We have spent the best part of three weeks in Canada on a visit to family and some pretty amazing places. Our trip began with a train ride to Lisbon, where we were to spend a night before a dawn flight to Frankfurt and a connection to Calgary. Little could we be blamed for believing, when the hotel upgraded us to a suite, because all its rooms were taken, that we had pleased the gods. The views from the 14th floor across the Tagus were the stuff of fairy tales.
It was while I was killing time in an electronics shop at Frankfurt airport the following morning that Jones asked me what VERSPAETET meant – because that’s what it said beside our 13.45 Calgary flight. As we soon discovered, it means “delayed”. I’ll spare you the agonies of 12 hours of queues, linings-up, quests for information, meal tickets, looking for places to sit and corners to snooze.
The delay, as we later learned from the captain of the incoming flight, had been caused by a diversion to Winnipeg to save a sick passenger, aggravated by the failure of the air traffic control system at Maastricht in Holland.
Our arrival in Calgary coincided with a long-weekend, which my niece, Penny, and family were to spend at their cabin on Lake Windermere in BC.
PENNY & MIKE'S "CABIN"
Joining them were her brother, Mark, and his family. We had booked ourselves into a B&B, set in a lovely garden, on the outskirts of the village. We occupied the spacious lower floor of the house, with a full-sized pool table among the diversions for the use of guests.
Mark and Mindy arrived in a muscular pick-up truck, towing a vast, newly-acquired caravan, known locally as a 5th wheel (because of the way the van attaches to the truck). The kids and dogs came too, of course, Connor (9), Ethan (2) plus Bailey and the puppy, Louis. It took some time to level the caravan on uneven ground. This had to be done laboriously by hand because a fuse had blown and the motor that raised and lowered the legs was not functioning.
The caravan was particularly welcome because Penny’s house had been damaged by a flood some months earlier when a faulty valve on the plumbing burst. Although the repairs were well underway the kitchen wasn’t yet functional. So the combined family spent much of the time living in the caravan. Connor got along famously with his cousin, Jackson, while young Wyatt amused himself with whom-ever.
We loved Windermere, with its villagey atmosphere and the wondrous backdrop of water and mountains, the peaks still draped in snow. Penny and Mike’s house was pretty much in the centre of the village. A few metres away at the crossroads was the village store, along with a couple of arty shops and the very tired and shut-looking village pub. To my regret, it was only on our last day that we discovered that this was actually functional, and served excellent beer.
The lake itself lay just down the road, where we’d wander with the gang (adults, kids and dogs).
Invermere, 15 minutes around the end of the lake to the far bank, was a much bigger centre, with several blocks of shops, restaurants and what have you.
It was there that we repaired for occasional meals of the informal kind, with the focus on feeding the children and keeping them amused. At one of them Wyatt opted for bubble-gum flavoured ice-cream (avoid it) and at another we were served by an uninterested waitress who took an age to bring the food.
In the evenings, Mike would light a fire in a pit in the garden and the folks would sit around and have a few drinks and converse. Jones and I generally opted for an early bed. One evening I worked out how to transfer jpg pictures from my mobile phone to my computer via a bluetooth connection – and felt very pleased with myself.
After several days in Windermere we waved the family goodbye and set off on the first leg of our drive to Vancouver, where we were to meet up with two of Barbara’s nephews. The scenery on the drive through the Rockies is simply stunning, even in the damp weather that descended on us. The road winds ever higher into the mountains.
We stopped for an hour at the highest point of Rogers Pass to take in the still snow-bound visitors’ centre and a 15-minute film on the avalanche-filled history of road and rail building in the area.
That evening and the next we stayed at the Siesta Inn in the city of Kelowna. Kelowna is an attractive, rapidly expanding centre that squats on the narrows of Lake Okanagan. There, as at most stops along our route, we gave ourselves a day to look around. I was fascinated to see that the city’s buses were all equipped with a frame at the front to which cyclists could – and did - attach their bicycles.
We spent a couple of hours at the city’s art gallery, followed by a drive around the lake to the town of Penticton, well known for its annual triathlon competition. Penticton lies in the heart of a most beautiful valley, dotted with dozens of vineyards and wineries.
