Holiday day 13 (March 14^th) Third full day aboard.
The wilderness to Edmonton to Jasper, 17 hours behind schedule

Time is starting to play tricks on me. Not only are we passing through time zones and changing clocks, but the itinerary no longer matches the days, let alone the hours. Our list of arrival times at various locations doesn’t fit with where we are, and I have a strange feeling I’m on the wrong day. However, according to the timestamps on my photos, our third full day on the train (and the fourth and last night) saw us stop at Edmonton and reach Jasper at 23.00 that night, instead of 06.30 that morning. It doesn’t help that my phone hadn’t coped well with the changing time zones and although the clock updated, the time stamp and other time-related functions didn’t. One of my images shows the time as being ten in the evening when the picture was taken in daylight. Anyway, I am pretty sure that the third full day on the train was spent heading towards Edmonton where Neil hoped to meet his cousin, and then on to Jasper, and we were running something like 15 hours late. When we did arrive at Jasper, we were 17 hours behind schedule, and one of the reasons for this was, unsurprisingly, trains.

I don’t mean to bring up Harvey and the Detainers again, but I must because freight had a lot to do with the ever-increasing distance between scheduled arrival and actual. Basically, we had to wait for the drag to go past.

Freight takes priority over tourists on this busy and vital rail line between west and east coast, and when a freight train is coming the other way, the passenger train must give way, pull into a siding and wait. You may be used to the trains in the UK or wherever passing each other, and they tend to happen with a whoosh and a vacuum between carriages and passing truck, everything rattles for a bit and then it’s over. Not so out in the wilderness or, later, through the mountains. When a freight load is coming at you, they saunter past at a sedate speed apparently having all the time in the world to get wherever they’re going. There’s nothing to do but count the number of cars. As some of these slow-moving trains (known as ‘drags’) are two miles long, you’re usually well asleep by the time you get to thirty as it’s a bit like counting sheep.

Whatever, we weren’t in a hurry, and although the shifting schedule made for impossible planning (and Neil never was able to meet his cousin), we weren’t in any hurry. Vancouver would still be there when we arrived.

What do you to do for a whole day on a train with only minimal fuelling and supply-pickup stops? Well, there was jigsaw action happening in the saloon, and anyone was welcome to drop by, put in a piece and help it along. When we finally did leave the train in Vancouver, it was complete bar three missing pieces, which I thought was rather sad,

The scenery that had started out as snow and trees became snow and fields, and at one point, we sped through a near white-out.

The conditions changed fairly rapidly, so sometimes we were looking at grey and other times, white, with occasional bursts of wintery sky and cloud, trees, of course, and frozen rivers.

We were passing through or near places with familiar names but in unfamiliar landscapes and others with unfamiliar names but in what was by then, a very familiar landscape. Between Saskatoon in Saskatchewan and Edmonton in Alberta, on the map at least, you can find Battleford and Cut Knife before passing close to Maidstone, and further west, Paradise Valley. On to Viking, Bruce and Ryley which sounds like it should be someone’s title, ‘Have I introduced you to the Viking, Bruce Riley?’ Actually, if you zoom into Google Maps as I am doing, searching for the actual rail route with no success, you find that Holden and Poe come between Bruce and Ryley, another suitable name for a character. ‘This is my friend, Holden Poe…’ Somewhere beyond our windows and the snow-covered fields, lay Beaverhill, which sounded like something from The Hobbit, as did Adrossan, and either side of them, North Cooking Lake and the South Cooking Lake. I wonder how they got their names? Oh, and slightly further to the south-west of Edmonton, not far from the airport, you can spend some time in Devon.

All these places are on the map, but we didn’t see any of them, or if we did, we didn’t know it. The day was mainly about looking out of windows, chatting, watching people do a jigsaw and drinking tea. There were, of course, the meals to look forward to starting with brunch.

One of the policies on the VIA Rail Canadian is that you have no set place for meals, apart from in the dining car, that is. You arrive, and the maître d’ shows you to a table which you share with another couple. If you’re on your own, you may end up sharing with a couple or another single, and a couple will be sat with you later, or… Well, you get the picture. No-one dines alone, but if you’re a group of four, you’re not split up. This can lead to all manner of unlikely dinner guests and conversations. We spent lunch with two of the trainspotters who, when they discovered we didn’t know our 4-6-0- Wheel arrangements from our GE U18B baby goat locomotives and had no idea what a cinder dick was, they kept their own company, and we enjoyed an angle-cock free meal.

I have to pop over to a siding here as I scroll through an American railways glossary, agog at some of the wonderful terminology. For example, did you know that a small locomotive is called a dinky? (Bless, sounds rather cute.) Or that, in the manner of filleting a fish, one can also filet a double-stack container to a single-stack? A Gandy dancer isn’t, as you might think, Neil in full flow, but a track maintenance worker in the USA and a hack isn’t a writer like me, but a caboose (also known as a brake van, way car, end-of-train-device and, more alarmingly, a flashing rear-end). If you want to go slightly more bizarre, then how about knowing your mother is a locomotive paired with a slug, itself a locomotive with or without an operator’s cab which lacks a diesel engine… Can’t see the point of slugs, no operator, no engine…

It gets better. It seems that SpongeBob isn’t a popular cartoon character, after all. It’s a Rebuilt CSX SD40 locomotive with a yellow nose and nose-mounted headlight, something I am sure you already knew. Among this fascinating glossary, I came across some everyday items which demanded further investigation. Toasters, (EMD AEM-7 and ABB ALP-44 locomotives), toupees (single stack trains coming from reduced clearance territory with additional containers placed on top for the rest of its trip; the opposite of filet), and a screaming thunderbox (another locomotive that goes by the catchy name of EMD F40PH). In my opinion, no home is complete without a screaming thunderbox, and a man is not dressed without his Thunder Pumpkin.

