new blog

I haven’t written on here a while, mostly because I’ve started a food blog for The Province newspaper.

It’s called Jan Eats and you can find it here.

I’ll do my darndest to post here when I can.

sick of goodbyes

July and August were a bit of a blur. But filled with some great memories. I guess those last few weeks in Scotland and Europe were too concentrated with intense moments.

• A rare warm summer’s day on the recently discovered roof terrace of the Ubiquitous Chip.
• A farewell tour of the Highlands – blessed with more rare dry weather – involving the Caledonian Canal, a stunning B&B where we tried fishing on the nearby River Affric, visiting our wedding grove in Glen Affric, the ferry from Skye to Mallaig, monkfish and langoustines in Mallaig, paddling in the nippy North Atlantic on a white beach near Morar, and the Road to the Isles.
• A BZB field trip to Barcelona, where many beers and mojitos were imbibed, distinctly un-local food was eaten, Venezuelans were accosted, and one of the worst hangovers in history was suffered.
• Packing up an entire flat after selling many things on eBay. This resulted in the quite common reaction six months later: “why the hell did we pack [insert type of ornament/toy/paper clips here]???” Noting again with amusement how quickly things scheduled for bulk pick-up by the binmen disappear when left on Glasgow streets.
• A goodbye party at the Uisge Beatha. Rather surreal at the time.
• Packing up Ulysses for our road trip to Germany and saying goodbye to our nice flat on Fergus Drive.
• A night in Manchester with Yak and Nat, going for a fine curry, and then talking the usual shit with Yak into the wee hours over some Jim Beam.
• London: Enjoying the relaxing accommodation at Rennison Towers; feeling a bit guilty for being excessively tired at Bryony’s birthday party; taking a boat down the Thames from Richmond; attending one of the best R.E.M. live shows I have ever seen, at Twickenham; accidentally finding graffiti on Leake Street underneath Waterloo Station; wandering through the sights of central London; realising that maybe London isn’t really as bad as I’d always painted it; more goodbyes.
• A night in Canterbury, with dinner at a very nice Belgian bistro.
• Ferry from Dover to Dunkirk and the long drive down to Germany
• Loving being in Germany: lounging around and eating, as usual; sitting in the sun; walking up on the Schwäbische Alb plateau; visiting Freudenstadt; eating Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte in the Schwarzwald; visiting the Freiburg Zeschkys and being at Merle’s first day at school; cheering Andy Murray on in the US Open semi and final; finalising our first accommodation in Vancouver; more sad goodbyes; stopping in Köln for some Kölsch and a look at the Dom.
• The ferry home from Amsterdam, and the strangeness of heading to Dundee rather than Glasgow.
• Shuttle trips to Edinburgh and Glasgow for even more goodbyes.
• Walking near Tullybaccart.
• A farewell party in Dundee. Even more sad goodbyes.
• A sunny last day with Clare’s parents at Binn Tower near Perth.
• Even more sad goodbyes.
• Stopping in at The Horn on the way out of Dundee.
• A last few pints in Glasgow (Cottier’s) on the night before our flight. Staying with Lynne and Piers. Saying goodbye to my trusty Ulysses. Last goodbyes.
• Having “Sick of Goodbyes” by Sparklehorse stuck in my head.
• Heading off to the airport for our flight from hell.

The last picture I took in Scotland was of the RRS Discovery moored at Dundee. That seems rather appropriate.

more scrum than scrumptious

I decided to nosy-in on the Eat! Vancouver exhibition a couple of weekends back. The “Everything Food + Cooking Festival” promised a bellyful of treats, from local restaurant samples to international flavours, celebrity chef demos, seminars and a masterchef competition.

In reality, it was a scrum. The covered turf of BC Place was packed, making walking between stalls stressful enough, never mind actually getting to the front of the packs of people huddled around them. Nevertheless, the Good Lady and I gave the place a full tour and managed to get some interesting flavours on our tongues: cinnamon honey (cinnamoney?), molasses-tangy birch syrup fresh from Quesnel, subtle olive oils, not-so-subtle olive oils, creamy mozzarella and a quite frankly bizarre chipotle ale from the Oregon-based Rogue brewery. (Not so much chilli flavour as heat in the throat – to be honest, not something I could drink more than the 50ml sampler of.)

While these assorted tastes were generally nice, it seemed that the stall attendants were too busy preparing free samples for the baying masses to answer questions about their product – or perhaps they were surprised that anyone was interested in anything more than a free fraction of lunch. That’s not to say many samples were even free: ticket stubs had to be separately purchased at a lone stall (with the consequence of long line-ups) and most stalls demanded a certain amount of stubs for each tasting. At $5 for ten tickets, the cost could mount up quickly.

I did, however, manage to talk to a rep at the Red Leaf water stand and address him about one of my bigger bugbears since arriving here. In every Vancouver restaurant I’ve been in, asking for sparkling water always results in a bottle of San Pellegrino, shipped halfway across the world from Italy. I asked the rep why, to my knowledge, no Canadian-based drinks company, including his own, produced sparkling water. “Cost” was the simple reply: it’s more expensive to carbonate the water, and also more expensive to put that carbonated water in glass bottles, which the product ideally requires. But seeing as manufacturers are all apparently moving  towards glass – with plastics phased out in “five to ten years,” he said, which I thought was a little optimistic – a change could be coming. I argued that the demand was clearly there in restaurants alone, and most supermarkets already carry San Pellegrino and Perrier. He admitted it was strange that no Canadian companies had looked into satisfying this demand.

