One Great City!

It's an historic and interesting city, Winnipeg, but I'm not sure I'd want to live here. The city boomed before the turn of the century, on the back of the grain industry and other commodities, and was a central rail hub as well. Winnipeg was known as the 'Chicago of the North', and one of its neighbourhoods, the Exchange District, is considered one of the finest examples of an intact, turn of the century commercial district in North America. I loved walking around this part, and seeing the fine old warehouses overlaid with faded advertising for goods and companies.

I spent time today and yesterday at 'The Forks', another site of historic significance. Here, the slender Assiniboine river meets the Red River, at a junction where native people lived and traded, followed by fur-traders, Scottish settlers, Metis buffalo hunters and more. The site contains parks, river walks, sculptures, and, happily for me, a fabulous food market and a prairie garden. I'm learning a bit about the prairie plants, and found this little space of tall waving grasses and sweet-smelling native flowers incredibly beautiful. I put my toes in the cloudy brown waters at the junction and tried to imagine some of what had happened on these banks over time.

Winnipeg is also very multicultural, which came as bit of a surprise to me, likening it blindly as I did to our central towns back home. I've heard many languages in the last couple of days, and have eaten Carribean chicken and browsed the Chinese grocery. The streets are wide and clean and there are some great buildings and thoroughfares, but the place has a slightly faded feel. An ex-Winipegger friend of mine was a little apprehensive about where I was staying, saying that the crime rates in the prairie cities are the worst in the land. This surprised me as well, but I see what he means - the hostel is adjacent to a bad area, and the drug addiction and poverty is pretty visible. I think perhaps I'm on a strip where sex is bought and sold too, watching a very young girl weave her way along and interact with cars early this morning. Made me think twice about lounging outside waiting for the convenience store to open.

What I have enjoyed is this beautiful sense of interior space since being here, which perhaps is due in part to all the exterior space around. I've always lived in places where there are mountains or some undulation of land on the horizon, serving as natural boundaries which help us make sense of the space around us. Here there are the city towers and then nothing, no barriers, no visible ending or beginning, just endless skies. I can't help but think that in winter, this place (ave Jan temperature around minus 13 - that's maximum ave, not minimum), would be kind of frightening. I walked to the corner of Portage and Main, considered the windiest (and one of the coldest) intersections in Canada. Luckily, the wind was warm and dry and smelled of sun-soaked farmland.

*Past Winnipeg tourism slogan, and title of song by Winnipeg band, the Weakerthans.

The train left when?

I have a feeling I'm going to get to know Winnipeg fairly well, by default. Made the error of (ahem) not checking the ticket too closely and have missed the train to Churchill! (This is a bad Emma-habit that was bound to bite me at some stage). The train only runs every couple of days and I have to sync with the westward train on return as well, so the following days will henceforth be known as the Unexpected 'Peg Extension...

Luckily, the fallout is pretty minor. The big concern I had was whether Via would let me use the ticket, which was the only one I've upgraded, seeing it takes two days to get to Churchill. And they will, and there is an available sleeper! (I have a feeling not many people are choosing to journey to Churchill at this time of the year, or at all, really). The gal at the hostel dryly told me I can have my old bed back if I want (seeing there aren't too many people there either), I have bumped my other accommodation in Jasper, and added a couple of extra days on the end of the trip (Clairey - will be in touch re new arrival day (same time). So, all is ok. Now, what else can I do in Winnipeg?...

The Canadian has left the station...

The 'Canadian' is considered Via Rail's premier route and one of the great train journeys of the world. It leaves Toronto at 9am three times a week, skirting lakes in Ontario, journeying through the prairielands of Manitoba and Saskatchewan and the Rockies in Alberta before arriving in Vancouver, BC around three days later. Having only purchased a sleeper for the Winnipeg to Churchill side-trip, I decided to do the trip in chunks of around one night each, the first being Toronto - Winnipeg.

The facilities in 'comfort class' echoed those in the luxurious 'silver and blue' class, with a little less of both comfort and class. We had a dining car for meals - food both decent and decently-priced; and a dome car with a glass top which allows for a 360' view of the world rushing (or sometimes, as is the case with Via, creeping) by. Travelling in comfort class, where you stay in your seat as opposed to having a sleeper, you inevitably meet quite a few of your fellow passengers.

