Harp Scratchings 5 - The Telephone

One of my first recollections growing up was that there was always something going on – whether it was eating a meal in shifts because someone had to be in the Bar or invasions into our living quarters when one of the regulars had to use the phone – the only one in the village apparently.

Some of "the regulars" - Pricey Hughes, Mrs. Meale, Auntie Lil and Uncle Eric

Christmas Day was a big day at the Harp. Not so much because of its religious significance – more because Dad gave the regulars free drinks. A feeling of goodwill would abound through both bars until the locals gradually dispersed to their Christmas dinners. Christmas dinner for the Price family however was a little different every year, depending on opening hours and very often we did eat in shifts.

As for the telephone – I hated that thing. It was big, black and ugly and had been installed on an awkwardly constructed shelf next to the television set in our living room. And it had a ring tone that would raise the dead. It seemed to vibrate when it rang and we would rush to pick up the heavy receiver and uncoil the unwieldy cord that snaked to the back of the phone and into the wall.

There was no direct dialing when I was a kid – Dolly Morgan who ran the local village switchboard had to be raised so that a call could be connected. Dolly knew everything that was going on in the village – small wonder.

As the bonhomie in the bars went into the evening, so would the phone make its presence felt. An anxious wife calling to find out where her husband was, the local garage wanting to know whether we could put up a long distance lorry driver because his truck had broken down - or worse – word that our sheep had broken out of the meadow and were last seen scurrying down the road towards Hay, the next community. When one sheep makes a decision, it’s truly amazing how the whole flock follow without question.

Evidently they didn't need Dolly to communicate with one another.

Harp Scratchings 4 - The Foodie

Part of the reason I was never a small child was because Mum and Dad’s philosophy was that if you weren’t eating there was something the matter with you. Every activity was associated with food of some kind.

One of the most glorious times was when my mother made welsh cakes – griddle cakes eaten warm from the pan - just about the most heavenly experience, even though if you consumed them too quickly you’d burn your mouth and get heartburn. Small matter.

On Saturdays I would offer to make lunch while Mum and Dad were busy in the bar – my speciality at age 12 was shepherd’s pie - at least my concoction of it. The dish centred around a rectangle of corned beef from the Argentine. The rectangular can came with a key and unless the key was properly inserted into the metal strip at the top of the can disaster would follow. Getting the corned beef out of the can with a regular can opener was next to impossible. Corned beef removed and chopped, I added fried onions and a can of baked beans, mixing up the concoction in a casserole dish. Topped with lashings of mashed potatoes and butter the pie would be ready for consumption when the liquid bubbled through the potatoes. It was served alone.

I suppose fried onions are a vegetable, but the notion of adding cooked "green" vegetables to a meal had yet to be conceived. Mushy peas and cabbage were the only green vegetables I remember with the family roast, but they were boiled until all trace of colour had gone. Dad, an army cook at one point in his life, subscribed to the principle that vegetables were not cooked until they were grey. He was particularly enthusiastic about mashing the cabbage in boiling water and despite its lack of colour the cabbage was always tasty because it had been cooked with fat bacon. The mushy peas were a sort of greenish colour, but not through any natural cause – the bicarbonate of soda added to the boiling water gave the peas that distinctive hue, best disguised in lots of beef gravy.

Mediterranean-style cooking had yet to enter my life.

Harp Scratchings 3 - No Time To Rest

Mum and Dad outside "The Harp"

Pigs in the cellar wasn’t the only time our animals became extended family. Springtime lambing was another stressful time for Dad when he would spend many early morning hours overseeing a difficult lambing. It wouldn’t be a surprise to get up in the morning to find a newly born lamb near death by the fire with Mum trying to revive it or feed it from a bottle. If the lamb survived, the next challenge was to repatriate it to its mother – sometimes the mother would have none of it and the lamb would become bottle dependent.

It was always hard to watch and listen to a lamb crying for its mother, going ewe to ewe in the flock and being rejected each time. As the lamb finally came to the realization that Mum or Dad were now the primary source of food, the lamb would present itself at the meadow gate and bleat pitifully until someone appeared with a bottle of warm milk.

