Lake Ontario

I was early.

I had more than an hour to kill and, because we're in a province-wide lockdown, because I was in one of the hottest zones in the province, I needed to find a place to go where I could keep a distance from people. I suppose I could have found a place to park and could have just sat in my car for that hour or so, but I had already sat behind the wheel for more than four and a half hours, was going to spend another four and a half to five hours behind it some more, for the return journey.

I needed to get some circulation through my veins, needed fresh air in my lungs.

I headed to the lake.

I can't remember the last time that I looked out onto Lake Ontario; I mean, really looked out and admired its vastness. Years. Perhaps, as many as 10, when we took our kids to the top of the CN Tower, in Toronto.

So I headed south, from where I was to help my eldest kid move out of her residence, and kept going until I hit the lake. I had never been to this part of the lake before, and driving through the center of Oakville, you would have never known that we were in the third wave of a global pandemic. The main street was abuzz of shoppers. Sidewalks were crowded and very few masks were adorned outdoors.

This is why Ontario is as bad as it is. This is why we will have record hospitalizations and deaths. This is why a fourth wave is guaranteed.

I was tempted to stay in my car but I wanted to check out the park on the shore of Lake Ontario. If it was crowded, I wouldn't get out.

I found a small parking lot and was lucky to find a vehicle pulling out of a spot at an end that was close to a footpath. I was able to back in such that I could exit my vehicle without another car being able to park next to me.

The wind was blowing in from the lake. Though it was sunny, a haze prevented me from seeing across to the Niagara Peninsula. Looking to the east, along the waterway, the Toronto skyline was a dull, almost-invisible silhouette. Looking west, the trees came right to the shore and blocked any chance of seeing Burlington.

To my relief, Tannery Park was not packed. There were plenty of pathways on which I could keep my distance. While not everyone was wearing a mask, about half of the visitors to where the Sixteen Mile Creek empties into the vast lake had their faces covered.

Though I passed a couple of unmasked people, I was covered and I gave at least three metres of space between us and I always made sure that when I passed people, I was up-wind.

Most of the time, I was no closer than five metres: often, I was much, much farther away.

A long pier, upon which a modern lighthouse indicated the mouth of a small harbour, extended out more than a hundred metres. I stood on the breakwater boulders that made up the opposite side to the mouth of the harbour.

I only had my smartphone on me. I hadn't planned to stop and take pictures. But because this was the first time in about a decade that I had really looked out to Lake Ontario, I wanted to capture something.

I wanted to remember that no matter how long we're locked down, there are still things that will be waiting for us when we can travel safely.

Happy Friday! Also, stay home: stay safe.

80s Concerts

It started off with a simple text.

One of my oldest and dearest friends, Karen, and I have known each other for almost 50 years. By the time we were in high school, we had moved from classroom acquaintances to good friends, and by the time that we finished high school, we belonged to a fairly tight-knit group that included my bestie, Stuart. And because both of us took a year off, after high school, Karen and I were practically inseparable, so much so that my parents thought we were dating.

We weren't.

And though Karen has lived in Guelph for about 30 years, we still keep in touch. Hence, the aforementioned text, which I sent earlier this month.

She had a lot of memories to choose from: Montreal, where we went with Stuart and a gone-but-not-forgotten friend, Sherrill. Hopping from bar to bar, we all got shitfaced and eventually Karen and I ended up making out.

No, we never dated.

And no, we weren't in Montreal on the date in question. After a couple more guesses, I told her to think of music.

There had been a lot of concerts over the years: The Who, Peter Gabriel, U2, to name a few. But I was picking this particular show because I was holding the actual ticket stubs in my hands while I was quizzing her.

I don't know why I had all three ticket stubs for the show. Had I paid for them? It wasn't uncommon for me to take Karen out to dinner or for drinks, and pick up the tab. Same with our friend, Suzanne, who also joined us for this show.

No, I never dated Suzanne, either.

Eventually, I let Karen know that it was a show that she, Suzanne, and I went to, together. But she was still drawing blanks, so I sent her the following photo.

Now, at the time, Nik Kershaw was pretty big. His songs "Wouldn't It Be Good," "I Won't Let the Sun Go Down on Me," and "The Riddle" were big hits. They're still in rotation in my 80s playlist on my smartphone. And I remember that my female friends found Kershaw to be good looking.