RED ROOSTER WINERY
The latter offer free tastings, a popular pastime among visitors although, as we were to discover at the Red Rooster winery, tasters were required to put down a deposit of 5 dollars each, recoverable on the purchase of any wines.
The young man serving us apologised for this imposition, explaining that it had been introduced recently to offset the losses incurred from such tastings the previous season. The wines were not cheap – typically 20 dollars a bottle – double what one would pay for wines of similar quality in Portugal.
On the way back from Penticton, we stopped to take a look at the grounded paddle-wheeler, the Sicamous, which overlooks the lake. The boat is now a museum.
From Kelowna we set off on the second leg of our journey to Vancouver. The route winds through range after range of the Rocky mountains. Jonesy, who was scanning her guide book as we drove, suggested a stop at Hell’s Gate, a high, narrow gorge which squeezes the great Fraser River into a furious maelstrom.
Instead of taking the cable car that transported visitors across the gorge, we chose to hike a mile down the steep, gravelled service-road to the visitor centre that clung to the bottom of the gorge on the far side of the raging river. At the bottom, as we made our way across the suspension bridge that linked the two banks, we could see great trees being swirled along by the rushing waters just below us. The noise was deafening.
Over coffee and muffins in the restaurant, we read how scores of Chinese labourers, stationed on the cliffs above, had managed to drag a large boat through the narrows – to provide a service on the river and lakes above the gorge. In later years, concrete tunnels had been constructed on both sides of the gorge to enable spawning salmon to make their way up-river. We returned to the car park high above the easy way, via cable car.
The one drawback of our mountain route was that it had obscured (our loaned Sat Nav) Cindy’s view of the satellites that she used to guide us – and she froze in a sulk. That left us dependent on old-fashioned maps. I managed to reset Cindy but not before we had nervously found our way to our destination, Langley - a town on the rim of the great metropolitan area of Vancouver.
It was in Langley that Barbara’s nephew, Chris, had recently settled, after emigrating from South Africa with his wife, Jane, and family (Luke 6 and Dave, 1+). We met Chris briefly on the evening of our arrival.
The following morning it took a good hour (with Cindy’s renewed assistance) to make our way to the heart of Vancouver. At a hotel on the waterfront we met (another of Barbara’s nephews) Bevan and his fiancée, Sion, who had arrived for the weekend from New York in the early hours. Sion, the daughter of Korean immigrants to America, is a lawyer. We had only a few hours to acquaint ourselves with downtown Vancouver as the priority was family get-togethers.
It was not much time but enough to understand why so much of the world wants to live in the city. In the harbour below us, we watched a busy traffic of boats and of seaplanes that buzzed in and out. Around us towered dozens of spectacular, glass-fronted buildings and beyond them in the distance, a ring of snow-capped mountains. The city has everything. We took lunch at a pavement café, opposite Vancouver’s famous steam-powered clock. Two street musicians, who presumably hadn’t been doing very well, asked us if they could have the bread that remained in our basket. We gave it to them.
Bevan and Sion returned with us to Langley, where they were booked into our hotel for the following two nights. Our first (Jones) family reunion took place at Langley airport, five minutes down the road. We gathered on the restaurant patio beside the apron, watching the comings and goings of small planes.
The aircraft included a number of float-planes, equipped with wheels that enable them to land with equal ease on runways.
That evening we met at a Greek restaurant for what Chris and Jane admitted was their first real dinner out since their arrival in the city some months previously. The food was Greek and very good; the wine was a South African chardonnay, and it flowed. Chris managed to get us a table sufficiently far from the “live” entertainment to enable us to converse – and a great deal of conversation was had.
On the Saturday morning he led us an hour east along the highway to Cultus lake for a blue-sky picnic. We didn’t mind the motor boats that howled across the water towing skiers or kids who clung to air-mattresses. After playing football with us, Luke went off to race twigs with Jonesy in a stream. Much of the time we just sat on a floating deck and chatted.
In the evening Chris and Jane entertained us to supper at their home. The house, in the suburbs of Langley, is large, comfortable and attractive. It’s bordered by high trees and has a narrow strip of woods behind it. Jane pointed out a raccoon that was busying itself in the trees. The effect of the foliage, except on the street side, is almost to shut out views of the neighbours. We think they could hardly have chosen better.
