Practice, well, doesn’t make perfect. But it’s time to get back to drawing as summer starts to wind down (how is that possible, the eternal refrain of every year, although this year it does seem to be a endless summer as the dry spell shows no sign of abating and forest fires continue to rage).
I attempted to draw a pepper. I sketched in the highlighted areas and unfortunately the pencil marks showed through, but that in itself is a great learning experience.
Sometimes all you need is one night away and you feel refreshed. Even if you’re cycling and it’s hot work. We loaded up the bikes with as little gear as possible (still too much of course), got up at 5am one morning, stealth parked the car in a neighbourhood near to the ferry terminal we were leaving from and rode almost straight onto the 8am ferry at Tsawwassen. It’s a gorgeous ride from there across the Strait of Georgia to the southern gulf islands. Sunny, as it is inevitably at the moment (who’d ever think that would be true of this region?), the ride was as ever beautifully scenic.
The island of Saltspring was our destination, Fulford Harbour our port of call. From there we rode to Ruckle Park to camp, only 9km or so away but on an intensely hilly and twisty road in what turned out to be 33c heat…
But there were farm stands on the way to stop at with the excuse of buying fresh ingredients to add to our dinner – a fresh yellow zucchini and purple garlic made welcome appearances in our pasta meal – and we loitered in the shade admiring the flowers for sale.
There’s plenty of farms, fields and a couple of refreshing lakes popular with the locals along the way. We had to ride back later along the same road to Fulford to buy milk we’d forgotten for essential coffee the next morning (we ended up riding that road four times over the course of 24hrs or so) and took our swimming gear with us so we could break the hot ride with a welcome dip. Locals were arriving in droves to find relief in the water from the sun, some stopping only to strip off every stitch of clothing before plunging through the water lilies gathered at the edge of the lake.
On the island there’s gorgeous trees to notice, Garry Oak (threatened) and Arbutus amongst them; eagles to spot; if you’re lucky Orcas off the shoreline or seals and otters. Somehow a rusting heap of a house or barn seemed add to the ambiance of the surrounding area rather than detract from it.
Ruckle Park itself is a great camping spot, set right on the water’s edge with plenty of space between tent sites. It’s relaxing and very quiet. We dipped into the freezing ocean to cool off after our ride in and lay on the dark rocks afterwards letting the warmth sink back into our muscles. In the evening the wind picked up and we left a tent flap open to the ocean to let the breeze in. It was the coolest we’d been at night almost all summer.
Sitting by the logs washed up on the shoreline we napped and attempted to read. Winged insects were gathered by a stream of something shiny. At first we thought it was a spilled sugary drink but it turned out to be a trickle of fresh water. The heat had made them thirsty too.
Stunned by the sun, but slowly released from the grip of tension and stress by the ebb and flow of the waves plopping back and forth onto the rocks, in only a few hours we felt as if we’d been away for days. Sometimes the best things come in small packages…..
After a five-hour but beautiful drive from the Okanagan to the Kootenay region of BC we wound up in Nelson. It’s hip, it’s historic and it’s full of cool people living a (presumably) alternative life. Kick-started by Vietnam draft dodgers from the US with more liberal views, and cushioned by the wealth produced from a thriving marijuana industry over the last 20 years there’s an abundance of sport adrenaline junkies, organic farms and artisans. Someone remarked that people there were ‘hippicrites’, lots of expensive clothing masquerading as frugality, not part of the corporate world etc. I don’t know if that’s true or not, from locals in the nearby village of Procter we heard that many living in Nelson these days are working at two or three jobs – there’s very little in full-time work available – housing and rentals are expensive after the real estate boom begun in the early 2000’s and we noticed that there were many restaurants charging what amounts to Vancouver prices. We were on a budget ourselves and sought out the more reasonably priced eateries, El Taco was one of the best, $8 for a huge burrito; and a great little Indian restaurant called Baba’s with an outside eating area right on the sidewalk for a mid priced, and tasty butter chicken.
All that aside, Nelson is beautiful, situated on the West Arm of Kootenay Lake and nestled back into the Selkirk mountains with concurrent steep streets. It’s where Steve Martin filmed Roxanne. I remember seeing that film many years ago, long before Canada was on my radar, and was struck by how beautiful the city was – I made a point of looking up the location – and finally here I was in person. You never know when a seed will germinate.