There are so many delicious words and terms in this glossary, I could go on for hours about black widows and bluebirds, cabbages and catfish, or hoggers and mating worms, but I won’t. The couple of railfans beside us that lunchtime had clearly digested the entire ‘Railway Enthusiasts Dictionary of Cant and Other Arcane Language.’ So much so, I can only describe them as FRMs, or if you want it spelt out, F***ing Rail Nuts – and yes, that is an official term according to Wiki.

But at least there was pudding.

Onwards, into the afternoon, with the scenery becoming less rural as we approached Edmonton, occasionally stopping to get in touch with fresh air and freezing temperatures, and ever westwards towards our next pitstop.

These pitstops were not just for fuel and fags. There was a chap towards the front of the train with his massive hound who, when not sleeping in its vast cage, was being otherwise well behaved. It looked forward to a good walk when we did stop for fifteen minutes, or as good a walk as it could get in that amount of time.

Other passengers boarded, mainly front-enders who were hopping between one town and another, and as they embarked, so some of our American friends disembarked to make their own way home. They were cutting short their trip because of the ever-circulating news about possible border closures, rising numbers, and the possible need to quarantine. News of the outside world wasn’t exactly viral if you will excuse the term, but news of the virus was filtering in. Keith, the tour manager, made regular announcements, assuring us we were still going to make it to Vancouver and nothing there was yet closed, and our flights were not being cancelled as some were, so we had nothing to worry about. As I said, there was nothing we could do about it anyway, so there was no point in worrying.

Afternoon rest times were taken in the cabin for the sake of actually using it for something other than sleeping, and we trundled ever-closer to Edmonton.

There was a slightly longer stop there, though not the three-hours as stated on the original itinerary, and not at 20.50 on day… whatever, but according to my photo time stamp, 22.15 but in broad daylight, as you can see.

Actually, and others will correct me if I am wrong, I think it might have been late afternoon, as we didn’t stop for long and we reached Jasper at 23.00 that night, and the estimated time between the two places was six hours.

We said goodbye to Chance at Edmonton, wished him well and wondered how he would get on with the temporary reset of his life. We had time to explore the station concourse, which took all of ten minutes, most of that time spent investigating vending machines and sanitising hands as hand-san was everywhere by then.

And then, it was back on the train and dinner.

We had meals with members of our party, but one was spent in the company of a French-Canadian lady who spoke no English (and why should she?), and who behaved like a duchess. Conversation was had in the manner of someone pressing a teabag with a spoon, and my school French came back to me in waves of Greek.

It’s happened before. When in France for my uncle’s funeral, having lived in Greece for only two years, I went into a shop to buy something trivial and used five words to ask for it. Three words came out in Greek, one in English and the other in French, even though I had constructed the sentence in French in my head, rehearsed it and thought I knew what I was asking for. At least I got it, though, and similarly, our dinner conversation was, in part, understood. It left me with a headache as all French lessons at school did, and I’m not sure if there was a little Latin thrown in by accident, there were certainly lots of hand gestures.

And so, that evening (I think) we climbed through the night and into the Canadian Rockies. While journeying towards Jasper and the next stop – that we were determined not to miss even though it meant staying up until after midnight – we spent time with some of our party in the saloon. In this photo, you have a rare sighting of Harvey (right), he of the Detainers fame. You can tell it’s him, he’s wearing his red lanyard with pride, and, in this photo, being usually quiet about running boards and slack action.

And then, finally, we arrived at Jasper and our first sight of the Rockies, except we couldn’t see them in the dark. You know you’re in Jasper when you are told to…

As we weren’t wandering far from the station because as we only had 60-minutes, we didn’t need bear spray, and the shops were closed anyway. A few pubs were open, and we headed for the nearest to find it was welcoming on all levels…

Inside, we had time for one glass of wine, and just enough time for Neil to interview a local chap about God knows what while our glasses demisted, and we enjoyed the brief change of scenery.

That guzzle was followed by a chilly walk back to the station…

That’s condensation, by the way, nothing else, not even the perfectly legal happy-smoke that was everywhere. Neil interviewed a random woman in a glamorous (fake) fur coat, but I can’t remember exactly why or what about, we had a laugh, froze our thunder pumpkins off, and headed back to the station. On the way, we pressed our faces to the window of Buffalo Betty’s Gift Store, wondering how she got her name and then crossed the road to the railway station.

There, the train was rather majestically waiting for us. Not quite the Orient Express, but still romantic.

It was after midnight as we waited in the ticket hall with people who had been waiting for a train they expected 17 hours earlier, but it was a friendly, chatty place, mainly because Canadians all seem to be friendly and chatty, and devilishly polite too, something I might remember to mention in a couple of days when we’re in Vancouver. For now, though, it’s off to bed, and you may need a decent night’s sleep because tomorrow we have the Canadian Rockies to get through. Although we missed some of the mountain scenery because we were travelling through it at night, the delay meant we got to see other parts of it that passengers on that train don’t usually see. We took hundreds of photos, so rest up now, and I’ll meet you in the flashing rear-end tomorrow.

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Holiday day 12 (March 13th) Second full day aboard

For me, this day started in the middle of the night. The original plan (according to that brochure) was to stop in Winnipeg for three hours, and there was some dissent in the ranks when this didn’t happen. The journey had started late due to some technical issue, and we were running behind time. At some point on the journey (I think it was this night), there was a further delay caused by toilets. We stopped somewhere in the middle of nowhere for several hours, and the news in the corridors and lounges was that there was another technical glitch, and we were waiting for an engineer. It wouldn’t take long, he/she was only coming from down the road, which in Canadian terms is about 500 miles away, and apologetic announcements kept us well informed in two languages. It had something to do with compressed air or similar, and I think the repairs focused on the system that is used for flushing toilets. There was a certain amount of backing-up going on in some carriages, and obviously, that was an issue that couldn’t be left to fester.

Eventually, the situation was sorted out by moving the baggage car from the front of the train to the back, and the next morning, we were again underway. The shifting of the rolling stock (no doubt blissfully overseen by Harvey and the Trainspotters) meant those who’d spent extra to have TVs in the cabin and be closer to the caboose with the plush seating in the observation car, now had a view of the baggage truck, rather than rails disappearing into their vanishing point.