And you can generally bank on some colourful characters. Straight up, I was accosted by Mary-Louise (we'll call her ML for the sake of brevity), who was travelling with hubby no. 2, Frank. A self-described 'tough old broad', ML had a penchant for salty, outdated language and grievance-riddled tales. ML and Frank arrived late and were separated on the train, but ML seemed disinclined to swap with anyone offering their seat so she and Frank could be reunited, preferring fresh canvases for her often wayward stories. Frank, meanwhile, seemed happy to nap.

A newcomer at Sudbury placed next to me forced ML's return to Frank. Gerard was a very sweet and self-assured Native kid, who was returning to Sioux Lookout to see his girlfriend and dad, wielding a rose and a present for his 'mother-in-law'; a fabulous painting by his uncle. (The ladies in ear and eyeshot were quite impressed). Gerard watched a bit of 'House MD' with me on my computer at night, then took up three quarters of our seat room with his 'generous' sleeping positions. Maybe this is why I didn't sleep so well on the train, despite the often comforting rocking motions. It was a relief to start to see the sky start to pale against the narrow black shapes of spindly spruce.

At lunch the next day I met the 'spinners', two sprightly ladies from Tassie. They were in North America meeting contacts in the spinning world - a man who carved beautiful spinning wheels in Vermont, people who raised musk-ox for their wool in Alaska. Their love for their craft, and for the animals that provided the means for their craft was obvious, and created a warm burst of good feeling to accompany our lunch.

And all this took place against such beautiful and already-changing scenery - pretty rural farmscapes outside Toronto, the endless spruce and fir forests dotting dark glossy lakes in Ontario, and the mixed forest and sun-warmed rock and grass on the approach to Manitoba quickly flattening into crops and farmland.

T'ronno

Hi all! Writing from world's, I mean Toronto's biggest hostel. Well, it's not THAT big, but after lovely St John's hostel (capacity of 9ish, or more if Bill gives up his bed and sleeps on Jack's couch across the road) it seems pretty big. I haven't spend much time on the premises anyway, have really been getting out and about in this big, shiny city. And shiny it seems, especially around where the hostel is, getting down near the new harbourfront developments. But I'm getting ahead of myself here...

Had a smooth and speedy trip from Montreal yesterday, in beautiful weather. Found digs, carted cases up stairs one by one (thank you so much Nick the kiwi for carrying my second bag part of the way! I caught a nasty cold a few days ago which is on the mend, but has left a legacy of icky congestion and weakness when having to undertake strenuous tasks such as carting cases. I was looking very pale and sweaty and unhealthy following that incident!).

Following some recovery time, I headed up to Chinatown for a look around. The place was humming; sidewalks crammed with discounted fruit and vegies and racks of cheap, colourful clothes. Like Montreal, Toronto is strikingly polycultural, maybe more so.  I had some excellent chinese for dinner, than headed down to the harbour front to see the evening approach. There seems to be a big development happening in this part of the world, loads of glassy apartments in various stages of construction, all reflecting the setting sun in various shades of orange and blue. The silvery towers, neon-lit advertising billboards and weaving overpasses felt futuristic, even alienating. Right near the water, however, I could smell the brackish scent of the choppy waves, look across to the island parklands, and walk amongst wetland the city has recently reclaimed. 

 I headed back the next day and made a major find - The Toronto Music Garden. Definitely my favourite place in the city so far, the Garden is the result of collaboration between cellist Yo-Yo Ma and artists and landscape designers, and is an interpretation of Bach's Suite No 1 for Cello. Six parts of the garden reflect the six movements of the suite, using rock, plants, sculpture, space and water to convey the particular characteristics of the music, from the contemplative Sarabande to the graceful Menuette (sister Claire - I thought of you so when here!). And it seems people are using the spaces creatively and practically; in the space of my strolls, a band shot a film clip under the Menuette pavillion, an early childhood teacher danced with her gaggle of children round the Courante maypole, and a man walked his dog round the inward arc of the Sarabande, lifting up the happy creature to lap from the pond. 

Today I hit the pavements, visiting Kensington Markets (ethnic foodstores, indian clothing, fruit and vege markets), the Annex (resturants, coffee shops), University of Toronto. Also stopped off for a couple of hours at the Royal Ontario Museum which provides definite bang for the buck. I loved the natural history parts - biodiversity, canadian ecosystems, some impressive taxidermy - it seemed predominantly me and the visiting kids oohing and aahing over this stuff -  but there's also archeology, social histories, art, cultural commentary in video and sound. A good choice.

Departure day...

