Christmas – how fraught it is with the expectations of others, listening to people describe their perfect family get-togethers complete with charades and great-uncle George’s Christmas cracker hat catching fire. The truth is that this is a difficult time of year for many people. Memories of how life has changed, political arguments, straitened circumstances, children who can’t or won’t join in the gathering, empty spaces where loved ones used to be. 

Divorce is a brutal harbinger of change, like a knife it severs the joy and satisfaction of annual traditions, and any attempt to instil something new always feel a little, well, thin. 

The attempt to hang on to some of our traditions was perhaps the reason we decided to have, yet again, another Christmas together. The five of us still call ourselves a family, although that may be a slightly desperate attempt to provide a firm bedrock to entwined lives that started in Canada and France, then spread from Costa Rica to Cayman to England, then the girls on their own went further afield to the Antarctic and Chicago, back to Costa Rica, over to Hawaii and a return to England. And now my own wanderings through North and Central America. The girls and I continue to discuss the concept of home which perhaps many people take for granted. I spent years trying, mostly successfully, to create homes for my girls in the assortment of places that we lived in London. But the transplanting and the rooting of a home can’t be completed if the family doesn’t embrace it as a whole.

I loved having the three girls together, always somewhat amazed at how different they are. As I was staying with them in their rooms, it was very relaxed and easy. We swapped opinions as we brushed teeth together, told stories of pets long gone as we cuddled on the bed with Fiona’s dog Squid and teased each other about past exploits. Watching my girls grow into such interesting and articulate young women gives me a sense of pride that is unmeasurable, and working with Justine on her various law school applications just underscores what a variety of fascinating endeavours she’s undertaken. Exactly what one should be doing at that age. 

Highlights? An impromptu musical evening involving guitar and piano, with Fiona singing. A Dungeons and Dragons game with Mads narrating the plot. A collapsing gingerbread pyramid. Tree decorating. Christmas morning beach breakfast. Dips in the sea. Champagne. Surfing (not me). Thoughtful presents. Crazy storms. Port and cribbage (ouch). Traditions again, with a bittersweet tinge as I ponder when I will have the three of them together again.

But this Christmas, the third out of the last five spent in Cayman, finally put the Caribbean chapter of my life to bed. There’s a piece that always wants to live on, optimistically, thinking if only, or what if, until one day you realise those aren’t the questions. I looked around the island, enjoying the warmth, the ocean, my friends. It was less sad than expected. In fact, it wasn’t sad at all. There is nothing I need from Cayman other than for my daughters to have a good relationship with their father. And that’s not in my remit. 

In this time of resolutions and veganuary, I turn my face into the oncoming wind, knowing that I am strong enough to steer my ship on my own. My girls are somewhat nearby, writing their own, endlessly fascinating stories and I’m moving into my new place in Santa Ana next week. This seems an excellent start to 2023.

Happy New Year, my friends. Thank you for being part of my journey.

I climbed into bed recently and a gecko scuttled out from under the pillow and threw itself onto the floor, where it froze motionless, as if I couldn’t see it. I quite like geckos, they eat bugs and tend to stay hidden, but they’re a little unsettling when they choose to hide under my pillow. 

I had a crazy just-fell-asleep-dream a couple of nights ago, the kind which you wake up from with a wrench and wonder if you’ll ever fall asleep again. In it I was driving a car but the steering was out of control, I had to grip the wheel and hold it hard to the left in order not to careen into a long row of adobe houses. It felt apt given the chaos surrounding my charming home, although I don’t yet know whether I will crash and burn or manage to steer it to safety. 

I sit on my lovely terrace, the massive hanging ferns blowing in the strong breeze that likely heralds afternoon rain, and wonder whether I am wearing rose-tinted glasses when I look at Costa Rica. I have lived some beautiful years of my life here, I have returned for holidays and enjoyed the lifestyle, the weather and, most importantly, my friends. But can I manage re-entry? What would I do here?

But before I get distracted with all that, let’s raise a glass to my friends here - they have opened their hearts and their homes in a way that bowls me over. Within days of realising that my gorgeous, charming 300-year old adobe house was untenable because of the noisy intersection just the other side of the wall, I had offers from four friends to move into their homes, or their neighbour’s homes, or to use their house when they would be away. 

I think this comes from expat living. We are all living in a foreign country, we may speak the lingo, have Tico friends, worked a full time job, raised children and perhaps been here for decades, but once upon a time we were all new. At some point, everyone received support from others to learn, to cope, to figure out the cultural differences and the ways of the country. There is an acquired awareness.

My current exploration, though, is less about the geography and more about purpose, less about environment and more about using this time to ponder those existential questions. I do realise that most people don’t wrestle with these questions, and perhaps I am a little envious of that. I also know that raising existential issues is a little like people recounting their dreams. There is a limit. Yet I’ve managed to do both in this one post! Maybe I will attempt to dial it down so as not to stir things up for otherwise content people, but probably not.

My plans seem to change on a daily basis, so this blog post feels as though it’s already edging past its sell-by date. Let me launch it into the world, and then soon I can bring you up to date again with new adventures. All I know at this point is that  they will involve house-hunting, shrimp, the beach, a home amongst the trees and flight to Grand Cayman.

