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Love in a Cold Carriage

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Here’s Part 1 of a brand, new story, in which passenger Alex’s longed for journey is sullied by the attentions of a fellow traveller-

The carriage isn’t too full when Alex steps inside the door; better still, there’s a table free. She’s in no doubt that within a couple of stops she’ll be sharing, but for now she can sink into the seat, enjoy her coffee and revel in the luxury of having the space to herself. She doesn’t feel too much like reading, preferring to gaze out of the window and savour the anticipation of the weekend to come, a feeling that eclipses her exhaustion.

For the first two stops, she’s lulled into a false sense of security, then as the train pulls into a larger station, a crowd is waiting on the platform, a mix of students, commuters and holiday makers lugging cases, making for the airport, which is the next station along. Alex sighs as the doors wheeeze open and the first passengers fill the aisle, looking right and left, heaving cases on to racks and sinking into seats; bringing with them an acrid scent of vapes, tarmac and sweat.

She’s staring out when someone slides into the seat across the table. It’s become dark enough to outside to see the man’s reflection as he settles. She can also see that he’s gazing at her. Perhaps she’ll get her book out after all. She turns towards her bag, keeping her face down as she unzips and delves for the book. But the man seizes the chance mid-turn and leans forward to speak.

‘Will I be disturbing you if I get on with my whittling?’

‘Excuse me?’ Alex frowns. What on earth is he talking about? She is obliged to look up and at him then.

‘Will you mind very much if I indulge my hobby while we’re travelling together?’

Travelling together? Alex pulls in her chin and squints at him. He has leaned across to her side so far that she can detect a faint aroma of something like polish and can see the faded grey of his protruding, frog-like eyes. He has thinning, sandy wisps of hair combed over a bald patch and a pale, dry complexion. She suppresses a shudder then shrugs, shakes her head. There’s no time to open her book before he places a bundle on the table between them, his bulging eyes never leaving her face.

‘I can see you’re intrigued!’ he grins, prompting her to frown. He’s unrolling the fabric bundle now. Alex executes a demonstrative opening of her book and plonks it down in the space remaining on her side but he is undeterred, continuing to gaze at her over the table, having revealed the contents of the bundle. She risks a glance at the items displayed: a type of knife, a soft cloth,some woodshavings and a rudimentary, wooden spoon. She’s aware that he’s grinning like he won the lottery, having almost caught her attention. He picks up the spoon and waves it in her face.

‘Know what this is?’ Although she’s adopted and expression of mild irritation now, he’s either failed to notice or doesn’t care. ‘It’s a love spoon, a Welsh love spoon. Have you seen one before?’ Alex’s lack of response fails to halt the deluge of enthusiastic tedium as he describes the tradition of love spoons, how they are Welsh, how young men gave them to their sweethearts as romantic tokens, how he makes them and sells them at craft fairs. The unsolicited flood of facts streams on and on. Alex picks up her book and slumps back. He’s still talking. She leans slightly to the right to ascertain whether there could be an empty seat further along the carriage but it’s busy. When the tannoy announces that they’ll be arriving at the next station she wonders if she’ll be able to move along to the next carriage and find a seat, although as the train pulls in only a handful passengers leave and she can see that the platform is crowded with people waiting. It’s Friday evening after all…

Check in next week to find out if Alex escapes!

Novels: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend aare widely available. Visit my website: janedeans.com

The Waiting Room

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It’s a return to fiction this week. I’ve mined my own, recent experiences with health issues to produce this very short, flash fiction story about someone waiting. When waiting myself, I’ve been lucky to be brilliantly supported by Husband, but many, many of us must face serious health scares and investigations alone. This story is dedicated to those who wait, undergo tests and wait for results without someone by their side…

Clutching the letter, the woman made her way along the endless corridor, up the wide staircase, through the automatic doors, along another corridor and towards ‘Reception’, where she stood in front of the glass in mute compliance to wait her turn. When she reached the desk, she was compelled to ask the receptionist to repeat her question, then decipher what she’d heard in the woman’s heavily accented English. She handed over her paper, standing still while the woman scrutinised her computer screen, feeling a sudden heat of panic engulf her as the receptionist frowned at the screen. Had she got the wrong day? The wrong time? Perhaps she’d come to the wrong department.The place was, after all, a giant maze of corridors,buildings, floors and courtyards.