The bar closed at 3 p.m. each day to reopen at 6 p.m. A short break for Mum and Dad to have a rest, eat a meal and as they always did, look after us when we got home from school. Many times that break was interrupted by a knock on the door and someone looking for bed and breakfast.

We had two guest rooms at the Harp and that together with the only bathroom would be made available to bed and breakfasters. The “Smoke Room” at the front of the house was where the meals were served and the only time we could use the room was when we were doing homework or studying for exams. Despite its name, no one ever smoked there.

Living as we did on the main road, we were in an ideal location for travellers who wanted to break their journey as they toured through beautiful Wales. While we didn’t advertise it, if asked, Mum would do an evening meal. Nothing fancy, and often created from anything available in the cupboard or the garden, she would pull a meal together in no time. Stewed plums and custard were a personal favourite of mine – and there were always leftovers.

Dad would always do the cooked breakfast – and what a plateful that was. Bacon, eggs, tomatoes and fried bread, preceded by Trout Hall grapefruit – and while canned and little resemblance to fresh grapefruit, I remember it was delicious. If someone had taken an early morning walk along the Grove, breakfast would be augmented with mushrooms, generously cooked in bacon fat.

White bread was the only bread I seem to recall back then and the toast rack accompanying breakfast would be crammed with carefully toasted slices, all with the crusts cut off and served with farm fresh butter. We served tea, and coffee if asked, but the mysteries of brewing good coffee had yet to be revealed to my mother.

I still have the Harp’s guest book and it’s bittersweet to turn those pages now and read the comments made by strangers from far away places.

Harp Scratchings 2 - Bill Chicken

Bill Chicken was one of those colourful characters who appeared in the pub on a Saturday night. His rounds over, he was ready for a few laughs with the boys – and of course to deliver his last order – the Sunday Roast to the Harp which Dad often paid him for in the beverages of his choice.

Bill Price – known to his friends and neighbours as Bill Chicken – was Price the Butcher from Hay. The problem in Wales is that so many folk have the same surname and often the same first name. Hence Dad - Bill Price - was known as Bill the Harp.

Bill Chicken bore all the features of a true Welshman – short and stocky with dark hair. A gregarious character, he would swagger into the bar, slap Dad’s meat order down on the counter and enquire as to everyone’s health. Still in his butcher robes, complete with blood spattered apron, Bill would inhale that first pint and the performance would follow. Stories of people he had met on his rounds during the day, what they were doing, why they were doing it.

By the end of the evening, Bill would often venture out to his van and return with “something special” for Dad – either home made sausages or pork fry. And after closing time, Dad who was now salivating at the thought – and feeling the benefits of a few libations - would go to the kitchen, reach for a frying pan and cook up a midnight feast. At least that’s what I would call it, despite the inevitable indigestion that would follow!

Harp Scratchings 1 - The Bonfire

"Harp Scratchings" is the title of a series of short stories about growing up in Wales, the eldest of two daughters of local Innkeeper and his wife, Bill and Alice Price.

At age 10, The Harp Inn was the centre of my universe. After all, many of the villagers appeared to spend a great deal of time "in the pub". It seemed that my sister Julia and I had a lot of good-hearted "uncles and aunties".

This 1964 picture is an aerial shot of part of our village, Glasbury-on-Wye. The Harp Inn is in the centre of the picture. Dad's meadow, to the bottom of the picture was a three-acre field - Ruby and Minstral - our Herefords visible to the right. The area in the top of the picture shows "The Grove" the common land between the houses and the River Wye, and site of "The Bonfire" this first story from Harp Scratchings.

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High water on the River Wye was eyed with glee by Glasbury kids – that is if it occurred before 5th November – that ubiquitous day on the calendar when Guy Fawkes received his reward for trying to blow up the Houses of Parliament.

The River Wye would often flood after heavy rain and the waters could swell even more if a decision was made to let water out of the reservoirs upstream. What a sight to see those fast moving waters engulf the Grove - the name given to the common land along the riverbank and the dividing point between our row of houses and the river.

While Dad worried about getting his sheep and pigs to higher ground – we dreamed about a new source of firewood after the flood had abated for our November 5th bonfire, yet to be constructed.

The sheep would be moved to our meadow on higher ground above the pub, but the pigs were more of a challenge. On one occasion, squealing as though their end had come, Dad and some willing neighbours herded two smelly adult pigs into the cellar under the house to a makeshift straw-filled pen in between the beer barrels.