Train to Toronto departs in about an hour (had to come early to check frighteningly heavy cases...tried to look unconcerned and NOT at the scales, but all was hunky-dory - phew), so taking advantage of statioon wi-fi - thank you, Via Rail!

I'm leaving such a special city, but feel so good about what's ahead of me. I took a reflective stroll Sunday and noted the following typical Montreal scenes:

1) - Massive hole in road with no discernible signage nor road workers nearby

2) - Substantial lineups outside popular Plateau eateries such as l'Avenue, but no-one visibly concerned by waiting

3) - Hardcover book on the naked male form prominently displayed in local newsagency.

Memories of and experiences in a place accumulate internally, serving to colour how everything that comes after is viewed. It's been a challenging, delightful, defining time; thank you Montreal and all those who were part of those memories and experiences. xx

Trinity

After four nights of committed kitchen partying in St John's (including a 'screech-in' at a local bar where one tries the local rum and kisses a very large frozen cod), I was somewhat relieved to be making my way out of 'town', to the village of Trinity three hours away. Rumour has it Trinity was named by Portuguese explorer Gaspar Corte-Real, who arrived here on Trinity Sunday in 1501. I was lucky to be able to nab a lift with afore-mentioned hostel buddy Mark, who was driving up towards Bonavista and able to drop me off on the way. We caught our breath at the first glimpse of Trinity; a charming collection of heritage buildings perched on the very edge of a low-lying penninsula, with houses, sea and land all saturated in the late afternoon sun.

Home in Trinity was a little cabin about 15 minutes from town. The cabin's interior was pure retro, with 70's table and chairs, faded floral curtains, lino floor and faltering black and white TV (which revealed trembling volleyballers and shaking sprinters in Beijing). Over the road was a bay filled with blue and white mussel traps. (Did you know that mussels are only harvested in months containing the letter 'r' and by the full moon? I read this in an old almanac in the Trinity musuem).

As is the generally the case in NFLD, the weather was temperamental, and I spent some time tucked up in bed reading, with wind and rain spattering outside. I even cranked a bit of heating (despite brushing off owner Corinne's heating instructions with a hasty 'oh, I'll be fine!'). I had some sparkling days too though, and decided to hike the nearby Skerwink Trail. Corinne picked me up for the hike in a fierce brute of a machine, emitting growls out of two oversized mufflers. I couldn't help but grin at her wrestling with the monster, and she told me it had belonged to her eighteen-year-old son, Geoffrey, who had died in March on an oil rig up in Alberta. He had been the first death on the rig, she said, a freak accident due to a part malfunction that had been immediately remedied 'but why couldn't they have thought of that in the first place?' Her voice was steady but undercut with pain, and I cried a little after she let me off, for her family and the beautiful laughing boy in the photo on the dashboard.

The Skerwink trail was all cliff and forest and sea. There were no railings, so sometimes I'd get a bit too close to the edge and feel a bit dizzy. Towards the end, I emerged from the wind-battered forest of pine and fir near a small pebbly beach. I had intended to swim on this trip, but the few beaches I got near were very rocky, and the weather not so calm. In fact, on the Irish Loop, I saw one of the wildest seafronts I've seen for a while. Here, the pebbles had been ground down so finely the shore appeared to be made of black sand, the water was rough and ugly and the horizontal spray whipped about madly.

On my last night in Trinity I went to see a theatre production by the Rising Tide Theatre. The play, named 'Saltwater Moon', was staged behind the old Museum just before sunset. Set in Newfoundland in the 1920's, it was really delightful as well as a great insight into life in the province at that time.

Newfoundland State of Mind

What an amazing place. Blog readers, if you get the chance to visit this place, take it. Once more, my entries are coming after the fact - I didn't take my laptop on my Newfoundland trip, but didn't miss it, I was just so excited to be present in the moment on that trip. I'll break it down into a couple of entires and pop in a few snaps; I'm planning to create and link to a photo album but that may come after.

Newfoundland evokes aspects of many other places - english moors, irish cliffs, mainland pine forests and lakes (cue Bill the sometime-incoherent hostel manager - ''Tis a pawnd, b'y! tat's what we callit!") - and combines them in a unique package. I met a couple of locals one afternoon and ended up chatting to them for a couple of hours (as seems more likely here) and one fellow commented that the locals have been the subject of genealogical studies, much like icelanders, due to the sheer homogeneity of the population for a substantial stretch of time. Much of the original population came from southwest England initially as seasonal fishermen (the small town of Trinity, for instance, was considered a virtual colony of Poole, Dorset, for a period of time after 1700), or from south-east Ireland: Waterford, Wexford, Kilkenny. I think a number of Irish villages up and relocated themselves in similar fashion in Newfoundland way back, thus transplanting the dialect in similar fashion.