I remember the show but I also remember that before we took our seats at the National Arts Centre, we were waiting near a hallway, just off the side to the lobby, when we heard singing. We moved down the hall and as we got closer to the sound, we realized it was Kershaw, warming his vocal chords. We were going to see if we could get further down the hall to see him but an NAC usher called for us to return to the lobby.

It was a good show, as I remember.

The tickets cost $16.50, plus a 75-cent handling charge. In 1985, working at a paint and wallpaper store, that ticket would have taken about three hours to earn. It would have taken a couple of shifts of my job to have earned enough to buy all three tickets.

My friends were worth it.

DW found an NAC envelope in a pile of ticket stubs, brochures, and pamphlets that we had kept from our trip through England and Wales. She was going through the memories while I was scanning photos and slides, to digitize those parts of our vacation. "What's this doing here?" she asked. Though I couldn't give her an answer about how those stubs ended up with our vacation mementos, I could certainly explain the tickets, themselves, and why there were three.

Along with the Nik Kershaw stubs were two more tickets, to two other shows. I'll share memories of those another time.

Happy Thursday!

Awaiting the Storm

My Fountain and a Return to Auld Reekie

I prefer how it used to look.

It was somewhere between burnt gold and dulled brass. A monotone colour that seemed to blend well with the nearby castle that was on top of a dormant volcano.

Ross Fountain is a famous landmark in Edinburgh, Scotland, and was one of the places that I wanted to virtually see when I finished last night's workout for my LEJOG challenge. Because there were strong wind gusts in Ottawa, I chose to get on my spin bike, rather than my road bike, and I calculated that I would need to cover a distance of between 33 kilometres and 33.5 kms to reach the south end of Edinburgh, from Peebles, in the Borders district. With the number of klicks that I would cover, simply by walking around the house, I easily made up the distance that was required to get me to my ultimate destination, Edinburgh Castle.

Using The Conqueror app, I logged 33.43 kilometres and came within a couple of blocks away from Salisbury Green Hotel, where I stayed in 2010 with my best friend, Stuart. A few hours after my spin, I logged another 2.93 kms, on foot, which took me virtually to the gates of the castle.

I know Edinburgh well enough to get around without a map. In 2010, I had spent an entire day walking from my hotel to The Royal Mile, around Princes Street Gardens, all over New Town, up to Calton Hill, through The Meadows, and more. Stu and I climbed over the Salisbury Crags and into Duddingston, where we enjoyed a couple of pints at one of the oldest pubs in the city, which dates back to 1360.

When I stumbled upon a fountain at the western end of Princes Street Garden, in 2010, I loved photographing it with the castle high above. When I learned the name of the fountain—Ross Fountain—I loved it even more.

It was my fountain.

So when I virtually reached Edinburgh on my LEJOG challenge, I immediately began 'wandering' the city, using the app's street views. And apart from wandering High Street (Royal Mile), the curved, sloped Cockburn Street, and the castle, I headed to my fountain.

I had known that there had been some restoration on the fountain, since I was there 11 years ago, and I knew that a new colour had been applied. But to see it on Google Maps, I was disappointed. I find the new colour, a turquoise-green, hideous. What have they done with my fountain?

I love Edinburgh. It's easily one of my top five cities in the whole world, if not my absolute favourite. It's the size of city that I find perfect. If you have the time, you can walk everywhere. It's full of history. The architecture is sublime. There is so much to see and do. And it's close to Roland Axam's birthplace, in North Berwick.

I know that I'm only virtually visiting this city but I have such a connection to it that I'm almost tempted to linger. I'm not looking ahead in my app to see what my next destination is. I may just hang around Auld Reekie another day. Just to pretend I'm back.

The Lonely Trail

On the day that I started my latest virtual challenge, using my spin bike and my feet to cover the distance from Land's End, in southwest England, to John O'Groats, on the norther tip of Scotland, I was hoping that DW would join me, switching from her feet alone to sharing our spin bike and, when the weather improved, hitting the road on our bicycles.

I also invited readers of The Brown Knowser to join us, too, but knew that would be a long shot. I realize you have lives of your own.

And on the first day, DW did get on the spin bike for a few minutes, covering about three kilometres. But she stopped, telling me that because she hadn't yet finished her Camino de Santiago virtual journey, it didn't seem right to her. She was travelling with two of our friends, and she didn't want to feel like she was in two places at the same time.

She decided to stick with her gals, promising to join me as soon as she was done.