On the Sunday, our hosts led us to the airport.
After dropping Bevan and Sion, we headed for a restaurant overlooking the adjacent seaplane terminal. The comings and goings of the planes fascinated us. A strange-looking half-car with a long protruding arm, ferried the seaplanes into the water from the park next door. Every few minutes brought a take-off or landing.
BC is a land of lochs and lakes – and seaplanes are its lifeblood.
Our own departure was early afternoon from the main terminal. The flight, in a Dash-8 with about 40 passengers, was to Victoria on Vancouver Island, barely 15 minutes away.
VANCOUVER ISLAND
There was no chance to use the loo on the aircraft and I had reason to regret the two beers I’d consumed over lunch. We landed at Victoria to find that Air Canada had managed to lose my suitcase. So we reported its loss, signed out a hire-car and made our way 30 minutes up the coast to a comfortable B&B.
It was just 100 metres from the beach where we took supper among the vast forest of driftwood. This driftwood is a feature of the whole Canadian Pacific coast. It is tossed up on to the beaches in vast quantities during storms – or sometimes stripped away again.
The missing suitcase arrived early the following morning, as we were about to set out for the Butchart Gardens 30 minutes away.
These gardens occupy some 50 acres. They were originally a lime quarry that supplied the family cement factory next door. When the lime ran out in the early 1900s Jennie Butchart thought it a good idea to turn the quarry into a garden. The results are extraordinary and now attract about a million visitors a year. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen such a combination of form and colour. Jonesy thought it was almost OTT.
The afternoon we spent in downtown Victoria, the capital of BC.
The harbour there, like that in Vancouver, hummed with boats and seaplanes. Most of our time went into a visit to the city’s main museum. The displays are excellent and we emerged far better educated about Canada’s native peoples and its ecology. The only downside of visiting Victoria is the number of beggars, bummers and lay-abouts who spend their time trying to separate the city’s many visitors from their loose change. Like Vancouver, the city is among the warmest places in Canada and it’s a magnet for the homeless.
Tuesday (27th) we set out up the coast to Nanaimo, and then turned west through hill, dale and national park to the small resort town of Tofino. We were fascinated to see a black bear run across the road a couple of hundred metres in front of the car.
Shortly thereafter we came across several cars that had stopped to watch a mother bear and a cub that were scratching for food on a bank. We later heard from a park warden that a second cub had been killed the previous day when it ran across the road in front of a pick-up driven by a fisheries official. One understands why there are constant reminders of the low speed limits set in the reserve.
In Tofino we occupied a spacious and comfortable cottage set in the trees close to the sea, just the sort of place that Snow White might have stumbled upon. Our first act was to explore the town, a community of some two thousand people which quadruples in summer. Its main attractions are whale-watching, kayaking and the like. The inevitable seaplanes come and go from the harbour. From the town we drove to the extensive forest reserve, just up the road,
where we spent most of a day following trails through the forest and beachcombing for shells and pebbles.
The temperate forest extends right down to the beach. At the visitor centres there are explanations of the varieties of trees to be found and how the most weather-proof of these – spruce if I remember rightly – takes the brunt of the wind and sand at the shore’s edge, protecting less hardy varieties.
Slightly inland one comes across extensive “bog forests” - the area is among the wettest in the world - where the soil lacks nutrients and the trees are tiny by comparison.
Vancouver Island lies in one of the world's most dangerous earthquake zones, on a line joining two great tectonic plates.
Residents are aware of the likelihood one day of another earthquake like that of June 23, 1946 when a quake with a 7.3 magnitude shook the island. Signs in low-lying areas warn people of the danger of a tsunami and point out the nearest routes to higher ground.
From Tofino in the west we motored to the small timber and fishing town of Port Hardy, which sits on the northernmost tip of Vancouver Island. The journey takes the best part of 7 hours. Once again, as we returned through the national reserve around Tofino, we spotted several black bears. They’re big guys and amazingly agile – we saw two scramble up a near vertical bank.
