The revamped school bus shuttles us eleven kilometres up a single-track mountain road. Higher and higher into the mountains, every bump of the road takes us further and further from everyday life. We’re in Yoho National Park and we soon arrive at the esteemed Lake O’Hara. Nestled below turreted peaks, hanging valleys and ribbons of rushing waterfalls, it’s a jewel within Canadian National Parks.
Once off the bus and deposited at the cozy campsite, I am in absolute wonder. This is breathtaking, it’s spectacular! And lucky me, I’m here with my daughter-in-law Trixie Pacis, a Canadian/ Filipino film maker. A screening of one of her films, Embers is only hours away.
It’s been a while since I’ve stuffed a sleeping bag and sleeping mat into a backpack and slept in the great outdoors. Yet Trixie has even more embedded into her pack and out comes our accommodation for the night as well! Once the tent is pitched and our food and toiletries are safely stored into our assigned locker – a grizzly and her cubs were spotted just down the road this morning – we make our way through the campsite across the road to the famed Lake O’Hara.
Lake O’Hara – at 2,020 metres or 6,630 feet above sea level – is in the alpine region of Yoho National Park. Nestled with Jasper, Kootenay and Banff, Yoho is the smallest of these four contiguous national parks. A trip to this area a number of years ago confirmed its grandeur, yet campsites remain elusive unless you’re lucky enough to secure one during the first few minutes they’re released each spring. Trixie’s complimentry tent site is a perk of the screening and as we meander lakeside for my first views, I appreciate how iconic and special it is to be here.
In the 1920’s the lake became the first outpost for The Skyline Hikers who wanted their own trails and camp as the first horse riders, The Trail Riders had formed. Eventually forming a site more permanent than tents, the Lodge and Cabins of Lake O’Hara became one of the darlings of alpine trail routes. The original 1920’s Lodge is undoubtably a little more comfortable than it once was and the lakeside cabins are like frontier gems along the sparkling lakeside. Intrepid climbers visited like Conrad Kain and Mary Schaeffer, portrayed in Trixie’s film Wildflowers.
After a stroll along the shoreline, we perch ourselves on the dock and soak in the site. Yoho means ‘awe or wonder’ and it is aptly named. We meet travellers from near and far. We’re told about the famed carrot-cake delivered twice a day from the lodge to the small cafe, apparently it’s not to be missed. We hear the call of the loon from across the lake and we ponder the sheer majesty of this site, the traditional home of the Secwepemc and The Ktunaxa First Nations. Trixie mentions that it’s also a winter destination and I imagine myself around The Lodge’s fireplace, wine in hand, after a brisk snowshoe. I make a mental note to reserve as soon as I return home!
Dinnertime beckons and back at camp we claim a picnic table in the convivial site. Hikers poles lean on tables. Thermoses of every colour adorn tabletops. Camp stoves boil water for freeze-dried meals. The chat is of the myriad alpine hikes either completed or planned for tomorrow. As we savour a glass of Pinot Noir after our surprisingly delicious dinner, Trixie makes notes for her film screening at 8:30. I’ve seen Embers a number of times, but this setting is certainly the most fitting.
Trixie’s independent films have all been mountain-culture driven. As an award-winning documentary filmmaker, her four films are currently on the festival circuit; Wildflowers, Ahon, Wild Aerial and Embers. As I write, our province of British Columbia is experiencing expansive wildfires (in fact last week we ourselves were on Evacuation Alert) so the film Embers is particularly poignant. About this time two years ago, a wildfire tore through Jasper, Alberta reducing the film’s protaganist’s home- aerialist Sasha Galitzki’s – to ashes. The film connects Sasha’s loss in the wildfire and glacial recession she witnessed in her creative work to highlight the common cause, climate change.
Making our way ten minutes up the road and just before the Lodge, the verandah of Le Relais is already dotted with some of the waiting audience. It’s cozy inside with a few wooden chairs, benches and stacked firewood. Taxidermy of local fauna is on display, as are postcards dangling from wooden pegs. The setting is truly Canadiana. As our host Robynne and Trixie set up for the screening, the now-full room breaks into conversation, but a hush quickly falls over the crowd as Trixie introduces the film and the dramatic opening scene fills the screen. By the end of the documentary, tears fill people’s eyes…. for Sasha’s loss, for our ever-diminishing glaciers, for the danger of wildfires throughout Canada and beyond, for the reality of climate change that is already upon us.
After a Q & A and farewells, we briefly catch the magical alpenglow on rose-tinged cliffs. Now, as night approaches, the haunting cry of a coyote fills the cool air and the loon calls again across the turquiose-blue lake… thankfully, no sign of the grizzly family so far.
The next morning we hike up into the glorious alpine meadows. Climbing steadily along the trail, a porcupine flashes its golden quills, a marmot ducks back into the woods, golden-mantled squirrels scamper beside us and tiny pikas transport flowers and moss into the crevices of rocks. Trixie points out a blaze on a tree, the visual mark chopped onto the bark to traditionally guide hikers along a trail, trailblazing indeed! The small lake we reach is surrounded by fading glaciers and castle-like peaks; we’re both awed by the serenity of it all. Trixie and our son Luke are avid hikers and last year did the full alpine hike. It’s a little too ambitious for me, but nonetheless my reward for the 3-hour hike is none other than a piece of the infamous carrot cake. We’re first in line for the 2:30 delivery at Le Relais!
Trixie Pacis can be contacted at trixiepacis.com and on instagram #trixie_
I can picture Jennie Butchart, suspended high up in a bosun’s chair, carefully coaxing soil and vine roots into limestone crevices of the abandoned quarry. She had commandeered the vast gaping hole, and now her Sunken Garden was taking shape.
“You’re ruining the country, Bob, just to get your old cement,” Jennie had reportedly chided her husband. A 1952 article in Maclean’s Magazine described it as thus…
“One day in 1909, in a glade sloping to a salt-water bay on the Saanich Peninsula of Vancouver Island… a woman stood on the edge of an abandoned quarry and began to cry.
Jennie Butchart knew the quarry well. For more than three years she had lived beside it. As a chemist in the cement works of her husband, she had analysed its high-grade limestone. She watched it yield them wealth. She knew its moods in the moonlight and at the height of storm. But the tears came because she hated it more than anything else in the world; its very ugliness so fascinated her, she could not stay away.
The perpendicular quarry walls, twisted from dynamite blasting, dropped sixty feet to a quagmire of two and a half acres of clay. Out of a subterranean spring percolated a muddy creek which fed a deep pond on the quarry floor. A hummock of grey rock, unfit for cement, rose like a spire from the centre… Jennie Butchart stood and cried.
It was then an inspiration came to her, ‘Like a flame’ she was to say, ‘for which I shall ever thank God.”
The Butchart Estate (pronounced Butch – Art) included both their home and the quarry. Now that Jennie’s creativity and determination had been sparked, debris and rocks were replaced or hauled out. Horses with wagonloads of soil trudged back and forth to the site. Douglas firs, cedars and Lombardy poplars were strategically placed – flowering trees, shrubs and annuals would follow. Jennie envisioned colour and vibrancy. To her, the eyesore was a canvas on which to blend a palette of nature’s rich hues and textures. After all, at heart Jennie was an artist… the world famous Butchart Gardens would become her living masterpiece.
Born in Toronto, in 1866, Jenanette Foster Kennedy was orphaned at the age of fourteen. Sent to Owen Sound to live with an aunt and her seven cousins, Jennie thrived in her new family. Both intelligent and artistic, she also embraced outdoor life while attending the prestigious Brantford Young Ladies’ College. Yet when offered a scholarship to continue art training in France, the young graduate declined. Instead, she choose a life with her new beau. The eighteen-year-old married the tall, determined, twenty-seven-year-old Robert (Bob) Butchart.
The young businessman was an innovator and within four years had opened Portland Cement Mill in Owen Sound. Portland cement derives its name from England, where in 1824 bricklayer Joseph Aspdin, patented the blend of limestone and clay. He named it after the local Portland stone it resembled.
In 1902, Bob would hear of a large deposit of limestone at Tod Inlet on Vancouver Island, about 20 km north of Victoria. With two daughters in tow, Bob and Jennie moved across the country and soon established a quarry and processing plant. Vancouver Island Portland Cement Company was the only cement-producing company west of the Great Lakes. The company not only pioneered refinements, but was the first to ship cement in sacks, rather than heavy, cumbersome barrels. Fortunes soared dramatically as Bob began to supply cement to facilitate the rapid building in the burgeoning province and beyond.