I couldn't wait. Because she and the other Bytown Blazers were completing the Camino de Santiago on foot, averaging about seven to 10 kilometres each day, it was going to take more than a month for them to finish the remainder of the 774-km trek. Indeed, they didn't finish until Sunday, April 18 (way to go, ladies!).

Because I couldn't wait, and because DW and I had already logged kilometres in England, I kept going, averaging almost 22 kms per day. As of April 25, I have clocked 1,243.37 kms of my LEJOG challenge. Last Thursday, I crossed the border from England into Scotland; as of yesterday, I've reached the town of Peebles, and Edinburgh is now only 36 kms away. If I'm feeling particularly inclined, I could reach it by the end of today.

Since I started my virtual challenges, I've covered more than 2,017 kilometres on my spin bike, my road bike, and walking both indoors and out.

I'm invigorated, and these virtual challenges have pulled me from the doldrums of the COVID-19 lockdowns. I look forward to the end of my work days, when I move into my bedroom and climb onto the spin bike. I've even tuned up my road bike and have completed a couple of short circuits. Starting this week, I'm going to go further and more frequently on my road bike, reserving my spin bike for those days where the weather is poor.

I've used my spin bike more, since January, than I've used it over the previous years that we've owned it, combined. Here's the breakdown, so far, of the distances that I've travelled for these challenges, by using the various modes of travel.

It's been a long and lonely trail. Though I watch TV while I spin and go for walks around the neighbourhood with DW, my virtual journey has had me on the trails by myself. When I punch my numbers into the app, and see where I am on the map, I imagine myself on a solitary journey. I'm like Harold Fry, in the novel by Rachel Joyce. When I'm on my bike, navigating the roads in the southern reaches of Ottawa, I'm alone, in my head.

I have fewer kilometres ahead of me than I have behind for my LEJOG challenge, and I'm looking ahead to the next. I'm going to pick a trek that is longer than the length of the UK, and have even suggested to the company that makes this app that they create a trans-Canada trail, from St. John's, Newfoundland, to Victoria, British Columbia. I've suggested major stops, and I hope that they take my suggestion to heart.

Who knows? If they don't make this trek, maybe I'll do it on my own.

For now, Scotland awaits.

A Touch of Drama

I don't think I gave this photo much attention when I first had it developed, as a slide, in 1996. I'm sure that when I first received my processed slides, I loaded them into my projector and viewed them, enlarged, on the blank wall in DW's and my Deerfield Drive apartment.

I don't remember seeing the smaller, white flowers, tucked in the grass behind the flowering plant by the bank of the Upper Salmon River, in Alma, New Brunswick. I must have seen them, as I was standing there, composing the shot, but I didn't remember them afterward.

What I do remember, as I looked at the slide, was that the sky, which was a dull overcast, was blown out and offered nothing but blank space. The colours were dulled, and it was an overall boring shot.

My main purpose in taking the photos, in the first place, was to show the difference in the river during high tide and low tide. It was our first day at Fundy National Park, and I wanted to capture various tide changes around Alma. I had already taken photos of the boats, as they sat docked at the wharfs that lined the mouth of the Upper Salmon, as it opened into the Bay of Fundy. I also wanted to show the river itself, and so I picked out a spot where I could more or less remember, when the tide was out.

(One of my favourite shots of all time—of my own, that is—was shot, an hour earlier, at high tide. I posted it on my blog a couple of years ago. I shared it again, with another shot of the bay in Alma, in another post. In that post, I seemed to have forgotten that I had, indeed, photographed the boats the next morning, at low tide.)

I shared my before and after photos of the Upper Salmon River yesterday. But I must have seen the purple flowers in the tall grass in front of me, and I recomposed my frame for a vertical shot. I must have moved a little closer, dropped a little lower. Composition-wise, it's a better photograph than the before shot I had just taken.

But once processed, it didn't look as good as I had imagined when I looked through my viewfinder.

Twenty-five years later, I'm taking a closer look at the slide photos I have shot, now digitized. And because I have photo-editing software that can enhance a photograph unlike I have been able to do before, I have reconsidered some of my 'meh' shots and am giving them new life.

When I had taken the high-tide shots of the Upper Salmon, it was several hours before sunset. As I said, the sky was non-descript and cast a dull light on the overall scene. I recognized that the composition of this photo was good, so I wanted to see what my software could do.

