How to sum up the rest of my vacation in one go

This will be difficult, because we did so much! We had two lovely weeks in Montreal, seeing part of the annual fireworks contest (we saw Germany's entry, aparently the UK went on to win it!) with Eric's friends was a memorable evening, as was swimming one afternoon by this waterfall (Eric's secret spot), going to a fairly grown-up waterslide park and doing the most scary of rides, visiting this drive-through safari park with Eric's mum, where you could feed deer with carrots and also see wolves and FINALLY black Bears! Yes! Then there was a day in Ottowa (the Parliament Hill and Houses of Parliament tour is FREE and awesome. I haven't blogged enough about this I know!) another tandem ride, this time from St. Jovite to the resort and ski-centre Tremblant, (with all that cycling, I was quick to allow myself a maple-syrupy treat, rolled on snow by Yours Truly!) plus several outdoor meals with family....and after all this, I brought Eric back with me to my motherland.

And so, here I go, trying to cram a fortnights' worth of tourism into one post, but time is swiftly marching on, and I must write something before I rewsume my travels onboard the cruise ship, so this is it:

I took Eric to Hampton Court Palace, the palace Henry VIII built (or redesigned) for Anne Boleyn, only to have her beheaded, and an historic attraction very close to my neighbourhood in London. We did an audio tour of the Kitchens, the wine segment of which I particularly loved. And we went through the maze, which is pretty hardcore as mazes go, especially since they've now added sound effects to scare kids since I used to run around it as a child. Eric's particular favourite is an Ogreish voice, saying "If I catch you, I'm gonna EAT you!" near the start. As you can see, we made it to the centre, and back out again (much easier since they've even added maps and a Quick Exit since my younger days!)

Next, I took Eric on a day roadtrip to Stonehenge, a Neolithic stone circle, the oldest and most mystical of it's kind. It's 5000 years old, and there's now a good audio guide here too. You really should try to get here soon though, plans are being finalised to house Stonehenge under a stadium-style cover, which will spoil the atmosphere of it in my opinion. The wonder of Stonehenge is why Neolithic man took the the trouble to move these stones, weighing each more than 7 elephants, over 270 miles on foot (using nothing but strength and wooden logs as rollers) from Wales to this site. And, as you can see, during each month, the sun sets between a different two of the central stones, in rotation. Was this an ancient callendar? Or a temple to the Sun? It's just awesome.

We stopped by Salisbury too, to see the beautiful but twisted Cathedral spire (built on a marsh, ill- advised, but as the story goes it had to be built where the King's arrow fell, central to the new city), and because it's where my Mum went to college. I'm sure she LOVES the fact I'm telling you all that her college has now been turned into a museum!

A couple of drunken nights passed in various local pubs, as well as one dinner party with one of my best friends, Maggie and her man James. This is my friend Eleanor's Birthday celebration in London. We also went to see my football team play the first home match of the season. I'm a Chelsea girl through and through, as is Eric by association, so it was good that on this occasion at the Bridge we beat Birmingham 3-2. Result!

Eric is a Monty Python fan, and across the road from the house where I grew up is where the famous Fish-slapping dance was filmed, on the River Thames. Not content with just showing him this, I took him to see Spamalot in the West End with my folks!

In order that he get to see some of coastal Britain, ie. the good old British seaside, I took Eric on two short breaks, firstly to Cornwall, at the very south-west 'foot' of England. I love Cornwall. It has (usually) a better climate than the rest of the UK, clean beaches, clotted cream (thick, beautiful and served with everything sweet, including scones and jam to make a Cornish cream tea) and pasties! The best of these meat, swede, potato, onion and pastry beauties is arguably to be found in Marazion, at a bakery called Philps. Also in Marazion is the causeway to St. Michael's Mount and imposing castle. This is James (see below!)

We stayed in St. Ives, at the Chy-An Albany (that's Cornish there, it's a language that realistically died out in the late 1700s, but is still fondly referred to in hotel names and such!) and Eric was quick to learn that English roads are much smaller than those in Canada and the States, having changed little since Horse-and-cart tracks in terms of size.

