Slipsliding Away on Dog Mountain

The stereotype of a French-accented fur trapper named Jacques, sporting a red plaid jacket, trudging feverishly through the snow on footwear resembling tennis rackets was my vision of snowshoeing.

The whole notion has a pioneering quality about it – even a romantic sentiment. With Christmas a few weeks away, it seemed like an appropriate time to try it out.

So it was with some amusement that we were introduced to modern-day snowshoes – slick looking, light-weight contraptions with rubber straps that adjust comfortably over one’s hiking boots with metal cleats on the underside acting as temporary anchors in the snow.

Arriving at the top of Mount Seymour with adjustments made to our footwear, all that was left to do was walk to the Dog Mountain Trail.

The first thing I learned about snowshoeing was putting trust into action.

The trails had been blanketed in snow but after a week of freezing temperatures and no fresh snow, the ground was icy. This was no flat, wide trail – it was undulating, winding and quite narrow in parts.

My snowshoeing technique needed immediate honing. This meant trusting that the cleats on the underside of the snowshoe would hold me in place as I made my way forward.

Once in stride we found ourselves taking the time to look and enjoy the natural environment around us. It was snowing very lightly and amazingly quiet.

After a kilometre we reached First Lake, frozen over, but with the tell-tale signs of other snowshoers and hikers.

Eventually we reached the rocky summit of Dog Mountain. Despite the wintry day, the view over the North Shore mountains and the City below was breathtaking - Stanley Park, Lions Gate Bridge and Point Grey clearly visible.

The buildings of the downtown core looking amazingly static. It was as though the city was devoid of people, and just a series of concrete statues.

The reality we knew was that down there in the metropolis it would be a cacophony of humanity in search of that perfect gift. Parking lots would be full to overflowing, people walking the streets with a glazed look on their faces. The joy of Christmas.

Up here on Dog Mountain the air was fresh, the vista below us a reminder of the world we had temporarily left behind.

Eating our lunch at 10:00 a.m. we greeted other snowshoers and their dogs and began the return trip. For some reason my trust of metal cleats had temporarily left my consciousness. I fell a few times on the downhill portions of the trail. Our leader reminded me to stand tall and look forward. I did, and eventually we returned to the ski hill and the parking lot.

With aching joints from the day’s activities I will admit to a slight mal de raquette – but oh the pure joy of being out there.

Jacques would have been proud.

Harp Scratchings 11 - One in a Million

I was six years’ old and my sister had just been born. Mum and Eileen Dawn Julia were in Summerfield Nursing Home and Auntie Wina had come to the Harp to help out.

I was thrilled to have a baby sister and with Wina’s encouragement made great pains to write to Mum about it, telling her that all was well at the Harp and that I was getting regular bedtime stories.

Probably one of my first recollections during that stay was the morning I asked Wina to put a blue ribbon in my hair. Standing in the kitchen I remember her patiently taking a few stabs at creating the perfect bow before I was satisfied.

On future visits to the Harp, Wina and Ernie would often bring vegetables from their expansive garden - or sometimes a very special treat - a home-made coffee sponge cake with icing that melted in your mouth.

As I grew up I loved going to stay with Wina and Ernie at Rectory Cottage in Eardisley. While “the Cottage” was one end of a large rambling residence adjoining Eardisley Church, their home consisted of oversized rooms with high ceilings, a wooden staircase and upstairs floorboards that squeaked and groaned as you walked across them.

It was an adventure to stay there, and sometimes when no one was looking I would cautiously turn a doorknob on a door that had been permanently locked as the dividing line between the Cottage and the Rectory itself – half hoping someone had unlocked the door and I could investigate what lay behind it.

I remember summer’s evenings when it seemed to take forever to get dark. Lying in bed I would listen to the church clock strike the hour.

