A New Chapter (19)

Scotland, WW2 Books, and Beyond

 West Coast view of Scotland familiar to Doug and Gord Harrison

 Looking west from Irvine, Scotland

Looking south from Irvine to Navy Camp Auchengate and Troon

Continued from a June 24, 2015 post:

Upon reflection, do I think the column* about my trip to Halifax reveals more than positive details about accomplishing what I'd set out to do? That I took Dad's ashes east? Tossed them successfully into the Atlantic? And do I think it reveals more than a positive mood after an enlightening day in Ottawa?

Yes. But how so, one might ask?

The last line of the column reads: Will it (the boat containing my father's ashes) reach Scotland?

My reference to Scotland reveals I knew something related to one country other than Canada in which my father trained for his role in World War II. That knowledge likely came from one of the many columns Father wrote for the Norwich Gazette, though admittedly it didn't run very deep. For example, several photographs I took in Halifax and a few days later in Ottawa (e.g., at Canada's War Museum) focus on materials related to the Merchant Navy. As well, in my trip's journal I describe some of my dad's books as his "Merchant Marine books" and I was soon to learn he was not a member of that organization at any time during WW2.

 Dad's books are about the Combined Operations organization

The books are not about the Merchant Marine

That being said, it is evident that I had at least a bit of borrowed knowledge and some small personal interest in my father's wartime experiences prior to my trip to the East Coast in 2010. And I have some evidence my interest grew during the trip.

Besides photos of items specifically related to the Merchant Navy, there are many others that focus on the wider topic of 'Canada and Canadians at war', many of war memorials, memorabilia and museum displays. And in Ottawa, for the first time ever, I made a point of purchasing books that I felt might help me better understand certain events that took place during World War II that might have had some impact on my father.

The 'hot spot' in Ottawa 

I found books near the 34, then Jail Hostel (circled) on Nicholas

Safely parked beside the historic jail

I remember the experience well. Shortly after I arrived in Ottawa and started to ride west on Rideau Street toward the Jail Hostel (my accommodation for three days), I had to stop at a red light. Smothering heat hit me like a brick. I quickly raised the face shield on my helmet to catch any breeze, unzipped every zipper on my heavy leather jacket, and, while experiencing a hot flashback to the frustration I felt about getting lost in the woods near the Atlantic Coast  - under the same sun a few days earlier - I prepared to curse the sweltering sun and molten tarmac. It was then I spotted a colourful book rack on the sidewalk outside a used book store. Like it was yesterday I recall I was able to make out the title of one large book - U-BOAT WAR.

"Two used books related to WW2 didn't break the bank" - 

cheaper than parking fees

The 'lost in the woods flashback' disappeared from my mind and several other thoughts raced through my head before the traffic light turned green: Buy that book. Don't pull over now, you're boiling, you're dripping wet. Besides, it's a big book, there's no room on the bike. Check into the hostel, shower, put on shorts and fresh T-shirt, walk back here, buy that book.

The light turned green and I moved along Rideau, albeit slowly, to my destination. I checked in, etcetera, and had the book - and one more - in my possession before suppertime. Now, admittedly, the purchase of two used books related to WW2 didn't break the bank (13 bucks, about what I paid for parking my bike for three days), it does prove that during the summer of 2010 I was willing to learn more about my father's World War Two experience.

 After reading U-BOAT WAR: I asked, "Why would Dad ever

want to join the Merchant Navy?"

As it turns out, he was never a Merchant man

Together, the two columns I wrote about my trip to Halifax tell an important part of the story related to my new and growing interest in my father's wartime adventures. Since 2010 my interest has continued to grow. I've made a handful of trips in the name of research since that time, including to Halifax and Ottawa a second time, Vancouver Island (twice as well) and Scotland, and feel I've only just begun. And though I won't ever forget that first trip to the East Coast, and tossing dad's ashes upon the waves, there was something related to my time in Ottawa that made me feel I was starting a new chapter to my own adventures following faint footsteps.

A return trip to Ottawa three months later lit a fuse that burns to this day.

* the column was published, coincidentally, five years earlier than the post  - to the day, June 24, 2010

More to follow.

