Are oranges the only fruit? And is that Germolene I can smell? Adventures in Nova Scotia

Question:  How could you logically travel from Halifax to Truro in a north-easterly direction?

Answer:  When you are in Nova Scotia.

The multi-coloured houses of Lunenburg
and cars without front registration plates

I have just had the pleasure of visiting Nova Scotia, having been invited to help provide family therapy training to mental health professionals in the province.  After an overnight stay in Halifax, we travelled to the town of Truro, stopping off for a brief touristic interlude at Mahone Bay and Lunenburg.

Truro is perhaps not the most exciting place in Canada but, as a centre for training people from all over the province, it made geographical sense.  It’s described as a ‘hub’ and was once the point of convergence of major railway lines but I was surprised to learn much of the railway network has closed, simply because, so I was told, ‘Everyone has a car and the highway network is so good’.  Nova Scotia is now left with a legacy of disused railway-lines-turned-cycle-tracks which, sadly, I had neither the time nor the bike to enjoy.

The Nova Scotians seem to be generally an unassuming, rather conservative people who made us feel very welcome with their enthusiasm for learning and their commitment to improving the lives of families dealing with mental health problems.  So what does a British visitor notice that’s different from the UK?  

Cars display no registration plate at the front which, for some reason, creates a slightly sinister atmosphere when you first become aware of it, as if you have stepped into a sci-fi movie. That said, the road etiquette is characteristically well-mannered:  pedestrians don’t cross roads at crossings until the ‘red hand’ turns white. Visually-impaired pedestrians are prompted to know when it’s safe to cross by birdsong sounds – one that sounds like a cuckoo and another more monotone one which, I think, help you to determine when it’s safe to cross either in a forward or a sideways direction.  Traffic stops as soon as a driver notices a pedestrian wanting to cross.  For a while I found myself looking the wrong way when crossing roads (the traffic being on the right) and gratefully acknowledging the person in the passenger seat rather than the driver! 

 Most of the buildings are made of wood rather than brick (there are endless forests all around so timber is plentiful and brick is reserved for the more prestigious buildings.) Homeowners favour steel roofs – they last forever.

 I had expected to have lots of good strong coffee but Nova Scotians seem not to prioritise this. I was also surprised at how alien vegetarianism seems to be to them.  Restaurants seemed satisfied with themselves so long as they offered a single veggie option (usually mushroom risotto or salad). Salad sometimes had meat in it, however, and even baked beans in the hotel’s hot buffet had to contain bacon – real cowboy food. Frankie and Gino’s (nothing like our Frankie and Benny’s) was an unexpected treasure.  Friendly staff served pints of Rickards Red beer for those of us who were missing our real ale, and they were able to be more flexible about the menu. The complimentary mints that came with the bill caused a minor transatlantic stir. 

wintergreen

magical ointment

Our Canadian hosts explained that, in North America, the over-sized Polo mints are called Life Savers (they are lifebuoy-shaped, if you think about it for a moment!) But what was that pungent aroma that could be smelled through the sweet wrapper?  ‘Wintergreen,’ said the Canadians.  ‘Germolene,’ said the English. We were transported instantly back to the playground, grazed knees and the comforting smell of that magical, skin-coloured ointment applied lovingly by our mothers from a little tin.  The Canadians looked bemused but I politely declined to pop a Germolene-impregnated mint into my mouth.  Germolene was, as far as I was concerned, not to be taken internally.

The Nova Scotians seemed more Scottish than they realised. Some of them pronounced ‘Out and about’ as ‘Oot and aboot’. They seemed to prefer meat and fish to fruit and vegetables; trees and lakes (lochs?) abound.  The traditional music they enjoy, which they think of as Nova Scotian, sounded pretty Irish and Scots to my ears. If a young man decides to take up the bagpipes rather than the guitar it is not considered strange.Fresh fruit, like strong coffee, seemed unimportant in Nova Scotia. 

A few precious bananas appeared in the hotel one day but, within 24 hours, they had converted themselves into a banana dessert. Curiously, slices of oranges were de rigueur, whether on the edge of a pint of Rickards White beer or as an accompaniment to poached eggs. Apart from these ubiquitous slithers of orange, fruit was, if not forbidden, rare.

After a week in Truro, the enthusiastic politeness of the hotel staff was wearing a bit thin. Call it grumpiness, but an English person is satisfied with a grunt when he thanks a waitress for pouring his coffee whereas it is the Canadian reflex to declare: ‘You’re welcome!’ at every turn. I had the privilege to meet some great characters and kind souls in Nova Scotia and so - perhaps despite rather because of the urgent, insistent ‘You’re welcomes’ - I genuinely did feel very welcome in this big, beautiful, peaceable province.