First, I ran the image through Corel PaintShop Pro 2021 to straighten the landscape. There was a slight tilt to the frame, an error that I can't seem to shake to this date, even though my D-SLRs have lines in the viewfinder to guide me. I used PSP to straighten the image because for the past month or so, my Luminar AI program seems to crash when I change the composition and apply other enhancements at the same time. Skylum, who makes this product, has told me that they are aware of this issue and are working on it.

With the composition fixed, I imported the image into Luminar AI, where I applied a sunset template that increased the contrast and warmed the colours. I then added a sunset-lit cloud formation to the blank sky, and upped the colour saturation.

It wasn't until I completed my edits that I noticed the small, white flowers, at the bottom-right of the frame. At first, I thought they were water droplets and that I had managed to catch them, in flight, as a breeze knocked them from the grass. Only after zooming in did I recognize the white speckles as petals.

As much as I like playing with the artistic effects of Luminar AI, I have to use them sparingly, and I have labelled my file names such that they remind me that these are not the true image. My mind has already forgotten events as they have unfolded: I don't want to create new, false memories.

Happy Friday!

A Turn in the Tide

Because we are under strict lockdown in Ontario, and because I want to do my part to limit my travel to essential-errands only (cycling outdoors is essential as exercise and for my mental health). As a result, I've resisted the urge to pick up my camera and go to places outside of my neighbourhood.

And as a further result, I'm not taking many photos these days.

As my recent series of blog posts have shown, I've turned to old photos and slides to try to virtually travel back in time. But I've also looked at other slides that I had taken over the years before digital photography, running them through my photo-editing software to enhance the image or sharpen them up.

Some, I've made into new photos, altering the time of day in which they were shot.

If the pandemic doesn't get under control soon, I may have to include these rebooted photos in my annual year-end post of my favourite photos of the year.

Lately, I've started looking at the east-coast trip that DW and I took in the summer of 1996. In that year, we took our old 1980 Datsun 200SX out to New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, and Prince Edward Island. The trip centred around our second wedding anniversary, and we stayed at various B&Bs and camped at various national parks.

For a couple of nights, we stayed at Fundy National Park, in the south of New Brunswick. We set up our tent at a camp site that was near to the mouth of the Upper Salmon River, where it opened into the Bay of Fundy, and on the outskirts of the town of Alma. Essentially, we were along the shore of the Bay of Fundy, between Saint John and the Hopewell Rocks.

At night, from our tent, we could see the lights by the bridge that connected Fundy Park to the town: that's how close we were.

(Side note: at the time, there was a small restaurant, very close to the Alma side of the bridge, that made the best seafood chowder I have ever eaten.)

Because the Upper Salmon River was subjected to the same rising and falling tides as the Bay of Fundy, there would be times where the tide filled the river and there were times when the river looked like a dried up marsh. I wanted to capture the differences in the scene, so I tried to pick the same place in which to stand between tide in and tide out.

I have since augmented these slide photos with Luminar AI. Can you tell which one looks the closest to the original?

Find out tommorow, for Photo Friday.

Happy Thursday!

Brain Food

My brain was full.

In seven days, DW and I had driven from London, England, to Stratford-upon-Avon, through the north of Wales, across Snowdonia, along the western shores, and to the southeast before crossing back into England, where we visited historical Bath and Stonehenge. We were now in Salisbury and we had to have our car back at the rental agency, in London, by mid-afternoon.

There were so many places still to discover on this magnificent island and we knew that someday, we'd have to return (excluding Heathrow Airport, it's coming up on 30 years since we've made that promise and have yet to see England or Wales again). We wanted to see one more historic place, and when we checked the maps to see what was within range and our window of time, and we decided to head to the birthplace of England's institute for higher education.

We drove to Oxford.

Now, I'm sorry to say that I had run out of film after stopping at Stonehenge. At least, I thought I had run out. In truth, I did have one unexposed roll of 35mm film, but at that point I hadn't realized that I had shot one roll twice. But I had allocated so many rolls of film for each day and hadn't counted on taking any photos on the day that we were heading back to London.

Our friend, Catheleen, was holding onto my extra rolls of film that were allocated for our next leg of our vacation—more on that to come. And sure, I could have stopped somewhere to buy another roll, but I was young, not the experienced photographer that I am today, and I was on a limited budget (and cheap).

All of that to say that my images of Oxford, for this post, are taken from Google Maps.

Photos via Google Maps.

