Super Yarn Swap

I've become a little obsessed with knitting lately. The latest enabler, a swap partner from NY, sent me the most fantastic package by post!

Summer Garden Party

In England, it's standard practice to adopt French words and mangle the pronunciation to the point the word is unrecognized and use it as if it were English in the first place.

Case in point, the traditional summer fete, pronounced "fayte."

All pronunciation and British quirkiness aside, this form of summer garden party turns out to be quite fun! Hang on to your coconuts...


Our local community garden held a party this past weekend as part of London's "secret garden" tour (featured in Time Out, no less!) and we volunteered to help out. By "we," of course, I mean that I volunteered Brian as well.

Whilst Brian mixed Pimms and sipped in the shade, I toiled away in the bright sunshine at the Slug a Slug booth. What does this entail? Stuffed slugs are dropped down a vertical pipe, and the slugger tries to hit them with a bat before they hit the ground. Harder than it looks, believe me! Most of the slugs escaped squishing, though a five year old proved to be uncannily accurate. He's now being scouted as a batsman for the English cricket squad, who could use the help. But cricket is a whole other post waiting to happen...



So, what does one do at a sunny summer fete? One, drink Pimms. Check. Two, play silly games. Check. Three, buy raffle ticket. Check. Four, throw balls at coconuts and knock them off a stand. Check. Use coconuts for further photographic opportunities, check.

Eat cake. Lots of cake. Check.

Stagger home, sunburnt and weighed down by coconuts, laughing all the way.

Long time running...

It's been a long time running, and I'm not sure it's worth the wait.

I have been working steadily these past few months, with a brief foray to Paris, another to Cornwall, and most recently to Budapest.

My father is very ill, and I haven't been writing much lately as thinking is generally a very emotional thing. I ask for your patience while everything works itself.

In the meantime, all we can do is carry on.

Holiday fire and ice

Greetings to friends and family, near and afar. I'm writing from the kitchen table here on the Taxis River, staring out the window through the fog, watching the trees bend under their coating of ice.

It's holiday time in NB, and I've spent the last week here with my family. Brian and I flew to Toronto on the 16th and spend a week with his family in Kingston. Highlights included a Frontenacs game (I won tickets to a world junior game) and tobogganing at Fort Henry. I also got to see Chad, Stacey, and Eliana, and have a good visit with Marilyn.

The drive through to the Maritimes was largely uneventful. We managed to make the trip between two of the successive snowstorms that have been blanketing the country since we arrived. I've eaten enough food to make my arteries complain and my new jeans tight. Eyeing the plate of sweets on the counter, I'm thinking I'll have to leave soon or Brian will have to roll me out the door. He's been entertained by constantly monitoring the woodstove.

Santa was very good to me. I received a very cool new ukulele and a diamond necklace made from one of my grandmother's rings. Brian was floored when he got the Japanese kitchen knife he's been babbling about for weeks, but he has to take chopping lessons before he has permission to use it in the kitchen. My first aid kit might not stand the strain.

My father had a seizure on Christmas Eve, so we've scaled back the festivities somewhat and tried to reduce the amount of visitor traffic to a reasonable level. That means rotating visitation for all those grandkids. He goes to the oncologist tomorrow. A CAT scan after the seizure showed cancer in his brain, but we're waiting to hear the details from his doctors.

Understandably Brian and I are trying to stay here as long as possible, eyeing the weather forecasts and looking for a window that allows for a reasonably safe trip back through Quebec. We fly back to London on January fourth and arrive early on the fifth. Just enough time to drop off the suitcases and head off to work!

To all of you I haven't managed to speak with yet, I hope the past year was wonderful but that the next one is even better. Every new day has the potential to be better than the previous one, after all. I miss all of my Revelstoke family very much, and send virtual hugs your way.

Happy New Year.

Abby

Time Flies...but not with discount airlines

Hi everyone. Long time, no post.

I have lots of valid excuses for not posting about my latest monkeyshines, but you probably don't want to hear them. Since most of it has to do with said monkeyshines, you're going to get it anyway.

As of the first of November, I still didn't really have a job, so I decided to sign up with the National Write a Novel in a Month group. Yup. The objective is to write a 50,000 word novel in a month, no matter how good, bad, or awful it may be.

I started. I struggled. I searched for new apartments, found one, and toured many. I got a fantastic new job, started knitting Christmas presents, and all kinds of fun stuff. Mostly the novel distracted me from my blogging, but London itself tends to be a distraction.

So I have a backlog of posts about this and that I'll try to get up sometime soon. Meanwhile I have no internet at home, so the posting will be limited.