Thankfully not floating away with Unknown Mortal Orchestra

Unknown Mortal Orchestra — live at Thekla, Bristol

Tuesday 7th  May, 2013

 I'd heard some tracks by Unknown Mortal Orchestra on BBC 6 Music but no one else I know seemed to be aware of them. When I discovered they were playing in Bristol in the week of my birthday, it seemed like a perfect excuse to hook up with my son Dan -- currently a Bristol resident -- for a chilled-out, father/son, gig-going experience.

Unknown Mortal Orchestra (UMO) is led by Ruban Nielson (former member of the Mint Chicks) — a New Zealander now based in Portland, Oregon. UMO were supported by Splashh -- a four-piece psychedelic rock band that also includes a smattering of New Zealanders.

The unusual setting for the gig was Thekla – an award-winning venue that's actually a cargo ship moored in the Mud Dock area of Bristol's Floating Harbour. (The ship was originally brought to Bristol as a music and theatre venue by the wife of Vivian Stanshall of Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band fame.) I'd been aboard the Thekla years ago though I can’t recall which band I saw. (Dan tells me it's more interesting to see gigs there on a stormy winter's night because you forget you're on a boat and are suddenly reminded when the venue starts to sway.) But it was a calm, early May evening when we embarked to see UMO.

Support act Splashh, despite the aptness of their maritime-sounding name, were disappointing. I tried to imagine their songs performed without the arsenal of effects pedals and suspected there would be little left behind to enjoy. The sound was unbelievably distorted. There’s psychedelic and lo-fi ... and then there's just distorted. By contrast, UMO sounded fuzzy in a good way. Ruban, in a leather jacket with a Monkees logo on the back, is a talented guitarist and songwriter and gave an assured performance with solid but unassuming backup from bassist Jake Portrait and drummer Riley Geare.

Gillam the Younger looked pretty unimpressed throughout the gig and told me he enjoyed the psychedelic cover version encores more than the main set. As for Old Man Gillam, well, I was glad to have witnessed UMO in action. Ruban has a gift for creating chirpy songs with sprightly guitar parts and quirky, sometimes incongruously dark lyrics. Who could fail to delight in the hook ‘... so good at being in trouble, so bad at being in love ...'? The intriguingly-titled The Opposite of Afternoon could, in a parallel universe, have been a lost track by the Young Rascals while UMO’s nearest thing to a hit single, Swim and Sleep, epitomises their plaintive pop sensibility:  

‘I wish that I could swim and sleep like a shark does,

I'd fall to the bottom and I'd hide till the end of time

in the sweet cool darkness, asleep and constantly floating away ...’

A Joy Forever — Fruity Shirts and the Survival of Children’s Fiction

I received a parcel in the post recently that made a pleasant change from junk mail and bills. Girls Gone By Publishers republish a selection of the most popular children's fiction from the 20th century. They concentrate on those titles that are most sought-after and difficult to come by second-hand. Having republished nearly all of Malcolm Saville’s Lone Pine series, Girls Gone By are planning to bring out an edition of Man with Three Fingers this autumn. Man with Three Fingers was first published in 1966 but my own copy dates from 1971 when I was 10 years old. I’m thrilled, therefore, to have been invited by the enterprising folk at GGB to provide an introduction to this new edition.

So what was in the parcel? Two sample copies of GGB books -- two handsome paperback reprints of Saucers over the Moor and Sea Witch Comes Home. These books really are a thing of beauty and, as Keats wrote:  ‘A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases...’

Saucers over the Moor has an atmospheric cover that is a reproduction of the 1955 dustwrapper, while Sea Witch Comes Home sports the original cover from its 1960 first edition —  an innovation that combined a photograph taken at Walberswick in Suffolk by Malcolm Saville himself with superimposed portraits by the illustrator Terry Freeman of the main characters, David and Rose. The representation of David Morton with a fruity-coloured shirt and tucked-in neckerchief makes him look uncannily like a young Michael Portillo!

The Girls Gone By reissues have lots of bonus material; they use the text of the first editions and rigorously but sympathetically check and correct these, providing detailed notes on the text, along with a new introduction, a biography of the author, a detailed publishing history and often ‘extra features’ such as essays about the illustrators and the locations of the books. Rather like Persephone Books — who reprint neglected fiction and non-fiction by mid-twentieth century (mostly women) writers — Girls Gone By are providing an invaluable service, producing beautiful objects of nostalgia and enjoyment. They are true to their aims of making these books ‘available at affordable prices and to make ownership possible not only for existing collectors but for new collectors so that the books continue to survive.’ Like David Morton and Michael Portillo, I'm more than happy to don a fruity shirt and join in the campaign to celebrate the survival of things worth keeping.