‘Take a seat please’ the woman instructed and she turned towards the two rows of chairs, pink, shiny seats and wooden arms. On the wall opposite, a TV screen showed the twenty-four hour news, silent with subtitles. She chose a seat at the end of the back row and sank down. Along the row, at the other end there was a couple, heads close together, murmuring in low voices; in front of them a lone woman like herself but much younger, engrossed in her phone.

She sighed. A few years ago there would have been a pile of scruffy, dog-eared magazines- Country Life, Good Housekeeping or Take a Break, all far out of date but providing an undemanding distraction. She glanced around at the walls which displayed a selection of worthy, earnest posters and leaflets advocating this and that and bearing telephone numbers or warning against violent or unruly behaviour towards staff.

Behind the desk, the receptionist had returned to her screen and was scrolling, perusing and tutting. A nurse in a blue tunic and trousers entered, smiling, provoking an anticipatory response from the four waiting, the attendees; but as the nurse merely picked up a folder from the desk and disappeared through the doors they all slumped back into their waiting activity, or lack of it.

Outside the waiting room, a corridor led to a series of small, intimate rooms, their open doors offering an occasional glimpse of more desks and chairs. She could hear doors opening and closing away up the corridor, blue-clad nurses or someone wearing a lanyard striding purposefully away, carrying papers. Then a door closed and a couple passed the waiting room, shrugging coats on.

She closed in on herself, stilled, looked down at her clasped hands. She was accustomed to waiting, having done a lot of it as a child, when she’d been compelled to attend Sunday morning service in church with her father, perching on a hard pew as communion stretched on and on, an interminable queue of devout parishioners, hopeful of eternal life. Here, in this waiting room they all shared this hope too, although they wouldn’t be depending on God to provide it.

Remembering her yoga breathing exercises, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the long breaths in and out. It was soporific after an interminable, wakeful night and she caught herself drifting, drifting until a different blue-clad nurse appeared in the doorway, causing everyone to look up again.

‘Victoria Hegly?’ she announced, consulting her clipboard. The couple at the end of the row stood, looked at each other and followed her. ‘I’m Simone’, she heard the nurse say, ‘I’m one of the nurses here.’

She resumed her unmoving meditation. Secondary school- that had been a monument of boredom; the assemblies when they’d had to sit on the hard, cold parquet floor, speech days even worse as the prize giving laboured on, seeming to be never-ending. The lessons themselves had been mind-numbing, with teachers entering, sitting enthroned on a raised platform and dictating notes for their luckless pupils to write in ‘rough’ books and learn. It would not do these days! Children could not be allowed to be bored for one minute, needing distaractions in the form of colouring or screen activities in restaurants and even, as in her grandson’s home, at the dining table.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a couple of women entering the room, one older than the other- mother and daughter perhaps? The younger woman leant in towards the desk, they waited, were told to sit, choosing seats by the window, which overlooked the busy car park. She thought it just as well the car park tickets were paid as you left, or how on Earth would you know how much time to purchase?

The other lone woman was summoned by a new, smiling nurse. Nurses have changed, she thought, since she’d last had reason to be here in the building. It was forty years ago. The nurses had been stern and authoritarian as they cared for the new mothers during and after childbirth. She’d been well looked after but in her post-natal, emotional turmoil they’d seemed hard and unfeeling, admonishing her for her ignorance and ineptitude. Now, here, they smiled, proffered tissues, held her hand. Times had changed.

Inside her bag her phone vibrated and she reached down to withdraw it. There was a text from Neil. She frowned. ‘Thinking of you’ it said. ‘How did it go?’ She turned the phone off and replaced it in her bag. Neil wanted to help more than she wanted him to. Neil was for companionship, evenings out, an occasional meal or a night in with a film, sometimes overnight stays, nothing more. She wished she hadn’t mentioned the appointment now, as his desire to be ‘there for her’ added an extra layer of obligation to the anxiety of waiting and a frisson of guilt into the mix.

She was zipping the bag up when the first nurse reappeared with her clipboard. ‘Eleanor Gatiss?’ she asked the room, scanning those remaining. She nodded. ‘That’s me.’

‘I’m Christine. I’m one of the nurses. It’s this way.’

She bent to pick up her bag, straightened her back and smoothed down her skirt before following the young woman in blue out into the corridor towards the small, intimate consulting room…

Want to read more fiction from Grace’s later ego, Jane Deans? Novels: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend, available to download or purchase. Visit my writer page: Janedeans.com

Southsea- Ins and Outs

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For our second day at Southsea we’ve decided to walk the prom/seafront and its environs, taking in a few places we know of and some we don’t.

