Chapter 13 - Europe revisited and more Christmas variety
Anticipating a North American summer without work commitments, the Dickasons planned a return to Europe in 1978 to cross some items off the ‘next time’ list generated in 1968.
A charter flight on Wardair direct from Vancouver to Gatwick was booked and before checking-in, the Dickasons arrived at YVR to meet with Mollie of the play-going group who was to be on the same flight. The interior of the Boeing 747 was decorated in different colours for each section; purple, pink, blue and yellow, and boarding was by colours. Soon after the flight had departed, and clocks were turned ahead eight hours, the party-goers on board climbed the stairs to the upper level which was set up as a lounge/pub with drinks flowing freely.
Unfortunately, smoking was permitted there so after a drink or two and louder and louder conversation, the Dickasons returned to their row 21 seats downstairs to eat dinner and to nap. The combination of the pebbly textured seat cover and the thinness of a favourite pair of light grey slacks caused Les to discover on waking that there was a large horizontal rent near the top of the left leg, and more thigh and underwear was showing than felt comfortable. In admitting this to Pat, he was surprised to find the lady in 21G had overheard and she offered him a needle and thread to effect repairs. After a toilet stop to do some stitching, Les felt more relaxed about going through Immigration at Gatwick and being met by family there.
Brother-in-law Gordon had been transferred from Walnut Creek in California to England. As a result, Les’ sister Joan’s family was in a large house in Woking, Surrey, and they had a spare bedroom for the Dickasons.
After a day to recover from lost sleep, Les walked into Woking town and drove back with a rented Vauxhall Cavalier for the eight days planned for the UK. Compared to the 1968 experience, it was very comfortable to be able to plan day trips and return to the same bed each night. Woking was ideally situated for reaching small villages, larger towns and cities with a wide range of sightseeing possible to the south and to the west of London.
In particular, it was a short drive to Guildford, and the summer theatre festival there provided matinee and evening performances of plays in repertory. After a relaxing pub lunch or tea at The Jolly Farmer, The Crypt or Castle Room we attended productions of “The Unexpected Guest,” “Hay Fever” and “The Dark Horse” on alternate days, and on days between there were trips to Wisley Gardens, the National Trust house in Petworth Park, the races at Goodwood and more.
To work off the extra calories from the heavy pub food, we took bicycle rides or long walks with nephew Greg on Hook Heath, and enjoyed some relaxation watching cricket on television. When the weather washed out the televised sport and kept us indoors we played an early version of the Pong game with a very competitive nephew who took delight in defeating an uncle and aunt from Canada.
From a newspaper ad, the Dickasons learned of a World Wine Fair in Bristol and headed west one morning from Woking, staying on minor roads with tree branches meeting overhead, hedgerows, and past high fences around huge estates each with a gatekeeper’s cottage at the roadside. The City of Bath was a marked contrast to this countryside with its long rows of terrace-houses and blackened stone on public buildings as we passed through on the way.
The Wine Fair was held in two large warehouses by the river and the Bristol dock area. For an entry fee, visitors were given a wine glass and a supply of vouchers to use to taste wines from over 100 booths staffed by agents from importers and wine merchants. Sobriety was made easier by the food concessions where cheeses, bread and sausage were available for a voucher or cash. We bravely tried one or two British wines being served, but concentrated on tastes from labels from the continent hoping to find the best of them again the following week when in France and Spain.
The return drive was on the M4 and took less than half the time of the westward journey that morning. The family had left after breakfast for a holiday in Scotland, so the Dickasons were alone in the house for the final few days of the stay in Woking. We found time to enjoy a Red Lion pub dinner in Horsell with Mollie and her step-mother on one evening, and one other showery day took a very interesting tour of Windsor Castle where the Royal Apartments and the art collection were most impressive, though the tacky tourist shops in nearby Windsor were not.