We met up with James, my sister's man, alas my sister is in Shanghai and so could not be there, and we did the aforementioned pasty-eating, and drank beers in several old pubs, including the Sloop Inn at St. Ives, The Old Success in Sennen, and The Meadery in Newlyn. All are to be strongly recommended.

We went to Tintagel and the famous old castle ruins, said to be where King Arthur and his Knights (of round table fame) met. It also has some great doors, and View-from-a-window shots!

Also we stood on the southernmost point of England, not actually Land's End, (although that's ok) The Lizard is further south, and the coastal walk is really pretty.

We camped one night near Sennen (I LOVE our blue tent/car/chair/matress/sleeping bag theme, a girl CAN be a stylish camper, you now), and went to the Minnack Theatre, a beautiful outdoor theatre, clinging to the side of a cliff, and saw The Tempest from the resale, £3 cheap seats! Just phone up, get your name on the list and show up at 7.15, chances are you'll get in and if not, grab a glass of wine and just sit and enjoy the view of the surrounding bay and beaches for a while!

Possibly best of all was surfing. I'd never surfed prior to this trip, so went down to Sennen cove and booked myself in for the Beginner class at the surfing school there, £25 for two and a half hours with wetsuit and board provided. Eric and James took the Improver course, Eric had one lesson in Hawaii, and James is just bolshy!

I stood up! It's an exhilarating feeling, and an excellent workout. Pasties are required before AND after for sustainance!

I'm missing stuff out, but anyway, after four days, I not only decided I AM going to save up, buy a VW campervan and become a surfer-chick in my post-dancing years, but drove Eric to Weymouth in Dorset, where we met up with my parents, and my aunt, uncle and two awesome cousins, Adam (the elder) and Alex (the younger) on a day here in Portland, where incidentally they make the best Dorset Crab sandwiches ever.

Here's my Dad, who got soaked by a random tidal wave on The Cobb in Lyme Regis, made famous through severl books, including The French Lietenant's Woman (and Meryll Streep in the movie!).

We ate at The Crab and Oyster Shack near Chesil Beach (a 3 mile-long pebble beach) and this truly attractive photo shows my man, gamely hammering into a huge Dorset crab for my enjoyment (I can't believe I posted a picture of me eating!) and that's about it, I guess. What a holiday, what a life. I love it, I'm grateful for it, and I hope if you've read this far, that you enjoyed it too.

Roque, the campsite with river devoid of fish, Poutine and other stories

This was our weekend with Roque, the sax/flute/clarinet (and also basoon, just not on our ship) master-player who sadly finished his last contract on the ship in July, and is living in Quebec city.

We showed up at his place, where dinner was served promptly and with Roque's inimitable flair. Roque has two fantastic cats, and he gives them lionish haircuts to make them look even more ferociously cool.
After dinner we took a 12k bikeride to this waterfall, a real beauty, where you could walk over a bridge across the top. There was also a very grand-looking hotel, where Roque used to play in a quartet, but he says "like so many things" the job is no longer there. We sat and drank wine-coolers and beer til it was really dark, and then came back.

Eric and I went into the town for a drink, and my favourite Canadian comfort food (yes, it even beats maple syrup in the 'SO unneccessary' food-treat stakes) poutine.

Usually, poutine is your basic chips (fries), curd cheese (squeaky cheese) and onion gravy, but we bought the souped-up version with chilli and sausage, all for a wonderful $4.

Next day, we took Roque out campervan camping, to a park known for it's fishing. You see, I've been desperate to try fishing for most of my adult (and some of my child) life, and although I'm a total beginner, Eric has been fishing once, and Roque is just a pro (see below). We were armed with a fishing permit (significantly more expensive if you're not Canadian) a brand new Canadian Tire $35 fishing line complete with various trout-fishing bait and waterproof guide, and Roque's amazing 1975 bolero trailer.

Here the guys are adjoining it to Roque's super car/van.

I must confess, I love Roque, but I'm IN love with his trailer. Look at this thing, it's like a Tardis, it has a fridge, double stove, sink, microwave (even sattelite TV!) these pictures don't even show the interior fully set up, but it was a gem.

