Todd Inlet, Vancouver Island.

Ditching the hustle and bustle of Victoria was easy; the city practically begged us to leave with a vibrant display of blue skies, sunshine, and the cast of zombies from Michael Jackson’s “Thriller Video” waving to us in our rear view mirrors.

These are they who wander Victoria’s streets in an attempt to adversely effect & disrupt both young and old. With a healthy disdain for the current situation downtown, we embarked on an odyssey to the illustrious Todd Inlet to escape our seemingly dystopian post-apocalyptic city.

Hiding under the ample bosom of the Gowlland Tod Provincial Park, this overlooked haven has the uncanny ability to make you forget the world's clamor, possibly a result of its scenic beauty, possibly due to the patchy cell reception.

As we journeyed north, every winding turn of the bucolic treed roads teased our senses with a new spectacle - an extravaganza of nature's flamboyance. From the verdant forests to the rocky cliffs, everything was drenched in morning sun. We half expected David Attenborough to pop out from behind a tree and begin narrating our journey into the wilderness.

The first spectacle of Todd Inlet was a gentle trail with such well-thought accessibility that even a wheezing porker like me could explore with ease. We walked past meadows and wetlands, serenaded by what seemed like a unionised choir of unseen birds and insects, providing the perfect soundtrack to our nature-infused documentary.

History lurks in the shadows of this scenic getaway, its quiet whispers permeating the air. The Vancouver Portland Cement Company once stood here, proudly spewing smoke and industry into the pristine air. Now, it's reduced to a half-remembered ghost, its presence marked by weathered buildings and rusty machinery, standing in quiet resistance to the passage of time.

Soon after arrival, early morning, said goodbye to golden hour, and as sure as the earth is flat (kidding!), the rising sun graced Todd Inlet with a postcard-worthy spectacle. The Inlet was awash in a melange of hues that could make any half-decent landscape photographer weep with joy or weep for forgetting their tripod and long telephoto lens at home (for the 5th time in a row). Meanwhile, Butchart Gardens, nearby, erupted in a cacophony of diesel tour bus engines. These climate crisis deniers, packed with witless drones from the cruise ships, echoed around the inlet like an over-enthusiastic drum solo.

Now, don’t let Todd Inlet’s subtlety fool you. It may lack the cosmopolitan charm of the big city, but that’s akin to comparing apples with a relatively quiet, introspective pear. And here's a thought, could it be that Todd Inlet intentionally downplays its grandeur to keep M.J.’s MTV video dance troop away? Maybe, maybe not. Breakfast at the nearby Cafe Zanzibar was excellent, and thank you, Trip Advisor, for the gold medal tip.

As we bade farewell to this pocket of tranquillity and began the trek back to Victoria, our hearts filled with memories and our SD cards filled with photos (well, those of us who remembered their tripods and long lenses, anyway). A trip to Todd Inlet might just seem like a footnote in the grand scheme of things, but it certainly holds the charm to ink its own chapter. Call it a hidden gem, a treasure trove, or an excellent spot for a quiet coffee – it doesn’t care; it's just Todd being Todd. It's a place that offers a symphony of nature, a pinch of history, a dash of culture, and a good chunk of serenity. Just bring your camera.

Please leave a comment if you have moment.

All images captured with a Leica SL2-S and a 24-90mm lens.

Live Well!

M.

ESCAPING THE HEAT OF PROVENCE IN THE DOLOMITES.

I should never complain about Provençal summer weather, given that springtime on Vancouver Island was akin to a time when Noah was shipbuilding, and the animals were lining up in twos to get a deck chair on his Ark

Yet, after enduring weeks of temperatures in the high 30s to mid 40s, I was gasping for just a little bit of cooling respite. The first place that popped to mind to find that relief was the Dolomites. Sure, you can get the same relief in the French Alps or Switzerland, but northern Italy and its Dolomites seemed to me like just what the doctor would order.

We loaded up the third consecutive rental car of the summer and set a course for a little town north of Vicenza called Bassano del Grappa. BDG is a beautiful place in the foothills of the Dolomites. The town’s wooden covered bridge which spans the Brenta river is a lovely and petite version of the Ponte Vecchio in Florence and the focal point of BDG.

We wandered about in the evening, both before and after dinner and again in the early morning before the locals began their day. This place is a gem. I would say that the majority of folks out walking were from the area, and everyone was happy to see and talk to Hamish.

Hamish is a well-adjusted K9 traveller at this stage, and as the trip went on, his experiences went from fantastic to surreal (wait for Venice). When we left BDL, we plotted a course to Bolzano with a mind to driving the Great Dolomite Road to Cortina. Cortina was a host of the winter Olympics in the late 50s and is proudly retaking the honour once again in 2026.

One of Europe's most scenic driving routes is the Grande Strada Delle Dolomiti, also known as the Great Dolomite Road. It is a breathtaking scenic drive that crosses three alpine passes (Falzarego, Pordoi and Karerpass, at the renowned Rosengarten), connecting the Bozen and Bolzano regions.

I won't embarrass myself trying to wordsmith a description of the mountain passes we drove over and through. Suffice to say there were 60 switchback hairpin turns, most often at a snail's pace. Alternatively, I hope that some of my images will take the place of a thousand (boring) words!

The Great Dolomite Road allowed us to set out a different plan. The question of the day was where to go next and how do we get there. I must admit, and I am sure if you have kept up with me over the months and years you know, Venice is always high on my list. Cortina is so close to the Veneto region that the question quickly transitioned from where next to why not.

Had Hamish ever been aboard a Vapatetto? Had Hamish ever travelled from Marco Polo airport to the Island of Murano on a private water taxi? Had Hamish ever eaten spaghetti pomodoro from a bowl tableside at an Osteria?

The answer to all of those questions was not yet and we will soon see. We were on our way to Parking Garage #1 at Marco Polo with that decision made. Our room was booked on the Island of Murano (as usual). In what seemed like the blink of an eye we were aboard Gino's water taxi. This leg of the journey happened solely because all dogs of any breed or size must be muzzled on a Vaporetto and oddly enough we don't own a muzzle. Hamish was happy, Deanna was delighted, I was poorer, and Gino was ecstatic because he was fleecing us 80 Euros for a 15-minute trip across the lagoon.

You can't dwell on the odd down when there are so many more ups. Soon after arriving, we checked into the hotel and then took a short nap before heading out for an evening walk to find a wonderful meal. As we enjoyed each bite, we discussed the plan of attack for the next morning. I volunteered to find a muzzle for Hamish. I thought if I got over to Venice early, I could wander before the crowds arrived. I packed my camera bag and did a little research on how to find a few places that had escaped me on several prior visits.

I'm sure I have mentioned more than once in the past that I am pretty taken with the works of Ernest Hemingway. So much so I have come to fixate on his many visits to Harry's Bar on the dockside of San Marco Square. I have tried several times in the past, but I could never satisfy the dress code. With those disappointments still fresh in my mind I resolved to be more prepared than Lord Baden Powell for my next attempt.

Six in the morning came quickly, and just a few minutes after waking, I was leaving the hotel. The dock is just a few steps away and I was soon aboard the Vaporetto and nearing "the big island." As we tied up alongside the hospital dock, I bolted for the back streets. The Rialto bridge was my first real stop, and after a few minutes on the top of the span, I moved on to the fish market. What an environment. What an electric feeling. I observed, photographed, and then moved back to the streets off the square. I could have stopped for a coffee, but I wanted to save all consumption of food and drink for Harry's.

An hour later, I was in and sitting at the bar discussing the genesis of the Bellini with the bartender over a fantastic Americano. I finally made it. I can get run over by a speeding gondola tomorrow and die a thoroughly happy man.

Well, that's it for now. I hope you enjoy the photographs and maybe think about including a few of these places on your next trip.

Please feel free to leave a comment if you have a moment.

Live Well!

Mark

The photographs taken on this trip were captured with the Leica M10-R and Q2.

MY 8TH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES. OUR CLOSEST NEIGHBOURS TO THE SOUTH.

Even though I have driven through both of these villages countless times since I arrived in Provence, I had yet to stop, park, and wander. Both towns are on a route clearly marked as a road that will provide access to some of the most outstanding Castles and medieval architecture in the south of France.

The first on the list today is the village of Lourmarin. There is a spectacular chateau that dominates the skyline no matter which direction you approach from. This chateau is in fantastic condition and lived in by local nobility. Not only can you wander around outside its walls, but if you arrive at the correct times, you can tour the inside as well.

For several years now, the chateau has been used as a venue for classical concerts all the way to modern-day music festivals and most everything in between. This clearly indicates a place that appeals to an extensive age range. From a Chopin recital with a chilled flute of champagne in the garden to an electronic trance concert with ecstasy tabs in a field (I would assume).