From our hotel, we need to cross the common and turn left on to the promenade, which becomes smarter and free of the heavy machinery that’s employed in strengthening the flood defences.

I love the architecture here- tall, grand terraces, some of them five floors high, lining the streets leading to the sea or facing the sea itself, although on this January day the sea is iron-grey and visibility poor.

We come to a ‘tropical’ garden, with a faux mini-waterfall, pathways snaking around the palms. Even now, in the depths of a UK winter it’s attractive, with an assortment of green plants and trees providing a variety of textured leaves. Further along there’s [yet another!] pier, then on our left, across the road there is a park with a large boating lake, where swans and ducks have taken residence, coating the surrounding footpath in large dollops of excrement. These have to be negotiated in order to circumnavigate! At one end of the lake there’s a cafe, but we’re heading for the tiny museum, housed in an old house just outside the park.

We know that there’s a butterfly house inside the museum, although when we enter the warm enclosure it soon becomes clear that only one species is visible. They are interesting and spectacular but once we’ve seen them…

The museum is clearly aimed at visiting school parties, with its accent on environmental issues, the ‘only man is vile’ take. Amongst stuffed versions of our own wild birds and mammals there are, bizarrely, models of exotic creatures such as alligators. The lobby is dominated by a large, ambitious model of a dinosaur, looking a little battered and worse for wear. Presumably someone had harboured dreams of echoing the London Natural History Museum’s diplodocus…

It doesn’t take long to complete a tour of the museum, which, to be fair, is free to view. We exit and loop back away from the seafront towards the shopping centre, for tea.

For our last evening we choose to visit an Italian restaurant, Giuseppe’s, which is a stone’s throw from our hotel. On this Saturday evening the small place is packed out with diners, which bodes well, but we’re glad we’ve booked a table. It appears to be run by two brothers who are both gregarious and pleasingly Italian, greeting people in dramatic fashion and creating a fun atmosphere. It’s typically cosy in the restaurant and the decor is characterful and quirky.

The meals are delicious and filling- I’m unable to finish mine. We’re pleased to have chosen this place. We move on to the pub for a last drink before returning to the hotel.

During this short break, the sore throat I’d been harbouring for two days has morphed into a heavy, streaming cold. By the time we get home it has moved on into full-throttle flu, the worst bout of which that I can ever remember. So much for holidays!

Ticket to Ryde

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Day two of our local jaunt to Southsea dawns gloomy and overcast, but we decide to press ahead with a hovercraft trip to the Isle of Wight anyway. At this time of year we can’t expect tropical temperatures or baking sun and it’s a bonus if there’s no rain.

We’ve had a good breakfast at the hotel. It’s just a couple of minutes walk across the common to the hovercraft ticket office and once we’re there there’s a short wait but even so a perusal of the key rings/pens/fridge magnets on offer does nothing to fill the time. Ferries continue to criss-cross on the water outside, beautifully coordinated so as not to collide.

We can see the hovercraft approaching long before it arrives, then it swoops up on to the beach, lifting its skirts and then dropping them in a wheezy curtsey as the air is expelled. The doors lift open at the end and the steps descend, followed swiftly by the passengers, before we’re ushered up and in. This is no sluggish turnaround! Once we’re seated, the vessel rises up and is soon up to speed, whisking across the waves for a ten minute trip to the island. Of course there are no vehicles on this crossing- they must go by ferry. This is an expensive stretch of water; the price of a car or van is quite outrageous, given the short distance; even these passenger tickets are not a bargain.

We’re soon at Ryde, swooping and curtseying then exiting- all over in a flash. Ryde seafront is undergoing a transformation, with new paving, signs and so on. The hovercraft terminal sits next to both the train and bus station- very fancy, although we fail to locate any public lavatories in spite of searching all over the place. Then it becomes clear that the workmen-type portaloos in front of the station are, in fact, the temporary public loos. Later I notice a tiny sign to the effect in the information office window- hmmm.

We catch a bus to Sandown, which has a decadent, neglected air, its once grand hotels and apartments tumbling down, windows boarded, ivy taking hold and mould blackening; and even on the seafront, where rooms and homes face the water providing a wonderful view. Further along, beyond the pier there is an unlovely block of flats and I wonder why anyone would prefer one of these to the grand old Victorian buildings that are becoming ruins.