Time really wasn't working in our favour. I made a couple of wrong turns on the roadways, and what should have taken no more than an hour and forty-five minutes took us more than two hours. By the time we reached Oxford's High Street, it was nearing lunchtime, and DW and I could only think of food (we were growing tired of Weetabix breakfasts). The roads in town were busy and my luck of finding a good parking space had run out. We settled for driving around the city, taking in what our eyes would allow us, and then find a place to stop for lunch as we were heading out of Oxford.

Photos via Google Maps.

The buildings in the heart of Oxford and at the university are larger than life and draw the eye to the gorgeous architecture. In a way, it was fortunate that traffic was busy: it allowed me to take my attention, briefly, away from the road. I remember driving past University Church of St. Mary the Virgin (that poor woman, being labelled a virgin her whole life!), Carfax Tower, and Tom Tower.

Tom Tower, photo via Google Maps.

There was so much more that we saw from the roads, but this visit was so short that it now remains as a fog in the cobwebs in my brain. Scanning the city with Google Maps street view, I could see a building and think, yeah, that's vaguely familiar, or yeah, I saw that.

But time was running out and our stomachs were grumbling, so as I negotiated our way out of Oxford, DW searched our guidebook for a place to eat.

"We haven't had fish and chips in England," DW said. "We can't leave England without fish and chips, served in newspaper."

"I've worked for newspapers," I reminded her. "Fish that's been blackened by ink doesn't appeal to me."

Nevertheless, she found a highly rated fish-and-chips takeaway, which was on the road we needed to take to get to the M40 motorway. I remember the proprietor, a plump man with thinning black hair and a perpetual five-o'clock shadow, with a stained white t-shirt and an apron that hung from his ample waist. He was interested in our Canadian-ness and wished us well as he wrapped our fish and sent us on our way.

I ate while I drove, and the grease from the fry began to soak through the newspaper and burn my hands. The fish was super-hot, the batter crisp and crumbling. DW and I shared a serving of fat, crisp chips (French fries, of course!), and I remember having to quickly pass her my fish as I shifted gears and negotiated traffic circles.

There was nothing left but to make our way to London, and we returned our Ford Fiesta within minutes of our deadline. I pointed out the scratches, explaining that it happened in Caernarfon, while we were parked at the castle, to which the attendant only grunted, as if to say he expected no less. Because our insurance covered for all damage, we didn't have to worry about it.

We lugged our gear across the city, this time without help from our friends, and we crashed for the evening in the SoHo youth hostel.

Our trip around the UK was at an end, but our vacation was only just half-over. The next day, our friends, Catheleen and Joel, would be joining us on our next leg, Paris.

Like our UK trip, this Paris leg has a few blurred memories and I'm not sure that I want to tell it just yet. So I'll end this travel adventure here, and perhaps I'll share the Paris trip closer to its 30-year anniversary mark, in May.

Until then, if you're interested in seeing Paris, you can always see the family trip that DW and I took, in 2014, with our kids. That year, we saw a lot of France.

Taking a Bath

Our trip was coming to an end and it seemed like such a whirlwind that it was hard to take in all that we saw. Maybe that's why, today, DW and I still can't remember the trip in clear detail.

We were in the city of Bath, in England, for such a short time that I think of it as just a dip. As in, we just dipped our toes into Bath. Get it? (Of course you get it.)

Our destination was the Roman baths.

One of the things that I remember most about driving through the various towns and cities in Wales and England was that we never seemed to have any difficulty parking, no matter where we went. I mean, we did have someone key our rented Ford Fiesta, but we never had a problem finding a place to park the car. I'm generally a cheapskate when it comes to paying for parking, especially when I was young and didn't have much money in the first place, and I also had great luck in finding a free parking spot when there was very little available.

I remember that we parked our Fiesta on a side street, not far from Bath Abbey and the Roman Baths, but on the opposite side from the River Avon. We walked the few blocks to reach our destination, crossing over the Pulteney Bridge, a bridge that is lined with various shops, much like the Ponte Vecchio, in Florence, Italy, and dates back to 1774.

The day was beautiful, with lots of sunshine and warm temperatures. Around the Abbey Churchyard and in Kingston Parade, the plaza between the church and the baths, buskers of all types were entertaining the visitors. DW and I didn't stop, didn't waver from our quest. We had a lot of travelling to do on this final full day with our rental, and we didn't have time to waste. Perhaps, after our tour of the Roman Baths, when we planned to stop for a bite, we would watch the entertainment.