The history of this village dates back at least a thousand years and was probably a Neolithic campsite before that. A fortress was first built at the current site in the 12th century. It was rebuilt by Foulques d'Agoult in the 15th century on the foundations of the earlier castle. It was restored in 1920. In 1545 the town was burned down because its population was predominantly Protestant. I did my research before arrival. That homework certainly provided a different scope of understanding as I wandered about trying to put into perspective the where's and whys from both a visitor's and neighbour's perspective.

Lourmarin has a luxury vibe about it. Not unlike Menerbes, which I visited several weeks ago now. My senses were placed on overload as I took an opportunity to drop in to dozens of artisan galleries and boutiques. The sights, sounds and smells were fabulous. Each seemed to compliment the other so that as if by magic, I felt relaxed, content and generally in my happy place.

The village is easy to wander because it is one of the very few I have visited this year that was built on flat ground and well below the ramparts and fortifications of the chateau. I arrived just after sunrise, I expected to enjoy a physical challenge before the temperature made it uncomfortable. The terrain guaranteed I could have stayed in bed for a couple more hours and still not felt any effects of the heat.

Before leaving Lourmarin, I stopped for a beautiful espresso, and people watched for a while. As time pushed on, it seemed as though I was witnessing a 1960's straw fedora convention. One in six men (tourists not locals) that crossed my bow seemed to fancy themselves as Rat Pack impersonators. Before you think I am confusing these hats with their Panama cousins, I am not! I take issue with this. It's clearly a bugbear of mine. Those hats are to be accompanied by 60's style well tailored suits and pencil-thin ties. They are not, repeat, not to be worn with sandals, board shorts and muscle shirts no matter how good or bad shape you are in. Don't, just don't! You look ridiculous. Buy a ball cap for christ's sake. Buy a stetson, buy a bucket hat. Switch on man, switch on!

More narrative below!

Cucuron is the next village along from Lourmarin as you travel southeast. I must admit that we have had a couple of lovely meals here at L’etang in the past, but the remainder of Cucuron needed to be explored as well. Arriving at noon precludes the opportunity to visit any shops or museums as it is lunchtime. Most everyone knows time stands still in France at lunch. The only places open will be serving food. No matter if your appetite says just a nibble or the local's preferred combination of the "formule" (entrèe, plat du jour and dessert or frommage).

You will sit and enjoy whatever your choice may be, and you will sit for at least an hour and a half to ensure digestion and satiety. You will most likely begin with a glass of Pastis, followed by a Monaco and then a good bottle of local plonk with your meat, poultry, or fish choice. No one leaves the table until the obligatory espresso is finished and restful smiles are on faces.

This lifestyle seems to contribute to the life span of locals because the percentage of octogenarians or older is very high. Sitting on benches, walking their dogs, chatting with neighbours, all the while chain-smoking yellow-papered cigarettes. I am actually getting used to the smell and don't nearly despise it as much as I once did. Perhaps these local darts are in fact an ingredient in their elixir of life??

I don't plan on starting this very expensive habit, but it seems to compliment the Mediterranean diet and remaining active. I am almost 100% sure that none of these local seniors needed to go to the gym before work in their day and similarly would never even think to utter the word yoga. If you go into business in Provence, don't choose to be a funeral director. A distinct lack of work and the inability to charge more for XXL caskets will keep you from a comfortable retirement.

I thoroughly enjoyed my visit to Cucuron. The quiet cafe culture is dotted all over the village. It provides even more opportunity to lower my blood pressure and centre my chi (I looked it up and now know what it means). I hope this episode finds you in your happy place?

Please leave a comment if you have time.

Live well!

Mark

All the images in this blog were captured with the Leica M10-R.

MY 7TH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES.

Ansouis was built in the 10th century! Many of you weren't even born then. Does Ansouis suck? The answer is a resounding no! No, it doesn't suck. I can guarantee that when I am 1100 years old, I won't look or smell this good, and neither will you! This village of just over a thousand people (not in the winter) is a gem in the Southern Luberon. On the approach to Ansouis, you predict the future. You predict the kind of morning you are going to have. You predict what you’ll see as you wander the streets and alleys of one of France's “Beau Villages”.  

Sure, Ansouis is old, but regardless of age it looks in better condition than 99% of the pink stucco castles built in the 1990s in Richmond, Surrey or Gordon Head. Sorry for assuming most readers live in British Columbia. What do they say about assumptions? A quick check of Squarespace's analytics tool tells me that readers visit this site from all corners of the globe. Lately, readers in places such as the Seychelles, Uganda, Singapore, Switzerland and New Zealand to name but a few have stopped by to have a look. I do appreciate all of your precious time!

Once parked and geared up, I left the most recent rental (A silver Renault Captur, no psychiatrist's note required) all locked up and began my walk to the castle and later the abbey. Once again, I was taken by the feeling inside the castle’s chapel. The colours were incredibly warm. I remained alone while wandering the nave. To be fair, I was alone most of the morning. The tourists are all gone. School is back, and local villages are turning like the leaves. Cafe's, bars and restaurants are shortening their hours. However, skeleton crews remain to continue providing outstanding food and drink for the locals. There are no worries that you will be overlooked or forgotten. I thoroughly enjoyed my double espresso at the Anouis "Sports Bar" while resting my feet. I can't say that I understand how they came to name it the Sports Bar? All of my fellow patrons looked far from participating in any sport other than the chain-smoking 15 meter dash.

I like the colours here. I like the warm stone hues. I like the quiet. I like Ansouis. It doesn't suck!!!

Please leave a comment if you have time.

Live well!

Cheers,

Mark

The following photographs were taken with my Leica M10-R and Leica Q2.

I HAD A SNEAKY FEELING I WOULD END UP IN AN ASYLUM ONE DAY.

Rather than self-medicate, because we all know that's not ok! I decided to go and see what life in an asylum was all about. Most of you are now thinking to yourself; it's long overdue. Well, hold on a minute, in my former life, I had to visit these facilities somewhat often to speak to those who may have done something naughty to someone else. But my adventure today is not one of those asylums for “mischievous” folk. This one is in Saint-Remy-de-Provence, and it was home to Vincent van Gogh for quite some time. Vincent suffered with his mental health (thus the missing ear), mainly due to the underlying problems that were exacerbated by a shit ton of Absinthe consumption.

Absinthe was, to most, a very slippery slope. But, from what I gather, it affected those who took part in a wee dram (or 10) in ways that mimic today's street drugs. Vincent seemed to be a big fan, and as such, he stumbled from time to time. Vincent's brother Theo was very close to him and decided the best way he could help was to fund Vincent's hopeful recovery at Saint Remy.

Treatment was not cheap, but the facilities were thought of as well run and successful for the time. For fear of sounding like a broken record, I left home at 8 a.m. My journey was supposed to take 46 minutes, and it wasn't far off that. If not for a few tractors pulling trailers full of cantaloupes in front of me, I would have been spot on.

I had never been to Saint-Remy-de-Provence before, and even though I had done a quick search for the historic bits around the town, I was not prepared. The city is stunning. Another gem that, if not for van Gogh, I would have probably never visited. I arrived about 20 minutes before the market day officially kicked off. There were so many stalls with such a variance of goods I was taken back. There are some massive market days near us, but this one in Saint Remy takes the cake.

I wanted to be in time to wander the grounds outside the walls. Still, with enough time to be in line for my ticket as the doors opened at 9:30. You can park in the shade of the plane trees adjacent to the 20 foot stone walls surrounding the facility. The asylum is still operating as such, and the noises I heard while wandering in the olive grove indicated business as usual. Currently, the wing that once was home to Vincent has been annexed off as a museum of sorts, and the remainder is still staffed and operating like any other mental health hospital.

I was all alone as the gates opened to the museum. I was confused as to why given the gravity of the place and beauty that surrounds it. I supposed a hundred years ago that you would have rarely born witness to a lineup to get into an asylum.

The ticket cost six euros, and after showing my pass Sanitaire to prove vaccination, I was in and walking towards the imposing building at the end of a beautiful tree-lined lane. You are treated to many reproductions of Vincent's paintings hanging on the garden walls as you meander along. They are hung perfectly in amongst a veritable cornucopia of local flowering plants. Many of these plants are seen in the paintings on show.

Some intermixed sculptures provide juxtaposition. After taking it all in, you come to the chapel. It is of considerable age but in beautiful condition. The origins of this place come from the Catholic church, as this was a monastery for many years. I try to stop and appreciate the architecture in every case such as this. Once inside the chapel, even a devout atheist may be moved. I spent some time inside until my little voice said, you better move on into the asylum to take in Vicent's room, the view from that room and the remaining facilities before more tourists arrive.

A young man working in the building gave me directions, and I climbed up the stairs to the second floor. There, on the left, was the tortured master's quarters. The room is laid out as it was in his day. The view from his window is supposed to play a small role in "A Starry Night " and many others.

