English Ramblings

I’m walking in the Cotswolds for a week, followed by a week in Cornwall – topped with a few days in London. Why walk at home when you can jump on a plane, fly for hours at great expense, catch a train and a bus, all to walk in unfamiliar territory in another country?  I keep trying to answer/explain that question to myself and my quizzical friends. 

Here’s one obvious reason. They have different fences. 

20230402_111854The land is portioned off by stone fences. Loose stone gathered from fields piled without mortar in a linked, orderly manner to be virtually indestructible. They go on for miles. They amaze me. I think the word is gobsmacked.  I’m equally impressed by hedgerows, ancient tangles of bushes, virtually impermeable,  a living home for rabbits and other beasties. Rural England fields, delineated by hedgerows and fences, are easily traversed however by right of passage paths; in most of the UK, a person can walk across a farmers field with impunity, although death-by-surprised/angered-cow happens more often that one might expect. It’s a Canadian hiker’s dream.

20230414_115217_HDRI’m also impressed by the quality of the mud here. March was the wettest on record in the Cotswolds. The Windrush river is high. Puddles abound especially around a plethora (love that word, had to use it; forgive me) of gates all ingeniously designed to befuddle sheep and foreigners. Foolishly, we try to stay clean and dry on our walks. A quarter hour in, I give up. Mud adds to the ambiance. 

The final reason that we travel afar to walk is we often come across the ‘sweet spot’, an unforgettable event that would never happen at home. 

20230402_125241We stopped at a small village green for a standup lunch. There was a checkin for some local event close by so we wandered over to see what it was about. Think of a treasure hunt with multiple stops, the avid participants being vintage motorcycle owners. In England there is a club for almost every interest; all taken seriously, all pursued with joyous concentrated eccentricity. A perfect example appeared in a puff of smoke – a couple on a motorcycle and a sidecar rolled in. 

Catnip! We had to investigate. The elderly couple (being slightly older than me) eagerly and proudly explained their hobby. The 1938 cycle had been owned by the driver for 60 years! His wife was the navigator. She looked warm all bundled in the cocoon of the sidecar; she assured me she wasn’t. They were feisty, fun-loving and full of laughter. This was their hobby, they were part of a club; this was a regular club outing, eccentric and idiosyncratic – enthusiastically enjoyed.

When I grow up, I want to be just like them. 

20230402_183225England is littered with history; celebrated, discussed and debated as if it still mattered. We casually visit small Norman churches that go back to the 12th century. Bourton-on-the-water is a perfect village, our home for the week, all golden cottages, picturesque pubs and stone bridges crossing the Windrush River, Upper Slaughter, a village close by even has a water wheel, still turning after all these years.

20230413_120402Next week, I exchange the rolling hills, quaint golden cottages and bursting-with-spring-green meadows of Bourton-on-the-Water for the rugged, wind-sculpted upsy/downsy terrain of Cornwall; defined by the ocean, cliffs and abandoned tin mines. It’s as desolate looking as the Cotswolds were lush. 

We walked various pieces of the iconic Coast Path. Blue skies, bluer ocean, stiff winds, lots of elevation gained and lost; broken regularly by hidden coves and pristine beaches. Malevolent looking clouds roll in, direct from Newfoundland. 

Cornwall’s tin mines in the late 19th century were a major industry. Nasty, brutish and short would inadequately describe the life of a Cornish tin miner. Few lived past their 40’s. A few structures still exist paying homage to their labour and to their lives. 

20230410_111751_HDRA slight digression if I might be allowed. At St.Just, I was compelled to sample my first.original pasty (pronounced with a soft ‘a’ like pasta). One cannot pass a shop that claims to be the oldest maker of Cornish Pasties. It would simply be wrong.

The Cornish Pastie was the traditional lunch for tin miners. A hearty stew of beef, potato, onion and swede (turnip to us) is scooped onto a round of sturdy pastry; the pastry dough is then folded over to make a half moon with thick crust around the crescent. Miners could find their lunch in the dark by feeling for the unique markings made in the cooked dough by their wives. They ate everything but the crust they held in their hands; their hands were contaminated with arsenic usually found in tin mines so they had to throw the crusts away. No one reports on the effect on mine rats who presumably ate the contaminated crusts. 

I’ve done a selective taste test and they are wonderful. And, not being a tin miner, I was encouraged to eat the crust. Risk taker that I am, I obliged. 

St. Ives, our base, has been a robust creative centre for the arts for almost a century, home to a Tate Modern satellite museum that pays homage to Barbara Hepworth, a famous sculptress whose best known piece graces UN headquarters in New York. 

20230410_102415Our walks along the Coast Trail are amazing confirmation of my desire for the experience. I choose the shortest of the daily walks – about 8 km. We ramble about for 4-5 hours, view the scenery, learn some fun facts, most of which I immediately forget. I have my own room, meals, a packed lunch and a guide.  I am getting an April tan. I become mildly addicted to canned pork and beans on toast for breakfast, as close to a vegetable as I can find. The English still seem mystified about how to cook vegetables; Ottolenghi is trying.

 It’s a big change from walking alone on a pilgrim path. 

20230413_120840Stories abound of resourceful Cornishmen who, not looking forward to a nasty, brutish and short life toiling in a tin mine, took matters into their own hands and became experts at salvaging whatever drifted ashore from wrecked ships. While lighthouses did exist to guide ships away from rocks and harm, enterprising Cornishmen were known to create illicit lighthouses, carefully designed to lure ships onto the rocks. The Cornish version of Robin Hood. 

Wicked and ever-changing weather is a Cornish trademark. We awoke one morning to predictions for heavy rains and winds of 60 mph gusting to 80 mph. (Yes that’s miles not km, do the math). And most of the group went out walking anyway; though they pointed out, they would not walk close to cliff’s edge for safety reasons. Rest assured, I was not one of them. I stayed home. ‘Mad dogs and Englishmen (and women)’…

20230414_123152I learned new definitions for a couple of common words that impressed upon me the English capacity for understatement.

 ‘Undulating’ in Cornish English means steep up or steep down. As in rollercoaster ups and downs. ‘Technical’ means the path is closed to mortals because boulders as big as bungalows block it constantly. If one does manage to climb the boulder, it inevitably drops down to a ‘puddle’ about the size of English Bay. And, about 5 miles is closer to 7, a fact confirmed by one of our group with a Garmin sophisticated enough to launch rockets for Elon Musk. 

It’s the unique nature of walking on foreign soil, with strangers who share this mild obsession. It’s also stopping for tea and crumpets at a little hut that magically appears along the way. It’s walking past the small building where Marconi and his colleagues gathered to receive the first telegraph message from Signal Hill – not the US – as I pointed out to my group. It’s walking close by the home of John leCarre, seeing the lighthouse that Virginia Woolf used as her model in To The Lighthouse.20230405_113415

It’s why we walk. It’s why we walk in strange faraway places. 


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Library Adventures

Lately, I have been musing about the nature of adventure; it’s my way of surviving a dull, gray, listless and seemingly endless winter. If I can’t have an adventure right now, or something similar to one, I can at least read about others who have. shopping

“she has written so well, and marvelously well, that I was completely ashamed of myself as a writer. I felt that I was simply a carpenter with words, picking up whatever was furnished on the job and nailing them together and sometimes making an okay pig pen. But [she] can write rings around all of us who consider ourselves as writers … it really is a bloody wonderful book.”

– Ernest Hemingway.

Hemingway was never known for his humility. The woman to whom Hemingway bowed was Beryl Markham; to describe her as an iconic adventurer is to describe a rose as just another flower. Beryl Markham was many things, all of which she mastered. Writing was but one; her book West with the Night is a masterpiece. A box of fine chocolates, I forced myself to take one bit chapter, one bite, at a time; to bite into it slowly, to move it around my brain carefully so I could fully absorb each sensation, to hold it there as long as possible to extend my enjoyment, then to sit back and marvel at the experience. It is a book to be slowly savoured, not to be devoured.

This post is really a reflection on my growing affection and admiration for Libraries. The word library may not stir a rush of adrenaline to your heart, setting the synapses of your brain on high alert so that the colours are brighter, the sounds clearer, the tastes and smells more pronounced. It should. Libraries are a portal to an infinite supply of adventure. 

636603555126070000I grew up in a small town in southern Alberta, Taber, known for agriculture – sugar beets and corn – not ideas. It was however a surprising melting pot of people from other places, farmers, second generation immigrants, my own Welsh coal mining grandfather, various forced relocatees – the chinese, japanese, czechs, hungarians; all bringing their baggage and their cultural uniqueness and, their religions to this small remarkably diverse town. 

downloadTaber had a library. It was housed upstairs from the local firehall, close to downtown; although everything in Taber was close to downtown. I like to think looking back that its location was portentous, while the firetrucks below were there to put out fires, the library above was there to start them, to offer books to inflame the minds of readers. There’s a new one now, thankfully bigger, more accessible, more animated, more welcoming.

images-2It worked for me. One of my favorite memories of Taber involves the library. After supper, I would pick up my friend, Rod Adachi; we’d cross the tracks to downtown and head for the library. We’d both wander through the stacks (about 3000 books by then) and choose our full allotment – I think four was the limit. We’d wander home and repeat the process every week. Each week, I had four remarkable adventures, the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew series stand out. It was inflammatory; I may have left Taber long ago but I never lost my love of books as a gateway to adventure, vicarious adventure but adventure nevertheless. 

I did stop going to libraries for many years though, only recently have I rediscovered their magic and their power to inflame my mind. Libraries are, again, tinderboxes lighting my imagination.

20230223_124505I found Beryl Markham at the Joe Fortes branch of the Vancouver Public Library, next to the West End Community Center – a ten minute walk from my home. You can often find me there, my gateway to adventure, along with adventure seekers of all ages, looking for another book by Beryl Markham.

They are magical places. And they’ve expanded, books in abundance, of course, but now in a variety of formats, e-books for your e-reader, audiobooks, big type books – all for the taking, all for free. All it takes is my library card and whatever I choose is mine for the taking – as long as I dutifully return them in three weeks. I can also access movies and music in as many formats as I can imagine – an improved technological dexterity is the only restriction.

My recent adventure in higher education has only enhanced my view of Libraries as gateways – anything ever printed is now digitized and available; books, journals, magazines, news stories, the list is endless. Feeling intimidated? I’ve discovered the solution. They’re called librarians – magical people, worthy of a Hogwarts’ gown and a conical hat. Ask them anything, and they love to be asked; the tougher the request, the puzzle, the more alive they come. One, Baharak, helped me find digital, obscure dust-covered journal articles on an equally obscure 15th century Florentine nun, Sister Plautilla Nelli, the only woman to paint her version of the Last Supper. Now that’s following Alice down a rare rabbit hole to a new world!akg5749488-2-1

images-1Let’s go back to Beryl Markham. West with the Night inflames the imagination. I had the great joy of taking my children, Blair and Kristen and Kristen’s husband Chris, to Africa. We spent some time in places where Markham grew up, a century earlier. Her stories reignite the tingly excitement, the awe, the jaw-drop of wonder that we experienced. 

download-1We had seen warthogs from the safety of our land rover. They are not domestic pigs, as geckos are not crocodiles; they are much to be feared. Markham describes the warthog brilliantly: “His eyes are small and lightless and capable of but one expression – suspicion. What he does not understand, he suspects, and what he suspects, he fights.”

That’s just a teaser, her writing is infused with insight, her adventures crackle with risk and energy, each incident enough to anchor a full book. BTJY08_0

Beryl Markham was a serial risk-taker, an adventure junkie; as a child – an African hunter, as a teen, a serious, successful thoroughbred race-horse trainer, as a mature woman, an extraordinary aviator, in later life a celebrated author. 

Markham certainly lived by her words: “It is no good telling yourself that one day you will wish you had never made that change; it is no good anticipating regrets. Every tomorrow ought not to resemble every yesterday.”

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Revising my Adventures

Young-Charles-Darwin-statue-by-Anthony-Smith-(Christ's-College-Cambridge)-3On December 27, 1831, the HMS Beagle set sail from Plymouth England on a two year voyage to survey the coast of South America. On board was a young Cambridge academic – Charles Darwin. He was just 22. Few adventures could be ranked as so profoundly altering our view of the world as that of Darwin’s on the Beagle. 

The voyage of discovery lasted not two but five years. Darwin kept a diary, Voyage of the Beagle, published in 1839, one part serious scientific observations, one part travel journal and one part incredulous discoveries on an encyclopedia of subjects. The diaries are filled with wonder and joy; Darwin’s curiosity on overdrive, the bombardment of his senses leaving him bug-eyed, confronting sacred beliefs, upending dogma, destroying conventional wisdoms. 

In the concluding paragraph of his diary, he summed up his thoughts on the voyage:

“But I have too deeply enjoyed the voyage, not to recommend any naturalist, although he must not expect to be so fortunate in his companions as I have been, to take all chances, and to start, on travels by land if possible, it otherwise, on a long voyage. He may feel assured, he will meet with no difficulties or dangers, excepting in rare cases, nearly so bad as he beforehand anticipates. In a moral point of view, the effect ought to be, to teach him good-humored patience, freedom from selfishness, the habit of acting for himself, and of making the best of every occurrence. In short, he ought to partake of the qualities of most sailors. Traveling ought also to teach him distrust: but at the same time he will discover how many truly kind-hearted people there are, with whom he never before had, or ever again will have any further communication, who yet are ready to offer him the most disinterested assistance.” 

 It’s a masterpiece of English understatement and self deprecation.  Ah, the Brits…

I’ve been reading these sorts of adventure books lately, it’s been a dull, dreary, lethargic winter.

WindSandAndStarsAntoine de Saint-Exupery, famous for The Little Prince, his whimsical philosophical book disguised as a children’s storybook, wrote one of the most literate, poetic autobiographies in Wind, Sand and Stars. He was a pilot for the French Postal Service, Aeropostale, in the early days of aviation when, as he describes it, engines would fall out of planes – in flight. He survived most challenges, even a forced landing in the Sahara Desert, but was lost on a Free French Air Force reconnaissance flight in 1944.

81F5x-F9XgL._AC_UL232_SR232,232_The Endurance by Caroline Alexander recounts the incredible experience of Ernest Shackleton and  the crew of the Endurance on their expedition to Antarctica in 1914. Arriving in Antarctica, the ship became stuck in ice and eventually crushed; the crew abandoned the Endurance and engaged in an unparalleled struggle to survive and return to safety. The last of the 29 member crew were rescued in August 1916 – two years after the start of their ‘adventure’; a saved treasure trove of original unwieldy glass plate photos grimly testifies to their ordeal.  

indexAdventures such as these are not reserved for men alone. Isak Dinesen, Out Of Africa,  based on her memoir of 20 odd years in Africa, is an icon. A little less well known is Beryl Markham, a 1920’s pilot and African adventurer, who wrote an evocative, literate and profoundly insightful chronicle of her life, West with the Night. 

Why the orgy of adventure reading? The truth is, I’m slowing down. As I sit in my easy chair, contemplating the imminent launch of my 75th year around the sun, No more backpacking in the wilderness. No Nahanni canoe trips, no Kilimanjaro summits, no months-long solo walks on the backroads of rural Japan, no pilgrimages to Rome. I need a new concept of what adventure means. I’m searching for some guidance through  Darwin’s epic adventure, Saint-Exupery’s flights of prose/poetry, Shackleton’s resilience, determination and persistence, Dinesen’s gender shattering courage and Markham’s casual bravado. I’m lost and I need to find the north star to find my way.

I know change is inevitable. I can embrace, accept or bitterly reject these changes. Time is agnostic, it doesn’t care how I feel; time is coming for me – relentlessly and resolutely. 

I reminisce; what were some favourite moments of past adventures? I try memories on like old clothing – what fits, what’s useful, what’s out of fashion, worn out, past it’s best before date, not required on the voyage ahead? I’m mindful of my practical duty; a keener eye to personal safety, a recognition of physical limitations, a growing willingness for company, and a greater desire for a few comforts along the way.

240_F_165550001_u8ltD53BEEQN7y14ydyX9OzEYhWtKns5Two memories popped into my head as I stared out my window. I went on a Scottish Highland walk with Kristen a few years back. not surprisingly, we had a particularly Scottish highland day; rain, drizzle, mist and mud had soured my demeanour and curdled my enjoyment. I was not happy.

We happened upon an elementary school class on an outing; boys and girls in their colourful raincoats, their wellies, their cute little rain hats – a bubbling jumble of noise and energy and pure joy – the rain was making things more fun for them, not less. They jumped in puddles, lost a wellie to the sucking mud, slipped and fell down and wallowed in the sheer messiness of the experience. Teachers herded them but didn’t suppress their exuberance. It was pure joy! It was also infectious; they changed my attitude in an instant.

20180813_142810_HDROn my latest pilgrimage, Blair and I were climbing the Great Saint Bernard Pass, a hard slog over the Alps and into Italy that I was not enjoying. A vague hope hovered in the air, Blair had promised a surprise when we reached the summit. Nearing the pass, I collapsed, a rest before the final 100 metres of push. We sat on a rock, the sun broke and Blair pulled two freeze-dried, astronaut-certified ice cream bars out of the bottom of his bag to celebrate our success. he’d thought of this weeks ago, bought them knowing they might be needed and offered them up to celebrate our achievement. My bad attitude disappeared, my joy emerged like the sun, I came to life.

OTC&OTD_back cover artIt occurred to me that I have been looking through the wrong end of life’s telescope. Life wasn’t shrinking, it was, if I let it, expanding. Walking slower meant more time for observation and reflection. Walking in the company of others allowed sharing, an intimacy that seems more valuable these days. Jumping in puddles can be a metaphorical talisman, if I allow it to fly free from the sad wet blanket I’ve thrown over it.

Adventures await. much of the joy is their unpredictability.

I’m not cut out to Vladimir or Estragon waiting for Godot. I’d prefer to be a joyful puddle jumper and astronaut ice-cream eater. I’m pretty sure there’s no age restriction on either.

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2013-10-07 00.56.05I have been home for a while and reflecting on my recent trip, the end of a ten year/5000 km series of four pilgrimages. I’m asked, and I ask myself, what did I get out of it? It’s not like I have, for a decade, carried an expectation of some grand epiphany or some other-worldly instant conversion like Saul/Paul on the road to Damascus. Yet something should have happened after all those miles, all those days alone, all that time away from the worldly distractions; something worth mentioning. Something kept me at it. The good news is that there has been transformation – not fireworks in the sky – but slow, gradual, meaningful and hopefully permanent transformation of the way I live my life.

IMG_1224All four of my walks have been firmly grounded in religious traditions and histories, Catholicism and Buddhism. I struggled with both but find myself now more firmly agnostic than a decade ago.

I simply wasn’t able to grasp one of the fundamentals of Buddhism – meditation; I was too restless for Buddhist philosophy. I failed the test of ‘can he sit still?’.

IMG_2201As for Catholicism, my personal experiences with organized Christian traditions and my jaded view of the impact of Christianity on people throughout history has made rethinking my beliefs a truly uphill battle, Sysiphus would have had an easier task.

There was, then, no profound religious epiphany. I do admit to a bit of a crack in my armour; a regular part of my walking routine involved stopping at churches along the way, lighting a candle and saying a small prayer of sorts for past friends/family.

IMG_3773There is a long tradition of serious philosophers rhapsodizing about the impact walking has had on their thoughts about the central question of philosophic inquiry. How do we live the good life? Walking seems conducive to thinking big thoughts. Philosophers since the Ancient Greeks have given considerable time and thought on how to live the good life by thinking while walking; the process seems to have failed me, I don’t feel much wiser about how to live the good life. As one Saturday Night Live actor said, “Deep down, I’m quite shallow.” – maybe that fits, or I can’t think deeply and walk at the same time.

Yet I haven’t felt that I have missed out on anything; I don’t regret my time spent, I don’t look back and feel it was time wasted. I have got value out of these pilgrimages.

I think I’ve actually pilgrimaged all there is to get from these pilgrimages. The beauty of nature, the kindness of strangers, the serenity of solitude, the comfort of being comfortable in my own skin, the beneficial impact on my health and well-being, the Tender Mercies offered without hesitation to a pilgrim stranger, seeing others close up and personal; all these and more have come my way on the paths I’ve walked. I cherish them all as gifts of the pilgrim path.

Having said all that, I have been thinking these past few miles. I have been thinking about stoicism. I have been thinking about how walking these long pilgrim walks over the past decade have helped me progress towards becoming a better stoic.

What’s stoicism? Like most philosophies, it’s a pretty flexible concept, open to interpretation. At its core, it is a profound recognition that we as human beings are not in control of all the events of our lives, that we must accept the externally generated events that shape our lives and adjust our actions constantly to accommodate the impact of these events.

There are three titans of Stoicism, all Romans; Epictetus, Seneca and Marcus Aurelius. My favourite is Marcus Aurelius. Even as a Roman Emperor at the height of his power, he recognized that he was powerless over most of his life events; yet he was active, he was a force to be reckoned with. I may have even walked the same road, the Via Cassia, that he walked.

To me Stoicism is about finding a suitable balance between acceptance and agency.

Here’s my best example. Rain.


Rain is in our lives; as a prairie boy moved to Vancouver, I found rain to be a daily frustration. Why did it always seem to rain on the days I had plans to be outdoors?

On my pilgrim walks, rain happened; it was beyond my control. I walked whether it rained or not, mostly muttering the words of the graphic above. That is the before of stoicism.

Here’s the after. On my latest walk this spring, a storm system had moved in over central Italy, rain was forecast every day for a week. I don’t mind the rain much anymore. It is and I accept it. I do mind the muddy paths created by rain that make walking tougher, less efficient and infinitely less enjoyable. But, I’m mostly in the ‘yup’ category now. That is acceptance.

IMG_3857But there is also agency. I can do something about it.  I have a backpack cover to protect my possessions, they’re all I have. I have a cheap, lightweight raincoat that I can put on if it rains. My trusty walking fedora will keep the rain off my face and my glasses. I can do things to manage. That is agency.

Agency is also watching the forecast and adjusting my walking schedule. For five days in a row, the forecast – foreboding the night before – had shifted to cloudy in the morning with rain forecast in early afternoon. So, every morning I would rise, check the rain forecast and respond. For five days, I started early and walked quickly to reach my destination before the rain set in. I do have some control over my life, that’s agency.

Walking these pilgrimages has opened a window for me; I have a better way of dealing with life. I don’t have to be angry when rain comes and I have to adjust my plans.

That old axiom still holds; “If you want to hear the gods laugh, tell them your plans for the future.” Stoicism allows me to laugh with the gods, or at least smile ruefully. Stoicism relieves me of the frustration of fighting against forces I do not control and allows me to focus on those aspects of my life over which I may have some control.

The daily exposure to forces over which I have no control is the essence of pilgrim walking. Every morning when I rise, I have no idea what the day will bring. It is a slap in the face to all my compulsive planning instincts. I don’t know the trail; even with my maps, my fancy app, my guidebook descriptions, I am constantly surprised. My capacity to predict my day is tiny, so tiny as to be laughable.

I learn to stop trying. It is a daily lesson in the humility of Stoicism – daily; for weeks on end, daily. Epiphanies don’t happen overnight, for me at least they happen daily, the small constant reinforcement of the Stoic principle, the mix of acceptance and agency is like the drip, drip, drip of water on rock. Change does happen. It takes time but I learn.

I learn that not knowing has its advantages. It opens the door to wonder, to beautiful ah-ha moments – mists in a small valley, a deer surprised, irises by the roadside, olives groves of ancient mis-shaped trees, the scent of pine, or manure, or just plain freshness, the silence, or the sound of a distant tractor, the delightful relief of arrival at my lodging, the taste of my pasta reward for another day’s walk.

And flowers….IMG_6372

These are the images that are overwhelmingly memorable; they crowd out the fatigue, the forecast of rain, the rock in my shoe and the pain in my gluteus Maximus. I choose to remember the flowers and forget the fatigue.

It has taken some time, years and miles but it has been worth the toil. Now the challenge is to figure out what to do with the this knowledge, how to take my simple example of rain and apply it to the complex daily choices between acceptance and agency. There is no doubt of one certainty, whatever I choose as a future endeavour, it will involve walking.


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The last leg – five years, 2000 kms.

I have been doing long walks, pilgrimages mostly, for a decade now. I started the Via Francigena in June 2017. This final stage of my four stage walk is from Lucca to Rome in May 2022, the last 400 km of my 2000 km journey. 

Regardless how many times I have done this, there is a break-in phase I call rookie days. This one is no different. 

Traveling solo means working without a net. If you screw up, you screw up. Losing a credit card, leaving something behind when you stop, forgetting something when you leave a hostel/hotel. It’s yours. You own it. It’s scary but addictive. It’s part of what makes these adventures tingle with hyper-awareness. Check every decision at least twice. Tap the pockets to make sure you have wallet, passport, money, phone. Never not know where the phone is. 

There’s getting used to the pack. It changes your center of gravity. Stepping off a curb can be perilous. It’s heavy in the first week, solved partly by getting used to it and partly by throwing crap out.  

Even after months of training, walking long distances every day with a pack takes a week of building tolerance and muscles. Using walking poles requires a tune up but it can take a lot of weight off the legs and hips over the day.

This isn’t negative, in fact it’s part of what I enjoy. I am alive. Working without a net. Dancing on the edge. Not really, but it’s scarier than trying to decide which netflix series to binge watch. 

20220415_181103Here’s a detail that illustrates. It’s the Easter long weekend. In Italy, it’s the big one. Everyone is on the move; places are closed. My much fantasized feast of fabulous Italian meals is delayed, it’s pizza joints staffed by kids who drew the short straw and had to work the Easter shift. Easter Monday was so bad that dinner consisted of a bag of chips and a coke zero from a sports bar. But, a bad Italian pizza gets more stars than most I’ve had in Vancouver.

Rookie days pass, I find my rhythm, what the sports folks describe as being in the zone. The new word is flow. I prefer synchronicity. Everything seems to come together. The pack fits now and everything unnecessary has been jettisoned. The poles are working. My third eye is working again, searching for route markers even when I’m not conscious of doing so and it finds them. I hydrate like crazy, eat well most days and think happy thoughts. Sleep is coming more easily. I’m slowing down, relaxing; irritations are not so abundant. I’m noticing the fragile elusive beauty of nature, sights, sounds, feel. I see the promise that morning offers – a day of surprises. Guaranteed. 20220430_104719

Tuscany has been described by too many who are better at words than me. I won’t try.  It is perfect for the pace of walking. A deer in the woods, a few cats patrolling their territory. A small hotelier, having been through covid hell, wraps my towels in a ribbon, leaves a bottle of water by the bed. I’m back to appreciating the small kindnesses, the Tender Mercies, we receive every day.

Walking anywhere. Priceless.

Walking in Tuscany. There is no measure of its value.

The walks are amongst the most beautiful I’ve ever experienced. Undulating hills and valleys in full spring finery, so many shades and hues of green emerging from winter. Topping every hill brings a new vista, a feast for my eyes. 

20220423_101828_HDRI’ve managed to hit spring flowering season. My favorites – Irises – show off in more delightful variations of purple, white, yellow and blue than I have witnessed, perfect contrast to the green-spring palette. Grape vines are starting to sprout buds, the eternal promise of a bountiful harvest of grapes in the autumn.  Olive trees abound, gnarly survivors showing their tenacity and age by their mis-shapened trunks. Winter wheat is more abundant than I expected. 

It is a busy season for agriculture, I am reminded again that my epic journey is walking through someone’s farm where school buses pass me, farmers return my wave, and the local retirees take their coffee at the same place I take mine on my rest stops. It helps pop my grandiosity balloon. It slows me down. 

20220502_071317As I follow the VF path, my stops usually take me to places of significance. Many such as Lucca, San Gimignano, Monteriggioni, Siena, and San Quirico d’Orcia owe their existence to the VF as important stops along the route. The VF became a source of commercial and artistic cross fertilization – pilgrims and others carried more than their packs with them and shared more than their food over dinner meals. 

Much to my consternation, most of these places are hilltop fortresses, necessitating a climb to end the day. They are fortresses for a reason. The 13th, 14th and 15th centuries were troubled and violent times. 

Moderation, delayed gratification, understanding my limits and enjoying the present activity are not habits that come naturally to me, they are goals. These walks are part of reinforcing those goals and imprinting those behaviors. 

For a full week, I’m dodging rain. Every evening, the weather forecast has been gloomy; rain, lots of rain, for the next day. In the early morning I check again; there’s a glimmer of hope, rain won’t start till late morning. I dash out fast ahead of the rain. It’s not the rain I avoid, I can handle that; it’s the mud. Much of the VF is dirt paths, farmer’s roadways. When it rains, walking becomes a hard messy pigs-wallow slog. 

Every day for five days running, it’s a dawn dash out the door and a forced march to the next destination – always with an eye on the clouds. Please God or Zeus, hold off till I’m done my daily walk; in return, I make rash promises, bargaining with the gods of rain. Whatever. It works. Five days running, I beat the deluge. 

20220506_201432Unfortunately, the rest of the day is cold and rainy, I’m holed up in cold drafty hotel rooms, with no heat; I’m given an extra blanket for comfort if not survival. Yet even that brings an adventure. I arrive just before rain in Viterbo, call the hotel and Paulo (I never knew his real name) comes and gets me settled. I always ask for a restaurant recommendation, serendipitously, he owns a place a few blocks away. I clean up and wander over. Paulo is the chef, the Chef!!!; he greets me like an old friend. I leave everything up to him and have the best lunch and dinner of the journey. For an afternoon, I felt at home, amongst friends – precious comfort for a man on the road.



The VF follows the Via Cassia, a Roman road built in the 2nd century BCE. Parts of that road still exist. Imagine, I walked on a road built thousands of years ago, sharing a path with Roman legionnaires, pilgrims, foreign invaders and probably a few Popes and other celebrities. 

One should ponder the existential implications of this, and there’s nothing like a long walk to facilitate such musings. 

Fast/slow. Permanence/change. Forever/now.



This morning, May 13, 2022, I arrived. The thrill of seeing St. Peter’s Basilica, from a vantage point known as the “mountain of Joy” the first vantage point for pilgrims who saw the end of their journey in sight – that was a sweet spot forever moment. An hour later, I am in St. Peter’s Square.

Two days later, I walk back to the Basilica and pick up my testimonium. I am officially DONE!

I’m not sure what to feel so I tuck it away and go off to enjoy the sights, sounds, smells and tastes of Rome, my reward after so many years.

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Walking Pilgrim Paths, a four stage Odyssey.

I took poetry and writing for my last course at SFU. I am not a poet, but I did over the course of the course learn much about writing in new forms, new ways to communicate, ways that were more open to interpretation, more visceral, more nuanced and, more engaging for the reader. This is the final paper.

First Stage. The Camino de Santiago, 800 kilometres.

St. Jean Pied du Port, France September 16, 2013

The Camino de Santiago, the Way, is a famous Christian pilgrimage. Folklore says the headless body of Saint James was miraculously found by a shepherd, guided by a star, in the 9th century, somehow mysteriously transported there from the Holy Land centuries before. Sound familiar? Santiago Cathedral, the venerated mausoleum of Saint James’ body, became a pilgrim destination. These days, Popes walk back the dubious myth of Saint James’ miraculous discovery, the story defies logic, geography and history. Pilgrims still come; 250,000 a year.

Departure – September 17, 2013

The jumping off point is Saint Jean Pied du Port, on the French edge of the Pyrenees. A night of no sleep – nervous, manic energy, anxiety, fear of failure, pack/repack, fidget and fret. 

The first day is a test of determination, training, desire and grit – a hard 25 kilometre slog over the Roncevalles Pass into Spain. Rain, fog, wind, mud; a slap in the face, no extra charge. 

Near the pass, a brass plaque signifies the battle, mythologized in the Song of Roland, where the Christian knight and his crusaders were caught and slaughtered by the Moors as they retreated into France in the 8th century. 

Raincoats show their flaws, boots are sodden, packs become heavy, uphill is foreboding and constant, wind and rain are cyclonic. Reaching the hostel, persevering, becomes a quest; a shower, dry clothes, a hot meal and a warm bed await at the first Albergue, We’ve survived.

Along the Way – Finding the Rhythm

Walking consumes me, takes all my oxygen; I am obsessed, there is nothing else. It’s what I do, it’s the only thing I do. 

Walking is, 

weather is, 

the Way is. 

No trail finding skills necessary, no maps required, follow the signs. 

Stay on the Way, 

thirty days they say, 

walk every day. 

Routines emerge and harden; wake early, pack up gear, gulp a hot, bitter coffee, grab a pastry and set out; sunrise is best. When the sun is high, stop for second breakfast, another coffee and another pastry. Walk to day’s end, the chosen Albergue. Check in, unpack, shower, wash today’s clothes, put on tomorrow’s, rehydrate, nap, stretch. Commune with pilgrims; where are you from, why are you here, how are you feeling? Dinner is at 7, everyone is asleep early. Do the same for as many days as it takes to arrive at the Cathedral, to pay homage to the bones of Saint James that aren’t the bones of Saint James.

Fill the Void

Life on the Way is a void, no distractions; the outside world has ceased to exist. I walk alone. 

The silence, the emptiness, the lack of distractions create a void unlike anything experienced; the void demands to be filled. It is. Wild fennel grows along our path; I rub its seeds in my hands, rewarded with the pungency of dill and anise, indelible, now forever the smell of the Way. Sunflowers offer a canvas to passing pilgrim artists to create happy faces to tickle my whimsy. 

Early mornings are exhibitionists; the air is cool and fresh, the sky still filled with stars, sometimes a waning moon shines so brightly that my headlamp is superfluous. Mists swirl and curl, delineating contours of the land with their ever-shifting shrouds. The sun consumes them, they evaporate, light fills the gaps, a nuanced colour palate emerges offering impressionist paintings, the real reward for early-birds. 

Yellow arrows become luminous neon signs. Each day’s first familiar arrow on a wall, a curb, a pole is my reassuring security blanket; I’m on the Way!. 

Crowing roosters, cowbells, church bells off in the distance add melodies to my morning reverie. We walk from church to church, rest stops full of aged piety, sanctuaries of quiet contemplation, a vesper service in the evening, a cool oasis from the energy-drained afternoon slog. 

 Fellow Pilgrims 

We are pilgrims for a reason, each searching for something different; some not admitting, most not knowing, what we seek, what we need, what we want, what to hope for. Something other than the bones of Saint James calls to us. 

People insinuate themselves into my solitude. A troupe from PEI skips along like a traveling minstrel show, team t-shirts, a different color every day. 

Three women, Birthe from Denmark, Jennifer from California and Sally from Victoria, bond like sisters in a day. Sally celebrates her 65th, I’m invited to join. 

Jeanette, a petite grandmotherly woman in her 70’s, looks more at home in her kitchen. She lost her husband; rather than sink into mourning, she decides the Way is the way out. Her electric bike, her Rocinante, takes her to Santiago. Over a pilgrim dinner; she tells of sadness slowly being replaced by hope and joy. We meet again in Santiago; we hug, I shed a tear, lifted up by all that she is and all that she will be. Buon Camino.

Arrival – October 15, 2013

Arrival is sweet/bitter. The sweet is joyful, euphoric – deeply satisfying. Gratification, much delayed, is at hand. Attendance at the daily pilgrim mass in the Cathedral bookends the Way: closure, my exclamation point. Priests swing a monstrous cauldron of burning incense down the length of the cathedral and back; rumour has it the incense tradition was started to cover the malodor of pilgrims.  

The comes the bitter. It’s over; the void opens, I look into the abyss. 

Peggy Lee emerges, stage left, singing “Is That All There Is?”. 

No grand epiphanies, no insights into my soul, no nostrums on to how to lead ‘the good life’. The true gifts are the kindness of strangers, quiet, finding comfort in aloneness, a reconnection to the simplicity of nature, reawakened awareness of tiny pleasures, the physicality of walking, gratitude for gifts unexpected.

Second Stage – the Camino Portugues – 600 Kilometres

Lisbon, March 1, 2015

The Camino Portugues is a 600 kilometre pilgrimage from Lisbon to Santiago; it is sparsely traveled, fewer than 1000 pilgrims a year, lacks convenient amenities like hotels, hostels, restaurants, compensated by good signage, hospitable people and bread, extraordinary bread.

Slow down, again.

Spring in Portugal is idyllic, sunny and cool, farmers are in the fields, trees are blossoming, flowers are blooming, birds are singing.  The pungency of fresh pig manure offset by the earthiness of freshly plowed soil ignite memories of a small-town in Alberta, long ago and far, far away. The scent of the baker’s fresh bread at the edge of the village; I sniff it out like a hunting dog. Again attuned to the delicate sensual possibilities of my surroundings. Dawn brings the morning dew, that dew captured on a spider web in morning’s soft golden light reveals its intricate architecture. My crowing roosters, my cow bells mingling with my church bells. 

There is no clock but the sun, I lunch when the locals stop; their food, at their pace, leisurely, with appreciation. A park bench for siesta as the shadows grow in the afternoon.

Alone not Lonely.

Walking offers solitude; the emptiness opens room for awareness of the delicate, the whimsical, the ethereal. Without distractions, with abundant time to meander, my mind wanders further afield, seeks out distant recesses, rediscovers oft-forgotten memories. The interior space offers its own amusements, contemplations, dreams. The Knights Templar, a Catholic order of the 12th and 13th centuries, the Church’s warrior monks had their own castle in Tomar. Envious Kings and Popes disbanded the order, took their money, hunted them as fugitives. I create stories of those Knights Templar; heroes of my dreams, I join them for an adventure. 

In the Company of Strangers

Evenings are amenable to the company of strangers, evening meals break the fast of aloneness. We walkers, it seems, are more honest, more revealing, more vulnerable, more open to dialogue. We gather for the pilgrim meal; a young man arrives in a flurry, late. A cyclist with wild Rastafarian hair, a bit ragged around the edges, a vast array of tattoos; my privileged white man bias tags him as an English Football hooligan. I name him Hooligan Harry.

“Oh great,” I think, “another night at the Bates Hotel”. 