Like Scotland, B.C. has the potential to produce some of the finest waters in the world – in Scotland they’re purified and softened by peat, in B.C. they’re glacier-fresh – but this is overlooked for the usual foreign products. Scotland at least as Highland Spring. So why does Canada need to import water when we already have such an abundance of our own quality product? It’s difficult enough to get hold of a bottle of Whistler water in Vancouver, which is an outrageous state of affairs. And don’t get me started on Fiji water.

Now craving a little more than the odd free scrap, the Good Lady and I took the plunge into the crowds surrounding the restaurant stands. This “Bite of Vancouver” section promised “some of Vancouver’s favourite restaurants serving up a dizzying array of cuisine” but the selection wasn’t particularly impressive, with Indian stalls predominating. Generally, the samplers weren’t much better quality than fast food, although we did get some very good vegetable pakora from the New India Buffet stall. The standout sampler, however, was the succulent beef and chorizo sliders from Zin Restaurant and Lounge. It was one of the few places that I bothered looking up online when I got home, and I can add that its menu looks very enticing, sustainable and adventurous, and not what you’d expect from what is ostensibly a hotel restaurant (The Pacific Palisades on Robson).

So the exhibition was a bit of a dud. Before you Eat! Vancouver next year, you’d be advised to Beat! Vancouver and get here early and around the stalls before the crush sets in. But here’s another idea: instead of restricting the event to once a year, why not repeat it in summer, autumn, and even winter? That way more emphasis could be placed on seasonal produce, giving each event more of a theme rather than a bewildering selection of year-round goods. It would also give participating restaurants and chefs a chance to display their knowledge of, and skill with, local and seasonal produce, rather than serving up boring samplers from a big tureen. (There is an Eat! Fraser Valley exhibition in September, but I don’t fancy journeying out to Abbotsford for more of the same.)

Which reminds me: there were some celebrity chefs on display too. But the cult of celebrity doesn’t really do it for me.

I decided to nosy-in on the Eat! Vancouver exhibition on a couple of weekends back. The “Everything Food + Cooking Festival” promised a bellyful of treats, from local restaurant samples to international flavours, celebrity chef demos, seminars and a masterchef competition.

In reality, it was a scrum. The hall was packed, making walking between stalls stressful enough, never mind actually getting to the front of the packs of people huddled around them. Nevertheless, the Good Lady and I gave the place a full tour and managed to get some interesting flavours on our tongue: cinnamon honey (cinnamoney?), molasses-tangy birch syrup fresh from Quesnel, subtle olive oils, not-so-subtle olive oils, creamy mozzarella and a quite frankly bizarre chipotle ale from the Oregon-based Rogue brewery. (Not so much chilli flavour but heat in the throat – to be honest, not something I could drink more than the 50ml sampler of.)

While these assorted tastes were nice, it seemed that the stall attendants were more intent on preparing more free samples for the baying masses than answering questions about their product – or perhaps they were surprised that anyone was interested in anything more than a free fraction of lunch. That’s not to say many samples were even free – ticket stubs had to be separately purchased at a lone stall (with the consequence of long line-ups) and most stalls demanded a certain amount of stubs for each tasting. At $5 for ten tickets, the cost could mount up quickly.

I did, however, manage to talk to a rep at the Red Leaf water stand and address him about one of my bigger bugbears since arriving here. In every Vancouver restaurant I’ve been in, asking for sparkling water always results in a bottle of San Pellegrino, shipped halfway across the world from Italy. I asked the rep why, to my knowledge, no Canadian-based drinks company, including his own, produced sparkling water. “Cost” was the simple reply: it’s more expensive to carbonate the water, and also more expensive to put that carbonated water in glass bottles, which the product ideally requires. But seeing as manufacturers are all apparently moving towards glass – with plastics phased out in “five to ten years,” he said, which I thought was a little optimistic – a change could be coming. I argued that the demand was clearly there in restaurants alone, and most supermarkets already carry San Pellegrino and Perrier. He admitted it was strange that no Canadian companies had looked into satisfying this demand.

Like Scotland, B.C. has the potential to produce some of the finest waters in the world – in Scotland they’re purified and softened by peat, in B.C. they’re glacier-fresh – but this is overlooked for the usual foreign products. Scotland at least as Highland Spring. So why does Canada need to import water when we already have such an abundance of our own quality product? It’s difficult enough to get hold of a bottle of Whistler water in Vancouver, which is an outrageous state of affairs. And don’t get me started on Fiji water.

Now craving a little more than the odd free scrap, the Good Lady and I took the plunge into the crowds surrounding the restaurant stands. This “Bite of Vancouver” section promised “some of Vancouver’s favourite restaurants serving up a dizzying array of cuisine”, but the selection wasn’t particularly impressive, with Indian stalls predominating. Generally, the samplers weren’t much better quality than fast food, although we did get some very good vegetable pakora from the New India buffet stall. The standout sampler, however, was the succulent beef and chorizo sliders from Zin Restaurant and Lounge. It was one of the few places that I bothered looking up online when I got home, and I can add that its menu looks very enticing, sustainable and adventurous, and not what you’d expect from what is ostensibly a hotel restaurant (The Pacific Palisades on Robson).

So the exhibition was a bit of a dud overall. Before you can Eat! Vancouver, you’d be advised to Beat! Vancouver and get here early and around the stalls before the crush sets in. But here’s another idea: instead of restricting the event to once a year, why not repeat it in summer, autumn, and even winter? That way more emphasis could be placed on seasonal produce, giving each event more of a theme rather than a bewildering selection of year-round goods, and giving restaurants a chance to display their knowledge of, and skill with, local and seasonal produce, rather than serving up boring samplers from a big tureen. Much more interesting, in my book.

