A Video Slideshow of My Vehicular Chronology

A nostalgic mood and a spell of browsing through photos of my past cars and bikes inspired me to create this homage.

Times Have Changed

In 1969, my last pre-teen year, I sat at my new high school desk breathing in unfamiliar smells, knowing only a handful of my new class mates. This was a turning of the tide for me with strict school rules, double periods, rugby, bus passes, the all-governing timetable. That life now seems impossibly long ago, an age when all four of my grandparents were living, my parents were in their thirties and with ambitions still, England were reigning football World Champions and glam rock was yet to be born. Research still meant cycling to the library with its hand-written index cards. Our television was black and white, our car was rusty and burned oil. A soot-blackened man hefted twenty sacks of coal to our bunker for winter fuel. Ice would form inside my bedroom windows. We chatted with our neighbours. I believed what I read and was told. Boys were boys and girls were girls.

Fast forward fifty years and life is markedly different, mostly due to mass communication and the ease of access to information. Technology has advanced ridiculously fast. Imagine a world without smart phones. It seems unthinkable in these days when people are glued to their screens, even throughout meal times. The first iPhone went on sale just twelve years ago and now most of the globe, even the dark, less developed corners, has a smart phone.

As well as bringing people together, mass communication has spawned unanticipated features. The rise of the keyboard warriors is evident in any comment thread you care to read. Hiding behind virtual anonymity they sling cruel and vicious words to the point of death threats. Trial by media on the stage of public opinion has become commonplace. Yet, perversely, a generation of so-called snowflakes now takes offence at even the gentlest criticism and appears unable to cope with the mildest setback. Celebrity status arrives cheaply. Warhol’s observation is truer than ever with fifteen minutes of fame now requiring zero talent, merely a trout pout, scant clothing and a large mouth, for either sex.

We ought to be revelling in online information, 24 hour news, databases and catalogues endowing armchair detectives with endless opportunities for research but still there is confusion. The distribution of disinformation, misinformation, lies and propaganda means, except for undisputable facts, that you have to pick and choose carefully in deciding what is the real truth. For example, respected geological research, through deep ice core samples, shows that the Earth has warmed and cooled in predictable cycles over thousands of years. Charts are easy to find showing we are now likely at the height of the current warming cycle yet are warned the end is nigh if we don’t all swap our gas-guzzlers for electric cars and must pay hefty taxes if we are not persuaded.

There are those, the elite, the Illuminati, the Bilderberg Group, who seek to propagate false agendas and further their own acquisition of wealth and power. Population control and mind control are hiding in plain sight if you look. We often mock conspiracy theorists but valid questions remain about JFK, 9/11, and other suspected cover-ups. We are now aware of endemic child abuse in the Church and the entertainment industry, and there are grave concerns and a degree of knowledge that it is rife in the ranks of governments past and present. We can find details with a few laptop clicks.

Last night I sought out interviews by and with the late great Clive James, Australian broadcaster, writer and raconteur, and before long I was deep down a YouTube rabbit hole watching clips of comedians and entertainers from the seventies, Household names in the UK such as Victor Borge, Les Dawson, Dave Allen... I ventured still further back and watched clips of Arthur Askey, George Formby, “two ton” Tessie O’Shea. Judging by the faces of the theatre crowds a great deal of mirth could be had watching people pulling funny faces playing a ukulele. Yes, times have changed.

Cavendish Beach, PEI National Park

This afternoon we drove to PEI National Park on the north shore and walked Cavendish Beach. Our intention had been to park at the empty campground and walk from there but the buzz of chainsaws and the sight of men in hi-viz jackets confirmed the area was closed for cleaning up after last month’s hurricane Dorian.

Cavendish was badly hit with thousands of trees down. Despite its somewhat tired old world charms this remains the epicentre of summer tourism here and starting the mammoth clean-up now will give them a head start before next season. We pulled up our hoods against the strong north westerly wind and walked west with the breakers crashing to our right and sea foam scudding across the wet sand.