Our ragtag pilgrim group morphs into a fraternity of fellow travellers. Past travels, recent adventures, the philosophy of life, religion, football, human discourse at its best. Hooligan Harry is transformed into Renaissance Harold, a modest, thoughtful carpenter on a two year drop-out bike trek. Note to self, be aware of the fallibility of quick judgements. 

Ruts as old as time.

The pilgrim path follows the Via Roma XIX, created by the Romans in the first Century AD; a path so eroded by the passage of feet and time, now several feet below the surface of the forest. Bridges built centuries ago, repaired, provide pilgrim’s crossing connecting an age-old road: my trek again shared with the Centurions.

Tender Mercies 

In silence, uncluttered by noise and sensory overload, I become aware of nuances, subtleties and pleasures of human interaction, the kindness of strangers. I call them Tender Mercies. Drowned out in normal life, Tender Mercies are the oft-passed over, gossamer soft, fleeting, under-observed kindnesses of strangers brought to life. I catch them in the net of my empty mind. I play with them, shine them up, build stories around them, place them on my mind’s mantel, save them for special moments of remembrance. Later, as I roll them over in my brain, they bring smiles, driving away the lows, the sadness and the darkness. 

In Golega, the O Te restaurant/hotel, I’m refreshed by a second floor room, a suckling pig dinner, a morning espresso and insightful philosophical musings from an elderly French Moroccan who somehow ended up as a hotelier in rural Portugal. 

Miguel and Jennifer introduce me to Porto, their beloved city, an excursion ending with a match at FC Porto – futball, the other religion of Portugal. 

At Meson Pulpo, near San Amaro, I stop for my late morning coffee. Filled with warmth, I decided to rest, absorb the serenity, eat. I order a bacon bocadillo – such lovely words, bacon bocadillo – I taste the words, even before it arrives. I savor my bacon bocadillo, the aroma of the soft chewy bun, the crunchy, hot, greasy, salty, bacon. 

This restaurant is their home. I was their guest, radiant in their kindness, warmth, generosity, calm. Reluctant to go, reluctant to see me leave. That moment, my only human contact of the day; these are Tender Mercies.

There are sweet spots, fireflies of bliss, frozen in a minute. Ponte de Vila; a town of sublime beauty, shows deep respect for its history mixed with surprising modernity. Portuguese bread. Fresh fish, every piece cooked to perfection. Portuguese tiles turn buildings into art. The Portuguese tortilla, elevating potatoes to their rightful place as national cuisine. Bacon Bocadillo!  Sweet spots, brief magical moments over which pixie dust is sprinkled. They don’t arrive easily; they last forever, their fleeting evanescence filling my mind’s void.

Third Stage – 88 Temples  – 1400 Kilometres

Takushima, Shikoku, Japan April 1, 2016

The 88 Temples pilgrimage honors Kobo Daishi, a 10th century Japanese monk, instrumental in bringing Buddhism to Japan. 150,000 pilgrims annually replicate his travels. Daunting. A walk through time. A meditative search for Buddha. A stroll through rural Japan. Daunting, indeed. 

Becoming a Japanese Pilgrim.  

A Henro, a pilgrim, dresses to celebrate the ritual of pilgrimage. Requirements:

– a light white cotton vest/jacket representing purity and innocence. 

– a sugegasa, a sedge hat, a portable, hands-free umbrella, protection from rain and sun, surprisingly comfortable. 

  • the kangozue, a long wooden walking stick topped with woven silk and a bell. Kobo Daishi’s spirit walks with us in our staff. It must be cared for, cleaned after every walk,
  • – a Zudabukuro, a shoulder bag to carry candles, name slips, coins, incense sticks, and my precious stamp book, to honour temple rituals. 

– an ample supply of curiosity, humility and gratitude.

I have no north star, no compass, no past experience, as close to explorer as today’s connected world allows.

Temple Serenity. 

Each temple is unique, yet certain rituals are universal. Usually, after climbing stairway after stairway, the Henro reaches the gate. Henro pauses and bows, enters the temple grounds. To purify, Henro washes hands at a ceremonial basin, sips/spits a bit of well water to cleanse the mouth to enter the temple free of the dust of the journey. At the bell tower, Henro rings a massive brass gong – just once, more is bad luck. In the main hall, a name slip on which is written a short prayer for loved ones, is placed in a box. Three sticks of incense and a candle are lit and a donation placed in the offering box. 

Henro becomes me. I say my prayers. I pause. There is a colour, a purple, that is so regal I automatically bow to it, subjecting myself to its majesty. If I am fortunate, other pilgrims are chanting sutras, magical, lilting songlike. I listen, eyes-closed, transfixed, transformed and transported to another time, another place, another world. Still in the sutra’s aura, I sit quietly, solemnity seeping into my bones, a singular peacefulness, a warm blanket of serenity. 

I rouse myself, meander over to the Buddhist monk on duty, receive my temple stamp certified by a magnificent elaborate calligraphic flourish. We smile, acknowledge each other, a gift as valuable as the stamp. Exiting the temple, I bow to say goodbye.

The privilege of Pilgrims. 

On a cloudy morning with rain a definite likelihood, I walk through a small village, approaching a tiny elderly woman pushing her rolling portable chair. Stooped over, her back carries a lifetime of toil, of hand-planting a million rice shoots one-by-one. She looks at me, I pause and bow. She glances at the sky, I look up too. She looks back at me. I look back, respectfully. She holds up her umbrella and gestures for me to take it. Smiling, I shake my head no. We engage in a non-verbal test of wills. Will I take her umbrella? How can I take her umbrella? How can I say no graciously? She insists! I can’t take her umbrella. Finally, to break the impasse, I walk over to her, bow many, many times and give her a Canada pin. I refuse the umbrella, politely but firmly. We reconcile, we bow. I wander off, marveling at her aggressive generosity. 

It doesn’t rain.

A bus driver adopts me, foreign Henro, abandons his passengers, jumps out of his bus and shows me where I need to go, patiently waiting till he’s assured I’m on the right path. His passengers don’t seem to mind.

A man sees me walking past his home, rushes out, chases me down the street, catches me, bows, presents a small glazed clay pilgrim statue to carry on my pilgrimage.

The Japanese might have invented Tender Mercies.

For the love of blossoms

Blossoms burst into view, deep lipstick pinks, soft pastel white-pinks, every hue in between; across the field, a single cherry tree blazes pink amidst a forest painted the special greens of newly unfolding leaves, too many shades of pink and green to calibrate, each an affirmation of vitality and promise. Irises everywhere, splashes, slashes of brilliant purple accentuate the greens and pinks. At temples, umbrellas protect flowers from the rain so they may blossom fully. In the forests, bamboo, gently wave in the wind, next to pine trees that barely waver. 

Japanese Koi nobori – elongated, hollow, multi-coloured kites on high poles wave in the breeze – part streamers, part kite, part flag, funny carp-looking streamers swimming in the blue wind –  spring’s hopes in a kite. 

Japanese farmers, artisans of the earth, meticulously manicure their plots: they work the soil, rice planted here, winter wheat ripening there, bags of onions harvested alongside Japanese radishes, a few frogs, two snakes.

Small plots where mechanical planters immerse tender shoots in water without maiming them; infinitely superior to one-at-a-time hand planting. Derelict houses witness the exodus of young people to the city, neglect amidst the farmers’ verdant crops.

Mountain paths, misty and mystically enhanced by aged Buddhist and Shinto monuments, stand silent, commemorating centuries of walkers. Paths are littered with monuments and statues, many adorned with brightly coloured knit caps, bibs and capes; offered up to the gods to keep them warm and save them from chills. Graveyards with ancient headstones – Shinto shrines – placed long before and long after Kobo Daishi and his Buddhism encroached, speak for another, more animist, religion, silently resisting the Buddhist invader.

Home not home.

Traditional Japanese hotels, ryokans, offer a simple room covered with Tatami mats, futons on the floor for sleeping and a toilet/sink. It is easy to go to bed, just flop down and pull the covers over you. Getting up is tougher. Done in stages, stiff muscles roll over onto all-fours, kneeling, lifting, finally upright, noisy and ungainly. Thankfully there are no witnesses.

Toilets designed by a techno-madman; a terrifying array of buttons offering options to do things to my bottom that are unimaginable. I touch none, barely trusting the normal flush lever. 

Several pairs of slippers are provided, guests remove street shoes at the door and put on floor slippers, then remove floor slippers to put on room slippers; there’s usually a special pair of bathroom only slippers. No exceptions. Do not mix them up. 

Onsen, Japanese communal baths, require special tourist courage. Segregated but public, very public. I wash, thoroughly, publicly, noisily, nakedly with the rest of the male bathers, then I bathe with them – again naked. Like the water, it is all too hot. I retreat to my room, red-faced but cleansed. This home doesn’t feel homey.

Food for the Epicurious

Meals are for the epicurious. Rice, salad, soup, fish bits, pickled vegetables – breakfast at the traditional Japanese hotels. Foraging for lunch is more familiar. Convenience stores, astonishingly, offer fresh full nutritious meals for the pilgrim walker. Lawson is my favourite, offering food, an ATM and wifi – sustenance, cash and contact with home, convenience redefined. Restaurants offer pictures and odd little plastic replicas of the dinner menu items. Sushi is my mainstay; the sushi-chef in his special jacket, shirt and tie is king. I give him respectful license to feed me, he’s never wrong. 

Visual presentation and display are carefully considered. I am advised to pause a few minutes to observe and take pleasure in the beauty of my food – art enhances the dining experience.


The Buddhist monk stamps my book, my 88th stamp, signs it with his elaborate calligraphy. I’m done. I give my staff to the caretaker, they are ceremoniously burned as a sacrifice. A new pilgrim in my hotel takes my sedge hat, the rest of my uniform and my stamp book are mine. I board the bus to Koya-san, a temple rich village in the mountains above Kyoto to pay respect to Kobo Daishi. He is here, in eternal meditation. Eternal meditation sounds so much more dignified than death.

Down and done

It’s not all fun and games. I’m drained. I spend my last few days in Kyoto, drinking coffee at Starbucks, reading the International New York Times, eating egg salad sandwiches, listening to a Japanese curated playlist of best American hits of the 50’s and 60’s, trying to cover myself in a warm blanket of the familiar till Air Canada takes me home. 

Fourth Stage – The Via Francigena – 2000 Kilometres

1 – Canterbury, England – Reims France July 16, 2017

2 – Reims, France – Ivrea, Italy July 16, 2018

3- Ivrea, Italy – Lucca, Italy, September 2, 2021

4- Lucca, Italy – Rome, Italy, April 16, 2022

In 990 AD, the Archbishop of Canterbury, Sigeric, walked to Rome to be confirmed by the Pope as a Cardinal, his return trip chronicled, 79 stops preserved on a single sheet now preserved in the British Museum. His journey inspired the Via Francigena. With only 2500 pilgrims annually, it’s a lonely walk. Yet, through the years, through invasions, wars, the plague, predation from two and four-legged animals, scorching summer sun, freezing Alpine passes, pilgrims have endured, walking to Rome to seek enlightenment, forgiveness of past sins, healing. 

Motivations as varied as the human condition.

The comfort of the familiar

After Japan, walking the VF is like putting on a pair of old slippers. My pack is light, I have my guidebook, my passport and my credit card. My old routine still works, a study in positive addiction. I rise, eat, drink and walk – stay on path, observe the scenery and its minute miracles. Hours of mindful vacancy are my familiar rewards. It feels good. Another day done, I dump my pack, wash my clothes, eat simple French rural food at its best. I sleep well. 

I am where I want to be, walking my path, reacquainting myself with tiny miracles of a flower, a sunrise, mist, cool water, a simple buttered baguette, a wave to the locals as I pass through near abandoned villages,

Walking through History. 

Kristen is with me for a while. In northern France, remnants of the great war share their horrors. A small cemetery, populated with random crosses – French, Belgian, English, German, an occasional Canadian define the losses at a field hospital. Hospitals at the front took anyone brought to them; death took its share, they were buried together without discrimination. Here no one was friend or enemy, no one won – war’s cruel egalitarianism.

Bapaume has a Sunday circus. Serendipitous surprise, we arrive in time for the parade! We drop our packs, find French profiteroles, carny pastry at its best and pull up a piece of curb to watch – unexpected, enthralling entertainment. We saw camels! 

Villages, hollowed out by farm consolidation, efficiency and the inevitable migration to cities, leave only the elderly and the stubborn; a rich tapestry of rural French life gone – old people, old ways, churches decimated of congregations, priests and abandoned beliefs. The ultimate indignity, a bread dispensing machine – even the fresh baguette has been forsaken. 

Much is left to appreciate; rolling hills, the wheat fields golden, heavy and ready for harvest, a donkey shocking us with his ungodly bray, the sheer joy of walking, the blessing of companionship, the connection with weather, land and the ground beneath our feet. The simple joy of a ham and cheese baguette, a drenching summer rain showering our sense of humour, the celebratory glass of champagne for my daughter/companion, the pride of accomplishment in achieving something that can only be gained by one measure – footsteps.

Reims, the city of kings when kings mattered, is now more famous as the home of Champagne; more venerated than generations of kings buried at the Cathedral. 

Walking alone or together.

I travel alone, pilgrim journeys are solitary by choice. Alone does not mean lonely, one does not have to be an introvert to realize that some activities are best experienced on one’s own. It’s called being comfortable in one’s own skin. 

A proper companion adds to solo walks. My daughter Kristen and I walk well together; long silences, mutual chatter, a few deeper conversations, some code-talk decipherable only to us, years and years of old dead-cat bounce jokes.

On the next leg my friend John walks with me from Reims to Besancon. The perfect walking companion, quiet till he has something to say, amiable to a fault, pleasant dinner companion and roomie, adding bright and shiny observations, new dimensions, to the journey.  

A summer heat wave defines this walk. Hollowed out rural France limits our options, access to water becomes an overarching necessity, finding sanctuary in shade – straw hats, a tree, the cool church – weather rules at 30+ degrees. We hitch rides, hire taxis, start earlier, anything to reduce our walking time under the relentless sun and heat. The pavement softens.

Up and Over

The Great Saint Bernard Pass is the halfway point of the VF. A Roman gateway to Europe before the birth of Christ; Napoleon marched back to attack the Italian city states in 1800. At 2473 metres, it is formidable; travel by foot is only possible in July and August.

Blair joins me in Lausanne, five days up to the top of the pass. It’s not easy. I struggle, grateful for his presence, his support and his encouragement. It’s always a test of will over wish. 

Late afternoon, within sight of the summit, Blair surprises me. We find a flat rock, drop our packs, sit; he pulls two Astronaut-ready freeze-dried ice cream sandwiches from his pack, feeding my legendary love of ice cream. We sit on our rock, basking in the sun, and savour our treat. Priceless. 

Icing on the ice cream, a young woman appears, out for a walk with three Great Saint Bernard dogs, sent by the gods to guide us through the Great Saint Bernard Pass.

Pandemic interlude

If you want to hear the gods laugh, tell them your plans for the future. Life’s distractions necessitate a year’s delay; then covid closes all doors. We hunker down; a trip to buy groceries becomes unthinkable, Italy, impossible. Doubt creeps in, fear its companion. Anxiety and the desire for safety inflates risks, problems, what-ifs. Lethargy kills dreams. Months of whiling away hours, the only goal being to while away the hours. Has the joy of adventures lost its joy?

A window opens in autumn of 2021. Italy’s vaccination rates are high, infections are down, hospitalizations down, deaths down. Travel restrictions are loosened, BC immunization cards are recognized by Italian authorities. Walking in rural areas with minimal contact with others; no more hostels, my own hotel room, tough Italian no-nonsense rules. Needless risk is not smart, minimizing risk is. It’s worth the risk. 

I have unfinished business, it’s time to go.

Italy – fountain of renewed faith 

Ivrea to Lucca; down out of the Alps, across the Po valley, over the Apennines, into Tuscany – 450 kilometres in all. The Po Valley is famous for growing risotto, a signature dish for Italian cuisine. Rice growing requires flooding; water being what it is, flood irrigation requires flat land – relentlessly flat land. A complex grid system of canals, ditches and sliding gates has been created to ensure the channeling of river water across vast distances to irrigate the valley, a massive engineering project worthy of the plumbers who brought us aqueducts 2000 years ago. Flat is good for walkers.

Familiar ways of seeing

The Po Valley offers rural ambling at its best, especially early mornings. The misty coolness, the scent in the air, surprised little beasties – rabbits, feral cats, cranes and herons, a dead snake. The dew on slender stalks of grass, the amazing light as it plays across the sky and the land; dark turns to dawn, dawn turns to morning.  It is the magical part of the walking day. It’s also practical; the earlier the start, the sooner the finish – and out of 30+ heat. The now familiar rhythm of pilgrim walking is satisfying. Elemental, simple, rustic, like meeting an old friend. 

Covid anxiety drains away like excess water into the channel.

My Passport

In Tromello, I stop for my morning coffee. While I’m resting in the small central square of this village, a spare, elderly man rolled up on an equally aged bicycle. 

“Pelegrino?” He asked. 

I nodded.


I nodded again. 

He motioned that I should give it to him. 

I did. 

He rode off. 

Pelegrinos carry a pilgrim passport. We collect stamps from hotels and churches to verify our passage. It’s like getting stars in your school workbook. It’s oddly satisfying.

In a few minutes he returned, his church stamp proudly displayed in my passport forever. 

“Buon Camino.”  

Grazie mille. 

We finished the formalities, smiled to each other,

Off he rode. 

Such Tender Mercies…

Crossing the Po

Danillo has been running a ferry for pilgrims to cross the Po for 23 years. He is a legend; ferry boat captain, historian of the VF, certifier of passage and keeper of the Big Book. The night before our crossing, I stay at the hostel in Corte S. Andrea right beside the Po River. There is an Osteria close by; it’s Sunday, long Sunday family lunches are a tradition. I arrive unannounced, bedraggled; a table is set up, I’m fed like a prince. They give me the hostel key, I wander over, find a bed. Giovanni and his wife, voluntary caretakers both in their 80’s, pop over to welcome us. Kindness isn’t always large and dramatic, sometimes it’s daily and small.

Next morning we meet Danillo. Well into his elder years, he captains his boat across the Po, ferries pilgrims, offers a history lesson and permits us to sign his pilgrim ledger, the Big Book.

It leaves passengers giddy. 

Over the Apps.

The Appenines are the last serious elevation on my way to Rome. Wild animals set paths long ago that followed contours, not losing elevation unless necessary.  Smart people followed the animals, turning their trails into paths. VF planners ignore contours, plot a bizarre path with needless ups and downs. I follow contours, plot shortcuts, muttering vile threats. I hope I’m right. 

First day is 20 km with about 1000m of elevation. After an early morning train ride, I reach my B&B, check in with Manuella, drop the Beast and manage to make it to Cassio. I am grateful that, after much huffing and puffing, vehement curses on the heads of route planners and a brief storm, I arrive in time for my afternoon espressos. The local bus arrives, I make it home In time for a shower and dinner. Slick! Damn I’m good!

Day two is shorter, 10 km and 300 m of elevation. Saturday, only a few buses run. I hitched a ride to Cassio, did my walk to Bercetto and caught the ONLY bus back home – again in time for dinner. 

Hah! Easy peasy!

Third day, there are no buses on Sunday! Major tactical flaw, no plan B. 

Crap. What now!

Manuela, my saviour, manufactures a new plan and we move; she calmly feeds me breakfast, drives me to Bercetto, drops me off at my B&B, perfectly positioned for my final day. In doing do, she sacrifices hours of time, a busy B&B and kilometres of driving to move me forward. The final day, I quick-march to the summit, stroll 22 kilometres downhill to Pontremoli. 

Victory achieved. That wasn’t so bad, I think. Why was I so worried?

It was Manuella who made it not so bad. She rescued me, the saint of Tender Mercies, proof again that one doesn’t always walk alone, that ups and downs can be navigated by following the contours.

Wading through Italian history.

A walk to Lucca is a walking history lesson. The landscape, rolling hills and valleys, rugged forests broken occasionally by pastures and crops, strung together by small villages. Pontremoli, a fortress town controlling access to two valleys and lands above and below for centuries, houses a museum of stele discovered nearby dating back to the 3rd/ 4th century BC.

Filleto, a fortress of its own, is Saracen, another word for the Moors – invaders, bandits and raiders who dominated much of the Mediterranean for centuries. 

After Filleto, I walk a road that dates back to the Roman Empire. With everything measured in seconds and sound bites, to walk the footpath Roman armies used to cross the Alps more than 2000 years ago, used for so long that the road is sunk several feet below the forest floor brings perspective to the quicksilver of immediacy.

Luna offers proof that Carrara marble has been used from Roman times. Carrara quarries are famous since the golden age of Rome; Michelangelo’s David, marble from Carrara, has the unsurpassed purity of the white Carrara marble. 

Saint Michele Paolino Cathedral in Lucca, fittingly clad in Carrara marble, I receive my pilgrim stamp, the end of this section. The final walk, 350 kilometres fromLucca to Rome, is – like life – to be continued. 

The Polish author, Ogla Tokarczuk, a Nobel Prize winner, develops her idea of synchronicity: 

“…evidence of the world making sense. Evidence that throughout this beautiful chaos threads of meaning spread in every direction.” 

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Resistance and Assimilation

This is a bit different from my regular posts. I am attaching a paper I completed for a course I took this spring on Reconciliation issues in the Graduate Liberal Studies program at Simon Fraser University. 

It was a challenging course led by Dr. Eldon Yellowhorn, an archeology professor at SFU. Coincidentally, Dr Yellowhorn grew up on the Piikani First Nation near Brocket Alberta, about 130 kilometres from my home town in Taber. He was outstanding; guiding us through some very difficult topics with a careful, thoughtful, and scholarly perspective. Needless to say, I spent as much time unlearning as I did learning. Learning more about such a complex issue is challenging but always worthwhile.

It was invaluable. 

I served as Executive Assistant to Hon. Judd Buchanan, Minister of Indian Affairs and Northern Development, from August 1974 to June of !976. I wanted, in this research, to better understand the tumultuous years that preceded Buchanan’s time as Minister and my time on his staff, to understand more clearly the forces at play over that time. 

Needless to say I wish I had been more knowledgeable of the issues we faced at the time, more sensitive to the history of Canada’s relationship with the Indigenous peoples and more empathetic to their point of view. At the age of 26, I had little capacity to understand all that was happening; like most, I just tried to do my best. 

This paper captures a period of great turmoil in the relationship of Indigenous peoples and Canada. I have let the source documents largely speak for themselves. They speak to where we were and perhaps reflect how far we’ve come in the long process we call reconciliation.

Resistance and Assimilation

In a few short years between 1966 and 1971, the strained, uncomfortable restrictive relationship between the federal government and Canada’s indigenous peoples was rocked by events that forever changed the nature of that relationship. It started with the Hawthorn Report, forever memorialized by a positive affirmation of the need to raise the status of Indigenous peoples, to see them as Citizens Plus. The report concluded that policies of the past century had failed, Indigenous peoples were Citizens Minus, deprived of services and rights that all Canadians received, wards of the state. The policy goal to assimilate Indigenous peoples into the Canadian mainstream was also deemed a failure. That policy of assimilation was brought into focus by the Trudeau government’s policy announcement in the 1969 White Paper, contradicting its own multi-year study.

The battle lines over assimilation were clearly drawn. The forceful reaction and the overwhelming resistance to this policy by Indigenous people and their emerging political leaders forced the withdrawal of the White Paper in 1971. For the first time, disparate indigenous political organizations coalesced; an intellectual and policy framework was formed and agreed upon, bringing unity and power that surprised almost everyone. This small, almost forgotten marginal one percent of the population had fought the Trudeau government to a standstill and force a complete abandonment of one of the cornerstones of the new Trudeau government. In a few short years, events had completely changed the policy landscape, the possibilities and the options available to both government and the indigenous peoples.

The Hawthorne Report 

In October 1966, the first volume of the Hawthorne Report was published. Entitled A Survey of the Contemporary Indians of Canada, the report was the most comprehensive study to date of important aspects of the troubled relationship between Canada and the Indigenous people who occupied the land before the settlers arrived. One year before Canada’s centennial, such a study was long overdue, for the first time offering comprehensive data, substantial research and rigorous scholarship on an issue that was defined by conjecture, controversy and polarized opinion, not an adequate means of creating public policy at the best of times. 

The study was commissioned by Hon. Arthur Laing, Minister of Citizenship and Immigration in 1964. H.B. Hawthorne, an anthropologist at the University of British Columbia, and M.A.Tremblay, an anthropologist/sociologist from Laval University, were tasked with undertaking ‘a study of the social, educational and economic situation of the Indians of Canada and to offer recommendations where it appeared benefits might be gained’.(1) 

Arthur Laing was a senior member in the Cabinet of Lester Pearson at the time of the commissioning of the report. He later presided over a reorganization of department responsibilities and when the report was delivered two years later, he received it as Minister of Indian Affairs and Northern Development, a position he held until July 1968. 

The ‘Indian problem’ had become a serious public issue bringing attention to a public disgrace, a stain on Canada’s reputation and on the federal government’s failure to improve the lives of people specifically placed under its care. This marginalized population – less than 250,000 status Indians in 1969 – and the plight of Canada’s indigenous peoples moved onto the public agenda, hotly debated. (2)

Canadians became deeply critical of the treatment of Indigenous peoples and, in advance of the 1967 centennial, the federal government was pushed to do something about the deplorable conditions. A study in 1963 showed that per capita income of Indigenous peoples was half of that of other Canadians, that one third of indigenous people were on public assistance versus just three percent of Canadians, and shockingly that, if one included deaths in the first year, the average Indigenous male lived to only 35 years of age and the average indigenous female lived to only 34 years of age, compared to national averages of men (64) and women (60).(3)

The Hawthorn study was the first major attempt by Canada to study the issue, gather serious data, analyze the reasons behind these horrendous gaps and recommend solutions – to show government resolve in dealing with the problems faced by Canada’s indigenous peoples and finding solutions. 

The research findings that were announced in 1966 were clear, stark and beyond dispute; Indians in the mid-sixties were, as the report called it, Citizens Minus. The goal of assimilation had failed not the least because there was a long record of neglect, of the federal government treating Indians as less than Canadians; present policies offered little hope for the future.(4)  

Hawthorn chose a bold and proactive approach; “to review the arguments establishing the right of Indians to be citizens plus, and to spell out some of the ways in which this status can be given practical meaning. The argument presents facts and legal and political decisions leading to the conclusion that the right derives from promises made to them, from expectations they were encouraged to hold, and from the simple fact that they once occupied and used a country to which others came to gain enormous wealth in which Indians have shared little.”(5) 

The report is remembered mostly for this comprehensive research and for its startling recommendation – Indigenous people should be considered Citizens Plus. It was a memorable statement; for the first time, a government commissioned report backed up by authoritative and comprehensive research from establishment academics declared that Canada’s indigenous peoples should be seen as Citizens Plus, worthy of more rights/benefits/services/privileges of Canadian citizenship than non-Indigenous Canadians. 

The Commission findings were startling. Part one of the Report focused on economic development, trying to discern why Canada’s indigenous communities had fallen so far behind the rest of Canada, and subsequently, what might be done to close the gap. Part two focused on education and local government was released in 1969, much too late to have any impact on the new Trudeau Government and its policy review. Inconsistent leadership also impaired the report’s chances of success; from 1963 when the commission was initiated to 1969 when the final report was released, the department had been led by seven ministers, leaving it orphaned without a committed, knowledgeable sponsor and champion.(6) 

Using a sample of representative bands across Canada, the researchers found that Indigenous people earned less than one-quarter of Canadians, resulting from rampant underemployment and unemployment. The gap was even wider when researchers took into account that about one-third of Indigenous income came from publicly funded subsidies such as welfare, unemployment insurance, family allowances and funds from bands themselves.(7)

Researchers looked at the level of education of Indians. One of many findings is startling; the number of students who had achieved a grade ten level of education was less than 5% on all reserves surveyed, fewer than 5% were still in school at the age of 16. This lack of education, exacerbated by the major problems of isolation, small reserves, federal underfunding of education on and off reserve and reliance on the residential school system was an appalling failure of both policy and administration.(8) This was a direct condemnation of the Indian Affairs branch programs to provide on-reserve education to Indians and of the contracted-out education provided by church operated residential schools. As further proof of the failure of the federal government’s provision of education, in another study in 1969, only 800 Indigenous students were enrolled in post-secondary education, further reinforcing Hawthorn’s observations documenting the failure of education support for Indigenous peoples. (8)  

The Commission pointed a finger directly at the Federal Government for its dereliction of responsibilities. The Indian Affairs branch was inadequately funded and staffed, programs were haphazard and badly managed, and the staff were seen as impediments to advancing the cause of Indigenous peoples. The report strongly recommended a transformation of the Indian Affairs branch: “should act as a national conscience to see that social and economic equality is achieved between Indians and Whites. This role includes the persistent advocacy of Indian needs, the persistent exposure of shortcomings in the governmental treatment that Indians receive, and persistent removal of ethnic tensions between Indians and Whites.”(9) 

The plight of reserve-based Indians was made worse by the fact that provincial governments generally viewed all Indians as wards of the federal government, people they did not have any obligation to serve. The federal government helped jointly fund new provincial programs but did not provide commensurate funding to the Indian Affairs branch to ensure such services of the same value and quality were made available to indigenous peoples. Hawthorn noted the lack of any capacity or interest by staff to bridge this gap or seek to engage the provincial governments to provide services. Provincial governments did not extend any of the growing number of new modern provincial services to Indians, further widening the gap on all levels of health, education and social services.(10) 

A further challenge for all was the wide diversity of the state of economic well-being of individual bands across Canada; some larger urban-adjacent bands were doing well, some bands were more generously endowed with resources for harvesting and commercial sale of natural resources which provided employment and band income. Most bands were, by design when they were set, remote, desolate, isolated and lacking any economic viability. When treaties were signed, the lands chosen for reserves were the leftovers; isolated reserves on marginal land and in isolated areas away from towns and cities – doomed to failure. 

There was the challenge of band governance. Much of the research on band governance dealt with the role of the Indian Agent, the role of the band council, an artificial governance system that ignored traditional band governance. It simply wasn’t working for the members of the band.

A final challenge that was not addressed by Hawthorn was the issue of land claims. Outside its mandate, the Hawthorn Commission did not engage in the complex issue of land claims for areas where no treaty had been signed, nor did it engage in any analysis of whether the federal government had lived up to its obligations, even though the issue overshadowed every aspect of the relationship between Canada and indigenous peoples. 

The Report offered 91 recommendations for the federal government to begin to right the many wrongs that had been inflicted on the Indigenous community under its responsibility.(11)

The concept of Citizens Plus was an important contribution of the Hawthorn report to the conversation. Popularizing and legitimizing the idea of Citizens Plus, the report, its intellectual rigour, the extensive research results and the innovative perspective for changes put forward – offered creative options for a more positive and productive relationship among Canada’s indigenous communities and the people of Canada. 

Hawthorn’s report rejected the policy of assimilation, the cornerstone of Canadian government policy for a century: “The research group do not think that the Indian should be required to assimilate, neither in order to receive what he now needs nor at any future time’ (12).

The report was quickly forgotten, superseded by events bigger than the issue of Indigenous peoples. Lester Pearson, the Liberal Prime Minister, announced his intention to retire in December 1967, setting a leadership vote for spring 1968. The leadership question consumed the governing Liberal Party and all policy deliberations and decisions were put on hold, especially contentious ones. 

In April 1968, Pierre Trudeau, the Liberal Justice Minister and a relative newcomer to Federal politics, was elected Leader and Prime Minister. He quickly called an election and was rewarded with a majority government in late June, 1968. In the span of less than two years, a new leader, an election, a new government and a new Cabinet transformed the whole framework of Liberal government and its policy in many controversial areas. 

The White Paper

The Hawthorn report was lost in these bigger events. Trudeau was by training and inclination a constitutional lawyer, he was well read in the philosophical issues surrounding the tensions between individual rights and collective responsibilities, the core issue of political governance. He had successfully campaigned on ‘The Just Society’, the cornerstone of which was his conception that all Canadians should be individuals and treated as equals; his personal philosophy of ‘reason over passion’ became the intellectual anchors of his government.

The largest challenge to Trudeau’s view was the rising sentiment for a separate Quebec based on its unique language and culture. Indians, identified as Citizens Plus, would become another attempt to define a separate and distinct entity. Their cause became caught up in that greater battle of Francophones in Quebec who wanted to be distinct.(13) 

Inexplicably, in the formation of his cabinet, Trudeau put two ministers in charge of creating a new federal policy for Indians, Jean Chretien and Robert Andras. They immediately set to work to develop a new policy towards Indigenous peoples in Canada with extensive consultations that culminated in a major conference with Indigenous leaders in late April and early May 1969. 

The policies emerging in the White Paper had been the culmination of an extensive debate and policy decisions, deliberations separated from the public consultations and confined to a select few within the federal government: “…developed within the upper reaches of the federal government, under tight secrecy common to the policy making process. The policy makers were minister, their advisers and senior public servants, and although the policy making group included almost fifty people during the peak period, less than twenty played a major part in shaping the policy.”(14) 

The policy making process was further complicated by a new approach to policymaking in the Trudeau regime, by internal divisions within the Department, conflicts with the Privy Council office and the Prime Minister’s office. The imposition of this new complicated policy decision process developed by the new Trudeau government consisted of major consultations with a newly created cabinet committee system with which long time public servants were unfamiliar. The ministers, Chretien and Andras, were assigned overlapping and vague responsibilities for the consultative and policy making process and for managing the progress of the White Paper through the cabinet decision-making process. They developed strong and starkly different, often conflicting, views of the way forward, differences that were sometimes aired in public and caused confusion amongst all participants.(15) In the end, the result satisfied few.

Jean Chretien tabled the Statement of the Government of Canada on Indian Policy in the House of Commons on June 25, 1969. The core policy directions were summed up;

True equality presupposes that the Indian people have the right to full and

equal participation in the cultural, social, economic and political life of


The government believes that the framework within which individual Indians

and bands could achieve full participation requires:

1. that the legislative and constitutional bases of discrimination be


2 that there be positive recognition by everyone of the unique contribution

of Indian culture to Canadian life;

3. that services come through the same channels and from the same

government agencies for all Canadians;

4 that those who are furthest behind be helped most;

5. that lawful obligations be recognized; 

6 that control of Indian lands be transferred to the Indian people.

The Government would be prepared to take the following steps to create

this framework:

1. Propose to Parliament that the Indian Act be repealed and take such

legislative steps as may be necessary to enable Indians to control Indian

lands and to acquire title to them.

2. Propose to the governments of the provinces that they take over the

same responsibility for Indians that they have for other citizens in their

provinces. The take-over would be accompanied by the transfer to the

provinces of federal funds normally provided for Indian programs,

augmented as may be necessary.

3. Make substantial funds available for Indian economic development as an

interim measure.

4. Wind up that part of the Department of Indian Affairs and Northern

Development which deals with Indian Affairs. The residual responsibilities

of the Federal Government for programs in the field of Indian affairs would

be transferred to other appropriate federal departments.

In addition, the Government will appoint a Commissioner to consult with the

Indians and to study and recommend acceptable procedures for the

adjudication of claims. (16)

The Minister ended his speech by offering a rosy picture of the future and extending the smallest of olive branches – an expressed willingness to respond to offers of cooperation from Indians and the provinces:

The new policy looks to a better future for all Indian people wherever they

may be. The measures for implementation are straightforward. They

require discussion, consultation and negotiation with the Indian people 

individuals, bands and associations and with provincial governments.

Success will depend upon the co-operation and assistance of the Indians

and the provinces. The Government seeks this cooperation and will respond      when it is offered. (17)

The White paper was an audacious attempt to achieve full, complete and final assimilation of Canada’s indigenous peoples and to end forever any special relationship between the indigenous people of Canada and the Canadian Government. Citizens Minus was the reality, Citizens Plus was the discarded Hawthorn dream, assimilation was the way forward. The goal was to ensure that indigenous people were equal, no positive or negative discrimination allowed; no distinctions, no deviations: “This Government believes in equality. It believes that all men and women have equal rights. It is determined that all shall be treated fairly and that no one shall be shut out of Canadian life, and especially that no one shall be shut out because of his race.” (18)

The Prime Minster was blunt in his defence of his Just Society principle and its manifestation in the White Paper. In a speech in August in Vancouver, just a few months after the White paper had been tabled, he made the government’s position crystal clear:

 “…we’re at a crossroads, we can go on treating the Indians as having a special status; we can go on adding bricks of discrimination around the ghetto in which they live and, at the same time, perhaps helping them preserve certain cultural traits and certain ancestral rights or we can say: “You’re at a crossroads, the time is now to decide whether the Indians will be a race apart in Canada or whether they will be Canadians of full status.”

….a group of Canadians with which we have treaties, a group of Canadians who have, as many of them claim, aboriginal rights; or whether we will say forget the past and begin today.….this is a tremendously difficult choice because if one of the things the Indian bands very often refer to are their aboriginal rights and In our policy the way we propose it we won’t recognize aboriginal rights. 

….We will recognize treaty rights, we will recognize forms of contract which have been made with the Indian people by the Crown. And we will try to bring justice in that area. And this will mean that perhaps they shouldn’t go on forever. 

…..It’s inconceivable I think for one section of the society to have a treaty with the other section of the society. We must be all equal under the law and we must not sign treaties amongst ourselves and many of these treaties indeed would have less and less significance in the future anyhow. 