I will miss this beautiful terrace...

...but not the chaos surrounding it.

                                             

Man, is that another truck? What the hell is a truck doing coming up the hill, its gears grinding and the exhaust obviously punctured, at 5:45 am? I roll over in my admittedly very comfortable bed with four (four!) pillows, until I hear a motorcycle tooting its horn. What is it announcing? Newspaper delivery?

The icing on the cake was a loud speaker I heard not long after, the kind affixed to the back of a truck, selling tamales, before 7 am. Does no one sleep in here? Mind you, this is the country that thinks it a good idea to set off firecrackers at 5 am on Mother’s Day. 

I chose the urban tropics, though, with my eyes wide open. After all, I lived here for almost a decade. And I’m a morning person, so when I hike away from my charming if noisy abode, I am soon on quieter streets with bougainvillea trailing over the electrical wires and orioles flitting in the trees. I arrived at the tail end of the rainy season - the country is lush, the flowers emerging, the mountains are topped with fluffy clouds and the sun is warm.

Yesterday morning I walked up to the Saturday market. One of the best parts of my new place – along with the delightful 300-year old adobe house with two large bedrooms, an expansive kitchen, a river running the length of the exotic garden and a generous terrace – is having that market on my doorstep. People come from all around to buy the produce. It’s all local and includes the foods that I always pooh-poohed at English markets. Like bananas. Why do they sell bananas and avocados and lemons at the market in Chiswick? They do not, cannot, grow in the UK.

Here, however, the stalls are overflowing with bananas, avocados and limes (no lemons in this country), plus plantains, tomatoes, peppers, mangos, papaya, coconut, lettuces and herbs, pineapples, melons, zucchini, various types of potato, plus the unknowns – chayote, camote, hierba buena, yuca, pejibayes, guanabana and mora, and in addition the prepared foods such as pupusas (stuffed tortilla), plátano relleno (cooked plantain stuffed with beans and cheese), and the rather sickly granizados that my children used to beg for. Shaved ice with a flavoured syrup drizzled over and then topped with condensed milk. Have I mentioned that Costa Ricans have quite the sweet tooth!

As I settle into this next chapter of my adventure, I think about the fact that our unconscious selves take in every smell, sight, sound and taste around us, ensuring that we stay away from danger, lifting things to the conscious level if a reaction is required. We are not aware of this, our brains are used to our routines and have learned to filter the known from the unknown.

I have stepped away, though, from that comfortable routine that I created in Montreal and have turned every one of my senses on its head. Which gives me a slightly raised level of constant anxiety. Gone is the usual cold and wind, the dryness of heaters, the bakery smells along Blvd St. Laurent, the seasonal scent of Christmas trees being sold in the parks, the sights of massive murals, and the constant sound of French as I move around my quartier, eavesdropping shamelessly. All that vanished with the closing of the airplane door on Friday. 

When the door opened again, my senses went into overdrive.

So my brain is reacting, overreacting even, as it struggles to verify the unknown scents, sights, sounds and smells from the backfiring trucks, the delicious aroma of mangos, the slight mustiness from the shelves filled with books and the thick adobe walls, and the constant thrum of activity surrounding me. Birdsong fills the garden, even the nearby river is loud, louder than the traffic. There are dogs barking, motorcycles honking, a squirrel chatters at me.

The over-stimulation is making me a little overwrought. I’m thinking too much, wondering what I’m doing.

And then this morning, a perfectly-timed note from a friend who reminded me that I have moved out of my comfort zone, I have plunged into a new adventure. And he added that it would be odd if I wasn’t questioning everything a little, he would be concerned if I didn't. So I cooked up gallo pinto for my breakfast (rice and beans fried up with some peppers, onion and culantro), shopped for basics at the supermarket and hiked up to the top of the nearest hill, gently reminding myself all the while just to be present.

I will allow my senses to take it all in, I have faith that my brain can accommodate the sensual changes, and I will search for new routines while also reaching out to the great number of old and interesting friends that I have here. That is how a new home can be constructed. Home, after all, is not really the geography, it is a feeling.

                                     

My old, adobe house and the view from the rocking chair 

 Test Post, with a notification:

I have disabled the Registration button and will instead set up an email loop. What will happen is that when I publish a new post, you will receive an email with the link to my blog. I will make a blind group starting with those that I know have registered, but am likely to miss some. Please email me if you'd like to be registered: jude@tenaz.net  

All quite straightforward. 

An emotional outburst

On September 20^th, only three weeks into blogging, I posted “The Guest House”, a poem by Rumi that a friend had sent to me. Her suggestion being, I assume, that I be open to all emotions during this year of discovery. The poem begins:

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

...

It goes on to suggest that I meet all the dark thoughts, the malice, the shame at my door and invite them in. So I metaphorically dragged over a piece of broken concrete to prop the door open, and jammed a chair under the door handle to ensure that no matter what I was doing, any feeling could wander in.

Much as I present this year of exploration as a chance to push myself beyond my comfort zone, to boost my confidence and perhaps answer some of those existential questions that swirl inside me, it isn’t all snowy treks and silly dates. I realise that as interested and intelligent readers, you would be aware that I have my ups and downs. Most of my downs are due to loneliness, but that’s balanced with discoveries and new experiences as well as a lot of just feeling content.