   

An outflow from Clarkes Pond blocked our route by which time we had almost reached the campground via the beach. Smoke rose from several fires where workers were burning brush and tree trimmings. For a short while we sought shelter from the wind in the lea of towering dunes then Susan scampered wilfully up the side of one. This was quite without damage to the dune as it is covered in thick grass. From the top she called down to announce what a splendid view she had.

Driving back through to Charlottetown via North Rustico we decided to aim for Victoria Park. There we finished our afternoon’s exercise with a stroll up and down the harbour boardwalk before heading home to batten down the hatches and settle in for dinner and movies.

PIGS (Pink Floyd Tribute) at the Harbourfront

Saturday night we went to see a Canadian Pink Floyd tribute band called PIGS at the Harbourfront Theatre. Ever eager to add spice to the mix, Susan decided to drive us to Summerside in a school bus; yes, drive a school bus. In truth, her job called for someone to collect a batch of college students from Charlottetown airport and she owned up to having the appropriate Class 2 driver’s licence.

 

  

She duly appeared in the big yellow bus and without further ado we clambered aboard. This was an elderly vehicle and it laboured up hills but Susan drove impeccably, safely negotiating wide turns and giving the steed loose reins on long fast descents. With the students delivered to their accommodation in Slemon Park, we parked the bus outside the Training Academy where Susan works and transferred to her car.

A short drive into Summerside and we parked by the exit of the as yet empty Harbourfront parking lot and strolled across Water Street to Subway. The tickets and meal were all part of my birthday present from last month, lucky me!

After working our way through footlong subs and sodas we headed to the theatre and were soon in our seats. The band is billed as Canada’s best PF tribute and their musicianship is faultless, and the laser light show and Floydian circular video screen authentic. For two and a half hours they played seventeen tracks from seven different Floyd albums and one Roger Waters solo album, resting midway for a short intermission. An admirably broad set list but it is fair to say that the less committed fan might have preferred fewer lengthy obscure album tracks with long instrumental passages. I was interested to hear Echoes in all its twenty three minute entirety but I can’t remember the last time I was moved to listen to it at home. Nonetheless I appreciated the inclusion of rare songs from the albums Animals and The Final Cut.

We had been lucky enough to see The Pink Floyd Experience (a Californian tribute) earlier this year and we could not help but compare and contrast the two. We both agreed our Californian evening had been the better of the two, and by some margin. PIGS didn’t interact with the audience at all; we left not knowing any of their names or personalities. In March the PFE had spoken freely between tracks, interjecting anecdotes about the music and their vintage instruments. They were close and personal whereas PIGS, I felt, while having an undeniably excellent sound, were distant and could have been playing to themselves in a rehearsal room.

All that said, we had a great evening!

Setlist:

Shine on You Crazy Diamond Pts 1-5

Another Brick in the Wall

Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun

Wish You Were Here

Pigs

Pigs on the Wing

(Intermission)

Shine On You Crazy Diamond Pts 6-9

Your Possible Pasts

Time

The Great Gig in the Sky

Deja Vu (Waters)

Coming Back to Life

Money

Echoes

(Encore)

Run Like Hell

Comfortably Numb

As a pair of spry old farts we usually look for an adventure of some sort over our weekends, be that beach walking or trail hiking but this time we pushed ourselves to the limit and even beyond.

Some while ago I spied on maps a geographical formation in the east of PEI which I felt deserved closer inspection, Boughton Island, which is actually not quite an island but connected to the shore off Cardigan by a one and a half kilometre, grassy sandbank. The island has been uninhabited since the 1930s but was once home to a small community with farmland and lobster canneries, even a school house and post office. Now the only residents are fox, beaver and a variety of birdlife.

The six hundred acre island contains spruce forest, marshland and ponds and is rimmed in most places with red dirt cliffs ranging from ten to fifty feet high. We encountered all these features on a long and exhausting Sunday afternoon.

After a one hour drive to the east of PEI we found the long dirt track, Bruce Point Road, which leads to the shore where access to the sandbank can be had. Until a few months ago a local resident had installed a gate preventing vehicular access to the shore but resistance and government intervention has seen this removed now.