On the 16th, I'll be returning to Canada for several weeks of holiday fun with my much-missed family. I can't wait to see you all.

Fireworks exploding in the distance...

I've stopped jumping ten feet into the air each time I hear a bang as darkness descends on London.

It all began the week preceding Halloween. I would be startled out of my knitting/guitar playing/random web surfing reverie by loud, gunshot like noises. They came from all directions. They followed no particular pattern.

Once I discerned that mass executions weren't taking place in the back alley, I relaxed a little. After I spotted the first flare of colour, I recognized the bangs as fireworks and chalked up all the hubhub to youthful enthusiasm and a British fire fetish. It would all disappear after Samhain, right?

Wrong.

The nightly fireworks shows have been steadily increasing in both frequency and complexity. To an outsider, you might wonder what Londoners are celebrating. I certainly did.

When questioned, I was told it was to do with Guy Fawkes Day. End of explanation.

You see, Brits assume (like Americans) that everyone knows all the minute details of their rich and bloody history. I had never heard of Guy Fawkes, so I had no clue why this particular man was associated with random fireworks and giant bonfires.

My next clue was given in the form of a rhyme: "Remember, remember the 5th of November" is how the chant goes. At least, that's how it is randomly spraypainted on the sidewalks (though there is some dispute over the date, according to the sidewalk graffiti).

Armed with a date and a name my research led me to the story of a man (not even the ringleader) who , in 1605 attempted to blow up the British Parliament with kegs of gunpowder. He was part of a Catholic group conspiring to kill James I as he opened the Parliamentary session in the House of Lords that day. Understandable, since James was in the habit of persecuting Puritans and Catholics at the time.

Unfortunately for Fawkes, his determination to light the fuse (and become an early version of a suicide bomber) went awry when he was arrested, tried, hanged, drawn and quartered.

Now every November Brits come out to light fireworks, burn huge bonfires, and effigies of Fawkes. It's a very interesting thing to watch from the outside. What are people celebrating-the punishment of a treasonous conspirator, or the efforts of an underdog?

October in London

Greetings from London, everyone.

I've spent the month of October settling in to a new routine. It goes something like this:

1. Wake up. See Brian off to work. Make coffee, and search for jobs.
2. Complete several job applications, or work on them until the computer screen makes me cross eyed.
3. Go for a walk. Note any hiring notices in the windows.
4. Make supper.
5. Read, knit, or play this horridly addictive video game called Fable.
6. Sleep. Cough, wake up, cough some more, try to go back to sleep.
7. Repeat.

Actually, I've done a lot more little things than that, but that's basically how things operate. I've had several job interviews so far, and I'm waiting to hear back as to whether I'm hired or not. I'm looking forward to having some work to occupy my brain.

Brian and I wandered down to the Borough Food Market, where I discovered delicious truffles...mounds and mounds of truffles. The food was amazing. We bought some pickled garlic that was fabulous. If I went there every day, I'd be fat by now.

We also ventured out to the Kew gardens (a former palace that is now home to the Royal Botanical Gardens) and wandered about in the wind and rain. Magnificent old trees, a specatcular holly collection, a tree top walk...I was in heaven. I wandered from bush to tree to bush (everything is tagged with its Latin name, I loved it) reading all the tags and mumbling to myself while Brian strolled along in my wake. I can't wait to go back, or to other gardens.

Joel and Anna came to the city last weekend, so we met up and had a peek at the new arrival. Natasha didn't appreciate hotels, it seems, but she didn't seem to mind sleeping on me.

I've been busy playing gigs as well...three in October. A cold has sidelined me this past week, but I'm up and running again on November 18th, when I'll be a main performer in the Clubacoustic sessions at the Queen Boadicea in Angel.

I will be home (rather, in Canada. Where exactly is home these days? I can't figure it out.) in December for several weeks, both in Ontario and in NB.

I stumbled upon a fabulous knitting store and began knitting again. I'll soon have to get a job to support my cashmere habit, I'm afraid. My current project is a scarf for Brian and Christmas presents for the kiddies. Don't tell them if you see them.

On a lark, I signed up for the National Novel Writing contest. It runs for the month of November, and the goal is to write a novel of 50,000 words or more by that time. That's an average of about 1700 words per day. As of today, November 3rd, I've written 1654. Oops. Already behind!!

More news soon!

Leaving on a Jet Plane...

I leave tomorrow, the 7th of October, for my new abode in London, UK.

Big move, I know. Scary and exciting all at once. I'll try to keep you posted about what I'm up to, but sometimes that's hard for even me to track! My email will remain the same, so please keep me in touch with your life and stuff.