….They should become Canadians as all other Canadians…whether they be Indians or English Canadians or French Canadians or Maritimers and this is the only basis on which I see our society can develop as equals. But aboriginal rights this really means saying we were here before you, you came and you took the land from us and perhaps you cheated us by giving us some worthless things in return for vast expanses of land. And we want to re-open this question. We want you to preserve our aboriginal rights and to restore them to us. Our answer may not be the right one and may not be one which is accepted but it will be up to all of you people to make your minds up and to choose for or against it and to discuss it with the Indians. Our answer is no. We can’t recognize aboriginal rights because no society can be built, on historical “might-have-beens”. (19)

He went out of his way to trivialize the treaties reducing them to a dispute over unpaid bills for twine and gunpowder: 

“… things that in the past that were covered by the treaties like – things like so much twine or so much gunpowder and which haven’t been paid, this must be paid. But I don’t think that we should encourage the Indians to feel that their treaties should last forever within Canada so that they’ll be able to receive their twine and their gunpowder.” (20)

The position of the Trudeau government could not have been more clearly expressed, there was no ambiguity, no flowery phrases, no vacuous gestures. There would be no serious debate, the answer was NO. The Prime Minister had clearly, publicly and unequivocally endorsed the White Paper. 

Resistance and The Red Paper

When, in June 1969, Indian Affairs and Northern Development Minister Chretien unveiled the White Paper, it became immediately evident that the ‘consultations’ in the previous year and the significant final meeting in late April were more for performance than substance. The direction of the White Paper had been decided months earlier in Cabinet, final details were being negotiated in secret by Ottawa officials. The White Paper was starkly different, almost eerily contrary in every respect, from the policy and program suggestions of the Indigenous leaders.(21) Indigenous political leaders were rebuffed, their recommendations and the recommendations of the Hawthorn Report were ignored by the White Paper. Consultation was seen by Indigenous leadership as another cynical fraud.

The drafters of the White Paper had anticipated the expected negative reaction and treated it as a communications issue, they were surprised by the vehemence of the response.(22) Reaction to the White Paper and the dismissal of every Indigenous recommendation was swift, vocal and furiously negative.

Harold Cardinal, the head of the Indian Association of Alberta was amongst the most critical. In less than a year, the Indian Chiefs of Alberta released a rebuttal, Citizens Plus, popularly known as the Red Paper, offering their view of the White Paper and another proposal for creating a new relationship with Canada.

The Red Paper was endorsed and adopted by the National Indian Brotherhood presented to the federal government on June 3, 1970 and presented to the federal Cabinet at a public meeting the next day. It was an historic event, the culmination of a coming together of many diverse and fledgling Indigenous political organizations and their neophyte leaders to confront the most powerful Canadian elected leaders – people exercising direct control over every aspect of their lives: “it was an affirmation of faith in their Indian identity. After a century of being engulfed by a white tidal wave, they were still here, they were still different, and they were not about to themselves be pushed into oblivion.”(23)

Cardinal, a key author of the Paper also published a scathing reply to Trudeau’s cavalier dismissal of Indigenous claims. His book, The Unjust Society, was a passionate rebuttal, not just to the White Paper but to the Trudeau vision of a Just society as it was inflicted upon Indigenous peoples and the whole history of government disregard for Indigenous peoples. He described the White Paper and the new policy direction of the Trudeau Government as cultural genocide: “a thinly disguised programme of extermination through assimilation.”(24)

Cardinal affirmed the desire of the Indigenous peoples of Canada to be proud members of Canadian society. He often said he wanted Canada’s indigenous peoples to be a ‘red tile in the Canadian mosaic’: “always I find that as Indian people, we share hopes for a better Canada, a better future and a better deal. We share hopes the Canadian society will accept us as we are and listen to what we have to say.”(25) 

Alan Cairns noted two major themes of the controversy over the White Paper. First, the White Paper ignored and rejected all the recommendations made by Indigenous organizations in extensive consultations leaving an overwhelming feeling of distrust by Indigenous leaders. Second, the Prime Minister was completely involved, playing a leading role and further accentuating the enormous stakes involved. There was little hope for Indigenous leaders to press for change, especially given that he was so intimately involved with the creation of the policy embodied in the White Paper and had so publicly supported it: “Trudeau reported that he had spent more time on Indian policy than on any other issue in his first year in office.” (26)

The defeat of the White Paper

The most obvious unintended consequence of the White Paper, was how it galvanized the nascent Indigenous leadership and created a solidarity that had ever existed before.(27) Public meetings to explain the policy to indigenous groups across the country became heated and confrontational. It wasn’t just the Indigenous leadership that rejected the White Paper, several provincial governments expressed concern about accepting new responsibilities and the attendant costs to expanded programs.  The opposition spilled over into the media and, by the time Parliament began to debate the issue, reservations and criticisms were mounting. Through the fall of 1969 opposition grew, the articulation of opposition was coalescing. The Red Paper was released in 1970. Other provincial Indian organizations, especially Manitoba and British Columbia waded into the fray; in June 1970, the National Indian Brotherhood, in a meeting with the Prime Minister and his Cabinet in Ottawa on June 4, 1970, publicly rejected the The White Paper and ceremoniously replaced it with the Red Paper

Prime Minister Trudeau responded; in impromptu comments he opened the door that he had closed so firmly less than a year previously. He acknowledged that he may have been naive, may have had ‘the prejudices of small ‘l’ liberals and white men at that who thought that equality meant the same law for everybody’. He also made it clear that the White Paper and all it represented would not be forced upon the Indigenous peoples ‘We won’t force any solution on you, because we are not looking for any solution’.(28)

Trudeau’s statement was followed up by a statement by Minister Jean Chretien in the spring of 1971 in a speech at Queen’s University; ‘ the government does not intend to force progress along the directions set out in the policy proposals of June 1969. The future direction will be that which emerges in meetings between Government and Indian representatives and people’.(29)  

The White Paper was quietly withdrawn in 1971 after Chretien’s speech.  Pierre Trudeau was said to have remarked: “We’ll keep them in the ghetto as long as they want.”(30)

The Courts become players – Drybones and Calder. 

The courts over the years had not played a major role in shaping the relationship between the federal Government and Indigenous people. If anything, their impact added to the repression of Indigenous peoples. One of the reasons for this “was an amendment to the Indian Act in 1927 that made it an offence for Indians to raise money for the purpose of suing in the courts to establish Aboriginal title to their land. This provision of the Indian Act remained in force until 1951.”(31)

While the controversy over the White Paper and the assimilationist policy it advocated was playing out in the public domain, the courts were engaged in a similar but more sedate looking judicial controversy. In April 1967, Joseph Drybones was apprehended for drunkenness in a public place and charged under the Indian Act which had extensive prohibitions against alcohol purchase, consumption and behaviour for Indians. These prohibitions were different from those for Canadians under the Criminal code. The court was asked to decide if prosecuting Drybones under the Indian Act violated his rights under the Canadian Bill of Rights which protected his right to equality before the law.

In June 1967, the NWT territorial court acquitted Drybones, in August the NWT court of Appeal affirmed the acquittal. In November 1969, the Supreme Court of Canada also affirmed the acquittal in a 6-3 decision. The SCC affirmed that the specific provisions of the Indian Act relating to alcohol prohibitions for Indians were discriminatory and therefore inoperative because they violated sections of the Canadian Bill of Rights and therefore discriminated against Indians because of their race.(32) The court did not widen their decision to include other provisions of the Indian Act but the implications for further challenges were clear. For lawmakers, a significant section of the Indian act was now stricken from the Act as “inoperative”; the obvious question was how many other pieces of the Indian Act might now be subject to judicial review under the Canadian Bill of Rights and, indeed, whether the whole Indian Act would be declared inoperative – null and void – for conflicting with The Canadian Bill of Rights.

Such issues must have been on the minds of the Trudeau cabinet, particularly given Prime Minister Trudeau’s long career as a constitutional scholar and former minister of Justice. In that context, the White Paper recommendations aligned with the Drybones decision, the Supreme Court of Canada had clearly indicated that all Canadians should be treated equally before the law – The Canadian Bill of Rights. The White Paper sought to do just that. 

Another important legal case, the Calder case, was winding its way through the court system. The Nisga’a nation had a long history of seeking affirmation of its aboriginal title and rights to traditional Nisga’a territory. 

In 1969, Frank Calder brought an action against the province of British Columbia to affirm the rights and title of the Nisga’a. After defeats in BC provincial court and on appeal to the BC court of Appeal, Calder applied to the Supreme Court of Canada in a final appeal. The case was heard in November of 1971. While the decision on whether the Nisga’a had title to their lands by right of their indigenous occupation before settlers arrived, was not announced until January, 1973, the unresolved issue was a dark cloud looming over the federal government, particularly given the White Paper and Trudeau’s dismissal of aboriginal claims in areas where claims had not been settled by treaty and his cavalier treatment of claims in treaty areas as flights over ‘twine and gunpowder’.(33)

While the direction the courts would take on various disputes between indigenous groups over their various conflict was uncertain, one thing was certain, the courts had become pivotal players in adjudicating issues related to Indigenous peoples. The federal government had been shown, by both the Indigenous peoples and now by the courts, that it could not act unilaterally in making policy that impacted Indigenous peoples. 


The five years from 1966 to 1971 were tumultuous and surprising, given the previous 100 years of dominance and servitude. After half a century, it is possible to make a few preliminary observations about these pivotal events. 

First, the fundamental research gathered by the Hawthorn report provided a basis for all much that happened. Arthur Laing initiated a serious study, albeit by mainstream white academics. Validated by the rational, academic, intellectual process, the results were irrefutable. Hawthorn had taken the discussion of the ‘Indian problem’ out of the context of opinion and moved it into the more measured and rational discussion of cause/effect, options, measurable results, and scientific rationality. 

Second, whether by design of by luck, the Hawthorn report created an instantly understandable trope. Canada’s indigenous peoples were told they were Citizens Minus and they deserved to be Citizens Plus. That was an easy concept for both Indigenous and ordinary Canadians to grasp. It appealed to people who had no idea what circumstances were like on reserves, no interaction with one percent of the population that had been mostly confined to reserves, people who had mostly been defined by Hollywood. 

Third, by expanding the discussion to the notion of Citizens Plus, Hawthorn opened the door for the emerging Indigenous leadership to think bigger, to not just ask for adherence to treaties and promises but to demand more, to demand a rightful place in Canadian society that recognized their uniqueness as first nations. Harold Cardinal and the Indian Association of Alberta paid homage to Hawthorn by titling the Red Paper ‘Citizens Plus’. 

Fourth, the White Paper accelerated the growth to full maturity of the small Indigenous leadership cadre, a process achieved almost overnight without the long, evolutionary growth pains usually associated with such processes. It also facilitated cohesion and solidarity; in the face of such an overwhelming and stark threat to their survival posed by the White Paper and Trudeau’s unequivocal ultimatums, petty differences amongst individual Indigenous organizations faded to insignificance. Within a year, the Red Paper, a compelling, logical and forceful denunciation of the White Paper. a thoughtful policy option to replace it, was endorsed by the National Indian Brotherhood, a monumental achievement for such a young organization.

The fight over the White Paper, coming immediately after the celebration of Canada’s centennial and in such stark contrast to the celebration of a century of  lofty achievements, brought the plight of Indigenous peoples out of the shadows and into the public square. Canadians, unfamiliar with the long history of subjugation and neglect, were profoundly shocked to be shown the appalling statistics that defined the life of Canada’s Indigenous peoples. It stood in stark contrast to the smug image of Canada promoted during the centennial celebrations. Public pressure profoundly affected the federal government. It was so contrary to Trudeau’s notion of a Just Society; Harold Cardinal captured the awful reality in his book, aptly and ironically named the Unjust Society. 

The defeat of the White Paper, the humiliating withdrawal of the centrepiece of the Trudeau government’s policy and the dawning realization by both Trudeau and Chretien that they had completely misunderstood the history of Canada’s aboriginal peoples – Indians, Metis and Inuit – was unprecedented. Trudeau had been personally involved in all stages of the policy development, he acknowledged such when he noted that he had spent more time on this issue than any other. A proud man, a constitutional lawyer, a philosopher, a thoughtful intellectual, he had been found wanting and had to admit as much in his discussion with the National Indian Brotherhood in Ottawa in June 1970. He was not used to being wrong, or being so publicly exposed for being wrong.

The withdrawal of the White Paper was the final nail in the intellectual coffin of assimilation. While that didn’t end the discrimination, the attempt to make “good little brown white men”, it opened the doors to a complete rethinking of Canada’s relationship with the Indigenous peoples. It gave Canada’s indigenous people hope, power and a bigger vision. Resistance had paid off. Resistance was fertile. A new relationship was possible, the door was open to new opportunities.  


Yet, 50 years later, even with all the progress made, the life of an Indigenous person is still starkly different from that of the ordinary Canadian. Indigenous people in Canada are still Citizens Minus.

Harry Slade, BC’s Indian Claims Commissioner outlined the yawning gap:

  • First Nations, Metis and Inuit youth make up 52% of all foster children under 14 in Canada, yet the represent only 5% of Canada’s youth.
  • Indigenous men and women represent 5% of Canada’s adult population, yet 28% of all male incarcerations are Indigenous men, 43% are indigenous women.
  • In Saskatchewan 92% of the male youth and 98% of the female youth in custody are Indigenous. Across Canada, Indigenous youth in custody are 46% but only 5% of the general population.
  • Almost two thirds of food bank users are Indigenous. Again, disproportionate to their size in the Canadian population.
  • One quarter of children in First Nations communities live in poverty. 
  • Suicide rates among First Nations youth are 5 to 7 times higher than national averages. 
  • Tuberculosis rates in Indigenous communities are 34 times higher than the national average.

The statistics on housing, clean water, general health, education attainment levels are all equally alarming.

Almost 50 years ago, the Hawthorn report published equally alarming statistics. Little has changed where it truly matters, in Indigenous peoples daily lives. The health and well being of Canada’s indigenous peoples and prospects for a promising future for their children are still dismal. 

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Marvin Foulkes, brother, friend. 1945-2022

I saw him on the other side of the intersection. It was a chilly day last December in Edmonton. There wasn’t much snow on the ground but there was enough to make it difficult for him to move through it. It would not be taken kindly to rush across the intersection to help him, although it was becoming obvious that with his 76 years, he had slowed down. Not one to complain much, he had casually mentioned some arthritis and a steady pain in both hands,  carpal tunnel he said. 

He struggled, he persevered, he progressed; slowly making his way across the intersection. Old school, we didn’t hug or even shake hands; instead we joshed, me about being a delicate Vancouver flower struggling in the arctic chill of below zero, he about how much he hated the ice on the roads and the lack of snow clearing on the sidewalks. 

We slowly navigated our way to our favourite lunch spot, a vegetarian restaurant on Whyte Avenue, an unlikely favourite for two Alberta boys raised on meat and potatoes, a common sense response to old age and delicate stomachs. He’d actually upped his game and was now going gluten-free; no bread, no pasta, the man was insane!

Finishing our coffee, we casually, warily circled the inevitable; how are we feeling these days? Then, mutually satisfied we’d make it another day, we paid and left, on to our next adventure to a downtown movie – we both shared a deep fascination with the magic of movies, the escapism of it all.

“The bus stop is just around the corner” he said. 

“Let me help this time,” I replied. “You’ve been pushing that wheelchair for 60 years, maybe you can let me push a bit now.” It was always a touchy subject, to help or not to help with the pushing.

That was our last big adventure, a vegan lunch, a movie downtown, a cold wait for the bus, an evening that culminated in NFL Monday Night Football and a fragrant, steaming bowl of pho from his favourite Vietnamese hole-in the wall – Friends and Neighbours – what a perfect name for a restaurant. 

Going to Edmonton to see my brother Marvin was always a special event in my life.

Life is full of surprises, the past two years of the pandemic had brought us closer than ever before, more frequent visits, regular phone chats lasting an hour at least, till one of us signalled sign off with the not-so-secret code, “well, I’ve run out of words for today.” 

The weather turned cold the next day, the first of many chilling arctic fronts had arrived. I scurried home to Vancouver, wondering how people survived. 

Two months later, I returned. Marvin was in hospital, something had afflicted him with a rasping cough and a perilous decline in strength and energy. He’d lost the strength to lift himself from bed to chair, to get safely from chair to bed. By the time I arrived, the mounting but confusing array of results of medical probings had not comforted us. More and more, the bits and bites of news dashed any hopes of a return to normalcy; the news became grim, consistently and pervasively grim. 

We met the doctors on Friday. Stage four, nothing to be done; the palliative care team was his only option. We talked of many things when they all left; some important, some the remains of the day. Words mattered, especially then; he needed to know that he was loved and valued, that his life had been filled with meaning, that we all admired him, cherished him and, again, loved him. Michael, his son, and I shared his time for the next few days, talking with him till he told us he’d ‘run out of words for today’. 

He passed away on March 8th, just four days short of his 77th birthday, Michael by his side.

That last short visit was a micro-example of the man I had known all my life. 

He was a stoic, of the best kind. He had to be, at the age of sixteen, injured in a freak car accident and confined to a wheelchair after an extra-ordinarily long rehab, he chose to accept his new life and get on with it rather that rage against fate, the gods, God or anyone else he could focus his anger on. He chose to accept and be optimistic, to manage those parts of his life where he had control, where he could choose. Years later, as Executive Director of the Canadian Paraplegic Association in Calgary he learned that he could only help those who had chosen to be positive, who had not succumbed to rage and self-pity. He had chosen wisely – at sixteen. His stoicism guided and informed his life; he never let his limitations define him or limit him. 

Marvin created a career for himself; he moved to Edmonton in 1977 to become Executive Director of Chimo, providing interim care for at risk youth and as a long standing board member of the Boyle Street Education Center, a unique public charter school offering an educational haven for urban street youth. He served other agencies in the youth care and education fields for over 40 years; he seemed to have a particular affinity with, and understanding of, those people who, faced with challenges not of their making, sought to rise above them.

He was also quietly but fiercely independent. Resolute. Persistent. Unflinching and unflagging. In 1970, nine years after his accident, he and I signed up for the newly launched Master’s program in Public Affairs at Carleton University. We pooled our resources, meagre, and drove his car to Ottawa. We never missed a class in a year of unprecedented snowfall; we showed up, he would have it no other way. It was one of the few times when he allowed me to help push. He kept that independence for another 50 years, we all learned to ask politely if we could help him navigate a crosswalk or a curb-cut. 

He loved hole-in-the-wall restaurants, was known by most of the places within a short wheel of his home and took hot and spicy as a challenge. Sushi was top of his list but anything Asian seemed to tickle his taste buds.  

He loved movies. I found out that he loved books and, courtesy of the pandemic which gave us time to explore such weighty topics, we nattered like a couple of preteens about books we liked and why. He wrote a movie script once with a friend, it was remarkable, he had a keen eye for the human condition and admired good writing. I will some day read the Kafka and Dostoyevsky he extolled, but not for a while. He never shined it up and put it on the mantle but he had a keen intelligence and abundant curiosity. 

He was most proud of his son, Michael. Michael grew up with Marvin in Edmonton, some might say they grew up together though fathering seemed to come naturally to him. Every chat we had required a long update on our kids, always proudly positive and with a sense of wonder at our good fortune. One of Marvin’s happiest days was to be father-of-the-groom at Michael’s wedding in Halifax.

He took care of himself; he had to, to survive all those years. He was disciplined, consistent and careful of his health. 

Finally, I’m learning that he loved a good party, never the centre of attention but always the anchor and usually there till the end. He pretended to be a hermit but had more friends than most of us could wish for; all he needed was some quiet time to recharge. He had several friends who dated back 60 plus years to his home town, Taber. He shared life and regular meals for decades in Edmonton with John, one of those Taber buddies; he regularly rode shotgun while John did a Meals on Wheels route.

It took grit and courage to get up and go out the door to meet the day, but he did and he greeted his friends with a smile and a direct, friendly look, some said a twinkle, in his eye. 

He was honest, frugal, grounded. Why have a chair in his apartment? He didn’t need it, if I came for a visit, we borrowed one from the common room of Abby Road, his coop apartment. 

Tender Mercies are small acts of kindness that make the lives of the recipients glow. They are given with no strings, no presumption that they will be returned. They are given out of love. Marvin spread those Tender Mercies like confetti at a wedding.

He was a good man.

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Adventures Abound.

There is a Polish author, Ogla Tokarczuk, a Nobel Prize winner. In her book, Flights, she mentions the idea of synchronicity: “evidence of the world making sense. Evidence that throughout this beautiful chaos threads of meaning spread in every direction.

On this adventure, I have been feeling the synchronicity. 

I feel it every morning when I arise before dawn to head out for another day of walking, carrying everything I need on my back and comfortable that I have a destination and a guide to get me there. 

I feel it when I see the parish priest arrive at the weekly market to buy his provisions for his meals. 

I feel it every afternoon when I arrive at my destination and sit in a cafe in the central square for another delightful meal.

After almost four weeks of walking, 19 hotel rooms, many photos, innumerable exquisite guilt-free meals, dozens of accumulated stories and numerous surprises large and small, I am now 500 kms closer to my final destination – Rome.  I can only claim about 70% of those kilometres as mine, done the Sigeric way – on foot, but I feel pleased with the progress. The completion of my 2000 km pilgrimage to Rome will wait till next spring. 

I arrive in Lucca; finished with my pilgrimage for now, I become a tourist. Lucca is a sweet transition town. I stay in the walled old town, walk the walls, visit some churches, go to an evening Puccini concert, eat some good meals and stop being a pilgrim. 

Florence, my next stop, is a jewel. I have gained a bit more knowledge and appreciation of renaissance Florence, through some SFU courses on Italian history. The Uffizi is infinitely more interesting as a result, especially since I manage to find my first painting by Sister Plautilla Nelli, a fifteenth century nun/paintress I had studied as part of my Renaissance history course. Self-taught, she managed to develop her talent and be recognized at a time and place where artistic excellence had reached a zenith. 

Santa Maria Novella housed the main object of my interest, a 20 foot by 6 foot painting by Sister Plautilla Nelli of the Last Supper (featured photo above). I studied her for my history paper and, through her life, studied art and life in renaissance Florence. I now have the privilege of seeing her paintings, some 6 of the 8 or so that have survived. That alone is worth the trip. 

There is always the David, Michelangelo’s masterpiece. Carrara marble, iconic purity of form and substance. You enter the room, look right, see the David and, for a moment, your heart stops. 

These are the sweet spot moments of any journey that we cherish, they are never forgotten. 

Only Rome can match my Florentine experience. I have forgotten the proliferation of antiquities and the magnitude and impact of their individual and collective displays. It is impossible to ignore the Colosseum, even though two little ones in rain ponchos on scooters who refuse to let a little rain spoil their adventure can distract and amuse me. 

There’s a church on every lane, each trying to outdo the other in ostentatious displays of artistic excess glorifying the builder, usually a corrupt Pope. But I verge on digressing into a polemic. 

Rick joins me and we play walking tourists. We find the Barberini museum, a gem – small but filled with iconic art. These museums are empty of tourists, full of great art, small enough to be truly enjoyable and memorable. I prefer them. 

We cap our Rome adventure with a food tour in Testaccio. Our guide is brilliant, walking with a local is the way to experience the various small communities of any city especially once one is outside the tourist zone. It is a delight. Samples of food, small insights into local life, tips on cooking and many tiny anecdotes and stories, all perfect for conversation starters at dinner parties back home.

                                                           – – – 

I ask myself why I do this?

Every time I go on one of these adventures, the question resurfaces. 

The Greeks framed my internal discussion by asking the only question that matters. What is the good life? And the corollary, how does one live a good life?

Philosophers and others have made it their life’s purpose trying to answer this question. I don’t have an answer, even now; yet I have a few ideas about why I do what I do. They may not work for everyone but they seem to help me. 

I need a purpose in my life, a reason to get up in the morning, get off the couch and go out the door. These adventures give me that purpose. The cycle of my purpose-driven adventures starts with the idea. The planning, thinking, sorting out the pieces of the puzzle, the training, gear selection, the testing of options with family and friends can happily consume months of my time before I embark. The actual adventure is the culmination of all this purpose-driven activity. I am alive. 

Adventures ignite and energize my curiosity. Every aspect of the adventure requires investigation. Whether it’s stele, ancient stone carvings found by archaeologists in the area around Pontremoli or the marble quarries of Carrara, I see things that pique my interest in ways that books cannot.

Adventures scare me. Away from everything familiar, on my own, I’m vulnerable. When I’m walking, I literally do not know what is around the next bend in the road. Every night is a new B&B.  I know about 10 words in Italian. All this sensitizes me to every activity, every sensory input. It focuses the mind. Every thing is new! 

This isn’t all scripted by the happy-ending fantasy movie types. Shit happens. Regularly. One night, overwhelmed by new and fatigued by it, I had ramen in a cup in my room; I felt like crap, needed something warm, and couldn’t stay up till 8pm when the restaurants finally opened. It’s not all ravioli like mamma used to make. 

What then will I remember? 

First, I cannot let fear govern my life; covid is here, I need to prudently adjust but I need to find a way to live the good life. Living comes with inherent risk and an inevitable result. After more than a year, I needed to re-engage with real people. This adventure affirmed that we are still kind, kindly, sociable, and resilient. There is a profound gap between what social media tells me about the human condition post pandemic and what I have experienced. On this adventure, civility still permeates and defines the human condition. Kindness runs unchecked through the streets. Smiles proliferate and are infectious. People help others instinctively without considering the transactional value of their actions.

Second, technology continues to make travel and adventures easier, but only when I become a master of my smartphone. On the advice of my adult children, I got an unlimited data plan. Everything now is done digitally and online, accelerated by and required by, the new post-covid world. I cannot get into a museum unless I get a ticket in advance online – even if it’s free. Online maps save time and energy; I’m lazy so I learn. The list goes on. I now have another essential travel necessity, almost as valuable as my passport, my credit card and my proof of vaccination.

Thirdly, walking is my adventure portal of choice. It gives me patience, the scenery doesn’t change all that fast when I’m on foot – the pace suits me. Walking requires a certain acceptance to not know – study and research in advance help a bit but it is NEW and guaranteed to not be what I expected. Getting used to not knowing what’s coming next requires a bit of Stoicism. Humility comes with the awareness I’m not able to predict what’s going to happen. I find out how little control over the world I have. I find out how small I am. 

Finally, optimism blossoms when I attune myself to the kindnesses I receive. On my walks, I can go for days without any meaningful contact with another human. Perhaps that’s why the Tender Mercies stand out, they’re singular in an uncluttered human landscape. 

I style myself these days as a gregarious introvert. These walks seem tailor-made for managing that oxymoronic self definition. I have been the recipient of countless small acts of kindness, tender mercies, over the past weeks, while spending countless hours walking strange paths alone. 

I come home with a reinforced faith in my fellow humans, with optimism for the future.  

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Over the Apps.

The Appenines are the mountains between the Po Valley flatlands and the famous west coast of Italy – most famously, la Spezia and Cinque Terre. 

 They’re not the BC Rockies;  nor is this the Great Saint Bernard Pass through the Alps. The Cisa Pass on the Via Francigena through the Appenines tops out at just under 1100 m. Still, it’s about a Grouse Grind of up and it’s a stark change from the flat terrain of the Po Valley.

The VF wanders up and down a lot. I don’t like up. I also hate losing hard gained elevation. Wild animals set paths long ago that followed contours, not losing elevation unless necessary.  The VF planners have also not heard that the shortest distance from one point to another is a straight line. The VF planners seem to have plotted a path that increases my pain with lots of needless ups and downs and few short-cuts. I plan to speak to them in the harshest terms about that when I get home.

The walk over the Appenines is split into three stages. These stages are obviously based on the fitness of an unusually fit, youthful alpinist. I’ll keep this short. I carefully choose a BnB in the first town, Fornovo de Taro, near the trail so I could drop “the beast” and do a tough first day hike with just a day pack. That day was 20 km with about 1000m of elevation much of it of the aforementioned up and down variety. That worked well. After an early morning train ride, I reached my B&B, checked in with Manuella, dropped the Beast and got started on my hardest day by 9 AM. It was a hard slog but it worked, I managed to make it to make my destination, Cassio, at about 3PM ever grateful that, while I got caught is a brief thundershower, I made it without much difficulty. Dropping my bag was helpful.

Cassio is a village, but it does have a cafe/restaurant and wifi. After several espressos and a pastry I was fit to go again. The local bus arrived, I jumped on and made it home In time for a shower and dinner. Slick! Damn I’m good!

The next day was shorter, 10 km and 300 m of elevation but a bit more complicated. It was a Saturday, only few buses run. After some sleuthing and careful calculations, I decided to hitch-hike to Cassio, do my walk to Bercetto and catch the ONLY bus back home. 

Does one hitchhike in Italy? There’s only one way to find out.

After a short while standing on the edge of the road with my thumb out, trying to appear non-threatening, a man stopped, asked where I wanted to go. I told him. He motioned for me to jump in his car and in Italian explained I was in the wrong spot to catch a ride to where I wanted to go. He took me to a perfect hitchhiking location, dropped me and took off. 

Within a few minutes another driver stopped, asked my destination, hesitated, then motioned for me to jump in. He drove me to where I wanted to go, pointing out his house as he drove past it to take me to my destination. He dropped me in Cassio, deliberately going out of his way to help me get where I wanted to go. All I had to give in return was a handshake and a very sincere grazie mille. 

I muscled through my walk, desperate to make it to Bercello in time to catch the bus back home; there was no Plan B. Arriving in ample time, I even managed an espresso at the cafe by the bus pick-up before boarding. Again, back home in time for dinner. Patting my self on the back, I celebrated my brilliance on executing two perfect days. 

“If you want to hear the gods laugh tell them your plans for the future.” – it’s still true, I proved it. When Manuella phoned to find out bus times for Sunday, we were told no buses run on Sunday. 

Option A – hitch-hike. On a Sunday morning? The gods guffaw. 

Option B – Manuela. She feeds me breakfast and we’re in her car by 7:15. It’s an hour drive to get me to Bercetto to drop me off at my B&B and another hour for her to get back home. Even the gods are struck mute by her kindness. Manuella became my angel. She rescued me in another of the kindnesses, the tender mercies, I am so grateful for. 

The gods managed to disrupt my master plan by throwing a bit of weather into the mix. My plan for Sunday was to climb to the top of Mount Valoria (1220 m). It’s not part of the VF but the claim is the view is worth the hike. Bad weather made that a non-starter. I heaved a sigh of relief – bad weather was actually good fortune for me; I heaved a sigh of relief, laughed with the gods and had a rest day. 

The final day, my march to the summit, was short and relatively painless. The hard work has been done. After about 6 km of walking an asphalt road I arrived. Ta-da!

 Then, to make time, I walked down the A-62 to Pontremoli – another 22 km. But it was downhill and I was blessed with a perfect sunny, cool, traffic free stroll. 

Later, sitting in Pontremoli, thinking that wasn’t so bad, I wondered at why I made such a fuss about it. 

The last few days of my walk to Lucca are different in tone, pace and focus. The landscape gives way to rolling hills and valleys, rugged forests broken occasionally by pastures and crops, strung together by small villages, all with interesting history. 

Once, on an adventure to northern India, our guide said something quite profound that stuck with me: “Unfortunately, India is littered with the relics of its long history.” I thought it odd but it has become more meaningful as I travel. It’s not that we have too many monuments or too much history, it’s that one must decide what to protect and what to abandon. I suspect Italy has the same challenge. 

Pontremoli was a fortress town controlling access to the two valleys it straddled and lands above and below. Passage through Pontremoli was in the hands of whichever powerful family that controlled the castle and the bridges. The castle is intact, much of it has been repurposed to house a museum of stele discovered in the area, some dating back to the 3rd and 4th century BC. Slow travelling now allows me to take in the museum. The stele display reminds me that humans have been seeking something and making art to express their quest for meaning for centuries. 

Down the road in Filleto, I stay in a Saracen village, a fortress of its own, now apartments, B&B’s and a fancy restaurant. Saracen is another word for Moorish invaders, they controlled parts of Italy and gained a reputation as bandits and raiders, although they settled into many parts of the Mediterranean for centuries. They were never acknowledged as anything more than temporary interlopers, relegated to a footnote in history as vagabonds by people who still won’t acknowledge that Islam dominated much of the Mediterranean for centuries. 

Between Filleto and Aulla, I walked a road that dates back to the Roman Empire. Think about that for a moment. In this time where everything seems measured in seconds and sound bites, I find it thrilling to believe I’m walking the same footpath as Roman armies took to cross the Alps more than 2000 years ago. It’s still in great shape, one of the better parts of the forest paths I walked today. These old paths have been used so often and for so long that the earth has grown up around them. The road is sunk several feet below the forest floor. 

The next day our path circles an ancient Roman town from the first century BC, Luna. There’s not much there for the history buff, but it offers proof that Carrara marble has been used as far back and Roman times. The best mosaic floor in one building hardly exists. I’ve seen better in England, Switzerland and Morocco. Preserve it, let it decay – the question of too much antiquity to handle?

I stayed one night in Carrara, the home for centuries of the quarries that supply the most extraordinary marble the world has ever seen, famous since the golden age of Rome. Think Michelangelo’s David – a piece of marble from Carrara, the standard has never been higher, the purity of the white marble unsurpassed. 

My last day is from Camaiore to Lucca. It turns out to be a most pleasant finale. Weather forecasts were ominous. Thunderstorm warnings accompanied by bursts of rain: however, the weather had cleared and all I faced was a few slight sprinkles. My thrill of the day was meeting volunteers for the Francigena marathon – more tender mercies, this time for deserving runners.

Sitting in Lucca, sipping my Machiato in the square by Saint Michele Paolino, a beautiful cathedral fittingly clad in white marble, with my pilgrim stamp to prove it, I’ve done segment three, 500 KM, I claim 350 of it. Finishing the last leg is for next spring, I hope.

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Crossing the plains of Italy.

After a somewhat challenging start, I arrive in Italy. My landing in Milan from Montreal via Frankfurt is almost anti-climatic. Having entered the EU and been cleared, there was no one at the Milan airport who had the least bit of interest in me – standing there with my crumpled wad of papers showing my covid free legitimacy. 

I catch the train(s) to Ivrea, where we ended our walk in 2019 and where I will start my next stage.  My goal is Lucca, about 500 kms and about 4 weeks of walking away. I have deliberately decided to slow down, savour this experience and put off trying to make my final destination – Rome, another 450 kms from Lucca – till next year. It’s also a recognition that I can now comfortably manage about 20 km a day, more than that comes with risk and at a price. 

From Ivrea, I walk the Via Francigena across the Po Valley for about ten days. The region is famous for rice, we know the dish as risotto, a  signature dish for Italian cuisine. I have been to the source, I have tasted the best.

The Po valley is mostly flat. Rice growing requires flooding; water being what it is, flood irrigation requires flat land to work – really, uniformly, microscopically flat land. 

Some of my fellow walkers find this part of the VF boring. I do not. 

I am amazed at the complex grid system of canals and ditches and sliding gates which ensure the channeling of river water across vast distances in a pattern of distribution to irrigate such vast vistas. It is a massive engineering project. 

It is also obvious that this is complicated big-money agriculture. The farms look like small villages, the machinery is huge and the capital and sophisticated knowledge required to run a rice growing operation are absolute. 

 I grew up in a flat part of Alberta. This valley is flat and it is big. Days of walking big. I find it quite enjoyable. Especially early mornings. The misty coolness, the scent in the air, surprised little beasties, the dew, the amazing light as it plays across the sky and the land as dark turns to dawn turns to morning.  It is the magical part of the walking day. It’s also practical; the earlier the start, the sooner the finish – and out of 30+ heat. 

I also like the rhythm. Get up. Walk. Eat. Find home. Wash. Sleep. Eat. Repeat. It is satisfying. The other aspect of this life that I like is that I carry all that I need on my back. I can’t buy anything because I would have to carry it. It’s pretty simple. Rustic, one might say. 

There is complexity to it all. Staying present and mindful, staying on the trail, finding my hotel, managing to find water, foraging for food, ensuring I haven’t left anything behind at a rest stop, listening to my body; all require a vigilance, especially for those of us who walk alone.

At this stage of my life, walking these pilgrimages is like meeting up with an old friend.

The high point (pun intended) is a crossing of the Po River by ferry boat, listed as Ad Padum on Sigeric’s list.

Danillo has been running the ferry for 23 years, amongst the pilgrim crowd he is a legend. He doesn’t just ferry us across the river. We get a short history lesson at his home nearby, a certificate of passage and an entry in his Big Book. Since 1998, Danilo tells me 134 Canadians have crossed on his boat. Cool! 

Crossing the Po with Danillo is excitement in the pilgrim journey – we do learn to recalibrate excitement, this little boat ride makes me positively giddy as I continue my day to Piacenza. 

We’re not done with the Po Valley yet but subtle change are showing themselves. I am a few days walk to the edge, where the Appennine mountains begin. 

It takes a more imaginative writer than I to wax more poetic about rice farming and flat stretches of land so I’ll switch to another topic – the kindness of strangers, or as I call them, tender mercies. 

Tender mercies are abundant. I am inundated with them. Italian B&B’s have been through hell, yet the owners are consistently gracious. In Ivrea, my B&B host knows I’m Canadian so she cooks eggs for me to supplement the normal Italian breakfast of coffee and sweet rolls. I am often the only guest in a hotel so they automatically give me a big room, I’m not used to windows, balconies and space given my well-documented hotel frugality.

Still suffering from jet lag/dehydration, I knew I would struggle on my second day of walking; the solution is simple, find a taxi, make day 2 shorter. I stopped a man coming out of a shop early that morning, asked him to help me find a taxi. It proved challenging, no taxis, no buses, so he drove me to the next town, dropped me at the town square with a cordial ‘buon Camino’ and went on his way. Such kindness of strangers warms me for days. 

In Tromello, a small village halfway through my day’s walk, I stopped for my morning coffee/cornetto. While I was extracting myself from the grips of the Beast, an elderly (it’s all relative) man rolled up on an equally aged bicycle. 

“Pelegrino?” He asked. 

I nodded.


I nodded again. 

He motioned that I should give it to him. 

I did. 

He rode off. 

Before we go any further, I did not give him my real Canada passport. Pelegrinos carry a pilgrim passport. We get stamps in our passports from hotels and churches along our way to verify where we’ve been. It’s like getting stars in your workbook in elementary school. I recommend it, it’s oddly satisfying.

In a few minutes he returned. His church stamp proudly displayed in my passport, forever.

 “Buon Camino.”  

Grazie mille. 

We finished the formalities and off he rode. 