Link to A News Dispatch from Ottawa 18

Photos GH

A News Dispatch from Ottawa (18)

A Shorter, Almost-Fully-Positive Version

In June, 2010 I wrote two columns for The Londoner, 'London's Community Newspaper', concerning my trip to Halifax to fulfill my father's wishes to be buried at sea. One was written the day before the event, the other one week later, after I'd had the opportunity to put things in perspective and reflect on the positive aspects of the trek to the shore of the Atlantic. And, as well, after I'd had a good think related to how I should best inform my readers about the most important aspects of the trip.

When you put my newspaper account (published in The Londoner, June 24, 2010) up against what appears in this website's previous post (I Give the Boat a Toss, May 6, 2015) you might think I am two different people. The 2015 version reveals I almost gave up on my task and the 2010 news version almost sounds like a walk in the park.

Though the later story is 'the whole truth and nothing but the truth', the watered-down news column has some value too. It reveals I wanted to share with my audience a few positive details of the long journey while I was still far from home, e.g., that I'd accomplished what I'd set out to do. It reveals I was, at the time, limited in some ways by a certain-sized word count per column (approx. 600). Because I wrote the column after a very full, pleasant and enlightening day in Ottawa, one of my favourite cities in Canada, it perhaps reveals my positive mood. And upon reflection, I think it reveals even more.

From Halifax: Fulfilling an old promise to a navy vet Pt 2

Last week I mentioned a few details about my trip to Halifax, a delightful city in which my dad trained for the RCNVR and Combined Ops in the early 1940s. Let's see, what did I say? Briefly - I motorcycled, wore one pair of pants (still am), ate a lot of Irish stew and carried a small boat - named the S.S. Silver Walnut and transporting my dad's ashes as cargo - along with my luggage. I arrived safely a week ago Saturday and what I had to do next was set the boat adrift upon the Atlantic Ocean.

Sounds easy, right? After all, the whole of Nova Scotia is almost completely surrounded by water. Unfortunately, I wanted to get the boat 'out a ways' in order to reach the Gulf Stream and be carried to Scotland, another place in which dad trained for the Canadian Navy. So, on Sunday morning I rode toward Pennant Point, a promising spot 25 - 30 km. south-west of Halifax, at least according to the old road maps and blurry Google images I'd looked at (fairly carefully). Well, getting to and navigating that point of land was the hardest task I've undertaken in many years.

The ‘blurry Google images’ did not help much with navigation

First, there were no roads to the Atlantic. A gentleman familiar with the region told me to expect a 6 km. hike. Second, trails were hard to find. I got lost on occasion. Faint trails led me into the bush or onto a beach that was tough sledding. Or onto rocky outcroppings almost impossible to navigate or already occupied by young couples or fishermen or nudists. Third, my heavy sweater and jeans, perfect for biking during the cool morning hours, stuck to my body and weighed me down when afternoon temperatures soared to 120 - 130 degrees (just a rough estimate), my motorcycle boots caused my feet to blister and the 35 pound boat weighed double that after an hour.

Helpful paths were scarce but I eventually found ‘the perfect spot’

I grew exhausted and asked myself several times, should I turn back? I eventually decided to turn one last corner and climb up one last rock ledge. I'm so glad I did. I found the perfect spot - a private, flat, broad shelf of rock a few feet above the ocean's churning waves.

I prepared the boat for departure and a camera for pictures. And I read a paragraph my dad wrote about the admiration he felt for his ship and crew mates, and these last words from his longest story about his days in the Navy:

"I conclude my story of adventures aboard the Walnut with a poem by my brother-in-law, Arthur Catton. It expresses my feelings about ships.

     I don't care if it's north or south,
     The Trades or the China Sea,
     Shortened down or everything set,
     Closed hauled or running free.
     You paint me a ship as is, like a ship,
     And that'll do for me."

Then, with all the might I had left in me, I tossed the small Walnut and dad's ashes into the ocean. What a great splash it made as it disappeared under the water. What a beautiful sight it was when it popped right back up (I knew it was a good, solid boat!), turned left, then right - as if charting its course - and set off for an adventure of its own.

Will it reach Scotland? Together, let's wait and see.

And upon reflection, I think it reveals even more?

More to follow.