The other sad news for those at the back was although our restrooms were fully functioning by the morning, there’s weren’t. Never mind; we were underway.

But that was after we’d stopped at Winnipeg in the middle of the night and not for three hours of sightseeing and museum visiting, but for one hour of taking a quick look at the railway station as some passengers did. I was fast asleep by then but woke around three in the morning, and as the window was at the end of my bunk, sat up to see where we were. We were here:

And I have no idea where that was or still is. So, back to sleep, wake early to the flushing issue but find a way around it (a restroom that was working), take a shower before anyone else gets up, grab a coffee from the 24/7 coffee stand and enjoy the peace and quiet up in our observation car waiting for the sun to come up.

Perfect, until one of the fervent train enthusiasts climbs the stairs, sees a victim and engages in a conversation about freight. In fact, he opened with the line, ‘Ain’t the freight great?’ or some other tacky rhyme stolen Richard Stilgoe’s libretto for Starlight Express. ‘Freight is great. Freight is great. We carry weight cause we are freight,’ is the opening line of one of that show’s contributions to world culture, and is about as welcome on the ear at six in the morning as a lecture on ballast, covered hoppers and rotary dumps. A couple of impolite yawns sent the chap fawning over haulage elsewhere.

The sun came up, and the scenery rolled past as we travelled on from Winnipeg in Manitoba to Saskatoon in Saskatchewan, now roughly 1,300 miles (by train) from where we’d set off in Toronto.

Here’s a Winnipeg bear-related aside as we wait for the dawn. It’s about Winnie the Pooh and starts in White River, Ontario. A Canadian soldier and veterinarian named Harry Colebourn was at a train station when he bought a (live) bear cub for $20. (’Cos we’ve all done that at a railway station.) He named the cub “Winnipeg Bear” after the town he grew up in. Since Harry was on his way to Quebec to join fellow soldiers heading overseas for World War I, the bear went with him. Winnie became the mascot for the 2^nd Canadian Light Infantry Brigade, and when that brigade went to war, Winnie went to London Zoo. A. A. Milne took his son, Christopher Robin there, and before you can say “Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart,” Winnie the Pooh was born. Oh, and he was a she, btw.
And now, back to our regular programming.

As you can see, the landscape was still flat and endless, snowy and yet fascinating because every blink brought a sight I’d never seen before, and still nothing was boring. How could it be when there was a dining car waiting for us, serving breakfast, and later brunch, and when we had a cabin to hide in? There, the bears could take a rest and a bath while we made use of the furniture to make a change from sitting in the observation car or the saloon.

There were also the corridors to explore where you’d pass ladders protruding into the aisle because people had open berths. Privacy was provided by curtaining, and the stewards converted seating areas into sleeping areas and back at certain times during the day. We walked quietly through these areas when the ladders were out and curtains drawn, passing back through after breakfast to find them gone and their occupants in chairs looking at the view, knitting or reading as if there had never been beds there. Passing from one car to the next, from ‘Donald’ to ‘Berkshire’ or whatever, brought the reminder of the outside I mentioned yesterday.

Seeing the laundry bags also reminded me of how slick and organised such a trip must be. I assume other things travel on this train, deliveries from one stop to the next, possibly post to the outlying towns, and, to the enthusiasts’ delight, possibly even light freight. With the train now several hours behind schedule, there must be a robust communication system between one place and the next, and the further down the line you’re waiting for your train, the more chance there is you’re going to have to wait a long time. We were to learn about this the next night when we reached Jasper, but that’s getting ahead of myself. For now, we were happily trundling across plains and past farmsteads, watching out for wildlife and seeing only moose (which turned out to be hay ricks), plenty of deer tracks and those from other animals, and places where they appeared to rear tractors and other farming vehicles.

I don’t remember what time we arrived at Saskatoon, but it was in daylight, and not at 11.50 as the itinerary had said. It was still on day three though, and still cold; probably -15° degrees, certainly cold enough to pinch the ears and freeze a runny nose (I won’t show you that photo). We got off for a few minutes to stretch legs and burn the lungs with icy air, and wandered up and down the platform keeping warm.

Refuelling points also allowed the opportunity to chat with passengers we’d not yet met, and we fell into conversation with a young chap called Chance. He was travelling from Toronto to Edmonton and was going home. He was doing more than that, he said, he was admitting defeat. He’d gone to Toronto to, by the sound of it, seek his fortune, and had ended up homeless, and now, with only $10.00 in his pocket, had no option but to return to a place he didn’t want to be and think again. He was travelling in the front carriages of the train where passengers don’t get berths, but where they do have an observation car and a bar. Whereas our refreshments were included (apart from alcohol), he had to fork out $7.00 for a cup of coffee and hadn’t eaten much for the last 1,300 miles. Remaining cheerful as he puffed gently on a reefer (totally legal in Canada), he told us his story with an optimistic air, accepting of his lot, it seemed, and with as positive an attitude as anyone could expect. We met several times during the journey, ‘lent’ him a twenty or two we were happy to part with, and carried out a couple of semi-illegal raids to help him along. These involved helping myself to a few things from our free bar, juice, fruit, cakes, whatever, and sneaking beyond the ‘sleeping car passengers forbidden beyond this point’ sign between tourist cars and the front end (a sign we never took any notice of anyway), and dropped off some contraband as we passed through on our way to alight at fuel stops. Well, when you’re lucky enough to be able to use some of your retirement fund for a trip like this, what’s a twenty, a few supplies and a friendly chat with someone who has nothing?

Here we are at Saskatoon, photo by Jude. Left to right, Jeremy, Neil, Chase and me, looking like a much-rounded version of my granny. (Layers, mother, I was wearing layers!)

You may notice something slightly odd about Neil in that photo. Take another look…No, not that… I’ll make it easier for you:

Well, needs must when the devil drives, and all that, and gloves do make a good alternative for those who don’t care for muffs, as it were. We learnt later that it’s become all the rage in Saskatoon, and the fashion is spreading to the remoter parts of Saskatchewan as we speak.