One memory firmly entrenched in my mind is the episode of the cheese rind. Sitting down to supper with Wina and Ernie, Ernie had carefully pared away the rind from the cheese I had been offered. Not realizing, I chose the rind instead of the cheese and spent the next few minutes trying to chew what seemed like a piece of leather. When this was discovered, Ernie and Wina teased me quite a bit and the cheese rind story stuck for a number of years.

When her husband, Ernie was alive, the pair did so much for the family. I will always remember returning home from Toronto. Ernie came to Liverpool to meet me from the Empress of Canada.

I was so happy to see the family that in the excitement I left one of my suitcases behind in the luggage hall. We were halfway through the Mersey Tunnel before I made the discovery, and Ernie in true fashion didn’t miss a beat, turning the car around and returning to the dock to retrieve the missing bag.

Time went by, as it does. I returned to Canada where I have lived for most of my life. The baby in Grannie's arms - this was a christening picture - now lives with his own family in New Zealand.

Auntie Wina is in her nineties now and has outlived her siblings. Despite the frailties of age, she maintains a positive attitude and continues to be an inspiration to everyone who has the good fortune to meet her. I am so grateful she was there for me when I was growing up.

Just feast your eyes on a very classy lady attending the wedding this year of the daughter of good friends and next door neighbours, Paul and Sue.

Wina, you are one in a million.

As a postscript, it is with great sadness that we mark 29 March 2011 as the day Wina slipped away. Rest in peace dear one.

All Aboard the Taj Express!

It was early and already the heat of the sun radiated through the dust, creating a milky haze over the city.

We made our way slowly through the traffic to the railway station entrance, weaving through other travellers, hawkers and those who had nothing better to do than just watch. With tickets in hand we pressed on along the platform and over the railway bridge to our awaiting train, the Taj Express.

The train, scheduled to leave at 7:15 a.m. was already packed with people on wooden seating, their faces pressed against the metal grills of the open air windows. While our section of the train was allegedly air conditioned, a worker patrolled the aisles periodically, menacingly tapping a screwdriver against the rusting pipes in the ceiling.

The train pulled out of New Delhi on time and an open window at the end of the compartment acted like a viewfinder on the passing landscape. The "express" made several stops along the way allowing us to take in the activity on the always crowded platforms.

Food sellers touted their wares cooked on makeshift grills and char wallahs poured their tea into earthenware pots to grateful customers, chatting loudly amongst themselves twenty to the dozen. After several hours we reached Agra and the highlight of our trip - the Taj Mahal.

We have all seen pictures of the Taj Mahal, the mausoleum constructed by Shah Jahan in 1631 in honour of his favourite wife, Mumtaz, but nothing prepares you.

As one approaches, the building's actual size becomes apparent, seemingly built as an optical illusion on the banks of the Yamuna River.

We walked towards the perfectly formed ivory-coloured shrine through the gardens. Before we climbed the steep stairs to the mausoleum we donned cotton shoe covers and went inside to view the exquisite marble screen inlaid with semi-precious stones which surrounds replicas of the tombs of Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal. The actual tombs lie below ground level.

In the Yamuna River below, water buffalo lazed while locals busied themselves with laundry. Upriver, the Red Fort glowed in the afternoon sun.

As the sun began to fall from the sky we returned to the Taj Mahal and took up our places in the gardens to watch the glow of the setting sun against the marble dome and its minarets. Many others were doing the same and a silence came over the crowd as if transfixed in their thoughts at the spectacle before them.

The planned early morning train trip back to Delhi the next morning was scratched because of a broken down locomotive so we clambered on board a bus for the five-hour drive. Before doing so, some of us took the opportunity to watch dawn break over the Taj Mahal. Below us, two hurriedly assembled cricket teams battled in the early morning light. A peacock strutted and scratched its way through a ruined building. Pinkish red bougainvillea framed many a picture as the impact of the sunrise's changing light and the noise of an awakening city set the scene.

All aboard the bus, we journeyed through Agra's early morning rush, passing schoolchildren on their way to their day's lessons, transported on motorized rickshaws and bikes. Men cycled with containers strapped to their mode of conveyance - some had collected milk from various farms and were delivering it to market for sale.