I was there alone, and alone I stayed for just over 20 minutes. I sat in the room, trying to absorb the enormity of the opportunity and the experience. I suppose the right word is surreal. When I eventually heard voices on the floor below, I stood up and wandered across the hall to look at the other facilities. You will recognize in the photograph below that if you were not acting appropriately at bath time, you may be placed in the tub and then have the board resembling medieval stocks set over you. In addition, several burly staff may have to take a seat on that board until you had finished your required ablutions.

I'm unsure if my 18'" neck would have allowed my head to rest above the board. Nightmares are absolutely coming my way. Still no sign of other visitors, so I slowed my roll and read every bit of information I could on the walls. Eventually, it was time to go out into the walled (prison-like) garden to see the grounds and more of the places Vincent used for inspiration.

It never got old, and I had no reason to leave. If the prices were right perhaps, I could check-in. Maybe Blue Cross would assist with the bill payments. All things to ponder while I sat in van Gogh's garden. Eventually, one or two visitors appeared. I took that as a sign not to be greedy and make my way back to the gates like an escaping lunatic.

The unhinged screams from next door at the real deal continued as I walked across the road to the tiny Citroen I currently drive. What a wonderful morning. For me, of course, not so much for the tormented next door. Maybe a move to the asylum isn't what it is all cracked up to be. Not as I imagined while sitting alone in Vincent's room. It's for people that need some help to keep both their ears attached. Perhaps not for me. I know what you're saying under your breath! Bye for now.

Please leave a comment if you have time.

Live well!

Mark

p.s. All the images below were captured with the Leica M10-R and the Leica Q2.

MY SIXTH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES. BUOUX AND SAIGNON ARE SMALL BUT MIGHTY.

The phrase “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing'” has been used with purpose since the 18th century. It is attributed to Alexander Pope where it was found in his An Essay on Criticism,

Buoux is not too far from Bonnieux. Google maps say 9KM and should take around 16 minutes in the car. I love morning light, so I set off just after 7 a.m. so I could guarantee to be on the ground well in advance of sunrise . Even though as the crow flies, it's not too far from the relatively shallow and wide valley that I wake up to every morning. Buoux and, moreover, Fort du Buoux sit in a tight space sandwiched between very tall, imposing & sheer rock formations.

I thought the best plan of attack was to drive through Buoux to the Fort and get the hike out of the way before it got hot.. I knew that I would have enough time to stop in Buoux on my way back to wander around the village. The parking lot for visitors at the Fort was empty. However very well signed with a ton of great historical information to take in before setting out on the trail.

There are tall and quite ornate iron gates at the trailhead. Unfortunately, only the right gate was open, which for some unknown reason, caused a weird sensation as I walked under the arch & through. I got about 75 meters along the trail, and then I heard a very odd series of sounds. I am aware that there are not many wild animals in Provence except for the infamous boar. Having worked for Parks Canada during university, I have hiked many trails with signs of bear activity. Unfortunately, I do not have any experience of recognising the signs of wild boar.

I stopped for a moment to listen intently. The wind whistled through the trees, but the grunting subsided. I continued on quietly . The path was quickly beginning to climb and, with that becoming more and more challenging. Ten minutes later, I came to a unique site comprising massive granite overhangs and a sizeable rock garden that sat in its shadow. It was eery to be there alone (or maybe with a stalking a wild boar).

I moved on up the trail as the sun appeared and began to warm the valley floor. Several minutes later, I reached a point on the track where the direction changed, and the ruins of the Fort's turrets came into view. Sadly, It was at that point that my hike was over. The trail was boarded up, and barriers were in place to stop anyone from continuing up to the ruins. I tried to get an image from a distance, but it just wasn't what I was hoping for. I returned down the trail slowly, looking for details in the rock formations and how the light was casting shadows. I had a little success, but it was cathartic to have these woods to myself.

As I reached the trailhead back at the car park, I was startled again by the similar sounds that took me by surprise on the way up. I stopped in my tracks again and looked around with the intent to find the source. After about a minute, the next thing I heard from behind me was "Bonjour." I quickly turned to see an older disheveled looking man who was sitting on his haunches in the trees. I replied Bonjour. He didn't move, and I had no reason to continue a conversation. I made it to the car and headed back to Buoux. Not a typical morning in Provence (for me at least). I think that I have either met my first French hermit, or my first deserter from the French Foreign Legion. Bears, boars and summers in Canada’s alpine parks. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing! Today I would go as far as to say not so much dangerous as completely useless in Provence.

SAIGNON.

My stop in Saignon was all too brief. This village is quite small and that is very much part of it’s charm. Today, most uncharacteristically, Saignon was overrun by tourists. I have visited here countless times over the years and normally I have have wandered the streets alone. All of the places I wanted to photograph were busy, so to get what I wanted was going to be near to impossible on the day. It seems that Covid has been nothing but good for local business development in the village as several new cafes and restaurants have opened since the last time I was here. This is fantastic for those who have gambled and succeeded. I will return on another morning in September when things have returned to normal. Here are a few shots but I hope to create a gallery from Saignon when the time is right.

Please leave a comment if you have time.

Live well!

Mark

p.s. All images were captured with my Leica M10-R and Leica Q2

THE FRENCH RIVIERA IS FABULOUS. AFTER 20 YEARS OF STELLAR ADVICE, DOES RICK STEVES DROP THE BALL?

Right off the bat, please don’t dwell on the negative. I’ll get back to my travel guru Rick Steves later. I’m currently on a time-out from watching him on Youtube until I calm down. I’ve been advised to practice deep breathing until I centre my Chi (whatever that means). Let’s move to the main event. For the last four days, we have been living the Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous (Starring Robin Leach). You know, champagne wishes and caviar dreams. In reality, we enjoyed very little in the way of opulence; however, what we did enjoy was just what the doctor ordered. We didn’t drive to Monaco in a drop-top Bentley along the upper corniche. In reality we actually rode the rails with the French National Railway Company (SNCF). Why cause unnecessary work for those overworked valet parking guys at the Monte Carlo Casino? They are already going to be hopping busy from eight in the morning until later in the day. So many hypercars, so many luxury cars, so many horrific stretched G-Wagon’s with Dubai licence plates. Having an abundance of money does not presuppose good taste, my mother always said!

Our base for this trip was Nice. It's in a great location as geographically it provides options to visit prominent places in either direction along the Mediterranean coast. Even though I already regret using this vernacular, it's not our first rodeo in this area. Nice is big, but the old town with its Italian colours and charms makes it very warm & quaint. The absolute game changer for people wanting to spend quality time locally this summer is that there are very few tourists. Sure, it's easy to recognise the expected German, Dutch, Swiss, Italian, and Belgian accents. However, they are next-door neighbours and free to make anywhere in the EU home. There are no cruise ships and no bus tours. It's really some sort of post-apocalyptic nirvana. I have never had a more relaxing slow-paced experience in this part of the world since our honeymoon in the early '90s.

After settling in at our hotel, we grabbed a tram pass and headed towards the Promenade des Anglais. We wandered the length of the "Prom," investigating the old town. Later in the day our walk back was just what the doctor ordered to get rid of our stiffness & stress from the drive here along the A8. It is around a two and a half hour road trip from our house to Nice. If you would prefer to make Monte Carlo your base, just tack on another 15 minutes. Whether you're wandering along the P.D.A. or getting lost in the narrow back streets of the old town, Nice never disappoints with its pastel buildings deep blue water. The following may be way too many images to illustrate the benefits of life on the French Riviera. Apologies in advance!!

Moving on from the Promenade and into the old town. Nice was firmly part of Italy until relatively recent times (in European History).The colours are reminiscent of the Cinque Terra or the Veneto’s Burano. In my experience, coastal Italian places have a firm hold on just what pastel colour works for each and every square inch of their buildings. We wandered and then took a break for refreshment. We were told by our lovely server and the owner of Cafe Simone that we sounded just like another guest, who sat 10 meters away and apparently from Colorado. Having had the opportunity to hear every word Miss Colorado had uttered in the 15 minutes since we sat down at a volume well above all the other patrons combined, we asked our new friend to reconsider her earlier statement. Here are a few images from inside the walls of old town Nice (Cubanisto Beer from Spain is good because it has rum in it?).

Moving on to Monaco and all that is a principality. The roads are as perfect as you expect for the home of an F1 race. Don’t try to find litter anywhere, or for that matter, don’t bother trying to find anything out of place at all. You would think that there was a municipal sanitation engineer for every resident and visitor, but I did not see one the entire time we were there. They must only come out at night like bats or for those who grew up with British children’s television, Wombles. Google Wombles if you fear the unknown. Once again a thirteen-kilometre day, and it was a terrific way to take in the beauty and luxury of one of the most financially solvent places on the planet. If you have ever contemplated purchasing a pleasure boat the size of an aircraft carrier or a relatively small 100m2 apartment for 4,200,000 Euros, then you are in the right place. Of course, we went to the casino. Of course, I remembered to know my limit and stay within it. Of course, we wandered the F1 track and the inner harbour. We stopped midday for a really lovely Thai meal in the shadow of one of the mega-yachts registered in Malta. For those who have read the odd news story about Eastern European organised crime in Malta of late, then look no further for evidence of offshore banking and dirty deals done dirt cheap (as ACDC once sang). Regardless, Monaco is top-shelf. It’s hard to feel safer anywhere else in the world. Like everywhere in sensible Europe, Monaco has adopted the Covid passport system. Sorry anti-vaxers and anti-maskers, but if you have no evidence of being inoculated, then have your groceries delivered and make sure your cable bill is paid up to date. Be as woke as you wish about choice and social justice, but sporting purple hair and a ton of face shrapnel won’t cause European governments to relent and allow the virus to continue to spread further. Shine on you crazy diamond / Facebook warrior!