Jennie did not sit on the sidelines; she earned a certificate in chemistry to work in the firm’s laboratory. Yet her surroundings awakened her artistic inclinations. Re-envisioning her quaint on-site home, she hosted tea, croquet and tennis parties. Jennie was always forging ahead. The magnificent Sunken Garden was completed in nine years, and to this day cradles Jennie’s breathtaking vision. Yet if the old quarry is Butchart Garden’s celebrated centrepiece, supporting works of ‘art’ accompany this National Historic Site of Canada.
The rambling Rose Garden, blooms with some 280 varieties. The Japanese Garden, its authentic Torii gate, stepping stones, maple and beech trees evoke serenity. The Mediterranean Garden is a celebration of the island’s balmy, temperate climate. The Coast Salish totem poles, honour the storied culture of the island’s indigenous peoples. And my personal favourite, The Italian Garden – once the family tennis court – anchored by a sensuous arched wall of green, exotic palms and plants flourish from around the globe.
For indeed, the Butcharts were also avid travellers. A trip to Rome had inspired The Italian Garden, while travels to the Himalayas, the Pyrenees and the orient garnered yet more unusual plants as well as collectibles such as urns, statues and pagodas.
As Jennie’s gardens were designed, planted and flourished – with flowering plums, magnolia, dogwood, Siberian wallflowers, bachelor’s buttons, peony and so much more – her home flourished as well. After numerous expansions, a welcome sign in Italian hung over the door. The lady of the house epitomised the spirit of ‘Benvenuto‘.
Friends began to visit the gardens, they brought their friends, and their friends brought other friends. Soon the garden opened officially three days a week. By the First World War, sightseers were flocking to the garden in tallyhos, on horseback, aboard country trolleys. Now, Jennie flung her garden gates wide open… and left them open seven days a week.
When strangers peered in the windows of Benvenuto, friends would suggest to Jenny that she should charge admission. “Oh no,” she’d reply, “the flowers are fleeting. Why shouldn’t people enjoy them? They’re free for all.” Only one sign asked for ‘privacy’ and still does today. Enclosed by white lattice, it was Jennie’s one retreat – her private oasis.
Bob contributed to the thrilling panoply with rare birds, peacocks, pearl breasted pigeons, English and Mexican canaries, water fowl and German bullfinches trained to whistle. He imported 565 Japanese cherry trees to lavishly line the public road to the estate. At the time, its ‘beauty second only to Potomac Drive’ in Washington DC.
The entrepreneur expanded into timber, steamships, shipbuilding, coal, hardware and trusts. He had one of the first automobiles on Vancouver Island and followed it up with imported European and luxury models. With his chauffeur often in the back seat, Bob was known to cruise at breakneck speeds. When he reached eighty, his concerned wife convinced the police to revoke his driver’s license.
It’s said that Bob had the bearing of a distinguished officer, but it seems the self-made millionaire enjoyed life with a wry sense of humour: games of rummy with his servants, inclined to piping melodies from his beloved pipe organ into The Italian Garden to serenade lovers on evening strolls, offering a doctor who had performed an operation, part cash and part world travel for payment!
It’s reported that in contrast to her husband, Jennie was ‘as blunt as an Irish washerwoman’. Just over five feet, she was a force to be reckoned, one who cared more about the colour flow of her gardens than the cut and fashion of her dresses. Who can blame her, overalls and a straw hat were her preferred garb. It’s well documented that Jennie was an excellent storyteller, loved a good earthy joke, and she was generous and kind. Each week a gardener would don high rubber boots, wade into the wishing well to fish out the coins that visitors had cast in. Then wheelbarrowed over to Jennie as she sat on her sun porch, she would help package the coins to donate to charity.
As the unpaid official welcomer for the city of Victoria, Jennie entertained dignitaries, conventions and whole army regiments. She hosted tea parties for the poor and the aged, and delighted in drawing word pictures of the flowers for the blind so they could envision them as they savoured their scents. Sharing the enchantment of her garden was Jennie’s gift. Even when, by 1915, some 18,000 people toured the gardens, she refused to charge admission.
During the ‘off season’, the Butcharts embarked on extensive world tours (today the gardens are open year round.) “It seems lonely when the crowds stop coming,” Jennie lamented and Bob agreed, “I can’t understand how some people shut themselves away from their fellow man. Why, I’m never lonely when I can see so many people enjoying themselves every day.”
In 1931, Jennie was recognised as Citizen of the Year by the City of Victoria. In 1938, the ownership of the gardens was transferred to their grandson, Ian Ross on his 21st birthday and is still in the family today. In 2015, Jennie was inducted into the BusinessLaureates of British Columbia’s Hall of fame. Their motto – they built, we benefit – seems tailor-made for Jennie Butchart.
As I wandered the gardens, I mused that her spirit still graces the vistas; from the dramatic Sunken Garden to the whisper of maples rustling in the Japanese Garden, from the dancing fountain to the riots of colour and the vivacious scents of the blooms. It’s recalled that during Jennie’s time, many visitors didn’t realise the property was a private garden. People plucked flowers and fruit from the trees – this meant fewer to give away to hospitals. A few visitors were known to pilfer coins from the wishing well. Even a family dog and a garden peacock were carried off. When visitors carved their initials on various trees, Bob patiently designated a tree for that purpose alone.
Yet more often than not, their generous hospitality was repaid in kind. When the King of Siam visited, he invited the Butcharts to visit his palace in Bangkok. The following year, the travelling couple gladly took the King up on his offer, spending twelve days as his guests. The Butcharts lived well, both overseas and in their tucked-away haven on the Tod Inlet.
I vividly envision Jennie, weaving her way through her garden and thoroughly luxuriating in the divine setting she had created. Perhaps this last anecdotal story, during the visit of an English explorer, portrays this inspiring lady at her finest.
“I know one flower you haven’t got,” the visitor piped up as Jennie showed off her 5000 varieties. “You don’t have the blue poppy of Tibet.”
Jennie slyly led the visitor to a bed of heavenly blue poppies. “Why that’s impossible,” the Englishman exclaimed. “I just discovered them myself in Tibet!”
And indeed he had, and had then sent one flower from Tibet to London’s Kew Gardens. But Jennie being Jennie, had wasted no time and had already garnered the seeds from the blue poppy. I like to imagine her re-offering the guest a seed or two from the very flower he had sourced.
If only, if only we could stroll through the gardens with Jennie by our side…
If you go…
The Buchart Gardens are a short drive from Victoria, or hop on a bus.
Visit in the afternoon and stay for the free summer evening concerts.
Enjoy dinner in the Dining Room overlooking the Italian Garden, or at the more informal Blue Poppy Garden.
Treat yourself to some seeds in the wonderfully stocked Gift Store… wildflowers from here bloom in my own garden.
Adhere to the Garden’s Etiquette including no selfie-sticks and quiet conversation.
Read more about Vancouver Island’s other inspiring artist I’ve written of, Emily Carr, and of the island itself
The Le Taberna del Foro is lively and crowded. It’s Friday evening in Madrid and a three-hour flight from Edinburgh lands us in time for drinks and tapas. We slide into a tiny table for two near the pie-shaped bar, lined adoringly with as many books as wine bottles. I order a glass of secco blanco, Bruce decides on a vino tinto and we expectantly unfold the pristine map of Madrid… the promise of a colourful canvas of streets and architecture, of life out to all four corners, a new city for us both!
After having checked into out hotel near Madrid Atocha, the main train station, we haven’t wandered too far into the surrounding charming neighbourhood. I admit to having felt a little overwhelmed by the thought of this capital city, conveniently situated in the middle of Spain, yet at once it feels familiar in its obvious elegant grandeur. We pour over the map noting the iconic sites – those must visits in any city – yet for us it’s more about the outlaying neighbourhoods, the barrios which give all Spanish cities their unique character.
Saturday morning beams sunshine and warm temperatures for mid-November. The crowds are tremendous with locals, Spanish day trippers, tourists alike, and not surprisingly! This is the political, economic and cultural centre of the country with the second-largest GDP in the EU. Madrid is an iconic city and of course we beeline up the Grand Via to visit the landmarks – The Royal Palace and Almudena Catheral, Plaza Mayor, Puerto del Sol. The grand central square is an enduring symbol of the city and resplendent in century-layered architecture. Originally a bustling market, the plaza has also hosted bull fights, royal ceremonies and tragically, trials during the Spanish Inquisition. King Philip III sits atop a bronze equestrian statue paying homage to the reach of Spain in the late 1500’s… Kings of Portugal, of Naples, of Sicily, even Lord of the Seventeen Provinces of the Netherlands. The Philippines, a former Spanish colony, is named after Philip’s father, the II, also known as Philip the Prudent.
