Just off the heels of a cruise around the south, west and then north coast of Iceland. I was on a french boat called Le Boreal giving lectures; one was about popular Icelandic culture, called Bjork and Beyond and the other was about travel writing.

My audience: alumni from the University of Western Ontario, as well as a whole batch of alumni throughout Canada and the States.

I am going to write a few posts–not in chronology–but rather starting with the coolest thing I saw and so on.

Ok, this by far affected me the most.

In 1973, a volcano on the tiny island of Heimaey, population 5,000 in southwest Iceland, erupted in the middle of the night. Luckily, there were fishing boats docked in the harbour that evacuated everyone. Lava slowly made its way into the town, swallowing over 400 homes. But get this: the residents used huge fire hoses and pumped sea water onto the lava to stop the flow. That’s fortitude. That’s Viking grit. Here is a picture –of a picture–taken the night of the eruption. Farmers walking out their cattle with the lava spewing in the background. No panic here.

These are pictures of a current project, called Pompeii of the North. They’re excavating houses that were buried–you’ll see signs of the former street.

Below is the volcano behind the sign.

And here is the Western alumni group and their fearless leader, or host, or comrade.

More to come!

The only problem with such a long trip is trying to make ‘home’ seem like an adventure. When I travel, I feel like a kid: every day is new and full of possibilities. So, you try and take that motto home and create adventures in the familiar.

Today, in search of an adventure we packed up the bikes, grabbed some fruit and away we went on a Sunday road trip. We decided to revisit an old cycling spot. Driving east on Dundas Street, highway 2, you run into the town of Woodstock. We used to ride the mountain bike trails here. Called The Pines, the trails have grown and mutated quite a bit since we rode here years ago.

For one, there’s a railroad track running smack in the middle of the forest.

We bumped into one of the directors of the trail association that maintains the trails; Rod Naylor gave us a highlight of the updates. Here’s the site to check it out for yourself:

www.woodstockcyclingclub.ca

Not much in the way of hills, boo hoo, but tons of tight twisty turns and loads of berms. Fast and slick.

The heat, about 32 celcius, was a bit much so I had to squat!

Tom thought it was a fox at first. Sweet dear in the woods. I walked up pretty close and she didn’t run away.

The start of the black, intermediate, trail.

A stop on the way home–cherries, corn and strawberries are in season. Yum.

Oh, and did I mention blueberries!

Pickled asparagus, apricot jams, and bien sur, maple syrup.

This is a drive-by picture along highway 2. Ahh, space, and lots of it. This is my Canada. Nice to be home.

Ok, I have been home for a week but I will post the final days of the trip.

Went to the walled city of York with a friend, Louise.

Portions of the wall still exist in the town–about three miles, which are broken up in areas.

The tiny streets are amazing. This is a picture of “The Shambles” a medieval street. The Tudor style wood sags in places–such character.

But I must say, the coolest part of the day was having a traditional ploughman’s lunch–cider, cheese, meat, meat pie, and chutney–in the house where Guy Fawkes was born in 1604. This is the guy who tried, unsuccessfully, to blow up the parliament buildings and was then sentenced to be drawn and quartered; for those of you who do not know what this entails, read on for the gory details.

The process involves removing your bowels, and if that isn’t enough, your malehood. They then move on to your innards and burn them on a fire in front of you–if you’re at all conscious. Then, if you aren’t already passed out by this point, they stretched your limbs (tied up to a horse most likely) until your limbs pop out of the sockets. Each part of your body is put on display throughout the town until –I guess– it has decayed and is then buried throughout the country as reminders of what is done to traitors to the crown.

Here’s me having lunch, all the while imagining drawing and quartering. Pleasant.

A tiny stone cafe under the bridge–another stop here for goodies.

This place was built in 1604…yup, that’s way old.

Scary gargoyle warding off bad spirits on the side of the York Minster–one of the largest Gothic cathedrals north of the Alps.

Finally, the day would not be complete without a tray of scones of tea at Betty’s Tea house.

Sweet Louise and tea–coffee for me!

The amazing wall.

The minute he started talking I knew i adored him: it is the wee midgies you have to watch out for…aye, the wee midgies. He was talking about the notorious mosquitoes on the West coast of Scotland.

Stuart is the night clerk at the Cairn Hotel in Edinburgh. I stayed there for three nights. At the lobby bar, I would have a pint and listen to his eclectic music which spoke to me: Bread, Air Supply, Beatles… Only half joking on the Air Supply. He is also the Scottish Elvis. He grew up listening to it–I dare say he looks like him.