Initially, the road bends and twists through forest and around lakes until one hits the main highway north to Port Hardy. This runs wide and straight up the east coast of Vancouver Island. I found it hard to respect Canada’s relatively low speed limits (max 110 kms; typically 80 – 90). We stopped often, for coffee or snoozes or little explorations.
The most fascinating of these was around the village of Telegraph Cove, home to a lumber mill and salmon cannery in the early 1900's. The village is a collection of old wooden houses that sit on piles beside a boardwalk over the water. During the 2nd World War, it became the base for a detachment that maintained the telegraph line. These days, as the blurb puts it, the cove “has gradually yielded to pleasure boaters, kayakers, sport fishermen, whale watchers and vacationers”.
The owners rent them out at high prices to visitors who invade the area in the summer. The last building on the boardwalk is a whale museum.
We knew that whales were big but the size of some of the skeletons hanging from the roof was an eye-opener. The volunteer staff have done great work. We complimented them on the quality of their exhibition and were happy to make a donation towards it.
The cove is barely 30 minutes from Port Hardy itself. The visitor centre there gave us directions to our B&B and to the rental car drop-off. This, irritatingly, was at the airport, about 15 minutes back along the road. It is the quietest airport I’ve ever come across. We found only one other traveler in the terminal and no sign of any staff whatsoever. One notice declared that management went home at 4 p.m. Another informed visitors that the restaurant would open in June.
The car rental desk, like the rest of the place, was deserted. A note pinned to it instructed drivers to drop their keys into a wooden box. Because I wanted to pay cash (to avoid bad exchange rates and foreign currency charges) I phoned the emergency rental number. The woman who took the call said they didn’t take cash and she certainly wasn’t coming out to the airport just to check the car in. I gave this news to a party of four Brits who arrived to return their car. We phoned for taxis to take us back to town.
Our hosts at the B&B in Port Hardy were Beverley and Gerry, a couple our age who left leaflets in the bedrooms intended to guide their guests to Jesus. Like us, virtually all their guests were passengers using the ferry service that connects Port Hardy with Prince Rupert, a Canadian port close to the border with Alaska.
That meant either arising at 04.00 to catch the ferry or disembarking from it at 23.00. Fortunately, Beverley and Gerry organized their own lives around this schedule. They laid out a buffet breakfast for us, to eat or to pack, at 04.30 the next morning, before a mini-van arrived to take us and the rest of our group to the ferry port around the far side of the bay.
The ferry, the 10-thousand ton Northern Adventure, takes 15 hours to make the run up the waterways known as Canada’s inner sound. It was due to sail at 07.30 but left (and subsequently arrived) an hour late because of an electrical problem. The width of the passage through a maze of forested islands varies from several kilometres to just a few hundred metres. The more mountainous islands are still tipped with snow.
Below the snowline, the trees run right down to the shore. There’s hardly room to stick a pin between them. The occasional fishing boat chugged past us. Apart from that, signs of life were few. We sailed by only one small outpost, Bella Bella, and the crumbling remains of a former logging village.
LOGGING VILLAGE OF BUTE
Most of the ship’s passengers – at 200 we were less than half full – sit in rows of comfortable seats in the lounge or on chairs fixed to the rear decks. Somewhat extravagantly, I’d reserved a cabin, where we parked our bags and retired for welcome snoozes. We spent most of our time on deck, keeping a sharp eye out for whales or other creatures. We saw only one, breaching some distance away. From its behaviour a member of staff identified it as a humpback.
DRIFTWOOD
Another moving dot in the water, too distant to identify clearly, turned out in the zoom lens of a fellow passenger’s camera to be a bear. It was easily 2 kilometres from the nearest land. We’d read how grizzlies were swimming across from the mainland to the islands.
Our late arrival meant that it was close to midnight by the time we’d disembarked at the ferry port in Prince Rupert, where we had to wait for taxis to drive us a mile to the hotel strip in town. Our taxi deposited us at the Crest Hotel, a stately pile that was undergoing renovations. The following morning we had an hour to wander around the town and, since breakfast was not included in the deal, to take coffee and muffins at the locally famous Cowpuccino.
COWPUCCINO
Dustbins and other town paraphernalia were painted in a black and white pattern, resembling the markings on a cow’s back – in memory of the settlers who first tried, without much success, to establish cattle ranching in the area.