Please link to my short YouTube video from Pennant Point, June 2010

Please link to I Give the Boat a Toss (17)

Special Note - The S.S. Silver Walnut was found by a man walking his dog on the western shore of Pennant Point the day after I tossed it into the Atlantic Ocean. He contacted me by phone and assured me he would give the boat to his cousin who fishes off George’s Bank near the edge of the Gulf Stream. I am certain the Walnut will enjoy many more adventures.

Photos and Video by GH

I Give the Boat a Toss (17)

The Long and Short Of It

5. I Give the Boat a Toss

“No one will ever know.”

I'm not sure, but that statement might be the stupidest I've ever made. Surely I have never felt as hot and damp and discouraged and dejected as at that moment - at “the end of the deadest of dead ends in a thick part of a woods near Pennant Point, close to the Atlantic Ocean” - and if there'd been a prize awarded that day for the saddest of sad sacks lost in the woods I would have won. And, quite honestly, the day had not started out badly at all.

Just a few hours earlier I’d packed the boat upon my bike and it had only weighed about 20 pounds. Because it had been a cool morning I dressed warmly for the ride to the Atlantic Coast. I exitted Halifax without a hitch (a busy and confusing traffic circle at Quinpool Street could have caused a major delay) and enjoyed pleasant scenery along the way.

Closer to my goal, however, I needed help with directions, and asked a cashier at a variety store in Sambro the way to Pennant Point. I believe now she inadvertently gave me directions to West Pennant or Pennant Bay, and I got myself into a real mess and explored a few dirt roads that took me to dead ends and bits of shoreline that can only be recalled with the help of photographs.

Eventually, however, I found my way back to Sambro and discovered the road I needed to help me arrive safely - though much later than expected - at East Pennant and some walking trails to Pennant Point.

I parked the bike, stowed my motorcycle jacket, unpacked the boat and placed it in two or three sturdy plastic bags, added two books to the weight (they contained passages I would read once I reached my destination), listened attentively to a few tips from a hiker returning to his car and made my way to a trail that seemed to go in the right direction. I felt I was beginning the most important leg of my 2,300 kilometer-long journey and the promise to my father would soon be fulfilled. I just had to find a quiet, private spot on the Atlantic coast.

I soon learned that locating a private spot was easier said than done and the hiker I'd met back in the parking lot had forgotten to mention a couple of significant items. He didn't mention how popular Pennant Point was and that privacy along the shore was hard to find. I spotted people with fishing poles or cameras in hand, couples sharing blankets and some in tight embrace. He also forgot to tell me the clear trail ended at a rugged part of the coast and various poorly-managed trails led inland and would take hikers - new to the area, like me - off in all directions. I was soon thinking I'd picked the wrong place, or the right place on the wrong day, and I was soon making my way inland to escape the possibility of stumbling upon lovers' trysts.

I hiked slowly on rocky shores; "various poorly-managed trails led inland"

At about the same time the temperature seemed to reach the high 30s, the package I carried reached 100 pounds and the trail disappeared before my eyes. I stopped long enough to remove my sweater and wrap it around my waist but the heat only seemed to get worse. When I stumbled down a ledge and found myself in a dark corner with no path ahead - only more thick brush - I felt I'd reached the end of the line. And I made a stupid comment as I prepared to toss the boat into a dark corner where no one would find it.

“No one will ever know.”

How badly I must have wanted the day to end. A few seconds later, however, I knew how wrong my comment was. I shook my head. My father would know, and I would know and forever kick myself. But what could I do?

The answer came to me from the many lessons I’d learned while running 13 marathons during a past decade (my first was in Toronto in 1995; the last was in Boston in 2005). The marathon distance (26.2 miles or 42.2 kilometres) is daunting to say the least, and whenever I’d felt liking quitting and stepping off the course and disappearing into a crowd a few miles short of the goal (admittedly, those thoughts plagued me more than once), I would remind myself to take one more step, then one more, then one more, and in so doing start the slow march again toward the distant, but inevitable, finish line.

“Turn around. Take one step up that ledge,” I said. “Take one more step.”

Then I told myself to take three or four more steps. And I thought, look at that, you're out of the hole. You still have good legs. Come on, take three or four more steps. Good work, I said. One more short walk to that small trail ahead. The ocean is likely beyond that ridge there. Go take one last look for a quiet spot. You’re almost at the finish line.