No Mensa contacts on this European jaunt - Les had resigned over disagreements with the International Executive and their change of direction. However, back in Nanaimo, Les had joined a Rotary Club, and the weekly attendance requirement of this organization resulted in checking for available meetings where Les could attend as a visitor and ‘make up’ for missing his own club meeting. After visiting the old abbey in Romsey one morning, Pat went window shopping and ate lunch in a cafe, while Les enjoyed lunch along with several glasses of draught Bass at the Abbey Hotel buffet luncheon of the Romsey Rotary Club, and exchanged Club pennants. The guest speaker addressed the club on growing vegetables in a small back yard garden plot - rather ironic given the size of the Dickason back yard.
On August 2nd, after house cleaning and packing for travel to France, the Dickasons returned the Vauxhall and caught a taxi to the station for the train to Waterloo Station in London. It was a very crowded day in many ways. Perhaps it was a sign of British inefficiency on the increase since the 1968 visit, maybe the travel gods decided the Dickasons should have a bad day, but there was a slow-moving queue for everything. We stood in a long line for the taxi upon arrival,
another to check our luggage at Victoria Station until we returned for the boat train, yet another for the restaurant near Harrods, and a shorter one for tickets for “Chorus Line” that afternoon. Incidentally, we loved the production of this new musical and considered it the high point of the day.
Rather than risk more queues by taking a taxi or the underground, we strolled back to Victoria Station past Buckingham Palace. At the station, it was another long queue to reclaim our luggage, then yet another to go onto the platform to board the train. The train journey was without incident, and no other passengers had tickets for our compartment, so we managed a welcome nap.
Upon reaching Dover at 10.45pm, the Dickasons found the organization for the transfer to the ferry to be chaotic. First, there was a delay before leaving the train. With no explanation, passengers were told to remain seated. At midnight, we were permitted to leave the train. The queue that followed was the one to end all queues that day as passengers and luggage slowly advanced in single file from the train along the platform, up stairs and over a footbridge in the rain, down again to a UK Customs and Immigration desk where we only saw one official working [maybe the others had left at midnight?].
Being near the end of the line to board the ferry resulted in the Dickasons being unable to find a seat in any lounge area and having to complete the crossing uncomfortably sitting in the restaurant, ordering the only menu item left - bread and butter - and drinking weak, lukewarm tea.
Improvements were noted after the crossing. Quickly through Customs and aboard the train to Paris and in a compartment shared by a man from Maryland, we three vented our feelings about the inefficiencies of the evening past - and promptly fell soundly asleep until approaching Paris.
With the experiences of 1968 to guide us we made some changes to our travel plans for the continental segment this time. A Renault was our choice but a smaller car than in 1968 given that the Dickasons were this time without pillows, sleeping bags and window netting. Without the need to cover as much territory as on the previous visit, we also planned to spend at least two nights in many of the chosen hotels or paradors and take day trips to our sightseeing choices. As a good luck talisman the pewter goblets from 1968 were in our luggage again along with a corkscrew and sharp knife for our picnic lunches on the roadside.
While paradors in northern Spain were our ultimate destination, there were some notable experiences in France as the Renault took us south. Our first night, in Langeais, we descended from our third floor room, which had a view of the castle from the bathtub, and found some British and American tourists in the dining room before us. The UK family included two pre-teens who pouted when they discovered that no fish and chips were available. The US pair demanded a menu in English but had to make do with the head waiter’s translation of terms to which they pointed.
The Dickasons quietly ordered their aperitifs ‘en francais’ and sipped and watched.The English family ordered bifsteak and pommes frites to pacify the children, though the parents ordered the pate maison to start and duck to follow. The Americans, perhaps recognizing the word pate, also ordered this appetizer. Pat and Les watched surreptitiously as each pate orderer received a small plate with a slice of pate, two pieces of Melba toast, a thin sliver of a pickled cucumber and a pickled onion. We also ordered, but in French; the pate as appetizer and coq au vin as a main course. When the pate arrived, it was in a ceramic pate dish with a sharp knife to cut slices and a lifter to serve ourselves, a jar of pickled cucumber slices and a jar of onions with tongs in each, and a basket of toasted bread, along with a small carafe of the local Chinon red wine, with the compliments of the owner/chef! We kept our comments to ourselves, and though we attempted not to look up from our wonderful start to the meal, we did not think the US pair noticed anything, but we thought the mother from the UK did see our preferred treatment.