I miss you all.

Wandering Update

I've been berated for leaving my updates here until the last minute, so I guess I'll tell you all.

My reasoning behind delaying this blog was that I wanted to send a few personal emails out before I informed the world.

I've decided to relocate, for the time being, to the UK. I will be home for Christmas, if my family needs me, and of course next May for the big wedding. (not mine, don't get your hopes up.)

I need to be in a larger centre to pursue my music, and the reaction I received in London this summer was very positive. I like the city, and the opportunity to see more of Europe.

It was a hard decision to make, but I'm really looking forward to the change. For those of you in Revelstoke, I hope to visit as soon as I can. When I win the lottery or becoming a big star, I'll be back looking for property. ;)

I love you all. My departure date from NB is October 7th.

CDs, family, and stuff

Hello once again from Canada's east coast. I am still on the Miramichi, enjoying my family.

I've been working with my mother to finish a giant landscaping project in the front yard. I've never weeded something so horrible! With landscape fabric and mulch, we're starting to make it beautiful. I like dirt and plants and being covered in dirt. Some things never change.

My CD has been met with positive reviews. If you would like to purchase one locally, they are available at Shear Elegance, McCluskey's, and Taxis River Convenience, as well as from my family. If you read this from afar, you may download or purchase the EP online at cd.baby.com/cd/abbypond. I can't wait to record a full length CD with a band, but that is somewhere in the future.

In the meantime, I am searching for employment and hanging out with my crazy family. My mother, sister and I are signed up at the local gym for a month. Let's see if I can stick it out. I hate having other people watching me while I'm excercising.

I'm still looking to sell my truck, which is in BC. If you or anyone you know may be interested, please contact me. Please please. :)

More updates soon.

Back on the Miramichi...

I apologize for slacking on the posts. This vacation attitude is really altering my motivation. As in, I don't have any.

I'm back in New Brunswick now, staying with my parents and keeping my father company. I spent a memorable two weeks in Ontario at the first of August, visiting friends both new and old.

Right now I'm digging in, focusing on my music and sorting out a few personal things. Thanks for your patience.

"Growing up in a biosphere..."

There is a land of Eden, and it exists in southern England.

Cornwall, to be exact. A man (who may now be my hero) converted an abandoned china clay quarry into a dazzling biome display, and I was lucky enough to visit over the weekend.

For a Canadian, the countryside in the UK is quite an amazing place. There is no real "wild" land as I know it; much of the land is intensively farmed and managed. Every square inch of land has been claimed by someone for something. Stone walls, grown over and winding through the hills, divide the land as they have for centuries. Roads cut their way through this, though in a very narrow, winding, hapazardous fashion. It's a little like an obstacle course combined with Russian roulette, driving on English B roads. Everywhere you look, history pokes its way through the brambles.

Anyway, back to the biomes. Even the parking lots were fun--each was named for a different fruit. We limed it up and headed down the windy path for the entrance. One delicious coffee later, we were roaming free, down the zig zag path toward the biomes.

But wait! A fork in the road! In one direction, an eco-walk with all kinds of really cool plants. In the other, a giant zip line across the quarry. Hmm, dilemma. Plants, or zippy zip fun? Brian was all for the zip line, so that's what we did. It was a much faster way to the bottom, I must admit. It was also the longest zip line I've ever seen.

The zip line deposited us in front of the rainforest biome. Inside, it was divided into the various types of rainforest-South American, African, Asian, etc. Brian was very patient with me, as I had to examine practically every plant. I was in botany heaven. The humidity wreaked havoc with my arthritis, but I hardly noticed until we were back out in the mezzanine eating pasties for lunch.

The mediterranian biome wasn't nearly as humid, with many more familiar plants. I punctuated every third sentence with, "man, I wish I worked here!" until I'm sure Brian was sick of it. He good naturedly kept at it though, and with ice cream in hand, we started wandering through the outdoor gardens.

What did we find? A maze! Okay, it was designed for little kids, but it was really cool! There were little forts, giant sandboxes, tunnels of varying sizes...I was in heaven. I found a little hut, staked my claim, and ate my ice cream there.

There were too many things to mention here. I highly recommend that you go there, and to Cornwall, if you come to this island. If you live on it, you have no excuse. www.edenproject.org. Go.

Saturday we visited a ruined castle and walked from our campsite to a small but beautiful beach. We enjoyed a cider at the beachside pub before making our way through the fields back to the tent for supper. A chicken (we were camped at a farm) tried to join us several times for the meal, which ended in hilarity as Brian carried it across the field.