It’s hard work to feel grumpy after a kindness like that. 

The night before Danillo’s epic boat ride I had made arrangements with Giovanni to stay at the hostel in Corte S. Andrea right beside the Po River. I am staying away from hostels for obvious covid reasons – the less contact with others, particularly indoors, the better. This was the only spot to stay so I took it. 

Giovanni assured me I would not need to bring food. There was an Osteria close by and he stocked food at the hostel. The question was should I trust him. I did. It worked. As I walked into the village, the first building I saw was the Osteria. Long Sunday family lunches are a thing here. They took me in, bedraggled as I was, set up a table and fed me like the prince I want to be when I grow up. It was a sweet spot moment. 

I picked up the key, went to the hostel, sorted things out and, later, met Giovanni and his wife. My guess is they are voluntary caretakers and they do the daily slog that keeps their Via hostel functioning. Both in their 80’s, they do this every time a pilgrim rolls through. Legendary kindness isn’t always large and dramatic, sometimes it’s daily and small. He let me take his picture, she declined. 

And, of course, Danillo. Well into his elder years, he boards his boat every morning when needed, pilots it across the Po, fills it with Pilgrims, ferries them to the other side, then offers a history lesson and celebrates us by asking us to fill in his ledger of pilgrim travellers. He doesn’t do it for the money and he is invaluable.

Such tender mercies…

Sometimes in the process of searching for one thing, I end up stumbling onto something else, usually something that has been waiting for me, lingering just off the corner of my vision. 

After only a week into my Via Francigena adventure, I’m aware already that there is more going on underneath the surface than I was expecting.

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The Challenge of post-covid Travel.

I have recently returned from a big adventure, an international trip to Italy. It involved long flights across Canada and the Atlantic, several interactions with immigration officials from various countries, including my own. In the pandemic nations are trying to insulate themselves from visitors who might bring more covid related problems to their populace.  

While I was travelling in Italy for more than a month, I had to learn the new rules of social engagement, interacting with people in a country that was not mine, in which I did not speak the language or know the new mores of post-covid human interaction. 

Needless to say, It was a serious decision, unlike others I had taken before with layers upon layers of potential risk, a multiplication of complex factors and a level of anxiety new to foreign travel. 

I’ve been walking parts of the Via Francigena since the summer of 2017. It starts in Canterbury. That year Kristen and I finished in Reims. In 2018, my friend, John, and I started there, he walked with me through rural France then ditched me for the bright lights of Paris. I walked into Switzerland, Blair picked me up in Lausanne and walked me over the Great Saint Bernard Pass and down into Italy. We ended in a small city called Ivrea, between Milan and Turin.

Life and covid suspended any further progress towards Rome – 800 kilometers away from where we left off in Ivrea. For the past three years, I’ve carried a burning desire to finish my pilgrimage to Rome – and I’m a certified agnostic! 

My desire is to git-her-done. 

It’s about breaking out of the covid lockdown without being stupid. 

It’s about measuring my years and wanting to make the most of the limited time left for these adventures.

It’s about testing myself and seeing if I’ve got the capacity to do this.

It’s about finishing my walk.

Fun Fact. Sigeric, the bishop of Canterbury, travelled to Rome in the late 10th century to be officially elevated to Cardinal. On his way home, an aide kept a list of all the places they stopped along the way, 83 altogether. 

From that one page list we now have a full blown pilgrimage, a defined route where every twist and turn has been marked and way marked, where I now have an app that tells me where to go. Needless to say, with a thousand years between Sigeric’s journey and now, we’ve made a few adjustments, taken a few liberties with a thin set of facts. Like most Catholic beliefs, one needs to remember that while there may be some core facts, much of the rest is storytelling embellishment – myth. That awareness allows me to plan and to take the occasional shortcut and ride the train now and then. 

After much internal debate, discussion with family and friends, I decided last spring to do it – Autumn, 2021 – enough time to train, enough time for mass vaccinations to take effect, enough time, hopefully for the risk to be minimized. 

I booked the flight well in advance. Weather would be fine, school would have started in Italy, the tourists (if there were any) would have largely gone home – all calibrated to lower the risk. I checked the immunization progress in Italy and throughout the EU, watched the regulations for tourists entering the country, watched my own country’s rules for re-entry. I wanted to avoid being quarantined; that was a deal-breaker, why spend weeks in an Italian airport hotel looking out the window?

As the date approached, it all seemed more hopeful. I gathered my gear and packed my bag carefully – many times – judging every item by a weight/need/price ratio. For several months I’ve been walking everywhere. I’ve monitored the Italian/EU situation – my assumption from the beginning was that getting into Italy, then getting back into Canada were the greatest risks outside my control. 

On the morning of September 2, I gathered my wits and my gear and Kristen drove me to the airport.

Check-in at YVR was the first test, Air Canada in Vancouver cleared me through Montreal and on to Rome. My boarding pass to Rome in hand, the vital test, I boarded the plane for my first big post-Covid adventure.

Rule #1, never relax. As I boarded the plane in Montreal, I was given a form asking to confirm my covid antigen test for the trip. 

Well. That was a surprise. I had read the Italian regs. There was no requirement for a rapid antigen test. 

Unfortunately, the Italians changed the rules starting Aug 30 – two days before I got on my plane. They now required a negative covid test. And they didn’t send me the memo!

I had not taken the test and I decided to take responsibility for my mistake and eat my humble pie while it was hot.  I disembarked; not that I had any choice in the matter but doing it willingly made a difference. 

With the help of Nadia and Celia, two of the nicest Air Canada agents I have ever met, we built plan B. In about two hours. 

We recovered my bag. I got a negative covid antigen test. I got a hotel room. Most importantly, Nadia rebooked my flight to Milan, better than flying into Rome!

I lost a day, thankfully a planned rest day. But the rest of the trip plans survived. 

I even managed to spend my day of Montreal penance with my friend John. Not a bad purgatory. 

I am exceedingly grateful to Nadia and Celia for helping me build plan B.

Nadia, the flight services agent who stepped in to help me solve the crisis showed remarkable wisdom and kindness in the process. 

Celia, her colleague, had started that morning at 6 am yet she stayed with me to get me out of immigration, gather my bag, point me to the covid test site and hold my hand, figuratively of course – it is still necessary to adhere to covid protocols – until all the pieces of my journey had been put back together. (All this after a 12 hour day!)

In small chats with them that night, I came to understand how much they have been through since the before times. Yet, they continued to be kind, cheerful, thoughtful and thoroughly professional.

There are acts of kindness that I like to call ‘tender mercies’. We should honour them; they are the antidote to fear, anxiety and negativism. These small tender mercies reinforce my belief in the essential goodness of people. They are everywhere, they need to be recognized, appreciated, acknowledged and celebrated. 

I did make it to Italy, in arriving Milan a day later than expected. 

Over five weeks in Italy, I felt safer than if I were in Canada. Why? First, their vaccination rate is better than Canada’s. Second, they take masking seriously. I saw more people masked up in all the appropriate places than I have seen in Canada. Third, I was wandering around the countryside, my only contact with people was limited. I saw people when I checked into hotels or B&B’s, in outdoor patios of restaurants where we all practised some strategic social distancing, and everyone in grocery stores had to pass a thermo/temperature test before being allowed inside. Hand sanitizer was widely available and used by all. 

But the primary reason I felt safer was the Italian Green Card – proof of both vaccinations – it was required for any person to enter a public place, museums, restaurants, hotels, stores, trains, buses. The Green Card was checked assiduously. There is no fooling around with nut-bars who think their individual right to choose to be vaccinated is infringed. Go home, you’re not welcome in public places was the rule. It is so obvious that we should isolate the anti-vaxxers and forbid them from participation in public life. No compromises. All it takes is a lot more political spine. 

My exit from Italy and return to Canada was much easier. The ArrivCan app was downloaded. My Via Francigena Facebook friends showed me the approved list of providers of PCR tests needed for re-entry to Canada. I found one five minutes walk from my hotel in Rome, booked an appointment on line, showed up, had a swab taken in 5 minutes, payed my 60 Euros, and got the results back in about 12 hours. My hotel printed out the test results, I filed my paperwork with ArrivCan, got my confirmation code and made it through the Air Canada pre-screen in no time. When I arrived in Canada, I moved through the re-entry process in good time. I was home!

So, for those of you who are thinking about international travel in the foreseeable future this was my experience. 

Here’s a few observations: 

  • Read the entry and exit rules and take them seriously, you can’t negotiate yourself out of following the rules.
  • Ask people who have just done what you’re thinking of doing. My friend Norm went to Germany a week or so before I went to Italy. He had practical, common sense advice based on real-life experience and it helped. 
  • Take every precaution that you would at home then be even more cautious. 
  • Be polite, observe the local customs, ask for help and be polite. Did I mention be polite?
  • Make sure you have lots of band-width on your phone, tickets for everything must be ordered in advance; web based ticketing provides data for contact tracing and manages crowd sizes in interior locations.
  • Make sure all your insurance coverage is adequate and up-to-date. 

I’m not a big fan of the idea that travel can profoundly change my life. I walk a lot of pilgrim miles, I don’t don’t believe in epiphanies. I do however believe that these adventures, by exposing us at our most vulnerable, allow us to see things we might miss or ignore. In more than five weeks of wandering Italy and being a tourist, I was shown more kindness than I had ever expected. The tender mercies of one person being kind to another, with no expectation of return or reciprocity were overwhelming. 

If I have a thought to leave with others, it is this. Humans continue to show kindness, civility, interest and empathy with others. The Pandemic has not changed that. The pandemic may change the way we see the world but I don’t think it will stop us from having adventures, nor will it change our capacity for goodness.  

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Voyage Out

Disturb us, Lord, when
We are too well pleased with ourselves,
When our dreams have come true
Because we have dreamed too little,
When we arrived safely
Because we sailed too close to the shore.

Disturb us, Lord, to dare more boldly,
To venture on wider seas
Where storms will show your mastery;
Where losing sight of land,
We shall find the stars.

– Sir Francis Drake

Drake may have been dreaming too little because he felt too pleased with himself; I have not been dreaming much at all lately  because of Covid 19. I’ve been trying to break free from some bad habits I’ve picked up during my time of covid.

The first is lethargy. All those months of finding small ways to amuse myself, of jigsaw puzzles, reading and mindless TV watching, have created a habit of whiling away hours with the only goal being to while away the hours while staying out of trouble.  Unfortunately, doing nothing is now a habit and my dreams of adventure have disappeared.  

The second is fear, anxiety and the desire for safety. I fell into a trap of only looking at the risk, the problems, the downside; I am too-much driven by the negative. The positive side of venturing out has blurred, it’s out of focus.

Oh, and that mindless TV watching – it took over my life for a while. And not in a good way. I’ve been captured by the ‘what if?’ anxiety of news reporting – aimed at raising questions that cannot be answered definitively, concerns that cannot be resolved, fears that cannot be put to rest. It makes me timid, anxious and risk adverse – in the covid environment the world became a scary place.

I forgot how to adventure. I lost the joy of possibility.

What greater delight and wonder can there be than to leave the straight lines of personality and deviate into these footpaths that lead beneath brambles and thick tree trunks into the heart of the forest where live those wild beasts, our fellow men? That is true: to escape is the greatest of pleasures; street haunting in winter the greatest of adventures.

– Virginia Woolf

It has been a struggle to find my equilibrium, to focus on the joy of adventure, to savour again the before-times. 

My first tentative moves as the covid crisis lifted, enabled by my two vaccination shots, seem almost laughable now. I ventured out to see friends again, although mostly outside. My circle widened slowly. I actually hugged someone for the first time – leaving us both a bit red faced and skittish. It seemed so strange. 

A few weeks ago I flew to Ottawa to see Blair, for the first time in some 18 months. Going into an airport, getting on a plane, traveling across the country; all things I never gave a moment’s thought, now seemed edgy, risky. 

And then they weren’t. 

I’m now standing on the precipice ready to leap off into the world. I have unfinished business that requires a conscious choice to take some risks and venture out. 

I’m off to Italy to finish my walk on the Via Francigena. The Via is an epic pilgrimage, replicating the walk Sigeric made in the 10th century from Canterbury to Rome (and back) to receive his vestments and become a Cardinal in the Roman Catholic Church. 

My pilgrimage has taken some time.  Thru-walkers do it all at once, from start to finish. I’m not so driven. In 2017, I managed to make it from Canterbury to Reims with Kristen part of the way. In 2018, I walked from through France from Reims, part way with my friend John, to Lausanne. 

Blair joined me at Lausanne; we crossed the Great Saint Bernard Pass into Italy and meandered down to Ivrea. So far, I’ve managed 1200 km, with about 800 km left to go. (You’ll notice I didn’t say I walked 1200 km, there were trains and automobiles involved on occasion). 

I feel a strong desire to pick up where I left off and finish this. 

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.

– Mark Twain

I’m not sure I have twenty years so the time is now, not when the world is risk free. It never was. But I’m not into foolish risk-taking, at my age that is unwise. This is not my first rodeo and I think I’m clear-eyed about the risks. 

Italy’s vaccination rates are high and moving briskly to cover more of the population (70% have the first shot, 60% have both). I am assured by people who have already traveled to Italy that my BC immunization card is recognized proof by Italian authorities. I will be in rural areas with minimal contact with others; no more hostels, I’m going upscale to my own hotel room! I’ll wear a mask and carry the equivalent of my weight in hand sanitizer. I have some new electronics that offer a communication and information safety net and a real live on-the-ground person (Bless you Shannon) who has volunteered to be my guardian angel should I need it. Needless risk is not smart, minimizing risk is.

So, I’m off.  

Travel isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that’s okay. The journey changes you; it should change you. It leaves marks on your memory, on your consciousness, on your heart, and on your body. You take something with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind.

– Anthony Bourdain

Anthony Bourdain is right. This will not always be pretty. I’ve been walking like Forrest Gump for a while now trying to get in shape but I expect much pain along the way. I also expect moments of pure joy. Whatever happens, I’ll be out there again, open to the possibilities. 

Hark now, hear the sailors cry

Smell the sea and feel the sky

Let your soul and spirit fly

Into the mystic.

– Van Morrison

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Pray for the Paintress

In the process of completing a History course on renaissance Italy, I was required to do a major research paper of my choice. I tried to find a relatively obscure topic, I knew I would learn enough of Leonardo, Michelangelo, the Medici’s, Petrarch, Boccaccio, the Popes, etc. Laura suggested a woman artist, rare but interesting; I went further, a renaissance Florentine nun artist. My Prof, Emily O’Brien gave me some leads, some advice and lots of encouragement and set me off in search of Sister Plautilla. It was a worthy diversion for my days of self-isolation. It’s a long piece, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did researching and writing about Sister Plautilla.

Pray for the Paintress; the life of Sister Plautilla Nelli (1524-1588

On October 17th, 2019, a major art event was held in the museum of the Basilica of Santa Maria Novella in Florence, Italy. The event celebrated the unveiling of a recently restored painting by Sister Plautilla Nelli, one of the earliest known women painters of the Renaissance. This was her glorious 7 metre (21 foot) by 2 metre (6.5 foot) interpretation of the Last Supper, with life-sized depictions of Jesus and the twelve apostles. The painting, signed “Sister Plautilla – Pray for the Paintress” was being shown fully restored after a long tortuous 450 year journey, finally casting a bright and admiring light on a long forgotten artist. 

The event received world-wide attention, the Guardian described it in its headline; “Restored to glory; How a 16th century nun regained her place in art history.” The journalist, Joanna Moorhead, described the artist as; “a contemporary of Michelangelo, Titian, and Tintoretto; a native of Florence who spent her entire life in the city in which her greatest work has now been rediscovered; a woman who managed to paint at a time when women were effectively forbidden from doing so; and a nun”. 

Such a remarkable story easily catches one’s attention. A woman, a nun, an artist, a contemporary of the great artists of renaissance Florence, whose works have been recovered, restored, mounted and displayed after decades of neglect is eye-catching and spell-binding. The Italian renaissance has always captivated our attention, the life of a nun in a convent offers insights into many aspects of the profound issues facing the church in a time of political, economic and spiritual upheaval. It was a time of conflict between temporal and religious forces, the emergence of humanism as an intellectual challenge to christianity, with the plague looming unforeseen and unpredictable, in the midst of a profound transformation of the established order from trade and the growth of the merchant class; all causing the tectonic shifts that led to the rise of the powerful city states and mercantile families like the Medici. Whew, that’s a lot going on.

A possible painting of Sister Plautilla?

Plautilla Nelli was born in 1524 in Florence. At the age of 14, she was placed in a convent. She spent her whole adult life as a nun at the convent of Santa Caterina di Cafaggio, renamed and better known as Santa Caterina de Sienna. She was prioress, head of the convent, three times before she died at the age of 64 in 1588. She was also an active painter who, mostly self taught, learned the disciplines and craft of painting; she taught, encouraged, mentored and collaborated with other nuns within the convent to successfully develop their own artistic talents to the point that Santa Caterina was known for its nun-artist community and the quality of its artistic output. 

There are only four of her original paintings still in existence that can be safely attributed to her as well as some drawings that have been assembled from various sources. All, like the Last Supper have been meticulously restored. The Last Supper was painted in the 1560’s.  

In the midst of all the turmoil, the unleashing of a burst of creative artistic genius that was the Italian renaissance, this nun painted a 21 foot by 6.5 foot masterpiece, her vision of the Last Supper, for her Convent’s refectory. Surrounded by brilliant art, and influenced by artists who set the gold standard for artistic achievement even today, she found her own style and a large enough canvas to capture and frame her vision.  Joining this pantheon of achievement, being recognized with the unveiling of her newly restored piece is Sister Plautilla, whose only plea as she bridged the centuries was ‘Pray for the Paintress’. A humble enough request but perhaps she deserves more than a prayer from us. Does she deserve to stand with Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael and the other greats of renaissance Florence?

Why Have There Been No Great Women Artists?

In 1971, Linda Nochlin, a prominent art historian, wrote a stunning article entitled Why Have There Been No Great Women Artists?

In her words: “…like so many other so-called questions involved in the feminist “controversy,” it falsifies the nature of the issue at the same time that it insidiously supplies its own answer: There have been no great women artists because women are incapable of greatness.”

To Nochlin the question: “…is simply the top tenth of an iceberg of misinterpretation and misconception; beneath lies a vast dark bulk of shaky idees recues about the nature of art and its situational concomitants, about the nature of human abilities in general and of human excellence in particular, and the role that the social order plays in all of this.

Nochlin concluded that there were no great women artists! The system of art training, curating, and the paternalistic society for training and judging ‘great’ art precluded any woman from being so designated. “There are no women equivalents for Michelangelo or Rembrandt, Delacroix or Cezanne, Picasso or Matisse, or even, in very recent times, for de Kooning or Warhol, any more than there are black American equivalents for the same. If there actually were large numbers of “hidden” great women artists, or if there really should be different standards for women’s art as opposed to men’s–and one can’t have it both ways–then what are feminists fighting for? If women have in fact achieved the same status as men in the arts, then the status quo is fine as it is.”

She went on: “But in actuality, as we all know, things as they are and as they have been, in the arts as in a hundred other areas, are stultifying, oppressive, and discouraging to all those, women among them, who did not have the good fortune to be born white, preferably middle class, and above all, male. The fault lies not in our stars, our hormones, our menstrual cycles, or our empty internal spaces, but in our institutions and our education–education understood to include everything that happens to us from the moment we enter this world of meaningful symbols, signs, and signals. The miracle is, in fact, that given the overwhelming against women, or blacks, that so many of both have managed to achieve so much sheer excellence, in those bailiwicks of white masculine prerogative like science, politics and the arts.”

Her penetratingly honest, starkly logical and courageous analysis set off a storm of controversy and a conversation that has not ended, it likely never will. It is not because women suffer from an incapacity of their gender but that an insurmountable set of barriers set by a patriarchal system had made such an achievement impossible. What she called for was a complete destruction of the whole system around the teaching, creation, nurturing, curating, and judging of what constituted art. 

How then do we judge Sister Plautilla, is she a ‘great’ artist or should she be celebrated for having achieved ‘so much sheer excellence’ in spite of the impediments and obstacles she had to overcome? 

Giorgio Vasari, the first art critic.

Sister Plautilla was identified as one of only four women artists who were worthy of  note by the most famous chronicler of art at the time, Giorgio Vasari. Vasari (1511-1574) was a painter and an architect but his enduring legacy was ‘not a building or a painting but a book’, the first book attempting to chronicle and analyze art and discuss what it took to be an artist.  

Vasari’s chronicle was described as “ a pioneering work in the field of art history… which laid the groundwork for modern art history…essential reading today.” Paoletti and Radke affirmed this judgement, saying Vasari: “provided a dominating critical and historical framework for understanding Italian art… Vasari’s narrative has been remarkably tenacious within the critical literature and therefore deserves some attention. Vasari championed the individual creative genius view of ‘great’ and presumed that the best way for an artist to learn the craft was through the workshop system; he also preferred the Tuscan style, exemplified by his favorite, Michelangelo, that dominated the renaissance art period in Florence and throughout Italy. And, of course, there was the implicit bias that Nochlin points out: “…it was difficult for most men, not just Vasari, to believe that women could be both creative and virtuous”.

Vasari had written this vast sweeping chronicle of art in 1550, revised in 1568; his revision included Sister Plautilla with a short but glowing commentary. Vasari was the first, or the first we know of, to include Sister Plautilla in a chronicle of distinguished artists and the first to judge her merit as an artist. Vasari describes Sister Plautilla; “… she executed some works that have amazed the artists.” This is high praise given the renaissance artists with whom she was being compared. He went on; “Despite the fact that the artist, being a woman, lacked practice in painting from life, these (women in many of her works) are painted so well that no one could ask for more.” 

Vasari said of her: “She made so many paintings for the homes of Florentine gentlemen that it would take too much time to list them all here.” Finally, tellingly, he described her as; “revered and virtuous.”

Vasari was the most influential art ‘critic’ of his time. He lived in a world where women were not allowed to be artists, much less judged as equals of their male contemporaries for their merit. He would understand, accept and take for granted the limitations and constraints on women artists, the life of convent nuns and their place in the complicated interaction between the cloister and the outside world. He would be fully aware of the struggle of a woman like Sister Plautilla to learn the craft of painting, to study and create in a time when art was in high demand by patrons whose status in their community was judged by what hung on the walls of their ‘studiolo’, the Italian equivalent of the modern study. 

However, Vasari presumed that women were not intellectually capable of creating a distinctive style ‘a maniera’, that only a man, one who undergoes rigorous training under the supervision of a master artist in a long apprenticeship could develop such a distinctive style. He had a clear bias toward the humanist influenced artists like Michelangelo over the religious themed art of the Savonarola influenced Dominicans. Vasari was primarily focused on Florentine art, on the masters of this never-matched time of artistic excellence and on their artistic achievements; he was attuned to, and was a major proponent of, the growing influence of humanist views on the conventional spiritual and religious themes and portrayals of the pre-renaissance period. 

One can also assume that because Sister Plautilla only painted within religious themes dictated by Savonarolan principles of simplicity, piety and spiritual clarity that she would be seen as less developed. It would be fair to say that Vasari saw Sister Plautilla as an artist of unfulfilled potential yet incapable and therefore not worthy of being included with the greats of renaissance Florentine art.

The Rediscovery of Sister Plautilla Nelli – Renaissance Artist.

One of the consequences of Nochlin’s question was the concerted attempt by many to find those women who if they had not been described as ‘great’, had at least “managed to achieve so much sheer excellence” that they deserve real recognition and, more than that, deserved to be hung in galleries and museums and made the focus of exhibits. These art lovers did not necessarily want to prove that Nochlin was wrong or that the whole cultural development system that we call art was completely broken, they wanted to show the world that there WERE women artists worthy of consideration who were overlooked, who could be found, could be revisited, whose art could be restored and re-exhibited; these forgotten women artists could finally be elevated to well-deserved positions of respect based on the sheer excellence of their achievements. They wanted women artists to be recognized – to finally be Visible.

One of the most active and successful groups to undertake the search for these great women artists was Advancing Women Artists.


The group of predominantly American benefactors led by Jane Fortune was organized in 2007 with a specific mission to: “preserve, conserve and restore works by women artists held in the museums of in Florence.”

Sister Plautilla, already identified by Vasari, was chosen as a major focus of the AWA work.   At the start, there were only three pieces of art attributed to Sister Plautilla known to still exist, another has been verified and all four have been restored and put on display in Florence. 

The AWA commenced funding and organizing collaborative restoration efforts for the Lamentation with Saints  now in the Museo di San Marco in Florence. It was a large piece, measuring 288 cm (113 inches) by 192 Cm. (75 inches) restored and unveiled in 2006. 

A second piece was restored and unveiled in 2008, Saint Dominic receives the Rosary, 147 cm (58 in.) by 231 cm (91 in.); it is currently displayed at the Last Supper Museum of Andrea del Sarto, Florence. 

The third piece, Saint Catherine in prayer, also restored in 2008, was equally large, 145 cm (57 in.) by 235 cm (92.5 in), is also on display at the Last Supper Museum.

The restoration and unveiling of The Last Supper, the final known pieceby Sister Plautilla was documented in ‘Visible’, a book that details the recovery and restoration of the painting. The Last Supper was her most outstanding achievement, yet it might never have survived to be restored and exhibited. The restoration took four years and cost over US$200,000. (Lobo)

Linda Falcone and others describe what is known of the journey, a journey that one writer called tormented, of this now famous work of art. The piece was originally painted for the refectory, the major hall usually used for dining at Santa Caterina, Sister Plautilla’s convent and home. It hung there until the convent was dissolved by Napoleonic edict in the early 19th century. Luckily it was acquired by a related monastery, Santa Maria Novella in 1817 where it was hung until the early 20th century. 

At that point, it was removed from its stretcher, rolled up and stored for several decades, not lost but certainly forgotten. Rediscovered in the 1930’s, restoration work was undertaken and the painting was again hung in the refectory of Santa Maria Novella. In the 1980’s it was again removed, again rolled up and put away until it was re-re-discovered by Jane Fortune.

The Last Supper and Sister Plautilla – restored. 

Sister Plautilla painted the Last Supper in the early 1560’s; she would have been in her 30’s at the time. She signed it: “S. PLAUTILLA – ORATE PRO PICTORA” – Sister Plautilla, Pray for the Paintress”.

The restoration of the painting not only uncovered the original canvas but brought to light so much more about the artist and this monumental piece of renaissance devotional art. The documentation of the history of the painting’s life, from celebration to storage to recovery to restoration was but one aspect of the discovery process, undertaken to both assist the restoration and authenticate the provenance of the painting. 

Visible, a book created to document the restoration process, revealingly called it ‘a monumental canvas saved centimetre by centimetre’.  The challenge was complicated and daunting; to remove centuries of dust and grime, made worse by years of accumulated grease and soot from kitchen fumes adjacent to the refectory, to stabilize and secure the original three pieces of canvas carefully stitched together to make the huge canvas, to repair the harm caused by removing the painting from its frame and rolling it up to be stored in a damp, dusty environment, to dig through several layers of previous restoration attempts which were now covering the true painting; all this had to be done centimetre by centimetre. The paints used by Sister Plautilla had to be carefully analyzed and matched to be re-applied to accurately replace those used in the 1560’s in a manner that matched not only the original artist’s paint but her brush strokes and her style. It was an expensive, time-consuming and challenging task of meticulous alchemy, yet it faithfully rendered a vibrant restoration, worthily reflecting the original.  

In the process of going through the canvas so minutely, all those involved, analysts, restorers, technicians and art historians had the time and the opportunity to ‘read’ the painting. Their detailed analyses offered some interesting observations. 

The composition of the painting reflects the strong influence of Girolamo Savonarola (1452-1498), the Dominican monk noted for his demands for a return to spiritual simplicity and devotion to the biblical principles of the early disciples and his condemnation of the lavish richness of the church and its new humanist-influenced art which he saw as distractions from sacred themes. His criticism of the church hierarchy gained him many followers but also accumulated enemies within the church. He was excommunicated, then put to death for refusing to be quiet. He was an early precursor of the Tridentine influences on the church resulting from the reformation and the counter-reformation response of the Council of Trent.

Savonarola had a powerful positive effect that opened a space for Sister Plautilla and her convent brethren. Savonarola believed in the power of art to heighten Christian piety and devotion. Painting was encouraged, art was to be desired and it was to be made a part of every convent. Pictures would be commissioned and hung inside convents and monasteries. Her artistic development was encouraged especially since it exemplified her convent’s adherence to Savonarola’s admonitions that art reflect this religious austerity.

The setting of her painting was austere, a simple white tablecloth, a muted background, table settings that reflected the glasses and dish-ware that would have been common in the refectory, with a few pieces that, in a muted way, hinted at the richness of Medicean Florence. The food displayed was both symbolic of the sacramental nature of the last supper as described in scripture – the wine and the bread. She also embellished the menu and illustrated food common to the convent table. Interestingly she even displays a large bowl with a lamb, bowls of lettuce and fava beans, all rich with both allegorical and personal meaning to the convent nuns viewing the painting as they ate.

The curators recognized the artist’s thoughtful placement of Jesus and the twelve apostles, captured at the moment when he announces that he has been betrayed. Each man, life sized, is unique, each carefully depicted. Without any chance to actually learn to paint the male human form from live models because she was both a woman and a nun, Sister Plautilla receives much credit for her depiction of them; “the figures of the apostles are intensely characterized by highly realistic and varied physiognomies, which the artist represented using different poses portraying wide-ranging expressions…a great deal of attention had, in fact, been paid to accurately depict human anatomy…. evident in the precise rendition of many details which, together, contribute to making the composition much more enjoyable to look at”.

Interestingly, Judas is prominent, isolated and unique in his placement on the near side of the table, his proximity to Jesus, the strong colours of his clothing, even down to the telling detail of  the money bag in his hands; it was a careful and precise representation of the words from the Bible. Savonarola would have been pleased.  

It is again important to note that while Vasari made special mention of Sister Plautilla in his 1568 Lives of Artists, her painting style and her choice of topic were far from the vanguard of new humanist stylists that he admired. Her influences were not humanism and new ways of representing artistic subjects beyond the usual realm of devotional and religious icons, nor was she using techniques that could be considered avant garde for the time. While she most likely was aware of these major transformations in art, technique and subject matter and how to represent them, she was much influenced by the Savonarolan desire to emphasize simplicity and pious adherence to scripture in artistic representation. 

She was also a nun (and prioress) painting for the refectory of her convent – her home – seeking to provide devotional encouragement to that audience, her convent nuns; “Art produced for convent environments was judged for its devotional efficacy not for the creator’s originality. The function of art in this context was to support meditation by producing an appropriate state of mind in the viewer, and to induce emotional empathy. Images of saints or deities did their work best if shown, not performing a momentary or distracting action, but as serene, enduring essences.”

A Father’s dilemma

One of the biggest challenges a father faced in 16th century Florence was what to do with his daughters.  The constant challenge facing every man was how to manage the family’s property and financial resources, there was no safety net for a man and his family. Daughters were property, they presented an opportunity and a challenge. There were not many options available to fathers with daughters who had reached puberty; it was either marriage or the convent.

Marriage ‘resembled a corporate merger rather than the romantic or spiritual linking of a man and a woman’. His daughter, a prospective bride, offered a chance to build relationships, to move up the economic and social ladder, to expand business networks, to build an extended social network and a more extensive family safety net. But, like everything, it came with a cost. The child had to be physically attractive and well dressed, educated in the skills and arts of femininity, well spoken, musical, mannered and chaste. All this cost money; in addition, the groom’s family required a suitable dowry.

On the other side of the matrimonial equation, the father of the prospective groom was equally interested in advancing his family’s fortunes, a well chosen wife with all the wifely virtues and a solid if not wealthy family to offer a substantial dowry were essential considerations. Both sides sought to protect and enhance family wealth now and enhance prospects into the future. 

Dowries in sixteenth century Florence were huge, they reached such highly inflated levels in the late 15th century that in Florence, a special dowry investment fund was created allowing parents to invest money in an account funded by the monies forfeited by daughters who died before reaching marriageable age! And, as Florence became richer and more cosmopolitan, the cost of trousseaus and wedding feasts became prohibitive.

The only other credible alternative for a father who wanted to ensure his daughter lived a safe, meaningful and virtuous life was the convent. Without a husband, a woman had almost no options; working was not one of them, single women were not educated for a profession, were not allowed into the guilds or apprenticeship programs that led to a trade, the options seemed to be to become a lady in waiting or some other sort of servant or wet nurse. 

While most convents required some sort of dowry, it was usually much smaller, payments were more flexible and trousseaus/jewelry and other ancillary obligations were not necessary. There was some ongoing obligation of families to ensure that their nun-daughter did not starve but that challenge was not insurmountable and could be solved by other stratagems. 

There were other contributing factors to the decision to commit a daughter to the convent, not the least of which was the events of the time.  Life in sixteenth century Florence was anything but predictable; these were tumultuous and uncertain times, fraught with dangers for everyone but especially so for women, young and old. 

Kaborycha recounts the volatility of the time; the vicious and cataclysmic sack of Rome had just occurred in 1526, news reached Florence a year later. Plautilla was 3 or 4 at the time, her sister a few years older. Florence was a city that depended on banking, commerce, trade, sales of high end and luxury goods – all required stability and peace. The siege of Florence after the sack of Rome under-mined this sense of stability. By the late 1530’s Cosimo Medici, backed by the Spanish took firm control of Florence again. Through all this political turmoil, there was the constant threat of plague which ravaged Florence, destroying families and wiping out large portions of the population. 

In these circumstances, placing daughters in a convent, in the absence of a good marriage to a strong and wealthy family, added a margin of safety that could not be found elsewhere. 

A child becomes a Nun in 16th century Florence.

Plautilla Nelli spent most of her life as a nun; she grew up in a convent, lived her whole life in the company of other women, all of whom had pledged themselves to a unique religious calling as ‘brides of Christ’? How did this impact her evolution as an artist?

Plautilla Nelli entered the Convent of Santa Caterina de Sienna in central Florence in 1538 at the age of 14, following her sister, Petronilla, who entered the same convent one year earlier, at the age of 17. Their mother had died in 1530 when Plautilla was about 6. Their father Piero Nelli had remarried almost immediately; he died sometime in 1538. 

Plautilla’s father, Piero Nelli, variously described as a draper, a merchant and a commercial businessman came from a family with a solid name but he did not live amongst the wealthier of Florence’s merchant class. Piero’s untimely death was most likely the strongest factor in the placement of his two daughters in the Santa Caterina convent. They were orphans with no money, an uncertain dowry and little social status to secure a significant marriage; the best option for orphan daughters was the convent, a large local, well-regarded Dominican convent conveniently located in the neighbourhood, a convent with which he had done business, where his name and that of his two daughters would have been known and carried some value. This convent, Santa Caterina de Sienna, was a large tertiary convent in the  Piazza San Marco in central Florence.

Two aspects of their placement in Santa Caterina are worth noting. This was a tertiary convent. Tertiary convents allowed nuns to make vows of chastity, abstinence and devotion without having to live a cloistered life inside the four walls of the convent. 

Second, as already noted, Santa Caterina was a Dominican convent and had a long affiliation with followers of Savonarola, his strong views on the importance of art as a celebration of religious piety and devotion opened a space for Sister Plautilla to learn and develop her gifts as an artist.

The Nun in her Cloister – Protected or Imprisoned? 

The consequences of becoming a nun could be seen as positive or negative, though many saw it as second best. Marriage was not such a perfect life for women. Wives, like daughters, were property to be managed for their value. Most were perpetually pregnant, many died in childbirth at a very young age,  the pressure to keep procreating was pervasive and each birth represented a threat to the mother’s health. Life could be a treadmill of pregnancy, suckling, raising infants and managing (or doing) all the associated household tasks. There were no modern conveniences and necessities like running water, plumbing and heating were haphazard or non-existent.

They were servile to their fathers and then their husbands, with few rights, limited in their movement, tightly controlled in their activities and dependent on their husbands. While there were notable examples of women who pushed the envelope a bit, they were usually well-educated, came from and kept close to their powerful families, had their own sources of wealth and managed to negotiate space for their own growth. They were the exceptions that proved the rule. 

The growth and spread of convents supported the contention that convent life was a welcome alternative: “Before the Black Death, the city boasted approximately five hundred nuns, by 1500 that number had increased fourfold to over two thousand before climbing to twenty-five hundred by 1515. Convent populations doubled yet again over the next forty years. Expressed in terms of the urban population, nuns represented roughly 1 out of every 200-250 Florentine inhabitants in the late 1330’s, by 1552, about 1 in every 20 residents was a nun….” – in 1552 about 5% of the population of Florence. Clearly, sending one’s daughters to a convent was considered by many to be the right strategy; Sister Petronilla and Sister Plautilla were reflective of a major realignment of Florentine society. 

Nuns in fact were much more than cloistered women who prayed, this was especially true for Tertiary nuns who had much more open and flexible interactions with the wider society. Convents had become a major presence in all aspects of Florentine life.

Tertiary convents opened many opportunities for women, “Convents served the social purpose of providing a respectable place for girls and women to live out their lives when no better arrangement could be found for them in the outside world. Some women welcomed the companionship and quiet pleasures of a convent. In addition to practical tasks such as caring for the sick, gardening, embroidering, preparing foods and pharmaceuticals, nuns also engaged in recreational activities such as singing and acting in sacred dramas. Many convents put a strong emphasis on learning…”. 

Convent Nuns; learning, studying, perfecting skills.

Because of the size of convents, they became vital to the health and welfare of Florence “at the local neighbourhood level”. Nuns were affiliated with local churches, they prayed for parishioners on request (for a small fee), they cared for the sick and the elderly, they took in widows and abandoned daughters of the poor, and they engaged in local commerce. 

Convent dowries often consisted not of money but of bits and pieces of property, household goods of value, buildings which offered rental income, farms and agricultural properties – all requiring management. The nuns engaged in commercial activities managing their affairs, spent money in the local neighbourhood, hired local workers and participated in community events, leading a plethora of religious observances and, through their adjacent church buildings, became a neighbourhood hub, providing meeting places for confraternities. They even sued lessees for unpaid rents. 