With the main sites orientating us, we stroll. Like the Italians, the Spanish love to perambulate their calles; always well dressed, well perfumed and with animated conversation. We meander, seemingly traversing the entire city that day. We leave the busy Gran Via for the intimate neighbourhoods of Salamanca, Lavapies, La Latina and more. The narrow streets are flourished with petite intricate wrought iron balconies, muted pastels and cozy tree-dappled plazas dotted with neighbourhood tapas bars. We chance upon a rose garden still abloom, quiet calles of towering cyress trees, pigeons frolicking in marble fountains, local gossip mingling with strains of classical guitars… all touchstones of life in this grand, yet surprisingly intimate city.
By 7 pm, we chance upon the smallest of bars with rickety vivid-green tables and a tapas menu that I’ll dream about for years. Alas, the kitchen doesn’t open until 8 so we have no choice but to order a bottle of roja and relive the day. Seventeen kilometres of bliss, excellent local food here and there, and admittedly because of the beautiful weather we hadn’t been enticed to join any inside tours. Just a spectacular day of soaking up the essence of Madrid.
“If Seville is a gentle Spainsh guitar tune, Madrid is a full-on flamenco dance,” I muse to Bruce. I fell in love with Seville on a previous trip and ideally one should visit both. If crowds and distances are difficult for you, Seville will give you all the flavour you need, yet the transportation system in Madrid is efficient and accessible. My feet are worn out so we plot tomorrow’s endeavours with a slightly slower pace, which we both agree must include The Prado Museum!
The Prado Museum is what the Louvre is to Paris, the British Museum to London, the Uffizi to Florence. Before losing yourself in the Prado, first wander its environs as the museum is nestled on the edge of the grand El Retiro Park. And the Retiro is to Madrid what Central Park is to New York City, what Hyde Park is to London, or Stanley Park to Vancouver… parks that are the breathing lungs and oases of calm. El Retiro is just that, a sprawling Unesco World Heritage Site, a former royal park with 19,000 trees, art galleries and a lake. Opened to the public in 1868, one can stroll, row, pedal, play tennis, or enjoy a picnic in the grounds.
I absolutely adore museums of all kinds and like markets in a city, museums are also the touchstone of its citizens… the guardians of art and history, of a people’s story. The building that today houses the Museo Nacional del Prado is a splendid work of art in itself. Designed in 1785, it is sprawling, stately and the custodian of some 2300 paintings. The predominate mood is that of Tenebrism – dark, gloomy, mysterious – common of Baroque paintings and Diego Velazquez did this exceptionally well. A leading artist in the court of King Philip IV, the museum holds a vast collection of Velazquez’s celebrated paintings with Spain’s dramatic history coming alive on the evocative canvases. Masterpieces from Titian, Goya, Raphael and El Greco also regal the walls, testament that The Prado has certainly evolved since it opened in 1819 as a Natural History Museum.
Late the next morning we hop on a Renfe train to Toledo, barely an hour’s journey south-west. A short walk from the train station reveals the ancient city nestled along the Tagus River. This World Heritage Site by UNESCO is immediately dramatic. Perched imposingly on a hilltop for defense purposes, it calls itself the ‘city of three cultures’ – Muslim, Christian and Jewish. All of their architectures still a mosaic of hues, cobblestones and ancient wooden doors. The Archways of the Alcazar welcome you in.
The Romans called this Toletum, incorporating it into their empire after a battle with Celtic tribes in 193 BC. This town of non-citizens is where one could obtain Roman citizenship in exchange for public service, and build they did! The Roman circus – an open-air venue for chariot races – along with an amphitheatre was one of the largest in Hispania, once the name for the Iberian Peninsula and now part of Spain. The circuses teemed with public entertainment to keep the population content and to prevent unrest. Many of the new citizens would have also helped build splendid villas for wealthy elites in the 3rd and 4th centuries as the city became a literary and ecclesiastic centre well into the the mid 700’s.
Toledo also became a major cultural centre promoting productive cultural exchanges between the Islamic world and Latin Christendom. Its long history of bladed weapons production and glass manufacturing is still evident as you wander the quiet streets into the old quarter. Winding cobblestoned lanes harken to a celebration of cultures and religions, each giving the city a rich architectural and artistic heritage. Today the city celebrates the harmonious living between Muslims, Jews and Christians alike.
We happily dine in an Arabic restaurant, we savour the evening dusk and then the illumination of Toledo’s architectural wonders. It’s now eight in the evening, the streets and plazas begin to fill for evening strolls. For us, it’s time to catch the train back to Madrid. Time to savour the joys of jumping on a train. Time to plot tomorrow’s adventure!
We rang in 2026 at our Canadian mountain home, cozy in the snow after a calm and picturesque Christmas. After an early family celebration, we were just three for the holidays – perfect for reading in front of the fireplace, playing games, watching home movies, and failing miserably at an intricate floral puzzle!
On that last day of 2025, I gazed at the twinkling Christmas tree lights, morning coffee in hand, reflecting with gratitude on an eventful year. Thankful for my small design business endeavours with my partner at Studio 1220, for our sparkling home renovation, for the two trips to Europe and for a beautiful summer wedding shared with family and friends from far and wide. I’ve also just closed a five-year chapter as the social media specialist for a local business… it’s finally time to concentrate on my next book project, a travel memoir.
I was privileged to travel to Spain twice last year, yet I was so thankful to return to Scotland in November. A place that was once home and the dramatic country that my husband originally hails from. Rediscovering Scotland felt different this time with more connection and a deeper appreciation for the country that is part heritage to my children. We were primarily there for Bruce’s work project, yet we took the time to wander down well trodden memory lanes and also forge new interesting pathways.
After stays in Edinburgh and Glasgow, we visited our former hometown of Banchory, a long stone’s throw from Aberdeen. Oh, how lovely it was to see our bonniewee home again, still nestled behind a cotoneaster draped wall and the weeping birch that we planted. Memories came flooding back of our young family, the house like a time portal. I could see the boys riding tricycles in the back garden, banging on pots and pans in the kitchen, cuddling up to me as they listened to their favourite bedtime story.
Out of the thirteen homes that we’ve lived in around the world, this one is particularly special as it was the first home of our second son. It’s where we welcomed family and friends into its tartaned wallpaper and matching carpeted embrace. And also into the gorgeous garden where the sound of bagpipes might just drift along up to us. The house became a basecamp to explore from. Perhaps to the Highlands, through lavender, heather-covered hills, to the whiskey distilleries. Their pungent bold aromas soon forgotten after a taste of fine Scotch. Perhaps a trip to Lochness in the hopes of spotting the mythical ‘Nessie’. I can still hear our son Luke’s plaintive cry as he stood at the loch’s edge, ‘Nessie I’m here, where are you?” It has always felt like an incredibly special place to have lived!
Nestled along the River Dee, Banchory is known as the Gateway to Royal Deeside. Queen Victoria and Queen Elizabeth visited their nearby Castle in Balmoral often. Between the 1940’s to 80’s, Banchory became world renowned for its lavender fields, now it’s better known for anglers hoping to catch prized salmon. Our local excursion on a chilly November afternoon wasn’t to fish, but to visit a number of castles, especially Crathes Castle, once a playground for our children. An unexpected snowfall had closed the road to the castle so we wandered through new-fallen snow through the pristine gardens and estate… catching glimpses of Highland Coos and hugging towering cedars – a counterpoint to the admirable topiary hedges of yew flanking the castle. Again in our mind’s eye, we pictured the kids running through the gardens on a summer’s day, the 16th century castle an unlikely yet stunning backdrop.
Memories, so many special memories. We stayed at the storied Banchory Lodge situated on the River Dee. Once a grand home, the reimagined boutique-style hotel is a blend of the historic and the modern. Over dinner and breakfast in front of the crackling fireplace, we took the time to relive and savour those early chapters in our life. We couldn’t have known how many more countries we’d be fortunate enough to live in – at 30 years old Scotland was already our third – and we didn’t yet have an inkling that we would gratefully welcome a third son into our family. Which circles back to the most important event of this year.