Newfoundlanders love, among other thing, Newfoundland, irish music, and alcohol (they love these latter three very much). It is the poorest province in Canada, yet people are very generous, laid-back, friendly and spirited. (One of my hostel buddies was put neatly in his place trying to joust verbally with female staff at the supermarket. The outcome: Francine the lobstster seller: 1, Crushed husk of hostel buddy: minus 5). The province only became part of Canada in 1949, and the fluttering pink, white and green republican flag seemed far more common in yards than the offical provincial flag, just as I'm sure the locals are (emotionally at least) islanders first, and Canadians second.

St John's, Newfoundland

Warning: This blog post contains overt enthusiasm.

Hi everyone! It's a sunny afternoon in St John's, and I thought I'd say a quick hello while my feet are recovering from lots of walking. I arrived here yesterday evening and sunny it wasn't - not only was the flight delayed and almost cancelled due to fog, I have never yet been part of a landing where fog gives way straight to runway! Our captain received a relieved round of applause!

It was a fitting welcome, though, as fog and wind seem par for the course in this wild, beautiful, historic part of the world - St John's is considered one of the oldest european settlements on the continent. I've already taken a heap of snaps but will have to wait until returning to load any of them onto a computer (I'm using the hostel's wee ancient number, complete with dodgy keyboard, sorry about the errors), and already will have to cull like crazy. I was entranced by the walk up to Signal Hill today, the tight Narrows where all vessels pulling into the famous harbour must navigate through, the sheer cliffs and their tiny sweet-smelling heath-like plants, and the horizon looking back over St John's so sharp (the likes of which will ne'er be seen in Montreal!). It's been eighteen months since seeing ocean, and the dramatic scope of sea and windswept land was an exciting 'welcome back'. Signal Hill, (or the 'Lookout' ) has been home to numerous battles; has overseen all manner of vessels arrive and leave the harbour, from sealing boats to container ships to luxury liners; and was the site of the first transatlantic wireless communication in 1901 (the letter 'S' received in Morse code).

I'm doing a bit of temp. receptionist work here (well, unofficially - there's only myself and another fellow in this hostel at the moment, which is really a tiny house with sloping floors. Very sloping); having already run a message across to Bill the manager, enjoying a quiet beer on his brother's porch across the way. I seem to only catch two out of every three sentences Bill utters, and am thus in a state of semi-vigilance whenever I talk to him. Newfoundlanders have a lilting dialect, which, when thick, has echoes of Brad Pitt's chharacter in Snatch. I realise, being here, just how much more provincial Canada is than my land. I walked down steep hills and various lanes to town last night (St John's is full of little public paths and stairwells linking oddly-angled streets), in ffog and rain and thought perhaps I was in some cornish coastal town, with the odd north american office block plonked into the picture. Most of the residential homes are weatherboard, painted in pastel and bright tones and sitting snug against each other and the street. To get to Signal Hill I walked through Upper Battery, an ex-fishing village, sleepy as could be, tacked onto the edge of St John's busy working harbour. It's a city of intriguing contrast and substantial charm.

I'm in the city for a coiuple of days, and hope to get out to Cape Spear (eastern-most point in north america), maybe some more fishing villages, wander the streets and some museums//historic sites in that time. Am contemplating cod tongue for dins tonight...will let you know. Take care all!

Bands (and bad weather)

Another grey day. After such a long, snowy winter, the recent low temperatures and changeable skies frustrate more than they really should. (To the point where a woman at the laundromat this morning blamed natural phenomena for overnight riots sparked by the killing of a teen by police! Hmm - impoverished neighbourhood, police with a history of racial profiling (my personal favourite was when Montreal cops tried to arrest a couple of black homeowners cleaning out their garage on suspicion of robbing the house). I think there's a lot more flame than rain going on here).

But on to lighter topics.