The convent of Sister Petronilla and Sister Plautilla was Santa Caterina de Sienna. Created in 1500, it was a large tertiary convent in the  Piazza San Marco; by 1562, there were 133 members. In addition to its size, many of the nuns came from rich and powerful families with webs of relationships throughout the neighbourhood and the city. Families were able to support the convent, the convent nuns actively participated in the ecumenical and pastoral  affairs of the community. 

 Convents and their nuns became producers of goods and providers of services; “textile activities, book production, education…depended primarily on literate and manual skills, religion and technical knowledge, and significant human capital, which convents possessed in ever greater abundance”. Convents and the work of nuns were ingrained and irreplaceable in the development and expansion of the Florentine silk industry, helping to establish the city as a commercial centre and bringing wealth to the city. 

Convents were hubs of learning and manuscript/book production. Sister Petronilla became well-known as a copyist and illustrator of religious texts, even writing a well regarded biography on Savonarola. 

While individual women, married or single, were excluded from engaging in any kind of craft work or guild work, inside the convent walls, nuns could develop skills and engage in work and commercial activities even though; “working for the market amplified social contradictions by pitting nuns’ economic needs against gender norms, traditional values of honor and ideals of religious reclusion.” Such work was even encouraged because it provided commercial opportunities for the larger Florentine business community. Their commercial activities were also supported by their extended families since the money raised by convents through these activities took pressure off the families; convents became self supporting, financially literate and commercially engaged.  

Monastic poverty was a real issue. Three of every four nuns in Florence experienced some form of monastic poverty. Every family in Florence had a stake in ensuring that convents were self-sufficient or even prosperous, the alternative was using precious family money to keep them afloat. 

Finally, it is worth noting that convents became important and influential components of the political infrastructure in Medicean Florence. The convent had built a web of interdependent relationships giving the convent and its prioress power; she was able to wield influence, her voice carried weight, her support could be influential. There is no doubt of her management skills or her extensive web of contacts outside the convent walls. 

How did Sister Plautilla become an artist?

It is in this greater context in which Sister Plautilla’s development as an artist must be considered. Her sister was an illustrator of religious texts, only one of many devotional items made by nuns… “inexpensive figurines of saints, angels, and the Virgin using ephemeral materials like glass, paper and plaster….although similar items were produced in lay workshops, the ones produced by religious women probably gave them a special cachet. These workshops formed the historical backbone of later monastic craft collaborations, like the one organized around Sour Plautilla Nelli, ‘the first woman painter of Florence’”. Convent ledgers and extant records of transactions showed “virtually all Florentine nuns can be considered working women who regularly engaged in market activities.”, in startling contrast to all other women who lived outside the convent structure and were prohibited from working!

Producing goods with artistic commercial value required a level of skill that could match that of the guilds, nuns learned and taught each other the crafts. While there is much discussion about the artistic influences that may have guided Sister Plautilla’s artistic development, there is only speculation as to how she actually mastered the craft of painting, especially such large canvasses. Vasari offers clues, “she began to draw and paint little by little until she finally through much diligence….(she) studied the art of miniatures before she began painting panels and works of importance…she copied from others…the faces and features of women are much better and have much greater verisimilitude than her heads of men because she was free to study women at her leisure”.  It was also noted that for a time Sister Plautilla worked in the Convent’s pharmacy and would have had access to the materials and learned the craft of grinding ingredients and making paint colours. 

Sister Plautilla learned some of her skills as a painter by working on small  devotional items first, diligently studied art on her visits outside the convent especially as a prioress, was able to access copies of works of art from the vibrant artistic community and through the transfer of the artistic papers and drawings of several Dominican friars, and was able to practise her painting skills with the encouragement of the convent prioresses, strongly encouraged as a way to show devotion to Christ. According to Vasari she was exceptionally prolific, with ‘so many paintings for the homes of Florentine Gentlemen that it would take too much time to list them all here”. 

Serafino Razzi, another chronicler of artists and a Friar in a related Dominican monastery describer Sister Plautilla as “gifted with a genius above the ordinary in women”…who “created works that amazed the leading artists in the city of Florence” noted many paintings which are now lost. Convent records show sizeable financial income from the sale of pieces of art, many attributable to her, one as far away as Perugia.

Since her paintings were mostly devotional, they were made even more valuable in the minds of patrons because they were painted by a nun. While some art historians hypothesize that she learned in the studio, or under the tutelage, of some well-known Friars in adjacent monasteries, the restoration of The Last Supper seems to suggest otherwise; her painting technique, her style, the positioning of the subjects, even the paints she used were singular, a synthesis of all that she learned from other sources, and taught herself to use – not unlike any artist. They were definitely not the result of tutelage by a single master. 

Again, it is hard to judge the merits of her skill and the value of her work. The paintings which still exist are all large religious themed paintings for the walls of refectories and other spaces in convents and monasteries. They are not fully representative of her body of work. 

The paintings that do exist seem, at best guess to be painted between 1556, when Sister Plautilla was 32 years old and 1560 or so, when she produced the Last Supper. Much of her later work, perhaps impacted by the edicts of the Council of Trent were for other monasteries and convents.

One of the most plausible conjectures is that she rose to mastery ‘sheer excellence’ by being self taught; having entered the convent at 14; “Thus by the time she was thirty-five years old and credited with income from the sale of paintings to outside patrons, she may have had two decades of training and experience behind her. She also had reached the point where she could lead other nuns in the craft.”  

This other aspect of Sister Plautilla’s unique talent deserves mention. She was part of and most likely was instrumental in creating and leading, a large group of other artist-nuns that made Santa Caterina notable if not famous. The creation of a group of artists working together at Santa Caterina was first noted by Razzi, himself a Dominican friar whose sister was a nun/artist at Santa Caterina.  He cited three nuns by name and described them: “all three, disciples of the said Suor Plautilla, live in the same convent. Their paintings on canvas and panels won them praise and helped support their convent; they did nothing else in their spare time, when they were not praying.” 

It is well documented that at least one other, Sister Prudenza Cambi, was a successful painter and earned money for the convent from the sale of her paintings, though none seem to exist today.  Turrill profiles eight women who are known to have participated in the production of paintings, sculpture and other religious icons; “these virtuous and saintly nuns trained in both painting and manuscript illumination, whose sculpted images of Christ, the madonna, saints and angels were renowned throughout almost all of Italy.”

Sister Plautilla the Prioress.

Sister Plautilla was also Prioress of Santa Caterina for three terms, each term for three-years, 1563-65, 1571-73 and 1583-85, the last ending a few short years before her death in 1588. 

She was required to manage the complex affairs of a large convent with some 130 nuns; all those mundane issues from the daily challenges of food and rooming, heating and plumbing, work assignments, spiritual training to the larger more complex issues of ensuring that the restrictions of Council of Trent edicts did not destroy the financial stability of the convent, limit the contact of nuns with family, friends and community or even the broader state. The convent succeeded during her lifetime: “By the twilight years of the Florentine republic, these institutions had been irrevocably impressed into spiritual service to the state, transforming brides of Christ into daughters of the city. 

Sister Plautilla was prioress before and during the time the edicts of the Council of Trent were implemented and strictly enforced on the larger more influential Dominican tertiary convents; driven by higher powers in the church system, all men, who sought to restrict nuns to the cloister and control contact with the outside world. It wasn’t until 1575 that the Council of Trent’s enclosure system was imposed on Santa Caterina. Sister Plautilla, as prioress, would have faced the delicate and challenging daily negotiations with civic and church leaders who sought to curb the activities of the convent, deprive them of the commercial means to maintain their convent and take care of their nuns and limit their contact and ability to minister to their community. 

The resistance of the tertiary convents to erosion of their freedom and individual and collective agency, especially to the implementation of Council of Trent edicts and other reforms, would have been a monumental and complicated task, worthy of a treatise by Machiavelli.  

Yet it was vital. In this rare period, nuns enjoyed a considerable amount of agency, the freedom to interact with the world outside the convent walls, to engage in the community, to create and and sell goods, to manage their financial affairs, to be a part of the broader community. 

Sister Plautilla and her fellow artists in the convent utilized this freedom to develop their artistic skills. Preserving their hard earned freedom kept open a singular opportunity for her convent and her nuns to practise their art without constraint.

Was Sister Plautilla a great Artist?

Vasari said no. She was a woman, she had not been formally trained in a workshop under the tutelage of a great artist. She had not developed a distinctive style – a maniera, she was stuck in the old ways of religious devotional art and had not evolved to keep pace with his favourite, Michelangelo. She simply did not fit the criteria for greatness that he had established in his Lives of the Artists. 

It would seem impossible to contradict Vasari, he was there; he saw the breadth of her work, any attempt at repudiating his judgement today is limited based on the limited canvases that still exist, a tiny portion of her artistic output. 

Yet, to his credit, he praised her lavishly.

Sister Plautilla Nelli is a perfect example of Nochlin’s thesis that there can be no women who can be called great artists. The deck is stacked against them. There was no formal training, no family support, no tutelage under great artists, no symbiosis that comes from spending one’s waking hours in the company of other artists, no flock of critical reviewers and admiring patrons to spur and challenge – and yes – reward and faun over the artist. Sister Plautilla had none of those. 

Nochlin leaves space for Sister Plautilla to be celebrated; She is the representative icon Nochlin celebrates; “The miracle that managed to achieve so much sheer excellence”.

Sister Plautilla Nelli should be valued and celebrated for her artistic achievement. Vasari’s judgement is flawed by his obvious biases, yet his power to define artistic greatness lives on. Nochlin would say that Vasari was wrong in the construction of his model and the inflexibility of his tests and the unwillingness to test his bias. It is hard not to agree with her. 

Sister Plautilla has gifted the world four huge brilliant masterpieces. She managed these works by perfecting her gifts with studious discipline, overcoming impediments unknown to most of her male contemporaries. She somehow made the leap from creating miniatures and religious crafts for sale to support the convent to producing large pieces – as wide as billboards. She sold paintings to patrons – working in direct competition with the most gifted artist ever to populate a single city at a unique moment in the development of artistic excellence. 

Sister Plautilla was also lucky, although it is difficult sometimes to see her advantage. She entered a large, well-run convent under the Savonarolan influence. She was encouraged to develop her talent, not only to develop commercial activities that benefited the financial well-being of her community, but because art was a way to celebrate her calling as a ‘bride of Christ’, a reverential Christian. She was a tertiary nun at the right time, moving relatively freely in Florence on behalf of her convent, building relationships, talking with craftsmen and other artisits, getting to know patrons, even it seems forging a mutual respect with Vasari himself.

She had time, a lifetime, to focus solely on developing her skills and she had access to the greatest artists’ works to show her the best one could aspire to. She had found a window in time to enjoy that the two things denied women mostly memorably identified by Virginia Woolf centuries later, a room of one’s own and 500 guineas a year. Sister Plautilla had a supportive environment, peace, quiet and time to practise and experiment and develop her art and she was ensured the basic provisions of life so that she could focus on her art and not worry about finding food, paying rent, serving a husband or minding children. It wasn’t quite a sinecure at a famous artists academy but it was significant and transformational. It gave her space and agency.

She was obviously gifted to have achieved ‘so much sheer excellence’ but, as we all know, gifts take an artist only part way; she was clearly organized, energetic, focused and diligent in perfecting those talents. Nochlin is right, achieving greatness may be impossible when the deck is so stacked against one, but her sheer excellence demands to be recognized for the barriers she overcame and the accomplishments she achieved. 

Sister Plautilla used her talents to teach and develop others. She is acknowledged as a catalyst and leader, training and advancing the artistic efforts of her whole community of nun-artists in the Santa Caterina convent harnessing “the collective nature of the creative process that defined the way in which nuns practised art in convents,”.

“The heroic individualism of High Renaissance art would not have served the social interests of the nuns of Santa Caterina. Theirs was a communal society, grounded in a spiritual sisterhood that transcended blood ties, whose goal of communal harmony was supported by the images the placed around them. Sour Plautilla did not work in creative isolation, as Vasari described her, but as a part of a vital artistic community that she guided.”

I prefer to think of her in the process of painting the Last Supper:

“Picture the nun in her holy garments, mixing her pigments and stepping up onto scaffolding to brush enormous strokes of paint onto a canvas taller than her and wider than a contemporary billboard. The physical undertaking would have been immense, requiring great strength, focus and discipline – to say nothing of the will required to take on this sacred subject attempted before only by the male greats.” 

Pray for the Paintress.

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Anne Carson – Ambiguity, Uncertainty, Ecstasy

In the fall of 2019, I became a student again. I attended my first class in the Graduate Liberal Studies Program at Simon Fraser University. http://www.sfu.ca/gls.html

I wore my brand new Doc Martens shoes to class, partly because, as we all know one needs to choose proper footwear before embarking on an adventure, partly from a foolish belief that if I wore them, I wouldn’t look so out-of-place at the university but mostly because I had never actually owned a pair of Doc Martens and I felt unfulfilled. Well, two out of three ain’t bad.

The program has been a life-saver in this time of Covid stay-at-home orders. My courses have given me structure and purpose. They have filled my mind, mostly with questions; still, that’s better than vacant stares out of my window. I have met an interesting diverse group of fellow students, my professors have been universally superlative and I am now known on a first name basis by several independent book stores, a group that specifically excludes that scourge of modern life called Amazon, a rant I’ll save for another day.

One of my classes was a writing class. We were required, amongst other creative writing tasks, to produce a long piece of original writing with the hope that our final result would be published in a literary journal – the Ormsby Review. https://ormsbyreview.com/

I haven’t been blogging much lately so I am pleased and proud to attach my writing project which has just been published in the Ormsby Review.  https://ormsbyreview.com/2021/03/20/1067-foulkes-anne-carson/

I never imagined being published in a literary magazine, but in this time of covid, anything is possible. And, before I start to think of myself as a member of the literary intelligentsia, I remind myself that I still cannot seem to pronounce Nietzsche to the satisfaction of anyone, although I do think I have mastered how to pronounce Freud.

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The Gift

The Gift

Sometimes, the spirit of this season is crystallized in a small moment, a gesture, a simple kindness, what I like to call a Tender Mercy. I had one two days ago that has blessed me with a renewed faith in the human spirit.

I have mixed views about this holiday. I’m not a Christian, but I have a belief in what I have learned to call a higher power. I settle somewhere in the realm of aspirational secular humanist. I can give a long blah-blah-blah about the commercialization of this holiday as one of many other digressions but I am a softy.

I’ve never made it through any of the cheesy seasonal movies without tearing up a bit at the end – even Love Actually. Forget I ever said that, I’ll deny it.

But I struggle sometimes, capturing the spirit of the season can be a challenge, especially this year with Covid hanging over us all.

This year is different.

There is a woman binner in our neighbourhood. I’ll call her Jane, not her real name. For anyone who believes that being poor is a result of laziness, I would suggest they spend a day with Jane. She pushes her trusty shopping cart loaded with cans, bottles and plastic through our neighbourhood every day. She has a route, checking the bins, the dumpsters, the recycle containers for our cast-offs, which she then exchanges for a pittance. I don’t know what she makes a day but I’m told $15-20 is a good day.

She is at it every day, except maybe Sunday.

I started to chat with her whenever I met her. One thing I learned from my friend Susan and others at places where I volunteered is that people like Jane are seldom recognized or spoken to, we make them invisible. It isolates them, dehumanizes them and robs them of their humanity, their individuality and their dignity.

So, we chat. Each time, I learn a bit about her. A few months ago, she got a place of her own, an SRO somewhere near here. Her biggest joy, she said, was that she had a freezer to put a carton of ice cream in, she didn’t have to eat the whole thing when she spent some hard earned money on a little treat.

She had a boyfriend who died a while ago, it saddened her.

Two day ago, I asked about the holidays, did she have some people to spend Xmas with? She said she was still grieving over her ex-boyfriend’s death so she was going to spend some time alone.

Then she volunteered a bit of information. She had been stopped by someone in the neighbourhood a day ago. They had given her a check for $1000. Out of the blue, a gift of the magi; she teared up as she told me, so did I.

I could not imagine what that meant to her, so stumbling around for something to say, I asked her what she would do with that gift. “Well,” she said, “I think I’ll take tomorrow off.”

I wished her a happy holiday and we went on our separate ways.

Tender Mercy.

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Sigeric’s Roman Holiday

Attached is a modified version of a paper submitted to my SFU class on the history of Rome. In this time of covid, my Liberal Studies courses have kept me busy, given me purpose, structure and discipline. This one also allowed me to dream about and learn more about my next great travel adventure – not quite the same as actually traveling but good enough for now.

In 990, Sigeric, Abbot of St. Augustine’s Canterbury and the highest ranking member of the Anglo Saxon Catholic hierarchy in Britain, received word that Pope John XV wanted to elevate him to the role of Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church.

Tradition required that Sigeric journey to Rome to meet the Pope and receive his pallium, a white woollen scarf embroidered with six black crosses that represented his seal of office.

It was not a journey to be taken lightly, covering some 1900 kilometres. Sigeric was not the first to make this walk, it was a pilgrimage route that traced its pathways back to the 4th Century, after Constantine I proclaimed the Edict of Milan and made it safe(r) for Christians to celebrate their faith openly and to embark on pilgrimages to Rome to pay tribute to and pray before Saint Peter and Saint Paul. 

Pilgrims from all over Europe travelled to Rome finding ways to traverse sometimes hostile lands and navigate some challenging terrain, which for most involved making their way through a few manageable passes across the Alps. Perilous, long and fraught with danger, such journeys were not to be taken lightly.

On July 16, 2017 I left the gates of Canterbury Cathedral to follow in the footsteps of Sigeric. My journey so far has occurred in two phases, the first took me as far as Reims, in France; in the second phase in July/August 2018, I managed to cross the Great Saint Bernard Pass and descend the Italian side of the Alps into Ivrea. The next and hopefully final phase will follow his path into Rome.

Sigeric’s trip to Rome is unrecorded, most authorities presume he and his retinue walked the same path he used on his return journey. What is known is that his trip to Rome took some 79 days. Of the days he spent in Rome, 3 days are recorded, he returned to Canterbury shortly afterwards. The trip home required more than 80 days.

What makes his pilgrimage notable is that one of his secretaries kept a careful log of his visits to 23 Roman churches over three days and recorded a daily log of his trip from Rome to Canterbury, a ‘guidebook’ in Latin of the stages and stops along the way. 

That book has been preserved and currently rests at the British Museum (MS. Cotton Dominitan A. VII). The route has become immortalized as the Via Francigena. It is unique; the only list of Roman churches between the eighth and twelfth centuries the only daily chronicle of stops on the pilgrimage between Rome and Canterbury from that period.

The Diary only chronicles three frenetic days of church visits, there is some conjecture as to whether Sigeric would make a perilous journey of almost three months duration and stay in Rome only three days. Most assume he stayed much longer.

There is nothing like walking a route traveled long ago to get some sense of what Sigeric experienced. While it was fraught with challenges, the route had been traveled for five or six centuries, Roman roads existed and continued to prove the remarkable and enduring talent of Roman engineering (we actually walked for part of a day on an old Roman road – straight as an arrow and still solid and passed an ancient Roman waystation that was part of a major Swiss archeological site). 

In addition, monasteries, local and church sponsored charitable ‘hospitals’ purpose-built to serve pilgrims on their journey had been established that provided some rudimentary level of food and lodging along the way. (we managed to stay at a much refurbished hostel – now a Michelin starred destination restaurant/hotel – that sets its origins back to the 13th century) 

The Church and Rome were anxious to do everything in their power to encourage pilgrimages to Rome, it seems the monetary benefits of pilgrims was not lost on either the Church or the entrepreneurs of Rome. They encouraged Catholic fraternities, monasteries, and congregations to support pilgrims along the way, it made sense as did the encouragement of road and path maintenance, bridge building/maintenance and provisions for safe passage for pilgrims. Unfortunately for Rome, several other pilgrim destinations of note were beginning to become famous; the Santiago de Compostela in Spain to view the remains of St. James became a popular destination in the 9th century, and Jerusalem always beckoned, though the city was under the control of Muslim caliphates for much of the time in question.

The geopolitics of Europe seemed to have been a bit more settled in 990 than in previous decades of the 10th century. Traveling across France, Switzerland and northern Italy was less fraught with danger.  In Rome, several major Roman families had emerged, jockeying for position and exercising control of the selection of popes and the actions of the Papacy made local politics more uncertain, The active interference of the German nobility in church affairs and the general decline in the Roman economy made a visit to Rome itself more eventful and problematic.

There were serious risks. Crossing the Great Saint Bernard Pass is physically challenging, potential inclement weather adds more risk; it is not a day hike for the uninitiated. To add to the risk, there was an ever-present risk of bandits and thieves, it was, after all, called the ‘dark ages’ for good reason.

What was Rome like when the pilgrim arrived at the final destination?

It was not idyllic. Rome was small, run down and far from the centre of trade and commerce. Population estimates vary but one estimate placed Rome’s population to be about 30,000, a far cry from it’s size at the height of Imperial Rome when the city dominated the world. Venice, for example, was larger; it had become a major economic force in Italy because of its aggressive development as a trading centre. 

The ancient Roman ruins were that – ruins. Major sites had fallen into disrepair, their stones cannibalized for church building, aqueducts had failed from lack of maintenance, the baths were dry and used more for itinerant housing, already less luxurious than in Rome’s halcyon days; even the Colosseum had become a large housing complex, filled with squatters. One of the few remaining sources of revenue seemed to be the thriving commerce of pilgrimage.

There was one thing in abundance when the pilgrim arrived in Rome – churches. Sigeric’s journal affirms the proliferation of churches, he visited 23 while there. Other sources suggest that there were at least 117 to choose from.

Several reasons are suggested for his choice of churches to visit; the desire to see the major basilicas and large cathedrals such as the Lateran Palace, the home of the Pope at the time, but also those dedicated to favourite saints of the English, St. Peter and St. Lawrence. One of the more interesting criteria for pilgrim visits was to see and worship the reliquaries, objects said to be directly associated with Jesus and his followers or specific saints and martyrs. 

Interestingly, the most likely first stop for Sigeric would have been an English institution, the Schola Saxonum. Ideally located near St. Peter’s Basilica, it’s function was to provide support and accommodation for English pilgrims. Peter’s Pence was a tax raised across England to help fund St. Peter’s and the Schola Saxonum.

Of the 23 churches visited, 21 are still in existence and are identified, although most have been through such significant modifications that Sigeric might not well recognize them.

The first day starts not surprisingly with a visit to St. Peter’s and Santo Spirito in Sassia, both inside the walls of Rome. 

St. Peter’s Basilica in the year 990 was quite different, first constructed in the 4th century, only small bits remain but the basilica at the time is described in detail. Major reconstruction beginning in the mid 15th century supplemented by additions and renovations has created the Roman Catholic Cathedral we see today.

Santo Spirito in Sassia, adjacent to St. Peter’s, was the church associated with the Schola Saxonum. Built in the 8th and 9th century, it was relatively new at the time of Sigeric’s pilgrimage, rebuilt in the 16th century after the sack of Rome by Spanish mercenaries under Charles V destroyed it.

The rest, churches 3-15, were outside the walls, required a tour of some 25 kilometres and were assumed to have been done on horseback.

San Lorenzo in Lucina goes back to the 4th Century and contained reliquaries of St. Lawrence who seemed to be a saint of particular interest to Sigeric. It was rebuilt in the 12th and restored in the 19th century.

San Valentino a ponte Milvio no longer exists, falling into neglect in the 13th Century, except for some excavated ruins.

Sant’ Agnes fuori le Mura, was built on the site of ancient christian catacombs in the 4th century; it was named after a christian martyr and was an important pilgrimage stop; it has been much restored and is part of a major basilica complex.

San Lorenzo fuori le Mura, a basilica, was the center of the cult of St. Lawrence. Built in the time of Constantine, it was merged with an adjacent church, an attached cemetery and is now a major religious complex. 

San Sebastiano Via Appia was built on the spot where Peter and Paul’s remains were said to be first put to rest in catacombs below. It remains, much restored. 

SS Vincenzo ed Anastasio alle Tre Fontane was a church of the monastery of Tre Fontane now a baroque church near the Trevi Fountain.

San Paolo fuori la Mura was built over the tomb of St. Paul in the time of Constantine, much rebuilt and expanded especially after the sack of Rome by the Saracens; destroyed by fire in 1823, it was rebuilt.

 SS Alessio e Bonifazio (Santi Bonifacio e Alessio) is a 5th century church housing the remains of Alessio and Boniface, two early christian martyrs, later connected with asceticism of Greek abbots who had a monastery there. Rebuilt in the 18th century. 

 Santa Sabina was founded in the 5th century and restored as late as the early 20th century.

 Santa Maria in Cosmedin was founded in the 6th century on the site of the city’s food market, restored to its original simplicity in the 19th century.

 Santa Cecilia in Trastevere is a 5th century church built over catacombs where early christians hid to worship; the church is dedicated to Saint Cecelia, patron saint of music, and holding a statue of her modelled on her preserved remains.

 San Crisogono, a 4th century church which at the time of Sigeric’s visit also had a monastery dedicated to St. Lawrence.

 Santa Maria in Trastevere is believed to be the first officail christian place of worship to be built in Rome, it was a must-see for every pilgrim, although mostly rebuilt in the 12th century, 

 San Pancrazio is a 6th century basilica erected on the tomb of St. Pancras a 4th century martyr and huge catacombs of early worshippers. 

The first day’s visit ended here according to the diary and Sigeric and his party returned to the Schola for the evening. 

The second morning was spent closer to the centre of Rome.

Santa Maria della Rotonda, known to us as the Pantheon consecrated as a church in the 7th century, it is an iconic, must-see for any tourist in Rome regardless of station or religious persuasion. 

Santi Apostoli originally built in the 6th century, dedicated to all the apostles, it has been rebuilt and restored many times since, with pieces by Canova, Fontana and Muratori.

San Giovani in Lateran (St. John Lateran) was built in the 4th century and restored in the early 10th century before Sigeric’s visit. The adjacent Lateran Palace was home of the Middle Age Popes, except for a time when they relocated to Avignon in the 14th century. It has been rebuilt several times after fires. 

While at the Lateran Palace, Sigeric had a luncheon audience with Pope John XV, when he presumably officially received his pallium. After lunch he visited the last churches on his itinerary.

San Croce in Gerusalemme was a must-visit basilica dating to the 4th century to see an important reliquary – reputedly a piece of the cross on which Jesus was crucified. 

Santa Maria Maggiore, another basilica originally built in the 5th century and much expanded and altered, it was home to another famous reliquary, the cradle of Christ, 

San Pietro in Vincoli, first built in the 5th was another home of a venerated relic, the chains of St. Peter.

San Lorenzo in Panisperna was the final stop, built on the spot where St. Laurence had been martyred. 

And, with that, the record of the pilgrimage journey in Rome ends.

In an amazing feat of investigative academic research, there is almost universal consensus on the 23 churches noted in the diary of Sigeric’s visit to Rome, not a small task given the age of the document, the many possible interpretations that might have been given to some obvious mis-spellings and the destruction and sacking of Rome and its churches over 1000 years. Virginia Ortenberg, a British historian, has even reconstructed a map of Rome at the time marking the churches visited. She has also managed to provide some valuable descriptions of the state of the churches at the time and major artwork, architectural features, tombs and reliquary within the church.

The diary is a small document; it immediately begins to record the return journey to Canterbury.  The places named on the return journey are more open to debate and interpretation, Ortenberg has attempted to chart the pilgrimage home on a map. As noted, this one pilgrimage by Sigeric in 990 AD and the few pages of diary entries chronicling the stops on the return trip to Canterbury has become the wellspring of the Via Francigena, a route that has guided untold numbers of pilgrims to Rome for 1000 years. 

These two documents, the visits to Roman churches, and the log of stops on the journey home are the best available information for the time between 800 AD and 1200 AD, 400years. Sigeric and his pilgrimage, indeed even his time as Archbishop of Canterbury fade in comparison to the value of the journal he left behind. The information adds immeasurably to the insight gained by all subsequent pilgrims, I for one will find it valuable as I attempt to finish my pilgrimage on the Via Francigena and celebrate the end of the journey with a more meaningful tour of Rome. 

Both Kristen and Blair have walked with me on parts of this long pilgrim walk adding immeasurably to the joy of the adventure. Now all I have to do is walk to Rome.

Kristen and I arrive in Reims, France at the cathedral, July 29, 2017. Blair and I meet a St. Bernard dog, fittingly at the summit of the Great St. Bernard Pass between Switzerland and Italy, August 13, 2018.


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Food that Fuels me.

In these covid times, it is easy to feel sadness, grief and a sense of longing for what might have been or what we feel we are missing. It can be more difficult to see the joy in life or recognize the depth and breadth of the goodness that surrounds us.

For me, the difference between just barely surviving this period of Covid dislocation and thriving – well that may be an exaggeration – is having things to do. We can call it having a sense of purpose, I just need to keep busy; there is nothing more demoralizing than waking up in the morning with absolutely nothing to do. I’ve found that it isn’t a matter of having one purpose or a particular passion, I need something more concrete, a collection of tasks that fills my vacant calendar.

Meals on Wheels is the latest in my grab-bag of things to do to keep me busy.

I became aware of Meals on Wheels – MoW for short – in the ‘90s. My father passed away in 1991 and for a while, my mother was adrift. My siblings and I were worried because her daily meal, when she ate at all, was tea and toast. We ordered Meals on Wheels, available even in my small rural town of Taber, population of about 4000.

Each day, some wonderful volunteer would drive over, check in on Mom and drop off a hot meal, complete with a dessert. It worked for her and it worked for us, she had food and daily contact, we had peace of mind.

Last Spring, my friend John signed up to be a delivery driver for Meals on Wheels, his positive reaction to the shutdowns of Covid and a desire to do something positive about it. Magpie-like, I saw a ‘bright and shiny’ and decided to copy him.

It required a bit of work, contacting the agency, filling out forms and getting a police background check; a few weeks later, I got a call, they needed drivers for the Chinese Meals on Wheels, delivering a different menu to clients. Sure, why not, should be fun.

My first day was October 21. I joined a group of a dozen or so drivers show up in a back lane off south Granville Street.

Here’s where the real magic starts.

First, there are these drivers, a mixture of ages not just retired folk like me but every age group down to twenty somethings, about equal in gender, I’m guessing from the cars in the laneway that there’s a surprising breadth of socio-economic representation – all volunteering to drive meals to those who need.

Then there’s the food. My coordinator, Abby, tells me there is this magic place in Chinatown, where staff and volunteers get up way too early, Monday to Friday, to make about 180 hot meals. Two small containers of soup, a container of rice and an ever-changing entree, piping hot as they say, packed four each into an insulated carrying bag.

Then a volunteer drives them to us. At 10:30 am or so he arrives, It’s exciting!  We are given the route directions for the day by Abby, my first route had 12 stops and 15 meals. We grab enough meals for our route, wrap them in a plastic bag for hygenic delivery and head off to our appointed rounds.

The next hour is all-consuming. I find my first drop-off, a house with an apartment around the back. I dig out my meal bag, adjust my mask, double check the address and the drop-off instructions, find the door, ring the bell and wait. I’m told that I may wait a few minutes, people are deaf, slightly immobile or slow to the door. Quite the opposite, I find most people waiting for me. I hand off the meal, we smile (unfortunately smiles don’t work as well with masks) we say a few pleasantries to each other and I’m off to the next one.

An hour or so later, I’ve managed to drop off all my meals, although once, I had one meal left over and had to figure out who I’d missed – a panic attack that I never wanted to repeat.

I take the insulated bags back to the drop-off point to be be washed for the next day. I’m set free, it’s about three hours of my time, one day a week.

There is a vast unseen network of people, ordinary heroes who go out every day to take hot meals, a smile and a how-are-you to people in need. They’re backed up by people who gather the names, sort the routes, make the system work flawlessly every day; every day, hot, nutritious meals are cooked and packed for us to deliver. Meals on Wheels has been around for a long time helping people like my mom with a meal and a smile and a message that they’re valued; they’re not forgotten, even strangers care. I’m delighted to be a recent addition to this army of carers.

I am almost embarrassed to speak of it; there seems to be a disproportionate distribution of benefit. I am getting more out of this than I should. On my MoW day, I’m busy, I have purpose, I have a JOB. In this time of isolation, I have joined a community. It forces me to stay active, and justifies my afternoon nap. I  feel at the end of my shift that I have done something; I am grateful for the opportunity this simple task has given me to stay balanced and find some hope and some joy in this dark covid time. I feel like I’m getting more than I’m giving.

It is part of what I like to call Tender Mercies, small acts of kindness. I’m grateful that Meals on Wheels was there when I needed it. I need those Tender Mercies.

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My Life in the Time of Covid – 19

In the past few days, I experienced two events worth marking in time; I had my first haircut in over two months (sorry, photographic evidence will not be forthcoming) and I had my first sit-down coffee, a double espresso machiatto, in a proper glass cup in a new local coffee shop, one that will probably become my new home on Denman Street.

These were memorable occasions, worthy of marking, forever memorializing their significance. It reminded me to document this time; recognizing my capacity for hyperbole and my sometimes comic desire to make myths out of ordinary events in the near past, I should try to get the facts straight. I can thus preserve a more honest recollection of events and the lessons I have learned of my experiences adhering to Bonny Henry’s rules of safe conduct in the time of Covid – 19.

On March 14, I arrived home from a weekend in Edmonton celebrating my brother’s birthday. Within days, the idea of being in an airport, flying on an airplane, hanging out in a restaurant seemed bizarre and otherworldly. We are in the BC/AC times, before coronavirus, after coronavirus.

What did you do in that dark time when the restrictions descended on you, people will ask.

To be honest, even though we are only through phase one of what may be a long process, it hasn’t been that tough. So Far…

I walked a lot, sometimes with a friend, mostly alone. While the physical aspect of the walk was much needed, freeing me for a few hours from the safety of my sanctuary, the metaphysical was far more valuable. I witnessed spring! For two months, I watched plants grow and flower, trees bloom, the forest turn innumerable shades of green.  I watched tulips blossom, reach their peak of springtime beauty and then fall into the soil again, a daily reminder that the wonders of nature have been around me forever, they just require patient observation.

I saw birds and beasts, a coyote, a woodpecker, a river otter, eagles, rabbits – all enjoying the quiet desolation resulting from our retreat from their habitat. Slowing down and mindfully observing has its benefits.





I participated in the great tribal ritual of celebrating life by barking at the moon; in this case I joined my neighbours every night at 7 PM to clap in appreciation of the helpers, the health care workers, the checkout staff, the first responders, the garbage truck drivers and the barristas that risked their lives – yes their lives – to serve us. We were inspired and led occasionally by a lone piper whose solemn piping sometimes brought me to tears.


I worked on jigsaw puzzles when I got to restless, unable to sit still anymore. It kept me from the Television and the train wreck south of the border that was so mesmerizing yet so demoralizing. Putting one piece in place gave me a sense of accomplishment, instant gratification and power in a new world where I had little of any of those feelings.


I talked on the phone. My first Koodo bill after lockdown recorded 1300 minutes of talk time; an astounding increase over my normal 50 minute average. People were home when I called them; I was home when people called me. We had time to chat, the chats became conversations, free ranging, sometimes surprising, always enriching.

I sat in my favourite chair and watched the great Blue Herons return to their nesting ground, conveniently at eye height stationed just outside my window. I saw sunrises and sunsets I know I would have missed had I not been committed to sitting still.

I read. I read a lot. I managed to finish my GLS course – the last five classes were on Zoom; not the best but better than expected. After months of disciplined close-reading, I consumed thrillers and whodunnits, historical biographies and sci-fi novels, wallowing in their lightness and diversity. 

I missed parts of my life and allowed myself to grieve them. My adventure calendar is a vast desert of nothingness, Japan, Finland, France, all gone – pre-covid dreams of the before times.

I missed travel to see Blair, my post-covid travel opportunities of the after times need to be re-imagined and carefully built on a new risk reward profile. I was joyful to have Kristen and Chris close by and I’ll sort out the whens and hows of seeing Blair soon. 

Likewise for many friends spread outside my immediate neighbourhood, not forgotten and certainly not lost for anything more than the temporariness of the current construct. 

Serendipitously, my research focus for my GLS course was the Stoicism of ancient Rome. it’s hard to whine when I read what Epictetus, Seneca and Marcus Aurelius learned to endure; more of value, they learned to turn that endurance into a sense of purpose. I learned from them, philosophy is for all of us, for the here and now – not a bad lesson to be learned. Some things we control, somethings we don’t. 


I was also struck by the many small acts of kindness shown by one person to another. In a time of stress, a time of uncertainty, a time of fear, these small acts of kindness, tender mercies I call them, stand out. The after-times show we have not all lost our humanity or our basic goodness.

There are no profound Ah-ha moments in all this, yet there are a few blinding flashes of the obvious; be safe, listen to the experts, appreciate the helpers, celebrate beauty, be optimistic, recognize that all trouble is temporary, don’t be driven by boredom and restlessness to take unnecessary risks, persevere, have some fun, smile – even if it has to be at your own expense – all good lessons.  Let’s see if any or all of these take hold, they’re seeds right now, they may grow into permanent habits.

By the way, I spent some time with another woman these last few months. She wants to make me a better person, one of many in my life who have had that goal and taken me on as a project, a fixer-upper – promising but needing a bit of work.

I knew I would need help back in March, so I actually reached out to her.

She came prepared, she had a plan. All I had to do was follow her every dictum every day. She gave me a sheet of instructions, I did what I was told… well mostly.

She’s been reasonably successful; where others have failed in making me the better person they knew I could be, she has somehow managed to persevere. If I have any lasting memory of my life in the time of Covid, my guess is that it will be of her and her contribution to my time in isolation.

Her name is Jenny Craig.

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The Consolations of Philosophy in the time of Covid – 19. Part III – Accountability.

It is hard to see anything positive in the midst of this pandemic. There is no light at the end of the tunnel; the only likely short-term solution is more social distancing; that means no dinners with friends, no live sports, arts or theatre entertainment, no nights out and no relief from the nagging worry of infection from this silent unseen threat. The real lasting solution, a vaccine, seems a long way off.

