    I sighed with grateful relief when friend texted back shortly thereafter, announcing “they” would jump in the car in half an hour, for which read getting husband out of bed, letting the dog out and filling up on coffee before galivanting to the rescue.

    On landing across The Pond, I discovered that the journey back had involved a two hour traffic jam on the M25 which made me feel extremely guilty, but also a good long chat and catch up for two out of the three traffic-jamees which partially ameliorated said guilt.

    We do these things for each others children. It is a function of living opposite each other for the majority of their childhoods, in a quiet close where duvets and pillows can be dragged over the road for sleepovers and keys to the front door are exchanged. It is also the flip side to “Of course, I know nothing…” grumbling as they progress through their teenage years which is but a small price to pay in advance of grandchildren who go home at the end of the day.

  • Without Which I Cannot See

    At some point one of the two of us knocked my glasses into the lake where they sunk seemingly without a trace. In my book this was not down to me as I had carefully placed them by the post of the dock where I could find them when I climbed back out.

    Best Beloved swore they were not on the dock when he came down at the beginning of my swim so could not possibly have knocked them in when failing to follow my instructions on how to hand me the large inflatable ring or my flippers. Actually, it was me who dragged my flippers off the side and wrangled them onto my feet. Maybe… But this is NOT a mea culpa.

    Despite the best efforts of our menfolk and a lot of poking around with sticks while supper got cold, the glasses could not be retrieved. My sister watched traffic incident videos on her tablet while I went off to find my spares so I didn’t have to resort to flailing around in the dark in my prescription sunglasses.

    The question of how much it would cost to replace the specs was muted. They were Specsavers so about £250, I muttered. “But I will claim it on insurance.” For which I fork out a small fortune every year and rarely make a claim. Except for the brand new paperwhite Kindle I left on a plane on a trip to Copenhagen.

    Brother-in-law transformed himself into my hero overnight by retrieving the glasses from the lake at the crack of dawn. A man on mission is not easily thwarted. Best Beloved is a generous soul and sighed with relief as I adjusted my vision back to normal, after the strain of my spares pulling my lenses into focus.

    The problem with glasses is that they break and you can lose them. As I tell my students, the safest place to put them is on the end of your nose. But you should not wear them in water. There is a good chance that they will slide off or someone will kick them into your face. However there is a solution to being blind as a bat and liking fresh water swimming…. prescription goggles….

  • Fly Swatting

    Rapidly turned into a sport for the menfolk. Goodness how they like a bat and a bit of friendly rivalry.

    Less so swimming in the Lake. Apparently it was cold.

    NO IT WASN’T. Luke warm at worst. Our local heated indoor pool is chillier.

    I love a bit of fresh water swimming, particularly with snorkel and flippers to help me motor along a la David Wilkie in a one piece. The only obstacle was that the snorkel purchased was designed for a teenager so was too small for a good seal, rendering it obsolete. I could just squeeze my rather flat feet into the flippers.

    Scratch that. The second obstacle to said fresh water motoring was the lack of ladder on the dock. The bank was a sea of loose silt and foliage that was tied my feet in knots. I can’t hold myself up with my hands while lowering myself into any pool and can’t dive so getting myself into the water involved a lot of wriggling on the scratchy wooden boards. Not in the least bit elegant in any way, whatsoever.

    While neither my brother-in-law or my best beloved lasted more than five minutes in the lake, once in, I splashed around and floated on my back for a good half hour. Utter heaven. The water was like a sheet of glass and where it was still dappled by the sun there where warm spots in which to wallow.

    It is a well established fact in our family that I love an evening swim. I have fond memories of moonlit dips in Lake Maggiore when camping. Best Beloved has been known to join me, with much wincing and shivering from someone who used to swim for Middlesex. He drew the line at the Irish Sea one summer evening on Anglesey when I took the plunge with our son. “You know you’ve gone blue”, he observed from the shore as I tried to ignore the loss of feeling in my extremities.