We parked on dune grass and consulted the GPS for walking directions as the island is not apparent from a ground perspective. Satisfied that we were on a southerly path towards the east side of the sandbank we marched off, the smell of rotting seaweed and exposed mudflats harsh in our nostrils. I took a swift jog back to the car for my cap to protect my jutting forehead (and gaping holes behind) from the sun which was still strong in September!

The sand bank is surprisingly high, maybe fifteen feet, and is at least one hundred meters wide. We found firm, damp sand on the east side and strolled south towards the enticing skyline of red cliffs and fir clad slopes. Piping plovers raced to and fro as low waves surged up the sand then retreated. Just as the sandbank joined the island we passed a middle-aged couple sitting outside a tent. I suspect they were camping overnight and enjoying life “off the grid”. It was somewhat irritating to seek out wilderness only to stumble across people straight away (and these folk were doubtless thinking the same!) however they were to be the first and the last humans we would encounter.

We took a clockwise route around the east of the island on lovely deserted beaches with just the sound of breaking waves and wind in the trees for company. Here and there were tangles of fishing nets, buoys and fenders washed ashore but otherwise the scene was pristine. Cliff erosion had left dead grey tree trunks at rakish angles and many more at the base of the low cliffs, weathered to silver and complete with sea-washed roots. The beach was mostly pink sand but strewn in places with boulders.

Our plan was to walk the shoreline but periodically we scrambled up the loose dirt cliffs to explore however the interior looked deep and impenetrable. At one point we spotted a rope ladder and hauled ourselves up this to find someone had built a small camp with benches, supports for tarps and even a latrine off to the side. We doubted anyone had stayed here this summer and maybe not for a couple of years. There was even a holder with plastic cutlery, nailed to a tree by a makeshift table. We tried to strike west, thinking we might be able to cross the island but there was not a chance. The undergrowth was dense and making any progress would have required a machete. Before we moved on, Susan couldn’t resist a go on a homemade swing at the camp and was soon high out over the cliff edge, swinging into the blue sky!

Regular glances at the GPS map on my phone showed that after an hour of hiking we were close to a flat expanse where we might still be able to head west and cut off the southern tip of the island. It turned out to be a deeply marshy area and we soon abandoned our first course. A possible route to one side, through trees looked passable and after a short, five hundred meter trek we were rewarded with views of the western beach.

Clouds were beginning to gather as we headed slowly west and north along the beach and the cliffs rose to the highest we had yet seen. By mid afternoon we would have taken the opportunity to cut north through the island but the cliffs were dangerously precipitous for climbing so we forged on until the beach ran out. Now we were so far around the island that to turn back would have meant a very long hike so, somewhat dubiously we pressed ahead clambering over huge boulders that had tumbled into the sea.

The inevitable happened and my foot was soaked by a rising wave! Soon we both had to take off our shoes and socks as the only way ahead was to wade. We made it around a jutting sandstone headland and almost immediately I fell, protecting my camera as best I could but landing heavily on one knee and both elbows. Some of the fun was beginning to ebb away but we couldn’t turn around now, time would tell whether this was to be a wise decision.

I had studied the tide charts in advance and knew that the tide would still ebb until 5:30pm so despite seeing waves crash directly onto the rocky shore ahead I felt we should still be able to make it back around to the north shoreline. And so we did, eventually. We both fell and our spirits were lowering. At long last the wet and heavy going of the boulder strewn shore gave way to soft sand and we turned north and east and could at last aim for the western side of the sandbank on the horizon.

But there was to be a sting in the tail...

We plodded over a sand and mud beach, avoiding the worst parts until it became clear we were on sticky mudflats. At that point we tried to head for the tree line and higher ground but it was too late. My feet sank in over my shoes to my shins and when I tried to pull one out I felt a slight panic. It wouldn’t come easily but when it did there was a sucking sound before I had to plant it again to avoid falling over. My shoes and socks were dragged off by the deep mud and I stuck my hand in to retrieve them, then staggered and swore my way to firmer ground. Susan was already fifty yards ahead trudging away disconsolately. The sight of a bald eagle swooping from the tree line to the shore was barely sufficient to raise the mood today.