General chaos reigned, horns constantly blowing, every description of hand and animal drawn cart criss-crossing the road transporting sugar cane, hay, blocks of marble, dung cakes and people. The road, which was in the process of being widened felt like a battlefield with drivers happy to play chicken with the oncoming traffic.

A far cry from the serenity of the final resting place for Shah Jahan and his beloved wife.

Auckland New Year

In planning our trip to New Zealand, something had caught our eye - small yacht charters that take travellers out for a jaunt in Auckland’s harbour.

It was a glorious evening that New Year’s Eve and as we motored away from the dock we looked back on another memorable Auckland attraction – the Maritime Museum.

There were 17 passengers of various nationalities on the Pride of Auckland that evening and we all took turns manning the helm and trimming the sails. We dropped anchor for dinner and sipped wine, exchanging stories with our travelling companions.

After dinner, we sailed under Auckland’s harbour bridge, coming about to return into the main harbour. It was now dark and the skyline quite beautiful. It was still a few hours before midnight, but the excitement of the day had caught up with us and we went back to our hotel.

We had a rude awakening some time later when we shot up in bed to flashing bright lights strafing our hotel walls. A spectacular fireworks display had begun atop the Sky Tower at midnight, across the street from our hotel. Dubbed “Moulin Rouge” by the locals, we moved to the window and enjoyed a ringside view of Auckland’s New Year’s Eve light show. Over 35,000 people were on the streets below doing the same thing. We must have been dead to the world until our awakening - there was no mistaking the fireworks and cheering crowd.

If you find yourself in Auckland and have limited time, the Maritime Museum is a must.

A few hours wandering around the various displays will give an appreciation of the importance of the sea in New Zealand’s history – from early Polynesian navigators to whaling ships and the mass immigration of the 20th Century. Pride of place is also given to celebration of New Zealand’s America’s Cup victory and the life (and untimely death) of Sir Peter Blake, Black Magic’s captain.

A short distance from the Maritime Museum is one the Auckland’s most beautiful buildings – the Ferry Building.

Nowadays this 1912 Edwardian baroque building is the focal point for commuter ferries. Devonport, one of Auckland’s north shore suburbs is a short ten-minute ferry ride away.

Waiheke Island is also worth a visit - and we discovered that the ferry ride alone was worth the visit. On New Year's Day we enjoyed the white sandy beaches overlooked by cottage vineyards.

New Year’s holiday is a day for Aucklanders to pack a picnic, hop the ferry to Waiheke and laze the day away on the beach. It was fun being wrapped up in that atmosphere. We were on to do more serious things – explore three of the Island’s boutique wineries. Set among trailing roses, lavender bushes and olive trees it was an enjoyable afternoon.

Shades of England as we stopped for a lunch break – the tinkle of the ice cream van, meat pies, fish and chips – and the mainlanders enjoying their day out. We partook of the meat pie – bad decision after Doug renamed his snack dog meat pie.

We rejoined the holiday hordes for the return ferry trip to downtown Auckland and after a refresh at the hotel, it was time to eat. We found a backstreet Indian restaurant with friendly, talkative owners, non-stop Bollywood movies on the TV and a Maharajah’s banquet to die for.

On our way back to the hotel we experienced what nutty Kiwis have become famous for. Four insane people were strapped in a device resembling a sofa. A sort of reverse bungee jump had been set up in a car park.

Moments later the device hurled the screaming group into the air and we were left staring along with other passersby, wondering why. It didn’t look very safe, but Auckland is the city where people bungee jump off the Sky Tower for entertainment whether or not its a New Year's dare.

Terracotta Army – Silent Sentinels

As the story goes, in 1974 five farmers were working in the collective excavating for a new well.

In doing so, they unearthed the broken fragments of what was a silent army. Having no appreciation for their find, the farmers discarded the broken terracotta but kept the unearthed bricks that formed the base on which the famed Terracotta Warriors had once proudly stood to build pig pens.

