Yuletide York

We had a fantastic weekend in York. It will go down in history as the most successful Christmas shopping trip ever. And, it was even enjoyable – contrary to most Christmas shopping experiences!

York is an amazing city. It is a must-see destination for anyone who comes to England. The history, architecture and culture are fabulous. Walking down the Shambles – an old medieval street – you cannot help but picture yourself carried back in time to the 1400s. I can’t tell you how many times Brent accused someone of being a witch or carrying the Black Death.

This was our second trip to York, so we skipped the Minster (except for sneaking a quick peak by escaping through the gift shop and therefore bypassing the entrance fee), a sight which took us all afternoon the last time we were in town, and opted to partake in some shopping and eating! Two great pastimes. After arriving on the train we made a beeline to Betty’s, the famous tea shop: www.bettys.co.uk. We managed to beat the line up, excuse me, the queue, which is normally outside and around the block! We had the most delicious high tea lunch of sandwiches, scones and squares. This place is a serious operation with a mail order catalogue and a ‘fresh from the oven’ service where during the month of December within a certain radius you can have fresh mince tarts delivered hot to your door in time for the weekend. They also have a large selection of ‘Christmas Hampers,’ a truly English idea where you get a big basket full of food and festive goodies. All the big stores like M&S, Fortnum & Mason and Harrods sell them.

Our shopping took us to all the usual ‘high street’ shops and also to the Christmas market which had arts, crafts, and local food. We resisted buying a pork pie which seems to be the specialty of all the local food makers. It was even harder to resist buying a hot chocolate with Baileys, but we thought it best to shop sober.

The second day in York we experienced a proper English rain. Not drizzle and not the ‘fresh’ damp day that usually happens here. This was a full on, non-stop pouring. We did not let it dampen our spirits. We walked the city wall despite the rain. When we needed some warming up we wandered into a local pub, the Royal Oak. We had the best pub lunch ever with local bitters and steak and ale pie.

It was a great weekend away and a nice start to the festive season. And one cannot under- estimate how good it feels to have all Christmas shopping done before the beginning of December. If only we could shop in York every year!

Homebodies

We haven’t been anywhere for a few weekends now. We have been hanging out in Leeds, going to the movies, reading books. A regular yawn fest for the old blog (this may be abundantly evident given the recent high number of sporting posts and flagrant use of Wikipedia). I guess we needed some time to recuperate from our excitement overload of the England football game one weekend, Edinburgh the next weekend, English Thanksgiving the weekend after that. The only one of these weekend adventures which has not already been discussed here is our trip to Edinburgh. So with out further delay….

We had decided that Edinburgh would be our first big weekend ‘mini break’. The trip was even longer than a weekend because we found ourselves in Newcastle for the few days leading up to our trip as one of us partook in a conference for work. Although Newcastle looked pretty nice through the taxi window, our hotel for the conference was on the edge of town, so we didn’t get to do much sight seeing. However, we did benefit from Newcastle being our starting point as it meant a shorter train ride to Edinburgh.

The trip to Edinburgh was to be our mutual birthday gifts to each other (At least one of us can say we have been to Edinburgh before 30, although just barely!). We stayed at a very nice hotel right in the heart of the Old town, just around the corner from the Houses of Parliament and the Holyrood Palace. The hotel was so posh we had our beds turned down every night with chocolates on the pillow. No more staying in hostels for us.

Scotland has a great feel about it. I immediately felt at home. One of the first things I noticed when we got off the train was that I looked like everyone else. In England I don’t particularly resemble the people (too much in-breeding?). But in Scotland, I found that everyone looks like me (finally somewhere where the Murray gene pool seems normal). Plus, the Scottish people are very friendly and welcoming. There are no double-takes as people try to place our accent. Edinburgh people seem to have heard them all before. This definitely added to the feeling of being at home.