And when the waters did abate, we could hardly wait to venture out on to the muddy wet grass. Pulling on our wellington boots, off we set, the self-appointed gang tasked with building the bonfire that year.

All sorts of debris from the flood lay on the Grove waiting to be collected. Adding to the drama was the fact that other children in the village whose parents had had a falling out with ours, were in search of the same wood for their own bonfire – the “unofficial” one. So it was with a matter of great importance to reach the spoils first.

Carefully constructed like a giant tepee, as the bonfire took shape we played inside our temporary playhouse, ultimately filling it with more debris, empty boxes or any other combustible we could get our hands on. Size mattered.

In the meantime, our effigy of Guy Fawkes took shape. Using old clothes, string and newspapers, a lifeless form emerged, sporting a drunken grin as its head lolled to one side. Our effigy was used to raise funds from bar patrons or anyone else willing to part with a shilling so that we could buy fireworks.

And then on November 5th our guy was hoisted on to the bonfire and the carefully built structure set ablaze. The crackling of the fire and the whooshing and popping of fireworks excited us all as Mum handed out sausages and onions in bread rolls with hot chocolate.

The next morning we examined the burned out remains of the bonfire with some sadness – now mostly a sea of grey ash and burned out fireworks. It was over for another year and already we were musing how it could be bigger and better next time.

Climbing the Coathanger

The Sydney Harbour Bridge officially opened on 19 March 1932. The event drew large crowds and despite the economic depression there were decorated floats, marching bands, a gun salute, a procession of passenger ships under the new bridge, a fly past and fireworks. After the pageant the public was allowed to walk across the deck - an event not repeated until the Bridge’s 50th anniversary in 1982. Some enthusiastic onlookers celebrated by unofficially climbing up the bridge arch - and an idea was hatched for later commercialization. In 1998 the Sydney Harbour Bridge – or “the Coathanger” as it is referred to locally – became host to a popular tourist attraction – “Bridgeclimb”.

Our own bridgeclimb experience was scheduled for 19 December 2000 at 10:05 a.m. That morning we had gone for a walk through the Botanical Gardens and from Mrs. Macquarrie’s Chair looked back at the Bridge and Opera House. A lone fisherman was trying his luck in the early morning waters. It looked as though it might thunder and we were a little concerned because the climb does not operate in electrical storms. The ominous clouds passed and it was soon time to get to Bridgeclimb’s operation on Cumberland Street.

Run like a friendly military operation, the orientation begins with an educational video on what you can and cannot do on the bridge. Moving to the next room our group of 12 for the 10:05 a.m. climb went through a breathalyzer test and signed waivers. On to the next area where we met our fellow climbers and received our climb jumpsuit.

The purpose of the jumpsuit is two-fold. Having taken most of our clothes off, the suit provided the right amount of protection with its loops and catches to ensure that even sunglasses are attached to the suit – nothing must fall into the harbour. The second reason for this drab grey suit is that climbers blend into the bridge as they travel the bridge arch. This apparently was one of the conditions of operation and intended to minimize distraction to the motorists below.

Kitted out in our jumpsuits we then practiced how to use the safety harnesses properly. At all times we would be attached to the bridge. The next lesson was how to climb a vertical ladder without banging one’s knees on the steps and learning how to keep the safety harness moving along the steel cable to which it was attached – sometimes it needed coaxing as you turn a corner.

Finally, we were fitted with two-way radios and paraded in a line down the street to the bridge span entrance – passers-by barely gave us a second glance even though we looked like convicts. As we climbed the stairs to the catwalk, we waited for a returning group. They looked tired but exhilarated.

The first obstacle - the catwalk - was probably the worst part of the experience because it bounced menacingly as we crossed and of course you could see right through it. Our group leader stopped several times on the catwalk to point out various landmarks. One of the more interesting anecdotes was that during the bridge construction hundreds of empty rum bottles were found buried below the bridge catwalk. That’s how labourers in the early colonial days were paid and rum was considered as valuable as hard currency.