Just as Luke and Trixie’s nuptials three years ago in The Philippines were so special, Andrew and Ayla’s summer wedding closer to home was also a blessing and joyous occasion. A most perfect day. Another strong and loving daughter officially added to our family. Two families united, two celebrations between Banff and Kimberley, two events where family and friends mingled and danced the evenings away!
So with gratitude and hope for this year, I wish the same for you dear reader… calm and peacefulness that we all need more than ever.
Thank you for reading and a very Happy New Year, wherever you may be!
Post Script… 10 Things I Love About Scotland
The ‘New Scot’ – the term for new immigrants who are welcomed and encouraged to make the country their new home.
Friendly chit-chats at local pubs.
The deep, rich history that is still palpable and celebrated.
The beauty, from the architecture to the landscapes.
The proud tradition of music, you might even find yourself Scottish dancing in a pub on a Monday evening!
The beautiful heritage of tartan.
The culinary scene, from traditional to fusion to food from other lands… Dishoom Glasgow, Ivy Glasgow, Black Isle Brewery Inverness, The Chester Aberdeen, The Anchor Glasgow, Cafe Andaluz Edinburgh.
Train travel, easy and incredibly picturesque… The Caledonian Sleeper to London is a good option for flights arriving in London.
Museums, galleries and tours… informative and inspiring such as The National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh, Aberdeen Art Gallery, Glasgow City Chambers Tour, Walking Tours Glasgow.
Hotels I’d recommend… Malmaison Aberdeen, The Address Glasgow, Banchory Lodge, Radisson Blu Edinburgh. AC Hotel by Marriott Inverness.
Early this summer, robins painstakingly formed a nest on our back deck… tiny twigs, sprigs of grass straw and plenty of pine needles weaved into the little home. Soon, three newborns awaited, their beaks endlessly agape, parents nourishing them with garden-sourced worms and unsuspecting bugs. As is nature’s way, a few teal-blue thrush eggs had sadly tumbled out of the nest, their glorious colour adding a striking accent to my garden blooms. I gathered the eggs gently, laying them next to my late father’s impossibly tall and vivacious hollyhocks.
Remembrance hollyhocks
We witnessed the fledglings take their first tentative flights. Then as they chirped away happily in our garden into the cool days of autumn, I mused that they too had a good home to return to. It seemed to reflect our journey of finally claiming our vacation home as our forever home. I find it hard to believe that its been seven years since we departed India and returned from overseas. I recall what I wrote in the late summer of 2018 in my co-authored book Monday Morning Emails, while home one summer. Still living in Bangalore, I was pondering my reluctance to return to Canada, yet always appreciated what this then-vacation home meant to us.
“I write from the deck of our home in beautiful British Columbia. I peer through tall pines out to the ski hill and watch deer munch on my parched grass. I gaze at the lines of our home’s tall timbers… just newly varnished, their knotted wood is rich and strong and stable. Perhaps they represent what this home means to us; warmth and stability. Perhaps this mountain town of Kimberley was meant to anchor our global lives and soothe our often fragile souls.”
As I write this Sunday afternoon with a view to crimson and golden trees, the ski hill beyond is dusted white with early snow. I muse with gratitude for these past twelve months, for the endeavour of re-imagining our Kimberley home to our forever-home. The renovation is complete… another nest that embraces and nurtures life.
The home is now painted a bold black, solar panels gracefully blending in, taking advantage of its south facing position. More landscaping was required as the deck was enlarged with new stairs to access my beloved mountain/covid garden. This ‘outdoor living room’ has already become a vibrant gathering and dining space – a place to savour a good book with a glass of wine, to Happy Hour with laughter and chatter, to gaze out as the robins explore and the deer and neighbours stroll past. As of a few days ago, the garden has been dug up for the season, the palms moved inside, the deck cleared in anticipation of winter… snow shovels stand at the ready!
The BeforeThe Construction & LandscapingThe After
The renovation also included substantial indoor improvements and oh my, how it has changed the way we gather with family and friends. There is more light and life in the house, and I can now fully imagine the pitter-patter one day of our grandchildren’s tiny feet. Yet there is even more to be thankful for as our youngest son married his beautiful bride in the mountain town of Banff this summer. A few days later as we welcomed friends and family to our expanded home and neighbourhood for an After Party celebration, I knew that the decision to return to Canada when we did was the right one. We have sunk our roots even deeper into this vibrant community. We have given ourselves a place that is truly home and with our immediate family also living here, our nest is rich and full.
The view from the new dining room is ever-changing today. The weather is variable.. rain, then snow, then rain again with dashes of sunshine. Another season is on its way, but of autumn? It’s about spectacular colours, about plump pumpkins backdropping family visits. It is ethereal, golden infused walks with our granddog Captain. It’s that first fireside evening with a game of Scrabble… of gratitude for the year that has already been before the anticipation of the Christmas season. However for Bruce and myself, a wee sojourn to Europe is coming up… a little work and play between Scotland and Spain. Stay posted and a warm hello in whichever season you’re reading from!
Post Script… from Bruce
I felt that Terry Anne had left something vital out of her piece on nest-building and I asked her to let me add a footnote.
I like to think that I got on nodding terms with the Robins nesting atop the speakers on our back deck. There was a certain flair to the nest’s construction, with a long sprig of grass lodged jauntily at the edge of the nest. But they are not alone in being prolific nest builders and so I thought to include a small appreciation of one of the best there is.
We have been fortunate to live and work and grow in many countries in the almost three decades of our international life. With no family close by and invariably living in rented or company-provided homes, life could feel a little devoid of that sense of home, and with that, the quality of our lives. But human nest-building instincts run deep and I look back on a life in which Terry Anne has made every space warm and welcoming, and ours in every way.
From our tiny ‘Japanese Mansion’, adorned with little treasures from the temple markets, to the elegant interior of our Dutch row house, the coziness and hygge of our Scottish and Norwegian family homes – she instinctively knew how to bring warmth, style and comfort to our dwellings. She imbued our lives with meaning and memories, anchoring us in our place, creating new roots.
In each new location Terry Anne started from scratch – new place, new schools, new friends, new home – bringing our growing inventory of furnishings and ornaments, the comforting fabric of our lives. In each, she lovingly, painstakingly created a nest, a place of safety and of familiarity. When all else felt new and strange – at times even threatening – she made a place to come home to that made everything okay.
I’ve lost count of how many homes she has created across these fabulous years together, but fifteen sounds about right. So as the glow of fall fades and the flurries of first snows swirl around us, I am ever thankful for my wife, partner in travel, and consummate nest-builder for how she has shaped our lives… one nest at a time.
I first published this in October, 2015, and now on the day of Truth and Reconciliation, it is still as important as ever. This post was part two of my interviews with members of the Ktunaxa Nation.
“My grandmother brought me to the school, it was 1957. We pulled up in a horse and buggy, my brother and sister were already here which helped a little.”
I‘m standing with Gordie at the bottom of the steps that lead to the imposing door of the St.Eugene Mission, once a Residential School. It is easy to imagine the foreboding, the instinctive fear that young Native children like Gordie felt when they entered the school for their first ten month term.
“I was frightened and remember the feeling of resentment towards my grandma. She had helped raise me. It wasn’t until later that I realized she didn’t have a choice but to let me go.”
Gordie is tall and lean, his long greying hair topped by a baseball cap. It’s the tradition of many First Nations to keep their hair long, it’s an extension of their spiritual self.
Having offered to give me a tour and talk about his time at the school, Gordie greets me warmly this cool autumn morning. He’s just finished his shift as the night-time superintendent of the St Eugene Mission Resort. As a student, Gordie lived and breathed this school, his memories are deeply etched. He now walks through it with some measure of peace and acceptance.
From 1912 to 1970, more than 5000 First Nation children were removed from their families to comply with the government assimilation program and brought to this school, one of eighty former schools across Canada. However, its perfect postcard setting in the interior of British Columbia is deceptive.
Refurbished and renewed
“I suppose I was lucky, I was dropped off by a family member. Some kids were left here by Indian Agents, whisked away before their families even knew they were gone.”
Gordie explains the cruel truth that Agents were often paid to ‘round up’ ‘Indian’ children, especially in remote areas. The children were sometimes taken when they ran to a plane that had landed, then spirited away with the promise of a ‘ride’.
“They were given a number, with no consideration of their name, then placed in a Residential School.”