I ultimately arrived at a high point of land within fairly easy reach of the shore and after climbing down a few rocky ledges I found, what I call today, my spot. A refreshing breeze from the Atlantic revived me. I’d made it - with dad's boat, some lines to read from a book, and some fresh wild flowers in my free hand.

The next hour is a blur. With the sound of waves splashing at my feet I read a few words I knew my dad would have appreciated. I planted one foot into a wide crack so I wouldn't fall into the ocean (the heavy motorcycle boots came in handy after all) and swung dad's boat back and forth. Then I gave her a darn good toss.

I've crossed a lot of finish lines in my life. None felt better than that mighty toss, let me tell you.

"I gave her a darn good toss"

More to follow.

Link to And What Will the Morrow Bring? (16)

Photos from June, 2010 by GH

And What Will the Morrow Bring? (16)

The Long and Short Of It

4. And What Will the Morrow Bring?

When I promised to bury my father at sea we didn't shake on it, sign a promissory note or write up a legal document together. He passed away in February 2003 and, a month or two later, after I'd constructed a box for his ashes (for a spring interment) and discovered it was too small for the job, I said something to the affect that I would take the remaining ash and bury him at sea as he had requested in the 1980s. I said those words aloud, spontaneously, while I stood - a bag of ashes in hand - in my basement workshop. I said those words to my father. I said those words to me and there was no need to write anything down. My promise was a matter of the heart. I'd remember.

One day, about seven years later, and out of the blue, the penny dropped. I confidently felt I would cart my father's ashes on my own to the Atlantic Ocean on the back of my motorcycle. It sounded like a grand adventure - oh, trust me, it surely was - and I decided to do it, and after much careful planning I was on my way on June 8, 2010.

I biked an average of 465 kilometres a day and frequently cooked meals along the side of the road. For example, I heated up more than a few tins of Puritan Irish Stew - with those famous preformed chunks of meat - and cups of Mr. Noodle soup at the side of the road. Admittedly, I also splurged on occasion. I spent a fair bit of my birdhouse money on the grilled pork tenderloin with apricot sauce at Isaac's Way restaurant in Fredericton one pleasant evening, and it was superb.

"Quick lunch on the way to Fredericton, N.B."

I took major highways and numerous secondary roads, stopped here and there and everywhere to take scores of photographs, stayed overnight in pre-booked hostels (e.g., in Kingston, Trois-Rivieres and Riviere-du-Loup), loaded and unloaded my bike every day, and when I finally reached Halifax on Saturday, June 12, the fifth day of the trip, I'd covered about 2,300 kilometres. I was exhausted and exhilarated in equal amounts and I hadn't even reached my ultimate goal yet. I still had to bike another 30 kilometres or so to Pennant Point, a place south-west of Halifax that would provide me access to the Atlantic Ocean, with father's ashes in hand.

But that short trip was for the morrow, Sunday. On Saturday night I found Rogues Roost, a good pub, and penned 600 words for an upcoming newspaper column entitled ‘From Halifax: Fulfilling an Old Promise to a Navy Vet’ (published in The Londoner, June 17, 2010). The last few lines reveal I didn’t really know how this whole thing was going to turn out. 

  

Five days ago I loaded luggage and a homemade wooden boat (aptly named 'S.S. Silver Walnut,' after dad's favourite wartime vessel and home for several months in the 1940s) onto my motorcycle, headed toward the 401 and hung a left. And now I'm beside the Atlantic Ocean with dad's ashes safely sealed - thanks to four coats of Super Spar varnish - inside the lower deck of the Walnut.

From my perch at the Rogues Roost I'm wondering what tomorrow will bring. Will I be able to find a friendly cove? Will the wee boat float away - gently and carefully - on a final adventure?

From where I sit now, about five years later, I know the answers to most of my questions. I also know a very distressing, dramatic part of the morrow’s story line by line. It jumps out at me when I reflect on my adventure and goes something like this:

Lord, I just wanted the day to be over. I stood facing the end of the deadest of dead ends in a thick part of a woods near Pennant Point, close to the Atlantic Ocean, about 30 kilometres out of Halifax. I didn't know which way to turn. The S.S. Silver Walnut, a wooden boat that I'd built in my basement a month before to hold my father's ashes, weighed over 100 pounds. My motorcycle boots weighed another 50, my clothes were also heavy and sticky with sweat and I could hear (but not see) other hikers on some trail not far away, but exactly where I couldn't tell. So I decided to toss the damn boat into some brush and go home, that's if I could find my way out of the woods and back to Halifax.