Roque hooked it up to the electricity and water (again, the 'service' sites are different from regular camping. They have different sections for 2 and 3 service vans, ie. our camper doesn't have a toilet inside, so we don't need the third service. I'm kind of glad about this! I learnt that you still have to drain the tank of waste in most models) and got a toaster going and his CD player.

Eric meanwhile climbed this tree, and we went for a lake swim. I'm getting better at them, the cold tollerance is building up.

When we got back to Roque, he'd prepared a cold dinner with the planning and skill of an old pro who's been taking that trailer out once a year since 1975. Roque does neither desire nor require help when doing such things, so I got the fire going. Yes, me! I let Eric play with the embers, and stuff, but it was all my doing!

We learned that we couldn't just go out and fish that night, we had to wait and come back for 'the lottery' later on at the camp HQ, with our letter saying who we were, printed by them. The lottery was to begin at 9pm sharp. This was all very intriguing.

So, after dinner, Eric and I walked purposefully to the main-building with the relevant documentation in-hand. I realised I'd done well and gotten into the spirit of things when I turned up with my sneaky glass of red wine, because there on the porch, waiting for The Lottery to commence were around thirty other people, all slightly sloshed and all recounting the triumphs of their days' fishing ("It was thiiiiis big!") and psyching themselves up for tomorrow.

At 9pm (sharp, naturally) all filed in, and we stood and waited. I took this picture, realising I'd totally blown my cover as a fisherwoman. And so, the lottery began. Everyone who was a) in the campsite and b) had a permit waited for their pitch number to be called, and then chose a site for the next day's fishing from the board. The sites were assigned little blocks which you took with you, and only 2 boats per area, thus the fish remain plentiful.

Our problem was we had no idea which sites were better than others. Is it better to fish trout in a lake, or a river?

As The Lottery went on, I was conscious of all the little blocks diminishing in number, realising some sites most definitely were tried-and-tested favourites. Finally, there was just us left. The guy looked at us in dismay and said, "Did you not put your letter in the bucket?"

Ah. No. We thought we were just supposed to HOLD it to prove who we were and YOU did the rest. Oops.

So, we had the pick of the worst places to fish, but the guy was still very confident the river he recommended would suit us fine, and we would fill our quotas. This was the exact moment of the little block handover. We were warned you are not allowed to take away any more than 15 trout per person, that's your quota. 15! Suddenly I was excited, and on his advice bought some live worms, here they are, and a blue spinner because we were talking to a man who said trout like the blue shiny colour.

The next morning, at 7am, we were sitting in our 1975 trailer, eating home-made bread, getting ready to go fishing and listening to cranked-up Strauss on the CD player. A random set of circumstances in anyone's books!

We set out, and Roque quickly decided he didn't want to row, and as he didn't have a permit, left us to it. He did mention he couldn't see any trout, but that didn't deter me. Steeling myself to put the worm on the hook (which I performed unaided), and reading aloud from my waterproof Canadian Tire guide, I set up my line. What is a "riffle" anyway? And how do trout get "behind them" I was wondering.

We rowed some, we fished some. And then some more. I realised I was myself becoming bait, for mosquitos and even worse, black flies. I was clad from head to foot, but the small sliver of skin that is revealed between the small of your back and your butt when you sit on a low boat bench and hunch over to sort out you bait/line was covered in bites. They even scarred, and two weeks later I'm still scratching. They also bite around your hairline, your neck and behind your ears, EVEN when you're wearing a baseball cap.

By 12.30 we'd caught nothing. NOTHING. Sadly, no pictures of this escapade survived, because there was no big catch money-shot. We left, and Roque drove us back to Quebec. We stopped in McDonalds on the long drive back to Montreal, because with no fish to BBQ and the cooked chicken (the Plan B for all fisher/campers!) eaten the night before we were starving. Guess what I had? A Fillet-o-Fish, I relished it, I devoured that horrible fish just as if I'd hauled it in on my brand new line.