Once upon a time in Canada - the end of the journey

And so we get to my last day in Canada. As I said earlier on in this tale, last days in places, and on that train, can be an odd mix of packing ready to go, regretting needing to go, not sure what to do between checking out of your temporary home that was the hotel and actually leaving, as well as preparing yourself for the onward journey, makes for a variety of feelings. For my last short day in Halifax I had gone off for a quick visit to the graveyard containing some of those who had died when the Titanic sank. Leaving in the morning from Montreal there was no effective spare time to do anything, while leaving Toronto I had experienced that delightfully magic moment in the restaurant and then the complete chaos of getting the train. Leaving Canada after such a month long adventure, with the thought that I am unlikely to ever get back, also adds to an emotional time. So imagine the magic answer to all of that, having the lovely couple Jim and Kew suggest that they pick me up from the hotel, take me on some final adventures before dropping me off at the airport in good time to catch my flight. It was a rainy day but that did not stop us from going to the quiet out of town place where Jim sometimes goes fishing and then on to the fishing community of Steveston. There we had a delicious Halibut fish and chip lunch from a kitchen on a pontoon on the water before talking to the people selling the fish direct off their boats, followed by a cup of tea in a local café. Again we talked and talked and they made that last day yet another fascinating and enjoyable day. At the airport we said our farewells and Jim gave me some keep sakes to bring back with me. The flight back from such a distant place is going to take a long time and I had a window seat so had hoped to see the north of Canada and Greenland from way up there, especially as the route would take us over Hudson Bay, unfortunately it was cloud nearly all the way.

So that is it, this is my last posting of my Canadian tale and I hope you all have got something out of it as I have greatly enjoyed writing it and reliving those magic days. So what other incidents, points of surprise and delights from this trip I have not already mentioned. Well way too many to mention here but there are a few I would like to flag up before I stop this story. There is the Canadian traffic protocol of drivers being able to turn left through a red light and through a pedestrian crossing approval light if, and only if, there is a space with no pedestrians in the way. Although I came across it very many times I just did not feel confident at a pedestrian crossing when there was a car apparently itching to turn past me. There is also the rule/expectation that cars will stop to let you cross at crossroads where there are no controls and no rights of preference. Again a matter of confidence testing for the pedestrian. Then there was the delightful man from central Wales, a Welsh speaker, named Meirion after Portmeirion and my fake Welsh accent. As our conversation started I apologised in advance if I were to stray into my fake accent. I explained why I had developed one and that led to a lovely long conversation. He had gone over to Toronto with a group from his part of Wales but he said it was his habit to do that to take advantage of the travel and hotel arrangements but then do his own thing whilst staying at the location. His main aim for this trip was to explore Toronto and get to Niagara Falls. The lady in the community garden in Vancouver, as well as telling me about it, also talked about how she had come over from Scotland when she was younger and established herself in the area. There was also my surprise and challenge in the café in the main museum in Toronto, the Museum of Ontario, when I decided to have a roast beef sandwich. I was asked what sort of roast beef and, when I asked what he meant, the man behind the counter lifted three different looking joints of hot meat to show me, telling me one was joint, one brisket, and one corned beef. The corned beef looked nothing like the corned beef I grew up knowing, much more like just a pale joint of meat. I went for the first option and then faced the challenge of eating a sandwich where the slices of meat were layered up to be just over an inch thick. I managed it but did not need a big meal again for the rest of the day.

I know most of you will already have read this next bit about the laundromat lady whose grandfather escaped the fire squad but, as part of the overall story, it should be included here. This lady's grandfather emigrated from the UK to Canada in 1901/2 and settled I assume somewhere in eastern Canada. Then in 1914 when the First World War took hold he and his younger brother volunteered to join the army and were signed up into a Montreal regiment as they believed they ought to support and fight for their mother country. They were shipped out to France, the younger brother being killed in one of those terrible battles. But the lady's grandfather survived. He and his commanding officer were the only two UK born men in the regiment. Then in the days immediately after the armistice the grandfather clearly decided enough was enough of all the discipline etc and one morning just stayed in bed instead of getting up and going on parade. The senior officer came into his barracks and ordered him up. The grandfather said that as the war was over he was not going to. The officer then told him, "you are an instrument of war in his majesties armed forces and you will obey." The grandfather refused telling the officer to piss off. He was of course arrested for desertion of duty, taken to court martial, convicted, and sentenced to be shot. On the due day he was marched outside and stood ready to be executed. The officer in charge asked the firing squad if they were ready and they confirmed they were. He then asked them if they were ready to shot the prisoner and they confirmed they were. They then added they would shoot the prisoner but the first shot was for the officer. She said nothing of what happened after that but clearly he was not shot.