In the discussion group that I did through McGill university, we spent part of our last meeting looking at the comics rather than articles or stories. Here’s one that I link to the Rumi poem. 

I feel that the guest room inside me would look like this. New emotions ushered in, even the uncomfortable and unexpected, while the old ones hang about in various states of undress and repose, ignoring the new arrivals.

On a regular basis, I feel euphoria and sadness, excitement and existential angst, satisfaction and curiosity. I’m friends with all of these emotions, although as with human friends, some are more fun, a few give me pause for deep thought while others are so intense and worthwhile that I can only handle them in small doses.

A single day can involve feeling bewilderment at a piece of art, apprehension at voicing a contentious idea, satisfaction as I work on a piece of writing, discomfort as I sit motionless at an event wondering if everyone is commenting on my solitary state, pride after an hour of French conversation and finishing with wanting to dance as I walk home from dinner out. I have enjoyed laughter with new friends, felt sadness at seeing Inuit men and women begging far from their northern birthplaces, and been surprised at the kindness of strangers. I am rarely bored, although I can be frustrated, sad, ecstatic, lonely, content, unsure or bewildered.

The mountain of Montreal has seen many of these emotions, including tears. I am never ashamed of my tears. 

My door, surrounded by graffiti and up a steep flight of stairs, has been wide open to emotional discoveries during my three months here in Montreal. Next week, as I push aside the foliage and find a piece of volcanic rock to prop open my door in Costa Rica, I imagine that I’ll be curious about the visitors there.

I am fortunate to have such a dynamic, intelligent, capable mum, who at the age of 89 thinks nothing of climbing on a train in Toronto and traveling five hours to visit me in Montreal. 

She complains that she can’t do as much as she used to (which really translates to ‘as much as she wants to’) but if I look back on how I was thirty years ago, I could say the same about myself. But I CAN ride a bike with no hands. Something I couldn’t do when I was younger!

We’ve had 15 cms of snow recently (see previous post) and so it was a little treacherous underfoot during her visit, but that didn’t stop us from a short walk on the mountain or strolling to pick up wine and a baguette. We went most places by metro or bus, and I even put her to work in the kitchen at Santropol Roulant, the meals-on-wheels organisation where I regularly volunteer. For almost three hours we sliced fennel, portioned out pear tart, carried things up and down stairs to the walk-in fridge and at the end wiped, scrubbed and disinfected all the countertops. It was great fun if somewhat exhausting and we were happy to collapse at my flat with a roast chicken from one of the myriad of Portuguese restaurants in my neighbourhood. 

One afternoon, we visited the McCord Stewart Museum to see an exhibition entitled “Disraeli”. No, not that one. I was puzzled as to why a Canadian history museum would focus on a British Prime Minister but it turned out to be photographs taken fifty years ago in a rural town in deepest Québec called Disraeli. Formica tables and vinyl chairs! Bikes with banana seats and handlebar streamers! Pullover sweater vests! My childhood revisited. The photos were great, so we were surprised to learn at the end that there had been a real backlash in Montreal, and then from the community, at the over depiction of poverty and grime. I feel that the well-meaning literati of Montreal slapped their urban judgement on what were quite lovely and bucolic photos.

From there Mum and I took the bus, two buses actually, along Sherbrooke and then up Boulevard St. Laurent (“The Main”, which used to be the dividing line between English and French Montreal). It was Saturday so the streets were bustling. Our walking was restricted due to energy levels and ice, so we went into Darling, a fabulous bar on The Main. It’s large and bustling yet somehow warm and cosy. We sat at the round bar right at the middle, where two or three bartenders were doing their thing, surrounded by tables and an oyster counter all filled with people enjoying their coffees, drinks and late afternoon nibbles. Outside, the daylight slowly faded. Inside, we were hanging with the young and hip. It was perfect!

I am the daughter of a wonderful mother, and the mother of three amazing daughters. I am blessed to have these connections in my life, even as the relationships change over the years. Or perhaps the evolution is part of the charm.

SNOW DAY! Except that this is Montreal so life went on as usual. Five minutes, it seemed, after they shut down the urban cycle scheme snow began to fall and by the time I woke up last Wednesday morning we had a solid 10 centimetres on the ground with more coming throughout the day. It was fantastic, and I switched from a somewhat grumpy and cold survivor of wind and dropping temperatures to an excited adventurer ploughing through the untrodden drifts on the mountain.  

On the way to the mountain park I ran across Louis, the neighbourhood singer with his snow-bedecked spaniel Cookie. We had a little chat, all bundled up against the elements, and he told me that he only sings love songs. It is his offering to a world that seems beset with sadness. How lovely is that?

Please be reassured that Cookie was as happy as could be, even with the snow clumps hanging from her ears. She kept bouncing off to play with other dogs. Or perhaps to show off how fantastic she looked.

Here are some other photos from that snowy day

Urban streetscape

 My most recent favourite photo

When I finalised plans for my three months in Montreal one thing I did was sign up for an online dating website. I figured that at the very least I could have some conversations over coffee with people who weren’t too dreary and didn't show signs of being a serial killer. 