Oh, there were some celebrity chefs on display too, but the cult of celebrity doesn’t really do it for me.

step in, step out of the rain

Clare at Waterfront

September.

We woke up to our first proper day in Vancouver, and this time the sun was shining. Remembering that our room fare included breakfast, we made inquiries at the front desk and were directed to the yahoo bar next door that had seemed so obnoxious on the night of our arrival. Actually, it wasn’t too bad. And the breakfasts were decent: the bacon, eggs and pancakes that we’d soon become very familiar with. A nice wooden interior, if you could actually see the wood for the screens. Showing Setanta, for God’s sake. I had been looking forward to a break from all the football hyperbole. Still, we left suitably refreshed, despite the far-from-refreshing entertainment.

I reckoned the best introduction I could give Clare to Vancouver was the view from the waterfront by Canada Place. So we walked back down Granville, this time in the sun, doing a bit more window shopping than we had done the day before. Massive parts of the road were churned up for what I believed was simple road resurfacing – I had no idea about the Canada Line at this point.

I think I would take any newcomer to Waterfront first. It’s a great overview of the city and its superlative location: there’s ocean, mountains, the green murk of Stanley Park, cruise ships, float planes, the bright red port cranes, soaring high-rises, and the striking landmark of Canada Place, with its five pointed sails (what is Canada Place for, anyway?) The scene is, to ape the Canadian, frickin’ awesome. And it helps when the weather cooperates, which it was on this day: scattered cloud, high teens. We had to skirt round the giant waffle tower of 200 Granville St to reach Canada Place, noticing that the building contained the offices of The Vancouver Sun and The Province. I remember half-jokingly suggesting going inside and saying “geezajoab”… little could I have suspected.

There was more construction to the west of Canada Place (the conference centre extension) but beyond this there lay a pleasant stroll down Coal Harbour. Houseboats, floatplanes landing, a light cooling breeze wafting up off the sea water. A man sitting in a shopping trolley at the water’s edge, taking in the view and munching on a plain baguette.

We got lunch from a cafe on the walkway (with more Mighty Leaf tea) and ate it on the walkway, near Stanley Park. Our walking tour then took us up Denman Street, past some bike hire shops we would consider for our forthcoming tour round the Stanley Park seawall. We got very excited when we passed by a British sweet shop that sold Irn Bru – and it was probably this moment, more than anything up to this point in our adventure, that told us we were going to be okay. We then made our way south-east down the beaches of English Bay – beaches, in the city! – before strolling back to the hotel.

We wandered a bit more that evening, looking for a place to eat around Granville, not sure what we were exactly in the mood for, before opting for sushi. It kind of made sense, when we’d read so much about how good the sushi is here, that this would be our first meal out in Vancouver. This latter reason is why Sushi Maki on Hornby will always have a special place in our bellies. It’s nothing much from the outside and small but perfectly formed within, with little tables and Japanese prints on the walls. The rolls and noodles were just great. And incredibly inexpensive. I’ve come to notice that, as well as the price, the standard of sushi restaurants in Metro Vancouver doesn’t vary greatly – it’s all good, at the very least. Is this because of the ingredients, or the proficiency required by a certified sushi chef, or a combination of both? I should probably investigate exactly what it takes to become a sushi chef. Certainly, it’s a joy sitting at a sushi bar and watching the kitchen create these little masterpieces, perfectly formed every time. Sushi: another essential part of Vancouver.

Our first full touristy day ended with a walk up Robson Street to the Empire Landmark Hotel and its 42nd-floor Cloud Nine restaurant, with its expansive views of the city. You can quite happily just have a drink here, and you might be advised to keep it at that because the prices are steep — so just think of it as your fee for the view. For some reason it’s become de rigeur for me to have a cocktail when up a tower with a view (well, okay, Neil and I did in Calgary; I think Clare and I had crêpes, randomly, at the top of Prague’s Zizkov tower; and refreshments were pretty scarce at the top of the Glasgow Uni tower). The cocktail list wasn’t great here but they had mojitos so we plumped for those. Can’t take much to muck up a mojito, right? Oh dear. What we got handed to us were two glasses of something approximating sugary dishwater with toothpaste stirred through it. For something ridiculous like $9. So in future, bottled beers only in Cloud Nine. You could maybe risk a glass of wine.

Even still, I’d recommend Cloud Nine to anyone who doesn’t mind paying over the odds for a bad drink with a great panorama. The view certainly compensated, and I would guess this is how the barman has managed to keep his job. In our defence, we were probably still jet-lagged, but it took us ages to figure out that the tower was actually revolving slowly. It was dark by this point, but this afforded a sparkling view of downtown and the West End, punctuated by the dark void of Stanley Park and the ocean, before the delicate strands of the Lions Gate bridge identified where North and West Vancouver began. Looking out east past the downtown, we could roughly guess where the apartment we’d arranged to rent was located. The city, beguiling, was already starting to effect a grip on us. The day had shown us many facets of Vancouver, and it’s a tour we’ll probably repeat with any visitors we get.

So far, so good, so close, yet still so far

(Simple Minds, “Waterfront”)

spot on

I got familiar with Pandalus platyceros recently.

The third annual Spot Prawn Festival has opened at Fisherman’s Wharf by Granville Island, and though the wife and I missed the festivities on the inaugural Saturday – a great shame, what with so many top chefs cooking up a prawn storm on the docks, including Andrea Carlson (Bishop’s) and Hidekazu Tojo of Tojo’s – there was no way we were going to miss the opportunity to get some of these little critters direct from their catchers.