Our impression of St. Emillion the following day was that it was the most picturesque town yet seen in France with its monolithic church with catacombs and the Roman dungeons under the Tour du Roi. The wine museum was impressive and informative, but there was an advertisement posted there for a wine fair that day in Castillon, a short drive distant, so we continued there and discovered stalls of local cheeses, pates and other meats, honey, and of course wine, wine and more wine. Lunch that day was from these stalls, eaten under a walnut tree on the banks of the nearby Dordogne River.
Colleagues from Nanaimo were renting a house in St. Pee, between St.-Jean-de-Luz and Biarritz, on the very south west coast of France, and after one false start [two towns with the same name], we found the teachers and their two teenage children [Les had taught them at Wellington Junior]. While based with them, we arranged for a required service for the Renault, booked hovercraft tickets across the Channel for the end of the continental section, reserved an Avis rental car for pick-up in Dover on our return, and fell in love with the wonderful food stores in Biarritz and St.-Jean. While walking the streets of the latter, Les patted his back pocket and discovered that his passport was not there! Retracing steps, contemplating the confusion of finding a consulate or embassy office in this corner of France, the Dickasons breathed a huge sigh when there was the passport sitting on the crowded pavement only 200 metres away.
While driving around the area, we stumbled on a festival which had a distinctly basque flavour and atmosphere, and watched some exciting games of pelota being played outdoors by men in colourful costumes.
Spain - a different approach
Learning from the long distances and poor road conditions in 1968, the Dickason’s plan for Spain was to find a recommended hotel or parador and stay two nights with one travel day and one sightseeing or rest day in between. This strategy produced a much more relaxing visit to Spain. Additionally, instead of travelling long distances, the week-long visit was restricted to just the north east corner of the Iberian peninsular.
From Deba on the first sightseeing day, the tourist guidebook suggested a drive into the hills to the Balcony of Biscay, and our picnic lunch there was complete with views in all directions from the viewpoint.
Photo here - Lunch stop at the Balcon de Biscaye - Spain
Our first Spanish National Inn or Parador [Gil Blas] was in a very old ancestral home in the centre of the town of Santillana del Mar, which had National Monument status. The decor of the Parador featured forged metal lamps and suits of armour and the paintings included the motifs from the nearby Altamira caves. Our sightseeing during the time here included the beaches, the city of Santander, the Collegiate Church and Diocesan Museum in Santillana, and a walk to the famous caves. Unfortunately that summer, the main caves were closed because the officials had discovered recently that the tourist traffic was endangering the art work on the walls with the added humidity from the warm bodies. The Dickasons had to be satisfied with a visit to the stalactite cave, and to the museum which had videos of the cave paintings and of the 30 000 year old man.
San Vicente, a memorable stop in 1968, was now a resort town with large hotels and apartment buildings where there had been a charming seaside village on our previous visit. We decided that progress was not an improvement here.
Having the extra time to explore, and with help from the desk at the Parador, the Dickasons learned of a Festival of the Dance at a football stadium just a short distance from Santillana. Spectators were seated in the stands, a stage had been erected on the football field, and dancers from many local clubs and from other regions and countries entertained us for several hours. Almost all groups were accompanied by various forms of bagpipe type instruments, and tartans and kilts were worn as the Celtic influence was dominant here. In the north of Spain we experienced a festival which could easily have been in Scotland or Ireland?