From the hotel a taxi took us a couple of miles around the bay to the seaplane base.
There, half a dozen Beaver aircraft were floating beside the dock. These take up to four passengers, one beside the pilot and three on the row of seats behind him. A young woman weighed our luggage and issued us with tickets in the near deserted terminal. From the washroom came the sound of loud vomiting from some unseen party. No explanation was forthcoming. Jones says the vomiter was an Indian woman, who later emerged to conduct a cheerful conversation on her mobile phone.
At that point we were the only passengers. Others drifted in as we waited. For once there were no security checks - the only occasion on our 8 flights that we escaped them. (At various airports we were to lose my aftershave, some good whisky, airline-issued mini-bottles of water and wine, a can of beans - lord knows why - and a small tin of fish - even more puzzling.)
At the appointed hour, our flight was called and a young pilot appeared with a paper cup of coffee in his hand. We walked along the floating deck to the seaplane. The cabin was very small. I clambered with some difficulty into the right-hand front seat. Jones and another passenger (Shirley, an islander) climbed into the back. An assistant shoved the plane away from the dock, the pilot started the engine and we cruised out into the bay. Flight checks were minimal. Then the pilot gunned the engine, we slid across the water and, at barely 70 mph, eased ourselves into the sky.
It took an hour – on a lovely morning (we were really lucky with the weather) – to fly to the grandly-named Queen Charlotte City (known locally as Charlotte) on the islands of the same name. It was hard to talk above the noise of the engine so we just took in the views from 2,000 feet.
The plane made an approach low over the villages of Skidegate (“skid-a-git”) and Charlotte as the pilot checked that there were no logs floating in the bay below, a real hazard for seaplanes. Then he swung the aircraft around and put it down on the smooth water. It seemed so easy. I’ve decided that I like seaplanes. Shirley gave us a lift 200 metres from the quay to our B&B, the Premier Creek Lodging.
This proved perfect for us, with a kitchen and living room overlooking the bay, with its small marina and seaplane quays below us.
Our first visit was to the Purple Onion Deli just across the road and our second to the nearby tourist centre.
There we met Maureen, who knows as much about the islands and their large black bear population as anybody. When I asked her if it was safe for visitors to take trails through the forest, she shrugged. “You don’t look like a fish and you don’t smell like a fish, she said, and here the bears eat fish”. As it happens, we didn’t encounter any bears – although we did see otters and black-tailed deer - and scores of bald eagles.
EAGLES ON THE SHORE
These flock like sparrows in the trees and along the shoreline. It’s common to see half a dozen of the big birds lined up together on the beach – or squabbling over a find.
As we lacked a car the first day, we took ourselves on a 13 km walk around the bay to Skidegate. This is one of the villages where the native people, the Haida, are concentrated.
They’ve erected an impressive museum and community centre on the outskirts. We took an hour to brief ourselves on their culture and history (sadly, the usual story of exploitation and decimation from European diseases). For centuries they recorded their history emblematically on totem poles, many of which have been recovered from other centres and replanted on the islands. Among the exclusive rights they now have is to carve the local stone, known as argellite.
From our B&B hostess, Leonore, who doubled as a car renter, we hired a car the following day and took ourselves 90 minutes to the further end of the northern (Graham) island.
Graham island is separated by a 20-minute ferry ride from its southern neighbour (Moresby). Like most of the Canadian Pacific coast, the Charlottes were heavily exploited for decades by timber and fishing companies. Both industries are now much reduced and strictly controlled, with the Haida having the final say on logging. The south of Moresby Island is has been declared a Unesco heritage site and a national reserve, accessible only by air and water.
Although there is still some commercial fishing, it’s sport fishing and tourism that are now the islands’ commercial backbone. Fishermen fly in to the airport at Sandspit on the south island, using the small regional airlines. They also helicopter and seaplane into every cove and bay. We were to run into dozens of them at Sandspit airport on our way out, all taking home their cardboard boxes of frozen salmon and halibut.
The first stop on the road north from Charlotte is the almost invisible community of Tlell (“tilell”). Visitors tend to complain that they missed it, and little wonder. All that’s visible from the road is the Rising Tide bakery, where we joined a number of mainly stout local residents. The fare was excellent.