There’s something altogether wholesome about buying food direct from a producer. With no middleman, you just trade hard cash for no-frills produce. And the GST police are evidently too busy taxing these middlemen to frisk the consumer for percentages. Plus, during its short eight-week season, this particular comestible ticks all the right boxes for the food-conscious: Local, sustainable and fresh, fresh, fresh.

So it was that a healthy queue began forming on Sunday at the wharf, waiting for a 4 p.m. landing. I have to admit that this was a new experience for me. I’d been to farmers markets in Scotland, but never to a jetty in expectancy of an incoming trader. There’s no reason why a similar festival celebrating the ocean’s bounty shouldn’t exist in that country, where you’re never more than 50 miles from the sea – well, apart from the fact that most of the population will only eat seafood if it’s battered to within an inch of its life. It’s great to see that fresh, local produce is celebrated (and consumed) so avidly in B.C.

As other boats lining the jetty hawked scallops and salmon, Go Fish on the wharf was doing a roaring trade. All in all, there was a pleasant air of happy expectation along the line – despite the clouding skies – with patient customers swapping stories, fishing know-how and even recipes. Finally the boat we were all waiting for pulled in, half an hour late. We were near the head of the line so could see the crew grabbing pink wriggling handfuls, tossing them into baskets, into bags, onto scales, and finally into the hands of us anxious customers.

We only wanted enough for dinner so ordered a pound, which came in at $12. At a dozen prawns per pound, the price per piece isn’t difficult to figure out. And a loonie is definitely a fair price to pay: buying direct also makes you realise how much Mr. Middleman marks up our produce, whether he works in a supermarket or a restaurant.

Placing our plastic bag of precious pandali in a cloth bag (this food has sharp edges) we hurried home, aware of the odd curious stare on the bus and SkyTrain when our bag occasionally rustled of its own accord. We certainly landed a couple of feisty ones.

So how best to cook these guys? Keep it simple. We used a wok with a little olive oil, in which we sautéed some garlic. Then in went the prawns, whole, for a couple of minutes. A splash of white wine in the hot pan never hurts and helps create a broth that is immense for bread-mopping. Just bread and wine (and maybe a salad) do for accompaniments. When produce is this good and this fresh, you don’t need anything else.

With spot prawns being indigenous to the Pacific, it was the first time I’d tried them. I’d say the taste and texture comes in somewhere between tiger prawn and langoustine. Our morsels were incredibly juicy and meaty with just the faintest hint of sea saltiness. Spot on.

Looking at the aftermath of a bowlful of shells and heads made us wish we’d bought another pound to keep them company. But I’ve a feeling we’ll be back at the wharf before long.

Spot prawn season runs for eight weeks, with boats landing daily at Fisherman’s Wharf from 1 p.m. For more info, see www.chefstablesociety.com.

boneta

The boy from Dundee done good. Mark Brand’s Boneta is maintaining a good head of critical acclaim since the informal Gastown restaurant opened almost two years ago. This is in no small part due to the team he has assembled with co-owners, rising star-executive chef Jeremie Bastien and wine expert Neil Ingram. The trio often refer to the family ethic behind the operation (named after Brand’s mother), with communal staff meals before opening, a common tip pot, and a “one-for-all” ethos that can often see a co-owner help with the dishes.

So it’s not surprising to learn that the service at Boneta is great. Friendly in an unforced, genuine way, the staff’s consistency never flags from greeting to goodbye. The co-owners also occasionally take time to work the room and make sure everyone’s having the best experience possible. In Boneta, it seems it’s difficult not to. A typical Friday evening is bustling, with loud chatter filling this room of high ceilings studded with angled mirrors. Local artists’ work adorns the walls, including a huge abstract on the room’s west side. We’re seated on a lower level which means we can’t see into the open kitchen, but our location does help to dilute the noise of carefree diners: Businessmen, girls’ nights out, visiting parents treating student offspring, all seemingly at ease. There’s a happy, lively, relaxed buzz.

The cocktails are almost certainly loosening a few tongues. The menu is of original concoctions, and they’re the best I’ve had in the city so far. A heady, aromatic Sirocco is effectively a margarita turbocharged with passionfruit and sage and makes for a great aperitif, while you’ll be more than likely delighted to meet Mr. Samuels – Makers Mark tangied up with house-made ginger beer and citrus – in whose company I’d gladly spend a whole evening.

Which is saying a lot, because there’s so much to vie for your attention at Boneta. The food menu sings with both time-honoured and inventive creations, while some of the latter already feel like the former. Exhibit A: the kitchen’s increasingly famous bison carpaccio. On its own, the meat packs robust flavour enough. But teamed with peppy arugula, soft quail egg, crunchy walnut and shavings of dense, salty pecorino – and bound in a tart sherry vinaigrette – and the doors of perception open wide. It’s a revelatory dish which should be enshrined as a benchmark of simple ingredient combinations. I could eat it every day and not get bored.

Our other starter (the Good Lady and I swapped halfway through) was no less impressive in structure, and also highlighted the quality of Boneta’s produce. Salmon can often be a let-down, particularly when it’s technically not yet in season. But here? The sockeye is subtly smoked and has a bite finely poised between tender and firm. Like the carpaccio, it could justifiably be served comme ça, with perhaps a little lemon. But the kitchen teams it with a stellar salad of earthy red beet, salmon roe and capers (the latter two offering different intensities of salty pop), and tops it all with a fennel foam of delicate anise tones. Excellent.