We tried to see all the sights of the old town, but it is a lot to pack into one weekend. We made it a priority to see Edinburgh Castle and we were not disappointed. It is amazing. One highlight for me was seeing the room where Mary Queen of Scots gave birth. A little reminder about how common homebirth used to be. Another highlight was the War Memorial for all the fallen Scottish soldiers. We are pretty sure we found some of our ancestors names in the books of Canadian soldiers in Scottish regiments during WWII.

After that it was time for a Scottish lunch. The greatest Scottish lunch ever. There is one true way to tell if someone’s a Scot. It’s not whether they’ve eaten haggis, enjoy Robbie Burns or can tell a glass of Dalwhinnie from Lagavulin (although sure as hell I can). Its whether you like smoked salmon. In the Edinburgh lunch places, smoked salmon sandwiches were everywhere – and were properly enjoyed by true Scots that day.

Luckily, the Old Town slopes down from the Castle so, after lunch, we just let gravity do its work. After exhausting ourselves in the Old Town and fighting our way through black pudding at dinner, we finished the night in a friendly pub which was heavily populated with lively Australians.

And after our little sabbatical from traveling, we are back at it this weekend. We are going to York for the St. Nicolas Christmas Fayre. Maybe it will even snow?!

The Ashes

Tonight starts the Ashes.

I’ll let Wikipedia take it from here:

The Ashes is a Test cricket series, played between England and Australia - it is international cricket's oldest and most celebrated rivalry dating back to 1882. It is currently played approximately biennially, alternately in England and Australia. The Ashes are "held" by the country which last won a series and to "regain" them the other country must win more Test matches in a series than the country that "holds" them. If a series is "drawn" then the country holding the Ashes retains them. The last Ashes series was played in England in 2005 when England regained The Ashes after a gap of 16 years by winning the series 2-1. The next Ashes series will be in Australia in 2006-07 and the next series in England will be in 2009.

The series is named after a satirical obituary published in The Sporting Times in 1882 following the match at The Oval, in which Australia beat England in England for the first time. The obituary stated that English cricket had died, and the body will be cremated and the ashes taken to Australia. The English media dubbed the next English tour, to Australia (1882-83) as the quest to regain The Ashes.

A small terracotta urn was presented to the England captain Ivo Bligh by a group of Melbourne women at some point during the 1882-83 tour. The contents of the urn are reputed to be the ashes of an item of cricket equipment, possibly a bail, ball or stump. The urn is not used as a trophy for the Ashes series, and whichever side "holds" the Ashes, the urn normally remains in the MCC Museum at Lord's because of its age and fragility. Since the 1998-99 Ashes series, a Waterford crystal trophy has been presented to the winners.

The urn was presented to Captain Bligh! Incidentally, Fletcher Christian was the spinner bowler on that tour. Too funny. Well, sometimes you have to make your own funny.

Anyway, among a certain segment of the population here, the Ashes are Christmas, the World Cup and Bonfire Day all rolled into one. As indicated above, the Ashes is a “Test” series. Each team bats twice which takes five days. Eight hours of play over Five. Days. Moreover, the Ashes take place this year in Australia. Games conveniently start at 11:30 pm GMT and wrap up at 8:00 am GMT. I am a much bigger fan of the highlights which start at 7:00 p.m. GMT and condense five days into fifteen minutes.

I am trying to gain some sort of appreciation for cricket, but they don’t make it easy. Any sport which includes breaks for tea and lunch shouldn’t be trusted.

The Grey Cup

We’re going to miss the Grey Cup this year. I’ve watched the Grey Cup every year since I can remember. Being a Hamilton Tiger-Cat fan, one is pretty confident of enjoying a Grey Cup victory every 7 to 10 years. A long time to wait, but far from being a futile endeavor. The most enjoyable Grey Cup I can recall was the Tiger Cat victory in 1999. I was in law school and was invited to my good friend David’s Grey Cup party. It was just the two of us and we probably should have been finishing our work, but there was Sleeman to drink and it was just going to go bad without our attention. Hamilton won that year thanks in no small part to our heroic consumption of Sleemans. That particular Grey Cup was the perfect combination of pizza, beer and victory.