It was more than disappointing, then, to discover that after an initial burst of connections with men who seemed remarkably good looking and rugged and outdoorsy, nothing happened. It turned out they lived in Mississippi and were only visiting Montreal, or they were monosyllabic in their text conversations or, depressingly, they didn’t see how fabulous I was and just didn’t respond. Obviously not well raised. So I stopped swiping left and right, and turned my focus back on writing, market shops and searching for the best boulangerie. I felt no angst. Perhaps there was also relief.

Last week, however, returning home mid-evening, walking past the bustling shops and tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurants on Blvd St Laurent, dodging couples and groups of women all buzzing with energy and purpose, I decided that I needed to make one last attempt. I examined my profile. “Rented my place in London, returning to the land of my birth, looking to make Montreal my home. Cyclist, writer, looking for intelligent man for coffees, meals, blah, blah, blah.” All quite ho hum.

I rewrote my profile post: “Three weeks and I’m gone. Will I return in the spring, like the swallows? Loving Montreal, even as it gets cold. Are you active, with emotional depth, into hiking, cycling, film, books, live music, who is up for a last minute connection? If yes, let’s explore. Life’s short, we need to embrace it.” Not overly chaotic or ribald but I thought that the time limit might appeal to those commitment-phobic guys. 

Boom! Responses flooded in and I was having conversations left, right and centre. I discovered that online dating is actually quite time-consuming, hence the delay in posting this, and also on Sunday, my usual day for blogging, I had two coffee dates. Not one, but two!

I met Philip* up at Café Henri by the Marché Jean Talon. He’d mentioned where he lived, and I decided to opt for two birds with one stone: if the “date” was a washout, I’d at least return home with a bag full of cauliflower and onions and tomatoes. He was quite nice. Hmmm, that’s damning with faint praise. I tend to give people the benefit of the doubt and assume that they talk a lot because they’re nervous, but no. Not this time, and boy, does mansplaining get dull quickly.  

Over the course of an hour stroll, I had those fabulous outdoor Montreal staircases explained to me, the dififerent neighbourhoods, how a company works, how Fairtrade isn’t terribly fair, and then the minutae of the Québec election last month was examined, even though I’d suggested that I didn’t have an interest. I stopped trying to add my own opinion because it only delayed the end of his story. I liked his boots, his leather bag and his pea coat but unfortunately the man inside was only interested in himself. The upside was in the actual market, as it was quite fun strolling past the stalls with someone who held my bag so that I could add the lettuce and scallions. But I think I’m grasping at straws here. In reality, he made no suggestions, bought nothing himself, had no interest in all the fantastic quebecois produce on display. I climbed onto my Bixi bike, a slight mist falling, happy at least with my purchases.

When I met Marcel*, later that day, my heart somewhat sank as he said 'Bonjour'. A full québecois accent. But hey, in for a penny, in for a pound, and at the very least I’d get in some language practise. We headed towards the mountain but then switched to a café as he was worried that I’d be cold (temperatures dropped to zero Sunday morning). What began feeling rather trite and difficult, especially coping in French with that accent, actually ended up being quite fun. I mean, we’re not running into the sunset. Spoiler alert: I’m unlikely even to see him again, but our conversation ranged from ageing parents (can we ever escape that topic?) to holidays to retirement plans (in his case) and my year of exploration (in my case), and onto camper van trips, topless sunbathing, Cuba, cycling in and around Montreal and the trials of empty-nesting. 

What did I learn from my dates? 

1. There is an epidemic of loneliness out there. 

2. Any future online dating will only involve men with children. There’s more hope they would understand priorities, possess a certain degree of empathy, and might share the joy and wonder of watching a child grow up.

 

3. I don’t know how to date. Even before my 28-year marriage I had the same boyfriend for too long. Perhaps when I was 12, when as giggling adolescents we’d jostle each other, vying to dance with that cute boy, who would then ask his friend to tell my friend to ask me to be his girlfriend. It was still fraught but somehow more straightforward. 

* Names have been changed to preserve anonymity 😳

Wonder. I know that it disappears with childhood, but it slips away without acknowledgement unlike the awareness we have of growing out of the nail-biting habit or the need to assert ourselves or our innocence. Cynicism lays a protective layer across our emotions. 

In many ways we thrust wonder away in our determination to grow up and get on to the next stage, without realising that some magic disappears in the process. These stages that we move on from are actually not the stepping stones to a purpose but rather pieces of the mosaic that make up our life.

So I feel fortunate to have rediscovered this world of wonder. It’s light and airy and surprising, and I wish I could sprinkle fairy dust on everyone so they could catch a glimpse of the joy I feel when I see the full moon through autumnal leaves or the contentment that runs through me after a French chat with an elderly man in a wheelchair to whom I’ve just delivered a delicious meal from Santropol Roulant. 

My engagement and awareness comes from stripping away the tangled layers of domestic routine. I did this fairly brutally, by literally packing up my home and going to a distant city where I knew almost no one, and I wouldn’t recommend it to everyone. But I don’t mind being solitary. It allows space for ideas and exploration, surprises and unplanned encounters.