Gordie will tell you that this was by no means the worst of the Residential Schools. The entrance of the former St . Eugene Mission School is now a hotel lobby. It has a welcoming and dignified atmosphere, vastly different than it once was. Solid in their longevity, the red brick walls are invisibly marred with strife and untold hurts. People like Gordie are now willing to tell their story.
“Our hair was chopped off, and from that moment the school did its best to eradicate our language and culture. This is where you waited to be taken away by the nuns to the dormitories.”
‘Indian Hall’, I believe Gordie called it as we begin a tour and conversation that lasts five hours, but felt like just a few. He points to a black and white photo near the front desk. The image shows a group of older girls gathered in front of the school, smiling proudly astride their horses.
Gordie Sebastian with a plaque that pays tribute to his role in the refurbishment of St. Eugene Mission
“Do you know anything about horses?” Gordie asks, pointing to their bridles and saddles. “Does this look like we were poor or wanting? No we had a culture, a life, it was taken away.”
I’m instinctively drawn to the collection of photos in the nearby corridor that I had been so taken with the previous day. Gordie reveals parts of his story through them, bringing the images to life with his narrative.
A seemingly typical school is portrayed; a hockey team, the school band, a choir, children in uniforms seated at their desks.
“It seems like you were involved in a lot of activities?”
“We were. Saturday was hockey, we also had a baseball field,” Gordie tells me.
“Are you in any of these?” I ask as my finger scans over children positioned in front of the school steps. Standing behind the children are a number of priests and nuns, some dressed in black habits, others in white.
“No I usually had some kind of injury when it was time for photos. One time I had a bruise on my eye from a hockey puck so couldn’t be in the photo. It might have looked like I had been hit by one of the staff…”
Gordie is referring to the now well-documented mental, physical and sexual abuse, even death, that students suffered at the hands of the priests and nuns who came from afar to work in these schools.
“I didn’t have as many issues as some. I was from one of the more respected Native families so was usually safe from the abuse of the staff and other students. My dad held some sway.”
Gordie Sebastian comes from a long line of prominent Ktunaxa who owned and bred horses. He points to a photo of a group of men, four sit on their horses. One of them wears a blanket, tucked-in at the waist.
“That’s my great-grandfather, Sabas, Joseph Sebastian. He was a medicine man.”
A medicine man was a highly respected member of an Indian tribe. They were healers or ‘shaman’ who did not believe in bloodshed.
Gordie explains that Sabas and the tribal head at the time, Chief Isadore, believed that no man had the right to erect fences on the Ktunaxa land. This held fast until European and Canadian settlers usurped their ancestral land following the signing of Treaty 7 in 1887. This treaty confined the First Nations peoples to Reserves, where many of the Ktunaxa stil live today.
Gordie gestures to the photo of St. Eugene Mission, the once cluster of tipis and houses around the church where his forebears would have gathered.
Red brick walls
He shows me a detail that had escaped me. A house stands with the top of a tipi sticking out from its roof. Like most First Nations, the Ktunaxa people didn’t adapt well to the confines of a house.
“That’s Indian Pete’s house, set his tipi up in the middle of it.”
In another photo dated 1887, a man dressed in baggy trousers and a waist coat stands in front of the St. Eugene Church. He smiles widely, beside him is a priest. They seem to know each other.
“That’s Father Coccola and Indian Pete. They paid to have the church built. In fact Indian Pete paid our way into heaven,” Gordie says with a chuckle.
Gordie is open and candid as he explains the more serious and devastating impact the Residential Schools have had on generations of First Nations people.
“But I’ve also been told by some people that these were the best of days, away from poverty and their alcoholic parents on the Reserves.” Gordie explains that many parents weren’t well adapted to parenting as they only saw their children during the two-month summer break and perhaps for a few hours once every three weeks. Also many of them had been students themselves; their own wounds ever present.
“My father was a student here, he never told me but I think he had been sexually abused. He always checked us for signs.” Gordie says quietly.
We talk about the Priests and the Nuns whose frequent indifference to their students’ humanity exacted so much pain.
“Some of the priests weren’t that bad, but the nuns were battle-axes. Some of them could teach well enough but they had little or no compassion. Through their actions we were taught hate. It was drilled into our heads that we were useless…little more than savages.”
The healing power of the tipi
Perhaps because of Gordie’s influential family, he reports having pushed the envelope a little further than other students. By the time he was a young teenager, he railed against his situation.
“One time I argued with a nun over a basic fact that she was teaching,” Gordie confided. “Now you know that St. Eugene Mission sits between two mountain ranges, the Rockies and the Purcells. Well she had the two ranges mixed up and I told her so. We argued back and forth, I wasn’t backing down. All of a sudden she hit me and I pushed back.”
Gordie was made to sit in the Priests’ office for the day as punishment. Once he told his side of the story, he wasn’t reprimanded further.
“Did she teach the correct mountain ranges after that,” I ask.
“Oh no, she kept telling us the wrong thing,” he says, making light of the story all these years later.
But not all punishment was that easy. Male students who ran away from the school were often found again by the Indian Agents and returned to the school. For the next two weeks they were forced to dress as girls. As shaming as this would have been, it pales into comparison of other punishments that Gordie leaves untold.
I‘m particularly haunted by his accounts of the tuberculosis outbreaks. Nodding to a photo of a clearly ill student, his head bandaged, he precedes to tell me of the infectious conditions that existed in the school.
“That student had TB, he shouldn’t have been with other students,” Gordie says matter-of-factly. The rate of deaths in the schools from influenza and TB far exceeded that of elsewhere in Canada.
The St. Eugene Mission Resort and Golf Course
Unlike many Residential Schools, only one death occurred here.
“This is her,” Gordie says pointing to a young girl. “She died when snow fell onto her from the roof. It’s good that her relatives have been here. Her name was Anette.”
Late in the interview, Gordie and I have coffee in the former chapel. It’s being readied for a function and we sit at a long table that will soon be set with linen and fine china. I’m told that healing occurs at St. Eugene on a regular basis. As painful as it is, many former students and their families return to confront the hurts of the past.
“The tipi outside is there for a reason. Even as the school was being re-purposed, it was provided for prayers and counselling.”
We glance out towards the tall white canvas. I learn that the poles of a tipi represent the different spiritualities of all people, yet they are bound together as one.
A painting of Elder Mary Paul
“Facing the past is difficult, but it brings peace. Just as Elder Mary Paul gave us the permission to do so.”
Gordie had pointed out the painting of Elder Paul as we entered the lobby. It is with her blessing that the re-construction of this building was undertaken.
We make our way upstairs to the ‘inner sanctuary’ of the school. Now mostly hotel rooms, Gordie points out the areas which were once dormitories, kitchens and mess halls. The rooms of the nuns and priests were close by.
My sense of this building’s history is suddenly very real. I’m shown the place where Gordie’s bed had stood. We look toward the window and beyond, where the road lies.
“At least I was able to look out of the window and see my father or grandfather pass on the road once in a while. Many kids were far, far from home.”
I’m shown where a young boy stood on a precarious ledge while attempting to run away. I see the burn marks from two arson attempts on the school. I become emotional as I contemplate the daunting stairs that girls as young as four had to negotiate in the middle of the night to go to the washroom. I feel their loneliness, the longing for their home, the yearning for a mother’s touch.
“There are 68 stairs,” Gordie tells me. “I should know, it was my job to sweep and scrub them.”
He tells me it was here that a young student was kicked down the stairs by a priest, tumbling helplessly to the bottom. Thankfully he lived.
“One of the workers saw it happen and pinned the priest up against the wall by the throat. He warned him never to hurt a student again,” Gordie recounts. “The next day we noticed that all of the straps had been removed from the classrooms.”
As the students reached their mid teens, I imagine control must have become more difficult. By the time Gordie is this age, one of the ‘Fathers’ uses government money to fund a swimming pool and provide horses for the students. Gordie takes on the role of the ‘horse guy.’
“Finally on Sunday afternoons we were allowed to leave the school premises and ride free on our land.”
I agree with Gordie how important that must have been; that sense of independence and freedom. This also evolved naturally as the older students were sent to a local school to complete their education.
“It didn’t get much better for us. We weren’t Native anymore and we weren’t ‘white’, so we didn’t fit in. We were ‘apples’…white on the inside but red on the outside.”
Gordie was eventually asked to leave his new school over an incident that he didn’t explain. When his father found out, he was also told to leave the house. He was seventeen and on his own. Gordie went north to work in the logging industry.
I don’t hear the entire story of the years between then and now. But I know a number of family members passed away due to alcohol abuse. And I know Gordie is raising the young daughter of a relative who still battles with the trauma of Residential School.