The drive to the next Parador, [reserved through the front desk while in the first one] in Santo Domingo de la Calzada, was past the Portal de Rioja and the Dickasons were disappointed to find the wine museum there was closed that day. But, the Parador, in a restored hospital from the 12th century with its vaulted ceilings and the remnants of the old indoor well, was cool and centrally located in a square which had a lovely cathedral with a bell tower. The food and wine in the dining room here proved to be excellent, though the Dickasons were still adjusting to having to wait until after 9pm for dinner. Pat’s lamb chops and a rabbit Rioja dish for Les were accompanied by an aged red from a nearby vineyard, and the cheeses to follow were distinctly different from those of the northern coast we had left that morning.
The experience the first night tempted us to order the regional appetizer platter on our second visit to the dining room - 16 small plates to showcase the local produce. The pork and trout main dishes which followed were paired with a white Rioja blend, a refreshing change after the earlier emphasis on the reds. Before we left after an excellent buffet breakfast, we reserved ahead again for a different Parador for the following two nights.
This next Parador, another spectacular historic building, was a short drive through many irrigated fields and rich valleys. It was built into the walls of a 15th century palace and castle with towers and battlements in the small town of Olite. When Les went for his pre-tapas run out towards St. Martin, there were fields of asparagus and hunters with dogs on the lookout for quail and other game on both sides of the road. Coincidentally, main dishes in the dining room that night included asparagus and partridge. After dinner we continued what had become quite a tradition in the Parador lounges, coffees and a peppermint or Spanish brandy [Grand Ducque] or a French cognac. This was the first night that week we had dined and visited a Parador lounge without seeing a quartet of tourists [from Virginia?] who seemed to have the same guidebook or system as we did - they had been in both of the last two Paradors and at the dance festival.
A visit to Pamplona from Olite on the sight-seeing day produced surprises. Our prior knowledge was of the narrow streets for the running of the bulls. However, the star shaped fort with its walls and towers, was a complete revelation. The lawns were manicured, the streets around the fort so clean, and this was a complete contrast to the narrow streets shown on TV in North America with the bulls chasing the runners. The other surprises were the political slogan graffiti on walls in the city streets and the evidence of recent bomb blasts with police tape around damaged buildings, especially banks. The Basque terrorists had been active, and we could see the results of their protests.
In Olite the previous day, the Dickasons had seen the posters for a bullfight in nearby Tafalla on the 17th of August. On the way back to the Parador from Pamplona for a siesta, a stop in Tafalla allowed Les to buy a ticket for the late afternoon ‘corrida’ but he could not persuade Pat to join him.
This traditional event brought more surprises. Returning later in the day after the heat of the sun had lessened, Les was expecting the release of the first bull after the grand opening procession of the matadors, toreros and picadors on horseback. But instead, next came a supplementary procession of clowns, dwarves, Keystone Kops, characters from Star Wars, bands of colourfully costumed musicians who tried to outplay each other from the bullring, and later in their positions in the stands. The dwarf clowns mimed a bullfight, with amused reactions and much applause from the crowds. Eventually, the ring was cleared, a bull was released and the first matador entered.
photo here The Plaza del Torros in Tafalla
If the boos and whistles of the crowd were any indication, this matador, his performance with the cape and clumsy kill of the bull, were not up to the expected standard. The second matador did not fare much better - the bull preferred to chase the banderilleros who taunted him with the decorated sharpened sticks. Ignoring the matador he jumped over the protective barrier behind which the banderilleros were sheltering and flushed them all out into the ring, with the laughter of the crowd obviously embarrassing the fighters. When the second matador botched the killing and drew more boos and whistles, Les decided that tapas with Pat would be more appealing and left for Olite, and the last dinner in a Parador.
The trip through France to the north coast to take the hovercraft to the UK was through some new and some favourite territory. The Dickasons took an inland route through the Armagnac region then along the Dordogne with overnight stays in small family run hotels in Villeneuve de Marsan, Belves and Douville. We shopped in Roquefort, bought Armagnac and walnuts at roadside stalls, were amazed by the views from Chateau Montbazillac, strolled through old town in Bergerac, and added the Perigord region to a new ‘next time’ list.