    Getting out of the lake was a lot more difficult than the already significant difficulty of getting in. Best Beloved had disappeared for what he promised was only a five minute trot back up to the cottage in pursuit of a beverage. Half an hour later I was muttering that I “could drown down here for all they care” when he appeared at a run down the steps and hauled me out like a sack of potatoes.

    “Half an hour”, I scolded them. “It was five minutes,” said my sister. “It might have felt like half an hour, but it was five minutes. And you should have seen the speed at which he moved when he couldn’t see you.”

    And it wasn’t me who knocked my glasses in the lake.

  • Supermarket Sweep

    After a bit of hunting the following morning we found a supermarket called ‘No Frills’, expecting a cut price Lidl. Instead we got shelves and shelves laden with all things good to eat in startlingly large packets. Canadians clearly take the American approach to the purchase of food as they have fridges large enough to accommodate oversized tubs of butter and gallons of milk.

    I sent the menfolk off to purchase meat, while I stocked up on vegetables and dairy. No need to hunt for tea bags as I had bought enough builder’s brew to last the duration (including treating my sister to proper tea in a proper mug made with properly boiling water – am saint).

    Given that the Canadians are buying ‘Canadian’ these days my sister’s partner was almost as much at sea as we were when trying to identify which cereal most clearly resembled the one at home.

    And everything was labelled in French as well as English. I have what I call ‘Supermarket French’ so I was quite happy translating ‘sucre’ and ‘sans’ as one would in a large out of town LeClerc after a long drive on a route national (for the purpose of avoiding tolls and August traffic jams). This made me feel like I was on holiday but with the additional benefit of an English translation when said Supermarket French failed me.

    I had already found my kind of paradise in the form of a do-it-all camping, clothing and hardware store where I could purchase a snorkel and flippers which I need for swimming (long story concerning a hole in the back of my nose). After a second evening of fly swatting I directed my brother-in-law to said store to purchase two electrified tennis bat fly swatting thingies I spotted at the checkout (but forgot to mention that they were at the checkout so he spent 20 minutes hunting through tightly packed shelves of outdoor paraphernalia).

    I may also have blotted my copy book by going in search of my own industrial strength insect repellent in the humongous drug emporium opposite the supermarket. As a veteran of the Scottish midge I knew that only tropical grade repellent would do, as the 67 bites accrued on Skye a couple of years ago could testified to. If DDT was still legal I would smother myself in that.

  • Sitting by the Dock off the Bay

    Well, small lake just south of the Algonquin National Park.

    There is nothing quite like the relief and joy of seeing relatives, and more importantly their car, when you have pushed your case through arrivals and emerge onto the sidewalk in pursuit of transport.

    After negotiating the random pick up/drop off/short stay/long stay/you-will-get-ticketed-if-you-stop-for-more-than-five-seconds irregularities of this variation on a theme of international airport fleecing, hugs and kisses were exchanged and then started the prolonged process of pack-two-large-adults-one-large-suitcase (not overweight)as well as carry-on bags into a car that already has suitcase, holdall, ice box, groceries etc in the boot and the dog’s bed on the back seat.

    We headed off up t’North, away from the metropolis towards the lakes and wide open spaces of rural Ontario where I had found a lakeside cottage (neither the red brick and flint two up two down with slate roof and chimney pots or white washed tubby abode with mullioned windows and thatched roof we call cottages on this side of the Pond, but rather the solid timber framed sort that sit among the trees on rocky shores that we are familiar with from Murder She Wrote).

    Staying at ‘The Lake’ is a common vacation in North America. They have lots of lakes to stay by. Those not protected by national park or nature reserve status are lined with cottages in large plots almost all of which have little docks to which kayaks and rowing boats are attached. Some also have mini swimming pools and/or hot tubs. Though why you need either of those when you have clear, fresh water to bathe in, is beyond me.

    These are ‘do nothing but relax’ vacations where all you need to do is sit back with your book and sip a cool soda chilled by the enormous fridge and forget that you didn’t pack your sleep mask. Energy need only be expended during the evening ritual of slapping at mosquitoes, who clearly find oestrogen filled women way more tasty than the bland testosterone of men.