What I didn’t expect was to feel that same sense of wonder when I returned to London last week for a whirlwind visit. My short-term tenants had moved out with longer term ones arriving four days later, and my home needed to be stripped back from an Airbnb set-up to a more basically-furnished rental. So I had to pack up all my books, linens, small electric appliances, plants, decorative items and irreplaceable items like my resin-encased shell found on a beach in Indonesia or the square plate I bought in Brittany.

I delivered Fiona's aloe, raised from a tiny plant 

and now the mother of a few litters, to a friend 

Even with the lashing rain, the severely-delayed tube lines and the wind, I felt happiness when I came through the underpass to my road of terraced houses, the willow tree hanging over the river by the little green, the impromptu breakfast with my neighbour while I waited for the inventory clerks to arrive chez moi. There was a sense of belonging that had eluded me before, as if I had to go away to really see the place again. I loved having a chat with someone almost every time I went out my front door, being invited to a casual supper, gathering friends for dinner at the little Italian deli/restaurant just 100 metres from my house, and to realise that shared histories, no matter how recent, are the threads with which we weave the tapestry of our lives. 

I don’t have that community in Montreal of course, as I’ve only had two months in the city. And I’m quite aware that my sudden reappearance in London was a novelty for my friends, and that in fact, it can be hard to gather people there. Everyone is busy, or lives at a distance, and it used to frustrate me to no end that in spite of spending lovely times with friends, two months or more could go by before we could “get another date in the diary”.  

I enjoyed so much laughter over my few days in England. Some of it at the expense of the government, but also the silliness of so many things being delayed or cancelled because of “leaves on the line”. Is there any other country that grinds to a halt because of snow, heat and wind? I laughed with the man at the Hammersmith town hall when I went in to pick up recycling bags and ended up getting my fourth jab. I left with three rolls of bags and a sticker. 

I even laughed when, having loaded up my rental van and driven out through the chaos of the lane-reduced A4, I arrived at my storage facility by Heathrow airport to discover that whilst I’d remembered the access code I’d forgotten my keys to the unit. I laughed less hard when I discovered that the A4 going eastwards was also delayed and the whole mistake cost me an extra two hours on the road, but then I grabbed an umbrella and ran through the rain to Hammersmith bridge so that a friend could pick me up on the other side and take me to theirs for supper. It was all unexpected and joyful. 

I returned to a 22-degree Montreal. Which in itself is extraordinary. My heart is full.

My life, all packed up.

2,175 kilometres, four motels, two packages of black twizzlers and a porcupine. A road trip filled with the unexpected, and wow, has it been fun. We had fish and chips made with freshly caught turbot in a roadside local cafe situated between the mighty St. Lawrence river and a lake filled with grasses and driftwood. We also dined on half a supermarket sandwich, salsa, leftover carrots and an apple one evening sitting at a formica-topped kitchen table at a guest house where we slept in what felt like the host’s grown-up child’s bedroom - one double bed, two of us, two dogs, and a window that wouldn’t open.

But the home made breakfast the next morning was excellent!

La Gaspésie is a large area at the far east of the province of Québec. Remote, maritime and unknown. Which is why my friend wanted to go, and I jumped at the invitation to join her. We headed out last Monday morning, her two dogs keen and alert in the back seat of the car. A proper road trip. One (sunny) day we did a 15 km hike out and back to the lighthouse at Cap Gaspé where we sat on two red Muskoka chairs eating chips (aka crisps) and looked out at the endless water from the high (and unseen to us) chalk white cliffs. We saw so many minke whales, their backs glistening in the strong sunlight, common eiders, scoters, gulls, a ruffed grouse that acted like a chicken, running along the path in front of us in a panic and sending the dogs into tailspins of frenzy. Oh, and the porcupine.

I’ve never been up close and personal to a porcupine before. We noticed him (?) from a distance, ambling along our forest path, and wondered if it could be a small bear. My binoculars saved us from having to turn back, which we would have had to do if it had been. As it was, we couldn’t risk the dogs getting anywhere near it, so I went ahead to suss out the situation. Contrary to popular myth, they cannot throw their spines, nor do they move quickly, but their first line of defence is to thrash with the tail, which holds the most lethal prickles that once in the skin continue to work themselves in at a rate of an inch a day. In the wild, that means that the spine often ends up piercing a vital organ and death follows. For a domestic dog, it would be extreme discomfort, pain, confusion and a trip to the vet.

 
I had to shoo it off the path as it wasn’t dangerous to me unless I tried to hug it, but it was reluctant to leave the clear, softly-trodden trail. Eventually, though, it ambled into the undergrowth and out of sight so that we could pass, the dogs held tight on their leashes as they went wild with the smell.

Most of the past week has been mild, with temperatures reaching 20 degrees in the afternoon, but then dipping quickly as the sun dropped. It was 1 degree one morning, but the crisp dryness was fantastic and the sunrise an intense line of orange and red that stretched along the horizon. That morning we took the dogs down to the coast before breakfast; a walk that took us through a forest of small, dry evergreens, their branches hung with spanish moss, and out onto grasslands. We stood and looked across at Rocher Percé, a well-known sea arch near Bonaventure Island which itself is a conservation area home to 120,000 pairs of gannets. Below us on the rocks were dozens of seals, sunbathing in the fresh sunlight. Everything glistened.