Our dining room in Belves had a highlight display on the mantel above the fireplace - a range of vintages of Armagnac. The cheese platter after the main courses naturally featured Roquefort, and the wines we drank were from Bergerac; this being years and years before the 100km diet became popular in North America.
photo here Armagnac vintages in Belves dining room
The Loire Valley was such a highlight of the first European driving tour that the Dickasons vowed to return, and for the third last night in France the Dickasons checked into a hotel in Amboise. From there we were able to visit the Chenonceau castle built with its arches crossing the river, and Les could ‘make up’ at the local Rotary meeting that night. The owner of the hotel was not totally happy with one of her guests not dining ‘in’ that night. When she was told Les would be missing dinner because of a Rotary meeting, she said she understood, but that the hotel gate was locked at 10pm. Assuring her that he would be home by that time Les left to walk to the nearby Lion d’Or restaurant, with Pat staying to dine at our hotel.
It was a Rotary meeting unlike any other before or since. Usually a Rotary club gathers with a no-host bar first, then an anthem and a prayer, followed by a buffet meal. The sergeant at arms has a tradition of fining members who have ‘sinned’ then having members introduce visitors from other clubs who are making up; after short committee reports, a guest speaker has a quarter hour slot, and the meeting adjourns, all within an hour and a half. That was not the case at all in France at Amboise.
There, after members stood around and enjoyed an aperitif or three, the five course meal was served by waiters and waitresses, with a different wine with each course. Les was seated at the head table beside the President who spoke some English, but encouraged Les to use his French to respond. With each glass of wine, the Canadian’s French improved, at least Les thought it did. That was fortunate, because after the very short meeting, when Les asked the President when he should present the Nanaimo Rotary Club banner to the Amboise club, he was informed that he should wait until after Les had addressed the meeting - and could he make his presentation on British Columbia and Vancouver Island for 10 minutes when the port was served? The polite audience stayed right to the end - Les butchering some vocabulary he had never thought he would have to use in making a speech in French to Frenchmen.
The sting in the tail of this tale is that when the meeting concluded with much hand-shaking, and Les, feeling no pain, was wandering along the Loire to the hotel, it was almost midnight which meant the gate would be locked. Upon testing the gate and having his fear confirmed, there was a whispered ‘psst’ from the window above, and Pat was smirking - but she threw down a key. At 10pm precisely, the owner had knocked on Pat’s door to ask “Ou est Monsieur?” and presented Pat with a key to use.
The next morning, with many guests sitting at tables in the courtyard in the sun at breakfast, the Dickasons chose a table and waited. When Madame entered the courtyard carrying a tray, she frowned, turned to Pat and asked very loudly; “A quelle
heure? A quelle heure ce monsieur dernier soir?” and wagged her finger at a blushing Les. The audience took great delight in this show of [mock] high dudgeon.
The arrangement with the Renault was to return it in Calais, the port on the north coast from which the hovercraft was scheduled to leave, and for which the Dickasons had a reservation. En route to Calais after finding a parking space right outside a kitchen supply shop in Orleans, the Dickasons took 2 minutes to choose and buy a copper chafing dish very similar to those seen in all the family hotel kitchens we had visited during our journey. The ring road to the west around Paris was found successfully, and after locating the Renault office in Calais, and checking into a convenient hotel for two nights, we planned a very restful day on the coast before returning the car and crossing to the UK.
The Dickasons realized that night that one of the planned highlights of the re-visit to France had not been accomplished - a meal at a Michelin one star restaurant. Travel gods smiled, the consulted red guide showed a one star restaurant specializing in seafood was listed in a hotel in nearby Wimmereux - a phone call reserved a table for lunch the next day.