Nelson has something like 350 (or more) historic buildings, restored from the silver rush days of yore. Luckily for Nelson, when other cities were tearing down older buildings and building more modern versions in the 60’s and 70’s, Nelson merchants modernized their buildings with sidings of aluminum. With the surge in historical restorations in the 1980’s, Nelson simply ripped off the sidings.
Brake lights necessary! Photo by Scott
Nelson Bewing Company in the evening light
We wandered the streets and played with the cameras
Battling colds, and so forgoing riding, we made day trips to nearby towns. One was the tiny community of Procter accessed by a free ferry across Kootenay Lake. We’d been told to hit the village bakery for the best cinnamon buns and they didn’t disappoint. As soon as we walked into the bakery, it seemed we were standing in the middle of the kitchen, whilst locals wandered in and out helping themselves to whatever was coming fresh out of the oven. Mounds of dough were waiting to be made into the massive aforesaid buns. Chatting to the owner it turned out that the bakery was once a school, before it became a private house and bakery. When our friendly baker bought the house from the woman who owned both, she ‘threw’ in the bakery and taught him how to make cinnamon buns in two weeks (he said it’s not that hard and you get instant credibility in the village!). Now looking to retire he asked me ‘want to buy a bakery?’. My immediate answer was ‘kind of’. It’s lovely there, peaceful and pretty, but baking?!…..
Kaslo was on our list of day trips and particularly the road between Kaslo and New Denver. A beautiful flowing and winding road, it’s a top rated ride for cyclists. Grizzlies and moose can be spotted if you hit it at the right time. We have to go back and ride it….in the meantime we explored Kaslo.
Kaslo. Photo by Scott
Kaslo. Photo by Scott
As the heat beat down, we knew we’d need to spend time cooling off. And so we did, lounging on a beach by Kootenay Lake, the latter so glacially cold that we could barely dip into it. Someone picked up a guitar and played really really well. Eventually the sun started to disappear, it was time to leave…..to the sound of ‘Blackbird’ being played.
Kootenay Lake
It’s hot and smoky (from forest fires raging in the province) here in Vancouver at this moment, and is going to stay that way for the next little while. But it’s not as hot as it is in the Okanagan and the Kootenays, from where we returned a couple of weeks ago from a ten day trip. It was a chance to get away from the city – since we’re forgoing a big trip this year as we save up for a cycle tour in Europe next year (!) – and to hit a few quiet roads, sit around a campfire and generally chill.
The Okanagan was deceptively green, it was already fiercely dry (although luckily hadn’t yet hit the mid 30’s) and the scent of the ever present and abundant sage as we drove into the region was already in the air as the oil was released by the heat. We had turned off the main highway onto Twin Lakes Road, quiet apart from a few cyclists, and which ultimately leads to a gorgeous valley that provides a protected home to a huge variety of birds, some of which are endangered. From Twin Lakes Road we turned onto White Lake road, with one of several alkali ponds in the area, and officially the White Lakes Grasslands Area. The glare from the minerals around the lake was intense as we stopped to listen to the meadowlarks by the side of the road. It’s a ritual we perform every time we go to the Okanagan. The fact you can step outside of the car, lean against it and listen for a while to the birdsong without the distraction of peripheral noise psychologically signals to us that we’re really on holiday, and that we’re in a special place.
White Lake
Cyclists on White Lake Road
The area is one of the driest of the province, home to fragile grasses, Ponderosa Pine and red and blue listed amphibians, reptiles, insects, bird and plant species. For us, putative twitchers that we seem to have become, the birds appeared to us most frequently. We camped in the Okanagan Falls Provincial Park, off nearby Green Lake Road and woke to the twittering and chattering of California Quail as they herded their young around. Woodpeckers, swallows, northern flickers, hummingbirds, all seemed quite comfortable in the peaceful campground. Bats took over the watch from swallows in the evening and flitted about our heads on their sharp trajectories. Visiting friends who live nearby overlooking an exquisite valley we saw what looked like either a Bullock’s Oriole or Baltimore Oriole and heard the distinctive high pitched whoomphing noise that the Common Nighthawk makes as it heads into a territorial or courtship display dive after dropping from the sky above the trees.