Of the “hot” courses, the fish options entice the most. Once again, they’re bursting with ideas, and the execution remains flawless. My halibut (just back in season) is one of the best-cooked pieces of fish I’ve ever had: Seared to a caramel brown on top, falling away at a prod into delicate, pearly flakes. It’s fresh, creamy and so good it overshadows the simple but distinctive flavours of the accompanying artichokes, oyster mushrooms and a subtle sauce vierge.

On the other side of the table are four queen scallops, again cooked expertly. They’re resting on an island of rich, homely-tasting barley and ham hock risotto, which is surrounded by a moat of split pea puree. The flavours here are tried and true, with the ham being a perfect partner to both the seafood and peas. Altogether, they combine to immensely satisfying effect.

Holding its own admirably with both the rustic scallops and more refined halibut is a 2008 Riesling from the Okanagan’s JoieFarm, which has an immediate robustness tempered by a lively apple flavour.

We both know what we want for dessert. One of our main reasons for visiting Boneta (aside from the carpaccio) was its use of the tonka bean, in my limited experience the only Vancouver restaurant to employ this wonderful flavouring. Strong woody vanilla with hints of tobacco doesn’t even start to do this legume justice. (Justice is, in fact, in short supply for the tonka, which is currently banned for food use in the US due to its lethal quality in larger doses.) At Boneta, they’ve incorporated it into a chocolate quartet, including a parfait that just might kill you – it’s that good. Sadly, there’s a little timidity on the kitchen’s part here as the bean’s flavour doesn’t quite shine through enough. That said, it’s a heavenly, decadently rich way to finish off the meal, and great for sharing.

It’s not an inexpensive night out, but with such skill and produce on display it’s better value than many. However, it worked out that we could have spent our final bill on a couple of those Leonard Cohen tickets I was craving. I guess it’s all about weighing up experiences. Maybe next time (I pray to all the deities there is a next time) I will see Lenny – but a night in Boneta is truly memorable in its own way.

Boneta, 1 West Cordova Street, Vancouver, 604-684-1844, www.boneta.ca

haste ye back: north glen shiel ridge

Peaks of west Glen Shiel, from Saileag

I slept extraordinarily well and awoke refreshed a few minutes before my alarm went off. There was already movement in the dorm. I was in fact one of the last to get up, so I got myself organised, had a wash from the freezing tap in the sink by the dorm’s door, and went down for breakfast. I had to settle for just one packet of noodles, but they did me good along with some tea. It was at this stage I had a good chat with the YHA staffer about his life at the Alltbeithe hostel. It detained me a bit, but he was a decent, interesting chap.

So I set off a bit later than I’d planned, and would have to make good speed along my return route, via the North Glen Shiel Ridge and hopefully the Five Sisters afterwards. It was grey outside with light, intermittent rain, so not ideal. Shortly after I crossed the elegant wee footbridge over the River Affric just south of Alltbeithe and turned west, I knew I was in for a frustrating start: the path almost immediately petered out into a succession of boggy crossings, peat hag and streamlets. It made for slow going, so much so that I immediately decided to cross off my first objective, Ciste Dhubh, which stands over the junction of the head of Glen Affric and An Caorann Mor, which I was heading down for starters. It would have involved quite a steep ascent on grass, and I wasn’t getting far quickly.

As I reached the top of the An Caorann Mor, the sun happily came out so I stopped for some food. The noodles hadn’t filled me up that much, so I tried to take some bites of (yet another) peanut butter and jam roll. I was finding it difficult to swallow however, probably because I was getting sick of the taste. But I managed to force some more down, had some chocolate, and then gladly headed west off the boggy path, crossed the Allt a’ Chaorainn Mhor and aimed for the Bealach a’ Choinich, the pass between Ciste Dhubh and Am Bathach.

The ascent to the pass took a little less longer than I had planned, so I rewarded myself with some more difficult-to-swallow food at the top, and some tea. Cloud had gathered overhead again, obscuring the summits, but I could make out my intended route up the north ridge of Sgurr an Fhuarail, which slowly faded into grey. Not seeing the summit of a peak can be disheartening as you’ve no sense of distance to the ultimate goal and, as it turned out, this ridge was a bit of a sloggy bastard. (Not to mention the additional peat hag that needed negotiating on the western edge of the bealach.) Reaching the summit of this Sgurr (a Top) was therefore a relief, additionally so because most of the climbing for the day had now been done: just a simple case of ridge-walking now, right? So I decided to take my time at first — before I realised time was against me.

Once over the Munro of Aonach Meadhoin, the North Glen Shiel Ridge has some really nice narrow (but easy) sections that give you a real feeling of walking through the sky. Additionally, the summit ridge of Sgurr a’ Bhealaich Dheirg, which juts north off the ridge for a short distance, tapers into another scrambly, shattered summit. Sadly I was still in the cloud, and it wasn’t until the descent towards Saileag, my third Munro of the day that views began to open up to Glen Shiel below on my left. Soon the clouds lifted higher to reveal the sharp points of The Saddle’s peaks, which lifted my spirits considerably and allowed me to take some photographs for the first time in a while.

However, by the time I made it to the summit of Saileag, I was done. My stomach was aching a little, probably at my limited diet, and, more worryingly, I was running low on water. As I descended Saileag, the Five Sisters burst through the cloud invitingly in front of me, beckoning me on. But it was already late afternoon, and I was planning to drive home that night. By the time I reached the bealach between Saileag and the first sister, I had regretfully decided to call a halt to the climbing. I’m still unsure whether I’ll get another chance to head up the Sisters, but common sense won out. Besides, I was beginning to have fantasies of a cold pint and a hot dinner.