This is my last night in Scotland. Stuart was serving up songs and talking ever so lovely in his thick Welsh accent.

Every time he said whiskey he coughed it up…hhhh–kkk–whiskey.

Sitting at the bar, I met an Aussie who needs to find a job that matters, as he put it (after having quit his financial sector job), and two lovable and giggly Spaniards. I don’t know what it is, but every time I meet someone from Spain who doesn’t speak a stitch of English, it hardly matters. We relate — common sensibilities I guess.

Antonio (not to be confused with Bandaras–although we summized he is a magnet to the ladies) and Jose are from Madrid. We looked at each other’s facebook pictures and had a few brew, and laughs.

On top of Ben Ledi–about 878 meters. It is about an hour and a half north west of Edinburgh. Needed to clean out some beer from our systems.

We walked about an hour–7 kms–from the town of Callandar to the mountain which is part of the Trossachs National Park. Tons of easy walking trails and we were told this one was a bit more challenging.

It started to get a bit grey, but was mostly sunny; we met some guys on the trail that said Scotland has had the best weather ever in the past few weeks. I was prepared for cold and rain and haven’t seen either. Sweet. Only problem is that I wanted to buy a Shetland wool sweater–can’t quite justify it now!

Looking like poo but actually feeling quite good–nothing like getting outside. Clears the head.

Here is Bjorn trying out his yoga.

It wasn’t an intense hike–I’ve seen stepper–but with the crazy wind and the view, it was everything I imagined.

Lovely!

Done like dinner–speaking of which–off to find some supper. Hmm, always the best part of travelling–that and a cold beer which I’m sucking back right now. Going to York to see an old friend tomorrow.

ok, I know, I know. I walked past him and I had to do it. This is Adam Watters–a teacher of Jacobite history to young kids and weaponry skills to actors. He was intense–you could tell he loved talking about this stuff. With that Scotish accent, I could listen to him all day. I hung on his every word.

Visit his site at adamthebraveheart.co.uk.

He yelled: Freedom, at least in my mind he did, (Braveheart) and I yelled: you shall not pass (Lord of the Rings).

We hiked around the Holyrood Park that overlooks the city–we walked for a few hours then went for a pint. Green pastures and a warm breeze. Ahh…

Here are a few snappies.

Coke was fueling me today.

Bjorn hanging off St.Anthony Chapel dated around 1476. It sits at the bottom of the hill.

Rock climbing…

Bjorn looks like he is sprinting. Post hiking brew below.

Bob –manager of Black Bull www.belhavenpubs.co.uk and waitress Emma. He is a lover of all things metal–lovely. It is an underground pub with wicked hospitality. They fed me Swedish cider–Kopparberg–pear and mixed berry is mighty tasty.

Ok, tomorrow off to Stirling to hike–not too high. Cannot wait. A huge gaff tonight–Bjorn was told that the best haggis on town was at an Italian restaurant. So, we walk into an Italian restaurant and ask for haggis. They started doubling over. The table next to us could not contain their laughter.

So, they served us a piece of chicken with haggis sauce. Ha ha.

I love the Scotish.

Grounds keeper Willie! Yes, I am one of those stupid tourists that had to put this hat on and take a picture!

Got here at 2ish after a 4 and a half hour train from London. The train sped along at a cool 200 kms an hour. Amazing. The transit system in the UK is spot on.

Spotted my friend Bjornar at the station–he was the tallest person around being a giant Norwegian!

Edinburgh Castle–beautiful. Could not handle the tourists though so headed to the hill on the other side of the city. Loads of hills as the city was built on an area of volcanic activity–we are talking ages ago, but still. Tres cool.

More views of castle.

This is the entrance to a war memorial–found a reference to a potential family member. Alfred Chambers died in the navy in 1916. Will investigate–found loads of CHALMERS. Perhaps a connection?

More Gothic looking pics from the castle. Most of the buildings in Scotland have this ‘black-ish’ tint. It makes it seem like it survived a fire.

Calton Hill–homage to Athens–this is just a short walk from the castle.

Hiking, or running tomorrow. A view from the hill–I’m with the crazy Norwegian so we could possibly be sprinting. Can’t wait. He is a great traveller–up for anything!

Stayed tuned gang! Ever an adventure. Love it.

Starting at noon, the three muskateers headed over to The Lamb–a local watering hole in Sorbiton. But this was an auspicious occasion–the Lamb, which opened about three years ago is host to crazy fundraisers.

They have a cheese club, Homage du Fromage, as well as oodles of childhood games to raise money for local charities such as the Shooting Star Foundation.

