Let It Snow .... Please

While alpine skiing, bobsleigh, luge, skeleton, biathlon, cross-country skiing, Nordic combined events and ski jumping will take place at venues in Whistler, Blackcomb and Callaghan Valley, Cypress Provincial Park in West Vancouver - just half an hour from downtown - will host freestyle skiing (aerials, moguls, ski cross) and snowboard (half pipe, parallel giant slalom and snowboard cross).

Snow has been plentiful in the Whistler region several hours away from downtown Vancouver, but there is some nail biting going on at Cypress right now.

It had been a promising start to the winter on the local mountains with a good snow base forming until January brought milder temperatures and rain, lots of it.

Cypress Bowl is an attractive location for freestyle and snowboard events, but with an elevation of 915 Meters the snow level slowly dissipated as the rain persisted.

Extreme measures were warranted to ensure the events would go ahead as planned.

At the end of January we had an opportunity to see first hand the herculean efforts underway – helicopters had been airlifting in straw to form a strong base for the runs while large vehicles trucked in snow from higher elevations, and from further afield.

Cats groomed the slopes and gravel was brought in to smooth the way for spectator walkways which should have been hard packed snow.

The two temporary stadiums draped in Olympic colours stood empty in anticipation. The athletes say they are used to competing in poor snow conditions and seemed unfazed. So long as the runs are properly prepared they will go for it, even though the terrain around them could well be bare.

A little snow from natural sources, would however be appreciated in the next week or so. Is there such a thing as a snow dance?

Fourteen Days To Go!

The draping was underway in earnest and I found myself fascinated as I walked along Georgia Street to Burrard during that last week of January. The Olympic drapings were bold and colourful, somehow giving the city another dimension.

The Olympic clock that had been silently counting down the days since Vancouver-Whistler was awarded the 21st Winter Olympics in 2003 reminded me that it was just fourteen days to go until the show begins – the circus was indeed coming to town.

I felt a sense of anticipation, excitement and pride.

It didn’t feel like winter and those iconic red mittens weren’t needed today. January had been unseasonably warm and the North Shore Mountains which peeked though the breaks in the office towers of downtown were short of the white stuff.

While Whistler and Blackcomb had plenty of snow, a powdering of the local mountains over the next ten days would be nice – just enough to dress everything up for all those visitors to the region and the millions and millions of television viewers.

We are looking forward to the Games and hope to have stories to tell about the people we meet and their impressions of our city.

And of course not forgetting the purpose of it all - our athletes - Go Canada Go!

Harp Scratchings 13 - An Apple a Day

Our apple orchard was about a mile’s walk from the Harp. Located next to the railway bridge on a hairpin bend, over the years it had been the site of many an accident when a careless driver misjudged the turn and came into contact with the stone bridge.

Walking to the orchard was not one of my favourite things. There was no pathway, so we walked on the road and when oncoming traffic approached we would step onto the grass verge.

The long grass was generally damp and full of dandelions and nettles. The thought of what else might lurk in the depths of the roadside grasses was another matter never far away in my mind.

If I had bothered to look up and enjoy the view to the left of the road I would have forgotten about creepy crawlies in the grass and see the fields and meadows with their hues of green, yellow and brown blending into an uneven patchwork that stretched as far as the eye could see. The river Wye snaked its way through the hotchpotch into the distance.

To the right of the road the railway cutting formed a steep bank, and difficult as it was to access, it was a compelling place to go.

The wildflowers, flowering weeds and grasses growing on the bank formed a colourful carpet. In springtime, primroses and violets blanketed the slope. In summer it would be cowslips and poppies. Mum loved flowers as you'll see from some of her pressings.

Harvesting the cider apples required many hands. Armed with steel buckets and sacking we would walk to the orchard, unlock the gate and begin work. Over the years I helped Mum and Dad collect the fallen apples and put them into the loosely woven sacking bags, which when full would be sold to Bulmers Cider in Hereford for processing.

When I was younger Dad would bring a swing that was usually resident in the Harp’s cellar so that I could while away the time when he and Mum worked. The swing was comprised of thick rope which straddled a sturdy bough, while the ends were threaded though two holes drilled on each end of a flat piece of wood. Sturdy knots held the swing in place.

Apple picking generally coincided with the afternoon train that came from Three Cocks on its way to Hay and I would wave at the engine driver enthusiastically as the train passed. He would wave back. Those were the halcyon days of steam but the railway was unprofitable and fell to the Beeching Axe, the Government’s attempt in the 1960s to reshape British Rail.

I recall one occasion when some apples were held back from Bulmers so that the locals could produce home made cider.