One further element of this man somewhat surprising story is about an episode, I presume during the war and before the above episode. He was stationed for a while in southern France, possibly on relief from the front, and was apparently a gambling man, money wise as well. He decided he would march to Monte Carlo to play the tables. Others of his colleagues asked him to take some of their money with him and gamble for them. This he did and gambled separately for each pot of money each man had given him, as well as gambling with his own money. Whatever he won went into a separate pocket for each man and on his return he gave each man his winnings. The family still has a 500 Franc note that he kept back from his winnings as a keepsake.

There are dark sides to Canada, like everywhere else, and I certainly saw the sadly so often repeated realities of people living on the streets. In Toronto I witnessed racial abuse and fighting over possessions and doorways added to that mix of rough sleepers. Also in Toronto there seemed to be a substantial number of rough sleepers who had bikes and rode around rummaging in bins to collect anything recyclable, mainly water and fizzy drink bottles and cans. In Montreal it seemed that the music festival and fringe activities associated with the Grand Prix brought out the chancers and posers and those on the fringes who might get something out of you, like money or just being noticed and commented on, or just stared at. There was one man in Vancouver who was not sleeping on his pitch on the pavement but had a seemingly perpetual task of chalking positive messages about life on the full pavement width in front of two shops. As the messages and words were worn off by us walking over them or washed off by the rain he would be renewing them almost constantly. Another extraordinary sight in Vancouver was the pavement either side of one main road for one or two blocks which is Vancouver’s ‘skid row.’ It looked just like some sort of busy jumble sale or mass eviction along the pavements on either side.

Coming to the end of this venture and noting how sore my feet were staying as well as protesting checked the little pedometer I always wear these days. Comparing the figure it said as I arrived in Halifax, with what it said as I sat on the plane home I had walked just over 230 kilometres in just over four weeks. Looking at the notes in my diary of what I was doing on any particular day I could also see the sorts of distances I was clocking up for those days. The first day in Montreal I managed just over 22,000 steps, on the days on the train only around 2000, but generally a day’s walking would be 10000 to 15000 steps, but I had crossed Canada, all be it the trains doing most of the work for me.

I think, this being my last posting about my Canada adventure, I ought to make some acknowledgements to those who have made it such a great adventure for me. First and last needs to come the country itself, Canada, so thank you for being there and providing me with such an interesting and fulfilling time. Then next must come Jerry Wilson, that Canadian teacher at my secondary school way back in the late 50’s and early 60’s, thank you Jerry. In the photograph, 1961 vintage, on the end of the following web page link, you will find Jerry on the far left, he was a self-confessed communist after all, of the row of teachers http://pitmans-ealing.com/School%20Photo%201961%205.htm  For comparisons and contextual sake I appear in the following image sitting next to the elderly lady who was the school secretary http://www.pitmans-ealing.com/School%20Photo%201961%206.htm I think I look somewhat intimidated and introspective. That may be because I was at the time the president of the students council, all very democratically voted in by the other students, much to my own amazement and challenge, but that was also the time when I started brewing the idea in my head of going to visit this Canada that erry had told us so much about. Thanks need to go Charlotte of Flight Centre for understanding my needs and sorting out all the bookings and ticketing as well as doing her best as a side issue to find that coin operated laundry in Vancouver. So Canada as described by Jerry Wilson was my inspiration for this long awaited adventure, but that is just the background. It was the people I met along the way who were delightful enough to share some of their time and thoughts with me that made it as good as it was. I would like to thank each and every one of them but of course I got the names of only a small fraction of those I talked to and swapped contact details with even fewer. The contacts ranged from snatched short conversations with people like the one with a man sitting on a seat part way up Mont Royal in Montreal, he there for a conference, through small occasional but enjoyable chats to people like Stefan in Toronto, to the great times and complex conversations I had with Joan, Leland, Kew and Jim. Thank you all, named and unnamed, for creating such an adventure and so many great memories. Given half a chance I would do it all again, but I think the family would have something to say about that.