Next challenge was the ladder climb, which we could only undertake one at a time, waiting until the last person reached the platform above to the next ladder. Additional staff stood at the platforms to offer encouragement and help anyone who needed it. Finally we reached the main span and started the climb in earnest. There are approximately 1500 steps and it’s much like climbing up the train track of a big dipper.

The Olympic Stadium at Homebush Bay was clearly visible as well as other Sydney landmarks like the Opera House, Circular Quay, Darling Harbour and Kirribilli Point where Admiralty House and Kirribilli House are situated – homes of the Governor General and Prime Minister respectively.

Our group leader took pictures of us at various points of the climb – a significant marketing opportunity since climbers were forbidden to bring their own camera, or anything else for that matter. Reaching the center point of the main arch on the west side of the bridge, we crossed over to the arch on the east side and began the descent.

This time the array of ladders at the bottom took us between the train tracks. As Doug and I descended a train sped by, and the blast of air from it made us feel very mortal indeed.

After the climb Doug told me that when he was a little boy he had always wanted to go on the Big Dipper at Southport Pleasure Beach. His Mum and Dad finally agreed to take him one summer. Doug sat next to his Mum with his Dad in the seat behind. As the carriage started its climb, Doug stood up and announced that he wanted to get off. Mum and Dad were faced with the task of holding Doug down for the rest of the ride.

Apparently this childhood memory had emerged in Doug’s mind as he edged his way across the open grilled catwalk sixty feet above the ground, towards the pylon and the main arch. But he added that it was only a fleeting thought as we climbed up through the pylon, stopping to admire the granite-faced blocks used in its construction, each one hand crafted and numbered, fitting perfectly together like pieces in a giant jigsaw.

What better than Climbing the Coathanger for Christmas!

The Convention

Space, the final frontier. These are the voyages of the Star Ship Enterprise, its five year mission to seek out strange new worlds and new civilizations and to boldly go where no one has gone before.

I’ve always enjoyed Star Trek – whether its the first series with Captain James T. Kirk or the Next Generation series with Captain Jean Luc Picard at the helm of the USS Enterprise.

Call me a closet trekkie. But I do draw the line at certain behaviours like dressing up as a Star Trek character and hunting down the actors at a Star Trek Convention. Yes they are actors, they aren’t real – there is no USS Enterprise and we are not in the 25th century. But tell a trekkie that.

I have a confession to make though. I did go to a Star Trek Convention once, it was an eye opener.

Encouraged by some of my friends who happen to have just about every Star Trek character’s signed photographs in their possession, we headed off to the Convention.

My first stop was the washroom. Do you know how many Dr. Beverly Crushers were combing their hair. For those of you who are not trekkies - she is the good doctor in the New Generation series who is able to fix all ills in humans and androids alike. Her lookalikes adjusted their long flowing red wigs and stroked the creases from their medical uniforms leaving me with my mouth open.

The reason I like Star Trek is because its premise is full of hope for the future and the notion of the prime directive - not to interfere or influence the outcome of any situation they may get involved in.

As with all good stories, there are the bad guys. The Klingons, the Ferenghi, the Cardacians, the Romulans and most feared of all, the Borg – a cube shaped monolith that hurtles through space destroying everything in its path.

The Borg don’t believe in the prime directive. They believe that everyone they encounter must be assimilated into their collective. They believe that resistance is futile. Just like when you are dealing with the tax collector. You will succumb.

The Klingons are fierce warriors and incredibly ugly. They see glory in death and on the eve of a battle hope their friends “die well”. Klingon women are particularly gruesome.

The Ferengi raison d’etre is avarice. They will pursue anything that gains a profit – financial or strategic.

Cardacians are another story. They smile sincerely as they stab you in the heart.

Romulans – aggressive and distrustful and unlike their peace loving relatives the Vulcans.

Meeting that cadre of Doctor Beverley Crushers in the washroom was just the beginning of my afternoon at the Convention. Klingons roamed the convention floor in various degrees of Klingon-attire. Some looked like members of Kiss with their platform heels and face make up. Others had everything perfectly in place, including the facial enhancements that could only be accomplished with some sophisticated make up.

No Borg though. I would imagine its pretty challenging for the keenest trekkie to emulate a cube hurtling through the galaxies.

It fascinated me how seriously the conventioneers took the event. Many were dressed up after some Star Trek character. They assembled to listen to various speakers, some of whom were actors in the series.