We had lunch in the town of Percé, eating delicious fish soup and crèpes on the terrace of the Nath Café, the dogs at our feet, Mont Ste Anne at our backs. We climbed it after lunch. Of course. In fact, I noticed a number of hills, drumlins and mountains with crosses on their summits. For those who know me well, this is tantamount to a challenge, so I’ve kept note for future adventures.

In Kamouraska we had dinner at Grand’Ourse, a microbrewery cantine where Dori had poutine and I ate a duck guédille: classic but low-brow Quebec food. Does anyone outside of Canada know poutine? It is a simple dish of french fries covered with cheese curds and gravy, and sometimes added chicken or pork. It doesn’t appeal to me but I am in the minority. Poutine is also how the French spell Putin. As in Vladimir. And it makes me chuckle to see his name in French newspapers written as a truck stop food.

My guédille could be considered more gauche than poutine, as the word means snot in quebécoise. Probably a good thing I didn’t know that in advance, but what I was served was a bun, split in two and stuffed with a filling. I opted for duck given we were in hunting season, but more regularly it would be filled with lobster, crab or fish. In no way did it resemble its other meaning, and the fries were divine. As was the beer, of course. It was a microbrewery, after all. 

At our motel here in Kamouraska we had a couple of provincial road workers in the next room. They spent hours cleaning their equipment and then set out a stove on the back of their truck and proceeded to fry up a feast of onions, peppers and potatoes, then grilled a massive steak (moose? elk?) on the other side. As we headed to our authentic Quebecois dinners (although realistically these two men were the real deal, and they weren’t having poutine) we apologised in advance for any barking from the dogs we were leaving behind. They laughed, and said nothing would bother them, they’d be heading to work at 3 am. Then they uncorked a bottle of red wine.

One evening we drove at speed towards a sand spit to catch the sunset. The sun drops fast, as does the temperature. By the time we were unloading the dogs and gathering our supplies, it was blowing a cold gale. We threw on all our extra layers, which weren’t quite enough, and sought out a distant spot that still boasted some sun. The dogs were keen and eventually we settled on a large piece of driftwood with our beers and a bag of chips (crisps). We watched the sun slip behind the mountains and the few clouds in the sky change to pinks and purples. We were determined to enjoy the moment but with the water at our feet being whipped up into choppy waves, the beer cans too cold to hold and the chips being blown out of our fingers, we fled back to the car. Relief. We flicked on the seat heaters and settled in to appreciate the last of the changing colours, beers still in hand.

Distances are vast and Canadians think nothing of getting up each morning and driving hundreds more kilometres each day. We did spend two nights at the same motel, though, and one with a Nordic spa. These are a thing in Quebec, and as I was keen to try one out, I thought our planning perfect. We envisioned floating in a sea of steaming bubbles after a long hike, resting our heads on our arms and gazing out at the ocean, the cool air a delightful contrast with our aching muscles being gently pummelled by hot water jets. Except that the spa only opened on weekends, so Friday morning was the only option. And who wants to spa at 8 am? It’s a reward after a day of strenuous hiking, not a post-breakfast bath.

Our only water experience, in fact, came towards the end of our 15 km hike to Cap Gaspé. We came out of a forested section, walked along a path beside a burbling stream and stepped onto a pebble beach. Steep cliffs loomed at each end and the Atlantic ocean gleamed in front of us. Almost without discussion we tied the dogs up and stripped off. We had to plunge, and didn’t much care if anyone unexpectedly appeared. 

The water was crystal clear and salty. Of course it was salty, it’s the Atlantic ocean, but I’m not used to sea water in Canada with its plethora of lakes. It was quite cold but not bone-chilling. Not like the Thames in 2020 when Justine and I decided that a Christmas plunge would cure of us of covid. Nor did it have the numbing effect that I felt when I “swam” in 11 degree water in Newfoundland in late July a few years ago. No, this was just bracing, and took away the sweat from the long hike. We emerged victorious and rejuvenated, then wrestled our clothes back onto our damp bodies, glowing from the unplanned immersion. The sun was warm and we continued on our way, a great day just that much better. 

Who knew that Rimouski was renowned for its sunsets? Unfortunately, we were heading straight into the blazing orb on the first leg of our trip back towards Montreal. Right in our eyes AND reflecting off the road surface. At times we had to slow to a crawl. But once it slipped below the horizon, the red glow kept intensifying as if our western trajectory allowed us to keep pace with the sun. When we finally pulled up to the motel by the lighthouse at Point au Père almost an hour later, the glow had only just diminished. Time felt elastic and ethereal.

So all in all, a successful road trip: lots of driving and hiking, stunning scenery and unexpected conversations in a mixture of French and English. I will definitely be back, perhaps in winter for some back country skiing.

I have lived and loved the London springs for the past fourteen years, always feeling somewhat giddy with the length and the gently unfolding beauty. And the blossoms. Oh, I’ll miss the blossoms. And yet, there are other places that have distinct seasons, such as the fabulous colours, deep blue skies and brisk but not cold temperatures of autumn here. 