The island would still not release us from misery as we found one more stretch of marshland to negotiate before reaching the sand bank. It was with quite a sigh that we reached the sandbank beach and turned north towards the PEI mainland. We finally reached the car after close to eleven kilometres and three and a half hours of tough trekking, hungry, sore, wet and exhausted.

Judging a Book By Its Cover

I’m a fan of YouTube videos, especially those dealing with UFOs, ancient archaeology, conspiracy theories, the paranormal and other hard-to-explain phenomena. The Internet is crawling with them however there are clues to the value of such material even before clicking ‘play’. If the title includes any or all of the words: shocking, stunning, mind-blowing, insane or jaw-dropping, then I won’t watch it. Similarly, if the thumbnail depicts a grey alien or a traditional flying saucer then I am on guard.

All of the above are examples of ‘click bait’ and unless I have very good reason to watch (for example a solid recommendation) then I move on. I know from experience that the more enticing a video tries to appear, the less credible or reliable it is likely to be, and therefore less interesting or informative.

If I have chosen to sample a video and the introduction is a mess of thunderous drumbeats and quick-cut editing then I’m gone. Sadly today’s world is awash with such nonsense; a triumph of style over substance. Just occasionally one stumbles across a rich seam of worthwhile material. One such has been the output of private documentary filmmaker, Richard D Hall, a native of Tyneside who takes it upon himself to investigate many areas which are regarded as off-limits or taboo by the mainstream media.

I am half way through his seventy or eighty films under the Ufology category. It’s a revelation to see how many highly credible, intelligent and very high-ranking individuals have put their experiences into words or on paper. I recommend a visit to his site, Rich Planet where he puts all his material online for free.

I have already watched all his documentaries concerning the 2007 disappearance of Madeleine McCann in which he is highly suspicious of the parents, and produces a mass of evidence, direct and circumstantial, against them. There is plenty of food for thought.

***

On a lighter note, self-serve checkouts! I can’t be the only one who talks back to them, surely? Some are acceptably direct, Atlantic Superstore for example. Others are quite calm and polite, like Sobeys. However the one which annoys the bejesus out of me is the shrill bitch at Wal-Mart. One millisecond after you scan your item she’s bleating, “Put the item in the bagging area” in an irritated, sassy voice. Give me a damn chance! I’m doing it! If she doesn’t detect the tell-tale feel of weight in the bagging area within an instant she comes on even stronger, waling at me as if this is my last godamn chance.

I snap back with liberal use of the F word. At the end of this distasteful experience she has the gall to enquire, “How did we do today?”

You did crap, I mutter as I grab my item and head for the door where, I might add, I am now met every time by a staff member who wants to check my receipt against the single bloody item in my hand. I simply glare and ignore the suggestion that I - “have a nice day!”

Brookvale Demonstration Woodlot Hike

After a morning of baking, crosswords and The British Formula 1 Grand Prix, we ate a lunch of toasted tuna sandwiches and drove out to Brookvale. In the woods opposite the ski slopes are numerous plantations of specific trees, hardwood and softwood, firs and deciduous. The areas are all labelled and give the planting date, many reaching back to the 1960s.

In January we had snowshoed from the road after climbing the snowbank but this time we could drive half a kilometre up a dirt road to the small and deserted, grassy parking lot.

A number of start and finish points are signed and, following a quick glance at the GPS and liberal squirts of insect repellent, we set off north into the trees.

On a 26c day we were immediately grateful for the shade. We looked left and right at the various woodlot signs (tree identification made easy) and kept an eye out for the gnarled exposed tree roots which had been under a couple of feet of snow and ice the last time we were here. A number of patches of wild mushrooms, blueberries and strawberries grew in areas of sunlight. Here and there we saw insect traps which, we read, are set in order to assess what beneficial insects are attracted, and also what threats.

After a shortish but rather hilly hike of under three kilometres we were back at the car in a little over an hour.