With a day or two left to explore and always the better for embracing one of Rick Steves top travel tips, we decided to get on the train and head for Antibes. Yes, we buy his guide books, yes I taught all our kids the wonders of travel as we watched his show after supper on PBS when they were young. We have never gone wrong by following his advice. “Only go to the Louvre on a Friday evening to have the place to yourself.” “Saunter up to the Mona Lisa as you please.” In this case, Antibes has always been Mr. Steves top tip for accommodation and relaxation. Mr. Steves has described Antibes as out of the hustle and bustle of Nice. A warm and inviting place.

I will state that the main reason for getting aboard the train for us was to visit the Pablo Picasso museum. The standout experience in Antibes. Picasso lived and worked in this “small” castle on the waterfront of Antibes after the war when he moved south from Paris. He painted, drew and sculpted until his death in 1973. I am not sure why but he passed away just north of Cannes in a town called Mougins. We were the second ticket holders in line at opening time, and that guaranteed (post covid pass check) that we were free to enjoy every one of the gallery rooms in near silence and alone. An experience I will never forget and quite moving.

I can’t say how long we spent inside, but after wandering at our leisure, we left with a curiosity for more of Antibes and more cubist art. Let’s say that Antibes is a fine place but not outstanding after you have spent time in other coastal towns. We did visit the covered market, which was of excellent quality. We tried our first slice of Socca (chickpea crepes with lots of pepper) along with a stall-bought cantaloupe. The town vibe is a bit brash, and sadly I can now unequivocally state that I have had a bad meal in France. The waiter was 11, maybe at a push 13. Hard to tell. The service was what you would now imagine. At one point, I watched a young man at the table to our left take the Rose bottle from the child waiter and show him how to use a corkscrew. And I thought that was a skill all 5-year-olds had in this part of the world.

Our meal was not worth describing, and if not for the fact that the heavens opened up and poured buckets of rain onto our table’s very large umbrella, we would have left much earlier. I had the late presence of mind to check the google reviews about the place as we sat trying to stay dry. An average of 2 stars. I am being very kind by saying it was shit. I know this because every review I read stated it was the worst restaurant experience they had ever had. When we saw a break in the bad weather, we made our way through this average town and back to the train station for our trip to Nice. Go for Picasso but find a better place to eat. Do your research! The first of a few images may be an indication of what I describe. I can only assume these Aussies were late with the municipal taxes because they bricked up every door and window.

I apologise upfront for the length of this post, but when I sat down this morning, I knew I had an hour or two, and I can't predict what tomorrow will bring. I have clearly included three visits into one blog, but I'm sure you can see the correlation between all three based on proximity alone. As far as Antibes and Mr. Steves go, this post describing our time there has been cathartic and exercised most of the demons I have been harbouring. Yes, he recommends it above all other Mediterranean towns. Yes, I can't entirely agree. This one discrepancy in an otherwise perfect travel relationship with the Mistro happened, but it is not fatal. We will live to travel another day with the help of Mr. Steves. We all drop the ball now and then!

Please take the time to leave a comment.

Live well!

Mark

p.s. all photos taken with the Leica M10-R and the Leica Q2.

MARSEILLE… GREAT DAY…

It’s getting harder and harder to get out of bed at sunrise. I am really starting to get comfortable here. The house is nearly done and feeling homely. Yesterday was a rest and recovery day coupled with a little DIY. We did drive into Coustellet in the morning for a few things for lunch but that was as far afield as we got.

Last night we decided on heading back into Marseille this morning to have a good look around. We wanted to explore the old city and walk the corniche that stretches for miles and miles along the coastline of the Southside. I thought (wrongly as it turns out) that setting off around 7:30 this morning would keep us clear of heavy traffic and provide for a relaxing trip into the big smoke. Marseille has a population of 1,613,797.

Having scraped the surface there before several times it seemed plausible that the A7 highway should be fine until we reached the city limits. I shouldn’t ever gamble! I know my limit and I stay within it 99% of the time. From the second we drove down the hill from Bonnieux to join the main road, things got mental. It started with a lady who was clearly late for work, trying to manage her social media feed and having a hard time putting down her VAPE. She decided to drive loosely attached to our trunk for several KM’s until I decided to go around the roundabout twice so that she could get ahead of me and right in behind her next victim.

Our next foe was the less than optimal operator of the local school bus specifically designed for kids with physical disabilities. Im not making this up. The van was covered in stickers advertising its purpose. The driver was determined to pass every car that came into his way (oncoming big rigs and farm machinery where no match). It was like watching the Monaco Grand Prix except the race car was a Ford Transit van filled with kids in wheel chairs. The look on their faces as the van passed us on a blind corner was a combination of fear and familiarity. Ive never seen anything like it in my life. It didn’t get much better than that all the way into Marseilles but once we arrived we threw off the shackles of motoring fear and started our day by wandering in earnest.

The last three images were taken on the grounds of the Aix-Marseille University. Its a beautiful campus that has used these beautiful historical buildings to establish its self as a venue not only for higher learning but for sightseeing as well. The parkland around the campus is very well manicured and the flowers are stunning.

From there we made our way down to the beach and the corniche that took us for miles along the coast. I have several images from that part of our day and I will attach them next so that you can get a feel for the place and the people.

As we wound our way around the corniche we caught a glimpse of the wonderful war memorial on the coast just ahead. As we arrived we were entertained by a 30 something American couple who had decided to use the memorial for some “Insta Bangers” for their “gram”. They spent a good 15 minutes swapping the prized iPhone back and forward to each other while the “model” took a position near the script recording the war dead and their sacrifice to France and then repeatedly performed star jumps until the photographer could catch the “model” off the ground. This therefore providied their millions of followers some wicked shots and hopefully a shit ton of “likes”. I could write several posts on social conciseness and spacial awareness and I probably will, but it may not be too PC. I need to think about it first. I’m trying so hard to like humans but I will confide in you its not going too well.

We wandered on from the memorial along the coast but stopped regularly for the coves. Every 500 meters or so locals can moor their boats and the businesses around seem to cater to repairs. I can’t tear down a marine motor but I would love to sit around with the men that do and shoot the shit while soaking up the Mediterranean sunshine.

After many a kilometre walked, we decided that if the parishioners of Cathedral Notre Dame on the highest point in the city could climb to the top for service on a regular basis then who are we to not suffer once in a while. So off we went. Hard left from the corniche and there we began the trek “Everest” to the top of the hill and the waiting beacon of a Cathedral. I would be happy to describe it as a gradual climb up from the beach but that would be a fib of epic proportion. About half an hour into it I was regretting my missed confessions and lamenting leaving Catholicism classes before confirmation. This was going to be payback on biblical terms (for real).

Up we kept going and up went my heart rate with every step. At one point I considered a breach of commandment by pickpocketing some rosary beads from a passing pilgrim. With those I could get to praying big style. Perhaps God would take mercy on my soul & prevent my cardiac arrest on the side of that French mountain. I’m not sure how but I lived. At one point I would have rather chucked in the holy towel (available at the gift shop on the way out) than take one more step.

When you do finally reach the top, you are provided not only with access to the Cathedral but also the best panoramic views of Marseille. Its a big city and this is a place where you can grasp that in full.
Now that I'm back on the confession train, I swear if nobody was watching inside the cathedral I would have chugged the holy water, and let Covid be damned. Dehydration makes a man consider really poor choices.

First things first Why did I think I was required to suffer like some sort of latter day disciple. Why did I walk the entire way when as you will notice 95% percent of the visitors drove their Renault Magane’s up to the parking lot right in front of the cathedral. Or worse, they climbed aboard one of those grotty little train buses. Self respect means nothing these days, especially for those who wish to conserve energy for their soon to be obligatory McDonalds stop for a Royale with Cheese or two! All kidding aside, the time and effort put in to get up here was definitely worth it. This is a must see when visiting Marseille.

After a spectacular visit, then it was time for what goes up, must come down. And so we did. We walked down, down, down and further down. My ears popped so often, that at one point I felt I was in a bathysphere.