Back on board and time for lunch, which I think we’d already had, so time to sit and chat, watch the scenery roll past, wonder what time dinner is, and get an update from our guide.
Remember Keith? Well, he’s still with us, trying to get Maxine to understand what’s going on around her, patiently answering questions and repeating himself several times. When not doing that, he was to be found in his compartment doing his paperwork and checking in with head office about the outside world. News was starting to filter in, from those with roaming or local phones, that the virus was spreading. Roughly around the time we were boarding the train, unknown to most of us, the WHO (not the rock band) were declaring the C19 outbreak a global pandemic. On the 13^th, still unknown to most aboard, Europe became the epicentre of the epidemic with more reported deaths than China, and the WHO launched their ‘Safe Hands Challenge’ to encourage better hygiene through the washing of hands. Aboard, there were now hand-sanitisers in the dining rooms and elsewhere, and more people were talking about the spread of the disease.

This included Keith who popped up in the saloon to announce we were okay, no flights had yet been cancelled, and the train was going to get us to Vancouver. The announcement, for me, came out of nowhere, and rather than finding it worrying, as you might expect, I thought it added another layer of adventure to the trip. It was sad though, because we also learnt that the staff so cheerfully serving us would not work again until further notice as this was to be The Canadian’s last journey. They continued to work without complaint or change in attitude despite harbouring concerns about income and families.

The upside of this spreading news, if I may be glib, was that there was talk among the trainspotting faction from the USA of cutting their trip short, and leaving at Edmonton to make their own ways home before borders were closed. As it turned out, many did, leaving only the diehards, like Harvey, to complete the journey.
Another upside was that the news brought our group closer, to the point where even the bears made new friends.

Despite the news, which we could do nothing about, the trip continued in its same fashion, the round of feasting, socialising (now slightly at a distance) and watching the snowy world go by. Even when Keith opened another declaration with ‘Now, there’s nothing to worry about, but…’ We learnt that a lady from carriage ‘Benny’ or somewhere towards the back, had taken herself off the train because she’d coughed and had chosen to self-isolate. Our coterie continued life much in the vein of the first-class passengers aboard the Titanic, but with fewer jewels.

And so, the journey continued towards Edmonton where Neil was hoping to meet up with a cousin he’d not seen for many years. A rendezvous, as it turned out, that couldn’t happen due to our delay. That didn’t stop him trying, and before we’d become wi-fi-less in Toronto, we’d given the cousin Keith’s mobile number so we could stay in touch, something which we did tell our tour manager and yet still came as news to him when he started to get calls from an unknown lady asking for Neil. ‘Knew you were going to be the troublemaker, lad,’ he huffed good-naturedly as he passed along messages, and took over the role of social secretary.
Day three aboard ended with drinks in the saloon (without impromptu crooner concert), and after another perfect day aboard, we went to bed looking forward to the changing landscape tomorrow would bring.

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Holiday day 11 (March 12^th) First full day aboard

Here are a couple of quotes for you.
The only way to be sure of catching a train is to miss the one before it. (Gilbert K. Chesterton)
Many times the wrong train took me to the right place. (Paulo Coelho)
And, an old Ukrainian saying, ‘The dogs bark, but the caravan moves on.’

Today’s piece has nothing to do with missing trains, wrong stations or barking dogs, I just happened to like those quotes. Maybe that was the kind of thing rolling through my mind as I watched the scenery go past at the start of our first full day on the train. Someone once told me that the first three days of this journey were boring, because the land is flat, and there’s not much to see. I disagree. Every passing snow-covered tree, every ice-covered river or stream, each new set of tracks in the snowfall and even each of the many telegraph poles were all entirely new for me. I may have seen others just like them ten seconds earlier, but I’d never seen that one, or that one, or that one, or… And so the scenery trundles, whizzes and shunts past. How can any train journey through a landscape you’ve never experienced be boring?

Onboard Entertainment

We’d taken books to read, Neil had even taken his Greek homework to do (rather ambitious I thought, but might impress fellow travellers), but after reading one page, you soon realise that you’ve missed something beyond the window. Okay, so the joke quickly became, ‘Oh look, a tree.’ Or, ‘Look, Snow.’ On boisterous occasions it was ‘Look, snow and trees,’ but that’s all part of the fun.

What does one do on a train for 24 hours, let alone five days? Well, there was the wet T-shirt competition, the traditional dancing, live music and the foam party happening in car number seven, ‘Frederick’, but we declined them, mainly because they didn’t exist. Instead, we had breakfast, brunch, dinner and non-stop rolling snacks. Entertainment was provided by fellow passengers, snow and trees, and without the internet, there was no or little talk of the news or the outside world. Exercise was easy to take, swaying from sleeping car to lounge, and although you were mainly inside for the whole day, you had a taste of life beyond the metalwork when passing between cars, where snow piled up on the inside of the doors, and the temperature plunged. Then there was breakfast.

Then there was brunch.

Then there was some time to sit and read.

And then there were views to see, snow and trees.

At some point during this day, we made a few stops. I know this because we took photos. The temperature was down as low as -20°, but when standing outside, it didn’t fee that cold. Maybe that was because there wasn’t a breeze, I can imagine the wind chill would add (or subtract) a fair few degrees from what we experienced. I was trying to remember the coldest I’d experienced before alighting at Sioux Lookout, and my mind drifted back to 1985.

It was the time between Christmas and New Year, and a colleague of mine, a PE teacher and mountain leadership training instructor, suggested some time in the Cairngorms, so I could get in some experience for my mountain leadership training. I didn’t realise I was in the programme, but it sounded like fun, and four of us set off to Scotland. The first night was spent at a youth hostel in Aviemore, and we headed to the hills the next day. That night, we used a mountain refuge hut, a bothy made of concrete and little bigger than two bus shelters thrown together. At one point, there were something like 16 of us in one ‘room’, sitting in the dark (at 5 pm), our helmet lamps cutting beams through the condensation, listening to the rough jokes as told by a group/squad/scrum of army guys who’d piled in. Luckily, they decided to push on through the blizzard to the next bothy, and we never saw them again.
‘Sleep’ was had on rigid boards lining the walls, and in the morning, after climbing back into socks frozen solid, it was my turn to find water or melt snow for tea. I think, filling canteens from a stream after breaking the ice at 1,200 meters up Ben Macdui (a mountain not a person), in December, was probably the coldest I’d been before alighting at Sioux Lookout, yet there, I didn’t feel cold. Can you believe it? Not only are the people warm in Canada, so is their cold. Odd.