The pier is dedicated almost entirely to slot machines and on this overcast Saturday, this is where people have come- to play ‘Penny Falls’ and virtual golf. Seaside resorts in winter can often feel melancholy but Sandown feels positively dismal.

We drift back to find a bus stop- there being little else to see.

Back at Ryde we have a look at the pier, which is spectacular, before calling it a day and going for the hovercraft. The later it’s fish and chips in the cosy pub and a nightcap before bed…

Jane Deans has published two novels: The Conways at Earthsend and The Year of Familiar Strangers. Visit my writer page on Facebook:https://www.facebook.com/people/Jane-Deans-Novellist-Short-Fiction-and-Blog/100063988575981/

An Hour Away

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After having spent most of last autumn engaged in various hospital matters, we feel it’s time to make an amoebic foray into the world of excursion- but not too far and not too long!

Husband has reserved us a few nights in Southsea, a satellite of Portsmouth, only about an hour from us here on the UK’s south coast. Two months of only packing hospital necessities has not prepared me for any kind of hotel stay, so I have to think carefully about what I need- but the weather is cold, [as it should be in January here].

Portsmouth is a major south coast port and houses the Royal Navy Dockyard, as well as catering for ferries, across the English Channel and more. Southsea is the seaside part of the city, with [stoney] beaches, piers, street art, a castle and all the usual attractions and some hilarious signage. Besides all of this, it boasts a range of beautiful, historic architecture and some interesting sights as well as a vast, green swathe of common between the sea and the residential area.

The short drive and arrival are bathed in sunshine and clear blue skies so having checked in we wander out around the area and it’s a great location, just behind the stretch of common that borders the beach. The council are clearly using low season to reinforce the seafront, beefing up flood defences- cranes, diggers and piles of aggregate dominating the front. Ferries pass offshore, heading to harbour, also the Channel Islands’ hydrofoil as well as the hyperactive hovercraft to Ryde, Isle of Wight, which is what we’ll be doing tomorrow.

Portsmouth’s ancient dockyard, which houses Lord Nelson’s ship, HMS Victory, HMS Warrior [the first iron battleship] and The Mary Rose, Henry VIII’s flagship. In a previous life I’ve made regular trips to the dockyard with groups of children and know it very well. HMS Warrior is, to my mind, by far the most thrilling to visit with children as they can clamber over canons, handle objects and have a thoroughly good time. Still…

We don’t need to walk far to find a wide selection of places to eat, opting this first night for Chinese, although the meal is mediocre and the restaurant very brightly lit and not quite warm enough. There is just one other couple eating there and the experience is a little dispiriting. We decamp to the pub next door, which is cosy and welcoming and where we’ll eat tomorrow.

If I have one complaint about hotel rooms, it’s that they are too often too hot and dry, the duvets too thick. We do manage to turn off the radiator but I can only adjust the air-con down to 16, which has to do. I prefer a cool room for sleeping, even though the outside temperature is cold.

Breakfast next morning, however is very good and sets us up for some Isle of Wight exploration. Unlike yesterday though, it’s cloudy. We wrap up and head off to the hovercraft ticket office…

Jane Deans two novels: The Conways at Earsthend and The Year of Familiar Strangers are widely available

Hopeful Travels

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It’s fair to say our time at Calgary Airport was not especially happy. Airports, on the whole are never wonderful places to spend time. Many hopeful travellers arrive and like to pass the hours quaffing beers in the nearest bar- even in the early morning- . Having dropped the deficient campervan off at Cruise Canada depot and been told that ‘we don’t supply that’ to the long list of missing items we’d compiled, we’d got a taxi to the airport. But since we’d had to deposit the van before midday, the remaining time until eight pm would have to be passed waiting for the flight, which would be overnight.