Another memorable Grey Cup event took place last year and will be forever known as The Great Chili Ambush. As everyone knows, Chili is a Grey Cup necessity. Admittedly, while a student, Chili didn’t play a large role in Grey Cup festivities because no one we knew owned a pot big enough to make Chili. But, regrettably in this instance, one of our father’s did own such a pot and he made authentic Texas Style Chili. You know the kind – uses cubes of beef not ground beef. And not a tomato to be found in the sauce - just a careful blend of spices and slow cooking. To make a long story short, the Chili Assassin spiced the Chili that day to dangerous proportions. No amount of sour crème or cheese could blunt its effects. Although I could appreciate its depth of flavour, some others thought it was overdone. Regardless, I hope the Chili Assassin is back at it again this year.

Alas, no one has invited us to a Grey Cup party this year. The game won’t even start until 11:30pm here and is watchable only if you get the proper channel. Notwithstanding this cruel turn of events, I’ll be thinking of Chili, and Sleeman, the Tiger-Cats, the giant jar of bottle caps on Dave’s coffee table and of Grey Cups past. Hopefully, there will be snow in the air in Winnipeg and for one night most of the TV sets in Canada will be tuned to the CBC.

Just for the record – BC 41; Montreal 37.

PS – Anyone (Stephen) who would have any kind of ceremony, say by way of example an induction ceremony (his induction ceremony), at a time (4:00 pm) that would prevent others from enjoying the Grey Cup (Grey Cup Sunday) should be dragged into the street and shot. I mean really … it’s the Grey freakin’ Cup.

Graduation

Yesterday at 6pm I was scheduled to receive my MA from University of Toronto. Obviously, I was not in attendance. So it appears I’ve done it again. I have deprived my parents of attending one of my graduations. Let’s be serious though, no one actually enjoys attending these drawn out, boring ceremonies anyway. How many times do we need to hear an honorary degree recipient talk about their life’s work as a wind engineer or an alpaca farmer. Besides, it’s not as if there is any shortage of these events to go to! Sure I didn’t attend the ceremony at University of Guelph when I got my BA, but I was on to bigger and better things and was in full swing at McMaster in the Midwifery programme. The ceremony to mark the completion of that program was much more meaningful. All the hard work, sacrifice, and sleepless nights needed to be celebrated. As for the MA, again it has set the stage for the next step; the next step being our wee adventure over here so I can do further study. After all that we have already done for my PhD including uprooting our life and moving here, never mind the bit that lies ahead like my dissertation, you can bet your sweet ass I will be going to that ceremony! Plus, that’s when I will get to wear all the fancy gear. Apparently, a PhD graduate from the University of Sheffield can be seen sporting a black velvet mortar board, a red gown (with bell sleeves) edged in green, and a red hood lined in green. Not too shabby. So mum and dad, you can mark it on your calendars now….December 2009, we will be making a trip back to good old Sheffield to celebrate in style. In the mean time, I’ve included a photo of my midwifery graduation so we can all pretend that it was my MA ceremony last night. Oh, and if you really feel the need to experience the ceremony, I understand a web cast is available through University of Toronto’s website: www.utoronto.ca/convocation

England v. Macedonia - Oct. 9th, 2006 5:00pm, Old Trafford, Manchester

June 22nd, 1986 was a day that forever cursed my life[1]. But let me start from the beginning. I was twelve years old and had just moved to Ancaster with my family. Tears for Fears were making their way up the charts and Rock Lobster was making its way down. The end of the school year was approaching and the teachers devised what to them, no doubt, seemed a brilliant make-work project for the last month of school[2]. (If the world could somehow harness for the service of good the mental energy primary school teachers devote to creating busy projects for students in the last month of term, all global ills would be eradicated in a second). The World Cup provided the perfect opportunity, according to these teachers, to learn about different countries and cultures. There were 32 kids in my class and 32 teams in the World Cup. Perfect. Except for me. I had the 31st pick and, faced with the inhuman choice between Paraguay and Uruguay (and already receiving an unwelcome reply to my query: “Do we really have to do this?”), I selected Paraguay.