Eventually we arrived back on terra firma. We headed for last weeks lunch spot named Pastis & Olives. We devoured our lunches and Negroni’s and let our feet rest for a bit. Bill paid and back on the hoof towards the inner harbour and marina. We soaked up a little more sun and a much more touristy vibe before pushing back to the car and our drive home. Tomorrow will see us in Cucuron for morning coffee and a “Village Diary” entry. Sleep is now on the cards and I hope to have the energy remaining to not wake up dead. Oak Bay Fire Dept is off the hook for this AED call.

Please leave a comment or suggestion like “please stop writing this drivel”. Much appreciated.

Bon Soir!

Live well…

p.s. All photos taken with the Leica M10-R and the Leica Q2.

MY FIRST EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES, AND DOES PURCHASING A RENAULT MEGANE REQUIRE A PSYCHIATRIST’S NOTE?

The Village of Goult.

Time flies when you are overwhelmed by the challenges of turning a 250 year old house into a home. There are things on top of more things to do in order to recapture its former youth and glory. Here are just a few things that are either currently on or recently struck from the list of must do’s. Pipes, electrics, Provencal tile floors, paint, kitchen cupboards, gardening, locating and finding the right furniture and art for every room to name just few. Everything you read about the availability of tradesmen in the south of France is true. They are reasonably priced, they work hard when on site and if you are very lucky when an emergency happens they arrive in the nick of time. Unfortunately they are on vacation for some of July and all of August (just like everyone else in France). We would love to get started on some major projects around here like Kitchen and bathrooms but we will try again in the early fall. Our plumber, mason, and electrician should be well rested in September. It is in early fall when they are looking to replenish their wallets. Drinking copious glasses of Pastis and smoking many packs of cigarettes by the Med doesn’t come cheap. In the mean time we continue to do what we can to make this little place our own.

Now, I am done with the excuses as to why I am posting far less frequently than promised. This week I am starting what I hope to be the way forward. Living in Bonnieux provides for every day to be a new day. We are surrounded by literally hundreds of picturesque villages that each have their own charms. This week I have chosen Goult as the subject of my diary. Goult is just across the valley from us on the North slope of the Luberon. It is a small extremely tasteful village that screams few can afford to live here (so get lost). We have chosen several villages to return to regularly for their location, architecture, weekly market and ambience. On this occasion it was in fact market day. It is really important to arrive early to all of our local markets. You are going to get the freshest of food, the happiest of vendors and very little tourist activity. Parking is also a breeze if you arrive around 7:45 a.m…

At that time in the morning you wander from stall to stall and let your eyes find the freshest options for lunch, dinner and snacks in between. To that end, our fridge at home could fit in a PVC Adidas bag from the early 80’s. If you buy fresh everyday why would you need more? I am literally in awe of the local vegetables and fruits on offer. Couple that with roast chicken and potatoes or paella and you are on top of the world. The following will be a series of photographs taken at the above mentioned stalls. Later on I will get in to more about Goult itself and some photos to illustrate its wonderful condition.

Hopefully the images from the market go some way to provide you an insight as to the type of things on offer every day. We now move on to Goult proper and what it feels like to wander the narrow streets brought to life by the bold colours of the homes and the accompanying aromas from their window boxes and ornamental gardens. I feel very calm in Goult early in the morning. Few locals have left their homes other than to walk a dog or water their flowers. Goult is a place where you can stand still and imagine. No noise, close your eyes and take time to reflect on what has happened in the past and what could happen in the future. This place has tranquility in spades. Bonnieux has a full time population of 1200. Goult would be half that I imagine. The village church sits proudly in the centre and as you steadily climb you pass two wonderful cafes, a boulangerie and a post office. There is one small grocery shop and fromangerie. Keep wandering up the gentle slope where it gets even quieter and more solemn. Eventually you reach the top of the village and a beautifully restored windmill. Goult is surrounded by vineyards and lavender fields not unlike our village and countless more. It’s simply a tonic. A place to take stock and say thanks to whichever supreme being gave you this opportunity! Here are a few images of Goult. I will rejoin you later with some thoughts on the Renault Megane driver.

I have many more images of Goult to share but I’m sure you’ve had enough for a while. Speaking of having had enough, I have had enough of the perilous devil’s spawn that are every driver of the Renault Megane. Unfortunately in my former life I had the occasion to sit across from several individuals that were diagnosed with enough points on the psychopathy or sociopathy scale to be considered harmful to others. It was my job to provide them with opportunities to tell me (of their own free will that is) about the nasty things that they had done to unsuspecting everyday folks. Given my experiences over the years on French roads, I am now wholly convinced that if you were to be a fly on the wall of a Renault dealership, you would find that those wishing to purchase a Magane may have to prove to the salesman they have exactly the same “challenging issues and point score”. I have never been witness to such reckless and dangerous driving in any part of the world in which I’ve travelled. If you are driving on narrow country roads or eight lane tole highways, it doesn’t matter. If you are being forced off the road on to the soft shoulder, or narrowly missed at an intersection, or followed extremely closely on the highway, it is guaranteed that the car in question is a Megane, and the driver is close enough to be sitting in your back seat reading a Stephen King novel. I swear to god I can make out their dark eyes and matching souls at any distance. I have no idea if the French Gendarmes keep track of the types of vehicles operated by those responsible for fatal road accidents. I can however save them the hassle of hiring an expensive statistician. Its simple, it’s the driver of the Renault Megane of course! The Megane driver would never feel remorse for causing death and or destruction. Let’s say on the very off chance they did decide to flee the scene. It would only be because it was Steak Frites night at the canteen. The Gendarmes just have to drive directly to nearest psychiatric hospital and search the lot in out-patient parking. It will take some time to rummage through all the other patient’s Meganes to find the right one, but when they do it will have saved them days of searching elsewhere.!

Live well!

Cheers,

Mark

p.s. Please leave a comment.

All photos taken with the Leica M10-R

MY THIRD INSTALMENT OF THE COFFEE DIARIES

Unlike the first two instalments of my coffee diary, this short post was not written at a coffee shop. This instalment comes to you via the rocky shores of Cattle Point behind the tweed curtain in Oak Bay, British Columbia. Due to Covid-19 the opportunity to take up our usual spots in local mom and pop coffee shops has become a near impossibility. The best one can do during these trying times is follow the instructions posted to the windows and doors of my local haunts such as Pure Vanilla on Cadboro Bay Road. This once welcoming refuge from corporate giants such as Starbucks has now transformed into to the canteen at (insert name of prison here). One must lineup. One must space at six foot intervals. One must advance when told. One must adorn appropriate PPE. One must yell his or her order at the inmate with the day job on the other side of the counter. One must repeat his or her order at least twice due to face mask garble. One must “tap their phone or card through the glass”. One must tip for this lack of personal service by at least 15%. Then finally, one must locate to an RV point on the range otherwise known as general population until your inmate number is called for pick-up.

I will be the first one to say that everything these small businesses are doing to keep us and them safe from contamination is much appreciated and I make jest just because I can. I can guarantee that the poor men and women of Starbucks have received word from corporate HQ to unlock their doors and allow all comers. This must be just a tad more than concerning for those employees and their families, but I’m sure that SBHQ in Seattle knows what they are doing, right? They of course are in the epicentre of America’s worst initial outbreak of the virus. Truth be told I’d rather be treated like an incarcerated burglar at Pure Vanilla than a witless drone at Starbucks.

With coffee and a raspberry bran muffin in hand, I climbed aboard my prison bus and headed over to Cattle Point to meet a buddy for our twice weekly constitutional. This usually consists of what old retired guys complain about. Most often these days conversation soon turns to the Victoria City mayor, her council and the current state of our once beautiful city. We lament the message from city hall that is clearly a line stolen from my favourite baseball movie. “If you build it, they will come”. Well, I don’t think that W.P. Kinsella wrote those words for them to become a tag line for Mayor McCheese and the communist city council of Victoria (Little Red Cookbooks in hand). Never should those words have ever become deeds.

The hard working folks on the front line can’t keep up. Well over ¾ of Police calls for service involve “those who have come”. Paramedics are reviving the same “clients” two & three times a day. Tent cities dot our landscape. If you live in Victoria and had the misconception you should store your BBQ, patio table or bike in your back yard or shed, think again. Apparently it is the job of Victoria’s tent city Robin Hoods to invite themselves around to your place at some point to steal all of those items that you worked hard to buy. You should only assume that they need your stuff more than you do. Their apparent mission is to kit out their merry band’s outdoor space like a crap HGTV episode. Just assume your bike will be used to ferry said merry men and women to other less pilfered neighbourhoods in order to liberate other unassuming home owners of their prized possessions as well. “If you build it, they will come”. And worst of all, I cannot even begin to fathom what it is like to have a child enrolled at Southpark elementary school. Parents having to sift through the playgrounds everyday to find and collect used syringes so that their toddlers won’t get jabbed and infected.