Our morning had been dogged by difficulty. I’d been trying [and failing] to upgrade our seats. Air Canada had, in its wisdom, allocated us seats in the middle of the plane [never my favourite] and one behind the other; also the middle of the middle. I’d managed to get on to what I thought was Air Canada’s website and had been trying to upload various documents and photos of things to a man I [erroneously, as it turned out] assumed to be an airline staff member. I had failed in this- and thank goodness I had! I continued to ‘hold’ [as instructed] until I felt like I was welded to the phone- and all the way into Calgary. The journey [which I’d been dreading] was nowhere near as difficult as anticipated, but even in the taxi to the airport I was still talking to the supposed Air Canada employee…

On our arrival it was far too early to drop the bags. At last I gave up on the upgrade, feeling exhausted. We went to get a coffee. My phone rang. It was someone from Air Canada. ‘Have you been speaking to a travel agent?’ he asked. I explained I’d been trying to upgrade our seats, to be told I had not been communicating with an Air Canada employee at all. I blanched, horrified. I’d need to cancel my bank cards straight away. This meant an extraordinarily long ‘hold’ once more on my phone. Once I’d managed to cancel both bank cards and get off the line my reaction was to burst into tears of relief.

Clearly we had to put up with the middle-of-the-middle seats.

The time passed and we rid ourselves of the suitcases then went to departure. By now I was reeling with relief that I hadn’t gifted a large sum of money to the scammers and was happy enough to sit somewhere and read or to peruse the meagre selection of gift shops [minus bank cards is by far the best way to do this].

At last it was time to board the plane and we located the seats. I sat down next to a portly Scot, whose wife was- yes- in the seat in front of him, and we chatted while the plane was readied for take-off. As it taxied to the runway Husband tapped my shoulder. There was an empty seat next to him! Once we were in the air I moved back next to him, freeing a seat so that the Scottish pair could sit together too. The plane was, otherwise, full and presumably the empty seat was a ‘no-show’.

We were served drinks and edible food. The cabin staff were affable and friendly. I was handed a second drink. We even slept.

Arrival home to the UK in late September heralded the start of a different, difficult kind of journey, involving many, many trips; one that I have not chosen, one that is ongoing but maybe… just maybe…the destination is drawing nearer and may even be in sight as 2024 begins.

Happy New Year to all followers and visitors. And may 2024 be filled with joyful discovery, adventurous travel and most of all, good health.

Novels by Jane Deans, author: The Conways at Earthsend, The Year of Familiar Strangers.

All Over Bar the Flying

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We’d stopped briefly at the station for Lake Louise when we were on the Rocky Mountaineer, which seems like months ago now, so eventful have our subsequent days been. Now we’re back to explore it. Husband’s snotty ailment, Covid or not, has subsided to a degree that he’s feeling substantially better- no doubt aided by the excellent bakery products from Laggans- a happy discovery.

It’s time to leave the Post Hotel and go back to Banff for our last couple of nights. But first we’ll go and look at the lake, of course, because that’s why we’re here. Finding it becomes a little confusing though, in spite of our being right in the heart of Lake Louise, the community. Once we’re on the the right track we must negotiate the car parks; and they’re busy. On first sight it looks impossible, but by driving round and up we’re directed to a campervan and motorhome area and we do get a space. It’s all quite regimented and organised. Having bought our ticket, we walk down towards the lakeside. It’s sunny but quite chilly. The weather has been becoming much cooler since we arrived to Vancouver three weeks ago [was it only three weeks?] and layered clothing is necessary.

At the lakeside there are crowds of visitors, so many that here at the start of the path it’s impossible to see or take a photo without someone in it. Most are intent on selfies- the scourge of our age. I’ve written before about the hordes of tourists who love to pout, thrust and drape themselves over iconic sights so that nobody else gets a look, and so it is here. The lakeside beach is covered in stones and small boulders and when I see selfie-takers stumbling over them or balancing precariously for a photo, it is my greatest hope that they’ll tumble into the [undoubtedly freezing], blue waters of the lake. But it doesn’t happen.

We walk on round, past the lake chateau, now yet another Fairmont hotel, although it is vast and picturesque in its setting. The further we go, the thinner the crowd becomes until we’re able to walk unimpeded, the view back towards the Lake Louise Chateau is even better and photography is an option.

Finally we turn back, and back to the van, where we take advantage of the parking spot and have some lunch. From here, it’s not too far to journey on back to Banff for our third and final visit, returning to Tunnel Mountain campsite for our last couple of days. The last day or two of an epic trip place you in a strange limbo. The weather has become decidedly autumnal, the nights cold and the mornings chilly. We’re unwilling to get more groceries in at this stage, instead opting to eke out what we have. But it’s two nights- and what we have does not lend itself to two meals. We also have a number of items we’ve bought to augment the kitchen ‘kit’ we’d hired [which had been lacking several, vital components]. I’m not going to be donating them to the van hire company!