LAURA'S CRYSTAL CABIN GALLERY
One has to turn off the main road to find the several craft shops and B&Bs that seem to make up the rest of the village. We stopped at the Crystal Cabin, run by Laura, to inspect her wares. She had lots of really lovely locally-made stuff, and Jones came away with a smoky-quartz bead necklace.
Next along the road is Port Clements (emphasis on the 2nd syllable of Clements). Here we found a splendid little museum, run by volunteers, with one of Canada’s two recorded albino ravens (self-electrocuted and later stuffed), and the bric a brac of ages, as well as with some of the amazing machinery used by the early logging industry. To get across the extensive bogs to the trees, the loggers constructed raised tracks of tree-trunks, very much like railway lines – along which tractors pulled specially-built wagons.
The acting curator was pleased to spend 15 minutes telling us about the place and would have been happy to talk on, had we not pleaded the pressure of time.
It was while we were at the museum that we saw a group of people walking down the road towards us. The men were identically clad in hats, coats and trousers, and the women in caps, coats and long dresses. All clutched bibles. It was a Sunday and they were clearly en route to the Mennonite church that we had spotted just down the road.
At the tip of the island are the two communities of Masset and Old Massett. Both names (and spellings) are derived from the original Haida settlement.
We explored the fishing harbour at Masset, peering in at the gritty commercial fishing boats that lined the quays – a far cry from the sleek craft that take out sports fishermen. Lunch was halibut and chips at the Hidden Island restaurant (cum café, shop, RV stop and much else). Halibut, a fish with which I was not familiar, is a major local catch. It’s delicious to eat as well as a serious challenge to sportsmen – the fish can be bigger than the anglers trying to catch them.
Our next stop was just down the road at Old Massett. This is an Indian reserve. Only natives are permitted to own property or businesses there, as we heard from Sarah, the owner of a craft shop. She herself was of European stock but permitted to live there because she had married a Haida man. We chatted to her about the lifestyle of the native communities on the island. Most of their houses look in need of a touch of paint and the surrounding garden areas are largely weed patches.
SARAH'S HOUSE/SHOP
Sarah commented that gardening was a foreign concept to the Indians, as was the notion of decorating the house exterior. These activities were not important to them, not part of Indian culture or tradition. But Indian kids, she said, were into the internet, ipods and the rest of your electronic gadgetry as much as their white Canadian brethren.
We did what we could to support Sarah’s business and the Indian craftsmen who supply it before taking ourselves to the vast beach that runs for miles along the northern shore. Jones loves beachcombing. In particular, we hoped to come across pieces of agate, which are to be found among the pebbles. In the hour that we rummaged around, we didn’t find much agate but we did come away with a small treasury of shells and pebbles. The accumulation of such treasures, along with some bargain items of clothing (including 2 shirts at $6 apiece) and other acquisitions, started to put a serious strain on our small bags, which grew ever fuller and heavier. I tried in vain to persuade Jones to allow me to get her a slightly larger suitcase.
Our last stop, on the way back, was at a beach where a large boulder balances precariously on a rock shelf. Jones and I took pictures of each other standing in its shadow. It’s known, unsurprisingly, as Balancing Rock.
Our final morning on the island was divided between the Purple Onion Deli, where patrons were invited not simply to sign the visitors’ book but to contribute a poem or a drawing as well, and the visitors’ bureau. At the latter, Maureen was happy to put on videos about the islands to entertain us for an hour.
Just after midday we hopped on board the bus that tours the B&Bs each day to fetch air travellers.
After collecting its passengers, the bus takes the modest ferry across to the south island and several kilometres down the road to the airport at Sandspit. While on the ferry we were fascinated to note the sea birds that were hitching a ride.
We found Sandspit airport occupied mainly by returning fishermen, half of them asleep on couches after what must have been a demanding few days. Outside, there was a gale blowing. Passengers scuttled to their aircraft as fast as they could, clutching hats and coats. Anything loose went skudding down the apron.