The local apple processing enterprise was cloaked in mystery but I believe the initiative was led by the Hughes brothers in one of their barns.

What stands out in my mind is that all the men in the village seemed to have disappeared one particular afternoon. Mum was not amused because Dad was one of the missing. She knew they were sampling the unholy brew, alcoholic content unknown.

No one had a lot to say the following day. An apple a day keeps the doctor away ----- but not necessarily.

Harp Scratchings 12 - Rice Pudding fixes all ills

That annual six-week summer school holiday seemed to go on forever. It rarely seemed to rain - meaning that I could spend much of the time outside.

At least that is how I remembered it.

Astride Trigger, full of smiles before "the incident"

Summer brought many visitors to Glasbury-on-Wye who were on the scenic route to West Wales or to the border country and its “black and white” villages. The whitewashed cottages with exposed black beams and pretty gardens always pleased.

It meant more bed and breakfasters at the Harp or hungry travellers calling in for a snack and a pint.

There would often be a conspiratorial look between the locals when a new face came through the bar door but it was amazing how quickly Pricey, Burt or one of their companions could overcome their suspicions and shyness. Recognizing a suitable audience was is their midst, with lightning speed the poor unsuspecting patron would be regaled with stories of life in the village or local views on some recent event.

However, the entertainers would often become the entertained when the stranger, obviously bemused, or even amused, by the unsolicited information offered to buy a round which encouraged them all the more.

I loved walking on the Grove with Sweep and Tina, our sheepdog and corgi, or playing in the meadow across from the Harp.

Sometimes Dad would allow a local farmer use of the meadow to graze his horse. I was allowed to ride Trigger once or twice, although on the last occasion unbeknownst to me the reins rubbed a sore on Trigger’s neck. Fed up, he reached around and bit me hard on the thigh. I dismounted quickly and ran home crying from the shock of an otherwise even-tempered old grey being so unkind to me. I hadn’t realized I had hurt him. Days later the impression of Trigger’s teeth marks and an angry black and yellow bruise decorated my leg.

The meadow, aside from providing home for one our chicken coups, provided grazing for Ruby and Minstral, our Herefords, and a change of scene for our sheep when foraging on the Grove became difficult, or when it was high water.

One summer the local Scout troupe approached Dad because they were looking for a site to accommodate a visiting group who would camp overnight and then canoe on the River Wye. This became a regular occurrence over the summer and it was fun to meet other kids with strange accents from all over the country, and some from overseas.

While the sun seemed to shine on my childhood memories most of the time I remember one particular summer when its rays deserted us. That summer the heavens opened and it poured for days on end. The campers in the meadow made the best of the situation, practicing their survival skills, but that soon wore thin when the weight of the pooling rainwater collapsed one of the tents.

Mum took pity on the group and invited them into the top bar after closing to warm up. Despite the fact it was July, a coal fire had been lit to warm the bar.

The boys, from Birmingham, and their teacher trudged in dejectedly, arranging their wet clothes over chairs and benches to dry out. A steamy haze soon rose from the wet clothing in the warm bar and in preparation for this act of kindness Mum had considered what else she could do to ”warm them up”.

The answer lay in a hot pudding, but not one of her steamed jam or treacle suet puddings because it would have taken too long to prepare. It would be a rice pudding made from Ruby’s whole milk and baked in the oven until the rice was thick and creamy and the skin that formed on the top of the pudding had taken on an ebony hue. Some might venture to say burned.

The chatter in the bar quietened as Mum entered from the kitchen with me in tow carrying bowls and spoons. Ladling out the healthy goodness for the boys, you could hear a pin drop in the bar. Either they had never seen rice pudding before (did they even have it in Birmingham I wondered) or had they tried it and decided they didn’t like it.

The boys accepted the steaming bowls reasonably politely although facial expressions revealed their true feelings. Rice pudding was not kid food and they probably thought the pork pies, cornish pasties, pickled onions and crisps on the bar counter more appealing. However, the boys kept their thoughts to themselves as the teacher gave them a very long hard look. “Thank you Mrs. Price“ he said. “This is so good of you and I am sure the boys are very grateful. Aren’t you boys.”

“Yes” they reluctantly murmured.

I don’t remember if the rain ever stopped for the group's camping expedition, but next morning the still-damp gear had been packed ready for the canoeing trip ahead. Walking in single file the boys accessed the river from the meadow through the barrel dray and the garden.

Watching them from the kitchen window Mum probably thought that a tumble into the river couldn’t get them much wetter than they already were - but thanks to the rice pudding she knew they would be warm on the inside.

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.