Back aboard, you suddenly realise how cold you were, your glasses steam up and you fumble your way through the carriages towards the coffee machine in time for the train, now refuelled, to set off so you can see more snow and trees. Then, there were the stops they made especially for certain guests…

We also spent time in our cabin, where the boys liked to watch the snow and trees go past, and where, in this early morning photo, the steward hadn’t yet been in to work his magic.

It was hard to get a photo of the cabin due to its size, particularly when the bunks were down, though I did try a trick shot in the paddlington pool mirrors.

And so, the journey continued: Snow and trees, frozen lakes and rivers, the occasional deer tracks but little wildlife. We spent time in the observation car, in the saloon, took a half-hour stroll to the caboose and the posh bit where some chap was complaining that the TV in hist first-class cabin wasn’t working. (TV? Why? There are magical snow and trees to watch), and where the staff popped up now and then to tell you interesting facts about where you were. The staff, I have to say, were delightful, always pleased to see you and happy to be working. They greeted you each time as if you were prodigal family they’d not seen forever, and where had you been? We missed you, which added another layer of pleasant to what was already an enjoyable experience.

Other passengers

Sometimes, you have to make your own entertainment and talking about other passengers is one way of doing so. One of the things that’s always put me off taking a cruise is the thought that I might end up crammed into an inescapable moving object with people I wouldn’t normally socialise with. Well, a train is the same thing, and yet I had no qualms about taking this trip. The train is long and can carry hundreds of people, although our travelling companions seemed to be made up of only three groups. There were 20 of us Great Rail Journeys adventurers, a mixed bag of couples and a couple of train buffs who only spoke ‘train’ when invited to. There were a few solo passengers, like the guy who sat at the back of the salon and watched but hardly joined in, and who I was convinced was a spy. Then there was a large group of American trainspotters. I forget how many were in that group, felt like 200, but I think, was around 80, though you rarely saw them en masse.

Reassurance or a detainment?

I looked up the collective noun for trainspotters, and an internet search returned a couple of options. Someone on Twitter suggests it’s a ‘reassurance’, and an Australian railways website suggested ‘gunzel’ [Noun. gunzel (plural gunzels) (Australia) A railway or tram enthusiast; particularly (formerly derogatory) one who is overly enthusiastic or foolish.] The Merriam-Webster dictionary is far more prosaic with ‘Railfan’, but I think we can do better than that.
I suggest the collective noun for trainspotters should be ‘an enthusiasm’, or better, a ‘detainment’, and I have a reason for suggesting that—two, in fact.

In railways parlance, the ‘detainer’ is a person who dispatches the train. This is according to a handy list of railway terms found on a toy train company’s website, and as they’re based in Atlanta, USA, I guess it’s an American term. Totally appropriate as the detainment of transporters on our journey were from the USA.
My second reason for putting forward ‘Detainment’ as a viable collective noun, is because it’s what some of the party would do. They’d pass your table, or, on some occasions, invite themselves to sit at it uninvited, and detain you with an opening gambit of ‘Did you see that rolling stock? Rats are my thing, and it was awesome to see the yard goose taking that kettle as a junk file to the hotbox dick. Am I right?’
‘Possibly. What language are you speaking?’

Anyway, we were travelling with a party of grown men who got off on talk of covered hoppers, hydra-cushions and rotary dumps, and weren’t afraid to share their enthusiasm with anyone willing (or unwilling) to listen. During one of our strolls to the posh end and back, we came across a detainment attending a lecture in one of the salons, complete with slideshows and tissues for the over-excited. They were listening to a talk on A1A-A1A diesel locomotive wheel arrangements of the two 3-axel truck variety and the role of APCUs in push-pull operations – or some such. Adults gasped with orgasmic delight when their lecturer presented a slide of the Alco’s trouble-prone 244 model (built between 1953 and 1969). When the subject moved on to how, in “the engine’s 251 designation: the “2” describes the 9-inch cylinder diameter and 10-inch stroke”, it became far too pornographic for a Thursday afternoon, and we slipped through to make our escape.

I suppose, when taking a rail journey holiday, one must expect this kind of behaviour, and, actually, the party was good fun as they oohed and cooed at the windows, sporting their proudly worn, group identity tags. One of their number, Harvey, became something of a celeb in our group, mainly thanks to his un-derailable enthusiasm. No end-line buffer could stop his reciprocating engine of knowledge, nor any drum-break regulate his Buchli drive.

And back to the snow and trees.

Railways enthusiasts shunted to a siding, there was other entertainment to be had. There were stops along the way for fresh air and leg-stretching, the non-stop supply of refreshments and meals, chat with our group, and the observation car to sit in with a G&T at dusk and watch the snow and trees go past.

It’s always a worry, when in a confined space, when someone pulls out a guitar. That evening, there was an impromptu concert in the saloon car provided by a man I’d not seen before or since. I don’t know if he was part of the detainers’ group, but he produced a guitar from somewhere and gave us a few choice numbers before we decided it was time to berth for the night, gave him limp applause and a withering look, and left him and his audience of two to the rest of the concert.

More tomorrow as we trundle onwards towards Winnipeg where the three-hour stop didn’t happen, and beyond towards Saskatoon where Neil invented ear gloves, the boys met Barnsie, and we saw more snow and trees.

