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.

Share on Facebook

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.

Share on Facebook

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.

Share on Facebook

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!’

Share on Facebook

Holiday Day eight (March 9^th) London to Toronto

Cabbies and Carriages

Today’s story is about the journey from London to Toronto.

We checked out of the Travelodge, and while doing so, asked about a taxi to the airport. That was easy enough. You simply press a button on the counter and a moment later, the receptionist gives you a cab number. Five minutes later, a few steps away on Drury Lane, there’s a car waiting for you. In our case, it was a traditional black cab driven by a young man called Christian who came complete with a reassuring East End accent.

There’s something about a London black cab that only the British could pull off. For a start, a black cab’s real title is still a hackney carriage, as if Britain were still living in the 19^th century. (Currently, I think it is; the country still has duel carriageways.) The origins of the use of ‘hackney’ date back to 1654 when parliament passed “An Ordinance for the Regulation of Hackney-Coachmen in London and the places adjacent”, which was intended to remedy what it described as the “many Inconveniences [that] do daily arise by reason of the late increase and great irregularity of Hackney Coaches and Hackney Coachmen in London, Westminster and the places thereabouts.” Hackney, then a village in Middlesex and now part of Greater London, was renown for its meadows and horses, and the original pullers of the carriages were from Hackney. Thus, we took a hackney carriage driven by a man from Hackney, under 450 horsepower as opposed to one beleaguered old nag.

Whatever, Christian whisked us to Heathrow with the minimum of cabbie blarney and personal thoughts on West Ham FC and immigration and even offered us hand-san before and after the ride.

Heathrow

Her Majesty very kindly gave us the use of her terminal for our check-in, but as we were early, there was plenty of time for a Costa (small fortune) coffee while we waited to meet our tour manager. From here on, we were travelling under the wing of Great Rail Journeys on their escorted ‘The Canadian in Winter’ tour.

A few weeks previously, our tour pack had arrived including the name and phone number of our manager, Keith, and bang on nine o’clock, I met him just inside the terminal entrance. Keith was (and I hope, still is), a tall, broadly-built Yorkshireman in, I’d say, his sixties, who was very experienced in taking tours to all kinds of places.

[Note: I have to be careful what I say about whom because some of the people we met on the tour are reading this (Jude, Alison… I know who you are). I am prone to forget details and miss things out, so let me know if I get anything majorly wrong, but remember this is written from my perspective, eight months after the events, and comes from my fading memory.]

‘Collins and Gosling’ I announced as if we were representing someone in court, and we were duly ticked off the list and given our papers for check-in. Now then, when I booked this tour and paid the deposit back in December 2018, I’d noticed that the company offered upgrades on the flights. Thinking it might be a special treat on the way back, I asked how much an upgrade to premium economy might cost for the return journey. When I’d picked myself up off the floor, I (think I) agreed, and asked what the cost would be for both journeys. I was told that they didn’t have a quote for the outbound upgrade at that time, but they’d made a note to contact me when they knew. Then Christmas happened, and I forgot all about it. So, when we came to check-in, I was expecting the usual cattle-class treatment, but strangely, we’d been upgraded to PE for the outward journey. Must have booked that one the wrong way around, I later thought, but at the time, was convinced someone had made a mistake to our advantage, and I still am.

Either way, we were treated like lords at check-in, and sailed through the barriers and security, the pat-down and strip search… Actually, no, only joking, but once you’ve removed your shoes, jackets and belt, and your trousers have fallen down halfway through the scanner, you might as well have been led off to a room and de-clothed; it would be less embarrassing. I do wonder if, when a person is strip-searched and contraband is discovered, does the criminal later tell their cellmate he was fingered at Heathrow? Just a thought.

The bears, naturally, were excited to be flying, especially Little Pad who’d only flown once, to London from his factory in Taiwan, and even then, he was in a packing crate. Paddington had flown before many times. We found him waiting for us in 2007 when we stopped off in Brighton on our way to South America. Jenine had sent him as a travelling companion, and since, he has been on every major trip we’ve taken. So far, Padders has been to Peru (where, strangely, no-one had heard of him), Ecuador, Scotland, the Czech Republic, Hungary, Romania, Serbia and Austria, and a couple of years ago, went on holiday with Jenine and the boys to Athens and Corinth. So, Paddington knows how to behave at the airport.