The weather may have been the reason for the late arrival of the Dash-8 aircraft that was to take us back to Vancouver. We just made the connection to Calgary but our luggage didn’t have the same good fortune. For the second time on our trip it was left behind and delivered the following morning. I have to say for Air Canada that they provide luggageless travellers with a very useful overnight pack and offer to reimburse up to $50 in emergency purchases. Their morning-after deliveries are prompt and efficient.
For the final two days of our holiday we were the guests of my nephew, Alan, and his wife Sarah in Calgary. They had recently moved house (with their two daughters, Rachel 2, and Esther 1). We were accommodated in the spacious basement guest suite. The suburb, or community as they call it, once a town in its own right, is called Midnapore and has at its heart a fishing, boating (and skating) lake to which all residents have the right of access.
On our final day we took ourselves for a stroll around Calgary’s Glenmore reservoir - and then on to the airport for the final leg. We were lucky to have three seats to ourselves on the flight to Frankfurt. Not so lucky was the one-hour delay on our connection to Lisbon. That caused us to miss our train. We rebooked ourselves on the evening express and informed our house sitters, Terry and Margaret.
RACHEL & ESTHER
The express, a tilting train known as the Alfa Pendular, is as close as Portugal comes to the French TGVs. It’s not as fast but it’s supremely comfortable and well-equipped. It’s also inexpensive – a mere 25 euros for a first-class 3-hour journey south – about the same price as it costs to visit the loo on London’s Victoria station.
It’s from the rear window seat in carriage two, with my computer plugged into the socket below, that this final missive comes. Jones sits beside me, making sandwiches from the still-fresh bread we bought at Tlell on the far side of the world and mixing baggies.
The sun is setting over the Portuguese hills but the pictures that remain with us are those of the wonderful places we have been. Jones says she'd like to go back to the Queen Charlottes. Maybe - one of these days. Who knows?
Did I say that last week was full of gardens and dogs? Well, this week has been full of dogs and gardens, with some welcome sporting and social distractions. Sorry if it seems that we are beating on a drum. It’s not a case of silly people besotted with their animals. We’ve been upset about the welfare of Serpa’s other puppy, Bobby, who was spending most of his time locked in a small, dark shed. (Jones has more or less hand-raised the two pups and we’ve paid the considerable expenses required for 4 rounds of vaccinations.)
BOBBY & RAYMOND
Next we invited Zeferino to join us on our daily walks. The old man is still fit. But with Bobby highly excited and Jones and me trying to control two dogs each, it’s a circus. Still it serves its purpose. Afterwards, Zeferino enjoys a cool glass of apple juice at our house and Bobby gets a meal along with his ear-drops, as well as a romp around with Raymond.
This mix has traditionally been used to smarten up houses each summer. The task seems (like so many) to be a woman’s responsibility rather than a man’s. The remains of stone lime-kilns still dot the countryside, these days often filled with trash.
that regularly drive through the village with a gape-load of tourists on the back. 
DISTRESSED PLUMBAGO
Speaking of tractors – I’ve been admiring the new John Deere that my Canadian brother has invested in to cut the grass on his acreage just outside Calgary. More dangerously, I was most impressed in Benafim by a glorious new tractor being tested by the local dealer. He’s the same man who has sold me my previous tractors. As we stopped to look, he leaned over in the saddle and yelled that he’d buy my current tractor back from me at the same price he sold it to me if I’d buy the new one. I could be tempted. Jones gave an “over my dead body” snort, which puts me in a quandary. When a man has to choose between an old wife and new tractor, he has a dilemma.
It was the first time we’d dined at the Alte Hotel, a building that perches high on the hill over the town. From the dining room one has a view right across the Algarve plain. It’s the sort of place to make one feel special. Afterwards, Fintan and Pauline presented each couple with a hamper, bulging with every kind of good thing. We were touched at such kindness.
As I write, it’s a scorching afternoon and I’m trying to think of excuses not to go out and shred the pile of greenery that’s awaiting my attention on the back of the tractor. I had to put an old pair of jeans over the tractor seat as it was simply too hot to sit on in the sun.
In the church itself, barely a dozen people had gathered but the orchestra had the good sense to wait 15 minutes - Portuguese time is hugely elastic - and the place gradually filled up. A visiting German conductor led the orchestra through an energetic hour of Haydn and Mozart.