Below are a few more photos that wouldn’t fit anywhere else. Meanwhile, if you are interested in the history of Canadian railways, then check out this page on VIA Rail’s website. If you want a translation of the railways speak (above), then I used a glossary at the Legacy Station blog. And, if you want more about that Cairngorm trip and other confessions from a dodgy past, then there’s Symi, Stuff & Nonsense. “An excellent present for Christmas”, as I once overheard someone say about something else.

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Holiday day 10 (March 11^th) From Toronto

Boarding

We’re on Wednesday now, and day 10 since leaving Symi. Breakfast done, packing done, wardrobes double-checked for left items, and on-board luggage separated from baggage car luggage, we are ready to set off from Toronto and start the main part of this trip, the train.

Now then, before we go any further, before we even board, I need to tell you that for the next few days, I may get my facts tender about caboose. One of the reasons for this is that I am running off my memory and using my photos as ‘remembralls.’ This means I haven’t always remembered things correctly, and Maxine is an example. Alison, who we met on the trip, had to email me about this yesterday and point out I’d called the dear old thing Marcie, so apologies for inaccuracies. I did have a travel journal which I intended to update every day, but that good intention lasted about as far as the ferry from Symi, and I forgot all about it. So, if I get things wrong, please excuse me (and the typos) and pretend I never said them, or make up your own version as we go.

A bit about The Canadian

What I can tell you, however, is that the train we were taking is called The Canadian. It runs a 4,466 km (2,775 mi) route from Toronto to Vancouver, with numerous intermediate stops including Winnipeg, Saskatoon, Edmonton, Jasper and Kamloops before ending in the bustling Pacific city of Vancouver. I was particularly looking forward to ‘Kamloops’ because it sounded like a breakfast cereal.

I can also tell you that, “On March 21st, 2020, the Canadian and most other Via Rail services were suspended due to the 2020 Coronavirus Pandemic.” In fact, we didn’t know it at the time, but this was to be the train’s last journey for the foreseeable future. (It’s now due to start a limited service in December this year.) When we gathered at the waiting lounge, there was no talk of suspended services or even much talk of the virus. However, we were onto extra vitamin C drinks and supplements, sanitising hands (which we do a lot of anyway), opening doors with shirt sleeves and then closing them with bare hands (d’oh!), and generally being cautious of sneezers and wheezers.

There was, however, talk of a delay as we hung about the rather grand station and the waiting room, and the news trickled in that we would be held up for an hour… Later, two… In the end, three, because there had been a problem with the equipment blower, the lube-oil filter or traction alternator or something technical. I think it turned out to be air pressure and something to do with the toilet flush, but that’s another story we may come back to. Anyway, we waited in that polite British way, got to better know some of our 20-strong party, were inundated with updates, coffee, biscuits and other survival supplies, and had a wander around the station.

Aboard

Finally, we were called to board, a sedate affair which involved a short walk and the showing of tickets. Our baggage car luggage had gone on ahead, so that was no worry, and we only had our cabin luggage and bears. You’re only allowed to take a certain size of case on board with you due to lack of space, but we’d once again borrowed Gwen’s suits-all suitcase, one of those ones that fit in the overhead locker on planes, and which she usually uses to store summer things at our place when she and her husband leave Symi for the winter. Even so, once we found our cabin, it was a bit of a squeeze to accommodate everything, and we soon understood why larger cases are not permitted.

We’d taken an upgrade to ‘Sleeper Plus’ or some such, which earnt us the right to have our own ‘restroom’, sink and a door. The cabin also had two chairs which somehow magically vanished beneath two bunks that the steward arranged in the evenings, a large picture window and a few sensibly placed hooks and things for your convenience. The cabin reminded me of lines from T.S. Eliot’s Old Someone’s Book Of Something-or-other Cats’ (which I have bought Harry for Christmas, but don’t tell him). The Skimbleshanks poem, actually.

There is every sort of light, you can make it dark or bright; there’s a button that you turn to make a breeze.
There’s a funny little basin you’re supposed to wash your face in and a crank to shut the window if you sneeze.

In our case, the ‘funny little basin’ was used as a paddling pool. Or, a Paddlington pool, I suppose.

So, cabin explored (which took all of 60 seconds), chairs sat in, restroom investigated and bears bathed, we set off to explore the other amenities.

I tried to look up the length of the train, but apparently, it varies depending on demand. I can tell you, though, that our version of it had innumerable carriages, each one with its own name. One was called Kent, which was kind of them as that’s where I am from, but I think we were in one called Derek or Roger, or something which may come back to me as we travel. I can also tell you that, one day during the five days and four nights we spent aboard, we walked from the end car to the front and it took us roughly 25 minutes walking at a steady pace.

The train has skyline cars, glass-domed double-deckers or observation cars…

… sleeper cars (obviously), dining cars, saloons, a posh section at the back (below), and a general commuter/traveller section at the front. We were somewhere in the middle and were served by two dining cars, two saloons and two observation cars, though we tended to favour the ones closest to Brian, our whatever our car was called.

What VIA Rain Canada doesn’t have on The Canadian is wi-fi, the idea being that you’re there to enjoy the scenery and company rather than the endless joy of Facebook scrolling, something we were quite happy to do without.

On the way

Our route was to take us through forests, past lakes, across prairies and up mountains, and we were due to arrive in Vancouver at 8.00 on Sunday morning, stopping off, the brochure had said, at a few places along the way. There, the brochure said, we would have three hours in Winnipeg, a couple of hours in Jasper, some time here and there and so on. At least, that’s what the brochure said. According to the staff, that was a bit of a myth and, as you will see, although we stopped at those places and others, it was mainly for refuelling, and there was no time to explore. We’ll get to that in due course, but what you should also remember is that this was a no-smoking train, and we were still puffers (sorry about that, mother). Knowing we might be several days without a hit, we’d cut down to those kinds of fags where you pay for air, so it wasn’t to be a problem.

What was also not a problem was food. Boy, do you get fed! No sooner had we boarded than it was time for lunch, and no sooner was that done with than it was time for dinner, it seemed, and if you were peckish in between, you could help yourself to various carbohydrate-driven snacks, tea, coffee, and for a little extra, drinks at the bar.