I said, “No one will ever know.”

And I didn't say it sweetly.

"And what will the morrow bring?"

More to follow.

Link to We Were As Two Ships 15

Photos from June, 2010 by GH

We Were As Two Ships (15)

The Long and Short Of It

3. We Were As Two Ships

"We've been lucky"

While motorcycling to the East Coast in 2010, especially after reading some of my father's stories related to his experiences during World War II, I began to feel a part of a very lucky generation, in that we haven't been called upon to give up several years of our lives to battle overseas against a determined enemy. 

At some time during the third day of my travels I wrote the following in my ever-present journal: 

   My gosh we've been lucky, i.e., my generation. Longest I've been away, 10 days, 2007,
   Thunder Bay on bike. Now 14 days to Halifax to send off a wee boat w dad's remains.
   When my promise is fulfilled I just want to get back home to my own family.

According to my notes, my thoughts about my family were triggered by my father's story about a female friend he had while in England. His tale, started in the previous post, concludes below. 

The Silent Pact and its Epilogue  

The remainder of this story doesn’t sound so consistent with the Silent Pact. I suppose it is a Silent Tribute to all the WAAFs, I don’t know, but it’s all true. Events were to prove, in my own mind at least, that I did not lose in the shuffle in the black-out doors of the Top-Hat Pub at Southend.

I am reminded of those often repeated words by Humphrey Bogart to Audrey Hepburn in the movie African Queen, “This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship” because that was what it turned out to be although it wasn’t to last too long.

The WAAF Cpl who worked in the kitchen or bakery of an Air Force barracks nearby was named Gracie Purvis. Her home was in Croydon and she established very early in our relationship that she was engaged to an English Army Lieutenant with Montgomery in North Africa. She was firm that she wished to remain faithful to him. I accepted this loyalty which gained my respect for Grace and our friendship was free of all encumbrances and we became very good friends. 

"Our dreams and aspirations"

Each day or evening we were free of duty we met at the Top-Hat Pub and had a drink or two, a sandwich, a game or two at the Penny Arcade and sometimes we walked arm and arm around Southend wishing in our hearts that there wasn’t a war and things could be different. We spoke of Mums and family and the Army Lieutenant. Also we spoke of letters sent and received, about after the war, our dreams and aspirations. They were quite the same; a home, a family, a time free of war.

The barracks I was at was HMS Westcliff, I believe, and I think the time was after Dieppe and prior to the North African invasion. Grace and I arranged that if either of us were no-shows for two nights, she had been posted or I was on my way somewhere else and she alone promised to write. We had pleasant time because she was a pleasant person. I often think of her and her fine qualities. It wasn’t to last because I became a no-show. There were no good-byes or “I’ll see you again.” No more spearmint gum or cookies from the baking either.

Six weeks later we arrived back from North Africa to Liverpool on the Reina-del-Pacifico and in a few days the mail arrived from FMO and among my stack was a letter from Grace, now serving at the summer resort town of Blackpool. Could I get a weekend leave and if so she said she would arrange rooming quarters and give me a phone number to call at a precise time? If things became favourable for me, which they did, and quite soon I was stepping onto the train platform at Blackpool with Grace waiting with open arms.

Blackpool, 19402: Photo credit - British Isles Past and Present

I had a 72 hour pass and stayed at a Seniors Boarding House with a lovely room. I sat down at meal times with Seniors dressed in formal bib and tucker to shepherd’s pie - and Brussel sprouts, of course.

Friday night and Saturday night we had a drink or two and enjoyed a dance and restaurant and renewed our friendship. Then I went back to the boarding house. Sunday (this would be late November, 1942) we went to see a large aquarium, sharks and all. The weather was foreboding, like the feeling in our hearts. On the surface we were enjoying ourselves but underneath I think we were both quite sad for we feared the end.