Thankfully, during this extremely depressing discussion, a retired couple sporting Tilley hats and binoculars stopped by and started to chat. They were wondering if we had seen any fried egg jellyfish? We hadn’t and didn’t have the guts to tell them we had never even heard of fried egg jellyfish before meeting their acquaintance. The lady of a certain size and weight went on at length about the local species and how she and her presumed mute husband haven’t been able stop talking about these jellyfish since they were introduced to them just over a year ago. We indulged these folks for several minutes before they wandered off to find another tide pool. They sure were smitten with their little jellied friends. Just as they left ear shot my buddy said why aren’t they consumed with the C.H.U.D. (cannibalistic humanoid underground dwellers) like we are. They never even mentioned the useless municipal elected officials we can’t stop disparaging. Those Tilley hatted folks are contented and happy. They don’t think about bad things, they think about candy floss, rainbows, unicorns & jellyfish.

We took a minute or two of silence in order to process adopting their lifestyle option as ours thoroughly. Let’s just say that we couldn’t truly come to terms with their unfettered blissfulness. So, I suppose that later this week we will find ourselves in the same place, at the same time, and with the same complaints. Nice try you cheerful adventurers! We simply don’t have enough room for all our hate. We have to let it out or we will most certainly face the wrath of the stroke doctor. Remember the good old days? We do, and it’s our happy place. Lately we exist to suffer equally in the indignation of unprecedented synthetic drug addiction and stupid looking wide brimmed canvass hats.

Stay well!

Mark

p.s. The following are some photos taken with the Leica Q-P at our Cattle Point coffee morning.

THINGS COME AND GO, UNTIL THEY DON'T.

Leica Q-P in the Lake District

As I have stated many times in the past, having a camera near to hand has brought me a lot of happiness through the years. Along with watches, cameras have always been my passions and my vices. If there is anyone to blame for this costly habit, it would lay squarely at the feet of my father and grandfather.

Leica Q-P in macro mode

Growing up I was always told that there were certain brands one should aspire towards owning. Aspirational brands that have stood the test of time and have done so for a reason. Simplicity in design is first. If you instinctively know what the object is, what it does, and how you can manipulate it with ease, then you have my definition of perfect.

Leica Q-P in backwater southern British Columbia.

Leica Q-P in The Lake District

Timelessness follows. If that product has stood the test of time and still finds itself lusted after, then the manufacturer has achieved the highest praise. Does that item perform as expected after years and years of use? Is it future proof? Will you be left wanting for more after a short time in your possession?

Leica Q-P in the Okanagan

I am happy to report that I have found that camera. I like uncluttered design and favour simplicity of operation. For me, the qualities I have come to appreciate from my Leica Q-P are directly in line with what makes me happy and content. It took me a long time to get here, but now that I am I can’t foresee much change.

Leica Q-P in Istanbul

When I pick up my sage green Billingham bag (Thanks Deanna) on the way out of the house, I know that the camera inside it inspires my confidence. It stirs my senses and puts me in the mood to capture images that keep me in an altered state of anticipation until I get home to view the .DNG files in Lightroom.

Leica Q-P in Jerusalem

I have never worked with files such as the ones from the Leica Q-P. I think they are unique and special. I have owed many cameras over the years. When I finally put down my film Pentax KM and Nikon FE2, I moved cautiously into the digital age. The following cameras made it into my bag as the years passed. The Nikon D70, D200, D700, D3200, D850, the Olympus OMD EM5, the Fuji XT-2, X-Pro-2, X100T, the Sony A7, A7II, A7rIII, and the Canon 5D MkII. All of these cameras were fantastic in use. I don’t make a point of criticizing any of them because at the time I owned them they enabled me to capture thousands of photos of my family and my travels, both at home and abroad.

Leica Q-P at Vimy Ridge

The Leica Q-P is not the only camera I own. I also have recently acquired a Nikon Z6 and a couple of lenses to capture my sons competing in various sports. To my mind that is also the only downfall of my Q-P. And that is why I love it. With the f1.7 Summilux lens it does most everything else very well. I know that the 28mm focal length may be too wide for many. If you are familiar with your feet, then try putting one in front of the other and that will put you into a position to compose the great majority of what you hope to capture (I promise).

Leica Q-P at the Acropolis

I have never written about any other camera with near the affection I have for the Q-P. It is an extension of my hand. I'm not saying that in any way that I take good photos. I am saying that the detail and colours that come from my Q-P make me happy. Happier than I have ever been with any of the cameras that I listed above.

Leica Q-P at the Grand Bazaar

The Q-P is simple in operation and simple to master. Sure you can put it in automatic and it will produce fine images. But when you control the exposure triangle the images are just next level. I understand how viewed on a platform such as this it is hard to see the differences. Millions of iPhone users snap trillions of 28mm wide shots every hour of every day around the world. Those iPhone users are happy to have one. I am happy to have the Q-P. For me it is special. After my visit to the Leica factory in Wetzlar, I was left wondering not if I would buy one but when.

Leica Q-P at Whitley Bay

It was just a couple of months later when I walked into Broadway Camera in Richmond BC. I am sure that the salesman saw the saliva dripping from the corners of my gob. They had one and I wanted it. So I parted with my money and immediately began this love affair. Maybe one day that Z6 may find a new home and an M10-P or and SL2 may find their way to mine. But that won’t happen this year (I think). Never say never. Things come and go, until they don’t. The Q-P is that exception!

Leica Q-P in Jerusalem

Leica Q-P in Jerusalem

Leica Q-P in Hexam

Leica Q-P in Budapest at night.

Leica Q-P inside the Blue Mosque.

REMEMBER WHEN WE HUNG OUT AT THE DAMASCUS GATE?

The voices are faint in comparison to Istanbul, however even in Jerusalem you are still woken at dawn by the call to prayer. We are in a Jewish neighborhood but sound travels and as the crow flies we are not too far from the Muslim quarter of the old city.  The call to prayer is soothing. It’s unlike any alarm clock I have ever set.  I like it. I don’t pretend to understand it but I appreciate it.

On our roof top terrace the sun could be seen in the distance just beginning to clear the eastern rooftops.It’s quiet and it’s peaceful. Time to get after it. Time to find an Arab taxi (it’s Shabbat so there is no Jewish transport today) and head down to the old city.We were dropped at a cab stand in the shadow of the Damascus gate. Our driver recommended Al-Ayed for breakfast so we strolled in to the back and sat down at a table with some Spanish pilgrims.

“What you like my friend” were the first words uttered by our waiter. Some fresh squeezed juice with mint tea and an assortment of Arab dishes quickly found their way to our table. Delicious and abundant. Portion sizes are crazy and smiles are followed by make it stop before I pop.

We paid our shekels, took our chances, said our goodbyes and crossed the road through the gate into the city of David. Wikipedia says there have been people living, loving, and fighting here since the first millennia BC.  We followed the stations of the cross (as you do) and touched Jesus’s hand print. History describes the place Jesus caught himself from falling as he stumbled carrying the cross.No big deal, just that, just Jesus.

As you wander the maze that is all four quarters, you find yourself mesmerised by gentle people selling to gentle people. Muslims stick to muslims. And Jews seem to stick to Jews, but there is simpatico.

Visiting the Western or wailing wall on Shabbat is a treat. It’s full on, it is busy and it is a lesson in what this place means to the people that worship here. The western wall of the city is the support wall for Temple Mount.  It is sacred and grand.  A moving experience, of that there is no doubt.

With our next steps we returned into the Muslim quarter and continued our quest to absorb the place, the people, and the history.  Dale got a haircut, and I watched intently as a Arab man sat inches from me and entrusted the barber to sharpen his straight razor and shave away.  Three minutes of precise shaving and good as new.  Feeling fresh and crisp and ready to take on the rest of the day in the market.  

A young man of four or five made us a fresh squeezed pomegranate juice.  He was extremely well mannered and the apple of his dads eye. “He is a good business man” dad remarked as junior took our shekels.  I decided to haggle with a shop keeper.  He started at 300 Shekels.  I countered with 60.  He worked the game hard until I walked away for the last time,  He chased me down with his final offer of 60.  1-0 Mark.  That never happens!  

We are now back relaxing on the terrace and contemplating Palestine tomorrow. Shabbat is soon over and the Beer Bazaar should be opening their draft taps Inshallah.

L’Chaim.

Mark...

Images taken with Leica Q-P

T-MINUS TWO HOURS UNTIL SHABBAT.

Four in the morning is early no matter where you are in the world. But when you are trying to navigate passport control and security at Istanbul International airport at that time, mistakes are going to be made. For instance, lets say one of us is travelling with our parent's ashes to be sprinkled in Bethlehem. Let's say one of us was asked about the contents of the urn said ashes were travelling in.

Let's say that because no English was spoken by local security staff that one of us decided to perform an interpretive dance to act out his parents demise and subsequent cremation. All this in an effort to convince those now surrounding him that he was not in fact smuggling black tar heroin out of Turkey.Those of you that have been alive for over forty years will remember several movies depicting the horrific conditions of a Turkish Prison.  