An auction was held later in the afternoon with the audience bidding on Star Trek memorabilia.

There is a character is the New Generation Series called Q. He is a member of the Q continuum and has incredible powers, most of which he abuses. He is the bad boy of outer space. His particular mission is to taunt Captain Jean Luc Picard in any way he can – mocking his French heritage by referring to him as “mon capitan”.

Apparently, the actor who plays Q appeared at a Star Trek convention in the States once and on the day he was sick. He had what he thought was the flu. In true thespian form he got up on the stage and addressed the audience, but needed a drink of water part way through. After his talk, he apologised for not staying longer and left the Convention.

During the usual auction that followed, in a stroke of brilliance the MC asked if anyone in the audience would bid on Q’s unfinished glass of water. As the story goes, apparently it sold for $300. The winning bidder walked away with a smile on his face and was heard to say that if he drank the remaining water he would acquire some of Q’s mysterious powers. After all, he is known for making people disappear on occasion.

And then there was the lady in Alabama who believes she is a member of Star Fleet. She proudly wears the red and black uniform on a daily basis. She made the news because she had been called for Jury Duty and appeared in dress uniform on the first day of the trial explaining to the astonished media that members of Star Fleet take their responsibilities very seriously.

That afternoon at the Convention somehow spoiled my personal illusion of the Federation of Planets. Make believe yes. But if it were real how many of you would like to be on the bridge of the Enterprise doing some important job – hailing that other star ship, switching on the international communicator so that you could be understood by some alien race, monitoring the ship’s engines and its dylithium crystals. How nerve-wracking to hear the Chief Engineer, Commander Montgomery Scott utter those immortal words in his Scottish brogue – “the engines canna take any more Captain”.

Wouldn’t you like just once to sit in the Captain’s Chair and issue the order to go forward at full speed – Warp Factor 9. Captain Picard would sit there stoicly looking out into the void. He would raise one arm slightly and point forward, uttering that commanding word in his Shakespearian-trained voice to get moving – Engage.

I’m really not a groupie, but I do have to confess to being a member of the Klingon empire. Yes they are ugly and warlike, but they have a gothic quality that sets them apart. While I don’t dress up and go to Conventions – I do have their badge.

While on the subject of badges, haven’t you always loved the communicators that members of star fleet wear. They are the triangular shaped badges worn on the left of the uniform. Smart little things, if you happen to be down on some planet and have done your work for the day, you touch your communicator and tell the bridge – one to beam up. And bingo - as a carbon based life form you are transported through space back onto the star ship. How liberating is that.

As someone once scrawled on the service elevator wall in our office building – “beam me up Scottie, there’s no intelligent life down here”.

One to beam up.

Star Quality

Imagine an elderly man with old fashioned glasses dressed in saffron and yellow robes. Bare armed in our cool Fall weather – yet wearing sensible walking shoes.

This is a man who has rubbed shoulders with the rich and famous – or I should say the rich and famous have beaten a path to his door to rub shoulders with him. Royalty, world leaders, movie stars, ordinary people.

This is a man who was born in a small Tibetan village to a peasant family – and destined to be a spiritual leader, travel the world, receive many awards and honorary degrees – including the 1989 Nobel Peace Prize.

At the age of 2 he was recognized as the reincarnation of his predecessor the 13th Dalai Lama and an incarnation of the Buddha of Compassion.

I am referring to His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama – Tenzin Gyatso. He refers to himself as a simple Buddhist monk – “no more, nor less."

And one of a handful of foreigners to be granted the rare status of honorary Canadian citizen.

If you’ve heard the Dalai Lama speak, you will have noticed that he has a playful way about him.

When asked by the media during a recent visit to Vancouver why he had come to our Province, he smiled warmly and replied “Because I was invited”.

Speaking to a crowd of 15,000 at GM Place, he mused about this new honour of being a Canadian. Someone had given him a red sun visor emblazoned with the words “Canada” which he proudly wore. He looked impish as he asked the crowd – “what do I have to do to be a good Canadian – what rules can I break and still be forgiven”.

The message he gives – one of peace and happiness – coupled with his natural charm – is unmistakable and compelling. His proposition is to follow the three R’s - respect for self, respect for others and responsibility for all your actions.