The rest of course is history. The archaeologists moved in and the farmers became famous.

Over 2000 years ago several hundreds of thousands of workers spent 3 years constructing the Terracotta Army that was subsequently destroyed and plundered. The Army’s resting place is located near the Mausoleum of Emperor Qin Shi Huang.

A visitor to the Museum today will see many of the figures restored and exhibited in a hall built above the excavation site. Figures are grouped in battle order, rank by rank, some alongside horse-drawn chariots. Others are in infantry groups armed with spears, swords and crossbows.

Vault 1 houses 6000 life-size warriors, chariots and horses. Vault 2 contains formations of soldiers as the flank force and Vault 3 illustrates military headquarters.

The first sight of the contents of Vault 1 rendered us all speechless. The scale was much more expansive than we had expected. In fact there was a sense of occasion somehow as we looked down on those 2000 year old warriors so perfectly lined up, silent yet seemingly ready for battle.

At the Museum one of the farmers who had made the discovery posed for photos and autographed absolutely anything so long as it had been purchased in the Museum shop. However, local entrepreneurs looking for part of the action had managed to get beyond the security point into the Museum complex and were actively marketing their own crude version of the warriors. What the figures lacked in quality they more than made up for in price.

Intense negotiations went into high gear between the Museum shop and the bus door.

There were fourteen people on our bus which rattled with terracotta as it pulled away from the Museum. At breakfast next morning some people had had a change of heart, attempting to give their figures away because of the meagre weight allowance at North West China Airlines. There were no takers – everyone in the party was stocked with terracotta memorabilia for the trip home.

One wag suggested that all unwanted warriors could be tactfully disposed of in the excavation site for a new tower block across from our hotel. Who knows, in time this could end up being the next modern wonder and X’ian attraction.

Go Over The Wall. On Us.

We used to have a wonderful National airline called Canadian. Sadly it is no more. Before its demise on one sunny March afternoon in 2000 we just happened to be seated in Row 2 of a 747.

As the Canadian Airlines flight taxied from the gate I opened the in-flight magazine – an advertisement for the airline’s frequent flier program declared “no matter where you want to go, the best way to travel there is for free”. It pictured people climbing the Great Wall of China with the caption “Go over the Wall. On us”.

Doug and I were about to take them up on their offer - using the last of our frequent flier miles and just enough for two business class tickets.

“You are not a man if you have not been to the Great Wall” so the saying goes in China. The Great Wall extends some 3000 miles and is one of the few objects on earth visible from outer space. It was conceived as a gigantic defensive project as far back as the 7th Century BC and required a force of almost a million workers to construct it.

What makes the Great Wall all the more spectacular is the way in which it was constructed on the ridges of mountains, rising up and down with the contours of the terrain. On the top of the Wall a road paved with square bricks is wide enough for six horses to go abreast. Watch towers, built at intervals of a few hundred yards line the Wall. These two-storey stone and brick structures were used as beacons and a means of communication to warn of an enemy’s advance – using smoke during daylight and fire at night.

During the Ming Dynasty whenever a signal was sent, one or more warning shots were also fired. According to the military regulations of 1468 a single shot together with a single fire or smoke signal warned that the enemy was about a hundred strong. Two shots and two signals warned of five hundred, three warned of over a thousand. In this way a message could be transmitted very quickly.

These days the invading barbarians of old have been replaced by barbarians of a different kind – tourists.

We accessed the Great Wall at Badaling. While Badaling offers awesome views because of its proximity to Beijing it is very crowded. The Badaling section of the Wall was mainly constructed during the Ming Dynasty – the Ming Great Wall averaged 30 feet high, 25 feet wide at the base and 18 feet wide at the top.

Once we had arrived at Badaling we realized there were two choices – an easy climb or a more challenging one. There were fewer people on the steeper portion so off we went.

The climb proved to be difficult because the steps were very uneven and of different depths. Coming down was harder because some portions were slippery from wear and tear.