Solace and Peace
I also know that Gordie is one of the good guys. Not only is he helping to heal his own family, but also many of those who walk through the doors of St. Eugene Mission. They seek solace and peace from the past.
We call them mountain towns and nature has spoiled us with these veritable summer playgrounds. Nestled amongst majestic peaks and dazzling crystal-blue lakes and rivers, they’re gateways for hiking, biking, golfing, paddling, and camping. In our case glamping, as it comes with a dose of the glam with Lupin, our beloved Sibley Bell tent. With the car packed full to the gunnels, bikes and canoe strapped on, last month we chose a new mountain town to play in.
We often choose to stay in the heart of towns, in Municipal Campgrounds, as we did with our iconic glamp in Kaslo, near Nelson. In Golden, the choice graced us with a picturesque spot along the Kicking Horse River. Pesky mosquitoes were part of the welcome crew and with our site set up in about an hour, the campfire was soon crackling away, dinner and wine ensued. We savoured the slow unfolding of dusk and with the revelation of night upon us, we marvelled at a thousands stars in the twinkling sky above.
Nestled in the Rocky Mountain Trench, along the confluence of the Columbia and Kicking Horse Rivers, the town of Golden is surrounded by three different mountian ranges and five National Parks. Our camping spot was surrounded by other campers from the tiniest of tents, to grand trailers, to old-school camper trailers. It seemed that all of us – from the many Americans and overseas travellers, to fellow Canadians – were genuinely pleased just to be in the great outdoors, yet with amenities at our fingertips.
Each morning after coffee around the campfire, we’d set off on our bikes to explore the town. With its river running through it, Golden is bestowed with a stunning setting. The Kicking Horse Mountain Resort has an eagle eye’s view in the distance and a long promenade stretches alongside the river. Canada’s longest timber-framed bridge is its anchor.
We chance upon Betty and Lynn out for a mid-morning stroll. “Such a beautiful spot for a morning walk,” I say with a smile. They immediately offer a sincere apologize,” We’re sorry that our mountain is hiding behind the clouds.”
“Oh I know it’s there,” I confirm, “your beloved ski hill is hiding! We’re from Kimberley, another ski hill town.”
“I was raised in Kimberley,” one of the ladies says fondly and from there our conversation flows.
The peaks soon reveal themselves in the unseasonably chilly morning and the ladies happily relate a few local stories of life here in the ’50’s.
“When we first arrived, there were only two telephones in the town and one of them was at my place… well you can imagine the commotion!” They admit the town has greatly changed as it’s now a world-class ski resort and hiking destination.
I‘ve written previously of the Swiss guides who first made Adventure Tourism possible in the area. The Canadian Pacific Railway brought the guides to the area in 1899. Earlier in that century, the renowned fur trader, surveyor and map maker David Thompson was tasked with opening a trading route to the Pacific Northwest. Navigating the vast and treacherous Rocky Mountains, he first travelled to the future site of Golden in 1807. It wasn’t until 1881 that the CPR hired A.B. Rogers to find a rail route through the region. The base camp established for his crew eventually first of the settlement now known as Golden.
The ladies tell me that the town was eventually named Golden. “It had to out-do nearby Silvertown.”
After our chat and a browse through the market, we cycle through the wide streets to the local Museum. It’s charming, full of information, and regals with stories about the original Columbia River Lumber Company which grew the settlement, while also attracting a large hard-working Sikh population. The Museum also pays homeage to Victory gardens, or war gardens, vital during the first World War; utilizing backyards for food, both for personal and the war effort. And of course there is much mention of the vital role those Swiss guides played.
Swiss mountaineers were employed during the summers, returning home to Switzerland over the winter, most over-wintered working as caretakers for the seasonal CPR hotels. Of the fifty-six first ascents of mountains over 3000 metres prior to 1911, no fewer than 50 first ascents were made under the steady hand and sure foot of these experienced men. By 1925, CPR’s 35 Swiss Guides had led more than 250 first ascents in the mountains of western Canada. With no fatalities in their care, and perhaps basking in their reputation as gentlemen and colourful characters, many would bring their families to make their Golden home at the purpose-built Edelweiss Village.
We had visited their home-away-from-home a number of years ago, now it has greatly changed… refurbished, re-imagined and open to guests.
Our bike rides take us out of town, through forested trails, up and down mountains and on the last day to the famed Lake Louise… with a little driving in between. The beautiful drive from Golden to Lake Louise heads east, then south for about one hour through Yoho National Park. Stop at the Spiral Tunnels, the Golden Skybridge, Wapta Falls, Emerald Lake, or the sleepy but gloriously positioned town of Field.
After parking in Lake Louise Village, we biked the former route of the tramway up to the lake – about 10 km both ways. The Tramline Trail leads you to one of Canada’s most breathtaking views. As always people have flocked from around the world to catch a glimpse of its iconic magic.
Back at the campsite on our last evening, a young father strolls past for a pre-bedtime walk with his children. “What a beautiful set-up, a bell tent. I know them well as I was in the military,” he tells me.
We’re used to compliments about our Lupin, she is always the ‘belle of the ball’ at any campsite. Dramatic on the outside, inside she’s cozy and warm. Shadows play on her canvas and the noises of the night may awaken you, but they accompany the scene like a grand outdoors sound track. Even the trains thundering past through the night, just on the other side of the river, weren’t bothersome but a tangible reminder of our vast country and the endless task of moving goods.
The Sibley Bell tent was invented by American military officer Henry Hopkins Sibley. Patented in 1856, the conical design stands about 3.7 metres high, 5.5 metres in diameter and can comfortably house about a dozen men. In our case, the most Lupin has slept is six adults and our grand-dog Captain… cozy indeed!
The waiter places a dish of bacalao – confit of codfish – before me at Casa Grau Bistro. The Valencian creation is dappled with capers, pine nuts, slivered almonds and Javea’s legacy, raisins. “Like a painting,” he says with a wry smile.
As Javea was once an international exporter of raisins, I thought it was fitting to sample some and oh my, what a sublime blend of flavours. The long, leisurely luncheon is made even more enjoyable by Jacob, the Dutch transplant who’s made Javea his hometown for the past thirty-four years. He’s charming and witty, fitting right in with the our group gathered from around the world… The Netherlands, The UK, Canada, Australia and Spain itself.
“There’s just something special here and I could never go back home,” Jacob confides. The lunch has been a lovely ending to the excursion of the old town and as we leave, Jacob reverts to his Dutch culture and gifts me with a ‘three-kiss goodbye.’ “I’ll tell my mother that I’ve met someone from her home province in The Netherlands,” I promise.
Led by my dear friend, Jo Parfitt, publisher, mentor and co-author of Monday Morning Emails, the writing retreat includes these leisurely lunches, dinners and tapas moments… an opportunity to connect with fellow writers. They’re also a chance to sample the local life style in what is said to be one of the prettiest towns along the Costa Blanca. I’ve been to nearby Alicante, yet Javea is known to have a special luminousity of colour and light, a richness of life. My good friend Nikki – author of The Soul’s Compass – and I made the commitment ages ago to attend the retreat; a good excuse to meet again, to be inspired in our writing, and why not, it’s Spain!
Today, our group has meandered from the seaside and sheltered lower bay of Javea, up a gentle inclined road to the historic old town; a labyrinth of historic cobbled streets, pretty tiles on white washed homes and quaint plazas ideal for tapas stops. We are at once delighted by the richness and history of the town.
We meet Josh, our tour guide and Jo’s son, at the Mercato. The bustling indoor market is filled with a local’s favourite Cocteleria, Cocina, Panaderia and all those stalls bursting with earth-hued olives, mossy-green artichokes, cured Iberian ham, oil-bathed pimentos, seafood of every type, and sangria for inspiration! Like Jacob at the bistro, Josh has also settled here and is eager to reveal the history and secrets of his now-hometown.
As we exit the Mercato, across the way is the prominent Church of San Bartolome. Standing since 1304, it’s had time to expand to the fort-like edifice that once protected the locals from marauding Barbary pirates. As the tour begins, the bell tower which once doubled as a watchtower, makes itself known with a deep, rich cascade of bells. Charmingly, the carillon has individual identities too – Victoria, Sebastiana, Bertomeua – and are revered by the locals.
Making our way along narrow streets, Josh points out the many niches embedded high up on building walls. Behind the glass are carved wooden statues of San Sebastian, Javea’s Patron Saint. It was his duty to protect the town against the deadly plague in the middle ages and still today, each street may have its own niche, for prayer, for protection.