His world as a Buddhist is one of simplicity – and yet here we are living a charmed life in one of the most expensive cities in North America. We have our toys, our creature comforts – but the human condition seems to be one of wanting more. It’s never enough. Like mice running inside a wheel – the faster the wheel turns, the faster we run.

So why am I telling you all this.

Well, I happened to be in a downtown Hotel one morning in September as the Dalai Lama was leaving the hotel for a speaking engagement.

I knew something was about to happen as I waited for a friend in the hotel lobby. Large men in dark suits wearing ear pieces surveyed the lobby closely. Undercover RCMP watched every one and every thing very closely.

And then a throng of people moved forward from the elevator bank – moving seemingly as one towards the waiting limousines.

His holiness was unmistakable. There was that presence.

Despite the tight security, and perhaps a certain tenseness by those assuring the Dalai Lama’s safety, I noticed that he still made eye contact with those who had paused in the lobby to catch of glimpse of him.

But I wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

He fixed his gaze on me, walking towards me with his arm outstretched to shake my hand. His small hand was soft. He held my hand for what seemed to be a long time, all the while holding my gaze. His eyes were warm and his face full of expression. It was as though all that wisdom could be felt through those eyes. After all, the eyes are the window to the soul.

And then he had moved on. I felt my eyes fill with tears. Why - I cannot tell you. But somehow I felt uplifted and my heart was full of joy for the opportunity of that impromptu meeting and two strangers connecting.

The day I met the Dalai Lama made me realize the raw power of his message of peace and happiness. And to stop in our busy lives for just one moment to ponder what that actually means.

Qat Is Where It's At

We didn’t specifically choose the Democratic Republic of Yemen as a destination vacation spot. The Red Sea port of Hodeidah was a port of call on board a cruise that we had embarked in Bombay.

Our day trip in Yemen took us to the mountain villages of Manakha and Al-Hajrah, three hours’ drive from the port.

As we disembarked the ship we saw our transportation for the day – a ramshackle collection of ancient buses. The ship’s tour director told us that on a previous visit to Hodeidah she had dispatched a cleaning detail from the ship to spruce up the buses. The following year when the ship returned, imagine her surprise to find one of the ship’s buckets still on the bus where a crew member had mistakenly left it!

Practically all 155 of the ship’s passengers joined the rag-tag convoy. Our guide spoke impeccable English. Educated in England, he had a wife and child living in Germany but was a little fuzzy as to why he was back in Yemen. He explained the significance of the impressive curved dagger which all Yemeni men carry, passing his own dagger amongst us for inspection.

As we sped through small villages at the mercy of a driver who would have been a match for Paul Tracy any day, we couldn’t help but be charmed by the colourfully dressed children who waved and smiled. The men looked on passively while the women stayed in the background, veiled and hidden from our gaze. The road which links Hodeidah to the capital of Sana’a wound its way through mountainous terrain, dotted by stone dwellings with unusual window adornments. Various crops flourished on the terraced hillsides. Coffee, once the crop of choice, has been replaced by a far more lucrative one – qat (pronounced “cat”). Qat is not unlike a fig leaf and the juices produce a mild stimulant. Qat chewing is a national pastime of the male population – as we were to discover.

Manakha was unspoiled by burgeoning tourism and from here we boarded four-wheel drives for the twenty minute ascent to Al-Hajrah.

The road was barely a track and children gleefully assisted the adult males in filling some of the more daunting potholes in our path. The view below us was breathtaking – the road snaked off into the distance, the contoured terraces softening the harsh landscape. Villagers were out in force, the more enterprising ones offering various crudely made silver boxes, jewellery, teapots and daggers for sale. The children continued to charm, taking our hands and always smiling – a mutual admiration society.

A lunch of local specialities was served as we sat shoeless on rows of colourful carpets at the tourist hotel. We looked on as male villagers danced outside, flashing their daggers and chewing furiously.

Our guide and driver joined the chewing frenzy as we returned to Hodeidah but their euphoria was suddenly halted when one too many chancy passes failed and our bus brushed alongside an oncoming truck laden with toys. Fragments of broken red plastic telephones flew down the inside of our bus as we screeched to a halt, thankfully before the road surface ended and the narrow gully began. Fortunately the bus’s shattered windshield remained intact.