I see now that the fateful turn of the tide in this story occurred when I thought it might be a good idea to watch the games my country played. Paraguay was alright and made it though the first round. But there was another team that caught my eye. The games were played at school whenever they were on and I was fortunate enough to catch the demolition of the hated Poles at the hands of the English 3 – nil. That was it. Thank you Gary Lineker for ruining my life. From that point on, I was an England fan[3]. On June 18th, I saw England demolish my adopted Paraguay also by a 3-nil score. Obviously, this England side was unstoppable. Surely, it would take divine intervention to deny us. A few days later I bore witness to the “Hand of God”[4] and, with it, experienced true sporting rage, bitterness and, yes, tragedy. That World Cup left scars that will never heal. My inability to deal with these scars in any adult or mature way is the reason why today I refer to any other footballing nation (except Scotland, Ireland, Wales and N. Ireland) with the prefix “the hated”[5].

Since England’s brutal exit from the 1986 World Cup, I have made it my life’s work to see them play live. In all their God-Save-the-Queen, loutish, foot-stomping, public-beer-swilling, inappropriate-swearing-in-the-presence-of-ladies-and-children glory. That dream was realized on the above-noted date. Not only that, but the game was played at the theatre of dreams, the Maple Leaf Gardens / Montreal Forum of football – Old Trafford. The pictures here and on our Flickr site will record for posterity the sights of that day. What they won’t show you is Steven Gerrard cowering on the bus, the massive Man U merchandizing operations, the police set up along the route from the train station to Old Trafford like lights on a runway, or the hour and a half wait after the game to get the train back to Manchester City centre.

The pictures also won’t provide an adequate sense of the occasion which is present when England plays at home: the buzz outside the stadium, the national anthem both before the game and after half-time, the English fan chants and the sound of 70,000 screaming Roo-na-AY as he zings a shot by the bar. These were all good things. Unfortunately, there was the one bad thing that marred the day. England drew nil-nil with the hated Macedonia. The closest England came to scoring was Gary Neville’s missed open net and Gerrard’s shot off the cross-bar.

So, the fulfillment of one life’s goal leads to another - to see England actually score a goal at home. Wait. Let me be more specific - to see England win a game at home. I guess one always needs something to aspire to. Damn you Gary Lineker.

[1] I guess things could be worse. It was the same day Napoleon invaded Russia in 1812. It has subsequently been salvaged as it is now known as the day my wife and I had our first date.
[2] I also seem to recall taking crayon rubbings of historical plaques in and around Ancaster in another end of school project. Where is the quality control in education?
[3] It will be forever debatable who is the more pathetic creature: the England fan or the Toronto Maple Leaf fan. Of course, the distinction is wasted on me. I suffer from both afflictions.
[4] In his 2002 autobiography, Maradona did admit that the ball came off his hand:
"Now I feel I am able to say what I couldn't then. At the time I called it "the hand of God". What hand of God? It was the hand of Diego! And it felt a little bit like pickpocketing the English."
In 2005, on his television talk show, Maradona attempted to justify the goal as a response to the UK's victory in the Falklands War, quoting the popular Spanish saying: 'Whoever robs a thief gets a 100-year pardon.'
[5] I could never refer to Scotland, Ireland, Wales or N. Ireland with the prefix “the hated” as I have ancestors from each of these nations. Of course, I also have an ancestor from France but I make a special exception for the hated French. [Note: special thanks to my esteemed editor for the corrections to this footnote.]