And finally lets say that in order to dance and or mime his way out of cell block H he made a motion simulating death by the cutting his own throat in front of security.That was the last I saw of that person (Dale) for quite some time. I can honestly say that I thought I was going to have to write to amnesty international from my roof top lounge chair later in the day to help him get duty counsel.  Crisis averted several minutes later after an ion scan of mom and dad revealed no heroin.

Then we move on to gate 201B and our Pegasus flight.I'll start by saying this is my first time in the holy land. I have never been to Israel before. I was overwhelmed by Ben Gurion Airport (the most secure airport in the world). I was overwhelmed by the 32 degree heat. I was surprised how many people you can fit in a minibus from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem. From sea level to 3000 feet in half an hour.We traveled with a father and daughter who were in town to visit a brother who is interning at a local hospital.

These folks were from New York and it took about a nano second to pick up the accent. To our immediate right were a couple from Northern Ireland who had their eyes wide open around every bend in the highway. We had some some great chat along the route and got some great pointers from the Yankee fans.From Tel Aviv, a place that resembles any super modern city in the world to a city that has been around long enough to write the book.

In fact, around long enough to write many books about many people of many faiths. Jerusalem is spiritual, hectic, alive, electric and just a little tense for a first time visitor. Soldiers kitted up everywhere remind you that Israelis take there security very seriously.We have arrived just a couple of hours before the people of Jewish faith shut it down for 24 hours and celebrate Shabbat. From 5 o'clock on a Friday afternoon until the same time tomorrow. With that comes panic. Every family must prepare. The grocery shopping isn't gonna do itself. The Yahouda market is packed to the gunnels with throngs of desperate faces.

Shabbat falls after a long week of work so Friday afternoon gives everyone some time to organise the family holiday.Every food and beverage you can think of. Every bread, meat, spice, sweet, fruit and veg are on display in the Yahouda. Get it while you can, its T-Minus two hours to Shabbat. We were advised to be mindful of doing a bit of grocery shopping for ourselves but also to make the "Beer Bazaar" our first stop on the tour.We did and we were treated to an array of over 100 different Israeli micro brews, both on tap and in bottles.

We sat at the bar and ordered what the barmaid recommended. Pints on the bar and settled into a conversation with a friendly lady from LA who regularly visits family here. She was very helpful and a fountain of local knowledge. We sponged up the intel and the remaining drops of our pint. I wandered back about 80 meters to our airbnb and Dale stayed to battle the crowds while at the same time picking up a little local grub for dinner.

So here we sit on the rooftop of our Jerusalem home for the next 4 days. The sun is out its after 5pm now so you could hear a pin drop in the neighbourhood. Shabbat is upon us! Shalom and L'ChaimM.

Images taken with Leica Q-P

ISTANBUL NOT CONSTANTINOPLE.

This place is unlike anywhere I have ever been or likely anywhere I will ever go. Sixteen million people live here. It is all things to everyone. We are beginning our journey here just as the US are evacuating from Syria and the Turkish military is attacking the once protected area of the Kurdish people by air and land. We are visiting a country at war.

You must have a visa to enter Turkey so we paid for one prior to going through passport control. We were stamped and made our way through into the arrivals lounge and chaos.  We negotiated the bank of hundreds of smokers just outside the airport doors to find a cab.

Job done and towards the Bosporus we hurtled. Istanbul is perhaps the biggest contradiction in terms I have ever visited. The suburbs passed through on the way from the airport are very very modern. Huge skyscrapers lit up like Vegas. Outlet malls everywhere you gaze. Chain restaurants and all the standard Hotel brands.

It takes an hour to get into the centre of Istanbul and the longer you watch out the window the more it becomes clear that western media portrays Turkey so much differently than it actually is. This place does not need propping up. It is not destitute and it appears to be thriving in every way conceivable.I am so glad I came here because it has set me straight on what Turkish life is really like.

Our Airbnb is about 20 meters from the Galata Tower. That remarkable building sits proudly like a beacon on the European side of the Bosporus gazing across to Asia.

Upon arrival we were greeted warmly by our host Jamil and we got a lay of the land.  We soon got out on to the street  to find a cafe (not hard) and enjoyed some Turkish cuisine.

We wandered about after that in the local area and eventually shut it down around 1:00 AM. Back up at 6 to have a Turkish coffee and find a cab to the Blue Mosque.

You don’t need an alarm clock in this city. A call to prayer is sung from the minarets to wake the weary so that they can start their day the right way. A few minutes later and we were screaming across the Galata bridge while locals fished on either side.

Getting anywhere early is the right thing to do but in this case it provided us an opportunity to tour the mosque at opening. As a special bonus we were incessantly pestered to buy a carpet by at least a dozen different men who were curiously all English students to begin with. Then they all funnily enough either had visited Halifax or had cousins in British Columbia.

Of course if we said we were from Iceland they would have all visited Reykjavik too.

What are ya gonna do. There are thousands of carpets to be sold and you gotta hustle to get them gone. After the Blue Mosque we strolled over to the Hagia Sophia and wandered around with jaws dropped. Amazing place, of that there is no doubt.

After a morning with the prophets we wandered on to the Grand Bazaar for some retail therapy. We didn’t buy anything but we were seriously bowled over by the experience.

Do you want a Bolex or Bugo Hoss suit? Are you interested in knock off everything? You are in the right place.

It’s massive it’s busy and it is one of the oldest shopping malls in the world. From there we wandered the streets jammed with tourists and Turks alike passing literally thousands of shops eventually arriving at the Egyptian spice bazaar. Smells and colours and people selling anything and everything you can imagine.

We had a seat at the other end of the market near the river to take a load off and consider the remainder of the day.I won’t go on and on. I would recommend this place to anyone. It changes you. It helps you understand. It breaks down walls and it teaches you that what you are used to is no better or worse than what you seeand experience here.

I will be the first to say that what has been depicted by the Western media most of my adult life is skewed. If you are interested in putting things straight come and see for yourself. You will initially feel betrayed by what you have been led to believe but let this place and these people sink in. You will be doing yourself a massive favour.

Istanbul expands the mind!

M

Images taken with Leica Q-P

I CAME FOR THE GOULASH, I LEFT HUMMING CULTURE CLUB.

Arriving in Budapest is a no nonsense experience. The Customs folk are a stoic lot.It seems that they are just a little sick and tired of British 20 somethings posing as Love Island wannabe’s. Their fake tan, skinny jeans, puffy bomber jackets with fur lined hoods and masterfully groomed eyebrows.

Sadly I describe just the male of the species. The females take it to the next level with everything I mentioned above but on steroids. If Prague is for stag and hen parties, Budapest is for Instagram Influencer hopefuls that believe simply in keeping their bedazzled fashion runners as white as the driven snow.

We made it through passport control and out to baggage claim. Bags in hand and just outside the door we found the FO’ TAXI stand where we got our taxi chit and waited for number 1627.  In mere seconds 1627 arrived & the driver was a quiet man with the look of someone who endured the Russian occupation and hasn’t been too outwardly happy ever since. We put our bags in the trunk and we were away.

Not since we took our lives in our hands on the airport bus in Rome 4 years ago have I felt the same sense of terror. Our not so smiley driver was somewhat of a formula one fan. He drove his bright yellow Ford Mondeo at least 3 times the speed limit and weaved in and out of slower traffic with the ease of Nico Rossberg and the calculated calm of a Hungarian executioner. I must admit I felt a tad uneasy.I like to drive fast.I like to weave through traffic. I just don’t grip the steering wheel so hard that I leave marks in it while grinding my teeth.

It was at the 10 minute mark of the journey that I thought we were not going to live long enough to walk the banks of the Danube.And then it happened. It was a liberating moment for both us and the driver. The radio volume bumped up a notch or two and at just that moment the golden tones of Boy George took to the air waves to change all our moods with Culture Club’s smash hit Karma Karma Karma Karma Karma Chameleon.

They say music calms the savage beast, well George calmed our driver.A cheeky smile and a new attitude.Just 5 minutes later we arrived in the Astoria area of Budapest.It’s a Hotel heavy neighbourhood with an uncanny number of Lebanese Shawarma restaurants.I came for the Goulash but all we could find as we wandered the streets was meat roasting on a vertical spit.Meat being lovingly shaved to the plate below by olive skinned men who prefer to call all their customers “Boss”.

So a few local beers accompanied by some gyro and felafel and that fuelled a healthy after dinner stroll through some of old Budapest.It’s a strong sturdy town with a mix of French, Spanish and Soviet architecture.Not a ton of people on the street at this time.We attribute this quiet to the bars being full of manicured eyebrows.

A bit of a life saver really. We took the opportunity to end the night with Hungarian Apple schnapps and that worked very well as a “natural” sleep aid.

This morning we headed to store our luggage and then did the most out of character thing we have ever done.We bought two passes for the Hop on Hop off bus with the river cruise add on. It was really what the doctor ordered.We saw it all. Both by land and by sea.Now I know that this flies in the face of my get away from the tourist hordes mantra, but today it was worth taking the chance.