Sunday was spent wandering through the Cornish countryside, seeking ruins and henges. We found both, and managed not to get lost. I also managed to keep my feet free of sheep dung.

The last stop of the day was at Stonehenge, which was a pleasant surprise and a let down all at once. A surprise, because it hasn't been over-touristicized American style, and a let down because it's crowded and surrounded by highways. It was still awe inspiring and beautiful, though.

For this week, I'm back in London. Come next Tuesday, I'm headed back to the Maritimes to spend some time with my family, and then on to Ontario for more visiting. Stay tuned...

Wet, Wales, and Sheepishness

Last week my friend Joel and I (of Wahanowin fame) headed off on what was to be a four day canoeing trip down the river Teifi in Wales.

Of the parts of this island I have seen, Wales ranks as my favourite so far. Winding our way through the vivid green hills on a narrow track (it was loosely called a road, but wouldn't pass for one in my dictionary) past countless sheep and farms, I felt strangely at home. Phil, our Welsh shuttle driver, wasn't much help when it came to deciphering street signs, however. Even the Welsh can't pronounce the names of some of these towns.

The river was running fast and high when we put in, thanks to a recent rainfall, so we made good time to our first campsite. The river meandered through a quiet valley, though the high water often meant trees overhanging the water. I ran Joel into several before I realized that gawking would have to wait until I was in the bow.

We saw very few people our first day. Our one episode of note was a narrowly avoided collision with a barbed wire fence placed across the river by a malicious landowner.

You see, there aren't a lot of paddlers in the UK for many reasons, but the largest is access disputes. Landowners don't like paddlers because they consider the rivers "theirs." Fishermen don't like paddlers because they believe the boats disturb the fish. Yep. I've been called many things before, but "fish" disturber is a new one!

Anyway, we stealthily made camp and settled into supper. In classic Welsh style, the skies opened, the rain fell, and we retired to play cards in the tent.

The next day proved to be the best, weather wise. Paddling wise, as well. We went through several lovely little rapids and (unexpectedly) over a short waterfall, which gave Joel quite a thrill. He had both hands over his head, one holding his camera, the other his paddle. Wasn't much help on that one. I had my first encounter with an ornery landowner just after this, as he came down to the water and said, "Leave now. You're disturbing the fish." No please, no nothing. He also had a camera.

Making good time, we headed downstream and passed our planned campsite, opting instead to hit the Llandysul paddling centre by evening and camp there among allies. We met quite a few fisherman after that, but only one was mean. The rest were quite friendly.

We set a fine camp up in a field and spent the evening chatting with local paddlers. I wasn't feeling well, so we decided to plan the next day's activities accordingly in the morning.

Fate, as it happened, was a little parched that night, and decided Wales needed a good soaking. Seventy five millimetres of rain (a month's worth) in one day, as it happens. Sopping wet us and sopping wet equipment plus illness and high water spelled an end to that little adventure. We bailed out and went back to Bognor Regis to dry out and recover.

We did manage two short day paddles around the south-the river Arun and Chichester Harbour-before heading back to the big city. Brian came out for the weekend and was happy to see his first seals playing in the harbour. They stalked our boats halfway back to the launch.

Today I'm off for a short weekend jaunt down to Cornwall. We're hoping to see some really cool castles and ruins (possibly Stonehenge) as well as the Eden Project. Since most of you in Canada won't know what that is, I'll explain. It's a BioDome! Now, if you know me at all, you'll know why that has me all excited. I'll tell you all about it next week!

Iceland, Part 3

Okay, so my blog entries were a little long winded. I'll condense this one, mostly because I'm weeks behind and lazy.

We hiked around in the morning, taking lots of photos and climbing a nearby peak. We scrambled out on a nice ledge, but don't tell Brian's mom. Or my mom, come to think of it. Mom, if you're reading this, I was nowhere near the edge. Kinda.

Our bus adventure back into Reykjavik was uneventful. Saturday nights at the hostel campground proved to be busy, but we found a spot and set up hurriedly. Why? Because a free concert was just starting in an adjacent field, with Bjork and Siguros headlining. Yep, only in Iceland.

The concert was packed. The lead singer from Siguros was wandering through the crowd later, stood right behind us, and eventually brushed past on his way for more beer. I was going to ask him to teach me how to play the electric guitar with a bow, but I didn't. That's one opportunity wasted. Sigh.

The next morning we packed our things and jumped on the Blue Lagoon bus. Halfway between the city and the airport, the blue lagoon is a salt water hot pool spa place that is so popular most airport buses stop there. We were quite tired and looked forward to the hot soak.