Seasons are more subtle in southern England, without the harsh -30 winters of Montreal followed by the soaring temperatures and humidity of summer, with a violent and muddy slice of spring separating the two. Autumns here seem the equivalent of the springs I enjoyed both in London and when I lived in France. They start in early September when the days are still warm but cooler nights stir the sap within the trees. A few rascals start to change the colour of their leaves early, and by the end of the month the many green parks and the mountain of Montreal have become a riot of reds, yellows and oranges. 

Until one day, usually in mid to late October, you suddenly realise the clarity has gone, the colours are more muted, more shades of orange than red. Still stunning, though, still breath-taking; the kind of beauty that fills your heart with gratitude. 

Behind my toaster this morning I found an old blueberry that had escaped from my granola a few days ago. I don’t find small wild blueberries like that in the UK, so I was wondering if I could twist it into a metaphor. Or a euphemism. I could say that I’m looking for blueberries when I really mean that I’m cleaning my apartment, but that’s a little dull. Euphemisms need to be accompanied by a sideways glance or a wink. I’ll work on it, this could be a fun exercise.

Canadian inventions: ski-doos and jetskis, velcro, zippers, insulin, penicillin, zambonis, the telephone, the short-wave radio, robertson screwdrivers (and screws). I wonder how many people know what a zamboni is! I never understood why Robertson screws aren't found worldwide. They’re square, therefore easy to grip with the right screwdriver, and don’t strip as easily as Phillips screws. Maybe that can become a (minor) mission for me!

It has been said that Canadians are simply disarmed Americans with healthcare, but the differences run deeper than that. We don’t need to wave our flags and wear hats branded with maple leaves because we know we’re good. Some people call it quiet superiority, or passive aggression, but at least we’re not loud about it.

Following that trend of thinking, and perhaps showing my Canadian blood, I recently learned that of the top ten countries in the world as far as quality of life, seven are constitutional monarchies: Norway, Netherlands, Sweden, New Zealand, Denmark, Australia and Canada. I realise that the UK is also a constitutional monarchy but I’m afraid it didn’t reach the top ten. And given all the drama going on at the moment - I check the news with a hesitation and a turn of the head, like someone trying not to watch a slowly unfolding car crash - I’m not sure that the quality of life for the average joe is going to improve over the winter. I wish only the best for the UK. I have been proudly British for quite some time, and it’s hard to see it slip in the eyes of the world. It makes me wonder if the Queen simply gave up on trying to have an influence on the morals and values of her Prime Ministers. She couldn’t take any more. 

I miss having Queen Elizabeth around as the head of the country and a dignified figure of service. That moral continuity and those weekly chats would help, I think, in controlling rampant populism. Time will tell.

In the meantime, while the Brits, or at least the Conservative party, vote for yet another leader of the country, I am heading out with a friend for a road trip through eastern Quebec. We’re driving along the south shore of the mighty St. Lawrence river, the plan being that we will hit Gaspé and the Rocher Percé (a sea arch) later this week, a distance of almost 1000 kms. 

I plan to write more about this adventure on my blog as it’s uncharted territory for me. Not only the geography but also a road trip: two women and two dogs, driving into a blaze of autumn colours. Without the Thelma and Louise ending, of course. They didn't have dogs.

Stay tuned.

 Fall Foliage:

 

A good friend told me once that blogging is a full time job, and I’m finding she’s right. It also affects my decisions in ways I don’t like. Am I searching for interesting anecdotes and activities to share with my readers or am I engaging in meaningful activities that may resonate within my soul but come without a narrative or punchline?

I am on the train out of Toronto, having enjoyed my first Canadian Thanksgiving in decades. The best part about this weekend, beyond the two turkey dinners I managed, was spending time with my assorted nephews and their partners, followed closely by a meandering walk with my mum through the ravine near her apartment, finishing along the winding path through Mt Pleasant cemetery. 

Canada is so beautiful in the autumn. My phone is filled with photos of the changing foliage – “oh my god, look at that tree!” I splutter to a friend or just to myself as I stop for the seventeenth time on a meander up the mountain. I paused at twilight the other day to take a picture of two young women on a blanket under a flaming red tree. The deepening dusk made the leaves look like fire, and it seemed so Canadian to socialise like this as the temperature dipped below ten degrees.

I return to Montreal, though, with my down ski jacket. I am Canadian enough not to be fooled by the arching blue skies and fluctuating temperatures – November will be different. The view from the train is stunning. We are travelling along the shores of Lake Ontario, seeing frequent beaches and occasional towns. The infrastructure is excellent and I notice boardwalks and cycle paths amidst the reddening sumacs and sugar maples.

Is it boring to have me rave about Canada?

Perhaps I’m a born-again Canadian! After all, this was my environment for the first thirty years of my life, but I feel as though my eyes have been opened. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. It does help to be around enthusiastic Canadians, and it’s exciting to be planning a cycle journey into the Eastern Townships out beyond Montreal. I won’t be here for the snowy activities of back-country skiing on the mountain or skating on the long and winding pond at Parc Lafontaine, but I’m doing my best to engage fully in the current season.

Here are some small random things I have learned about Montreal which amuse me.

First off, there is Société d’Alcool Québecoise (the SAQ). This is the government store for purchasing alcohol. It is possible, because this is Québec rather than Ontario, to buy cheap wine at the corner stores, the dépanneurs, which we frequented when students at McGill. The mention of Si! Si! Si! still conjures up memories of late nights of backgammon, cozy friendships and the slightly acidic taste of an incoming hangover. 