We walked with arms about each others’ waists out over the shallow beach water on Blackpool’s famous long pier. The cool wind blew our hair and we sat on a bench at the end of the pier. I shared my Burberry (raincoat) as we huddled there and I confess I felt more than a friend as we spoke again for what we both knew would be the last time, of our meeting at Southend, our homes and what we both hoped would be in our future. This loyal lady had still kept up correspondence with her Lieutenant. I had deep admiration in my heart for her as I felt her warmth and sadness under my coat.

Blackpool's Pier: Photo credit - Postcards of the Past

We strolled back to the beach area where there was a type of midway still operating along the beach and we attempted to lift our mood by taking rides on ferris wheels, etc. Grace had a few small red burns on her face from flying burning fat and declined to have her photo taken.

I returned to the boarding house to pick up my attache case and all too soon I am again on the train platform, whereas 72 hours earlier we had had such a happy reunion. A mist swirled around us as we once more shared my Burberry. Through it all not a word was spoken of future letters or anything else. We were friends just hanging on through the tears. I’m not prepared for the “All Aboard.” I never liked good-byes. I still wanted this moment over with. It was taking too long. “All Aboard.” We kissed good-bye. I climbed aboard and my guts were churning as I took a seat by the window. Grace stood so alone. This was not a happy moment. The train slowly moved out and Grace Purvis of Croydon turned and walked away. We were as two ships that had passed in the night.

I have been unable to locate Grace. I pray her Lieutenant came safely home and all her dreams were fulfilled. We filled a need in each others lives and I have no regrets. From St. Nazaire to Singapore, pages 47 - 48

Eleven days after reading the above I was safely back home in London, definitely a tired man, and perhaps even a wiser, more understanding son thanks in part to my father's wartime stories.

And what about the task of burying my father at sea?

More to follow.

Link to A Few More Miles to Go (14)

Unattributed Photos by GH

A Few More Miles to Go (14)

The Long and Short Of It

2. A Few More Miles to Go

"I'm glad today I kept a journal"

I'm glad today I kept a journal on my way to the East Coast. To this day it is a thorough record of one of the most significant motorcycle rides I've ever taken, or ever will.

Glad too that I carried a few books (e.g., two volumes of stories by World War 2 veterans of Combined Operations, including some by my father), some to donate to The Maritime Museum of the Atlantic in Halifax and others for my own interest. As it turned out, the museum was delighted to receive the Combined Ops books and I was drawn to them as well as I journeyed toward an approaching shoreline and promised deed. Dad's stories were not only welcome company during a few supper times but they kept my head in the game, so to speak.

"A story (with) a completely different flavour"

More than one reference to his stories appears in my notes, along with some of my reactions to certain tales. After arriving safely in Riviere-du-Loup and enjoying supper on the third day of my trip I wrote the following:

"Began to read another of Dad's stories. Last night I read about his time in the water, off coast of Scotland, up to his neck at times - and all alone. Close call, I say."

Even just a few years before my father died I would have shown only a passing interest in the story and cared little for its setting or the adventures he experienced during a time of war. In 2010, however, I was glued to the set.

I continued:

"Tonight, (I read) a story with a completely different flavour, re a female friend (he had) while in England. - both married, both faithful to spouses, but good company for each other. I guess I can understand how that works."

What I didn't understand at the time is that they were both single, though his girlfriend Gracie was promised to a Lieutenant in Montgomery's Eighth Army. And here is how Father begins the story, as published in St. Nazaire to Singapore, The Canadian Amphibious War 1941 - 1945.

"Sailors on the Prowl" - Drawing by G. Harrison

The Silent Pact and its Epilogue

My Navy buddy, Frank Herring, and I engaged in a Silent Pact overseas. When we were not required on board for duty we conspired to be the first ashore to get the pick. No Liberty Boat inspection for us - case the joint and slip ashore quickly and hopefully unseen.

Excerpt from St. Nazaire to Singapore, page 48

Ashore very early at Southend-On-Sea, we went straight through the black-out doors into the Top-Hat pub. Oh Boy! Two WAAF Corporals, a beautiful blonde and lovely brunette. With two or three Johnnie Walkers tucked under our belts for courage, we asked if we could sit down with them. The answer was in the affirmative. I sat by the blonde and Frank by the brunette. Things are great, going according to plan. Time passes and all too soon it’s “Time Gentlemen Please” by the governor.