After much to-do, everyone was declared unhurt and in good spirits. Our shaken-up driver continued in a more sedate fashion, perhaps pondering his explanations.

Our day in the mountain villages of Manakha and Al-Hajrah was written as a postcard published in the Vancouver Sun in April 1996

A Backyard Train Trip

In recent years our holidays have tended to be events - standing on the Great Wall of China - climbing the Sydney Harbour Bridge - watching the sun set over the Taj Mahal. This past weekend was spent somewhat differently. We did something that would normally be relegated to a trip with relatives from overseas - seeing our own Province.

We have lived in BC for close to thirty years and the only time we seem to venture out of the Lower Mainland is when a relative wants to visit Vancouver Island or go wine tasting in the Okanagan. Anxious for a few relaxing days away we booked a trip on the new Whistler Northwind - a trip that travels from North Vancouver to Whistler, 100 Mile House and Prince George.

It was a sunny Sunday morning as we drew out of North Vancouver's train station. We had chosen summit service as a result of a special offer to BC residents. This meant assigned seating in a glass-domed car, meals served in a dining car decorated with colourful murals, and use of a bar and sitting room in the last carriage - a converted 1939 Budd car.

It is amazing how we take our own back doorstep for granted. From the moment the train left the Station, the view of the Lions Gate Bridge looked somewhat haunting from our vantage point. The views of West Vancouver gardens, blazing with late spring colour in the sunlight was alluring. Meanwhile, on board, our hostess served champagne and orange juice and told us what to expect over the next three days.

Soon we were passing Horseshoe Bay as a ferry obligingly pulled into the terminal below. Howe Sound looked like a postcard.

The Squamish Highway snaked its way north alongside us and as we enjoyed brunch in the dining car we began to appreciate the romance of travelling by rail and why people always seem to wave at trains.

We detrained in Whistler around noon, spending the afternoon trying to retrace our steps from years ago when we used to ski out to the garbage dump. How times have changed!

Next morning our crew whisked us by bus to Pemberton where we reboarded the train for day two.

It was a day of superlatives - the sun shone brightly, making the snowline gleam.

The scenery only improved as we travelled north. The colours of Anderson and Seton Lakes rivalled anything we had seen in the Rockies and as we entered the Fraser Canyon lunch was served. Later that afternoon we arrived in 100 Mile House for an overnight stay at a guest ranch - something else we had always wanted to do one day.

Before returning to the station the next morning we went trail riding on Cowboy and General, two gentle sure-footed horses.

The final day was to take us to Prince George and while the scenery was not as dramatic, it still proved mesmerizing through the large picture windows of the train. Both lunch and dinner were served in the dining car and we were beginning to feel this trip was a cruise on rails.

Thanks to friends in Prince George, we toured the University of Northern British Columbia, the Art Gallery and the Railway Museum.

After a short flight back to Vancouver that evening we relived what we had seen, the people we had met and some of the vistas of our beautiful Province.

And the best part, it was all in Canadian dollars!

Our trip on the Whistler Northwind took place in June 2001 and this piece was written and published as a postcard in the travel section of the Vancouver Sun. Sadly the Whistler Northwind did not last many seasons. Currently the Vancouver-Whistler scenic train trip is operated by the Whistler Mountaineer.

Olympic Gold

Why do countries want to host the Olympic Games?

Even before a city is awarded the Games there is considerable cost associated with marketing, travel and the endless effort - for what? Permission to host a sporting extravaganza for a few weeks.

The lead up to the Games involves massive investment in infrastructure - creating an athletes village, building new sports facilities and upgrading existing ones - all costing billions of dollars that many feel could be better spent on other things. Who pays - you do, I do, we all do.

When the Winter Games comes in Vancouver and Whistler in 2010 our communities will be crowded. There will be traffic chaos and security will be tight. Forget making a dinner reservation at your favourite restaurant or going for a solitary stroll along the waterfront. Hassles or not, it begs the question - why?

Everyone has a view on whether the Olympics are a good thing or not. Personally, I believe its the best thing that could possibly happen for our community and indeed our country. It is about being part of history. Who would have heard of places like Lake Placid, Lillehammer, Nagano or Albertville before the winter Olympics came to town.