It was a hellish descent north from the Bealach an Lapain to Gleann Lichd: steep, slippy grass and rock with little semblance of a path until much lower down. I started cursing again and was immensely relieved to get to the foot of the glen. All that was left now was the trudge back to the car. With little but sheep for company, it was a long tramp. But the glen was beautiful, lit up by the waning sun, which had now broken through most of the cloud and illuminated the waterfalls of Beinn Fhada to the north. I occasionally glanced up to the Five Sisters on my left, wondering whether it may have actually been quicker going to stay up on the high ridge. But I got up a good pace on the Land Rover track, stopping only for a picture of the view back up the glen.

I have rarely been so happy to see a car. Comfy seats! Clean clothes! It took half an hour to get everything together, and then I made my way to the Jac-o-Bite restaurant, just at the junction of the A87. I couldn’t not reward them with my currency for a name like that. I had passed this place many a time on the road north, and always expected it to be some sort of truckers’ stop. It was in fact slightly classier, in that it was more for bus trips: tartan twee, jigs on the stereo and overpriced. I went for the fish supper and a pint of lovely cold Tennents: sometimes it just has to be TL. The fish was excellent, the chips less so. I overheard my waitress explaining to a group of four Germans that she didn’t really know the difference between whiskies because she was from Latvia. Welcome to the Highlands! I generally don’t mind dining and drinking alone, and it felt kind of natural after the past couple of days. The sun was setting over the loch, creating a dazzling shimmer and making the room warm and cosy. It was tempting to stay for another, but I was hamstrung: no place to stay, and a car to drive. So I made do with a tea, then paid and stopped in at the shop adjacent for some Lucozade and a couple of Skye beers to enjoy at home.

So I hadn’t quite achieved my aims over the three days: only five Munros climbed out of an intended 11, but that was probably a tad ambitious. What was important was that I had said my goodbyes. I had drank from the streams; had my face blasted by rain and wind and toasted by the sun; got my ass wet sitting in the damp, fragrant grass and heather; scraped my hands on gabbro and sandstone; seen majestic birds and mountain amphitheatres; bleated at sheep. I had shared my love for these wild places with others who felt the same. I had been in the Highlands, and now I was going home. Then I’d be leaving home for somewhere else altogether. But Canada was still far from my mind as the dipping sun cast its last rays on the southern peaks of Glen Shiel, as I accelerated towards the Cluanie Inn, then Spean Bridge, Fort William, Glencoe, Rannoch Moor, Bridge of Orchy, Tyndrum, Crianlarich, Loch Lomond and finally Glasgow. Through a land that will always be home.

introducing redlick jacob

New Westminster Record, April 8

first peeps

September.

So our first impressions weren’t great.

But waking up the next morning after sleeping the sleep of the dead, things felt a little clearer and we felt a bit more positive. I hadn’t realised (or I had forgotten) that the stretch of Granville Street we were on had a seedy edge, with slightly less-than-salubrious citizens and a smattering of sex shops offering 25c peep shows. (To this day, it’s still a mystery just how much of a peep you’d get for a quarter. But one day I will find out. Purely for research purposes.)

It’s a quirk of most cities that a neighbourhood can change dramatically in a block, and while Granville is indicative of the major entertainment strip of most big cities (the smell of Sauchiehall Street on a Sunday morning still stays with me), the phenomenon is really pronounced in Vancouver’s downtown core.  The downtown eastside is the most obvious example – its homeless residents and addicts being nestled beside the fashionable restaurants and bars of Gastown and the oriental bustle of Chinatown – but you also have the quiet, almost suburban feel of the West End, where you can be just steps from shopping districts and the city’s financial centre.

We were on a mission for breakfast. Unfortunately, it was about 2pm. Fortunately, this is Vancouver, where brunch is big business. We stopped in at the first decent-looking place, which turned out to be Café Crêpe, a nice, airy room that’s modern but tries for a hint of Parisian bistro charm (despite a flat-screen playing a Tomb Raider film). It was here we discovered Mighty Leaf tea: superb-tasting blends (a refreshing cracker of an English breakfast in this case) in individual silken bags that are much better bought by the cup in cafes because they’re horribly expensive in the supermarkets. And full breakfasts all the way. With hash browns. How would we like our eggs? Uh-oh. Our first cultural barrier. Clare tried a hopeful “Fried…?” before I dug up some vague piece of insider knowledge and recalled the phrase “sunny-side up”. So fried it was. (It’s the same thing. But North Americans have an elaborate vocabulary dedicated to fried egg preparation.) The breakfasts were great and I was particularly enamoured with the hash browns. A couple of return visits has shown that a hankering for our first decent meal in around 36 hours wasn’t the only reason it tasted so good.

It was raining outside with that kind of leaden sky we recognised so well, so the surroundings felt oddly familiar as we nosied up some shops on Granville. When we got back to the hotel we learned that the airport had called to say my suitcase had arrived. A moment of great relief. Although we had to pick the case up ourselves, it did give us a chance to test out Vancouver transit for the first time. Something called the 98 B-line would take us to the airport.

This turned out to be a nice, modern-looking trolleybus. Unfortunately we were lacking exact change for the fare and, as we stood beside the female driver counting through our strange new coins, we waited for the imminent “get aff ma bus”. But, presumably noting our confusion, the driver just smiled pleasantly and said, “Oh forget about it” and printed us off a couple of tickets. Wow. The number 18 Summerhills-East Kilbride it ain’t. The buses were light, remarkably clean and not noticeably vandalised. Neutral smell. There wasn’t a congregation of 13-year-olds up the back swearing/drinking/procreating. I guess what I’m trying to say is that IT WASN’T AN UNPLEASANT EXPERIENCE TO BE ON THIS BUS. Probably a first for me. The bus flew down South Granville at a fair speed, and we changed to another bus to the airport (no waiting for the connecting bus — another novelty). We picked up my case and reversed the journey with the same minimal amount of fuss.