While we’ve had two good looks at Banff already, we decide to spend a bit more time there rather than on the site, and take the shuttle bus to town for our last day. There’s very little left to see, but there’s a pretty park, where the trees are showing some lovely autumn colour and a few streets we hadn’t walked before. After a late afternoon beer we decide to call it a day.

We still have to clean and sort the campervan. There’s a ‘housekeeping’ charge for vans returned in a grubby condition, although I’d have cleaned it anyway. My solution to the surplus items- including the unused bear-spray- is to take everything to the camp kitchen/washing up place and invite others to take what they would like.

A short wander around the environs of the site has revealed a lucky find in the shape of a hostel with a small restaurant offering an evening meal menu as well as beers, meaning that our last evening is catered for.

All that’s left to do is to get the van back to the depot in Calgary tomorrow before midday…

To find novels by Jane Deans, Grace’s alter ego, search Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads and other book sites. The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend are widely available. Visit my Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100063988575981

The Road to Lake Louise

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We leave our Jasper campsite and set off back along the route we came on- [there’s not a lot of choices, route-wise!]. We are armed with a detailed, illustrated guide book we found in the tourist office in Banff, which has been a lot more useful than the redundant Bear-spray we were encouraged to buy!

For our return journey, Husband is now extremely sneezy and sniffy, but we’ll be stopping at sights along the way, now that we know where we’re going. There are plenty of scenic lakes with mountainous backdrops, some with interesting back stories. But by far the most dramatic and thrilling sight we detour to is Athabasca Falls. There’s good parking and it’s not too far to walk along the wooded path, then we’re at a footbridge and the waterfall is stunning, roaring and gushing down underneath the bridge and continuing down into a deep, narrow chasm. There’s something thrilling and satisfying about dramatic waterfalls- especially when so many famous and historic ones have dwindled to trickles [as in Yosemite National Park in the US].

Then there’s Bow Lake, a beautiful place with an attractive, log-built, lakeside lodge [‘The Lodge’], it’s red roof setting off the cool colours of the surrounding mountains and azure blue of the water. We’re lucky that it’s quiet- we almost have the place to ourselves!

At last we’re approaching Lake Louise and must find our way to the hotel we’ve booked, the Post Hotel. Although Lake Louise itself is tiny, existing only for tourism and consisting mainly of hotels, we’re confused over the location, backtracking up and down the road a couple of times until we spot the narrow driveway that leads to it. First impressions are good as we drive into the car park. It’s a lodge-like building, timber, with red roof and green paintwork giving it a Christmassy look.

We park and check in, the only campervan in the car park! The room is large, comfortable and cosy and there’s a balcony- although it overlooks the car park! The train rumbles past just beyond the fringe of pines. We’re here for two nights, having failed to get a pitch on a Lake Louise site, but Husband, who is feeling poorly now, will be able to sleep comfortably. There’s a slight snag in that there’s no tea or coffee making facility in the room but I figure I can go out in the morning and make tea in our van then bring it back in the time-honoured method we developed in Vancouver [which seems a long time ago] of using a water bottle as a Thermos.

I leave Husband dozing and go out for a wander. I cross the hotel car park and a footbridge across a river, then climb a slope and I’m in a small shopping precinct. There are a few gift shops and a grocery store, but best of all there’s a magnificent bakery-cafe selling pastries, cakes, bread, coffee, sandwiches and…pies! Not only pies, but hot pies! There’s a substantial queue but it’s worth the wait and I’m thrilled to be able to return to a poorly Husband bearing hot, comforting treats.

As expected, he perks up at the very sniff of them…

To find novels by Jane Deans, Grace’s alter ego, search Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads and other book sites. The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend are widely available. Visit my Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100063988575981

Good Spirits

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By the time you read this post it will be Christmas Eve 2023 and by the time we go to Spirit Lake, near Jasper, Canada, our epic trip will be in its latter stages. We’ve booked a boat trip on the lake. As we queue to have our tickets scanned I feel we couldn’t have chosen a better day, since there’s not a cloud in the sky, the water of the lake is sparkling and the sun is warm.

The boat fills up quickly and we’re in the last seat at the back, which is a good thing, bearing in mind that I’ve had what is almost certainly Covid and we’re not sure whether Husband will succumb or not. In any case, once we’re out on the water there’s a strong, fresh breeze, meaning that the airflow is brisk!