Here’s an aside that’s to do with trains…

A few years ago, we went on a mid-Europe tour which I’d put together myself as I’m one of those nerds who like to arrange holidays. No offence to travel agents. I’d love to do that job, having always been fascinated by maps and timetables. We started the trip by flying to Vienna, and after a couple of days there, took the train to Prague. Did that, bought the T-shirt, caught the train to Budapest. That was an eight-hour journey, so we’d packed lunch and supplies, and bought first-class tickets because they were only €16.00 each. (Imagine how much that would cost in the UK? It’s like going from London to Paddington which, having just looked at The Trainline, I can tell you would cost you between €141.82 and €225.52 if you left today.) The Czech/Hungarian train not only had a trolley service but also a dining car which I investigated. The thing was, after Budapest, we were going to Belgrade, and that journey was to take over nine hours, so, I thought we’d leave the dining experience until then. Trouble was, when we got on the train to Serbia (first class again, but €14.00), not only was there no dining car, there was no buffet or trolley service, we were lucky to have wheels, and we’d only brought a small bottle of water and a Snickers bar to last us. You can read about that adventure in ‘Symi, Stuff and Nonsense’ if you want.

There was no chance of starvation on The Canadian.

The rest of our first day aboard was spent either eating, gazing at the scenery or chatting to others in our group in the saloon.

Meanwhile

Later in the evening, we were sitting in the saloon with some of our group and chatting. (See? I told you that’s what we did.) Although the temperature outside was reported as being -15°, inside was pleasantly warm, and there was no need for jackets or even a jumper, in Neil’s case. We’d been on the train for about 12 hours now, and when it stopped and seemed to be taking a long time to do whatever it was doing, Neil went to enquire if there was time to get off for a smoke. A few seconds later, he comes rushing back through the saloon announcing something to do with a fag break, and practically dragged me with him towards the bow… the engine end… the front part. We dashed through a couple of carriages littered with people bedding down on the floor, or curled up on their chairs (as the general part of the train is like any other passenger service), and leapt off into the snow to light up.
We were merrily puffing away and not knowing if that was smoke or steam we were raising when Jude (from our group) arrived with Neil’s jacket and told him off for going out into -15° wearing only a T-shirt. After 12 or more hours without nicotine, you don’t care about temperatures.

Tomorrow, I may have more of an idea of where we are because I just looked ahead at the photos and noticed there’s one with a signpost. There is also one showing the name on our car, and it wasn’t Roger or Frank, but Stuart Manor and I still don’t know why. Something to do with pioneers or engineers or even mutineers perhaps.

If you enjoy this kind of flexible ramble, then you might also enjoy ‘Symi, Stuff & Nonsense’, one of my books about living on Symi, which also contains other travel tales and stories from my past.

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Holiday Day nine (March 10^th) Niagara and Dinner in the air

To Niagara

Tuesday started with a pleasant, if costly, breakfast at the Hilton. (I remember the hotel now because I took a photo of it the night before.)

This was a day for an escorted tour, complete with a knowledgeable guide, and we were corralled into reception at a certain time to ensure all 20 of us were present and correct. Hands washed, a clean handkerchief, shoes cleaned… Oh, that was boarding school, sorry. It was a more laid-back affair as everyone met one by one and shared stories of where they’d gone the night before and what the rooms were like – huge. At the appointed hour, Tour Manager Keith moved among us, counting and tapping on his phone as he always seemed to be doing, said something about meeting our guide and the coach, and herded us outside to a comfort bus. We’d been joined by our two American guests by then, Maxine and her translator. Maxine (who I called Maricie by mistake) soon became a firm favourite thanks to her lack of hearing and sit-com character. Conversations with Maxine often ran thus:

‘Good morning,’ you’d greet as you found your seat.
‘What did he say?’ she’d ask her companion.
‘He said, good morning.’ (Spoken deliberately and close to the ear.)
‘Oh.’
‘Are you having a good time?’
‘I think it’s nine. Is it nine?’
‘Yes, it’s nine.’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Why d’you ask?’

It was a grey day that promised a morning of rain, but a brighter afternoon, which as it turned out, was precisely what we got. Niagara Falls are about 80 miles from where we were staying, and the journey took us through Mississauga along the Queen Elizabeth Way. Place names are a mix of British and North American as you go through Burlington, Stony Creek, and close to Aldershot, before seeing the delights of Grimsby, Port Dalhousie and finally Niagara. You could be forgiven for thinking you’d arrived at Blackpool what with the arcades and tourist ‘attractions’ that didn’t look so attractive in the grey drizzle. A multitude of coloured lights spangled the windows through the rain, reminding me of Hastings in autumn, and the streets, teaming in summer no doubt, were more or less empty.

At Niagara

As was the car park when we drove in and unloaded with directions and instructions given by our guide. The rendezvous time was arranged, and toilets pointed out to Maxine. ‘No, I’m still fine, dear.’

There were a couple of things that struck me about Niagara Falls. Firstly, how small they seem in comparison to expectations, and then how much the town is a tourist trap. However, you can’t help but be awed by nature, and the third thing that struck me was how close you can get to the water. There are places where, if you had a death wish, you could step over the fence and go for a swim. It would last about three seconds before you’re swept over the drop to your doom.

Having said that, in 1960, seven-year-old Roger Woodward and his sister were in a boat on the upper Niagara River when the boat capsized. The man with them went over the falls and died, the sister was rescued 20 feet from the edge, and young Roger went over but survived. I wouldn’t advise it, however, not with 681,750 gallons of water per second accompanying you to the plunge pool at the bottom. (That, apparently, is what it’s called.)

We learnt all manner of information as we took to the tunnels that have been built into the rock so you can get behind the falls, get wet and, if you can hear yourself think, say things like ‘Oh!’, ‘Good Lord!’ and ‘Bloody hell.’ The tour involved a lift, of course, and plunged us into the depths where we followed a few people through the tunnels which open out in off-shoots to arches where you can be splashed by the spray and wonder at the rumble. The bears enjoyed it, as did we.