Metro Vancouverites, please be thankful for your transit system. You could live in Britain.

What we hadn’t noticed the day previously was the continuing construction of the airport station for the new Canada Line SkyTrain, due to open in autumn 2009, which will replace the 98. Spotting sections of the track on the way back to town, including a new dedicated bridge over the Fraser River, I almost felt relief realising we had moved somewhere where public transport was an evolving, ongoing priority. It makes for a refreshing change that people here complain that too much money is spent on mass transit.

I cannot for the life of me remember what we did that evening, and to be fair the jet lag probably resulted in a blur. Where did we eat that night? I don’t recall. Was it our first experience of Vancouver sushi? I think that alone deserves a separate entry.

haste ye back: sgurr nan ceathramhnan

Sgurr nan Ceathramhnan, from An Socach

I wished I’d stayed in a B&B. The Broadford hostel reminded me why I didn’t do hostels anymore if I could help it: stinking rooms of snoring teens (thank God for earplugs); one shower between 20; and no fried breakfast unless you make it yourself. I hadn’t exactly been this organised and expected a greasy spoon at some point between Broadford and Shiel Bridge would be open for business. Was there buggery. Even the place at the main car park in Kyle wouldn’t open its doors before 9.30am. A scandalous state of affairs that Highland Council has to address.

The lack of a large, hot, greasy breakfast was a worry. It was supposed to have sustained me for most of the day, and at least for the walk to the head of Glen Affric. What I hadn’t envisaged was sitting in the car eating a couple of microwaved, processed pasties that I bought in a roadside garage. And a packet of crisps, and a cup of tea. I also managed to force down most of a green banana. Seriously, Highland Council, sort it out.

Not so suitably refreshed, I parked at the mountain rescue base in Strath Croe (reassuring) and double-checked I had everything. I was travelling light, taking my 30-litre pack to the youth hostel at Alltbeithe, at the head of Glen Affric, via the Bealach an Sgairne below Beinn Fhada. After lunch at the hostel, I’d head up Sgurr nan Ceathramhnan and any other neighbouring Munros I could manage; I was aiming for An Socach to its east and Mullach na Dheiragain to its north-east at the most.

The walk up Gleann Choinneachain to the Bealach an Sgairne is beautiful. As soon as you round the west ridge of Beinn Fhada, the path starts climbing and the glen gets ever narrower. The ben’s ridge rises to the right and a river tumbles down a gorge to the left. There’s an amazing view back down the glen from the top, but the view the other direction was a little disappointing, if not dispiriting. My route onwards would take me down to Loch a’ Bhealaich’s southern edge and on down Gleann Gniomhaidh, which looked distinctly boggy. Hopefully a half-decent path would steer me through — there was one marked on the OS map, at least. Moreover, the climb up had seen me sweating nicely in a T-shirt as the morning sun warmed up. But to the east the clouds were thickening again and I had already put on the Gore-Tex to keep the slightly chilly wind off my damp skin.

I was about to head onwards when I got the fright of my life courtesy of an older English gent suddenly rising over the top of the pass. I’d passed him and his wife on the way up, and both had looked decidedly infirm for the hike. Obviously he had a lot more in his legs because he was only ten minutes or so behind me. He was really decent: asking about my plans, and saying he’d walked coast to coast a couple of times using my route. I’ve always found it incredible how being out in the hills strips away most people’s inhibitions and makes them willing to engage in conversation. There’s a camaraderie of sorts; and while you know it’s highly unlikely you’ll ever see the person again, it’s worth the effort to share (however briefly) your common fondness for the landscape, the air, the country, the experience.

My own experience went a little downhill after that. Literally at first. Then it began undulating in a mire of wet peat hag at the foot of the loch. There can’t be many landscapes more draining on the body. I thought I’d seen the worst past the loch but unfortunately the ‘path’ on the map was little but the faintest of trails charging up and down through the rough, pitted glen. It was a tough half hour or so, much tougher than I had anticipated, and I was getting hungry. What was even more disheartening was the lack of a good view. I got glimpses of the north Glen Shiel hills and Ciste Dubh’s bulky grassy north slope was a constant companion, but nothing more. A view of the distant hostel would have cheered me up greatly but it just didn’t appear. More worryingly, the clouds over Loch Affric to the east were looking distinctly black. Thankfully, the hostel at last appeared around another interminable corner. It seemed fairly close, so I upped the pace, aiming to race the approaching heavy shower, and made it to the building as the first heavy spots began to fall.

No-one in. Bugger.

Thankfully the door to the dorm building (split into male and female rooms) was open, so I could brew up some tea and have some lunch in the dry. I waited for the shower to pass and lightened my pack on one of the unused bunks; it would be nice to go uphill with half the weight on my back. I went down to scout around the main building again when I saw a bearded chap in a T-shirt who was obviously the staffer for Alltbeithe.

He turned out to be a very decent chap from Essex who decided he hated most of civilisation and joined the SYHA to get away from it. When I later asked him what it was he wanted to get away from, he pointed randomly south and simply said, “All the bullshit beyond those hills.” Which I liked. He also said he’d always dreamed of living in a house beside a river, and this was as good as it got. I liked that too. Sadly, I totally forgot to ask him his name. I find it quite amusing remembering his wary look when I told him I was a journalist: presumably a pedlar of all that selfsame bullshit beyond the hills. But he later pointed out that he’d recently had a “bad experience” with a group of four female journalists from Inverness staying at the hostel.