We also peek into the Soler Blasco Museum, housed in a magnificent rough stone facade. Built in the mid-1600’s by Antoni Banyuls, once a butler to King Felipe III, my eye is drawn to the Roman amphorea languishing in the lush courtyard. An amphora is a two-handled storage jar that held olive oil, wine, milk or grain; their pointed base allowed them to sit upright in soft ground or sand. I ponder their ages of use as the Romans, Visigoths, the Moors, and now the Spanish have all lived centuries of life on these shores. “Javea is a mongrel casserole, a melting pot, a rich and colourful fusion of history,” Josh tells us. We wander happily, delight in more local history, and I ask him how he had come to live here.
Like Jacob at the restaurant who had shared that he visited here on holiday and never really left, Josh tells me that this was never the place he planned or imagined moving to.
“I was posted here as a journalist to cover the Costa Blanca in English. I’d never even heard of it until I arrived in 2019. Discovering its history, culture and hidden secrets were a by-product of me covering it as a news writer and later as a content writer for local businesses. When I was furloughed during the Covid lockdown, I nearly went back to London to further my journalism career. But then realised, almost by accident, small-town Javea had become a place where I could walk down any street and probably bump into a familiar face. As someone who moved between 5-6 countries as a child, that was the kind of thing I always felt I had missed out on.”
I nod knowingly, so very knowingly. It echoes how my own children felt after being raised globally, moving from one continent to another. In fact, Jo’s and my account of this very specific way of life as expat mothers is the basis for our book, Monday Morning Emails. Like Josh, my three sons had a rich and varied childhood in various countries and cultures, yet they too didn’t have a hometown to call their own.
“Sure Javea is amazing – always a top 10 place in Spain to live.” Josh says. “But for me, it’s a place where I feel part of the community, that’s what has made me stay.”
It’s late afternoon as we stroll back to the seaside and I ponder how life has unfolded for Jo and myself since our book launch in 2018 at her lovely home in The Hague. I was living in India when we began writing emails back and forth, realizing we had so much to share about living a global life. Though time has passed, we’ve been fortunate to see each other in various places since… and now in this lovely spot.
A place where just beyond are shoulders of hills dotted with palm trees and neatly lined grapevines. Where white-washed and mustard-yellow villas of the once merchant families, now contrast with gleaming white and glass of expansive villas nestled in the hillside. Here, where the extraordinary play of light on the sea against the ginger cliffs has long rendered Javea as inspiring… indeed, quite the ideal spot for a writer’s retreat.
Over four days and three evenings, we writers take guidance from Jo and inspiration from each other. We ponder, muse, conjure words and stories. We delight in early morning walks along the seafront, we wine & dine, and share our work. We make new friends and rejoice in simply being with kindred spirits, all the while thankful for being cocooned from life’s daily commitments. Jo has inspired many writers and authors along the way, and as I know myself from my own writing workshops, the real reward is motivating fellow writers to put words to paper.
A quote from one of my participants from a workshop in Slovenia has always stuck with me. “Thank you so much for opening this new door for me. I’ve always known I can write, however, I never imagined that you could turn almost anything into a story. A child’s laugh… a van ride in the Cambodian countryside… my morning coffee… my feelings towards my grandma. You showed me that anything is possible. Can’t wait to create more! ”
And so, we writers also depart with a new zest for storytelling and renewed writing commitments. After the farewells, I decide to remain a few more days instead of going back to Barcelona to finish this Spanish sojourn. I move to the lovely Botanico Boutique Hotel, my balcony open wide to the sea-salt air and the hues of blue sky and sea seemingly melding into one glorious painting. I dip my toes in the cool Mediterranean Sea. I savour and soak up my beloved palm trees. I write some more. I stroll back up to the old town and like magic there’s Jacob. Savouring a repose at the door of Casa Grau, he greets me with three kisses, “Meisje, hoe gaat het?”
As Jo and I have one last chat at my favourite coffee stop overlooking the sea, the conversation meanders to our children. “It’s been so nice to see Josh again,” I tell her, “and how lovely you get to come here to visit!”
She comments on how special it must be for me to have our three children in one place. “It really is,” I agree. “It’s something Bruce and I couldn’t have imagined after so many years overseas. And like your kids Jo, they finally have their hometown, they’ve bloomed where they’ve planted themselves. Luke works virtually as a Communications Expert, Matt works locally in the Trades, and Andrew has a prominent position with our city’s Chamber of Commerce. And then there’s our two special daughters-in-law, even a grand-puppy!”
“So very blessed,” Jo agrees. “Sam is doing well in London and Josh is happy and settled here as you see.” After writing our book, Jo and I were often asked how our kids were, especially by readers who also lived a peripatetic life and could relate to the challenges. We’ve always been thankful that our collective five sons were gracious enough to allow us to share their journeys.
We also have gratitude for a friendship that began at a writing retreat in Tuscany. We reminisce that we once lived as neighbours, side by side for a month in The Hague. We speak fondly of the book project we worked on together in Penang, Malaysia and we share updates of mutual friends from both Families In Global Transition and writing retreats… the blessing of kindred spirits indeed!
With a final hug and a fond farewell, Jo and I part for now. The taxi arrives and I begin the long journey back to Canada… through Alicante, Barcelona, Paris, to Calgary. It’s been a fantastic trip, yet I feel the anticipation of being back in my hometown too.
As I check into the gorgeous Tayko Hotel, one of the friendly staff orientates me with the city. Miquel explains that there’s a fun saying in Seville. “There’s more tapas bars than people,” he quips as he jots down a few of his favourites on the city map. He explains that here in Andalusia, they love humour and exaggeration. Over the next four days, not only will I find my own favourite tapas bar, I’ll notice that the locals absolutely have a certain joy and exuberance for life, a love of music and dance… and then there’s the flamenco!
Seville (seh-VEE-yah) is flamboyant, beautiful, stately yet inviting. ‘A vibrant sangria of civilization,’ to borrow Rick Steve’s apt description. Also, I find it to be a veritable city garden, where luscious oranges and lemons really do dangle from tree-lined bouvelards. The City of Oranges, as it’s known, is also blessed with the tallest of palm trees, vivid bird-of-paradise, parakeets and white doves in abundance, gorgeous white bougainvillea against crinkly cacti, and the jasmine blooms are just beginning to perfume the late March air. Colourful mosaics adorn walls, musicians take their turns on street corners, and the layering of the past… Roman, Moorish and Spanish is an intoxicating palimpset of history.
I‘m delighted to have some warm weather as this trip started in rainy Barcelona. I use ‘I’m’ as this is mostly a trip of solo travel. Other than a lovely two day visit with a friend in Valencia and a writing retreat still to come with friends after Seville, I’m on my own. At breakfast this morning, another solo traveller from the Netherlands and I were discussing the advantages of meandering single. We celebrated the challenge and thrill of navigating and scheduling – thankfully the Spanish train system is efficient – and the satisfaction of arriving where you’d hope to be. Call me old school, yet I prefer a physical map to google – maps of Barcelona, Valencia and Seville are already tatty, marked and ‘souvenirs’.
Solo travel allows for serendipitous encounters, both with other travellers and locals. The Spanish are welcoming with a fascinating, proud culture. As a travel writer, being on my own allows me to observe and explore thoroughly, to fully embrace the history and nuances of a place. I admit by sunset, sitting alone at an outdoor cafe in a plaza thrumming with life can feel a little lonely and yet that’s how I’ve already met so many interesting people on this trip. Taking a local tour is also essential when you’re travelling alone. In Barcelona, I did a paella making course, fantastic and delicious! Here I tour twice in one day, the old town, then the Jewish area which finishes with a group tapas date… insightful, lively and lovely company for an evening.
Speaking of exploring, we know that explorers Amerigo Vespucci and Ferdinand Magellan sailed from this river harbour, discovering new trade routes and abundant sources of cocoa, tobacco, gold and silver. When Spain boomed as a gateway to the New World in the 1500’s, Sevilla also transformed. Yet another great explorer had sailed from nearby even earlier. In 1492, the Italian Christopher Columbus had persuaded the Spanish Monarchs to finance his bold scheme to trade with the East by sailing West.
