Our friends Chris and Paul live on a small farm near Rice Lake, not far from the small village of Bailieboro, in the direction of Peterborough. We go there each year before Halloween for pumpkin carving, with a big gang of friends, and to eat, drink and hang out. Other times we just show up, […]
Given the madness in Britain (I have subtracted the word ‘Great’ as it is no longer applicable) and the lunacy in Trumpistan, not to mention some irregular goings on in my own Beloved Country, I give you an image of sanity from my new, adopted home, here in Canada: Farm near Rice Lake, Ontario.
A couple of enterprising capybara made headlines a few weeks ago, here in Toronto, by escaping from the High Park zoo and disappearing into the surrounding greenery. My theory is that they simply dressed up as tourists and mingled with the crowd, and ambled out of the zoo enclosure unchallenged and unspotted. One of the […]
One of the things one tries to do with words, I think, when writing fiction, is to convey a sense of a world – of many worlds, perhaps – behind the immediate reality, or surface meaning. A gesture towards the immanent rather than the obvious. This is something that distinguishes the great photographs, too, I […]
Toronto’s Luminato Arts Festival has found a new home this year, at The Hearn Power Plant, a mothballed behemoth from the 1950s that lies crumbling and rusting at the edge of town near the lake. We went there on Sunday, with a group of friends, Boyd and Joanne, Lesley and Mary Wiens, lured by the publicity […]
On a different scale, if you’ll pardon the pun, from the pachyderms of Twyfelfontein, are the dazzling lizards – green is for girls and orange is for boys. We saw lots of them, on the deck and in the dining area at Camp Kipwe and on the large orange-and-ochre boulders that formed the walls of our […]
Mussels are $6 a pound at Doonies on Wednesdays, so a couple of nights ago I headed off down Shaw Street in the direction of Bloor, in search of a pint of beer and some sustenance. And as I went, striding along in the evening light with fresh air in my lungs, I suddenly realised I was happy. […]
From Ugab we drove on to Camp Kipwe in Twyfelfontein – named ‘doubtful spring,’ after the white farmer who settled here in the ‘forties, and who evidently would tell his guests, whenever they visited, that he was doubtful that the water would flow that year. I guess he was right more often than not. Camp […]