I have no pictures of the lagoon, because I didn't realize I could take my camera inside. Picture it this way: A barren landscape of sharp, dark volcanic rocks, windswept; vivid light teal waters, bordered by a white salt crust and whirling with steam, bobbing heads, and speedos. It was a wonderful relaxing way to end the trip.

Back to the airport, back to London, back to the flat, all without a hitch. A fantastic surprise trip.

Icelandic Adventures: Part 2

Iceland’s one main highway, the Ring Road, circumnavigates the island in a haphazard fashion (avoiding trolls and elves, of course.) Once outside the Reykjavik area, it is usually the only paved road as well.

As a Canadian raised in the middle of nowhere, I wasn’t disturbed by the sudden apparent emptiness we encountered as we meandered east. The rocky moonscapes and steaming hillsides gave way to endless flat green plains. If you wanted to play a game, it would have to involve sheep, ponies, or grass. That was the extent of the scenery. But what colours! The grasses seemed a fantastic shade of green against the sky. Several fallow fields, covered in a red weedy grass, provided startling contrast.

The farther we ventured from the capital, the fewer houses we saw. Farms mostly, with the occasional small, compact town. In this land of shifting earth, snow, and volcanoes, buildings more than four stories high are hard to come by.

Another word of caution for the unwary traveler: know where you and your bus are going, and where you are at all times. I guess because Iceland is such a small place, everyone is assumed to know everything, such as the name of the towns you are in, where to switch busses, and when to get off. The drivers make no announcements and won’t tell you unless you ask.

We discovered this in Hvolsvöllur, when the bus stopped and everyone got up to leave, including the driver. Oh yes, he said when we asked. You must transfer to this other bus to reach the nature preserve.

I didn’t see (at the time) why a bus switch was necessary, but I was very glad for it in less than an hour.

Hills had risen in the distance and were rapidly approaching as we veered off the main highway onto a smaller one. We were awed by a spectacular waterfall on our right, plunging into the greenery from the abrupt cliffs that were suddenly before us. The driver didn’t stop for pictures, however, or even tell us the name of the falls, but continued north along a single lane dirt track.

Þórsmörk Nature Preserve is located in a wide river valley full of dark volcanic gravel ground clear and moved downward by the glaciers that flank it. The river, quiet and small at this time of year, threads its way through silt clogged channels with surprising speed. We often had to wade through these small channels, but our large bus was equipped for such a journey.

After an hour or so of weaving our way along this bumpy track, a glacier came into view. The toe was dirt clogged and blackened. It emptied into a blue green lake eerily similar to those around my beloved Revelstoke, but with much less vegetation. In the dying light of evening, the driver stopped to allow us our photos as a spattering of rain began to fall.

Great. I always love starting a camping trip in a downpour, don’t you? Especially when I’m arriving late at night in a foreign country with no idea where I’m going and no map. But I couldn’t do anything about it, so I just shrugged and watched the rain fall as we started on the last leg of the journey.

This last section of road couldn’t properly be called a road, since large sections of it were actually under the flowing water. Yup, the river bed was the road, and we drove along for another half an hour to Husadalur.

When the bus pulled up among the clustered buildings, the rain was still falling. We unloaded our bags, dug out our rain covers, and plotted our next move. There was a campsite here, but there were also a lot of people around. Who wants people around? Not us. So while Brian was discussing hiking options with the locals, I wandered around and found a small hot pool there among the small trees. By the time we were ready to walk, the sun had emerged and it was well after nine in the evening.

The campsite we wanted was supposedly a twenty minute walk away, and very beautiful. I led the way (though I didn’t know where I was going) along the well kept trail through the dwarfed birches, listening to the birds call.

We came to a series of steps leading upward. Icelandic hiking trails, in my limited experience, are very well maintained. Partway up these stairs we met a cliff face with a small cave. Viking smugglers used the location as a hideout, and their handholds, carved into the rock, were vivid in the bright sunlight.

Unlike many places in Canada and the UK, there were no fences keeping you away. If you wanted to climb up the cliff and into the cave, you could. You might break your neck getting back out, but that’s your problem. So we both had a go at climbing up the handholds, though neither of us ventured into the cave.

Our directions were accurate. We arrived at the Langidalur campsite, starting/ending point of the famous hiking trail, after ten in the evening. The site has a large hut with bunks, abundant camping, functioning toilets and showers, and a small shop. As we approached the main hut, we were greeted by two older gentlemen in stereotypical woolen sweaters, chatting and playing a game. “Whiskey?” they asked.

I love Iceland.