Yet that’s really more ‘recent’ history. Seville was founded as the Roman city of Hispalis, one of the most important cities in the empire. Nearby Italica was founded in perhaps 200 BC, Trajan and Hadrian called it their hometown. Move forward to 711 AD, and it became Ishbiliyah during the Islamic conquest, then part of the Arab kingdom Taifa of Seville, eventually incorporated to the Crown of Castile in 1248.
Today this rich history is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site known as the old town… the Alcazar palace, the largest Gothic cathedral in the world – once a mosque – and the General Archive of the Indies as its anchors.
I tour the old town which finishes at the grand Plaza de Espana, a Renaissance/neo-Moorish monstrosity, built as a centerpiece for the Ibero-American Exhibition in 1929. Along with the multitude of pavilions and a canal for rowing, 48 alcoves and benches pay tribute to Spain’s provinces. Ensconced in Maria Luisa park, this masterpiece is also a showcase of azulejos, small tiles. Azulejos have been produced in Spain since the 14th century. Later, the bourgeoisie began embellishing their residences to identify their houses and portray their importance and wealth. Today they might also announce a town plaza or place of business; the Cerveceria, the Carnisseria, the Cocina, the Panaderia, the Taberna.
Cultural heritages are still relevant and part of everyday life in Seville and I immerse myself in two of them. One evening I attend my first-ever Flamenco performance at the intimate Casa De La Guitarra. This art form is based on folkloric music from this area, traditionally with performers of both Spanish and gitano heritage. Flamenco music dates back to 1774 and is a UNESCO declared Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity. The hour long performance is one of the most poignant you could experience.
The small audience waits in anticipation and soon our senses are filled with the evocative, the soulful, the sensual from the guitarist, the singer (cantaora) and the dancer. With fingers flying over his Spanish guitar, the guitarist leads the performance. The cantaora sings and claps the palmas, essential in flamenco music to punctuate and accentuate the song and dance, then carries the mournful, then exuberant tune with the occasional ole to cheer on and praise the dance performance. And of the dancer’s performance, I can hardly do it justice by describing her deep range of emotion, the raw magnetic energy, the machine gun-fire foot work, the grace, the soulful interpretation of the music. The audience is in awe of the three performers and their creation. Indeed, I now understand the poignancy in something I had read, ‘Seville is a place where little girls still dream of becoming a flamenco dancer.’
And of that other deep-rooted cultural tradition, of bullfighting? It’s not yet quite the season here in Seville and I wouldn’t have attended, yet as Miquel had told me back at the hotel, “Half of the population still revere it as a cultural practice, the other not.” And indeed, while some consider it a blood sport, many in Spain define bullfighting as an art form. Seville’s La Maestranze is the oldest bullring in Spain.
Situated within the heart of the city, I pay a small fee to visit apparently one of the world’s most challenging bullrings. For bullfighting aficionados, the history, memorabilia and grandeur of this bullring speaks volumes and is considered an essential visit when in Seville. Construction of the circular ring began in 1749 and has seen many evolutions, today’s seating capacity is 12,000. I wander through the museum, marvelling at the matador’s costumes, the awards and the posters that are works of art unto themselves. When I venture out into the stands, the vast ring before me, I get a small sense of what LaMaestranze must be like during the season… this same sensation as standing in the Roman Colosseum and imagining the roar of the crowds, the excitement, and the misery.
By chance, my go-to bar pays homage to bullfighting with iconic, aged posters and the many regal heads of bulls on display throughout the cozy, historic bar. My new friend, Maria, explains the plaques under each majestic head; the bull’s name, to which matador it lost its life, where and when. They are noble even in death and there’s some relief in knowing they are preserved for posterity.
Located on the gastronomic haven of Mateos Gago Street, just along from the Cathedral, Cerveceria Catedral Bar becomes my once-daily pause for tapas, a glass of white redjo, and just to watch the world go by after a day of discovery. As a solo traveller, don’t be afraid to return to a place where you feel comfortable and welcomed.
“Hola la senora?” Maria says cheerily, “Same, a Verdejo?
I nod, “Si, por favor,” find a seat and plot which delectable tapas I’ll have this fine, late afternoon…
Oh NYC, you are as spectacular as I hoped you would be. Your vibrancy and beauty, your energy and grandeur is intoxicating.
From Soho to East Village, from Greenwich to Chelsea, Harlem, Brooklyn, the Upper East Side to Central Park, we wandered endlessly from our Midtown Manhattan hotel. Chilly, crisp days of discovery and delightful marvel… from the grand iconic skyscrapers and venerable architecture, to the intimacy of brownstone townhouses and stamp-sized courtyards. From your Dutch West India Company Fort, a few windmills and men with lofty dreams, you grew to the enclave of New Amsterdam. The local Lenape peoples had called you Manna Hata, Island of the Hills.
Governor Stuyvesant soon arrived, bringing order to your unruly colony. Tobacco, beaver pelts, sugar and slaves now passing through your shores. Yet even as wealth ensued, you fell to the British in 1664 with little opposition – your new name, a tribute to the English Duke of York.
After revolutionary war and ravaging fires, the world began arriving on your shores. Soon, the juxtaposition of poor crowded neighbourhoods, with the elegance of mansions of the wealthy merchant classes would start to shape your burgeoning enclave. Many of your iconic, grand structures are from this Gilded Age, the late 1800’s. And then with their many newcomers, you welcomed Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island and the Bronx into your fold to become the diverse, exuberant, city-that-never-sleeps of today.
We ferried past that welcoming symbol of freedom and liberty. When she arrived from France in 350 pieces, the Statue of Liberty wouldn’t know the enduring beacon of hope she symbolizes in New York Harbour still today. It’s believed that forty percent of Americans can trace their arrival on the continent from Ellis Island.
NYC you are familiar in our minds even without having visited. The movies, the TV shows, the music, and once you’re here it all falls into place.
The expansiveness of Grand Central Park, a lush bucolic retreat from the hectic streets.
A stroll across the 1883 Brooklyn Bridge and through its iconic Gothic arches… Manhattan’s sweeping skyline seemingly at your fingertips.
The dazzling Times Square in Midtown, the most visited place globally with 360,000 pedestrians visitors daily.
Museum Mile nestled amongst the elegant Beaux-Arts mansions flanking the Upper East side.
The salmon-hued and wide stoops of Harlem townhouses, nestled along storied leafy streets.
The beloved New York Public Library with its lavish architecture and vast Rose Reading Room… stretching two blocks with just seven million volumes to indulge in.
Cuisines from around the world, and that American icon of NYC pizza as well!
The spectacle of Broadway shows in breathtaking theatres, many now designated Historic Landmarks.
The evocative steam stacks erupting on busy streets – the largest such steam system in the world.
The opportunity to remember and honour at the National September 11 Memorial & Museum site.
And of course the friendly, hospitable people in your rich, and diverse metropolis. Thank you NYC, you are a true gem…
If You Visit…
The Guggenheim Museum is a great alternative to the more expansive museums and part of the experience is the building itself. Designed by Frank Lloyd Wright it is a masterpiece, like many of the old Masters that you’ll see.
Close by on Museum Row is The Neue Galerie New York, showcasing Gvstav Klimt and other Austrian Masters. Housed in a designated landmark building, once the home of society doyenne, Mrs. C. Vanderbilt III.
New York Public Library is an essential experience with its own fascinating museum and grand sweeping architecture.
The ferry tour with Starship NYC is an insightful 90 minute tour of the Harbour, Statue of Liberty and a cruise under the Brookyln Bridge. The commentary is informative and entertaining.
Purchase a $35 bus and subway pass and traverse the entire city – easy, safe and a chance to be part of everyday NYC life.
Stroll the picturesque High Line, the former railway is now an elevated green walking space with dramatic city views. Finish with a cocktail at the iconic The HotelChelsea.
Admire the intricately designed cast-iron facades in SoHo and Tribeca. SoHo stands for ‘South of Houston Street’ and Tribeca for ‘Triangle Below Canal Street’.
My information for this trip was the excellent guide book, NEW YORK CITY by DK, 2025.
A few of our favourite restaurant finds…
Buvette Gastrotheque in Greenwich Village for that special night out. Sit at the bar to enjoy the action unfold.
Cafe Gitane, Mott Street, East Village. Casual but cozy in a lovely neighbourhood.
5 NapkinBurger in Hell’s Kitchen for burgers and cocktails in a cool, diner vibe… our veg burger was great.
Eataly NYC Flatiron, a vibrant Italian marketplace with an array of eateries. Also a good excuse to see the iconic Flatiron building in the Gramercy District if you haven’t already done so.
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