At the highest point of the climb we stopped at one of the towers and said hello to a Chinese family enjoying a picnic.

Despite the throngs of people, we didn’t have to go very far to be alone and take in the isolation of the place. Looking from one of the guard towers out over the barren mountains the Wall snaked off into the distance. We couldn’t help but feel small and insignificant.

The Fairy Tale City of Luang Prabang

We heard recently from long time travel companions that they were planning a trip to Asia and that Laos would be part of their itinerary.

That got me thinking about our own introduction to Laos when we visited the capital city of Vientiane and the ancient royal capital of Luang Prabang several years ago.

Despite the fact that after the Vietnam War Laos had the dubious distinction of being the most bombed country in the history of warfare, there is some irony in the fact that in 1995 UNESCO designated Luang Prabang the best preserved city in Southeast Asia - and what a treasure it proved to be.

The old capital lies sleepily on the banks of the Mekong river and is home to 33 Wats (or temples) and over 500 monks.

Luang Prabang has a fairy tale quality about it.

One of my lasting memories of our stay in the old capital was the daily ritual just after dawn when the monks walk solemnly from their monasteries to collect alms. Built in 1560, the monks' procession begins from Wat Xieng Thong where Lao kings were crowned and cremated. Beautiful murals constructed from glass fragments adorn the city's most famous temple.

Statues of Buddha in the Calling for Rain attitude line the Chapel of the Funeral Chariot.

Hmong embroidery and glass inlaid mosaics depicting village life in the hill tribes are very striking and form a rich tapestry.

Catching sight of a flash of orange in the distance I realise this is the beginning of the monks' daily procession - a snake of saffron robed men walk in single file toward me - first elderly monks with wizened faces, then novices of all ages, some as young as 6 or 7 years old.

Local women kneel at the pavement's edge holding containers of sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves while men (and the few visitors present) stand barefoot. As the monks pass we drop portions of rice into their alms bowls. The monks have a dreamy, distant look on their faces.

Every night near the entrance to the Royal Palace local vendors and hill tribe villagers display their wares along the street. The affair has the feeling of a social gathering with high energy.

There were so many wonderful things to buy but sadly I had to be dragged away from this shopping extravaganza, Lao kip and Thai baht unspent, because apparently we were well over the airline's meagre weight allowance. Never mind, I had my three-headed elephant Airavata. This symbol is associated with the old Lao Kingdom and the country's former flag which expressed the ancient name of the country "land of a million elephants".

And of course I had already loaded up with textiles at the Vientiane morning market - a large area with a huge selection of silk, fine cotton, Hmong embroidery, silver and gold. The quality of the hand-woven silk scarves with their iridescent hues was particularly good value and it soon became a question of "how many scarves is enough". All those gifts for friends back home. I have to confess I kept them all .....

Another must do in Luang Prabang is to climb the 300 winding steps to the top of Mount Phou Si. Get there well before sunset to stake out your position - its a popular place. The views as the sun sets over the Mekong, the lush vegetation and the temples with their stupas and sloping roofs is not to be missed.

As the light fades, the fast-moving Mekong's colour changes from milk to dark chocolate beckoning one to spend a day on the river and enjoy perspectives gained through watching life along the river bank in what seems to be a bygone age.

Cocktails in Punta Arenas

Punta Arenas in Chile is the southernmost city on the South American mainland, located in one of the wildest and remotest regions on earth.

The city has enjoyed two heydays in its history – the first lasted from 1850-1914 when the port was the principal supply station for ships rounding Cape Horn. By virtue of its strategic location Punta Arenas was one of the busiest ports in the world but its golden age ended abruptly when the Panama Canal opened in 1914. Punta Arenas languished until oil was discovered in the 1940s.

After a morning in town we set off to the Martime Museum but were puzzled when we arrived at what looked like a junk yard. Guards monitored the locked gates and beyond we could see a number of rusted shipwrecks stretching out into the sea.