So the morning coast road drive to the west of Calais, dotted with monuments to the second world war, and some fortifications and bunkers which had been restored and had plaques to commemorate their role in that conflict, ended in Wimmereux and the lunch proved to be a fitting climax to the 1978 tour. We splurged and ordered the 60 franc four-course menu - and were surprised to begin with an ‘en passant’ plate of cold mackerel in a mustard sauce while we sipped on a Loire white. The appetizers - a fish soup and herbed mussels - were heavenly, but the Dickasons tried not to be too exuberant given that the trendy diners at nearby tables [some wearing jeans worth twenty times more than our lunch?] were almost blase about their meals, and we did not wish to appear too easily impressed. Main courses were excellent - sole and barbue [brill or catfish] with al dente vegetables - and the sauces were mopped with the baguette pieces we kept especially.
The cheese trolley featured not only local cheeses, but a selection from other famous regions of France, including Roquefort. Dessert was a specialty of the chef - and the sorbet du jour was four scoops of vanilla sorbet, fresh strawberries with a Marnier sauce - and cream!
After cleverly finding our hotel again late in the afternoon, it was siesta and packing before a stroll for a very light snack at a waterfront cafe.
The agent at Renault drove the Dickasons to the Hoverport the next morning where delays and ‘closed’ signs dominated what was a smooth, fast crossing. The inefficiency experienced at our departure from the UK weeks earlier was noticeable upon arrival at the Dover Hoverport with a delay in docking because shore side workers were not in place when our craft arrived, with the cafeteria closed, drink machines out of stock, and queues forming for toilets and train tickets. The
Dickasons had used the Avis office in Biarritz to reserve a car to drive from Dover to Woking, but the Avis agent could find no record of the booking and was totally puzzled by the receipt and confirmation with Dickason printed upon it that we showed to him. However, there was a car available and we drove to visit the family in Woking for a night before the Wardair flight left from Gatwick the following day.
There was a fun final night at the Wheatsheaf with Joan and her children, Gordon and four of his relatives who were living in nearby towns, and the Canadian Dickasons. Best bitter and mixed grill provided a fitting British finale to a month of dining out in three countries.
More variety for Christmas
Once the months of secondment to the Ministry in Victoria were over, summers were work related for Les so travel during the 80s centred mainly on Christmas vacations. On the advice of Peter, the Principal of NDSS, the Dickasons flew on a charter flight to Mazatlan in Mexico and rented a large room at the beachside Suites Las Flores for one such Christmas.
The hotel in the early 80s was on a strip of beach, to the north of the city, and with only a few other competing hotels on what was to become the Golden Zone. The large third floor room had a small kitchen, a bedroom and living room and a balcony facing the Pacific Ocean. The value of the peso was low, so buying supplies for breakfast and lunch, and dining out in the evening were relatively cheap for the many Canadians who had started to discover this vacation getaway.
It was blissfully easy to drop into a routine which included an early morning walk or run on the beach followed by a swim, stopping to buy from the peddler with two buckets on a yoke over his shoulders who cried ‘camarones’ as he walked the beach. One bucket contained small prawns, the other large ones. The Dickasons, and Peter and Maureen who had a suite in the same hotel, bought fresh prawns almost every day to cook for lunch with a salad of fresh tomatoes and of course, Mexican beer.
photo here
Tennis at nearby courts was a daily feature before the sun was too hot; afternoons were for siesta or a swim in the ocean or the hotel pool, and to check the wares of the peddlers who walked the beach. Later, drinks in the hotel bar were very cheap and often two for the price of one at Happy Hour. A walk in the cooling evening to one of four or five favourite restaurants completed the relaxing days.