That done, we had some time to explore the true wonder of the Falls, the gift shop, where you can pick up all kinds of quality tourist tat from fridge magnets to sweatshirts (which we did, as presents for the Godboys you understand). There are good views of the spectacle from the upper gallery, and plenty of information about other sights to see and things to experience in the locale. A few to mention and marvel at include, the IMAX Theatre Daredevil Exhibit, the Fun Factory, the Dinosaur Adventure Golf (not to be missed for its cultural contribution to world wonders), the House of Frankenstein (why?), and various other houses including, Upside-down, Fun, and Haunted. We did none of those, but we did let the bears sit in Robert Wadlow’s chair. He was 8’11” tall, the world’s tallest man. He lived from 1918 to 1940 and died when he was 22, poor chap.

I should mention that from our lunch table on the upper floors of the Sheraton, we were able to see both the Horseshoe Falls (Canadian side) and the lesser American Falls (below). The two countries are joined by a bridge, and the border checkpoint is right in the middle of it. That was about as close to the USA as we were going to and wanted to get.

Lunch done, we had some free time away from the herd to explore the delights of Blackpool in the rain. We trudged up the hill to look at a few shops, decline several offers to feed slot machines, avoid the lure of the glitzy arcades and amble down again to meet the coach. By then, we were clutching our most treasured memory of the Falls, an iconic interpretation of a family day out taken beneath the rocks against a green screen.

The afternoon

The weather was showing signs of clearing by then, and we were trundled off to spend something like three hours in a ghost town.
Actually, it wasn’t that bad and would have been lovely in summer. But Niagara Village (aka, ‘The Village of the Damned’ as Neil called it) appears to exist to service tourists, in the nicest possible way. Quaint shops and pubs, even an all-year-round Christmas shop, and a pleasant walk along the river’s edge, but, frankly, in early March, not a lot else to do.

We investigated the post office as we like to see how the locals live, and then, naturally, found a pub and sat to write postcards. Using tracking skills learned at GLAD (the Group Leaders’ Academy of Detection), Keith tracked us down and told us the others had rebelled and wanted to leave early. We were fine with that, so we re-joined the coach an hour ahead of schedule only to have to wait for Maxine and her translator.

‘We could have had another glass of wine, Maxine!’
‘What did he say?’
‘They could have had another glass of wine.’
‘Not for me. Where are we now?’

The CN Tower

Cutting a long story as short as I can, we drove back to Toronto through sunshine. During the day, and before we set off from home, we’d been in touch with Martin Sulev, a Canadian author who has been to Symi, and who has written two books in the well-received Demon of Athens series. (Follow that link for the books which are more than worth reading.) Martin, who we’d never met, invited us out for the evening, and we’d arranged to meet later at the hotel.

The previous evening, some of our party had somehow managed to find time to nip up the CN Tower, and as it wasn’t far from the hotel, we suggested we go there. The CN Tower, as I am sure you know, is the ninth tallest free-standing structure in the world, and in 1995, was declared one of the modern Seven Wonders of the World by the American Society of Civil Engineers. It’s 553.3 meters high (1,815.3 feet) and has a revolving restaurant at 1,250 feet above the ground.

Now, I know I am used to the Kali Strata and can still walk up it without getting out of breath, but where the Kali Strata has roughly 380 steps (depending on route and destination), the CN Tower has 1,776. The record for climbing them stands at nine minutes and 54.9 seconds, but it’s worth it as the building offers free wi-fi. We, however, weren’t going to take the stairs because there is no need. It has a lift. (I told you lifts were going to make a reappearance in these posts.)

To be precise, it has a scenic elevator complete with glass panels in the floor, a fact I didn’t know until I was inside it with no way out. The lift catapults you 1,250 feet into the air at a speed of 22 kmph in 58 gut-churning seconds, though, strangely, you feel like you’re hardly moving as the ground drops away, you rise about 100 floors and wonder what would happen if the cables broke.
You empty out on weak legs into a dining room reminiscent of The Towering Inferno, your husband rushes to look down through the sloping glass with nothing between him and death apart from engineering supplied by the lowest bidder, and you wonder if you will be able to manage dinner. Your mind is distracted slightly as you negotiate from static carpet to slowly rotating carpet and step over the threshold knowing there’s little beneath you and the ground now as you’re protruding over the central structure. Still, the menu looks good and if the bears can do it, so can I.

The unfortunate things about that photo-op is the window stays still while you revolve, and if Martin hadn’t grabbed him, Little-Pad would have endured a complete rotation before returning to us 72 minutes later.

Dinner was delightful (thank you, Martin), and we chatted about writing, Symi and life in Canada as we slowly revolved, took photos and, when necessary, waited for the gents to come round again, so we didn’t have to chase after it. That was the first time I’d been in a revolving restaurant, although I vaguely remember going up the Post Office Tower in London when I was little. (Pah! Call that a tower? It’s only 581 feet high.)

Another dubious attraction of the CN Tower is the glass. If you’re so inclined, and many people are, you can stand on a glass floor over 1,000 feet in the air and look down. If you’re barking, like Neil, you can lie on it and take photos of the mirrored ceiling, and if you’re a Canadian like Martin, you can just wander across it as though it were an Axminster. If you’re a little hight-wary, like me, you can scoot across a corner of it, daring one quick step on the glass to say you’ve done it.

It was a wonderful evening at the end of a remarkable day. I should point out, that at this stage, the word on the incredibly wide and clean streets was that the Tower might have to close soon because of the virus. Toronto was certainly pretty quiet when we were there, but otherwise, the ‘thing’ was still a way off, attention was focused on Italy and other faraway places, and there were still only instructions to be wary, avoid doorknobs and sing Happy Birthday in public restrooms (as the very polite Canadians very politely call a toilet).
Tomorrow, we finally get to the heart of this trip and start the journey on The Canadian. That’s the name of the train that runs between Toronto and Vancouver, crosses three time zones, and travels roughly 2,087 miles. Make sure you are here in time for the whistle when the guard shouts ‘Aaaaall’board!’

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