Montrealers are spoilt for choice when it comes to the arts and cultural activities. Music festivals, film festivals, comedy festivals; even streets randomly blocked off for all manner of celebrations from Saint's Days to fashion sales. This last week, I took in around 10 bands over three days (granted, most were seen as part of the Osheaga music festival on one of those days). But it was the non-festival bands that had the bigger impact. Firstly, Jeff and I went to hear Canadian band Wolf Parade last Sunday. Clashing as this date did with the first of the two-day festival, I remember thinking the crowd would be modestly-sized. It wasn't! Rarely do I feel more like a local than when I attend a music show in Montreal. The crowds are passionate, attentive, gracious - the first time I was 'shooshed' at a rock show was here, when a tiny, eager crowd at Main Hall in '05 strained to hear the emotion in Matt Berninger (of the National)'s whispered phrases.

Wolf Parade rock; dramatically and thrillingly. The 'prog rock' label gets bandied about now and again (though, really, you don't have to do too much to get slapped with that: Keyboards? Check. Shape-shifting songs? Check. Token eleven-minute track with ultra-esoteric name (such as 'Kissing the Beehive') and keening guitars? Check. Mysterious barefoot, white-clad band-member who dances delicately behind a synth-shaped object but doesn't appear to do much at all? Check. (Ok, so I don't think that's a prog rock requisite, but maybe it should be). The band were elegant and explosive; the crowd very appreciative.

The next day I went out to Parc Jean-Drapeau for day two of Osheaga. I don't know if it was the threatening weather or the high bar set the night before, but I wasn't as engaged by anything here (and realised once there that I didn't really know many of the acts, anyway!) Jamie Liddell was ace, but lost some fans with a wandering solo electro-dj number in the middle of his set (then commented sheepishly, 'can you tell I've been living in Berlin?'), the Weakerthans were solid and lovely, and otherwise it was the quiet folkies like Matt Costa and Neil Halstead I enjoyed more. Maybe rock festivals aren't so much for me anymore - I was wishing badly I'd brought my ear plugs when the Black Keys were playing.

If the Black Keys needed to check their bass, Radiohead was doing beautiful things with theirs two days later. Back at Parc Jean-Drapeau, the ground was a mudbath after rain and two days of festival-going hoofs. Jeff had sensibly brought some dollar-store ponchos and plasticy thing to sit on (bless!), which made ALL thee difference. We got in, found a spot under a tree at the periphery of the packed hillside (35 000 people were doing the same) and dug in our smeared feet for dear life. The conditions certainly made for some entertainment - making it to the loos, then the beer tent, then back to base camp without taking a slide was cause for considerable celebration. I was really impressed by the clarity of sound, and the fact that just Thom Yorke's voice and an acoustic guitar in that huge open space commanded such intimacy. And it was a beautiful setting, with the city in the background, a yellow moon toppling off a skyscraper corner, and fireworks snapping and shining (a regular occurance here, it seems). Very special.

USA Pt 3: Pittsburgh, PA

From Lancaster to Pittsburgh, the train snakes through the Allegheny Mountains and through a number of small towns. I glimpsed here and there evidence of the industrial days of old, in a copper-coloured stream flowing beside the tracks and manufacturing facilities sitting quietly on the outskirts of towns.

I was staying in Pittsburgh with my cousin Tony and his wife Kathleen's family. I have many male cousins and only one female cousin (by birth); virtually all are older than me and my memories growing up are of a host of these tall, skinny, laughing fellows playing backyard cricket at Christmas. I hadn't seen Tony very often as an adult, but to me, he shares certain characteristics with my father, which a) has led to him being quietly dubbed 'young Steve' at times by the Buckley children and b) lends him a certain familiarity.

I really liked Pittsburgh. No doubt, staying with extended family (and a lovely one at that) played a part, but the city felt comfortable, interesting and diverse. The city is surrounded by heavily forested hills, and the horizon was not dissimilar to the view out to Brisbane's sloping western suburbs. The tiny downtown triangle is easy to navigate, and just criss-crossing bridges (the city has 446!) and taking in the skyline, architecture and breeze off the river was highly enjoyable. I visited the Andy Warhol Museum (Warhol was a Pittsburgh native) and a new History Centre, spoke to a couple of down-and-outers who weren't quite as fond of their city as I was, and relished the backstreets tour on which my hosts inadvertantly took me in an effort to beat the traffic. On my last night we paid homage to our roots with a bit of a singalong; me massacring some tunes on the piano, Tony showing some good form on the guitar, and then both of us (Kathleen had since sensibly departed) revisiting some 80's Aussie classics on YouTube in the wee hours. A great time had!