He gave me a quick tour of the hostel, apologising for the out-of-action toilet. Hell, I was barely expecting a standard toilet, never mind a shower (also out of action) and a gas stove. Luxury! I needn’t have brought the stove after all, but it had given me a timely brew. The sun was out again now and I had to make tracks if I was to make it up the Sgurr. After informing the YHA man about my intended route, I headed north up an excellent stalker’s path, gaining height quickly. Soon the corrugated iron roof of the hostel became swamped in the immense green and brown-ness of the glen below. Annoyingly, the path petered out  into bogginess higher up. Also, as I reached the bealach at the head of the path, another heavy shower broke. Almost glad of the break, I pulled the Gore-Tex over my head and waited for it to pass.

Ten minutes later, I turned east and climbed An Socach in about half an hour. This really shouldn’t be a Munro; it’s just an inconvenience on the ridge between Sgurr nan Ceathramhnan and Mam Sodhail. It did however get me a great view of the Sgurr to the west, as low cloud slowly crept up its south ridge. I didn’t know then that it would be the last I would see of the summit.

However, at that moment the 360-degree view, including a glimpse of Loch Mullardoch’s wild western reaches, gave me an incredible feeling of my solitude in the wild. It’s one of the main reasons I love hillwalking on my own. It’s a difficult thing to explain, but it’s not as aggressive as a “me vs nature” thing; it’s more an immersion into the landscape, moving through it while being a part of it. Feeling the rock and grass, hearing absolutely nothing but wind, water and the occasional bird, yet knowing exactly where I am by the landmarks around me. It’s a blissful, confident solitude. If I sit still, it’s as if I can feel everything around me playing off itself, everything in perfect balance: action, reaction, counter-reaction. Life.

Towards the north-east, the big whale-back lumps of Mam Sodhail and Carn Eige stood out black before more uncertain looking weather. It was odd getting a totally different perspective of these hills. Just a few miles on their other side, Clare and I had been run off the hillside by midges five years previously. A bit further south, on the banks of Glen Affric, stands our wedding grove of Scots pines planted for Trees for Life.

Although these familiarities held allure, it was the Sgurr I was after today. So I skipped back down An Socach to the bealach and started up the mountain’s east ridge, one eye on the weather, another on the passing time. I was starting to think that Mullach na Dheiragain was now unlikely, as it involved another good few miles of walking and quite a bit more ascent. My mind was made up as cloud from the east suddenly cloaked the hill around me, leaving me alone bar a strengthening wind: no chance would I factor in navigation in fading light in such a remote part of the country, on my own, increasingly tired, just to bag an extra peak. The Mullach would have to wait.

By the time I reached the summit of the Sgurr, the wind had picked up to a minor gale. I had to decide now how best to get off the mountain: either retrace my steps down to the bealach, or head a bit further along the ridge to the West Top and descend the hill’s south ridge. I decided on the latter so I wouldn’t have to walk direct into what was now becoming a cold wind. I put on an extra layer under my shell, swallowed some more tea from the flask I had brewed earlier, and went on. The ridge shattered near (or maybe at – I couldn’t tell exactly at this point) the summit of the West Top, requiring some careful foot placement, particularly with an unbalancing wind behind me. A twisted ankle here would be far from ideal. Keeping map and compass close to my chest, I then started south downhill as the wind kept blasting the left of my face. Visibility was maybe 10 metres. The broad, grassy ridge was due to veer left to the south-east at some point, but this didn’t appear to be happening, even though I was keeping to its left side. I was grateful to see a line of fence posts appear all of a sudden, as often happens in the Highlands. I followed their direction down the ridge for a couple of minutes, before I realised they were starting to veer off west. Major tip: never trust fence posts in the Highlands to take you where you want to go. If I had, I could have got seriously lost.

I readjusted and was thinking about descending into the south-east corrie just to be sure of my bearings when a break appeared in the clouds, revealing a very boggy corrie below. Even better, it showed me briefly the ridge curving down to the glen and assured me I was headed the right way.

It took me another good two hours to get down, through tough, tussocky grass, steep in places, that had me cursing the hill at a couple of stages. Of course, I should have gone with what I knew and descended the way I came up, but I’m a sucker for a circular route. So it probably served me right. But I was rewarded for my efforts as I made my way down to the River Affric. About 20 metres away, I saw a distinctive white-and-brown-flecked bird unfold its wings at the river bank and take off, flying west towards the head of the glen. I’m almost certain I’d seen my first osprey in the wild.

I took it as a good omen, but I was absolutely knacked. Back at the hostel, I had a perfunctory wash and went to make myself some dinner. The kitchen was full but I was just too tired to be arsed to make small talk. Even worse, for some reason I made myself some sort of cat food comprised of savoury rice and a tin of tuna, which I could only eat a quarter of. I had to eat a packet of breakfast noodles to compensate, before crashing out in the dorm. Thank the gods again for earplugs. They were truly designed for Highland hostel dorms. A noseplug could have come in handy too, though.

It smelled much nicer outside when nature called in the middle of the night. Making my way to the main block through the gloaming — yes, it was still pretty light after midnight at this latitude — the wind, wet grass and heather whipped up a delicious scent. It stays with me. Despite the fact other people were near, snoring, smelling the glen brought back that feeling of utter solitude. I went for my piss, and then, taking a deep breath, went back into the dorm and cosied up in my sleeping bag. A light went out in my head.