The wildlife also makes the roads hazardous, we constantly watched for marmots, deer, snakes and bears in the car, in an attempt to avoid hitting them. The collateral damage on these country roads is pretty high. On the bike it was a little easier. It’s a great riding area, scenic, quiet and the best way to get around so long as you head out before it gets too hot and take into account the roads can be a little rough. A small price to pay for the deliciousness of clean air and the chance to listen to the environment and its inhabitants around you living and breathing.
Heading out on Green Lake Road for a short (50km) ride
Green Lake
Evening light on the hills
In pondering what to choose to write for this post and in an effort to get things moving I just moved over to Scotts desk to change-up the energy a bit. Outside the window the finches are yelling at me because I removed the feeder – couldn’t take the pigeons dumping all over the balcony anymore. Besides, birds need to feed insects to their young to make their feathers grow (apparently), so I feel almost virtuous in cutting them off for a few days. The hummingbird is a bit different, if we take away the feeder he may never come back, they hate disruption, and now that hummingbirds are habituated to the city in the winter because feeders have been put up (we didn’t start it!) they need that consistency. I did, in an effort to provide some natural food source, plant a few hummingbird friendly flowers. Our little friend gave them a cursory once over then settled back to the crack cocaine of free, immediate sugared water. Bah.
That was a brief segue. What I meant to say was that I recently re-watched Babette’s Feast, hard to believe it was made in 1987. And it was as wonderful to get lost in it as it was the first time around. A short story by Karen Blixen (Out of Africa) under the pen name of Isak Dinesen, it has some profound commentary on the creativity of an artist, in this case a cook. Babette says: ‘throughout the world sounds one long cry from the heart of the artist. Give me the chance to do my very best’ and that ‘an Artist is never poor’. Well, the last is true and not true of course. I’m going to digress again here and mention a great quote by Alan Rusbridger who just retired at editor of The Guardian in the UK. ‘It seemed obvious to me that journalism, as an imperfect medium, will always include mistakes……’ (Just in case I get any quotes wrong, I’m no journalist of course, but I do try to check and double-check the information I glean for these posts). I think perhaps many people try, if they have the luxury to do so, to find something that reflects who they really are. I don’t think it really matters, cooking, drawing, sport, reading, writing, being a good friend etc.
I made a soup a couple of weeks ago. Just enjoying the feeling of making something new, and of making something, from my new favourite cookbook A Kitchen in France. (I’ve even taken to writing annotations in it which shows how much I like it, I have every intention of hanging on to it…..much like we used to do when we were kids, remember how you’d proudly write your name in your book? Never thinking that you wouldn’t always have it, the seeming permanence of childhood!). It was a fava bean soup, cue the inevitable quote, although fava beans are also known as broad beans.
I may have misread the recipe initially. I thought it called for 1Ib of fava beans and duly bought these up in a local store along with all the other ingredients. Chopped shallots, home-made croutons, a bit of fried ham and fresh mint go in the bottom of the bowl and the soup is poured over the top. Substantial and hearty. After I’d painstakingly shelled the beans I was a bit concerned that the tiny bowl of beans I was left with could possibly make a decent amount of soup. Correct. It was Scott who pointed out that perhaps the 1Ib referred to the beans after they’d been shelled. Looking again, I was slightly appalled to see that to get that amount I would need 4 Ibs of unshelled fava beans.
Heroically Scott headed back to the store, literally bought up the remaining beans (the cashier apparently said they weren’t a popular item and he’d basically bought up all they would probably have in for a while) and then spent the next hour sitting with me helping to shell the damn things. Not only do they have to be popped out of their pods, but they have a fibrous coating around each bean which is best to take off. In the end it was a success, of kinds. Perhaps without the raw shallots and mint next time, and helping hands roped in to help are a must. It wasn’t Art, as my tongue in cheek title suggests, but it was satisfying.
beans and potatoes bubbling away before being blended…
some cream cheese and mint on top, ta da!