USA Pt.2: Bird-In-Hand, Pennsylvania

Travel plans for the quaintly named Bird-In-Hand, PA were made swiftly from the vast and elegant 30th St Station in Philadelphia, just before my train departed towards Pittsburgh. I was going to stay in what is known as 'Pennsylvania Dutch Country', which has at its heart the town of Lancaster, considered America's oldest inland city. From what I saw of Lancaster (in my hot trudge from the train station to the bus depot) it was attractive enough, but I've always gravitated towards little towns - a product of my lived experience growing up no doubt - and jumped at the chance to stay at the little village out on the Old Philadelphia Pike.


It suited me just perfectly; a beautiful heritage inn (plus an upgrade because the bureau that did my booking from elegant 30th St Station wasn't so thorough. Sometimes ineptness has its rewards!) and a room full of white lace and dappled sunlight. The inn was located beside a cluster of antique and craft stores with a backyard stretching into rural farmland (see picture beside), and the only sounds (besides the rather busy traffic of the Pike) the clop-clop of horses pulling Amish buggies, the whoosh of wind in the trees and the sonorous lowing of farm animals. I loved it!

The Amish - whose faith is characterised by simple living on the land and shunning modern conveniences - fled persecution in Europe for Pennsyvlania (and other US locations) in the early 18th century. ('Dutch' is actually a variation of 'Deutsch' - the Amish still speak a German dialect). I visited some stores run by Amish and found them cheerful and friendly, and received a number of waves from kids jumbled in the back of wagons, looking timeless in their straw hats and breeches (belts are not allowed), and bonnets and unicoloured dresses. I went on a little tour with a Mennonite fellow whose family had broken away (Mennonites are more progressive), and it was intriguing to find out a) how the Amish have to make access decisions when new products hit the market and b) how they manage to 'get around' obstacles to certain conveniences; ie phones aren't allowed 'in the house', but the back shed may be rigged up for such a purpose. I thought their sense of community, responsibility and self-sufficiancy wonderful, but the 'no education beyond 8th grade' didn't sit quite as comfortably.

I also made short work of some great germanic 'comfort food' (roast pork, saeurkraut, pickled beets and eggs, soft salted pretzels, various puddings - I put my love for hefty foodstuffs down to the austrian ancestry).

Such a tranquil stay!

USA Pt.1: Wilmington, Delaware

Right, now that I've alerted people to this baby blog, I feel I should give them more bang for their nonexistant buck! We'll start with the first part of my US trip.

Let me firstly say that Montreal-Philadelphia, with a travel time of around 1hr 15mins, was an absolute dream compared to my last poorly planned visit to the US, taking as it did approximately 8 times longer to travel around the same distance. (Don't dwell on that one too long - makes me look bad).

Anyway, my lovely friend Kelly picked me up at the airport amidst a true heatwave. I think the few days spent here and visiting Philly have been the hottest I've encountered in North America since arriving on the continent at the start of last year. This was furnace-like, reminiscent of a heftier January day in Brissy. But, the skies were blue, and it wasn't too bad in the shade; as Kel and I found when strolling under some gigantic trees in an old park close to her new house.

Wilmington is a small city in a rural setting; the narrow back road out of town leading to Kel's parent's place takes one through an idyllic setting, winding and bending under ancient trees. The town is home to the Du Pont chemical and munitions company, an industrial giant responsible for producing all manner of materials from neoprene to nylon to teflon to lycra (to name a few!). The wealth vested in the Du Pont heirs is visible in beautiful homes, estates, parks and gardens in the town. My stay with Kel coincided with a fundraiser for the Brandywine River museum hosted by 'Frolic' Weymouth, an artist, conservator and Du Pont heir. Located on a gentle bend of the Brandywine, his historic stone home is famous for having sheltered George Washington during the Battle of the Brandywine in 1777.

Jump forward a couple of centuries to the fundraiser and the scene was one of festivity - dinner under a tent, some great beers on tap and lots of dancing to the excellent local band in a large barn hung with lanterns and lights. It was a fabulous night, with those so inclined continuing the party in and by a pool out in the country, under a velvety sky scented with fir trees.

Kel found an online pic of the house at Big Bend, as it was too dark by the time I figured out I should take a shot! You'll just have to imagine some leaves on the trees. I think the stroll down the path was my first encounter with fireflies to0; initially cause for puzzlement!

Otherwise we chatted and chatted and visited the cinema and the Art Museum in Philly amongst other things - all up a beautiful trip.

Next up: ...'and Jeremiah plows the fields...'