No problem it seemed, the gates were opened and dodging pieces of tangled metal and other discarded maritime materials we ventured towards a cavernous hulk.

What happened next was one of those magical travel moments.

Peering inside the wreck we saw that a walkway had been constructed within its hull. Gingerly we stepped inside, careful not to bang our heads on the girders that criss-crossed overhead. Turning a corner we discovered that the walkway continued through a second wreck.

Through rusted portholes we could see Punta Arenas on one side and the open ocean on the other. The sun shone brightly enhancing the ocean’s deep marine blue colour.

Completing our walk through the second hulk, a third wreck beckoned. This time it was a three-masted vessel named the County of Peebles – an iron transporter ship launched on Clydeside (Glasgow) in 1890. Sadly the ship had ended its days washed aground by the unpredictable weather of the southernmost tip of the South American continent.

At the aft of the County of Peebles we entered a cabin which looked remarkably in tact. Still unclear as to what awaited us, smartly dressed waiters greeted us with trays of pisco and all sorts of interesting snacks. We were in the Chilean Navy’s Officers’ lounge!

The original helm, compass and figurehead from the County of Peebles graced the cabin which was lined with the ship’s original wooden seating and an attractive window through which Tierra del Fuego beckoned.

Our host explained the history of the County of Peebles adding that the Chilean Navy used all three rusting hulks as a breakwater. As we listened to the story, the structure moved gently with the incoming tide. We discovered that the visit had been made possible by the boss of the local travel bureau who happened to be a good friend of the local Naval commander. The very fact that we were able to sit within the confines of the County of Peebles and hear its history was a bit of a fluke.

As we ventured back through the convoluted series of walkways to shore one of our travel companions - a flamboyant art dealer from San Francisco - grasped Doug’s arm and gushed “Wasn’t that the most original cocktail party you’ve ever been to in your life!”

There was no denying that.

Kia Orana - Welcome to the Cooks

It was 3.30 a.m. Boxing Day morning and the balmy breeze brushed our tired, dehydrated faces as we disembarked the aircraft and entered the thatched terminal building.

We were in Rarotonga for a few days en route to New Zealand.

Half an hour later, our taxi turned down a gravel driveway flanked by colourful crotons to our hotel. As we walked down the winding pathway through lush gardens our feet sunk into powder-like sand. We turned a corner and immediately the surf became the dominant sound above our footsteps. For a moment we hesitated – it was a moonless night and we couldn’t see the ocean, but it was telling us just where it was. Low voltage lighting bathed the swimming pool in turquoise light and, just beyond it, Christmas decorations on a Norfolk Island pine shimmered as the breeze ruffled its branches.

Falling into bed we drifted off to sleep to be awoken at dawn by a rooster crowing, accompanied by a chorus of miner birds. Coming to our senses, we lay in bed and took in our surroundings now that it was daylight. Gentle waves washed over the reef right in front of our bure, which had a sitting area and verandah facing the ocean. All the pathways leading to other bures in the resort were formed with beautiful, clean, golden sand which the village boys raked several times a day to restore that feeling of paradise.

The setting was completed by palm trees which curved seductively up to the sky. While there were many shady places to sit on the beach and around the pool, hammocks strung between the palms caught my eye. What better way to start one’s vacation than by swaying in a hammock as the mind engages in meaningless thought. The only stress that day was being mindful of the fact that coconuts are missiles - and as the periodic signage warned us to beware - occasionally I would look up at the menacing clusters of coconuts in the crown of the palms. When would gravity have its say I pondered: stress is a relative thing.

Escaping the heat of the afternoon sun we returned to our bure and noticed that all rooms had metal foot baths decorated with floating tropical flowers so that we could part company with all that stubborn sand lodged between the toes.

Dinner that night became one of those lingering tropical memories. We had taken a seat at a plastic table firmly planted in the sand to watch the sun set. Within minutes the stark plastic tables had been transformed with white tablecloth, candles, blue napkins, silverware and tropical flowers. Perfect. Kia Orana – “Welcome to the Cook Islands”.