It took awhile to find a warden, get a permit, and decide where to camp. Actually, we could have camped anywhere. There were no formal campsites laid out. You could pitch your tent anywhere flat enough. On our way into the site, we had seen a small side valley with a campsite sign in it. The warden didn’t care where we went, so we walked the five minutes back to this little secluded nook.

Normally I wouldn’t mind being in the thick of things, socializing and learning what I could about the country and its people. Unfortunately, the groups at the hut included what appeared to be a hen party and a large youth group with a Bob Marley flag adorning their encampment. I was looking forward to a little peace and quiet in my own little valley.

By this time, the valley was shaded, though there was still plenty of light to cook, read, hike, or do whatever you may like. It was chilly, though, and we were looking forward to a cup of hot chocolate with dinner.

Brian was anxious to try out his new Trangia cooking stove. Back in Reykjavik, we had scored some free fuel off a table where travelers could leave leftovers, thinking ourselves lucky. In the middle of Þórsmörk, eleven at night, cold and hungry, it was a different story when we discovered it wasn’t the right kind of fuel.

So we ate our couscous cold, drank whiskey to warm ourselves, and watch what passes for night descend upon our little valley. Because it never gets dark, the birds never stop singing. There is one particular cackling bird that goes on and on. It must be very small and well camouflaged; otherwise humans would have killed them all out of sheer frustration by now.

We decided to tuck in and call it a night.

Icelandic Adventures: Part One

I wrote part of this story while sitting at a picnic table in Þórsmörk, a wide floodplain of a valley in southern Iceland; the remainder was completed when I returned to London. To spare your eyes (and leave you waiting for more) I’m breaking the posts up a bit. I can be a little long winded sometimes.

We arrived in Iceland just after 11pm on Thursday. Driving through a soft sunset indistinguishable from sunrise, a bus carried us through the desolate, treeless rock fields to Reykjavik and our youth hostel campground. No worries about setting up the tent in the dark, as I could comfortably read a book at any given time during this trip, no flashlight required.

My first impressions were of a stark, demanding beauty. Coloured hues, jagged contrasts, the young Earth showing her muscle, might, and mercilessness. That impression turned out to be both true and false.

Red streaks of a sunset over a deceptively calm ocean. Rolling hills decorated with fantastically shaped volcanic offerings, carpeted with arctic lupines glowing a brilliant purple. Harsh, yes, but also soft and surreal.

Sleeping in the light, normally a problem for me, wasn’t difficult given my level of exhaustion and excitement. Armored in my new sleeping bag, I snored the night away (much to the chagrin of our neighbours and Brian, I’m sure) through until well after nine. With no changes in light, the birds simply sang all night, and my circadian rhythms were thrown off.

Friday we had planned to explore Reykjavik and discuss our options. Would we make the city our base and take various day trips to see the sights, or would we camp elsewhere? Such weighty decisions cannot be made without coffee, and we hadn’t brought our groceries along, so downtown on the city bus we went.

A note to any who plan on traveling to Reykjavik: the city has a lovely welcome card which grants you access to all city buses, a thermal pool, museums, and discounted day trips. I suggest you buy one, because they come in very handy. We, of course, didn’t learn about them until it was too late. Sigh.

But back to the coffee. I mean, the exploring. We had a light breakfast at a café and started wandering the streets of the city. Clean, spacious, functional-these are the words that come to mind. Little graffiti or litter, well-dressed and happy people. Expensive stores full of expensive designer goods. Arts and culture are very important in the community, as was expressly evident that particular Friday.

Fantastic Friday it was, and the country’s young artists had taken to the streets. There were jazz bands and string quartets playing streetcorners, visual artists roaming about in fantastical costumes, dancers and singers. We were a bit puzzled by it all at first, but found a few signs and understanding dawned.

Iceland is famous for avant guarde music, natural wonders, wool and its ponies. We didn’t get to ride the ponies (next trip) but we managed to experience the others. The tourist shops are full of beautiful wool sweaters, blankets, scarves, hats, and curiosities. I purchased a sticker for my guitar case and a knitted pair of gold woolen handwarmers. Brian mocked my handwarmers then, but later regretted not having a pair himself.

Iceland has very high rates of literacy and education. Supposedly it is one of the happiest places in the world to live, and thrive. It was surprising to see, then, the prevalence of superstition and traditional beliefs. Elves and trolls are common in Icelandic folklore, but are also taken quite seriously by many. Not just little tourist statues, elves and trolls are thought to live in certain locations. Roads have been re-routed because of these beliefs. Seeing some of the fantastic “stone trolls” that, as the story goes, were turned to stone by the rising sun, I could almost believe it myself. But not really.