My head has been a little full of stresses the last month or so, sometimes life can get on top of you a bit….work, finances, lingering flus and colds. The minutiae of everyday living that seems to be throwing itself at you relentlessly at times. So last Sunday we threw our mountain bikes onto the newly welded, and no longer rattling, bike rack and headed up to Whistler. Gorgeous day, perfect riding weather in the low 20’s with mostly sun the entire time. There are some great trails hidden away around Lost Lake, techy enough to challenge, steep enough to get you breathing heavily and flowy enough to get up a bit of speed. White Gold Traverse, Pinocchio’s Furniture (lots of wood, duh), The Torture Never Stops, Grand Wazoo, all fun stuff. And the smell of the air – pine scented, aromatic and oxygenated – it felt like our lungs were being scrubbed inside out. Seeing the lichen hanging off trees is heartening to me, a sign of some health in the air, a small escape from pollution. Pushing up White Gold Traverse my legs felt strong, but I could barely speak as I caught my breath. Sometimes I wonder how I ever get up any hill, ever, and at other times I feel as if I could tackle anything. Feeling physically in harmony is elusive, remembering those moments even more so. It takes an effort of will to recall it in the midst of feeling run down, sore and tired.
Fun Trails
Remembering how it feels though is key to getting out there. No epic ride going on here but good enough to work off a few extra pounds that seem to have crept onto the waistline, how did that happen? Over three hours of riding later we made our way back down the highway – tired in that great post exercise way – headed back to the next week of work but with a better frame of mind to tackle it with.
What exactly is the seasonal food here in Western BC? It was late April and I had to admit that nothing immediately sprang to mind. So I had a quick look online and was surprised to discover that asparagus and fava (or broad beans) should have been available. Well, the beans would be greenhouse grown. I’ve been following the blog Manger, of which I’m a fan and ended up buying the author’s recently released cookbook, A Kitchen In France. And because the focus is on seasonal recipes (in a region of France where the weather in April doesn’t seem entirely different to the West Coast of Canada) I was pretty happy to notice that there was a recipe for both vegetables.
I thought I was a fairly aware person when it came to fresh, organic or at least local produce and I love to frequent farmers markets once they open shop again in the city, but this lack of knowledge in seasonal produce showed up a huge gap in my education. It’s as if I’ve forgotten chunks of my childhood in the countryside in England, and I have a generally good memory. We had a vegetable plot with many different varieties of produce, my sister and I would be sent out to pick chilled Brussels sprouts off their stalks in the winter, but otherwise only the really obvious plants seem to have stuck in my mind. Summer is easy – tomatoes, strawberries, lettuce, cucumber etc. Winter for many root vegetables, but those shoulder seasons?…..
Now I’m on a bit of a mission. I’m a fan of J.B Mackinnon’s writing (The Once and Future World, short stories from Outside). A few years ago he and Alisa Smith wrote the 100 mile diet. I’d heard a lot about it and it’s since gone into the lexicon of our language for those even remotely interested in local produce and reducing their carbon footprint, but I had never gotten around to reading it. I ordered it from the library then raced through it, increasingly inspired by their, at times contentious, search for a variety of seasonal produce.
Fired up with all sorts of thoughts relating to ‘seasonal’ and ‘local’ I powered in one day after work to a local organic store and proceeded to ransack their shelves for vegetables. Hmmm, well I admit I bent the rules a little. Not entirely local and seasonal, more a case of seasonal, almost, but not necessarily local. And like a kid in a candy shop I wanted to try everything. No fava beans, but I bought Jerusalem artichokes (sunchokes) from the Okanagan, asparagus (from the States, oops), oyster mushrooms, potatoes (States again) and red snapper (which came from about 200kms away and was probably the most local thing I bought that day). Oh, and actually local rhubarb. Cooked whilst following a Jamie Oliver recipe that used grated rind of orange, about as un local and unseasonal as you can get.