Today, with the help of local artisans and regulars from the bar, they created a huge Buckaroo. Players pay to add on trinkets to a donkey–when the weight gets too much it bucks!

Fixing the backend of the donkey!

I bought a baby! No. This is Millie–dubbed the pub baby, she is the daughter of owner Adam and Liz. Everyone passes her around for a hug–sweetness.

Millie on dad.

I was one of the first up–travelled all the way from Canada to play Buckaroo! Had my face painted with an English flag. Had to be festive.

The local band Mort Subite which means Sudden Death in Latin played a wicked mixture of 1920s inspired Greek and Russian and Hungarian– I had to dance! This instrument is a hurdy gurdy–a hand cranked instrument that sounds like a violin–it dates back to the 7th century!

I started the congo line around the party with Sal in tow! Surprize.

The kids in full cowboy buckaroo garb.

Planting one on Steve!

Sal and her gal. Another amazing day. I will miss her and Steve to bits. They are a rare find.

oxox From Mel to you.

Woke at 6 am to have morning beer at the Anchor pub–around since the 1600s and around the corner from Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, the pubs were essentially created to feed the market vendors.

They still open early for morning ale, but it wasn’t in the cards today–at 7:30am the Anchor was only open for local hotel guests.

But, it was fortuitous—trekking to three different markets across the city of London in one day was no small feat–and an early morning beer would have exhausted us.

From vintage clothes born out of the punk rock era to Beatles memorabilia to one of the largest food markets in the world–each market has a foot in the history of London and a unique vibe.

We began at Borough Market–once a neighbourhood for prostitutes and cock fighting, it was first mentioned in 1276; today, it is one of the largest food markets in the world. Under the railroad viaduct on the corner of Southwark and Borough High Street, there is food from all over the world.

Here is a sampling of the food–try not to drool on your computer.

Morels, chanterelles..there are mushrooms here that I have never heard of.

Tiniest tomatoes in the world in these packages.

Dozens of olives…dreamy.

www.stichelton.co.uk

It is a variety of blue cheese made from unpasturized milk.

CARBS never looked so good.

Thai chicken curry–lots of it.

The next market was Portebello–home of Paddington Bear! It is vintage and antique mania: hats, cameras, jewels–full of bric-a-brac (trinkets).

I do say Lady Chambers, you look absolutely smashing!

Reminds me of Blue Rodeo…tons of musicians…

Shopping! My mom would love all these necklaces–do not worry mom, I did get you one, or two.

A proper travel suitcase. lovely.

Off to Camden Market–birthplace of punk, this place had a totally different vibe.

Sid and Nancy-ish.

The small alleyways were packed with shops of funky wears…

People sitting out and having lunch overlooking the river at Camden.

Dark Angel and Max Orient–oh, mysterious!

What a day–I was completely knacked and fell asleep on the train back to Sorbiton. Loved every moment with Sal and Steve.

Spent another day in London–have been seeing young ladies wearing flamboyant hats all week. Apparently, they spend gad loads on these frilly hats for a few days of horse racing–but not just any horse race, it is THE Ascot Race week: www.ascot.co.uk. Tradition you know.

Had lunch with a friend of a friend. Jamie Homer is a Canadian bloke who works in London and has wicked tales of travel and life.

Washed down a few pints at the Cambridge Arms in the neighbourhood of SOHO–it is the entertainment district with shows like Mouse Trap and Pricilla Queen of the Desert.

Went to the Tate Modern this afternoon…it is free (except for special exhibits). Here is a sampling of my favourites:

Damn, I have a crap load of laundry to do!

But seriously, Luciano Fabro (1936-2007) is an Italian artist facinated with everyday things–he especially liked the way Italians hung their clothes from the shutters and house. This is part of a series of clothing related pieces.

Polish artist Magdalena Abakanowicz–born in Warsaw in 1930–created art from collecting strips of fabric. Called Abakans, her large woven pieces were a response to the rules and confines of formal art production. She assembled the fabric in a gym to visualize what they would look like as they are quite large– as you can see from the picture.

Picasso during his Cubism phase. I never get sick of seeing his work…

Whacky Warhol. Gasp, someone is strangling me. Take my picture.

Russian propaganda posters. When Stalin took over he also assumed control of all the printing presses in Russia.

Artist Simryn Gill knocked on the doors of hundreds of homes in Malaysia and asked to take pictures of their living rooms. The majority agreed and this is a sample of her pictures all taken from the same angle and height.

Did not get the name of this artist–for shame–but it was my favourite. No explaination; it is called The Kiss.

Hitting the markets tomorrow with Sal and Steve.