A visit to the Cooks is not complete without a trip to Aitutaki. The stuff of travel posters, Aitutaki has brilliantly clear water in shades of royal, turquoise and azure - and proved to be a fine place to snorkel.

The sand varies in colour from pearl white to shades of yellow and gold. It was also incredibly hot. Even the locals sat in the water to keep cool – and interestingly, ate mangoes which they dipped into the salty water.

There isn’t a lot to do on Rarotonga. It isn’t commercialized, partly because land cannot be owned by anyone but locals. This was part of the appeal, but if Raro feels too busy, Aitutaki takes one down another notch.

While there is a good bus service circling Rarotonga clockwise and anti-clockwise, renting a motorcycle is cheap and an alternative with its own sense of adventure. Doug rented one from our Resort, informing me that before we set out for the day he wanted to get the “feel of it”.

There are a couple of things visitors on motorcycles need to be aware of, as we were to learn. Dogs roam freely and cross the road at will. They are savvy though and do a better job of dodging you than you them.

The other thing to avoid is acquiring a 'Rarotongan tatoo', or muffler burn. Motorcycle mufflers are mounted on the side of the bike and get hot very quickly. Getting on and off has to be accomplished nimbly.

We circled the Island a couple of times, stopping off at various resorts to view their facilities. We had lunch at one of the resorts in an outdoor café with very relaxed service. No wonder everyone moves so slowly on the Cooks – the rooster wakes them up every morning at 4 a.m.

That night our Resort put on its weekly barbeque. The food was laid out in large shell containers on a flower-decked table, while we were entertained by “fire dancers” who twirled and dodged flaming batons in the moonlight. This was truly a family affair – the dancers were all age groups, from old men to toddlers, all of whom introduced themselves after the dancing ended – except for one little boy whose big brown eyes never blinked as he gazed into the adoring audience – never missing a beat while enthusiastically sucking his thumb.

Our short stay on the Cook Islands had come to an end. The next morning we were off to New Zealand.

Leaving the Resort the way we had arrived – under an endless black sky full of stars our taxi driver drove us the short distance to the airport. We asked him how many times a week his sleep was disturbed ferrying the tourists around. He acknowledged that this was how it worked with the international flights coming into Rarotonga in the middle of the night and was pretty much routine.

We were at the airport in plenty of time for our flight to Auckland and joined a long line for the only plane leaving that morning. Many of the passengers for the flight were Cook Islanders on their way to a family reunion in New Zealand. I say it was a long line up, but I should qualify that. The line was not so much long because of the number of people in it. The line appeared long because of the large number of luggage trolleys stacked high with all sorts of interesting belongings – mostly food packaged in large Styrofoam containers.

This in itself was interesting because we knew that the restrictions on importing just about any food product into New Zealand are legendary – while increased security is a fact of life everywhere, it is the agricultural police you have to watch out for on arrival in New Zealand. Travellers are approached with a no-nonsense attitude and sniffer dogs trained to tag a cheese sandwich at a thousand paces go about their work with unbridled enthusiasm. How on earth were the Islanders going to get the food into New Zealand and why weren’t the airline staff telling them. We never did find out.

The departure lounge had a convivial atmosphere. The 60-member Cook Islander family reunion had taken on a scale that had everyone’s attention – the group ranged from babes in arms to very elderly (and correspondingly large) family members. Each family within the group was attired in a “Cook Island tartan” - colourful shirts and other accessories made of the same fabric. Young men in the party spontaneously played a happy refrain on ukuleles while the children clapped their hands and smiled. All this, and it was only 4 a.m.

An interesting anecdote about Rarotonga Airport revolves around the Singing Fireman, Jake Numanga. He is present for every incoming and outgoing flight and regales passengers with songs of the Islands while accompanying himself on a well-used ukulele. At one time Jake was one of the airport’s firemen and would sing to airport travellers to pass the time. He has retired now and made ‘feel good’ a full-time pastime.