Since Athens hosted the first modern summer Olympics in 1896 almost every two years the world has come together for this extraordinary event.Today the Olympics are a celebration of more than 200 countries, providing an opportunity for mankind to learn from one another. The Olympics are a conduit for excellence, fairness and mutual respect. They bring us together as citizens of the world, giving us a window through which to witness not only the victories and the close calls but also to celebrate every athlete and their personal road toward the Olympic dream.

Remember the 1960 summer Olympics in Rome. Here a 19 year old Cassius Clay danced like a butterfly but stung like a bee to take Olympic gold and shoot to stardom. Sprinter Wilma Rudolph took three gold medals and what an incredible inspiration she was. One of 22 children she couldn't even walk without braces until she was nine years old. Rome also showcased other stars like barefooted Ethiopian marathoner Abebe Bikila.

Olga Korbut stunned us all in Munich in 1972 with a sensational routine on the uneven parallel bars. Back home in Belarus she received so much fan mail that the post office had to assign a special clerk to sort it out. Four years later at the 1976 Olympic Games in Montreal a fourteen year old Romanian Nadia Comaneci dazzled everyone on the balance beam performing pirouettes and back flips on a piece of equipment that measured four inches across. She achieved a perfect ten from the judges, becoming the first gymnast in history to know what it was like to be judged a perfect 10.

Sarajevo in 1984 when British ice dancers Jane Torvill and Christopher Dean captivated everyone with a sensual interpretation of Bolero (Ravel) - it was breathtaking to watch.

What about Canada's first Winter Olympics in Calgary in 1988 - dubbed the Friendly Games? There were certainly some characters there with an Olympic dream - like the Jamaican bobsled team. And who could forget Eddie Edwards, the inept British ski jumper who earned the nickname Eddie the Eagle. He finished dead last in his events but won the hearts of everyone for his spirit. At the closing ceremony the IOC President said of Calgary's Olympics people set new goals, created new world records and some even flew like an eagle.

In 2002 in Salt Lake City Canada's men's and women's hockey teams became Olympians, wowing us with their performance and filling us with National pride. I will bet that not one NHL hockey player would have traded his gold medal for a Stanley Cup ring.

How much time, commitment and effort does it take for an athlete to reach the peak of their sport to be ready for the challenge when the Olympic starting pistol fires or whistle blows. To have participated at all is the thing. Few have the opportunity to stand atop the podium while their National anthem plays.

While the overall good of the Olympic spirit cannot be denied, there is also a dark side - cheating, biased judging and political interference. Who can forget when Ben Johnson won the 100 meters in a stunning 9.79 seconds at the Seoul Olympics. Three days later, stripped of his gold medal he was on his way home in disgrace after testing positive for anabolic steroids, putting a black mark on the sport and on Canada.

There have been many other dark moments in Olympic history like the Munich terrorist attack on the Israeli team.

At the 1936 Olympics awarded to Berlin before Hitler came to power, it provided the perfect opportunity to showcase Nazi Germany. Germany's athletic superstar of the day was Lutz Lang, a brilliant long jumper. But African American, Jesse Owens caused the upset, winning four track and field gold medals, breaking 11 records and defeating Lang in a very close long jump final. Hitler refused to hang the medals around Owens neck.

There has also been poor behaviour from those appointed to oversee fairness - like the French judge in Salt Lake City in 2002 who temporarily denied Canadians David Pelletier and Jamie Sale their golden moment.

We were in Sydney, Australia a year after their summer Games. During a tour of the Sydney Opera House our guide talked about how Australians had embraced the Olympic Games. He said that, like the Opera House, there had been loud opposition because of the cost as well as opposition from environmental groups. But he added with a smile that when the traditional relay of runners bearing the Olympic torch approached Sydney’s outer limits it was as though a blanket of universal acceptance cloaked the country, growing into wild enthusiasm.

So my question to you is - where will you be on 12 February 2010 when the host country's team enters the Olympic stadium at BC Place in Vancouver, British Columbia.

I am confident that wherever you are, you will never forget that moment.

Olympic Gold was written in June 2005 as material for a Toastmaster Speech the purpose of which was to inspire the audience