The Stoics offer some hope through this dark time. Marcus Aurelius is my guide.

Marcus Aurelius is the third and perhaps the most famous Roman Stoic. He was groomed for leadership and greatness, in his early 40’s he became Emperor. History judges him as an outstanding leader, a stark contrast to Caligula or Nero.

His most famous work, Meditations, was a journal, a cross between personal improvement notes and a reminder of his goals in his lifetime pursuit for betterment.

Epictetus was a slave, Seneca was plagued with bad health from an early age, Marcus was confronted with daunting leadership challenges and personal loss – only 5 of his 13 children survived.

Fortune showed them all her power – they were not in control of their lives. Stoicism offered them consolation for these limitations, these burdens, these challenges.


Marcus had perspective. He was the most powerful man in the Roman Empire yet he was humble:


Matter. How tiny your share of it

Time. How brief and fleeting your allotment of it

Fate. How small a role you play.”

He also accepted with unreserved magnanimity the power of Fortune:

“But death and life, success and failure, pain and pleasure, wealth and poverty, all these happen to good and bad alike, and they are neither noble nor shameful – and hence neither good nor bad.”

Throughout the Meditations, Marcus refers to his relations with others, recognizing that man is above all a social animal. I find his approach most surprising. People can and do harm us; in fact they surpass fires, floods and plagues for doing harm to us. People also bring forth the best in us, love, compassion, fidelity, community. Here is but one description of what he sought to be:

“Make sure you remain straightforward, upright, reverent, serious, unadorned, an ally of justice, pious, kind, affectionate, and doing your duty with a will. Fight to be the person philosophy tried to make you.”

Surprising humane language from a Roman Emperor and seasoned warrior!

Socrates’s famous dictum, ‘the unexamined life is not worth living’ is further underlined by all three Roman Stoics. Marcus believed that the study of philosophy was the key to the good life:

“Then what can guide us?

Only philosophy.

Which means making sure that the power within stays safe and free from assault, superior to pleasure and pain, doing nothing randomly or dishonestly and with imposture, not dependent on anyone else’s doing something or not doing it. And making sure that it accepts what happens and what it is dealt as coming from the same place it came from.”

Marcus was a responsible citizen, a decent man. He honoured those in his life who taught him the virtues of compassion, decency, loyalty and compassion. His book is filled with constant admonitions to treat his fellow human beings with dignity and grace. He cautioned calming his passions and responding to others with understanding. For a leader with something approaching absolute power, for a warrior who bore the burdens of power, he was remarkably modest.

What is the over-arching lesson from all this Stoic philosophy?

It is, for me, that there is hope. The Stoics faced challenges greater that I face today, yet they were able to meet those challenges with dignity and grace and humanity.

There is also accountability; we are responsible for our actions to our family, to our friends, to our loved ones, to our community.

I see examples hope rising like spring shoots out of the soil. Here’s one small one. I got my monthly bill from Koodo yesterday, it was five times as much as usual. I was working myself into a lather when I decided to check what brought on these charges before finding some poor customer service rep to yell at.

The charges were all related to overages on my phone calls. I had a maximum in my plan of 500 minutes a month; I seldom use a tenth of that. This month I blew through 1300 minutes – all spent talking on the phone to friends.

Covid – 19 has turned me into Chatty Cathy!

I reflected back over the month and realized that it was about the best money I have spent in a long time. People are reaching out, the chats are longer, warmer and more meaningful. I am reaching out, people are home when I call and they’re happy to chat.

There is hope, we are connecting. We are capable of meeting this challenge and growing as human beings as a result of this.

I’ll leave the last word to Marcus; he was a man who found beauty and spoke of it as a poet who is filled with hope;

“The Pythagoreans tell us to look at the stars at daybreak. To remind ourselves how they complete the tasks assigned them – always the same tasks, the same way. and their order, purity, nakedness. Stars wear no concealment.”

A man who sees beauty in the stars and draws life-affirming lessons from them is worthy of consideration in these difficult times.


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The Consolations of Philosophy in the time of Covid – 19. Part II – Agency

If Stoic philosophy offered only the consolation of acceptance, it would be fairly dismal. To me, acceptance alone is justifiably interpreted as fatalism. All is lost, we accept the capricious fate delivered by Fortune and await some turn of events when Fortune touches us again, this time favourably. It’s pretty bleak.

Stoicism offers more than that. Acceptance matters in powers over those things outside my control but Viktor Frankl offers more.

Frankl was an Austrian Jew who was captured by the Nazis and managed to survive three brutal years in concentration camps until he was liberated at the end of the war. 

He emerged, convinced that his strong sense of purpose had given him the strength to endure. He quoted Nietzsche: ‘He who has a why to live can bear with almost any how.’

Frankl wrote a book about his experience and his theory; Man’s Search for Meaning. I discovered it many years ago and have used it as an emotional and spiritual north star for decades.

Frankl saw power in his predicament: …everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.” 

So, here it is; I can face the corona virus by shaking my fist at the gods, feeling sorry for myself or poisoning my mind with worry. Or I can decide that there is a way to turn this into an opportunity by deciding it is an opportunity. I have that choice.

That power to choose my response to those things over which I have no control and my sense of purpose give me the power to choose my future.  

This is a another central tenet of Stoic philosophy since Zeno started developing Stoicism in Ancient Athens.

Epictetus was a Roman Stoic philosopher whose teachings were preserved in two tracts called the Discourses and the Enchridion. It’s hard to miss the point:“…the gods have given us the most efficacious gift: the ability to make good use of our impressions.” …The knowledge of what is mine and what is not mine, what I can and cannot do. I must die. But must I die bawling? I must be put in chains – but moaning and groaning too? I must be exiled, but is there anything to keep me from going with a smile, calm and self-composed?” Discourses I.1

We have that final freedom – the freedom to choose how we deal with Fortune’s whims.

The Stoics recognized that we were not just corks bobbing on the ocean of life – pushed this way and that by the whims of tides, wind and currents. There was much of our life that we controlled – we did control our lives.

Throughout his teachings, Epictetus emphasized this; it is another defining principle of Stoicism: Of all existing things some are in our power, and others are not in our power. In our power are thought, impulse, will to get and will to avoid, and, in a word, everything which is our own doing. Things not in our power include the body, property, reputation, office, and, in a word, everything which is not our own doing.” 

I have now moved two steps forward. Yes, I do have to accept those things over which I have no power but now I now have power, the power to control my attitude and response to Fortune’s actions – capricious, favourable or benign and I have the power to control a large portion of my life. Much of my life is completely within my control.

Things are now not so bleak. I have agency, the capacity to make wise or unwise choices.


…to the Stoics, the freedom to choose came with the attendant responsibility to choose wisely. Epictetus has a two part story to drive home his point:

“I keep an iron lamp besides my household shrine. Hearing a noise from my window, I ran down and found the lamp had been lifted. I reasoned that the thief who took it must have felt an impulse he couldn’t resist. So, I said to myself, ‘tomorrow you’ll get a cheaper, less attractive one made of clay. A man only loses what he has.” 

“…. the thief was better than I am in staying awake. But he acquired the lamp at a price; he became a thief for its sake, for its sake he lost the ability to be trusted, for a lamp he became a brute. And he imagined he came out ahead.” 

Epictetus could replace his lamp but the thief paid a greater cost – he lost his integrity, his reputation.

We too have some choices and we take responsibility for those choices.

How do we want to respond to the Covid – 19 outbreak? 

Anger, fear, defiance, isolation, science, belief that a diety will protect us, hope – we have a whole range of options and an infinite combination of choices.

Are we going to choose wisely?

Right now, I’m choosing to listen to the experts. I have not survived a pandemic. I’m not an expert on viruses. I can’t see the little buggers but I can read the statistics; they’re dangerous.

I am staying away from crowds, it’s called social distancing. No one enters my bubble. I’m washing my hands a lot. I wipe down most everything that comes into my apartment, it’s my sanctuary.

We’ve all got the information needed to minimize our risks. We need to choose wisely.

These may not seem like life or death choices until they are. I believe they are and I am treating them that way.

Again to end on a lighter note, I found a greeting card, obviously designed by a Stoic with a sense of humour, to show me what’s at stake.

I like bacon…

…but I don’t want to be bacon.

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The Consolations of Philosophy in the time of Covid -19. Part I – Acceptance.

I have never thought much about philosophy, much less about how the study of philosophy could give me valuable insights into the meaning of life and how to make the best of my short time here on planet earth.

In the course of my study at the Graduate Liberal Studies program http://www.sfu.ca/gls.html at Simon Fraser University, one of the books on my assigned reading list was The Consolations of Philosophy by Alain de Botton. He is a well-respected philosopher whose goal is to link philosophy with our daily lives.

One of his chapters links the Stoics, a branch of philosophy that dates back to Athens in  300 BC, to the issues we face as we deal with the Corona virus pandemic.

We are all inundated with talk of the virus. I have to self-isolate not only from the virus but from the constant negative chatter on the news. It can lead to irrational fears and errant behaviour, I’m at risk of losing my emotional equilibrium and my sense of perspective. It’s depressing.

People are dying; within days people go from vibrant human beings with loves, jobs, family and friends to become another victim, one of a growing deluge of victims to an unseen predator.  People are losing their jobs, their small businesses, their careers; their dreams; their plans and hopes for the future are dashed. Life as we know it has been cancelled, we stare into the void of tomorrow with no idea what comes next.

Covid – 19 is indiscriminate; rich or poor, famous or faceless, pious or dissolute, we all face the same risk.

The world has turned upside down; none of us feels safe. And this is unlikely to end soon. It is hard to imagine a return to the good old days of last month.

How do we cope?

I never expected to say this but there is comfort in philosophy, I am finding comfort and practical advice from the Stoics – three in particular – all Romans – Epictetus, Seneca and Marcus Aurelius.

It comes down to this, Botton says that Stoicism offers the consolation for frustration. Why am I frustrated? Because the corona virus has shown me yet again, how puny, how powerless and how insignificant I am. There’s an old Jewish proverb: man plans and God laughs.

The first stage in sorting this new world out in a common sense practical way is to be realistic about exactly what my situation is. What’s going on, where do I fit in, what can I do about it?

The Stoics were clear about one thing, it separated them from all the others. They asserted in stark terms that much of life was outside our control. Stuff happens. Yesterday it was the black plague, today it’s corona virus.

Seneca is one of the three most famous Roman Stoics. His book, Letters from a Stoic, is required reading for anyone interested in this philosophic tradition.  Seneca emphasized the capricious nature of Fortune; all that Fortune provides can be snatched away in an instant;

“Nothing is durable whether for an individual or a society:..

…Terror strikes amid the most tranquil surroundings, and without any disturbance in the background to give rise to them calamities spring from the least expected quarter…

…all the works of mortal man lie under the sentence of mortality; we live among things that are destined to perish” Letter XCI

How do we handle the indiscriminate nature of Fortune? Seneca, the Stoic, offers acceptance:

…So the spirit must be trained to a realization and an acceptance of its lot. It must come to see that there is nothing that Fortune will shrink from, that she wields the same authority over Emperor and empire alike and the same power over cities as of men. There’s no grounds for resentment in all this. We’ve entered into a world in which these are the terms life is lived on – if you’re satisfied with that, submit to them, if you’re not get out, whatever way you please.” letter XCI

This seems a harsh and bitter pill. Is that it?

Yup. That’s it. Because until we accept the awesome power of those things that are outside our control we will waste a lot of time and energy, uselessly fooling ourselves about the nature of the problem.

The folks walking on the seawall in my neighbourhood here in Vancouver have not understood this simple fact. Lady Fortune doesn’t care if they are young and full of life and optimism that makes them think they are invulnerable and invincible.

Nor does she care if I am pious and upstanding and worship every Sunday in close proximity with my fellow believers.

Complaining won’t help. Acceptance, realistic acceptance, will at least give us a chance of figuring out what to do to survive this pandemic intact. That’s the focus of Part 2.

To end on a lighter note, this even works when it rains. In Vancouver, for four months it rains a lot. it’s lining-up-two-by-two-to-get-on-the-Ark rain. Here’s the first step in how we survive what we call winter. 

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Testing Paradigms.

This the first academic paper I have written in some 40 years. It was a part of my first course, started in September, in the Graduate Liberal Studies program at SFU. Having passed the course, I now feel comfortable sharing it.

Needless to say, this is way out of my comfort zone, both the course and the paper; having said that, I am enjoying it immensely. 

Be gentle, dear readers….

I’m concerned that as I age, I will lose my curiosity, my openness to new ideas and my willingness to try new ways of approaching life. We call it hardening of the attitudes. It seeps into our lives with the hardening of our arteries, the stiffening of our joints and our slowing response time to external stimuli.

I fight it in many positive ways; traveling to foreign countries, committing to new exercise regimes, reading different books, dining at newly-launched restaurants, viewing foreign and foreign sounding movies, the list goes on. I call them adventures.

I also avoid negative reinforcement, especially the aging male coffee clatch. They’re called ROMEOs – really old men eating out. I see them everywhere, befuddled anxious-looking men who gather at the corner cafe to read the newspapers together, express their shock and amazement at the current state of affairs in our city/province/nation/world, inevitably shining up the good-old-days, complete with our biases and privileges. It’s backward looking and hermetically sealed, dusty and dead, self fulfilling and incapable of admitting new experiences or insights.

Change is hard work, staying current, open-minded and curious.

GLS is my latest antidote – my wonder drug – for staying open to the new; meeting head-on the uncertainty, change and unfamiliarity that comes with shaking up my deeply-held beliefs and challenging my preconceived notions.

The focus on reason and passion with a curated choice of reading over the two semesters is obvious in its intent, to challenge our existing paradigms – our ways of knowing – about how we view the world.

The task is not inconsequential.

My particular paradigm (when I thought of it at all) has been to view reason and passion as a polarity; one pole is reason, the other is passion. There is a rheostat between the two poles that I move to find the appropriate balance to understand and deal with the particular circumstance. The rheostat moves back and forth on a sliding scale, a little more reason this time, a little more passion for the next, allowing me to calibrate which balance of reason and passion will meet the situation. Obviously in a business meeting, my reason index is dialled quite high; at a museum or a live play, there’s not so much reason, more passion.

The other implicit factor in the rheostat model I have constructed is that reason controls passion.  Passion is to be managed – it is impulsive, it is potentially dangerous; the default setting on the rheostat is to err on the side of reason.

My paradigm is one dimensional and utilitarian. It’s a reflexive part of me; I’ve had it for a while, don’t really know its roots and have never bothered to question it, much less challenge it. It hums away in the background working its magic.

Until now.

It’s early days in this program and every session is rich with surprises and insights. I am challenged; my paradigm, the model I carry around in my head, seems inadequate, not quite up to the challenge. The level of comprehension and insight demanded by our readings and discussions is upsetting, slightly confusing and challenging.

I have a growing awareness that I may have to challenge my assumptions, test my paradigm.

Somehow, I decided that Anne Carson is going to help me.

The Autobiography of Red gripped me and discombobulated me in ways that I am still sorting through. It is complicated, inflammatory and rich with ambiguity, much of which I feel I’m missing. I need more – of something, I’m not sure what. Moving my rheostat isn’t helping much.

Who is Anne Carson? I search for clues.

Anne Carson is an academic; in my world and in my unidimensional paradigm, that makes her a person grounded in reason. Yet The Autobiography of Red burns with passion.

I am more confused. How can that be? What can I learn about Anne Carson and how can it help me examine my reason/passion paradigm?

First, She’s Canadian, so we are at least grounded in some commonalities. Second, she’s a prolific writer giving me a rich motherlode of her work to study. Third, she has contributed to, and commented on, some of the material we have studied, She can stay with me in the shallow end of my new GLS literary pool. Finally, she is gifted; a 2000 MacArthur Fellow who offers an Everest of achievement for all to seek to emulate. She’s no flash in the pan, no bright-and-shiny, she’s earned her credibility.

In 2002, Anne Carson published If not Winter, a collection of the fragments of Sappho. Aha! We had read Sappho.

I’d written of my first – Aha – my teachable moment of experiencing Sappho rather than understanding her. My initial attempt to experience her poetry was to read everything in our assigned textbook, Stung with Love by Aaron Poochigian, before actually reading Sappho’s words. I was dialled in at about 90% reason on my reason/passion rheostat. I would find context and understanding through Poochigian before I read Sappho’s poems.

When I finally read Sappho’s words, I had my Aha moment. Her poetry was profoundly moving; I paused for a moment, awestruck that a fragment, a small two lines of Sappho’s brilliance, could reach across 2500 years and touch me. I realized later I had almost lost the moment – that purity of discovery – by dialling up too much reason on my analytical rheostat. My conclusion was that reason got in the way; passion was what was needed.

In contrast to Poochigian’s 50 dense pages of notes and explanatory miscellanea, Anne Carson’s introduction notes for If Not Winter are all of 5 pages long.

“I like to think that, the more I stand out of the way, the more Sappho shows through.” she comments, surely the most modest statement I have heard from such a serious academic.

Aha, I think, I’m right – read the words, let passion take over and immerse myself in the experience.

And yet…

Her translation of Sappho is different from the ones I have read; comments and reviews laud her skills as a sensitive, informed and insightful translator.  Obviously, it takes deep knowledge to choose the words that best illuminate Sappho’s brilliance, to let her show through. Aren’t these the skills acquired by reason, intellect and hard analytical skills? Aren’t they fundamental to Carson’s ability to share the beauty and passion of Sappho with us? Doesn’t reason therefore matter?

Eros the Bittersweet, one of Carson’s first books, published in 1986 reflects extensively on the elusive attraction of…well…attraction – Eros. It is no ordinary book; the Modern Library selected it to be one of the 100 best non-fiction books of all time.

Luckily for me, she focuses on Sappho and Plato’s Phaedrus. How convenient, another book we have covered in class, I’m still in the shallow end of my pool.

The richness of Anne Carson’s writing cannot be underestimated. It is enthralling and deeply challenging, for here is an academic who writes intelligently and sensitively about that most elusive and powerful of all emotions – love.

Reason informs passion? The most passionate and illusive of passions, love; how can that be?

Carson’s academic credentials are on full display, the breadth and depth of scholarly research allow her to explain the richness of Sappho’s poetry, the complexity of Sappho’s thinking, the wisdom of her exposition of emotion. Carson also brilliantly illustrates the contradiction between the pursuit of love, the longing, and the emptiness of the actual capture of the object of one’s desires. Bittersweet is really Sweetbitter. The triangulation of love, the lover, the beloved and some impediment between them and consummation, becomes self evident; when she explains it, it is a blinding flash of the obvious.

These complexities are not possible in my rheostat world. They should not be able to happen.  I know that reason and passion can exist simultaneously, my model sees one gaining power at the expense of the other. My paradigm says reason and passion are in conflicted balance, either or, the only variable is how much of one or the other.

Can they be both simultaneous and complementary? Can there be synergy or symbiosis or catalysis?

Eros the Bittersweet is compelling proof that intellectual scholarship and academic rigor combined with emotional intuition add immeasurably to the richness of our comprehension of Sappho’s poetry.

Carson also brings her intellectual insight to bear on Plato’s discourse on Love and the challenges of the written word. She examines Phaedrus, Plato’s examination of love and his critique of writing.

This is a different challenge, for who is Plato speaking through Socrates, but a brilliant rhetorician who seeks truth through dialogue and dialectic – the ultimate test of reason? From the passion of Sappho to the logic of Plato, Carson not only transits the two but links them, a masterful job of segue and connection.

Again my polarity/rheostat paradigm seems inadequate, more or less of one or the other is too one-dimensional. Through her considerable skills of logic, reason, rigorous academic research and just-plain deep thinking Carson blends reason and passion to link, explain and expand our understanding of two brilliant pillars of the Greek literary canon. In the battle of their rhetoric over my rheostat, Carson and the Greeks are winning.

In the midst of these two works, in 1998, Anne Carson published The Autobiography of Red. This is not the kind of work I would expect from the scholarly, cerebral, intellectually rigorous academic I had imagined Anne Carson to be.

It is a wild ride, far beyond a re-imagining of a Greek mythic character. Red is a wild, imaginative fairy tale for adults; it demands full attention from the first line. It is challenging on so many levels, from Geryon, the gifted, tortured, deformed, resilient angel to Herakles, our Hercules, not exactly depicted as heroic. Her command of offbeat imagery and discordant metaphor further disorients; it is an unsettling story.

I need to make my progress report.

My thoughts after each class are unpredictable, depending on whether I emerge confused or enlightened from the evening’s discussion.

If I am confused, it seems my long-held mental model will not map the complicated landscapes of all those elevation contours we call reason and passion. I may have wandered into terra incognito; I may have been there all along and the old mapping process has been erroneous. I am lost, am I lost?

If I abandon my rheostat paradigm, I must construct a new way of looking at the world. The prospect obviously is daunting, if for no more obvious reason than that I may need to re-evaluate the last several decades of my life through this new lens. What happens when my rheostat doesn’t control passion?

Does this disconcert me? Of course.

Alternatively, if I emerge into the night with some sense that I really am getting this new world, that the doors are opening, I think more along the lines of what I need to do to make the most of the experience. After all, I signed up for this adventure to challenge myself. I should be and I am getting what I hope for – a challenge. Of course it’s going to be uncomfortable; of course I’m going to feel inadequate. Maybe the model is okay, I just need time to adjust.

I am comforted by one grounding thought. This is early days in my GLS adventure, my education in the subtleties and nuances of reason and passion. Maybe I just need to give it time.

It’s also not inconceivable that I will never ‘solve’ or resolve the tension. It’s not as if some of the best minds in the history of thought haven’t wrestled with this challenge.

There is a paradox in all this, it is complex and multi-dimensional.

Anne Carson proves by her writing and her ability to cross genres and mash-up intellect and emotion that this reason/passion thing is more messy than mechanical. Carson cuts through boundaries, not just of prose and poetry but all sorts of literary and artistic boundaries.

It’s obvious that I will learn more over the balance of this semester and the next. One thing seems clear; a one-dimensional model with a simple either/or rheostat is probably not up to the task of this adventure. It is not likely to handle the richness, the ambiguity, the nuance and the interconnectedness of the works we are studying or the complex ideas they seek to illuminate.

I can rest assured that I’ve just started on my reappraisal. I’ve done this often enough in other facets of my life to know that it is a start and most often the start is the toughest part of the adventure.

I also know that I resist; I resist new, I resist change and I resist that which makes me uncomfortable.

The prize is usually worth the effort to push through my resistance. As Pogo, the old cartoon character said; “We have seen the enemy and he is us.”

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School Daze I

On September 4, I walked into the downtown campus of Simon Fraser University as a student, a real bona fide student. I had my own student card, I had a student account and a password that helped me navigate the labyrinth of rules and regulations guarding entrance to this august body.

I’m now into week nine of the first semester; a progress report felt due.

But first, a recap. Last year, I managed to stow away on a field trip organized by the Graduate Liberal Studies program at SFU. We spent three weeks in southern Spain, half doing it as a course for credit in the program, half as spouses of students, alumnae, itinerant vagabonds and other riff-raff. Truth be told, I was the only riff-raff.

The course was a study of the Islamic influence on Spanish culture; the Moors as they were called, ruled most of Spain from the 7th to the 14th century, in an uneasy relationship with the emerging Christian population and a significant Jewish community.

It was a delightful experience, enthralling history brought alive by our professors and guides and filled with constant conversations amongst my fellow travellers. I was hooked.

I applied to become a student in the Master’s program, was accepted and became a student on September 4th.

Check it out; http://www.sfu.ca/gls.html

My week starts on Wednesday. I walk to the downtown campus for a 5pm dinner with my 15 classmates and our professor, Dr. Colby, for the first semester. The dinner is integral to the process, a freewheeling discussion on past classes, readings, interpretations of readings, off-topic insights and other matters that facilitate bonding.


We then adjourn to the classroom across the street for a three hour seminar on the topic of the evening. Yes, three hours. I know!

At around 9:30 pm, I’m spun out into the street and off into the night. I wander home, dodging the nocturnals, most important of which are the skunks out foraging. I have to be careful because I’m in a bit of a state; the evening’s discussion can leave me gasping for air and feeling a little light-headed and therefore distracted, I need to remember to watch for the skunks. They do not like surprises!

The rest of the week is filled with getting ready for the next Wednesday. Some of my classmates work; I do not know how they survive.

The requirements for the degree start with the two mandatory courses; Reason and Passion – I & II. The curriculum has been built, refined and tweaked over some twenty nine years by Dr. Stephen Duguid, the first Director; his stamp is still evident.

This semester our reading list ranges from Sappho, an enthralling Greek poet (her powerful words touch crusty old men across 2500 years of time), Plato (who knew he wrote important works other than the Republic?), Anne Carson (a Canadian, a McArthur fellow and author of a book designated as one of the 100 most important pieces of non-fiction of all time!), Virginia Woolf (I regret not having discovered her earlier in life, who knows how things might have been changed?) and Tompson Highway (another distinguished but often overlooked Canadian).

It is a tough reading list, the three hour moderated discussions are even more challenging.

Some nights, I emerge from the building feeling almost bereft, certainly adrift. How could I have missed so much of import in the readings, how could I have ignored the subtleties, the nuances, the oblique references, the true meaning of the work?

I have chosen not to google-inform myself, if I find meaning I want to do it on my own. So far it isn’t working, I’m not finding as much meaning as I should. Is it true that deep down I am really shallow? Should I even be here?

On other nights, I am positively giddy with excitement, excitement that comes from getting it, an Aha moment, a fruitful discussion in which I am a full participant, where I have understood enough to even be a contributor.

It’s early days but I am sure of one thing, I’m getting my money’s worth. I’m getting some exercise, I’m meeting new and interesting people, all of whom are radically outside my circle of friends, I’m reading works and discussing ideas that are provocative, and generally insoluble and I’m learning again. It sure beats some of my present distractions and, as they say, it keeps me out of the pool hall.

There is one other aspect to this decision to become a student.  I bought my first pair of Dr. Martens. I’ve always wanted a pair but thought that my time had passed, my false sense of propriety in fashion precluded the purchase. but being a student has opened the door to new fashion possibilities, so I jumped.

Now, they’re not the big flashy high top ones that scared me when I first saw them, they were too much. But I have the iconic black lace-ups and I wear them to school every Wednesday night.

They’re not exactly Dorothy’s slippers but they’re mine and i’m wearing them. So there!

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Ten Years After

Ten years ago, on June 29, 2009, I walked into Chef Patrice’s kitchen at Pacific Institute of Culinary Arts. I had just turned sixty and learning how to cook, really cook, seemed like a good idea; maybe a little late in the game but still full of possibility. Besides, it was my birthday present to myself.

Chef Patrice, and later Chef Johannes, would become my kitchen gods; true chefs who had mastered the culinary skills, run successful restaurants, clawed their way to the top in a world where one bad review can destroy years of effort.

I was their student for 6 months, 1000 hours of kitchen service in recognition of their decades of skill and experience.

The kitchen is a dangerous place; sharp knives, open flames, boiling vats, machines of various kinds with a capacity to do damage in an instant, they surrounded us – our fears that first day were legitimate and well founded. They saved us, nurtured us, taught us and, yes, yelled at us.

Our chef walked us through the basics of the French culinary tradition; knife skills, stocks and sauces, even a bit of baking. Our classroom was the kitchen; Chef demonstrated, we replicated – as best we could.

After eight hours, I wandered home in an exhausted stupor, filled with more information than I could digest.

Yet we survived; one of my personal success markers was my first creme brule, perfect in its creaminess, covered by a thin delicate patina of golden molten sugar.

The pain was worth it, we graduated in December of 2009. I knew from the start that I would not seek full time employment in the hell-hole of some restaurant kitchen so I took my new-found skills and put them to use in my way; I cooked for friends at home and, when invited, at the homes of friends.

A surprising unintended consequence of my adventure was a new adventure; a book about my experience. I knew I would never work in the culinary industry so, when I left culinary skill, rather than find a job I pursued my second passion, writing.

It was a transformative experience; I learned new skills and my confidence in cooking surged as did my respect for the culinary industry. When I go to a restaurant, I tip more and I make an effort to walk back to the kitchen to thank the chefs for a memorable meal. More aware, I am more appreciative, of the food, the flavor, the presentation, the experience. It’s tough running any restaurant from Joe’s diner to a Michelin star aspirant,  I came to respect the energy and effort that is required to successfully serve a meal.

There are a few learnings that stood out for me and hold true a decade later.

First, sharp knives are an absolute necessity. If you want to enjoy cooking forget the do-dads at Williams Sonoma and get a good set of knives (you actually only need two, a 9 inch Chef’s knife and a 3 inch paring knife). Then keep them sharp. I take my knives to be sharpened by a professional at least every six months. Forget the at-home sharpening machines; good knives deserve a professional’s touch to give then their edge. It is amazing how much more fun it is to cook with sharp knives.

Second, always buy the best and freshest ingredients you can afford. A marinara sauce consists of garlic, canned tomatoes, red pepper flakes and olive oil – each of those ingredients matters, even the canned tomatoes. For example, most marinara recipes call for genuine DOP San Marzano tomatoes from Italy. Do it, go find the right canned tomatoes, it does make a difference. It is impossible to hide a weak ingredient in a simple recipe and expect a robust sauce.


Third, always complete your prep -ALWAYS – before turning on the stove. The French term is mise en place, everything in it’s place. It reminds me to do all the gathering of ingredients, all the chopping and cutting, all the accessing of pots and pans, all the advance work possible before starting the process of cooking. Serving food at its best only works if I can concentrate on what’s going on in my saute pan without being distracted by the need to chop another ingredient that isn’t ready for the next stage yet.

Finally, shop small and local. I may have been in a Safeway store three or four times in the last ten years but only when I cannot avoid it. I much prefer the little Lebanese green grocer around the corner, the local butcher, a few shops at Granville Island for specialty items, a small place where the arugula is fresh and reasonably priced. It is axiomatic that to keep these businesses thriving in the neighbourhood, we need to shop there. I’m retired; putting on a dinner party is supposed to take some time, shopping, prepping, and cooking.

When I look back over the last ten years, I am filled with warm memories of sharing food at my table, food that I have prepared and served. Sharing food is an intimate event that is deeply embedded in our DNA.  Food is the bait; occasionally it’s the center of attention but around my table, it’s the people who are joined together who really matter. I have been able to share what little I know with friends by offering to cook with them; it adds a whole new dimension to spending an evening together.

I spent many years unsure of my ability to pull off a decent dinner party, serve food that was going to be enjoyed by my guests. So, I chose to entertain in restaurants. Fun, lively, expensive but ultimately less convivial.

My six months at cooking school gave me the tools and the confidence to invite friends into my home, serve them food that I was proud of, and enjoy the warmth and intimacy of conversation and communion. That was the real benefit of slaving under the temporary tutelage of Chef Patrice and Chef Johannes. They opened the doors to a decade of bliss around my little table.    

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Hardening of the Attitudes.

My good friend Bob, observed one day that the first sign of aging is a “hardening of the attitudes.” 

The phrase has been around for decades but it was new to me. It resonated.

There have been a few too many times lately when I say something about a current issue that is patently ridiculous. A disturbing pattern is emerging. It speaks volumes about a certitude that is too loud and ill-informed, a resoluteness that is unnecessary and an infallibility that is too noisily and abashedly defensive. Hardening of the attitudes indeed.

At it’s core is a been-there-done-that belief that I have gathered enough wisdom and my brain is full. It also means that my brain is closed to new information, new ideas, new points of view. There is no dialogue with certitude, no negotiation with resoluteness and no modifications to infallibility.

In an effort to fight this hardening of the attitudes, I am reading things I have never read before. I am discovering writers who are brilliant, exposing me to ideas and points of view that have never entered my conscious realm. It has a bit of a randomness to it all but is nevertheless refreshing and humbling.

I came across a small book by Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own, in a discount bin at Munro’s Books in Victoria last weekend.  I’ve never read Virginia Woolf so it was worth a try (especially, I thought, at the discount price).

It is an extended essay resulting from lectures Woolf gave to two women’s colleges affiliated with Cambridge University in 1928. I won’t try to summarize it, it would not do her justice. I can only say she is brilliant in laying out her case for gender equality, surpassing any modern feminist writings in her logic, her calm reasoning and her eloquence.

I wish I had read it when I was 20, or 30, or 40, or 50… or anytime in between. I am convinced it would have changed me and my view of the world.

The fact that there are writers like Woolf, and books like A Room of One’s Own that have eluded me at this stage of my intellectual and moral development suggests that maybe I don’t know everything there is to know, that my certitude is misplaced, that my resoluteness is fragile and my sense of infallibility is tragically flawed.

Fortunately, in a bit of serendipity, I have found a possible way out.  There is no cure for stupid but there is an opportunity to push back on the hardening of the attitudes.

There may even be other benefits to discarding my certitude.

Einstein is quoted as saying; “Once you stop learning, you start dying”.

My solution to all this is that I am going back to school.


It’s too long a story to describe in detail but, last spring, I managed to talk my way into a study tour of southern Spain run by a small program at Simon Fraser University, the Graduate Liberal Studies (GLS) Program. It involved a mix of students who were taking the course for credit, alumnae who were meeting up with old colleagues and a few strays like myself who had wandered in off the street.

It is a Master’s degree program, part-time and geared for adults. The curriculum for the two mandatory courses is a survey of the classics around the two themes of reason and passion. Then I must take more course options or a thesis option etc. to qualify for a degree.

The program is run out of the downtown Harbour Centre campus, I can walk to classes. The place hums and has the feel of a downtown university. The first two mandatory courses are held one night a week; they consist of a dinner and a three hour session, a discussion led by the professor.

The reading list is diverse and intimidating; there is not a single book on it that I have read. I like the idea of reading and discussing a serious work of literature, that seems to be my favoured learning style these days. 

If my Spanish sojourn is any indication, I am going to spend time with some truly special people. There are only 20 students admitted to the course every year so the cohort will be small. The people I have met so far are all interesting, curious and come from diverse backgrounds; people outside my normal and narrow social contact groups.

Why, at my age go back to school?

It seems I have a choice. I can remain aloof in my certitude, comfortable in my rut, and unassailable in my resoluteness and my infallibility – and as Einstein says, I can start dying. You see us everywhere, huddled in coffee shops, muttering to ourselves over the latest edition of the daily newspaper, looking and feeling left out and left behind. Like we’ve been weaned on a pickle – sour and un-nurtured.

I can also lift the veil a bit, without getting too far out of my comfort zone and rummage around in the remainders piles of bookstores – quality bookstores mind you – in my attempt to expand my horizons. But I will choose to do it only on my terms. I will acknowledge my failings only in the quiet of my apartment and the comfort of my reading chair. Being the intrepid explorer I fancy myself to be, I will continue to attend the theatre, visit museums and galleries and go to the opera occasionally to prove to myself that I still don’t like opera.

Or I can admit to a monumental lack of knowledge and awareness and set myself onto the stormy seas of learning. I love this quote by Sir Francis Drake; the problem is I have and irrational fear of water and have tipped many floatable vessels over at inopportune times. On the other hand, even drowning in new ideas is preferable to the other two options.


“Disturb us, Lord, when we are too well pleased with ourselves,
when our dreams have come true because we have dreamed too little,
when we arrive safely because we sailed too close to the shore.

Disturb us, Lord, to dare more boldly, to venture on wider seas,
where storms will show your mastery,
where losing sight of land, we shall find the stars.”

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the Joy of Receiving.

This is my story about learning – again – to receive the gifts of others, about recognizing our vulnerability, our inability to go-it-alone through any and all circumstances and our need, our profound need, for a community of others.

I grew up fed by a stew of manly self-reliance, old fashioned prairie pride where one never asked for help, spiced with a dash of virtuous superiority that I could and would help those for whom I cared but would never deign to ask for, much less receive, help even in my darkest moments.

Confronted with a stark reality, I really did need help.

This time it was an operation at Vancouver General Hospital.

About six months ago, an alert doctor inadvertently but alertly found a potential health issue which required a specialist’s attention. I underwent a number of tests and was told that I was a candidate for elective surgery. I had no symptoms, the procedure was intrusive but not particularly risky so I was put in the queue. I volunteered to be on a 24 hour cancellation list.

The call came four weeks ago, on a Tuesday afternoon. Could I check in that evening and be ready for an operation the next day?

I didn’t hesitate; when the call comes, go!

One of life’s little surprises; it meant I needed help. My plan to go it alone was deeply flawed. Luckily, providence and serendipity worked on my behalf – my better angels showed up in the form of my children, Kristen and Blair.

Kristen happened to be visiting in Vancouver on spring break from her position at an International School in Dresden. She was with me as I swung into action, helped me navigate checking into VGH, was with me in pre-op and – most important of all – was waiting for me when they wheeled me out of post-op to my room in the ward.

Every time I awoke that first night, confused, drugged, tied to tubes and beeping/blinking instruments, prodded by nurses for vital signs, she was there, sitting calmly and quietly by my side exuding comfort and support. She was my guardian angel; a memory that will stay with me forever.

Blair had just finished his winter semester at Grad school at Carleton. He dropped off his dog with his mother, jumped on a plane and headed to Vancouver. They spent a few days together with me and even managed to enjoy some sibling time before Kristen had to depart.

Blair took over, cancelled two weeks of his life and managed my transition back to my apartment and steered me through the first weeks of recovery; medication, nutrition, laundry, groceries, my first tentative walks through the neighbourhood and my constant search for a comfortable place to catch a few hours of sleep; the list could be longer but you get the point. He was invaluable.

Other friends pitched in before and after Blair left and they have been pitching in constantly, daily since his departure.

It has been four weeks, recovery is exactly as outlined by my Doctor and I’m returning to normal. The meds have been put away and the fog has lifted a bit. Already, I’m searching for deeper meaning.

More blinding flashes of the obvious? Yes but they are mine and they’re meaningful to me.