Our flight was finally called and the mass of Cook Islanders ignored every line in the most good humoured way, moving as one to the tarmac. Above it all, Jake sang and yodeled tunes of happy travels.

Beyond the terminal it was a very short walk across the tarmac to the two portable stairways up to the doors of the 767. The flight attendants were exceedingly patient as our Island friends, some of whom had never been on an aircraft before, switched seats, climbed over one another, played their ukuleles and discovered how far their seats could recline. Offence could not be taken - all transgressions were committed with a big smile. Although there was a trace of a sense of humour failure when one individual across the aisle from us was told his ukulele had to go into the overhead bin before we could get underway.

His frown was to be short lived and soon replaced with a large beaming smile exposing perfect, pearly white teeth.

Harp Scratchings 10 - Want To Make A Bet?

Mum was a hot shot at skittles and a member of the Harp's team. Here she is concentrating hard during a game at an opposing team's pub.

Long before the popularity of pub quizzes, entertainment at the Harp took many forms. There were the devotees of dominoes, skittles, coits, whist and darts – all played in good fun - although it did bring out the competitive spirit at times when teams were engaged from other pubs in the area in a “friendly”.

This was good for business of course and trade would be brisk when a tournament was underway. Mum and Dad would enter into the spirit of things, making free snacks to serve the combatants – bread, cheese and home-made pickled onions. The prize for the winning team was generally a free round of drinks from the host pub.

Every March a friendly competition would take place amongst the locals around the running of the Grand National at Aintree racecourse. This famous horse race had its beginnings in 1836 and involved horses and jockeys having to successfully jump 30 fences with legendary names like the Chair, Beecher’s Brook and Valentines. The Chair was the tallest and broadest fence on the course – over five feet tall with a six foot wide ditch on the take-off side.

Mum and I agreed that it seemed like a cruel race. Often there would be catastrophes when horses collided and fell. I wondered what it would be like to be in the midst of all that confusion, the noise of pounding hooves and flying mud.

In 1960 the Grand National was televised for the first time and Dad brought our old black and white TV into the bar so that everyone could follow the proceedings.

In 1961 I officially became a gambler. In the Harp’s Grand National pool every participant drew the name of one of the runners and hoped for the best. The odds were a factor but so were the tribulations of those mountainous fences. My name had been drawn against a 28 to 1 long shot called "Nicholas Silver".

I remember this vividly because he stood out as the only grey horse, and this somehow made me feel he was going to be special. Nicholas Silver turned out to be only the second grey horse to ever win the National. I don’t remember what I did with my meagre winnings.

Before the proliferation of betting shops, a “flutter on the gee gees” by the Harp’s locals took place usually with the first drink of the day just after the pub had opened. The racing form would be studied in the sports section of the National daily. Bets would be written on a piece of paper. The wager – usually a few coins – would be wrapped up tightly in the paper and handed to Dad for pick up by whoever it was that managed these things. I don’t remember too many paydays, but when they came, the winnings would appear in similar wrappings.

Moving with the times, I remember the installation of a one-armed bandit in the top bar. It didn’t really fit into the homey surroundings of the Harp but it was placed well away from the grandfather clock and lovely old wooden chair that belonged to my grandfather. Installed on the other side of the fireplace next to the notice board, this gleaming icon of modern gambling soon became a fixture.

Mum was particularly taken with it and on her daily cleaning activities would often be seen polishing the machine’s chrome handle, perhaps willing it to produce three cherries the next time she engaged it.

The company who had installed the machine would come by periodically to empty it of its cache of coins. The technician would always leave my mother a small supply of coins that she would keep in a half pint mug behind the bar. These coins were mainly used to break down larger denominations that didn’t fit in the machine but now and again, the polishing led to a trial run funded from the half pint mug in search of the illusive trilogy of cherries.

Duster still in hand, Mum would be heard to mutter, “They don’t call it a one-armed bandit for nothing, bloody thing.”