Romans built a temple on this site between 60 and 70 on the Common Era calendar. They named this settled area Aquae Sulis and the actual thermal spring was made into what was known as a thermae, a large imperial bathing complex. The baths were used until the fifth century, when the Romans left Britain, and 100 years later, the whole complex lay in ruins.

The area was redeveloped several times over the following centuries and eventually the spring, bath temple, and a museum were preserved. Today, it is one of England's biggest attractions.

It really is quite impressive, especially when you stand on one corner of the bath and gaze up toward the street level and the imposing abbey spire. It's as though you're looking at two separate time periods at the same time.

The bath lies in an open-air area below street level and looks like a modern-day swimming pool, though bathers are not permitted in it. I remember the humidity as we were led by a tour guide around the pillars that support the upper deck. We finished the tour, snapping some photos along the way, explored the museum, and then headed out for lunch.

Before leaving the city and heading to our next destination, there was one other famous landmark in Bath that we wanted to see. We hopped in our Fiesta and headed to the northern end of the city centre, and drove around The Circus, a large road circle that has a treed island and is enclosed by massive, curved Georgian townhouses. Built between 1754 and 1768, the name is Latin for circle. 

There were no elephants or big tent, and I was the only clown there.

We swung onto one of the three spokes of The Circus and stopped at No. 1 Royal Crescent, a sort of half-circus, of 30 uniform, Palladian apartments that form a massive crescent.

A couple of quick snaps and we were on to our next destination, which I have touched on briefly when I was setting up for this series of travel blog posts.

The journey concludes tomorrow. Or does it?

Stay tuned.

Borders

For the final full day in Wales, in 1991, we were finally on schedule, weren't rushed to get to our destination.

From Cardiff, we made it to Chepstow, in the southeast corner of Wales and right on the border with England, and we were able to pitch our tent before we lost light. But the full day in the city that has a family connection, mixed with the earlier drive, from Caerphilly, wore us out and had us call it an early evening. We wouldn't explore the city until the next morning.

We awoke the next morning energized and ready to tackle the day. Time with our rental car was coming to an end and we needed to be in London before the rental agency closed, the following day. And before then, we still had a lot of ground to cover and two more Welsh sites to see.

When we were planning our trip and learned that there was a castle in Chepstow, high on a clifftop over the River Wye, we knew we had to pay it a visit, especially since it was so close to our last planned stop before crossing the border, back into England.

Chepstow is the site of the oldest post-Roman stone fortification in the UK. Built by a Norman lord, in 1067, it saw lots of action during the Welsh rebellions and finally fell into disrepair after the English Civil War of the 1600s.

Too bad the Marquees of Bute didn't take it over.

Here's some trivia: in 1977, Monty Python member, Terry Gilliam, shot parts of his film, Jabberwocky, at Chepstow Castle.

While DW and I stood high above, in the Great Hall, we looked down onto the River Wye and saw boats pulling water-skiers (see the fifth photo, below). Talk about your past and present.

After exploring the castle, we wandered down to the bridge that we could see from the heights of the castle, which borders on the Welsh-English border. We were going to cross that border soon enough, but for now we were going to drive further north along the Welsh side of the Wye, to a famous abbey.

Driving along the A466 and down the hill that leads in to the valley in which Tintern Abbey is situated, we could understand the awe that poet William Wordsworth, and other poets and artists, had felt when they beheld this massive structure. It appears large at first sight and gets even bigger as you get closer and closer.

In its heyday, it must have been remarkable to see.

Founded in 1131 by the Cistercians, there is evidence that places of worship go back centuries earlier. The abbey's end came in 1536, after King Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries in England. The lord of Chepstow took possession and sold off the lead roof, and the building fell into decay.

There were plenty of visitors when DW and I arrived but the church and its grounds are so large, and covers such a vast area, that we often felt as though we were the only ones there.

Our trek through Wales was at an end. We had begun our journey at an abbey in ruins and ended it at another abbey, also left as a shell of its former self. In between, we had seen some awe-inspiring castles, steeped in history, and we had driven over some of the most beautiful landscape that I have ever seen.