What is abundantly clear is that Canada’s medical system functions extraordinarily well. There is not a single instance in the last 8 months since and including my diagnosis that I could imagine might have gone better. Not one!  No bills have arrived at my door. The dozens of health care professionals went beyond professionalism; they were at all times caring and kind. We should be forever proud of our health care system. 

Most notable, was my role reversal; instead of noble giver of kindness, I was the recipient of the abundant kindness of others. It is this generosity of others that I have been blind to, oblivious of its breadth, power and strength.

John Steinbeck, chronicler of the great depression, summed up the challenge:

“It is so easy to give, so exquisitely rewarding. Receiving, on the other hand, if it be well done, requires a fine balance of self knowledge and kindness. It requires humility and tact and great understanding of relationships. In receiving, you cannot appear, even to yourself, better or stronger or wiser than the giver, although you must be wiser to do it well. it requires a self-esteem to receive — not self-love but just a pleasant acquaintance and liking for oneself.”

I would fail Steinbeck’s test.

I need to face the folly of wanting to do it all myself; the absurdity of going it alone. I need to recognize and embrace my vulnerability, to allow my needs to be known by others who stand ready to help. 

I must do so in the honest recognition that relationships and community are essential to the human condition – to my humanity.

I need my community, we all need our communities; not just for support but for mutual support. Giving to my community is but part of what cements relationships in my community; receiving, receiving gracefully, humbly and with integrity, is also a bedrock of community.

I was trying to articulate this with a friend; how asking for and receiving help was half of the bond we have with people. Her response was insightful; even the act of receiving is an act of giving.

It allows someone’s generosity to find a home. It is these tender mercies that bind us to each other – both giving and receiving. Kristen and Blair helped me see that these acts of kindness were expressions of love from both giver and receiver. For all that I’m grateful.

One final insight. I discovered the tremendous healing powers of PJ’s. I now have several pairs. They may not be fashionable and I doubt I’ll wear them in public like I did when I was released from hospital but, at home….

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Sweet Spots and Improv.

Sometimes, planned adventures happen exactly as planned. Sometimes there is some faint resemblance between planned and actual experience, it doesn’t mirror but it rhymes.

Occasionally when we are blessed with serendipity, our adventures take on a life on their own and we are like a leaf in a stream; we go wherever the current takes us.

My latest adventure was the latter. As I reflect on it, the richness of the spontaneous surprises was more than adequate compensation for the complete departure from the script I had laid out many months previous.  Improv can be awful or awfully good but it is always thrilling; it’s watching someone working a high wire without a net.

Life proves again that I have little or no control; my best strategy is to accept, adapt, improvise and take advantage of these fresh surprises. We may not control our lives; we do control how we face what life throws at us.

The first part of my adventure went according to plan. A wedding in Whitstable, a village on the east coast of England in Kent, a short train ride from London. It was picture perfect framing for a joyful event.

At my stage in life, it is vital to attend these ceremonies. It’s a validation of rituals and traditions we value as we experience the passages of our lives. Moreover, it is essential that we congregate with our dearest friends to witness and affirm  their joy as their children take these iconic steps.

Besides, I’m an unrepentant romantic, a softie, a mensch. I wouldn’t miss a chance to sigh and blubber a bit, discretely of course.

We ended our shared time with a small dinner. The big event was a success, we could relax with our friends, bask in their joyous glow and gossip to our hearts’ content. We recognize that these sweet spots in our lives are fleeting, valuable and valued.

We chose one of Yotam Ottolenghi’s restaurants – NOPI in the chic SOHO district of London.

Yotam Ottolenghi is no Gordon Ramsay – and, for that, I am grateful. 

Rather than yelling and cursing across endless faux-drama, cooking soap operas, Ottolenghi has been revolutionizing the way we cook and enjoy food. 

Vegetables take center stage, he finds ways to use spices, herbs and untraditional ingredient pairings to celebrate vegetables.

This is high cuisine, worthy of attention – even for a grain-fed beef lover from the prairies. He surprises even the most jaded palate. 

Our NOPI night was one of those delightful evenings; perfect location, perfect dining companions, lively conversations.

NOPI and Ottolenghi set the stage; Laura, John, Ann and John made the evening memorable. And, as even Anthony Bourdain is quick to note, sometimes it’s not about the food at all.

The tender mercies of life are everywhere….

Here’s where the rest of the plan falls apart. Instead of a week’s walking in the English countryside and a short visit with Kristen and Chris in Dresden, I head straight to Dresden; a few days with the kids becomes more like a few weeks.

I’m delighted. Any time I have to share with my children is precious; especially when I’m invited.

The unintended consequence of ditching the old plan is more time to explore their new home and its environs. Last August, I’d done my serious tourism; the Zwinger Palace and its top museums, the Fraunkirsche and the Royal Palace, architectural masterpieces restored after the WWII firebombing.

Now I could do what I love best; explore off the tourist track, search out the smaller, more interesting spots, the one-trick-ponies, the away places, the ironic, the oddity.

The Grand Budapest Hotel is one of my favorite movies. An all star cast, the crazy genius of Wes Anderson and a zany plot driven by superb writing, I’ve seen it many times. 

Well, guess what? The building that provided the set for the Hotel is in eastern Germany in a city called Gorlitz just on the Polish border. We took a train ride to see the aging Department store transformed into THE Hotel Budapest.

The store has seen better times; it’s one of many that flourished in the 30’s, an art deco extravaganza for upscale shoppers. It is now famous and is being renovated. Its a delight.

Saved from wartime destruction, Gorlitz is an architectural gem, churches, houses, streets that seem straight from a history book. It’s also a starting point for those who wish to walk the Camino de Santiago. The Polish route is only 3152 kms.

We even encountered a makeshift concert, a man lovingly playing an instrument I have never seen before, a hammered dulcimer – I had to look it up. 

A quick walk across the bridge of the Lusatian-Neisse river and we are in Poland. Lunch is superb, cheap like borscht and tasty. The schnitzel was as big as my head, more than even I could handle.  

In 1945, at the end of the war, Germany was divided into French, British, American and Russian zones. The Russian zone, the DDR, was a major Communist satellite country for 45 years; in 1990 the two Germanys were reunited. 

During those 45 years, East Germans lived a completely different experience; ideology, politics, work, education – everything was different. 

K&C like to tell the story that East Germans seldom had drapes or blinds – to have them meant you might have something you were hiding, attracting the attention of the Secret police, the infamous Stasi. 

There is a little museum in Dresden that shows the common day-to-day artifacts of that period. It reminds me that, amazing differences aside, people still lived their lives.  

Tiny, boxy cars, Trabants, with baby engines and a maximum speed of 50 km/hour required a 10 year waiting list and mechanical wizardry to keep them going. Much of the body was made of a sort of shellacked cardboard. They were not serious competition for BMW or Mercedes.

A friend described the DDR as gray, grim and dark. As this little museum attests, i t certainly wasn’t a consumer mecca!

There is a small museum outside the tourist zone that is haunting. The Dresden Panometer has created, by stitching together photos of the aftermath of the February 1945 firebombing of the city, a huge 360 degree panorama of Dresden after the firebombing. The visual stuns one into silence. It is an assault on the senses, a graphic reminder of the horror of war. It takes minutes to view and lasts a lifetime in the imagination.

The Elbe River flows through Dresden. it has been a commanding, geographic pivotal element of Germany since recorded history. European focused Germany lies west of the Elbe; the Germany east of the Elbe has followed a different course. Unconquered by Rome, it has been forever less European, more unruly, more Prussian, more Slavic, more influenced by Russia.

The Elbe was the demarcation line, the fault line; it still demarks strong differences within German civil society. We had a chance to wander the valley of the Elbe, now a picture perfect tourist attraction for hikers, cyclists, river boats and day tourists.

To discover the existence of, and visit, all these off beat, quirky places it is important to consult locals, or the next best thing – Chris. He’s as local as I can find, speaks pretty good German, likes to poke around and enables my poking around by being my guide. 

It is easy to picture how the Elbe could be so transformative of the cultural evolution of the region, its valley and the surrounding cliffs offer both barriers and buttresses against unwanted incursions, whether they be Romans or west German industrialists.

It is important to venture outside my comfort zone on these serendipitous adventures, to take advantage of oddities. Our last oddity is a visit to the Opera; Semperoper in Dresden is worthy of a visit for its architecture and beauty alone. But we are blessed, a performance of Mozart’s The Magic Flute allows us the chance to see an opera in the theatre built for opera. Now, those who know me will understand that this does meet the out-of-my-comfort-zone test. It was delightful; made more so by being able to share it with my Dresden guides. I’m good for another five years.

There was much more improvisation in my few days that became a few weeks; I am yet again reminded that flexibility, adaptability and a willingness to see the positive opportunities of upset plans can make a big difference. The English countryside walk can wait; shared time with two of my favorite people trumps just about everything else.

If I need further proof, I apply my two tests of joyful travel; every night as I lay quietly reviewing my day, I ask myself two questions. Did I enjoy my day? YES

Is there any other place I would rather be on that day? NO.

Improv wins; forget the plans, go with the flow and make the best of it. Simple advice, important to remind myself of it whenever serendipity throws my best laid plans out the window.

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Road Trips – Affirmations and Acceptance

Fast approaching my seventieth birthday – my soixante dix, I try to think of a way to celebrate this event in a meaningful way while avoiding the consequences of achieving this milestone.  We’ll face all the ‘growing old is fun’ cliches later; suffice it to say that it is better than the alternative.

I finally stumble and bumble my way to the ideal celebration. My visit to Ottawa morphs into a road trip to visit my family and old friends.  I will take along an older friend who by his very presence would allow me to be the young one. Everything is relative.

It works perfectly.

I drive to Calgary, drop the car at the airport and fly to Ottawa. Phase one is a visit with Blair. Blair has a well deserved Reading Week – he spends it reading the snow conditions at Lake Louise and visiting friends in Calgary.

I spend the week visiting friends and taking care of his dog Austin.

That involved long walks – outside. Austin gives me a concentrated stare that made me feel guilty. He’s hard to ignore.

I bundle up, we venture outside and brave the biting cold of an Ottawa day. The good part about our walks is that they leave us both pleasantly fatigued. We sleep the deep sleep of the just.




My Blair returns. Blair the elder, my friend of more than fifty years, and I fly to Calgary. It is chilly, a bone-numbing -20 degrees Celsius.



A brief visit with Bob and Linda, my favorite older sister, is a perfect start to our epic adventure. In one of those coincidences that go beyond serendipity, my brother-in-law Bob and Blair realize that they had both been sent to Red Deer to finish high school; it’s where rascals and miscreants went after ruffling the feathers of their local school officials. Small world and a few seldom-told stories; sorry road stories must not be divulged.

In Red Deer, Blair’s nephew Russell takes us on a tour of RCMP headquarters, where he serves. We return to a sumptuous Korean dinner that SunJa, Russell’s wife had prepared. The evening’s entertainment is provided by their three delightful, energetic and talented children; Jaden, Leisha and Neven. Sometimes, traveling sweet spots appear when least expected; it is there on this night in the city of Red Deer.

My brother Marvin lives in Edmonton, no one understands why; but his roots are deep in the city. He raised his son Michael here, managed a small but vital child service agency, Chimo, and still now in his 70’s contributes to his city as a board member of the Boyle Street Education Centre – https://www.bsec.ab.ca – a charter school aimed at helping aboriginal at-risk youth stay in school. He’s a pretty cool guy; and knows some of the most interesting street kids I have ever met.

We return to Calgary for a night, meeting Marion an old friend for dinner.

Next day, a long drive through the mountains to Silver Star, a sweet little ski resort near Vernon.  I spent the evening and the next morning swapping stories with my first two bosses, Blair and Judd. I cannot imagine two better role models. They, more than any others, shaped my business and work habits, my skills at interpersonal relations, my capacity for communication and my confidence. I was blessed by their collegial guidance and leadership. 

We return to Vancouver and another round of visits. A spirited discussion of current Ottawa shenanigans spice up dinners and lunches with friends near and dear.

We even manage to make it to Victoria for a delightful lunch with Blair’s former Concordia colleagues.

So, just another travelogue, or is there something more going on?

I have known the value of the relationships with friends and family for some time but never was it more obviously on display.

Our lives are defined and immeasurably enriched by our relationships. Our family – both the family we are given by birth and the family we choose as we live our lives – are fundamental to our well-being.

We are blessed with family and friends, doubly so when we measure those relationships in decades.

There is overwhelming scientific evidence that close meaningful relationships add enormously to the quality of our life, extend our life and improve our social, emotional and physical health.

These relationships need nurturing but the benefits are abundant.

So, the valuable lesson in life of this trip is simple; I can gracefully accept my advancing years by recognizing the abundance of the gifts I have received, foremost of which are the friendship with all the people who are a part of my life.

Friendships measured in decades; people who have shared the joys and challenges that life throws at us. We can’t control these events but we can face them more courageously with the support of our friends.

If friends extend our lives, I’m here for a long, long time.


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If this is Monday, it must be Beckett.

Sometimes, if we are lucky, even when we make choices for the strangest reasons, the resulting joy eclipses the consideration given them.

Garbage in, wisdom out.

Single people know that life doesn’t just happen, nor does it queue neatly to fit our expectations; it has to be orchestrated. We initiate to fill our days, waiting for things to happen can mean waiting and wasting.

My friend self describes as a single combat warrior – she alone must plan her day, her week, her month, her life.

We singletons live in first person singular; I shall, I will, I must.

So what does this have to do with Samuel Beckett? Not much at the start.

I seek to fill my days, my weeks, my months, my life with interesting things to do.

Sometimes I start at the wrong end of things, I face empty Mondays; they must be filled, otherwise I will do little but pretend to be a boulevardier, a flaneur; sauntering down to Delaney’s for a coffee and an elegant, slightly patronizing scan of its inhabitants.

While mildly amusing and distracting, it is thin sustenance. I need more. 

So I cast about. Previously, I would have filled those Mondays with a hard, long, forced march around the city, but it is winter, better to find something indoors away from the unpredictable weather and its cold rain.

Something indoors. Luckily, I have discovered senior’s learning; there are kinder words, plus 55, lifelong learning etc. Simon Fraser University has a program at its downtown campus for me and thousands like me.

I scan the program for Monday’s events; the only offering to tickle my fancy is a course on Samuel Beckett.

I have met Beckett once and didn’t like him. Years ago I took Kristen and Blair to the Stratford Festival for a weekend of what I styled “Shakespeare boot camp”.

Dublin, IRELAND: The Criterion Theatre programme of the 1955 presentation of Irish playwright Samuel Beckett’s play, “Waiting for Godot”, (Photo credit; FRAN CAFFREY/AFP/Getty Images)

To break it up a bit, we went to see Waiting for Godot, a Beckett classic. There was a brief intermission; nothing in the play made sense. Kristen and Blair explained the play to me as dark existentialism; I limped through the second act still scratching my head and they managed to help me in our inevitable post mortem over pizza at a local restaurant.

Then it was on to the evening’s main event – Shakespeare, my favorite. I immediately forgot Beckett.

Now here he was, my best option to fill my winter Mondays. Waiting for Godot or something else is not an option.

I signed up.

It has been a surprise, remarkably thought-provoking and intellectually stimulating. I look forward to my Monday class.

Our professor is cheerful happy, smiling, laughing – not my expectation of a Beckett enthusiast. She is quite the opposite; instead of the Grim Reaper our prof is Mary Poppins.

I won’t bore you with my analysis of Beckett; I could not credibly pull it off. He did deserve his Nobel Prize even if he is bleak; a person so gifted that he had to write in French to slow down/dumb down his writing to be even hopefully incomprehensible.

He was a troubled Irish genius, inflicting his dark foreboding on generations of readers and theatregoers. He created a treasure trove of question marks, rivalling James Joyce in puzzling critics, academics and art lovers.

I was always told to read the black part of the page; attributing meaning to the white part was presumptuous interpretation, wild speculation, surmising – guaranteed to be wrong. Read the words Beckett said.

My class loves to read the white part of the page, to speculate;  what did he really mean. They are very creative and profoundly optimistic. I enjoy the discussion, the thoughtfulness, the passionate explanations and exclamations. Whew! Who knew he meant all these things.

The course is another example of the obvious; I can sit in my warm bath of familiarity, doing little, waiting for Godot or I can be a ‘single combat warrior’ and go out and challenge the world, even if my objective is merely to fill my empty Mondays.

I have no fear of falling down the rabbit hole of trying to dissect Beckett. His dark view of the world does not interest me. But I am challenged to think, to accept again that others have different ideas and points of view, that I haven’t learned it all.

What better way to spend dreary Mondays?   Better than waiting for Godot…?

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Summer adventure, Life adventure

I have found that fear is a powerful motivator for me; in my running days I had a fear based training program. Set an impossible goal, then use fear of failing to motivate the necessary training.  A few sleepless nights drives serious training and it usually works. The pain is always worth the joy of crossing the finish line.

My latest application of the principle is crossing the Great Saint Bernard Pass; I spend several months walking every day around Vancouver, motivated by a self-generated fear that the famous Saint Bernard dogs would have to rescue me because I couldn’t make it up the Pass under my own steam.

There’s another powerful motivator – the prize; if I complete a task, I get a prize. I dangle it like a carrot in front of me.

This summer I created fear and manufactured a prize. I turned the Great Saint Bernard pass into Mount Everest in my mind – fear.

I created a bright and shiny prize; when Blair and I finished our walk, we would reward ourselves with a visit to Kristen and Chris in their new home in Dresden, Germany – the prize.

Five years ago, Kristen and Christopher embarked on a grand adventure in life; this was not a holiday, not a temporary adventure for a few weeks or a few months but a full life commitment. They moved to Basel, Switzerland where Kristen started as a counsellor at the international school.

It has been a rollercoaster ride for both of them. In her first years, Kristen faced an evolving set of assignments; in her last two she found her ideal role as a full-time counsellor. She made an enormous contribution to the people who mattered most to her – students who needed her wisdom, advice and support.

Chris faced daily life in Basel, managing a host of tasks in a different language, a different culture; untold numbers of ways to make things complicated and add multiple twists and turns to even the simplest task.

He also managed in his time there to make big strides in learning German, became an accomplished cyclist and weekend adventure planner. He became an aficionado of stylish European ways; at times he seemed more European than the locals.


They also took advantage of every long weekend, school holiday and vacation to explore all of western Europe. I know because I got to tag along occasionally – Lisbon, Rome, Paris, dozens of postcard picture-perfect spots in Switzerland carefully researched and curated by them for our enjoyment. We even managed to spend some time with Bruce Springsteen on his final European tour stop in Zurich.

To call it life affirming is obvious; from my vantage point, it has been a profoundly enriching experience for both, not without challenges but worthy of celebration on so many levels.

And now they have moved to Dresden, where she is school counsellor for the  international school.

Our prize starts when we meet them in Prague.

The prize for the next days and weeks is worth all our sweat and toil. Prague is delightful.

I have never visited central Europe; Prague is a delightful place to start. The architecture is fascinating; the city is steeped in a history unfamiliar to me, there’s an enervating exoticism to everything.

We share an eight course tasting menu that is as inspired as any I have tasted in Paris; the wine pairings, all local, have both Kristen and Chris asking where they can find more of the sampled wines.

I walk the Charles Bridge in early morning, the only time free of pesky tourists, and am convinced of the merits of returning to Prague soon. We board the train and, in less than two hours, we are in Dresden.



Kristen and Chris have found a charming two bedroom apartment near a trolley line just a short commute from her work and city centre.

Dresden is universally known as the German city that was firebombed by the Allies in the last months of the war, despite it’s marginal strategic value. Kurt Vonnegut, an American prisoner of war, witnessed the destruction and wrote of its effects in his acclaimed fiction, Slaughterhouse Five.

Unlike most European cities that rebuilt their torn infrastructure with new modern buildings Dresden, once called the Florence of the Elbe, laboured for decades to recreate the astounding 17th, 18th and 19th century architecture for which it was rightly renowned.

With the support of governments and private donors from around the world, such building as the Frauenkirche, a Lutheran cupola Cathedral and the Zwinger, an 18th century Baroque palace now hosting three separate museums.

The bombed out centre of the city is restored using whatever materials were able to be salvaged from the absolute destruction of the war, augment with modern building materials, leaving an ever-present reminder of the devastation of war. It has become again the Jewel Box of Europe.

Situated on the Elbe River, it is now a modern, bustling city with one of the largest technical universities, a diverse economy and a vibrant nightlife – we managed to survive our first biergarten under the landmark bridge, the Blaues Wunder – the Blue Wonder.

Having moved just three weeks before our arrival, they have been busily starting a new job, exploring the city, setting up their new apartment and unpacking boxes. 

Like all adventures it’s not always easy; getting everything set up takes time, negotiations are in German and it all requires a secret sauce of patience and persistence. 

Blair and I want to be welcomed back so we set ourselves to being useful and lighten the load. 

There is a list….

Job 1 is making the apartment Matisse safe. A new bamboo skirt for the balcony successfully installed by Chris and Blair takes one item off the list. 

Blair and Chris make a productive team. My challenge is to stay out of the way. Its tough work but I try. 

Of course, we get a chance to see K’s workplace – even after school, it sparkles with youthful energy. Her office is warm, comfortable and easy to relax in – her students are lucky to have her as a resource. 

I find it comforting, even now, to see where my children live and work. It adds immeasurably to my future conversations to have a mental image of their kitchen, their office, their favourite patio, their quiet spot to decompress, their best biergarten. 

This is a completely new adventure, Dresden, so long inside the Iron Curtain, is different from the western Europe they have seen from their old base in Basel. The opportunity to explore central Europe, Poland, Ukraine, the Baltic, Denmark, northern Scandinavia, Hungary, the Czech Republic are all waiting their arrival.

I am overjoyed. They are true intrepid explorers. I have high hopes of tagging along occasionally, using Dresden as a base for my own explorations and living vicariously through their adventures.

We ended my summer adventure with a celebration, of their tenth anniversary, of their courage in drinking avidly from the firehose of life and for the future of their adventure in Dresden. An end to my summer adventure and a start to their new adventure in Dresden.


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Walking with Purpose III – Switzerland and Italy

The Via Francigena is not for the easily distracted or for those who desire instant gratification; it’s a 2000 kilometre path that starts in Canterbury, England, traverses northern France then wends its way through Switzerland and crosses into Italy over the Great Saint Bernard Pass. That’s the halfway point; it ends in Rome after another 1000 kilometres of walking.

The Great Saint Bernard Pass demands attention. Well known, the Romans used it as a gateway to Europe before the birth of Christ. Napoleon took his invading army over the pass to attack the Italian city states in 1800. At 2473 metres (8114 feet), it is formidable; snow has been known to fall in any month, travel by foot is recommended only in July and August, the only road is closed some 8 months of the year.

John and I had been walking for two weeks across France when we parted in Besancon, less than 70 kilometres from the border. After a few days of R&R, I start walking alone towards Switzerland.

The Jura range near the border of France and Switzerland requires crossing; 1300 metres of elevation that I have not exactly planned for, a preview of things to come.

It’s beautiful walking and I’m on my own; the weather has cracked a bit and I’ve lots of time to walk and look with abandon. I come across some farm art, the French farmers’ baleful-looking equivalent to our Vancouver west-end Inukshuk.

The border to Switzerland is a small building, I walk across; no checks, just a wave from the guards. The Swiss trail signpost system is clear and comprehensive; it is almost impossible to get lost and their route TP 70, charts the Via Francigena from the French border to the Italian border. All I have to do is walk; I arrive in Lausanne a few days later.

Along the way, I pause to visit a Roman ruin; some of the most incredible mosaics I have ever seen, preserved and now exhibited in this remote location; again proving that walking offers enrichment unavailable to those in cars whizzing past on the autoroute.

I have some R&R in Lausanne, an emotional visit to the Olympic museum, complete with artifacts from both Calgary 1988 and Vancouver 2010. I must admit wiping a bit of something that got caught in my eyes there, occasioned by fond memories of both. Again, taking my time pays off.

Blair joins me in Lausanne and we are off. We haven’t done any walking together since his teenage years; it’s good to have him with me.

We face five days of walking to the top of the pass, it doesn’t seem right to call it a summit when it is the lowest point around.

The last two days are each 13 kilometres long with an elevation gain of about 800 metres – yes friends that is almost one kilometre of up.

He manages my slower pace by stopping to take photos while I trudge on; more importantly, vitally, he offers to carry all our water for the last two days, several extra kilograms of weight all day, all the way to the top.

I’m struggling and grateful for his presence, his support and his encouragement.

There’s little use dwelling on my suffering, we all pay for french fries in our own way; as compensation, the views we are blessed with are magnificent.

The elevation brings cool weather and a few challenging hours of rain; my enthusiasm drips off me with the rain.

The last day is a struggle of will over wish; I wish I was somewhere else or at least done this uphill trudge.

Finally, in late afternoon, within sight of the summit, Blair announces that he has a surprise for me; we can stop anywhere. The sun comes out, we find a flat rock and he pulls two Astronaut-ready freeze-dried ice cream sandwiches from his pack.

He found them at MEC in Ottawa before he left; knowing of my legendary and boundless enthusiasm for ice cream (I have always held the belief that ice cream is definitive proof that there is a god), he couldn’t resist buying them.

So. we sit on our rock, basking in the sun and our success at climbing to the summit of the pass and eat our ice cream bars.


The extra joy of his unexpected thoughtfulness is another tender mercy for which I will always be grateful.

We finish our treat and are off to the summit when, straight from central casting, a young woman appears with three Great Saint Bernard dogs to welcome us. She says she always takes them for a walk about this time of day; I’m convinced that it’s all planned – the gods have sent those wonderful beast to personally welcome us to the Great Saint Bernard Pass.

Tender mercies indeed!

It doesn’t get better than this you say?

Well, it does. It’s called Italy.

To be honest, we are expecting little; the Pass was the prize.

To further be honest, we hitchhike down the other side, I’m not interested in further punishment to prove a point. Our driver drops us at the front door to La Cluzas, a hotel restaurant built on the site of a 13th century hospital. We celebrate, belatedly, Blair’s birthday with one of the best meals we have ever experienced. We celebrate his birthday, our success, our camaraderie, our gratitude for this moment.

Walking in the north of Italy is a perfect end to my Via Francigena summer. Fruit trees are loaded, the villages are picturesque, the people are kind and helpful, the food is glorious. We slow down and walk with a keen eye for photos and a reluctance to see our shared adventure end.

I have expressed doubt about my willingness to commit to the long trek to Rome; Blair voices an interest in returning; his new idea is enough to keep the door open. Walking in this part of Italy offers a compelling logic of its own.

The future cannot be predicted. For now, we enjoy each and every day.

We board the train in Ivrea, to fly to Prague for our next adventure. Life is good.

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Walking with Purpose II

Last summer, I started a major walk; the Via Francegina, from Canterbury to Rome. It follows the path of Sigeric the Serious, the Archbishop of Canterbury who made the trek to be appointed Cardinal.

His return trip was documented; he finished the return trip of some 2000 kilometres in 79 days. He was obviously a hardy soul, the journey crosses the Swiss Alps and a few other minor inconveniences.

There have been a few changes to the landscape but there are signposts showing a path across France, Switzerland and Italy for those of us willing to follow in his footsteps.

It’s not the actual walk that requires a strong sense of purpose, it’s the tedium, boredom and hard work of the six months of getting ready that requires motivation and commitment a sense of purpose provides. 

Most of my pilgrim walks have been solo affairs. I have liked the solitude. Last year I made an exception. Kristen joined me for a week; it was such a positive experience that I decided to try it again.

This year’s walk began where I finished last year, in Reims. I have a new travel companion, John will walk with me for two weeks.  We meet in Paris, catch a train to Reims and find our hotel.  While we suffer from jet lag and a slight disorientation we recognize today is an important day – France is playing the final of the World Cup in Moscow so we scurry down to a pub to catch a meal and the action. We win! The city celebrates under our window till dawn – loudly!

Our first day starts late; we need photos, SIM cards and other essentials before we leave the city. The day is long, hard and hot. Whether it be jet lag or the late start, dehydration and fatigue set in.

The walk is beautiful, through Champagne wine country, down a long arrow-straight Roman road that is still functional as a farm track, through a major forest and finally out into open country. We manage to replenish our water, hitch a bit of a ride and arrive at our first lodging.

As we recover, we decide to tweak our plans; in the heat we may not be able to safely cover the 25 or so kilometres between each night’s stop. We form a rules committee which will meet nightly to decide how much walking we will undertake the next day. We seek out alternate means of travel, asking politely of our hotelier for a ride, hiring a taxi, whatever is necessary to shuttle us to an appropriate start point.

We are mindful that the test is not whether we can make our destination today but whether we are able to make a whole series of destinations. Blisters, chafing, dehydration, fatigue and just plain-old enjoyability weigh on the minds of the rules committee.

It works.

We have hosts who bless us with a ride down the road. We learn to pace ourselves, finding the occasional tree to rest under. And we consume rivers of water, before, during and after every walk.

The rules committee also decides that we should allow a certain amount of cultural enlightenment to occur, under appropriate circumstances. We happen upon a museum in a town where Napoleon attended Military School, surely a cultural event cannot be missed even if it requires a cab later in the day to achieve our destination.

A few days later, at a scheduled rest day John, who has a bit of a magpie memory – he gathers up bright and shiny factoids for later use – recalls that we are near a museum honouring Charles deGaulle in nearby Colombey-les-Deux-Eglises.

It is delightful; if I was in a car or in a hurry, I would have gone right past it without blinking. We are invigorated and enlightened and I have seen a new dimension added to all my future walks.

The two weeks remain obstinately hot; we are averaging 15-18 kms a day, respectable given the circumstances. we develop and set our routine; we rise as early as socially acceptable, we caffeinnate and eat whatever is set in front of us, we load up on water and our packs and set off. Since every kilometre is new, we enjoy the walk, stopping occasionally if we find some shade. We arrive at our destination, gratefully accept our lodgings (some require more acceptance than others), forage for food, wash up, nap and find a decent meal for supper. The rules committee meets to sort out the next day’s schedule and we retire. It is a full day.

Everything every day is, by definition, a surprise, most are pleasant. We stay one night with the Mongy family; they offer free dinner/lodging/breakfast to pilgrims in an area where no other alternatives exist. they are famous along the VIA for their hospitality. the next day they drive us out to our start point. They even send us off with a sandwich for lunch.

John is an ideal companion; he is flexible and gets the everything-is-a-surprise concept quickly. He is happy with a simple hotel; neither of us complain much, we settle for what we receive and move on. We concentrate on the small kindnesses extended to us. The kindness comes, the tender mercies abound and accumulate.

We have removed ourselves from the toxicity of the 24 hour news cycle; it helps our detox and our disposition.

Our last night is spent in the village of Gy; our hosts out-do themselves – lodging, dinner prepared for us, breakfast and the all important ride to John’s train station. We are dropped at the TGV station; say our goodbyes and I head into town while John heads for the bright lights of Paris and then home.

I am sorry to see him go; I’m coming to see that a walking partner offers some serious benefits. It’s like working with a net. If any number of events happen while solo – say losing a wallet or having a credit card cancelled – it is a catastrophe; when traveling with someone else it is a minor inconvenience. 

We’ve covered some 350 kilometres; my best guess is we’ve walked 250 of that. We have walked in temperatures exceeding 30 degrees Celsius, usually on tarmac with little shade with no access to water along the route. We’ve had fun, we’ve seen some sights, we’ve met some truly kind people and have benefited from their simple acts of kindness.  We’ve regained our faith in humanity and our optimism about the human condition.

Not bad for a walkabout.

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A Cautionary Canada Day tale

Joseph Stiglitz is a Nobel Prize winning economist, a past chair of the US Council of Economic Advisors and a past chief economist of the World Bank. I may be going with my gut here but I’m thinking he has the credentials to be a credible commentator on how economic policy affects our life.

I first became aware of Stiglitz when he predicted that George Bush’s invasion of Iraq in 2002 would cost Americans a trillion dollars. At the time, the neo-cons around Bush scoffed – a few hundred million max, and Iraqi oil would pay for it. Guess who was right – the tally has passed a trillion dollars and is still mounting. The real cost in deaths, shattered lives and permanently disabled veterans is even more horrific.

So, when I saw an anthology of his columns called The Great Divide, I had to buy it.

It is a chilling read. Stiglitz provides a litany of cautionary advice about the growing concentration of wealth in America. He is the intellectual godfather of the 99% movement in the US.

He is a clear, concise and engaging writer. Most of the pieces in this book are short, forcing him to communicate clearly, to use startling examples, to make his points easily understandable to those of use whose grasp of economics is tenuous. He succeeds.

Stiglitz believes that the growing concentration of wealth and income in the top 1% of Americans, the greed that propels this continuing aggregation of wealth and the complicity of policy makers and elected officials to make the rich richer is the biggest challenge Americans face.

He’s amassed some pretty powerful evidence.

  • The top 1% now owns some 40% of America’s wealth and about 25% of America’s income.
  • The incomes of the top 1% have doubled over the past 25 years; over the last decade, their incomes have risen almost 20%. The rest of us are not so blessed. Incomes remain stubbornly flat; in fact, median incomes have been flat for 40 years.
  • The six members of the Walton family, the owners of Walmart, now own more American wealth – some $130 billion – than the bottom 30% of the US population. That’s more than 100 million people!
  • Almost all – 95% actually – of the increases in income after the recovery from that cataclysmic events of 2007-08 went to the top 1% of Americans.
  • More than a trillion dollars was spent bailing out US banks in the aftermath of the economic meltdown that almost destroyed the world’s economy; little was spent helping millions (yes millions) of ordinary Americans keep their homes or fight illegal foreclosures.
  • The bankers kept their bonuses, investors kept their dividends, bondholders got their interest; the 99% lost their homes, their cars, their jobs, their future. No one went to jail; no one was punished.

It is my personal view that the current turmoil sweeping across America is directly related to the economic disparities that are cleaving American society. People are coming to understand that the American dream is available only to the 1%.

Stiglitz shows that this concentration of wealth is the result of policies that were designed to deliver benefits to the wealthy. Tax cuts and public policy were designed to benefit the rich.

The American tax system feeds the concentration of wealth. Tax deductions for capital gains are generous compared to those for wage earner’s income; other tax deductions reward the rich and burden the 99%. Higher education has been made too expensive for any but the wealthy, health care is beyond the reach of many and the relentless dismantling of the Affordable Care Act is destroying health care plans for millions.

America is falling in rankings of many indices which measure quality of life, mobility and well-being. Child poverty, poverty, food insecurity, growing unemployment in specific demographics, lower social and economic mobility – all indications of the dramatic impacts of the inequities – are growing.

Stiglitz quotes Warren Buffett; “there’s been class warfare going on for the last 20 years and my class has won.”

Buffett does not say that proudly; he has been quick to point out that he pays less tax on a percentage basis than his secretary and he has pledged to give his accumulated wealth to charity. His enlightenment is not emulated by the rest of the American 1%.

Leonard Cohen saw the game, way back in 1988.

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded

Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed

Everybody knows the war is over

Everybody knows the good guys lost

Everybody knows the fight was fixed

The poor stay poor, the rich get rich

That’s how it goes

Everybody knows

An engaging melody and Cohen’s incredible voice could not hide the cynicism of the lyrics.

Stiglitz is clear; inequality is a choice that American policy makers have made and continue to make. In the US Supreme Court’s decision in Citizen’s United, they have ensured that money rules the US political process. It almost guarantees that policy will ensure the rich get richer; everybody – even Leonard Cohen – knows.

Stiglitz knows that the dry world of economics cannot capture the importance of trust and fairness as bedrocks of society, of myriads of financial transaction, of the hope that one can advance through hard work and playing by the rules, of the belief that there is justice for all. Without these beliefs and a strong set of rules and regulations that govern the excesses of capitalism, society itself fails.

As Canadians, we should not be too smug; our levels of inequality are almost as drastic as those in America. Many of our public policies help the rich stay rich and force the poor to remain poor.

We cannot be too sanctimonious, nor can we rest. Our unique Canadian successes are more fragile than we might expect. The disparity of income and wealth is not inexorable or inevitable, but pressure from powerful interests is relentless.

And, here is the point dear friends. As we celebrate Canada Day, we cannot take anything for granted.

Our challenge as Canadians as we celebrate our 151st year as a nation is to constantly make the right choices.

When we pay our taxes, we make the choice to sustain our unique Canadian way of life.

We live in one of the safest countries in the world, we are supporting one of the best health care systems in the world, we have access to a whole range of public services that are the envy of the rest of world.

We live in an open society where social mobility is possible, where equality and egalitarianism exist, where the fight is not fixed.

We have a remarkably good public education system and a post-secondary education that is still accessible to all.

These social norms do not come cheaply; they require vigilance, an engaged thoughtful electorate, a fair tax system and a smart well educated public service.

We must consciously choose to support an equality of opportunity for all Canadians, an equality of access to basic public services, an openness in our society, a willingness to include everyone in the public discourse and a shared responsibility for each other’s wellness.

When we participate in the public discourse we need to be ever mindful of the importance of trust in others, of reasonableness and civility, of the necessity to respect others, of the need to not fall prey to a sense of grievance or of the easy path to demonize the other.

We cannot inoculate ourselves from the current malaise working its way through America, but with vigilance, conviction, faith and trust in each other, we can avoid the inevitability of their choices.

That is my hope for Canada Day.

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History is messy.

What’s history? In my schoolchild days it was a long, complicated series of dates and names to be memorized; kings and queens of western European countries, battles and maps and heroes and villains. It was dead white men of privilege exploring and conquering the world. While it could be exciting stuff for a child with an overactive imagination, it was pretty dull and boring.

Later it became more serious. In my pipe-smoking undergraduate and graduate school days, the study of history was important because it gave us insight. I was in love with politics and policy, constantly admonished by my professors quoting George Santayana: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”   

I repeated that saying like a mantra as I read history, mostly the biographies of famous/infamous men, looking for insight – my own crystal ball into the future.

Not so today, somehow while I was off doing other things, history has become more complicated, more subject to more debate.

Nothing so clearly points out the complexity of interpreting history than a book that formed the basis of my latest adventure.