On our first visit there, we did catch the local bus to downtown Mazatlan for the sights and sounds of Christmas in Mexico. Postcards were sent to relatives and friends, and there were some tempting restaurants on or
near the waterfront promenade - Senor Frog’s and Daiquiri Dick’s amongst them. One evening we went to the next door hotel for the local Folklorico show with very colourfully-dressed singers, musicians and dancers performing. Across the road from Los Flores behind the Arts and Crafts Market was a field with a tall pole in the centre. It was used by the Papantla Fliers who, in traditional costumes, climbed the pole, and timed their ‘flying’ around the pole on ropes attached to their feet to the amplified music used to entertain the assembled crowds. This flying tradition dates back hundreds of years in this region of Mexico. There were other acts including cowboys with lariats and the shows were packed on cruise ship days. From the rear stairwells of Las Flores we could see the first part of the descent of the fliers. photo here After ‘camarone’ lunch at Las Flores
We learned to recognize the changes that took place when a cruise ship visited the port. Shops with local arts and crafts for sale to tourists suddenly raised their prices for a day; the para-sailing rides behind the fast launches off the beach were now 7 or 8 minutes long, not the usual 15 minutes on non-ship days.
A short distance along the beach from Las Flores was an amphibian craft with a colourful painting of a shark on its prow. It was a tour boat which offered day trips to Stone Island to see wild-life, to sunbathe on a nudist beach, and to enjoy very cheap drinks at the kiosk there. The concierge at Las Flores asked almost every day if we would like to buy tickets for the day trip, but we were warned not to buy and pay in advance, because the previous group of tourists at the hotel informed us before leaving that they had done so, but the tour never took place. Another routine was established as each day we asked the operator of the boat whether it would go that day, and the answer was always ‘manana.’ Not once did the amphibian reach the water in 1981 - and ‘manana’ became a standing joke with the Canadians at the hotel whenever anything was promised by the hotel staff.
The Christmas Mazatlan trip was repeated in 1987, this time with play-going friend Mollie joining us. The living room had a couch, but each night Mollie pulled the mattress out on the balcony so she could be lulled to sleep by the sound of the
waves reaching the shore. The boat for Stone Island did not sail during that vacation either - until the third last day when Pat and Mollie took advantage of its first [and only] return trip.
Mollie was involved along with another of the play-going group when one Christmas the Dickasons and Mollie drove down to Mesa, Arizona, for a few days in a motel there. We planned a route which included a day at the Grand Canyon. Being December, we reached the canyon to find that snow had fallen overnight and the north rim had a sparkling dusting which was set off by the early morning sunlight. The sightseeing flight in a small six seat plane over the canyon provided unforgettable views of this wonder - and seeing the river so far below, and the trail for hikers and donkeys down from the south rim was revealing and somewhat humbling. The overall feeling during that visit was one of being insignificant in comparison with the work of nature.
The subsequent drive from Flagstaff south on the freeway was somewhat hair-raising given that the light fall of snow covered the first 20 miles. The Dickason’s VW Jetta with front wheel drive and snow tyres had no difficulty, but the large US cars, with no snow tyres and rear wheel drive, were sliding in all directions and we lost count of cars in the ditch to the side.
In Mesa we met with Don, also of the Vancouver play-going group, whose mother was a snow-bird in a trailer park there each winter from Calgary. A very different Christmas dinner was eaten late on the 25th at the home of Scottsdale friends of Don’s mother, and the four ‘young people’ took day trips from their motel to State parks to explore the trails, and to stop often checking out the botany of the area with plant identifiers Mollie and Don along. Attempts at tennis were shortened because the ‘cold’ front which had brought the snow to the canyon resulted in a very cool Christmas week for the snowbirds in Mesa.
Another desert trip featured in the 80s, to Palm Desert, California. Research with AAA guides had unearthed Casa Larrea, a motel just a block off El Paseo Drive. This inn was perfect with its central pool and a dozen units, most with kitchens, around it. We took advantage of the rental car from Palm Springs airport, and worked our way down the recommended list of activities for the area.
In 1984, the College of the Desert was very small and had public tennis courts which were not often used in the Christmas break. The Dickasons played there each morning immediately after breakfast, and given that the avenue leading to the courts was lined with grapefruit and orange trees, we collected fallen ripe fruit for breakfast for the following day. We also went to the open air market at the College on Saturday morning. It was, then, small and friendly, but with fascinating local arts and crafts and local produce.