It was suggested by the girls that we go to a penny arcade down the street where there were pin ball machines and even one-armed bandits. Away we go. No pain. I grasp the arm of the blonde and Frank the brunette. There is a big pile up at the black-out doors. People going out and some coming in, trying to get a last beer. We finally manage to get out into the darkened street and when we arrive inside the lighted penny arcade Frank has the blonde and I have the brunette. Such is life. 

"What happened back at the door?" "What back door?"

Photo credit to NN Antiques

More to follow.

Link to I Take Me a Trip 13

Photos GH

I Take Me a Trip (13)

The Long and Short Of It

2. I Take Me a Trip

"Before the bike trip, son Paul and I sell birdhouses for my gas money"
Saturday, June 5, 2010, at Gathering on the Green, Wortley Village

"I hug grandson Ollie, then hop on the bike, Tues., June 8 2010"

Some woodworkers will say that if they finish work with all their fingers then it's been a good day. Motorcyclists likely have more than a few ways to describe the end of a successful ride. What can I say about the first day of a 2,200 kilometre-long trip to the East Coast on June 8, 2010?

At the end of day, though I'd biked about 35 kilometres farther and arrived in Kingston ten minutes later than predicted, I was relaxed and all in one piece. I parked my bike in a waiting garage, inspected my room in Skweek House (hostel) and was eating supper by 7:15, at least according to my notes. I wrote, under the heading 'impressions', four words about the scenery between London and Newmarket: NFB (National Film Board film) just for me!

Here are a few other impressions formed while riding 527 km from London to Kingston via the back way:

      Canada is huge, no wonder Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone

      Bike is top heavy but OK. It will be lighter on way back

      Note to (wife) Pat - I should have packed my red longjohns

      Oh - excellent! (A description of a microwaveable stew. I cannot recall if I
      am serious or joking)

      Regal lager - good starter, (I) want another one, but different!! (No doubt
      about it, I enjoyed a couple of tasty pints at The Kingston Brewing
      Company before hitting the sack at Skweek House)

Proof is in the pudding. Like a woodworker happily examining all his digits before turning off the lights in his workshop, 'it's been a good day' seems to truthfully sum up my thoughts about June 8 as recorded in my journal. 

Though the ride was my first to Halifax, and the scenery and experience was wonderful, a hint or feeling of seriousness often crept into my thoughts and notes. For example, on Day 2 my first words in the journal were about breakfast, but even then, while sipping a cup of tea, I knew I was on the road because of my father's wish to be buried at sea, and I was somewhat inspired and affected as he was by his years in the Canadian Navy. 

I said, "Up early. Took awhile to get organized but kitchen and shower were great. Thermos of tea, cup of tea, cookie, oatmeal with cranberries, rye bread. Pretty dry - like hard tack - therefore, (it's) like being in (the) Navy."

"Rye bread was like hard tack... like being in (the) Navy"

As well, on Day 3 I travelled from Trois-Rivieres to Riviere-du-Loup, a shorter ride than the average, and while eating supper in a comfortable, shared kitchen and dining room I listed ten things I recalled about the day's events. Most were really not much to write home about: (In Trois-Rivieres) "Didn't go out after supper, watched a bit of hockey (NHL playoffs on TV), in bed early - 10:00 PM - ish, continental breakfast in Tr. Rivieres, prepped bike in 30 minutes," etc. But as I prepared to put my pen down a more serious thought entered my mind, not for the first time. "I'm on a mission, a good one. It will be a special, unique moment to put the wee boat into the Atlantic." 

"I'm on a mission, a good one"

Indeed it was 'a special, unique moment' when I jammed my motorcycle boots into tight spots in slippery rocks - so I wouldn't fall in - on the Atlantic Coast a few days later. It was a day when my short frame was worn down by heat and bad directions. It was also a day when I found the perfect spot on the rocky shore and stood tall, if but for a moment in time.

But still, there are a few more miles to go on the motorcycle.

 "The Walnut's stacks are lopped off so it can fit the saddle bag"

"It's final voyage began at a hard-won and perfect spot"

More to follow.

Link to The Long and Short Of It 12

Photos GH