I cooked everything. Note to self: pick one main item and build a meal around it. Don’t make every item the main focus, chaos inevitably ensues. I had every available pot and pan going as each vegetable needed its own space and cooking time. I pulled it off, mostly, although the meal was a little less than hot and fresh and more lukewarm and slightly soggy from waiting a few crucial extra minutes for various vegetables. This is of course down to my abilities, or lack of, as a cook. But there is a case of too much of a good thing. And the amount of energy used just to cook everything negated any savings I might have made by choosing the more seasonal vegetables. Each item had its own charm and delicious taste though, sunchokes are surprisingly good. Washed and tossed in olive oil and garlic, then roasted in the oven for about 35mins, they make a welcome change from potatoes. But asparagus, ah! Fried in the inimitable olive oil and garlic, the greenness of them epitomizes the fresh colour and taste of spring. It wouldn’t be such a hardship to live on this spring vegetable for a while……
I wish we could’ve taken a picture of the nightingales we heard singing as we rode into Autignac, our first stop in France. It was the most gorgeous, welcoming sound I could’ve wished for and made me feel we were exactly where we were supposed to be. We had stumbled out of the Beziers train station at 8pm in late May of last year after getting up at 5.30am in London, catching the Eurostar to France and then the TGV down to Beziers. I imagine this would be a rare occurrence, but our TGV was late leaving Paris and so we missed our connection in Montpellier to Beziers by local train. Hence the late arrival, we were already supposed to have arrived at our b&b in Autignac. Instead we spent the next hour building up our bikes and repacking our panniers with the bike bags. We had roughly 20kms to ride to Autignac via a scenic route our hosts Darren and Emma had kindly pointed out to us in their emails. A quick hop, but it took a while to get off the bumpy roads of Beziers. My panniers fell off after I failed to avoid a particularly big pothole. We reattached and rejigged them and they never came off again, but it slowed us down for a while. It was a stunning ride to the village though. Once off the main roads we were passed by perhaps one car. The sun was setting, it was warm after the traditional damp of England we had left behind and we rolled past vineyards on narrow country roads, passing through quiet villages. My first introduction to riding in France, pretty sweet.
We had to stop at the beginning of the village to listen to the birdsong for a moment, then finally turned into an innocuous road and knocked on the front door of Le Saint André Bed and Breakfast. So welcoming! Darren came out to meet us, showed us where to store our bikes in their spacious garage next door, led us upstairs to our cosy room at the top of the house to dump our bags and then back down to the middle level to have a supper I’d (thank goodness) ordered for our first night. We felt a bit bad, it was already 9.45pm, Emma had had our supper cooked for a while but they were very gracious about it, realizing I think that we’d had a bit of an epic journey. That was my first dinner in France with freshly made cherry clafoutis for dessert, and not my last since it was the height of cherry season. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a set table look so inviting. It’s a clichéd description but lamplight really was glinting off wine glasses, the food was great, there were other convivial guests sitting reading quietly but ready to chat (we probably weren’t making much sense though). When we hit the pillows that night we were out like lights.
And this was the lovely sight that greeted us when we went back down to the little terrace adjoining the dining room the next morning for breakfast……
Really can’t say enough good things about our stay, three nights in a comfortable room, lovely hosts who always helped out with recommending a prime lunch spot, welcome coffee break or a good ride for the day depending on the kms we wanted to undertake. They cater to everyone but cyclists in particular and offer package deals and cycle tours. It’s an unspoilt area to ride. The Languedoc-Roussillon area of France is arguably not the best known of the regions for cycling, but that doesn’t reflect on the quality of the riding terrain. Rolling hills, aromatic pine trees, narrow quiet roads. And the constant birdsong. It wasn’t just the nightingales, swallows were everywhere – swooping and diving through the air, their chatter so loud and pervasive that I laughed out loud as I rode. The hills are perfect to stretch your legs on and there are, of course, lots of vineyards to explore.
Each night we stayed in Autignac, a very normal working village centred around the wine industry, we wandered around exploring the narrow streets (admittedly this didn’t take long, it’s a small village) and visited the diminutive but eclectic local shop to pick up supplies: bread, cheese, olives and wine. The village is one of seven in the Faugères AOP area where the emphasis seems these days to be on quality organic wine. We loved it there and intend to be back the first chance we get….
vineyards close to Autignac
A slight chill in the air, but gorgeous blue sky and Magnolia trees showing their worth, some of their blooms already about to expire, others just starting. People walking around with cameras to catch the life sprouting, it’s irresistible.
Rather than copy illustrations from a book, albeit a great way to learn some basic techniques, I’m going to commit to drawing from life, except for when going back to revise and learn some fundamentals. It’s challenging and frustrating, a picture of a tomato went in the garbage, couldn’t stand to look at the fiendish thing anymore. A drawing of a shallot is safe, for now. It’s more an approximation, the colours are insanely annoying to figure out. I have so many pencils now and yet they don’t seem to be the right ones, or I’m not using them and layering them correctly. Anyhoo, here it is for better or worse:
On A Small Blue Planet 