Around 2pm, we decided to take a bus to Þórsmörk, supposedly one of the most beautiful places in Iceland, and camp for the night. After hiking around for the morning, we would return to the city in time for Naturra, a free concert that was taking place Saturday night. It would limit what we would see, but who wouldn’t miss the chance to see Björk and Sigur Rós in a field next to our campsite?

Regular bus lines, like Greyhound, didn’t seem to be running. Rather, we couldn’t find them. We later discovered they do exist, but don’t travel where we wanted to go (for very good reasons.) Reykjavik Excursions offered a daily bus to and from Þórsmörk. We were told to be at the bus station, ready to go, at 5 pm.

That meant we needed to buy groceries, return to the hostel, pack up, return to the bus station, and go. Though it took a little hustling, we made it according to schedule. Tickets in hand, backpacks in place, we boarded the bus and were on our way.

Reykjavik on the horizon

Didn't I fly across the Atlantic just a few days ago?

Well, I'm at it again. I'm only going partway this time though.

This evening I'm leaving Heathrow, bound for Iceland. Cool pictures and stories to follow early next week.

"You do it to yourself...you do..."

Don't ask me why the guy in the picture was wearing a Rage shirt to a Radiohead concert, because I don't know.

Radiohead concert? Radiohead concert. In Victoria Park, a large green area in east London. It was a beautiful evening, though it was a little chilly when the sun went down.

I've been enjoying my first few days in London at a very relaxed pace. I sleep in every morning, get up, have my coffee, and plot out my day. Usually it involves wandering aimlessly about, trying to find a bank machine that accepts my bank cards (none of them do, though they are supposed to work.)

Yesterday Brian's flatmates were supposed to be going to this Radiohead concert. They've been planning it for months, as she's a huge fan. It was her birthday present in fact. Unfortunately, she ended up in the hospital with an abcessed wisdom tooth, and we ended up with the tickets.

So off we went to listen to Radiohead. If you aren't familiar with their music, join the club. After they put out OK Computer, I haven't really paid attention to their stuff. I don't mind them, though, and it's really easy to listen to. The concert itself was really great, and the lights were amazing. You can't see really in this photo, but they had a series of ropes hanging from the top of the stage. Throughout the show they shone lights on the ropes to produce different effects, such as rain falling, or flames, or waves. It was really cool. I enjoyed the lights almost as much as I enjoyed the music. Okay, more. But I like bright and shiny things.

The lyrics quoted in the title of this post are from the only song the band played that I actually knew the words to. :)

After the concert ended, we walked along the Regent Canal. It winds its way along through the most beautiful section of plants, warehouse conversions, and flats. Smelling honeysuckle in the dark, we wandered back to the flat. I love smelling flowers in the dark.

Today I'm off to find some camping equipment for this weekend's adventures in Iceland. Yep, Iceland! Brian has been planning a surprise trip for over a month now, so I'm quite excited. We're going to be camping in one of several national parks outside Reykjavik.

Tonight I imagine we'll end up in a pub somewhere watching the football (aka soccer) semi final match from the Euro Cup 2008. I'm cheering for Turkey, mainly because no one else seems to want them to win.

I love and miss you all. Send me a message to let me know how things are on your end.

Jolly old...thunderstorms

I've resigned myself to the fact that interesting things happen when I travel, no matter how well prepared I may be.  Some things are just beyond my control.  

Saturday morning I left Boiestown bright and early, bound for Halifax and points further east.  Mary Ellen and George were kind enough to give me a ride (and stop at various places looking for stickers and Triscuits) but we left much earlier than needed.  Consequently, I arrived at Halifax Stanfield International seven hours before my flight departed.  

Luckily, I'm easily entertained.  I had my laptop, iPod, book(s), paper, and my guitar. Or did I?  After Friday's champagne and cider celebrations, I hadn't managed much sleep before the trip began.  As I dozed off on a bench beside the door, it occured to me that sleep might be a good idea.

Because I had arrived so early, the airline desk wasn't even opened.  That meant I had to haul my baggage around with me until I could check in.  A guitar case, a suitcase on wheels, and a small backpack are easily managed, right?

Wrong, apparently.  One, my guitar case is a giant, bulletproof, custom made contraption that weighs about seventy pounds.  Two, I had consumed a beer in the airport pub, so my exhausted mind wasn't functioning properly.  Combined with boredom, I was bound to lose something somewhere.