Sigur Rós - how to make three thousand souls smile in unison

Sigur Rós, Live at Wolverhampton Civic Hall

Tuesday 5^th March, 2013

I knew my nephew Tom was a fellow admirer of the Icelandic post-rock band Sigur Rós so, when I tentatively suggested we should go to this gig, the response was predictable:  ‘I imagine,’ he emailed me back, ‘after  seeing them, we will scoff at ever debating whether we should have or not.’ Sometimes, the way Tom expresses himself, I think he might actually be GK Chesterton. And so it was that Tom, his affable friend Joseph and I found ourselves waiting for Sigur Rós while the support act – Blanck Mass -- got the crowd into a suitably hypnagogic state. 

When the light show projected white circles across the back of the stage, Tom observed that the Mysterons had arrived. This reference to the 1967 TV series Captain Scarlet had me looking out for the sinister Captain Black. I have to say, there were quite a few contenders in the crowd but, as Joseph pointed out, surprisingly few jumper-wearers considering this was a Sigur Rós concert.

Finally, Blanck Mass ended, and Sigur Rós began to play behind a gauze curtain which only dropped away at the climax of the third song. (Is this what they call in theatre-land a scrim curtain? I'll have to ask another of my nephews, Tim -- a lighting engineer -- about that one.) 

The eerie use of lighting cast giant shadows of singer-guitarist Jónsi Birgisson as he played electric guitar with a cello bow. Stooped in concentration, bowing his guitar, the giant shadows appeared, at times, to be projections of a headless frontman. Visually, the show was astounding, with its clever combination of back-projected film and countless standard lamps on stage, sometimes streetlights in fairyland, sometimes beacons answering the strange flashes of maritime lights playing on the backdrop. The sounds emanating from the stage were as extraordinary as the visual effects, and it was remarkable that everything, from the quietest tinkle of glockenspiel and toy piano to the loudest crescendo of guitar, drums, bass, strings and brass playing together was audible and undistorted, testimony to great sound engineering combined with impeccable musicianship. Sigur Rós‘s music, whether at its gentlest or most searingly dramatic, is transcendentally beautiful and, at certain moments, there appeared to be two or three thousand souls smiling at once. At the end of the show, the musicians lined up to take a bow, as if at the end of delightful, otherworldly pantomime.

Giraffes, harpsichords and black swans

‘We’re going away for a couple of days to Exeter.'

'Why?’ asked my friend Phil.

‘Well, we like mini-breaks in interesting old towns and cities, and we’ve been to York, Chester, Salisbury... but we've never been to Exeter.'

‘There may be a reason for that,' said Phil. He went on to say that, for a cathedral city with a university, Exeter was surprisingly unimpressive and we’d need to think about where else to visit if we were going to base ourselves there. He suggested a little place called Topsham.

Sue and I were just pleased that we’d found a hotel right in the city centre with free car parking. We imagined visiting lots of quaint old pubs and interesting little shops. But, it turned out, Phil had a point. Poor old Exeter, heavily bombed between 1940 and 1942, seemed to have not yet fully recovered. The occasional Tudor building juxtaposed with architecture from the 50s, 60s, 70s, as if the city council had been desperately trying to fill in the gaps between buildings. And still, it seemed, Exeter had too many gaps -- too much space for the population, the streets far too wide for the shoppers and homeless people and the occasional isolated student. 70 years was evidently not long enough to recover, and the latest recession just added insult to injury. Decent pubs were few and far between -- even the Tourist Information Office (hidden at the back of a shopping precinct), struggled to recommend a pub with any atmosphere.

The historic quayside never seemed to come to life -- we kept going back to check. Was it jaunty as it came to life on a Saturday morning, or buzzing with joie de vivre on a Friday night? Well, no. The 12th century cathedral, draped in scaffolding, repelled visitors with its compulsory entrance fee.

There were two oases of friendliness and enjoyment.  First, Herbies -- a welcoming vegetarian cafe/restaurant, with excellent value food that was wholesome and delicious. (Why do so few towns and cities in Britain these days have a vegetarian restaurant and, equally puzzling, why does Exeter have such a good one?) Second, the Royal Albert Museum and Art Gallery (last year named the UK's Museum of the Year.) Here we were greeted by a giraffe called Gerald who has been towering over visitors since 1920. We circled around Gerald to the accompaniment of ghostly harpsichord music, which appeared to emanate from the 18th century Florentine instrument next to the giraffe.

We did follow Phil's advice and visited the nearby village of Topsham but, although prettier than Exeter, we found nothing there to capture our imagination so we continued on for ten miles, on a spontaneous pilgrimage to Dawlish Warren -- the site of a distant memory of a caravan holiday -- and then on to Dawlish itself, where we saw the town's famous black swans and walked out to sea on the jetty. I thought of my mum, who would have been delighted to know that Sue and I had accidentally ended up in Dawlish, more than 40 years after mum and dad had taken my brother and me there. Perhaps Sue and I should have skipped the idea of a city break in Exeter and plumped straight for a caravan in Dawlish Warren, tea and cakes by the seaside and a game of crazy golf as the black swans looked on.