Now we leave Budapest well travelled but without trying any goulash.We came, we saw, and Culture Club raised all our spirits. Thank you George! Always loved the Hat!

Viszontlatasra and catch you in Athens tomorrow.

Mark.

Images taken with Leica Q-P

p.s. Just kidding, of course I found the goulash!

THE PUZZLING CASE OF MR. FLATFACE

It’s been four days since we arrived here in Old Blighty, and today is the first day that I have had the time or the energy to put fingers to keys.  I do like to tell stories.  What I like the most is to tell stories about my travels and some of the characters that seem to find their way into a position where I can observe their antics. This trip is so far no different.  

The first character of this trip appeared as I took receipt of a very tasty Empress Gin & Tonic in the Vancouver Airport Fairmont Hotel lounge.  The lounge of which I speak is a special place to be and a perfect oasis in an otherwise hectic and stressful international hub. I can simply describe the man as in his early 60’s.  He had a receding hairline, very pail skin and wore glasses with frames that would have been contemporary in the 70’s.  

The man’s most unique feature was of course his face.  So flat indeed that he could have taken a bite out of any of the walls surrounding us.  Unfortunate features and just a little weird to boot.This man seemed to be lost.  He seemed to be overwhelmed.  He wore a simple smile that suggested he was very confused.  The man stood near the bar for a while and then inexplicably began to spin like Julie Andrews in the The Sound of Music.We were waiting for the waitress to inquire if he was alright or if she could help him.  

Just as she was about to do so, Mr. Flatface stopped and focused on her attention.  It turned out he was OK'ish. He told the waitress that he was just enjoying some time on his own as his wife was several minutes behind him.  Make what you want of Mr Flatface's statement, but I sensed he wasn’t thrilled with Mrs. Flatface and that any alone time he scrounged was precious and to be enjoyed in anyway he saw fit.

And then if by magic Mrs. Flatface arrived on scene.  Mrs. Flatface was dragging numerous bags and had a scowl that could stop a clock.  If you are ever in doubt of the definition of the word evil, don’t bother with the Oxford English Dictionary.  Just consider Mrs. Flatface.  Mr. Flatface at that point noticed his betrothed had arrived. Mr. Flatface took a seat beside her and promptly changed his happy-go-lucky outlook to a significantly more forlorn expression of “just shoot me now”.

Perhaps we will revisit the Flatface’s a little later.  Thirty minutes on & we hopped aboard BA flight 84.  It took us nine and a half hours to arrive at London Heathrow and with a quick connection we were soon in Newcastle Upon Tyne in the Northeast of England.  Our rental car was a winner and we drove away from the airport in style to our accommodation for the next 3 days. The following morning we drove the narrow country roads of Northumberland and Scottish Borders with no real destination but a sixth sense for the finer country pubs en-route.  

We had some fantastic beer and wonderful meals to accompany them.  Having the opportunity to visit Flodden field a little later was amazing.The site of one of the biggest battles ever to take place on British soil happened in 1513 on this field and saw the King of Scotland loose his life in battle.  The last time any British monarch lost a life in combat.  We made our way from the countryside inland to the beaches and castles of the Northeast coast.  

Bamburgh Castle stood proud.Next on the agenda was to meet old friends for dinner at a pub near Whitley Bay. A modern pub with classic grub. A couple of pints of real ale and some awesome conversation.We then followed our noses into the city centre of Newcastle and walked the quayside into the early hours.  No rain and a sky full of stars with very few clouds. The city is clean and tidy and impressive as a result.The following morning we made our way across the country towards the West coast.  

We visited Heavenfield Church.  Heavenfield is aptly named as it is a little slice of you know what.  I wont tell you how to get there as it is mine all mine.From there we stopped in Corbridge, Hexham and then finished our day in Keswick which is the hub town for Lake District walkers, hikers and climbers.  Our stay at the Royal Oak was great and the full Cumbrian breakfast was unreal.  We were up early this morning and made the most of our travels visiting some of the prettiest places on earth.  Several more stops at top class pubs provided further sustenance. You find me in our room at an airport hotel in Manchester.  Tomorrow morning starts very early as we leave England behind and fly east to Budapest.  My first time in Hungary.  Can’t wait, it should be fantastic.

Cheers!!!

Mark

DOWN BY THE SEA!

I always have my camera bag with me when I leave the house and yesterday was no exception.  The weather was iffy and the wind was blowing hard from the Southwest.  My intent was to head to a couple of locations nearby to take some long exposure landscape photographs. Upon arrival the wind at my back was lifting me from my feet and it became immediately apparent that my tripod wouldn't be cutting the mustard.  

So whatever I did get up to with my camera was going to have to be handheld.On my drive home along Dallas Road I caught a glimpse off to my right of dozens of colourful kites zipping backwards and forwards from east to west and back again.  It has been a while since I have driven the coast road and the last time I did parasailors were all the rage. Clearly the wind was a bit too furious for those folks but for a kite boarder this was the day to be out on the water.  

The Straight of Juan de Fuca is clearly a great place to hone kiteboarding skills.  The Victoria coastline is a truly picturesque location.  You have shipping lanes full of traffic, you have lighthouses standing watch and of course there is always the backdrop of the city itself. After watching for quite some time I came to the conclusion that I would love to try this high octane sport.  Unfortunately and alas, I envisioned that immediately upon entering the water the kite would drag me along the shoreline and over the jagged rocks on my face.  I recently read that a Montreal surgical team completed the world's first face transplant, so I hope they believe in practice makes perfect (I think my wife would like it if George Clooney was up for a swap).  

On second thoughts I think I'll give it a miss and maybe refocus on surfing.  Not sure if it's a retirement sport but what the hell, nothing ventured nothing gained.

Cheers! 

Mark

SOMETHING FLORAL MIGHT DO THE TRICK.

It has taken time to adjust to being back home.  I must admit that I have come to a point where I sometimes forget about what I’m missing when I’m away.  Don’t get me wrong, if I was honest my heart is on the road and where it takes me is usually just what the doctor ordered.  I am a self-confessed Europhile and as such if you gave me an option I would always take time spent on the continent.

I have an appreciation for the finer things but on balance I dream about them more than I enjoy them.  When I am wandering a stone path in a quiet Tuscan or Provençal village I seem happiest.  The warmth, sights and sounds take me to a relative state of nirvana.  There is something about a very old church bell that strikes four times an hour to prompt one to acknowledge time is slipping away and one should never squander a precious commodity.Reality doesn’t have to bite.  

I can’t spend all my waking moments in my happy place and just because I’m not there now doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the moment no matter where I am or what I’m doing.  One of the things I like to do in the summer months when I’m home is photograph flowers. I’m by no means a macro photographer nor am I remotely understanding of flora.  I don’t know many of their names in English let alone their Latin ones.  

It comes down to knowing what you like while trying to expand your understanding.I am blessed to live in a place that arguably is home to one of the best and most prestigious gardens in the world.  Butchart Gardens is in form and function something very special.  The garden is filled with so many varieties of flowers that the mind boggles.  I don’t get there very often but when I do I try to arrive much earlier than the hordes and wander in the early morning sun.  

It’s a quiet peaceful place in the morning where you can actually stop and reflect on whatever is in focus for as long as you need.What’s more important really is that you don’t have to pay the price of admission for similar experiences in many of the smaller municipal parks in the area.  I very much enjoy spending time in Oak Bay’s Rose Garden for instance.  It’s not just the flora, it’s the solitude and moments of tranquility that are yours for free if you decide to visit.I could be very much criticized for never writing about my surroundings when I’m home.  

It’s by no means limiting, boring or taxing.  To be honest there are hundreds of thousands of Canadians that would crawl over miles of broken glass to live on the southern tip of Vancouver Island.  Postcards were invented especially for this place.  The weather is mild in comparison to the other 98% of Canada.  Rain is our enemy in the winter months but snow is a mythical creature and the remainder of the year is normally very pleasant.  

We are surrounded by water and further afield you are charmed by stunning coastal mountain vistas.It’s really a case of trying to see the wheat for the chaff.  I have a friend named Daryl who regularly writes on this platform about his experiences here.  He observes the good the bad and the ugly, but he is always able to lock focus on the good. www.readerwriterrunner.comI however, am usually plagued by a dissimilar approach.  

I am a self diagnosed critic.  I visit the Louvre on a Friday evening (thanks for the tip Rick Steves) and my first stop is to look for imperfect brush strokes on the Mona Lisa (not really).  I have to stop but I fear there will be limited success on that front. My job of 27 years has taken its toll on my ability to focus on the whimsical or fantastic.  I look for the unusual and the abnormal.  It’s weird but that’s me.  So here I am back in the garden.  A place where it serves as a lesson in enjoying my environment not being sceptical of it.  Perhaps the longer I spend, the greater the chance that damage done can begin to repair.

Cheers!

Mark….