    We dropped off to the sound of cicadas humming the night away.

  • Trees, trees, straight roads and more trees

    And Ontario is very flat. At least it is in its southern half and along the St Lawrence River, where we spent most of our time. As we have already holidayed in Holland this year, we have rather overdosed on flat. Next year we will go to the mountains. And I am officially launching my campaign to go to the Slovakian mountains (which my Slovakian friend has shown me pictures of) if Putin can be persuaded to pull out of Ukraine this side of Christmas.

    And Ontario roads are almost universally straight. Nary a bend in sight. In England we call these Roman roads because the last people to build a straight road in England were the Romans. Straight roads make driving easy and less stressful but are boring and tempt speeding (which is a bit of an issue for me).

    Canada is also FULL of trees. Given that much of the land has been cleared for farming, the extent of the woods and forests prior to the spread of modern agriculture is mind-blowing.

    And the variety of trees is spectacular. Even on the islands that dot the Great Lakes. They have discovered trees that have lived for more than a millennium clinging to the rocks.

    The combination of enormous distances, long straight roads and dense woodland began to freak me out as we trundled through darkness to one of our destinations. I was transported to the dark and lonely roads of horror movies where no one is lurking save a mad man in a truck who wants to drive you into a ditch and eviscerate your liver for his tea.

  • Other than that…

    Yes, we had a lovely holiday, thank you very much.

    Canada is a delightful country; big, beautiful and full of lovely people.

    The Canadians are so polite. So genuinely polite. Not in the obsequious not-interested-in-you-but-I-am-paid-to-greet-you ambush as you enter the store (I am thinking specifically of The Gap in Quincy Market, Boston, where all I wanted was a pair of knickers), that is so prevalent south of the border and which is so alien to Brits who like to chat to staff at the till or not at all.

    In fact, Canadians are so polite, I began to realise that I am really quite rude. About which I am now embarrassed. Embarrassed enough to change the habit of a menopausal life-time? Perhaps not. But embarrassed enough to have really tried very hard to emulate their persistent courtesy. So hard have I tried to smile to all and sundry after being brought up short in Quebec Old Town (I’ll get to that), the muscles in my face are complaining almost as much as my knees.

    It is also clean and tidy, with lots of well kept parks and mown lawns.

    Even accounting for the distortions of a two dimensional world map which distorts the far reaches of the northern and southern hemispheres so much that the north of Canada and south of Australia are stretched right out, Canada is a huge country, with huge distances. As my new found friend of previous posts (OK, rants), the Canadian student, observed, it takes less time to fly from London to Toronto than it does to fly from Toronto to British Columbia.

    This has some significant logistical implications. National rail lines exist but are not comprehensive and I could not find a useful national bus service. Actually I was stumped at finding a national bus service full stop.

    So much so that my plan to meet my sister, her partner and their dog at some point further east had to be kyboshed. You know that when someone offers to really go out of their way to help you, you are supposed to say “Are you sure?” several times before reluctantly accepting their generosity? Well, when my sister offered to pick us up at the airport (involving a 200 mile (+) detour on their journey north from Boston) I just said, “Yes, please” and “Thank you” before she changed her mind.

  • And On a Final Note…

    … there is now so little leg or elbow room on aeroplanes that the whole experience is deeply uncomfortable. And to my mind, dangerous. Not only are you so close to the seat in front that you cannot stand up straight unless you are in the aisle, but you also don’t have enough room to do the brace position effectively. Furthermore (I am on a role here) you are so cramped that I am sure the risk of DVT has sky-rocketed. Particularly on long-haul flights. I am just waiting for the first successful suit.

    I know that there is a whole raft of people who like the ‘no-frills’ approach because it makes air travel less expensive. However it has also stripped out all the nice bits; decent(ish) food in reasonable portions, free earphones that you don’t have to dig out from the bottom of your bag, blankets for when it is chilly in the cabin, complimentary snacks with your complimentary drink which HAS complimentary ice in it and isn’t LUKE WARM. I could go on…