Trips to the Living Desert, Palm Springs Canyon trail, and up the Aerial Tramway gave us a real appreciation of the ecology and views of this growing
Coachella Valley region. This experience was a large influence on our early days in retirement when the desert drew us back on several occasions.
We promised to return to Palm Desert, and surprisingly, we were able to make reservations again at a renovated Casa Larrea in 2012! Palm Desert had by then changed drastically.
Not all Christmas vacations were far from home. On two occasions we took the ferry to Vancouver to enjoy the seasonal activities of this nearby city for a few days or more. One such Christmas we were accompanied by teen-aged nephew Phillip from Australia who had last visited when the Dickasons lived in Victoria, BC. As well as a few days in Vancouver, Phillip was shown a true Vancouver Island Christmas with snow on Boxing Day in Nanaimo and ski lessons at Mount Washington [Les and Pat reading books in the apres ski lounge, drinking hot chocolate]. The live Christmas tree bought and decorated for his visit was later planted into the garden at Lenhart Avenue, and the last time we drove down past that house, the tree was still in the garden and towering over the house.
After one such Vancouver Christmas, we had another special trip - to Courtenay north of Nanaimo in February to bring home two pure-bred Persian kittens. Jules and Jim had died earlier, and it was time for cats again. The breeder in Courtenay wanted us to take the mother of the kittens too because she was going to stop breeding and selling. We did consider it, but only came home with one ‘red’ and one ‘black’ kitten - named the ginger one Whisky and the other Figaro - and they were the most engaging kittens which grew into lovely cats which kept us company for many years.
photo = The ‘live’ tree at Christmas - Whisky and Figaro waiting for Santa?
A final Christmas in the late 80s was yet another return visit to the grape growing area of California, this time based in the Sonoma Valley but with day trips back to favourite Napa wineries and new ones to us in both valleys.
On our first day in Sonoma, the Dickasons entered a gallery on the main street and were engaged in conversation by the owner. She was curious why two tourists from Vancouver Island would visit Sonoma ‘out of season.’ Our usual explanation of travelling somewhere at Christmas because we had no family who might visit led to an invitation to Christmas dinner at her home. Desperately we tried to decline, but she insisted to the point of threatening to come to our motel to drag us there. When we remonstrated that two more for dinner would be an inconvenience, she laughed off the objection - ‘when you have twenty-two coming for dinner, what difference will two more small people like you make?’
The travel gods smiled even more broadly when, as we were leaving her store, she suggested we might like to visit her husband’s store too - a specialty wine shop on the next street. This was fortunate on two levels, it gave us an introduction for tasting at a specialty store, and we were now aware that any bottle we planned to take to the dinner should be of quality, not something ordinary from a supermarket.
Pat took a photograph of Les [with his big nose in a glass] as he tasted before buying for that dinner party. In the photo, behind Les are bottles of Library releases of special wines from the Californian valleys.
The dinner was full of yet more surprises on the 25th. The gallery owner’s home was modern, architect designed, and easily accommodated the twenty plus guests.
photo here -
During the circulating and chatting, Les admitted to being a restaurant reviewer and food and wine writer, and this resulted in some animated conversations with those who had favourite [and not so favourite] reviewers, and produced a final smile from the travel gods. When Pat described how we dined with a dictaphone so we could read the menu to each other, and that she was ‘my companion’ in the columns, the gallery owner insisted we revisit her store again before we drove back to BC because she had something we just had to have.
Upon our arrival in the store the last morning, she immediately showed us an Earl Thollander pen and ink colour drawing “Table for Two with Painting.” We were familiar with this Californian artist’s work; his illustrations often appeared in magazines such as Gourmet, and in James Beard cookbooks. As our dinner hostess remarked,”It’s you and your companion preparing to review a restaurant, and you have a beard and your companion has red hair - It’s perfect!” We purchased the sketch which has hung in the kitchen in our homes since that trip.
photo here-
Earl Thollander’s “Table for Two with Painting”
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