Because I was our driver—DW doesn't drive manual-transmission vehicles and didn't feel comfortable driving on the left, so I was the only one insured to drive the Fiesta—I was constantly looking to the right and left as we meandered the peaks and valleys of the terrain, and at times I had to pull over and get out of the car to take in the majesty of it all. I remember, at one point, I was so overcome by the beauty that tears rolled down my cheeks.

Wales is breathtakingly beautiful.

From Tintern Abbey, we backtracked to Chepstow and then crossed over to England, where we made a B-line to Bath.

More to come.

Friday Fiction: Shopping in Berlin

The following is a rough-draft excerpt from my novel, Gyeosunim.

Friday, June 4, 1988

Photo: Google Maps

“Are you sure she was in the club before you arrived?”

“It wasn’t a nightclub, it was a restaurant and bar.”

“What’s the difference?” shot back Charles, obviously upset.

“Sir, a nightclub usually has a DJ and a dance floor. This was a large bar with lots of tables and no room for dancing. They had a full menu, like a restaurant. Very different.”

“Spare me the lesson, Axam, and answer the question.”

We were in Kaufhaus des Westens, or KaDeWe, as Berliners affectionately called it. It was a large department store that dated back more than eighty years, situated along  Tauentzienstrasse, just a couple of blocks to the southeast of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church and Europa-Center. Charles Townsend was taking me clothes-shopping.

“I’m not one-hundred-percent sure that she was there before me but I know that she hadn’t followed closely behind me or I would have noticed her. When I entered the venue, I scanned the room, looking for a place to sit, but all of the tables were occupied. The only vacant place I saw was a lone stool at the bar, and I took it. There couldn’t have been more than a minute from the time I walked through the door and the time I sat down. It was only moments later when she was by my side.”

“And you didn’t see her when you… how did you put it… ‘scanned the room’?”

“The place was packed, sir, and I wasn’t looking for any particular individual. And she looked different than when I had last seen her. My guess is that she was already in the resto-bar and saw me come through the door.”

“What are the chances of you randomly choosing a place where she would just happen to be? Did she mention this place to you when you were talking at Checkpoint Charlie?”

“No. Although, she did tell me that she was staying at a hotel on the same street, near the Bahnhof Zoo. This resto-bar couldn’t have been more than a few blocks from where she said she was staying. I should have stayed away from the area.”

“Bloody right you should have.” Charles pulled an off-white button-up shirt from a clothes rack. “Here, is this your size?”

Medium, with a thirty-six centimeter collar. “Yes, I think so.”

“You’ll have to try it on.”

“Yes, sir.” We moved on to another rack with navy trousers.

“Tell me again about your conversation at the border. What questions did she ask you? Did she try to find out where you were staying?”

“She asked if I wanted to share a taxi and asked which part of the city I was staying in. I was vague and told her the train station near the zoo.”

“You could have told her an area that is much farther from the Hotel Kurfurst.”

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t know this city the way you do. I’ve only been to the airport and the straight-line areas between my hotel, the department’s offices, and Checkpoint Charlie. I think I’ve explored more of East Berlin than West.”

“What’s your waist size, Axam?” Charles had lifted a pair of pants from the rack. “Eighty-eight?” He examined the tag that was loosely stitched onto the waist.

“That seems a bit large, sir. I haven’t shopped with European measurements in a very long time. In Canada, I wear dress slacks with a twenty-eight-inch waist and thirty-four-inch inseam.”

Charles returned the trousers to the rack and found another pair. I could see in his eyes that he was performing a mathematical conversion, and when he confirmed his calculations, handed me the polyester pants.

“As I said, sir, I really don’t think she followed me into the resto-bar. It was just a fluke encounter.”

“But she has seen you in disguise and out. And you say she asked you if you were a spy?”

“That almost came out like a joke.” I said the words but I didn’t really believe them. I sounded as though I was trying to defend her, but defend her from what? I didn’t know her. I didn’t care what she thought. And I wouldn’t see her again.

Everything was in place for the mission, which was set to go tomorrow. All agents were in place. Gunther was already in play. A promotion was being offered in his department, and today Gunther was set to request consideration for that new job. He would be filling out paperwork and meeting with his superiors. This was all done to give the appearance that he was looking to further his career, rather than abandon it. Sure, it put more of a spotlight on him, but who in his right mind would defect in the middle of being vetted for a new position? And because tomorrow is a Saturday, little would be investigated until Monday, when Gunther would be safely in London.

“There are no jokes and few coincidences in this business, Axam. You know that.”

“Yes, sir, of course.”