You know that annoying message they play every five minutes in the airport that says, "Unattended baggage will be confiscated by security" (in England they add "and destroyed" to the mix)? Well, that was me.  I comandeered a cart for my guitar case, wandered off down the airport, and left my suitcase sitting by the bench.  

Twenty minutes later or so, I realized I didn't have my suitcase.  Crap.  Actually, that wasn't the word I said, but this is a PG post.  I hurried back down the hall as best I could with my giant guitar case, to find a security guard standing next to my bag, talking on the radio.

One bullet dodged for the day.  At that point, the desk opened and I was able to check my bags.  I cleared security and sat for the remaining three hour wait.  

We had driven through pockets of rain on the trip to Halifax, so I wasn't surprised when a shower blew in. The airport has lovely windows with a view of the tarmac.  I was suprised when a few rumbles of thunder came in.  Then big, jagged flashes of lightning.  A sudden cloudburst, a siren roars, and all the ground crew outside just abandon everything and run inside.  Literally. There were vehicles parked hapazardly everywhere.

A voice came on the intercom, explaining the airport had entered a "red alert" stage due to severe weather.  Everything was shut down. No flights in or out.  No problem, I think.  I wander to the deli, order a sandwich.  Still three hours to go before my flight, and severe weather usually blows itself out quite quickly.  

I had only taken a few bites of my sandwich when the power went out.  Yep, the whole airport.  It took several minutes to restore, as well.  Much grumbling going on.  By the time the storm passed and flights resumed, 
my flight was supposed to be boarding. 

We ended up being only an hour late out of Halifax, and I had the seat to myself.   
The original plan had been to sleep through the flight, but that wasn't an option, given my 
excitement and the turbulence. 

Instead, I watched two mediocre movies, listened to music, and wondered what the heck I was doing. The usual fare.

Touchdown, arrival, safe and sound.  I've managed to eat one meal (fairly good for over 24 hours in England) and sleep through most of today.  I'm off now to meet a friend somewhere downtown and enjoy the sunshine.

Guess where I'm going on Thursday? Stay tuned to find out...

Big steps, little steps

I'd have written earlier in the week, but this has been a rather exhausting whirlwind.

Friday evening I watched my niece (the eldest of the crew) glide around in her beautiful prom dress. She absolutely glowed with happiness, hope, and anticipation. Do you remember that feeling? Fresh out of high school, brimming with plans and potential?

I couldn't remember it. But I did find that lonely empty corner those thoughts vacated. I wish I had remembered to keep them.

Sunday was a whirl of Father's Day wishes, chaos and kids. I travelled into Fredericton to spend the evening with my brother and his family. Asa, my seven year old nephew (with a mohawk) kept me company on the drive. Rather, he attempted to keep me company, but after twenty minutes of various lizard attacks on the dashboard, he fell asleep.

Monday was a long but rewarding day. I worked in a recording studio for the first (and definitely not the last) time. If you aren't a musician, it's a difficult process to explain. Actually, I lie. It isn't difficult to explain, just time consuming. Basically, here's how it worked for me:
I walk in, record a "scratch track" of me playing and singing my songs. Fun. I then listen to it and realize how horrible it sounds. Not fun.
The sound engineer, producer and I break down the song into the separate parts (instruments, vocal, thunder, goats, etc.) Since it was only me and my guitar, that should be easy, right? Heh. This is the part where Joanne laughs.

I then recorded all the music tracks separately. That means playing the guitar for the whole song through, then maybe playing it again with the chords in a different location, or with picking, etc. to make it sound good. For the five songs I had selected, it took me almost five hours to do this. A little less counting coffee breaks.

Did I say coffee? I meant water. Black, steaming, coffee-flavoured water.

Anyway, after the guitar came the vocals, since I'm too broke to hire a bunch of musicians. I sang. And I sang. And I sang. Then, when the vocals sounded good, I sang harmonies. Again. And again. and again. I had told the producer I don't have much practice at harmony singing, and he asked me to try. I hit the first harmony bang on, first try, and he laughed.

An hour later, he wasn't laughing, but neither of us threw anything and all went well. By the eighth hour I was fading quickly, but managed to finish what I started.

So what does that mean? That means I get to listen to my songs all mixed on Friday, and pending final approval, my CD will go to replication. Booya! As soon as I get them, I'll let you know how you can buy them. I wish I could give them all away, but a girl's gotta make a living, you know.

I haven't been posting here as often as I'd like, and for that I apologize. I didn't think you'd want the blow by blow description of the rather mundane days I've had here at home. Saturday, however, I fly over the Atlantic for six weeks of European adventure. Fingers crossed that I'll be able to update this more frequently.

I miss and love you all.