The SAQ, however, has run out of bags. Bags of any kind – plastic or paper. It’s been months and as these are obviously things that one can order, it must be a choice. Especially in a country such as Canada renowned for its pulp and paper mills. So if I stop by without planning, without a bag of my own, I then have to walk home with a couple of bottles of wine tucked under my arm. And I notice others doing the same, as if we’re a city of well-dressed winos. Perhaps we are.

Also, there appear to be no $10 bills in Québec. There are plenty in Ontario, oddly enough, but if ever I purchase something with a $20 and the change is more than ten dollars, I am inevitably given $5 notes. I’ve asked, and people just say that they never see them. It’s been six weeks now and still no sign of one.

There is drumming in the parks, particularly on the weekends. I emerged from the woods of the mountain the other evening to reverberating drumbeats. It changed the rhythm of my steps, filled my being with a restless stirring. A cluster of people were sitting on benches near the large Angel statue, some playing hand drums, one or two dancing in front. There was a warmth, a roundness to the sounds. The sun was just sinking behind the mountain and the glowing fall foliage was slowly being dimmed.

I signed up for some volunteer work today, with the induction slotted for next week. It's called "Santropol Roulant", named after a restaurant that I remember as a haven of plants and warmth and deliciousness back in my McGill days. I believe it was the first fully vegetarian restaurant I had come across, and I can picture thick seedy bread, odd sprouting greens and guacamole. I could not afford to eat in restaurants then so it had the exotic allure of something out of my reach.

The restaurant still exists, and is quite near to where I am now, although it is much smaller and less leafy than I remember. It's odd how memory works. However, they have expanded their services and now offer community support through urban gardening, bike repair and meals on wheels (hence the 'roulant').

Volunteer work is something that gives back far more than it demands, and yet I have always found it difficult. I remember, as a teenager, being volunteered to work with cerebral palsy children on my own in a pool. I was uncomfortable, didn't know what to do, and ended up trying to avoid it. But I feel that was the fault of the system, or the organisation, rather than me. I was such a shy child, and there was no explanation, just an expectation that I would 'get on with things', as if I had an innate understanding of the disorder and knew how to interact with these often non-verbal children. This uncomfortable situation would have compounded my shyness: I felt inept, which just made me withdraw more. But then, this was the 1970s and there was a lot less hand-holding.

God, I hadn't thought of that in ages. What is it with dredging up the past? Having cleared my surroundings of domestic clutter and made space for opportunities to appear, I find instead that annoying regrets pop up to pester me with their unanswerable questions. "what if...?" or "if only..." or "why did...?" Utterly pointless thoughts. Perhaps this is part of the clearing out of the mental attic, a riff on the Rumi poem posted a while ago. 

I shall look for humour in my disappointed nostalgia and let it fade in importance; turn instead to celebrate my independence, my accomplished children and my good fortune to have this year stretching ahead of me.

What do I think, feel and need?

I ask myself these questions regularly as I want to increase my awareness of my experience, and of myself. 

Today, I feel joyous. Even giddy. It is so much fun to explore new things, even if it’s just a supermarket. I’m in an area that was settled by the Portuguese, and there are the Barcelos of Portugal (the Rooster of Portugal) in odd places – like the window of the Home Hardware, or on the ledge of a restaurant, or painted in a mural. So of course in the supermarket I found sardines, sausages, pasteís de nata and smoked cod along with the usual maple syrup, tinned goods and assorted fruit and veg. 

The town is hopping today. Maybe this is because it’s Sunday or that the marathon is happening just a few blocks north and therefore tying traffic up into knots. Perhaps it’s because the sun is out. 

On the way to the supermarket (all of 125 metres away) I noticed an old man moving slowly along the pavement in soft, knee-high leather boots, dark work pants and a battered hat, his small, white dog walking ahead, the lead dragging along the ground. And he was singing, the man not the dog, in a lovely rich voice. It sounded, to my untrained ear, like an ancient folkloric ballade, but perhaps that was just because of his outfit. I followed him for a block but couldn’t manage to walk his pace without seeming like a stalker, so I crossed the street to the shop, carrying the song and the image with me.

It’s warm again, after a 7-degree morning run earlier in the week. Which reminds me to remind my readers that I have spent the last fourteen years in England so I may give a little more focus than necessary to the weather. Especially as we shift into autumn with its changing foliage, crisp nights and market stalls piled high with peppers, apples and squashes.

I had one of those evenings last night that just reverberated with good conversation, delicious food and contentment. I was invited to dinner chez mes amis, along with their visiting friends and a local cousin. So four people I didn’t know, plus my friends’ madcap dogs. Walking home at midnight, aglow from such an enjoyable time, I was reminded again of the importance of community, its ability to reinforce a sense of well-being, and how the pandemic managed to undermine that sense of belonging. 

Of course, I wake up alone, with a day stretching in front of me that has no planned human interaction. But that’s absolutely fine. I have writing to do, people to phone and food to cook. I enjoyed the unselfconscious singing of an elderly man. I practised my French on the cashier. The sunlight is trickling through the leaves of the trees beyond my balcony. I am content in my solitude.