We’re subject to the inevitable commentary, from a fresh faced young woman who clearly feels her next step will be featuring in a stand-up routine. Some of the info is interesting, but the scenery is the star of the show, the colour of the water a vibrant green-blue in contrast to the stark peaks of the surrounding mountains as we leave behind the jetty and the quaint boathouse to pass kayaks and canoes.

The boat motors through a narrower channel and around a bend and we’re in the real, spiritual part of the lake- or at least- the part that is spiritual for the First Nations. There’s a tiny island topped with a few trees that is sacred for them and although it’s possible to walk on to it we are not to. The boat pulls in for us to enjoy the view, which is stunning. While there are no bears of any description, there is, on the beach, a huge, colourful butterfly. It eludes my lens frustratingly but I snap it at last. We only have around fifteen minutes or so; I’m guessing this is down to the long queues back at the jetty, then we pile on board and head back.

After a coffee on the sunny decking of the cafe we walk back up to the van and take the winding road back to Jasper and our site.

We’re due to leave in the morning, although I’m alarmed when Husband begins to cough and sneeze as if he’s getting a very heavy head cold. We are wanting to go back to Banff via Lake Louise but have drawn a blank on finding a pitch in one of the sites there. The situation is critical but in desperation we opt for the only solution: We’ll need to get a hotel room for a couple of nights. There are hotels at Lake Louise but they are eye-wateringly expensive. Faced with this, plus Husband’s deteriorating condition we’ve no choice but to reserve a room- at the cheapest hotel [though it’s still dear]. At least Husband can confine himself to the room for a night or so until he feels better.

Having consulted our detailed guide book of the route, we start back with the aim of stopping off at some must-sees on the way to Lake Louise. Husband, by now, has a streaming nose but otherwise can cope- and there’s still so much to take in…

Alter ego, Jane Deans has written two novels: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend, both available from Amazon .

On the Way to Spirit Lake

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Before driving to Spirit Lake we need to refuel the campervan. We’ve done this once, en route from Calgary to Banff, when we’d stopped at the service station where we should have turned off to go to MaCleans campsite on our first van day. I’d forgotten that to put fuel in your vehicle [here, as in the USA] you must first go to the counter and pay for it. This confuses me. Here in the UK, we pay for fuel after putting it in, otherwise, how are you supposed to know how much you want? On this previous occasion, when faced with the question, I’d said ‘I don’t know’, to which the checkout lady had suggested $100, much to my relief.

We noticed a couple of gas stations from the bus when we came into Jasper yesterday. We pull into one. This time we’d like to fill the van without having to say how much we are buying, but the self-service machine doesn’t explain how to do it. Lucky for us, the man at the pump in front is only too pleased to help us out. This is another occasion when we’ve been assisted by kindly Canadians- who we’ve found to be amenable and friendly wherever we go.

Then we’re off through Jasper, turning off and across a beautiful, rustic bridge and on to a winding road into the wilds. En route we round vast lakes and through majestic forests, but sometimes we’re confronted by huge swathes of burnt forest and land. It’s an upsetting sight and a sobering reminder of the devastation the summer wildfires have wrought.

We’re motoring along through a wooded area when something wonderful happens. We’re flagged down by a ranger’s vehicle a couple of cars ahead because a moose is standing in the middle of the road with her calf. We are all halted and have a ringside seat as the moose poses, unconcerned next to the ranger’s car and her calf scampers backwards and forwards across the road. Here, where we live in the UK, next to the New Forest national park we are used to waiting for the wild ponies to shift from their middle-of-the-road positions and often think they do it deliberately, so perhaps this moose is the same: ‘This is my home and you can wait!’ We are delighted to wait as long as she wishes.

After a while the calf runs off up the steep side of the road and the cow saunters slowly after. Then they are gone.Eureka! Now I believe there are moose here. But I still think the bears are a marketing ploy and that none live here at all- except perhaps in zoos. And we were convinced to buy a ‘bear spray’ by the lady in the tourist office, too! What a con!

Having lunched in a roadside pull-off by a lake, we arrive to our destination. There are several car parks but it’s busy and we need to go to the furthest to find a space, before walking down to the lakeside where there are shops, cafes and queues for boats. The early morning frost has given way to bright blue skies and sunshine, which bodes well for photos. The first look at Spirit Lake is a reminder of why it’s so often used in travel and holiday marketing brochures. It is simply beautiful…

To find novels by Jane Deans, Grace’s alter ego, search Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads and other book sites. The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend are widely available. Visit my Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100063988575981