We moved on to jackets and Charles moved to a line of light windbreakers. A long rack displayed dozens upon dozens of identical jackets. The most pale of yellows took up most of the polyester fabric, with a turquoise green and drab blue stripe running around the waistline. I had seen a few men wearing similar jackets on the Berlin streets. It was a popular cut and would help me blend in to the crowds. Whatever crowds that Charles had in mind for me. He still hadn’t said a word. But judging from this shopping trip, and my previous experience of mixing with the general population as an observer, I knew that Charles was readying me for surveillance work.

He looked at my feet and saw my black walking shoes. “I suppose those will do,” he said in a tone that almost sounded disappointed. Perhaps if I was a senior director, such as he was, I would be in a better position to afford the fashionable kind of shoes that were always on his feet. Changing the subject, Charles added, “And you don’t know this Gwen girl’s last name, you say.”

“Exactly, sir. She offered only her first name when we met at Checkpoint Charlie.”

“And you didn’t provide her your name? Your alias, rather.”

“No, sir.”

“Go on, try them on,” he said, raising his chin to indicate where the change rooms were located.

This wasn’t much of a disguise but was simple enough to have me hide in plain site. Which was what I was trained to do. But Charles’ next move for me was still a big unknown.

Family

My mother told me that I had met my aunt when I was too young to remember. It was in Montreal, when I was a baby.

The Brown family comprised 14 kids: my dad, lucky number 13, had siblings who were old enough to be his parents, as the age gap was considerable. And when my grandfather, Sidney Brown, died, my dad was only two years old and many of his eldest brothers and sisters helped to raise him and his infant brother, my Uncle Don.

'Nanny' Brown, 1950s.

My grandmother (who I called "Nanny"), Vena Penk, was Welsh. I don't know if she ever returned to her home country after marrying my grandfather and moving to Canada, though I do know she lived for a time in Haiti and in California. The last time I saw her, I was about 10.

But one of my older aunts, Miriam, moved to Cardiff, Wales, after she married, and she was still living there when DW and I were travelling the Welsh countryside in spring, 1991.

When I told my mother that DW and I wanted to reach out to Aunt Miriam when we reached Cardiff, my mom gave me my aunt's phone number. My plan was to call her when we were in Conwy, to give her a couple of days' notice that DW and I were in the country, and that we would like to drop in for tea, if she was available.

Unfortunately, either I forgot to take the number with me when we left Canada or I lost the number from my backpack while I was unpacking and repacking it over the previous days. I was going to give up, but when we finally reached Cardiff, on the Bristol Channel in the south of Wales, I called my mother to get Aunt Miriam's number again.

DW and I planned to tour the castle, have lunch, and then visit my aunt in the afternoon.

"She's not home," my mother said when I called her.

"How do you know?"

"Because she's here, in Ottawa. I saw her yesterday." My aunt was in Canada, visiting her brothers and sisters who were living in Ottawa and in Montreal.

What were the chances?

At least we still had the castle to see.

In 50 CE, the Romans established a settlement in Cardiff, and after the Norman conquest, a motte-and-bailey castle was built upon the Roman ruins. Over the centuries, wood was replaced with stone and the grounds around the castle were further fortified. It wasn't until the 18th century that the castle and its lands were handed to the various Marquess of Bute (who also owned Caerphilly), whose heirs cared for the existing structures and added modern ones to the grounds. Today, the Welsh historic society cares for the castle, which is a grand palace that is built around a Norman keep, which is built on a Roman settlement.

In other words, this site is teeming with history.

As with other Welsh tour-guide photos, I was drawn to one of a peacock, which roams the grounds, as he was posed, tail-feathers spread, with the Norman keep in the background. I knew that the chances of getting the bird with its fan-like tail open was a long shot, if I could even get a photo of the bird with the old castle in the background.

What were the chances?

Our tour of Cardiff Castle completed, we also decided to visit the Welsh Folk Museum, St. Fagans, before heading out of the city. Though we didn't reunite with my Aunt Miriam, visiting her home city made me feel just that much closer to the Penk side of my family. I would eventually meet her, in 1999, after DW and I returned home from our two years of living in South Korea, at a Brown family reunion in Nepean. And Aunt Miriam bore a striking resemblance to Nanny Brown.

We eventually made our way eastward, back toward England. But we still had one more castle and a famous abbey to see before we explored the south of England and made our way back to London.

Stay tuned.