He’s also met a few stars.

The travelator route at the Queen’s Terminal is overlooked by large photos of pop/rock stars and events. If you like to play Where’s Wally, then you will have a great time with this next photo.

Taken on July 13th, 1985, it shows the stage at Live Aid. Somewhere in the front of that crowd, you can find our own special wally, Neil, waving his arms and doing whatever youths do at these events. At the same time, I was driving past on my way from Baron’s Court to somewhere unholy in Essex for a party. I was taking friends across town, the party was dreadful, and I ended up sleeping in the car. But that’s another story, and now back to this one:

In the Air

The flight was with Air Canada, and everything ran perfectly. We had that priority boarding thing, which I always think is totally unnecessary unless you have medical or mobility needs, because, let’s face it, no-one’s going to take off any earlier than anyone else, but it did give us time to explore our seats in cattle-class-plus. As with the theatre tickets we had lavished my pension on, we were in the front row, and with so much legroom, I could have done yoga in the gap between me and the wall dividing us from business class. Except, of course, I can’t do yoga and only get into those unlikely positions following an accident.

We had our own movable monitors, complimentary things we’d never use, hot and cold running waiters, even cloths on the trays when lunch came. They also gave us real cutlery, which somewhat negates the ‘no knives or sharp objects’ security arrangements so stringently enforced at airports, but we weren’t planning a hijack, so that was alright.

Lunch was, by our standards, a posh affair that included far too much wine, a table service which continued through the afternoon as the time zones changed, I watched ‘The Goldfinch’ and got all sniffly at the end, and fell asleep. Now, that’s a first for me, sleeping while travelling. Actually, it’s a second as I once managed three hours kip on the way back from Australia. (It was my only three hours in 48 from my brother’s house in Salamander Bay, New South Wales to the Plaza hotel in Rhodes by which time I was understandably delirious.)

I managed four hours dozing as we crossed the Atlantic and the tip of Greenland, and woke to discover we were over land. Or, rather, over frozen rivers and a snowy landscape that ran to the curve of the world, and the journey monitor rather alarmingly, told me we were on our way to Montreal. It updated when I refreshed the screen, and we’d passed Greenland, but were still, allegedly heading for Montreal.

Toronto

Luckily, we didn’t end up in Quebec, but in Ontario, so I don’t know what that was all about, but finally, after about eight hours in the air, an announcement came that we were nearing our destination. Jackets were gathered, empty bottles disposed of, bags arranged and bears put away for the next stage of the adventure, and we disembarked.

A short while later, having been instructed somewhere around 64° N, 19° W (Iceland long/lat) to meet at baggage reclaim, we did just that and met up with the rest of our party and Keith. Our tour manager clearly knew what he was about because no sooner had Neil appeared than he identified him as the one to keep an eye on. ‘I see you’re going to be the naughty one on this trip, lad,’ he observed dryly, and I thought, ‘If only you knew.’

Now I think about it, that laugh might have happened at Heathrow, my mind’s a bit fuddled because we’d left London at midday, flown for eight hours and it was only four in the afternoon, except it was eight in the evening, or should have been.

Anyway, there were 18 in our group and two more to join us later because they were travelling from America, poor things. We obediently followed instructions, sailed through immigration on our British and Irish passports, and clambered aboard a waiting bus.

Having come from Symi, where no building is taller than three or four storeys, and even from London, the first sight of the buildings of Toronto was very impressive.

Even more impressive was our room at the four-star hotel where we settled in before heading out to find somewhere to eat.

I have to say, the hotel was a bit more up-market than those we’re used to dealing with. I think it was the Hilton (Jude or Alison will remind me, I’m sure). I told you my memory’s a bit cloudy in some places, and my papers and notes are up in the loft, and I couldn’t be bothered to go and find them. I do, however, remember it had a scenic elevator which rather took me by surprise when I first stepped in. I’d be quite happy abseiling down a cliff or climbing up a mountain, roped on and at a dizzying height, but a man-made object travelling upwards at speed with nothing between me and the drop other than plate glass… Well, I have a ‘thing’ about that these days, and although I didn’t know it, I was going to encounter a couple more before the end of the trip.

Before then, however, we have Niagara Falls to visit tomorrow, so make sure you bring your Pac a Mac.

Share on Facebook