I was fortunate enough to join a travel study course offered by Simon Fraser University focusing on a book by historian Maria Rosa Menocal: Ornament of the World; How Muslims, Jews, and Christians Created a Culture of Tolerance in Medieval Spain.

It has caused a bit of a stir amongst scholars and historians.

Three weeks on my study tour that would take us to Cordoba, Seville and Granada in southern Spain and offered an opportunity to explore this somewhat controversial assertion further.   

I was only tangentially aware of the Moorish domination of southern Spain. I encountered it on my pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago de Compostella.

The Camino pilgrimage honors Santiago de Matamoros – Saint James the Moor Slayer.

The myth of Saint James defies credulity.  Saint James’ remains were said to have been found by a Spanish shepherd following a star in the 9th century. Pilgrimages were promoted to honour Saint James and support the Catholic attempts to drive the Moors from Spain.

Saint James became the moor slayer in a revised Catholic myth created in the 12th century when he is attributed to have miraculously appeared on the side of Christian forces to defeat the Moors in the legendary battle of Clavijo.

While historians have proven the so-called decisive battle never actually happened, one historian noted; “While this event is based on legend, the supposed battle has provided one of the strongest ideological icons in the Spanish national identity.”

Saint James is celebrated with in art and sculpture, with a prominent position of honour in the Santiago Cathedral. I came across another Santiago de Matamoros statue in Granada while on my study course, trying to assess the impact of 700 years of Moorish domination of large swaths of what we now call Spain.

Such is the power of building a narrative that attempts to create, write and use “history” for other purposes.

I, like some millions of others, have walked 800 kilometres on a pilgrimage based on fantasy, myth and centuries old propaganda!

My study tour was a delightful re-entry into the world of Santayana and his bold assertion. Along with some 20 others, I was confronted with the reality that history is messy.

Menocal asserts that Muslims, Jews and Christians were able to live in relative harmony in southern Spain for centuries. She celebrates the achievements of that golden period in Spain’s history – the introduction of new plants and fruit to Spain, the widespread development of agriculture and irrigation, the explosion of trade throughout the Mediterranean of Spanish goods, improvements in manufacturing, mining and industry – all creating a robust economy while the rest of Europe stumbled.

She describes a culture of architectural innovation, poetry, an explosion of learning, a multiplication of libraries and a reverence for intellectual discovery in science and medicine. She credits the Moors with the vital transfer of the ideas and philosophical debates of the Greeks to Europe. In the 10th century, Cordoba was one of the five largest cities in the world – London and Paris were riverside towns.

It is a positive and optimistic portrayal of a time when history was being made. To Menocal, the Muslim willingness to tolerate, engage and integrate Jews and Christians into their governance and society was the cause of this Golden Age, a renaissance that preceded and set the stage for Europe’s emergence from the dark ages.

I wish it were so.

Many historians have pushed back, questioning her bold assertions.

There’s not enough data, knowledge or information they say.

And that is the problem with writing history. It’s like buying a picture puzzle that promises 1000 pieces. When I open the box there are only 200 pieces. With 800 pieces missing, I am left to imagine, intuit and interpret with what little I have.

It’s not for lack of trying, Archeologists, anthropologists and historians have worked prodigiously to help us learn from history, for we do intuitively believe in Santayana’s maxim.

Now we add the second challenge – trying to sort various interpretations of the scanty evidence, trying to sort myth from reality, trying to conclude with only the evidence we have without taking it too far into conjecture.

There is plenty of room for conjecture. Santiago de Matamoros is but one example of propaganda widely accepted as history. Millions of pilgrims believe in the alternative narrative.

Past historical writing is under some attack these days from other quarters. We all know that history is written by the victors; losers don’t control the pen that writes history, hagiographers are in charge.

We all know that history has been written by and about men, that it is focused on conquest and war, ego and the glorification of aggression, that the post colonial world is awakening to a new narrative for their history, that women have made history without being acknowledged, that too little has been written about slow moving events that don’t follow a story-like narrative.

I’m pleased to say that my study tour raised many questions and answered few of them. We debated the interpretations of fine and grand points of Moorish influence in Spain amongst many other issues – such as what to have for lunch that day. I came away confused but pleasantly so: life is confusing, why shouldn’t history reflect that.

Santayana may be right, we should study our past, our many histories, our various perspectives on what happened, how and why it occurred. I am coming to believe that history is plural; it is a conflicting set of stories we tell ourselves. Stories will change over time, with new information, new insights, new voices claiming a share of the narrative.

We need to be critical in our reading of history; it is messy.

If we don’t we are likely condemned to repeat our mistakes.

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Jewels in an Uneasy Crown

I’m not an historian, I’m an opinionated blogger, an undisciplined student of whatever is on my mind and an itinerant traveller with a superficial grasp of the facts.

I have a thin patina of knowledge, enough to make me dangerous in my self delusion. I like to say that deep down, I’m quite shallow – so  reader beware.

To me, Spain seems to have a problem reconciling itself with its history.

Franco ruled Spain as a dictator for more than 35 years yet It is difficult to find public evidence of his regime. The last Franco statue to be removed from public display was at Santander in 2008; continued attempts at reconciliation are ongoing and painful.

Similarly, the unbending repressive strain of Catholicism exhibited in Spain since Ferdinand and Isabella united the country in the late 15th century seems to be an uncomfortably sidelined part of Spanish history. The only reference to the infamous excesses of the Inquisition that I could find were in side-show ‘museums’ that duped unwitting tourists into parting with their Euros to see depictions of blood, gore and torture.

This summer, I came across another example of how Spain’s collective psyche seems to find it difficult to reconcile itself with its history.

In a thoughtfully curated and reputable museum in Malaga, I came across the attached. Here’s part of the quote;

…“effectively dismissing the long centuries of Islamic occupation as a mere hiccup in the otherwise smooth course of Spain’s Christian history.”

It’s tough to stuff 700 years of history under the rug but Spain has tried.

This spring, I was part of a travel study group focused on the seven centuries of Islamic rule of southern Spain, generally agreed to have started in 711 with the invasion of Spain by Muslim Berbers. The conquest was swift and pervasive.

It lasted for some 700 years until the final capitulation of of the Muslim city-state Granada in 1492 to Ferdinand and Isabella. 

These seven centuries of rule profoundly influenced the evolution of renaissance Europe – of that there is general agreement amongst scholars of all persuasions.

In those seven centuries, the Islamic influence permeated medieval Spain, influenced intellectual thought in the rest of Europe and advanced knowledge and civilization in architecture, art, agriculture, irrigation and water usage, science in all its emerging forms. Libraries were created book-by-book that brought the greatest intellectual thoughts of Greece and Rome to Europeans for the first time. Through Cordoba. By Muslims. 

Maria Rosa Menocal described the vast positive influence of Islam on Spain and the emerging societies of Europe  in her book The Ornament of the World.

On our tour we visited three major sites of Moorish Spain; Cordoba, Seville, and Granada. I also enjoyed a pre-tour visit to Malaga, an ancient port on the Mediterranean  coast.

It is hard to describe the impact of visits to the remnants of Moorish influence in these cities of Andalusia. Most of what we saw was architecture, much of it replicated. 

Malaga has two major monuments, the Castillo de Gibralfaro – the fortress – and the Alcazaba – the adjacent fortified palace. The Castillo, a fortification since Phoenician times, was turned into a major Muslim fortress in the 11th century, conquered by the Christians in the late 15th century and used as a military fortification for most of the last centuries. The illustrations and explanations of the Castillo’s history at the on-site museum begins with the conquest of the site by the forces of Ferdinand and Isabella in 1487; one has to search for references to Muslim rule prior to that date.


The Alcazaba is treated more honestly. Built mostly in the 11th century, it was home to Muslim Kings and Governors starting in the Taifa period; some 500 years of continuous Moorish governance of the region. The Alcazaba, even what little is left, is a beautiful place. Distinctive Moorish arches and decorative features are balanced, delicate and enticing. Water features, plants, green spaces and shaded areas cool the air and calm the mind. It is a pleasant respite from the streets below, an excellent first encounter with Moorish architecture.

It is estimated that, in the 11th century, Cordoba was one the five largest cities in the world; dynamic, cultured, economically robust and relatively calm. Calm enough for Muslims, Christians and Jews to work in close proximity to each other somewhat peacefully (for the time) and important enough for the Moorish ruler, Abd ar-Rahman III, to declare himself Caliph (leader of the Muslim world) with Cordoba as the capital of his Caliphate.

Cordoba’s Mezquita is unique jewel and a stirring example of Moorish architecture; it is unlike anything I have seen. Built over a period from late 8th century and expanded continuously through 200 years of Cordoba’s Moorish Caliphate, this was the largest mosque used for Muslim worship in Cordoba. At its zenith, the Mezquita measured 140 metres by 85 metres, the roof supported by more than 1000 pillars.

The good news is that the Catholic conquerers did not destroy the Mezquita when they captured Cordoba in 1236. Like all other conquerers, they choose to assert their dominance and redecorate. They consecrated the mosque as a Christian site and in the 1500’s chose to build a cathedral in the middle of Mezquita. 

When Emperor Charles V viewed the almost completed Church in the middle of the Mosque he is said to have commented: “You have taken something unique in all the world and destroyed it to build something you can find in any city.” 

Seville provided another perspective on Moorish Spain. We arrived on a very hot sunny day; our first visit, the Seville Cathedral. Built on the site of the mosque, it is the third largest cathedral in the world; overwhelming does not cover my reaction to this is a need to sit for a few minutes – it is an assault on the senses.




The Gothic structure has been built upon and altered so many times that it is now an unreconcilable mish-mash of a host of evolving architectural styles; add-ons offer a dizzying array of chapels, stalls, aisles, walls, altars, side attractions, all further confused by dazzling golden altars, bas-relief art, figurines, monuments, columns and pillars. It is dazzling – living up to a quote found in a guide book – “When they see it, future generations will think we are mad.” 

They certainly succeeded in convincing me they were mad; in fact, they nailed it.

I had also finally discovered where all that confiscated Incan and Mayan gold had been spent.

An hour later, we entered the Alcazar; the contrast to the Cathedral was profound. Rather than feeling overwhelmed, I immediately felt calmed, almost serene.

The gardens, the shade, the respite from the heat, the lightness of the architecture, the simplicity and integrity of all features of the buildings design, the use of water and plants, the placement of doors, windows and the size of rooms – all contributed to a sense of harmony and peacefulness.

It was one of the most enriching hours of my visit to Seville.

The contrast between the two religious sites could not have been more stark.

Granada was, fittingly, our final visit; it is known as the jewel of Andalucia. It was also the city where the Moorish rule of Spain ended for it was in Granada in 1492, that Isabel and Ferdinand formally received the keys to the gates of Granada from Boabdil, the last Moorish ruler in Spain.

The Alhambra jewel is spectacular. The complex, almost 700 metres long from the Alcazaba the fortress to the Generalife, the private residences and extensive gardens of the ruler.It is surrounded by almost 2000 metres of imposing walls. It sits above Granada, framed by the snow-capped Sierra Madre mountains in the distance, a city within itself built over generations starting in the 9th century.

Isabel, the Spanish monarch who led the final stage of the Reconquesta, was so taken with the beauty of the Alhambra that she was buried there for a short time until her remains were removed to the Royal Chapel in the Granada Cathedral. Such was her judgement of the beauty of the Alhambra.

The grounds are extensive, the palace buildings the most necessary of many attractions in the 13 hectare site. Here a succession of small rooms, pleasingly sized and each in its own right a marvel, open to more rooms, larger and more ornate. The effect is to induce a greater sense of awe as one moves through each passage. It works.

The rooms are captivating, walls covered with stuccoed designs including Arabic calligraphy in praise of Allah. Brilliant mosaic tile patterns adorn walls, pillars are carved with delicate lattice capitals imparting a sense of fragility.

The use of light and shadow, the constant presence of water and the specific placement of windows for views and to catch the breezes ensures that the temperature is moderate. Even in the mid-day heat, we were cooled. Even in the cacophony of the never ending stream of tourists, we were calmed; the rooms were more peaceful, quieter than they should be.

I have never understood the effect of architecture on the human spirit, mostly I’ve considered it the hype of architects. The Mezquita, the Alcazar and the palaces at the Alhambra changed that impression. The Moorish command of architecture and building adornment, the use of light, water and views, the decoration of walls, halls and rooms proved that there is a difference. My mood is uplifted, my demeanour is altered, my perspective shifts. 

I cannot claim to have more than a superficial impression of the centuries of Moorish dominion over Spain. I know that the jewels in the crown of Spanish history that may be the least favorite are also the most dazzling – the architecture of three sites in Cordoba, Seville and Granada are all must-see wonders of the world. If, even in a small way, they represent the impact of the Moorish ruling period, the Spanish people should be grateful for such enrichment. Menocal’s book, Ornament of the World is subtitled How Muslims, Jews, and Christians Created a Culture of Tolerance in Medieval Spain. 

It would have been a rich and interesting time to be alive.

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Base Camp Basel

Over the last five years, I have enjoyed the warm hospitality and my very own bedroom in Basel, Switzerland courtesy of Kristen and Christopher. A few weeks ago, I made what is likely my last visit to Basel. They are moving this summer to Dresden to start a new adventure.

When they were deciding to throw all the cards up in the air and play 52 pick with their lives, I was privileged to be included in their discussions.

They were changing the course of their lives.

It was a brave and bold decision and they thought about it a lot. They were moving a long way away – nine time zones to be exact.

At about this time five years ago, we gathered to send them off; reminding them constantly that home would stay where it always was – in our hearts and in the hearts of our family and friends. Home is a feeling not a place. We could and would visit back and forth; Vancouver would patiently await their return.

I’m grateful that they decided to embark on that adventure five years ago. It made a huge difference in my life.

Their courage gave me courage; courage to expand my own capacity for adventure.

It happened quickly; I used Christopher’s world triathlon competition in London that year as a jumping-off point for my first pilgrimage, an 800 km walk on the Camino de Santiago in Spain. He finished his triathlon and went on to Basel and I left to start the Camino.

Somehow it seemed more doable knowing Kristen and Chris were close by; I had a safety net, our quick text messages at the end of every day gave me comfort. 

The prize I dangled in front of myself was a visit in Basel, complete with my first fondue and a few days of R&R in my new home after a month of vagabonding. It worked so well, I did it again a few years later in Portugal.  

Over the years there have been so many visits with so many wonderful adventures – the one constant was knowing that I had a home in Basel,  a greeting at the train station, a welcome mat at the door, a bed to sleep in, two friends to share the joy of life, a cat who tolerated me.

It was base camp Basel, a place to drop my pack, to relax and feel safe and secure and so much more.

Base camp Basel was the jumping off point for our African safari and the place we returned to when we had finished our glorious adventure.




It was base camp for Blair and me; we could land in Basel and nip over to Zermatt. He skied and I snowshoed under the shadow of the Matterhorn.  The Matterhorn!



Base camp that allowed us to experience the total insanity of Swiss Fasnacht, the only time the Swiss drop their massive stuffiness and go crazy, worshipping fire, parading through the streets at odd hours; a long stream of weird fife and drum bands, the oddest parade floats, even odder costumes fuelled by the consumption of vast quantities of alcohol. Carnival in Rio is choir-like by comparison.


Chris taught me about European football. I’m now a fan; I’ve dropped the NFL completely, it’s crude, dangerous and thoughtless.



Kristen walked me all over Switzerland, winter and summer. We rode sledges down steep ski slopes, we wanderwegged through the Jungfrau in the shadow of the Eiger. We hiked up to Heidi’s village. We  did everything but yodel.





We ate magnificently at the end of every hike ; sausages and cheese and mountain macaroni – guiltless extravagance. In fact we ate well every time I visited. 





We celebrated Christmas there – twice. The uniquely joyful European Christmas markets will forever define the holiday now ; north American consumerism is shallow and uninspired by comparison.



We stood in the stands cheering a pickup team of Canadians playing in various European leagues who come together every year at the Spengler cup in Davos, more pure joy in one game than in any I’ve seen in the NHL lately – Gary Bettman are you listening? 



Base camp Basel became the meeting point for adventures all over Europe. Italian Espresso and a foodie tour in Rome, the final Bruce Springsteen European concert in Zurich, Lisbon for the best Pasteis de Nata ever!, Paris and more Paris, Varengeville for dinner, and Krakow in winter.



There was always a constant; a chance to fly into Basel and get settled then head off in any one of a multitude of directions to find an adventure. Base camp Basel was my geographic center for five years, a landing pad and a launch pad that made all of Europe more accessible, more friendly, more enticing. 


I also saw my daughter grow into a woman who had met a complex professional challenge, who had mastered each successive iteration of a constantly evolving position and who had contributed to a school environment where she will be sorely missed.



I remember being somewhat sad when they announced their decision to move to Basel; rightfully so, I don’t see them as often. Facetime, WhatsAp and phone calls help but frequent visits are the best; each visit is an adventure. I am almost embarrassed by the rich rewards that have come my way from the unintended consequences of their decision. 

Basel is one of those places that could be described as a town that fun forgot. Not for me. To me it will always be Base Camp Basel, a place where I‘ve shared lots of laughs, lots of talk, lots of shared adventure, big and small.

A place to jump off from and to return home to. Base Camp.

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My Digital Dependency

I signed up for Twitter about a month ago; Trump tweets were the catnip for joining. I NEEDED to see Trump’s tweets directly; news casts blaring BREAKING NEWS and showing me the feeds were not enough.

I wanted to go to the source – Twitter itself.

I finally folded like a cheap lawn chair and signed up.

Last week, I closed my account and unloaded it from my smartphone.

What a let-down! Twitter was a monumental waste of time.

A perfect example of the oft-quoted Shakespeare nugget;

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

I doubt that every person who uses Twitter is an idiot but there are enough idiots tweeting and retweeting – shouting their nothing with sound and fury – to poison it for me.

I walked away from Twitter. I don’t need the company of those idiots.

Deleting Twitter opened the door to a more serious internal dilemma.

I’m a news junkie, I like to think positively: I have an active curiosity about the world. Information is important; the source of my information and the veracity of it profoundly affects my view of the world.

Over the years, I developed a reliable pattern for accessing news. In the mornings, with my coffee, I scan emails, read items that interest me from a few news aggregators:  NationalNewswatch.com, https://qz.com/.

I check theglobeandmail.com and CBC.ca to see what’s happened overnight and then read through the US and International news on the NYtimes.com. I have slowly given up on print and magazines; I now find digital sources of information more convenient.

I glance at the CBC and CTV morning news, finish my coffee, check Facebook and go about my day. All this consumed about an hour of my time.

In the evenings, I catch BBC, PBS and sometimes the National on CBC.

I am well aware that I live in an information silo of my own making; to compensate, I deliberately try to read opinions that do not conform with my own.

I’m trying to forestall the inevitable hardening of the attitudes that come irrevocably with age.

I am also well aware of the polarization of society into factions – discourse and dialogue are smothered in the shout-out of inflamed opinions. The fools are winning.

Bertrand Russel predicted our dilemma;

“The whole problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, and wise people so full of doubts.”

Lately, my prurient need for more, stimulated by watching the freak show called the Trump presidency has subverted and perverted this pattern. I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole.

For the moment I have deleted Twitter from my life. I have suspended Instagram but am reconsidering; it seems benign if I control it.

I was digging myself out, then Facebook hit the fan. With Blair’s help, I have immediately tightened my privacy settings and blocked all the apps from accessing my information. I have never knowingly allowed Facebook or any of my digital tools to access my address book or my contacts. Knowingly is the key word in that sentence. I’m convinced now that, like millions of others, I am not very KNOWING.

The privacy thing is long gone; everyone tells me that the digital universe has enough data on each of us that we are an open book. Data doesn’t disappear apparently.

I doubt that deleting Facebook is going to retrieve my privacy but I am debating how I can best take back control of my digital life while still being an active, responsible and informed citizen.

I also recognize that I am my own worst enemy. I write a blog for goodness sake. I’ve written two books. I post all these musings on Facebook so more people will benefit from my wisdom ( a dubious rationale but it’s all I can cling to at the moment).

Much of my privacy is truly gone, never to be retrieved. Yet, I can be more conscientious about what I say, write, record and distribute and where I choose to do those things.

I can also put on my big boy pants and recognize a few realities.

Facebook, Twitter, Google, Amazon and every other site out there are NOT free. We pay a price to use these facilities.

Facebook and the like are not benign, they are businesses trading in our data.

They are not worried about us or our privacy, they are resolute in their pursuit of profit. Forget their high-minded statements of purpose – follow the money.

I am the one who punches in the info; they are happy to seduce me with free shipping and instant access to much that I desire – with instant gratification delivered to my door.

I could go on but this much is clear. There will be much more self awareness and self censure in the future. And I may yet delete Facebook.   

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Smart Shopping.

I’m going to change my bank this week.

I have decided, despite knowing that this will be a pain in the butt, I’m moving my bank accounts to Vancity, a British Columbia credit union with more than 500,000 members. Vancity is everywhere in my community; sponsoring local community events, offering innovative business partnership opportunities, supporting environmental initiatives and stimulating the development of affordable housing. Vancity also returns part of its profits to members. They WORK at being a positive member of my community.

So what? Is that worth spending the next few months rearranging every account I have to transfer my banking to Vancity?

My answer is yes, an emphatic and hopeful yes. I’m a little late to the party, thoughtful people have been doing this for years – rewarding positive behavior with their consumer dollars. 

Again, I’m late but I have come to the conclusion that the largest threat to civil society is the enormous gap between the rich and the poor – the obscene aggregation of wealth by a small percentage of people and the growing impoverishment of the rest of us. This aggregation of wealth is fuelled by the growth in large corporations, the power of these interests to dominate markets and dictate prices, wages and government policies to benefit the richest few – owners, senior executives and shareholders – whilst impoverishing other stakeholders.

Permit me one example; Walmart. The Walton family’s net worth is estimated by Forbes magazine to be in excess of $140 billion – yes, that’s right BILLION. Bernie Sanders describes it this way, the Waltons own more than the bottom 40% of Americans – about 130 million people. In exchange for convenience and cheap goods, consumers have created a behemoth that rolls over competitors, overpowers suppliers, kills local business wherever it goes, impoverishes it’s own employees, and hollows out communities while making its owners fabulously wealthy.

Every time I shop at Walmart, I contribute to this economic carnage, to the hollowing out of my community, to the impoverishment of workers and the enrichment of the Walton billionaires.

Add any number of famous brands to the list; Amazon, Google, Apple, Costco, the warehouse food-stores, the big banks, big oil, the Hollywood film industry… the list is endless. Monopolies are in, competition is out. Unrestrained capitalism is turning ugly.

Such a concentration of corporate power fuels the concentration of wealth and income for the top 1%. The impact on others is obvious; 40% of workers are now “independent”; piece work, gig work, projects, part-time hours – no job security, no bargaining power, no health care, no benefits, no security.

The middle class is shrinking, poverty is growing, the stresses on civil society are becoming more and more evident. Governments around the world are less willing to legislate, regulate and control these monsters; the 2008/2009 world financial crash showed starkly that banks and other large institutions were too big to fail and, even in the face of obvious legal culpability, were immune to prosecution. Even Obama blinked when he faced Wall Street and the banks.

Amidst all the evidence and the resulting dystopian predictions, I struggle to find my own strategy to respond. There’s not much I can do but that doesn’t mean I am powerless. 

Here’s what I am doing. I am going to try to use every dollar I spend to fight this growing inequality. I’m a bit late to the party but, it is a battle worth fighting.

As Confucius was reported to have said; “The man who moves a mountain begins by carrying away small stones.”

I have vowed to never shop at Walmart. Instead, I’m going to buy locally – there’s a little hardware store where I can find all I need; and I am welcomed with helpful advice and service by a member of my community.

I’ve just cut up my Costco card. I don’t like their excessive packaging, their foreign ownership and the effect my shopping at Costco is having on my little community – all for convenience and some small saving. Besides, every time I go into Costco I come out with more than I need. I cannot resist buying a year’s supply of some sugary, chocolatey forbidden “treat” and consuming it all in about a week. They give back nothing that I can see to my community.

I’m adding Safeway to my no-go list. Whole Foods was never on my list – that is misleading marketing and empty promises over common sense and always has been.

Instead, I am going to shop locally. There’s a local green grocer in my hood, Aria; a good selection of fresh fruit and vegetables, run by a family – real people who say hello and know who I am. They stock their small store to the top with fascinating stuff; real sardines from Portugal, more interesting breads than I have ever seen, foodstuffs from all over the middle east.

I’m going to the local butcher, Tango’s – sure it’s a bit more expensive and there’s a smaller selection but It is more than adequate for my needs. I can special-order lamb shanks, incredible tenderloins and much more. They pay attention; they are joyful to see me and to serve me.

I’m trying to wean myself from Amazon, my local library branch is helpful and Indigo is a Canadian company. I use Canada Post whenever I can; it’s part of the connective tissue of this country – Amazon never was and never will be.

I don’t buy coffee at Starbucks, my local hangout is Delaneys. Locally owned by nicer people who treat their staff well. The coffee is better too!

I’m going to fewer big Hollywood movies, I’ve found the Vancouver International Film Centre instead; more indies, more international films, more diversity, more windows to the world.

I’m also going to talk to my Liberal Government friends about why they are not taxing Netflix, Amazon, Google and a host of other monopolists that suck money out of our consumer pockets without paying any taxes.

This isn’t going to amount to much; but I work with the tools I have at hand; my wallet and my feet. It gives me some sense that I have control over my actions, that they align with my values and my growing anxiety about the direction we are headed, the future we face.

I’m sure Vancity won’t increase their stakeholder payout based on my enrolment but I will feel a bit like I’m rewarding them for their hard work. At least I’m not helping the Waltons. I am also sure that Vancity plays a more positive role in my community than my current big bank. That means something and they deserve to be recognized for their work.

So, it’s a few small stones that I’m moving but I feel better about it – it is worth the effort.

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Jungfraujoch, Top of Europe.

There is a restaurant called Bollywood at Jungfraujoch, an amazing Swiss tourist site in the middle of the Jungfrau range. It serves authentic Indian food to some 1000 happy customers a day.

An Indian restaurant in the center of an iconic Swiss destination becomes understandable when Kristen and Chris explain that the Jungfrau has featured in several famously successful Bollywood movies, as far back as 1964. Yash Chopra, the famous Indian film director, has shot so many sequences for so many films over the years that the region has become one of the top destinations for Indian tourists – hence the Bollywood restaurant. He’s so famous, a Jungfrau railway train has been named after him.

It isn’t just India, many of the Bond films over the years have featured the mountains of Switzerland. A not-so-good Clint Eastwood film, The Eiger Sanction – based on the best-selling novel – was centred on the Jungfrau. There have even been a few clips from Star Wars with the Jungfrau as backdrop.

We are in Grindelwald for a Swiss Christmas. Nestled below the Jungfrau range, it is a gateway for hiking, mountain-biking and marvelling in the summer and a whole range of outdoor pursuits in the winter. We are attracted for the same reason as Bollywood directors, it is an oasis of Swiss beauty.

Kristen and I first visited the region a few summers ago as hikers. She managed to cajole and bribe me into hiking from Lauterbrunnen to Kleine Scheidegg with the promise of the best Swiss macaroni EVER!!!


The Best Swiss Macaroni EVER!!! got my full attention. It was enough to get me started up the steep slope, pride made me continue. After three hours of the most strenuous yet beautiful walking through idyllic grassy fields appropriately adorned with Swiss cows and their Swiss bells across a valley where ice from hanging glaciers crashed noisily down mountain faces, I managed to make it to the magical place that served the best Swiss macaroni EVER!!!.

After our al fresco lunch of the best Swiss macaroni EVER!!!, we settled into a local hotel and stared at the Jungfrau for hours. Like a poor man’s fireplace, the clouds, the sun, the light and shadows created a panoramic reel of ever-changing perfection, enhancing the endorphins released by the walk and the sublime somnolence that comes from a full tummy.


Now we are back to experience winter in the Jungfrau. If anything it is more entrancing! More beauty, more activity, more liveliness, more energy; the Swiss and those who choose Grindelwald are here to enjoy winter. Ski lifts abound all over the valley opening up the whole area to thrills, chills and spills. Sledding slopes are filled with young and old speed-demons, snow-shoe and walking paths abound, there are even hang gliders dotting the clear sky.

Everyone is busy enjoying winter. As we come to expect, It’s all Swiss watch efficient; we have trains direct to Grindelwald, local bus service every half hour from the village to our rental, a full service supermarket and many excellent restaurants. This is the way to spend Christmas holiday!

I’m encouraged to visit Jungfraujoch. At 3454 metres, it calls itself the Top of Europe. The Jungfrau (4158 meters) is the namesake; aligned with it in a massive wall of mountain that leaps from the lower valley of Interlaken are the Eiger (3970 metres) and the Monsch (4107 metres).

Unfortunately, none of the three qualify as “Top of Europe” mountains – that prize goes to Mont Blanc (4808 meters) in France.

Rare Swiss hyperbole aside, the Jungfrau is justifiably famous around the world, iconic and remarkable in its beauty, so famous it is an international movie set – transcending all boundaries.

This time we take the trains, I’ve walked part of this once, no bragging points in doing it again. The Bernese Oberland Railway is a marvel of Swiss design and efficiency; constructed at the turned of the 20th century, it connects Grindelwald with the funicular Jungfrau railway that takes up to the Jungfraujoch. Most of the passage is tunneled through the granite of the Jungfrau – there’s a stop allowing us to view the valley through a window cut in the mountain face.

Jungfraujoch is a complex built into the mountains in the shadow of Jungfrau itself. At the top is an observation viewpoint allowing a full 360 degree view of the valleys and the Aletsch Glacier. Deep inside the mountain is the funicular station, a state-of-the-art film tunnel, a glacier walkway, an interior ice palace, a chocolate shop and a watch shop and among others, our favorite Bollywood restaurant. Everything the modern tourist needs and a chance to buy Swiss watches, Swiss chocolate and Indian curries.

We are blessed with a clear day, we can see forever in all directions; It is the Switzerland of postcards and tourist posters.

Serendipity has opened the door to Swiss delights; I’m at a place of sublime beauty – following Chris and Kristen on their adventure has opened a new window – a new adventure – for me.

The Swiss Alps in winter are so beautiful they deserve to be background to Bollywood movie stars, James Bond, Clint Eastwood and Princess Leia. To see them on the screen is surpassed only by being there – really being there.

It truly is that magical a place. 

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Man’s Search for Meaning.

Victor Frankl is regarded as one of the world’s foremost psychologists. His most popular book, Man’s Search for Meaning, was published in 1946. The book has been translated into 24 languages; more than 12 million copies have been sold.

It has been described as one of the 10 most influential books in a survey of American readers.

In 1942 Frankl, his wife, his brother and his parents were arrested and sent to the Auschwitz/Birkenau concentration camp. It was the last he saw of all of them.

Frankl survived the concentration camps for three years until he was liberated in 1945.

The first part of Frankl’s book recounts those years in the camps. It is hard to believe anyone could survive, yet he produced a book of such optimism and insight based on his original thesis and informed by his near death experience. 

Auschwitz/Birkenau in the middle of winter, days before the Christmas celebration, is at its worst – the physical embodiment of evil, tangible, comprehensible proof of an incomprehensible period in human history. The atmosphere is cold, heavy, leadened with doom and sadness; taking pictures seems a desecration, an invasion of the sanctity of this memorial. I am only able to take a photo of the entrance.

Even the most warmly dressed of us are chilled within minutes.  It is virtually impossible to survive days on end in freezing temperatures, walking kilometers in snow and ice without adequate footwear, laboring outdoors for hours in threadbare prison garb, existing on a few hundred calories, whipped and beaten by sadists, huddling together for warmth for a few hours of sleep in drafty horse barns – only to do it all over again, for days, months, years.

More than 1 million people were exterminated in the Auschwitz/Birkenau complex in less than three years. Every day, thousands were stripped naked, marched into the ‘showers’, gassed, and incinerated.

The most heart wrenching displays are the heaps of left behind possessions – gathered by the Nazis for recycling into cash – the amoral, relentless efficiency of it all is staggering. The barns that held this booty were called Canada (some notion connecting our limitless bounteousness to that of the sheds) – our small bitter place in this hellhole of Nazi hate.

These are dark, brooding places, sadness hangs over it all like a shroud – the buildings, the razor wire fences, the gas chambers, the ovens, the mass graves.

We attend; our collective desire to understand, to memorialize, to grasp the magnitude of evil, to seek meaning in the events of the past. Our presence is not prurient; we bear witness to the suffering, we honor the dead. We renew our vow that this shall never happen again.

Frankl found inspiration in these camps. The first half of Man’s Search for Meaning is the recounting of his time in the camps. This time in the camps exemplified the power of his psychological theory developed before the war, it gave him the strength to survive and with it he tried to help others find meaning in their daily suffering.

Frankl lost almost everything in the camps, enduring the most hurtful physical, emotional and spiritual degradation – yet he survived because, he believed that he retained something sacred; ”the last of the human freedoms, to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”

“It is this spiritual freedom which cannot be taken away – that makes life meaningful and purposeful.” 

Throughout his book, Frankl quotes another philosopher, Neitzsche; “He who has a Why to live for can bear almost any How.”

I came across Man’s Search for Meaning decades ago. It carried a powerful message for me. It is on my shelf of must have books; I have given away dozens of copies, highly recommending it to friends and those whose need seems clear. It has been a powerful book in my life.

Frankl’s philosophy is simple; I need meaning in my life and, while I may not be in control of events that occur in my life, I am in control of how I respond to them and how I seek to manage that part of my life that is under my control. I have the power to choose.

Simple but not easy; I sometimes lose my way and forget these ideas. Some combination of restlessness, boredom and bored/restlessness can blind me to these simple guides to living.

There is never one shining beacon that offers total meaning to me, my search usually turns up a patchwork of Whys that make my life meaningful.  Life evolves, changes; when times shift, I need to add a patch to the worn part of my quilt of purposes. The meaning of life is not always clear, nor does it stay stable over time.

Frankl is on my shelf with his story of survival, his simple advice – intellectually rigorous, spiritually uplifting, emotionally rewarding and experientially tested. Like millions of others, he has uplifted us all by telling the story of the camps, by offering hope to those who search for meaning and by offering simple advice to help us find purpose and meaning even in times of struggle.  I recommend you read this book.

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Walking as Inspiration

If you are seeking creative ideas, go out walking. Angels whisper to a man when he goes for a walk. – Raymond Inmon

My first response to anyone who asks, ‘what do you think about when you walk?’ is always ‘nothing.’

That is true, I think about nothing; walking is meditative for me. It clears my head, it calms me. I am less anxious, my worries fade, my mind slows.

The obvious ‘nothing’ does not explain it all. There seems to be something else going on behind the consciousness curtain. Unnoticed, my subconscious seems to be active; cleaning things up, connecting random ideas and sorting them in new ways.

I have returned from long walks sprinkled with creative pixie-dust, inspired with a turn-of-phrase that tickles me, illuminated by a previously hidden idea, directed to rethink some issue, guided to some new insight that I can only now see.

Obviously, I am not the first to notice the inspirational effects of going for long walks. Many more famous people with a greater capacity to articulate the beneficial effects of walking and inspiration have described the phenomenon.

I have never thought so much, existed so much, lived so much, been so much myself; if I may venture to use the phrase, as in the journeys which I have made alone and on foot. – Jean Jacques Rousseau.

A real writer gets paid for his/her efforts, I have never managed that measure of success. I feel more comfortable being called a starving writer, I’ve never been paid much for my work. 

But, having been told that writers write, I write. I have tried to find my own voice. It was tougher than I imagined.

What did I want to say and how did I want to say it? It became a heavy burden. I wrote journals of my travels and adventures, big and mostly small.

I wrote stuff and kept it private; mostly I wrote about issues that I cared about – my sanctimonious pontificals. Polemics are easy, crank up the sense of moral outrage and erupt in ink on a page (or with digital bits and bytes into the ether). They satisfied for a while.

I needed a bigger platform. I began writing the occasional column for the Calgary Herald. I received no money but felt that rush of ego and adrenaline coursing through my veins when I opened the Herald to the op-ed page and saw MY column – WOW! My words in ink!

I was often stymied as I evolved in this voyage of ink and ideas. I was in many cases inarticulate, agitated and unproductive. There was an idea out there in the fog but it only had a vague shape. It wasn’t clear, I couldn’t find the words to express what I had hoped to communicate. The words did not emerge that allowed me to describe this idea. I could not break through.

All truly great thoughts are conceived by walking. – Friedrich Neitzche

I found that when I went for runs, sometimes something clicked. An idea took shape, the fog rolled back, the words came. It was an unintended consequence of my new found life of exercise; it didn’t always happen and I never pushed my luck. Yet, it was more than serendipity. Cause and effect.

Running helped break through my inarticulate efforts to write, when I became a walker, the occasional inspiration became regular. There is something about the pace of walking, the slowness, the repetitiveness, the almost boring simplicity of the walk that seems to energize the subconscious – the Muse.

I have read that Wordsworth, Thoreau, Darwin, Hemingway and Dickens were walkers, seeking inspiration whenever they felt unable to achieve the clarity and brilliance of choosing just the right words to create just the right sentence to carry the thought forward with conviction. The walk cleared whatever was blocking their creativity.

Walking allows for the clearing of the brain; the period after, rest and contemplation, opens the floodgates of creativity and inspiration. Newton may have conceived and clarified his thoughts on gravity while sitting under a tree. Could I be so bold as to suggest that he had a bit of a walk to get to the tree?

There seems to be some science to buttress the notion that walking stimulates creativity; more blood flowing to the brain, more oxygen, fewer distractions, the monotonous almost hypnotic regularity of the movements. Common sense tells me that is likely.

Walking should be the tenth of the Greek muses; it truly is magical to my creative process. Whenever I feel confused, inarticulate, uncreative and uninspired I tighten my boots, shoulder my pack, don my cap and head out the door for a long walk. 

Perhaps it is this simple; perambulation leads to perspiration, which leads to inspiration.

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Walking as meditation.