VANCOUVER - Waltzing with Bears

There are some cliches to travelling, especially I find where France is concerned. When in Paris, you visit the Eiffel Tower. You realise it's tremendously unexciting and really just a pylon with a nice view, then you leave. When in New York you go visit the Statue of Liberty. Which you realise is tall, French and so, therefore, you treat it pretty much like you would the Eiffel Tower. And then you get to Canada with its mountains, pine trees and general French connections and you wonder if the same thing is going to happen again... But it doesn't. Because unlike the Eiffel Tower, mountains and pine trees are awesome. Especially the Canadian ones.

Angus took me wandering through a couple of the local beauty spots. Of course, this being Vancouver pretty much everywhere is a beauty spot but around the coves of West Vancouver there are some standout sights. Lighthouse Park is a deceptivly titled area of slopes and forests which the settlers of the city decided to leave to its own devices when they arrived. A jolly good thing too, as that has meant four hundred years of awesome pine tree growth with relativly little signs of human life to wreck the place. So much so that Aaron (Angus' son) suggested we take a large bear stick with us before heading into the wilderness. And he was only half joking...


Angus and bear stick in the forest. If these trees look familliar, by the way, it's because they used to double for forests all over the US on The X-Files.

There are several stops well worth making in Lighthouse Park but, if you're prepared to walk long and high enough (or cheat and take the access road) then you can make it to the lighthouse itself: stuck out on a rock at the opening of the Vancouver city inlet in a most pleasing typical lighthouse kind of a way. No bears to be seen, though, so the bear stick went unused for another day.


The lighthouse in Lighthouse Park, with added float plane goodness overhead. Well worth an hour's walk of anyone's time.

We had planned to walk up Grouse Mountain the day after (a steep hour ascent affectionatly known as 'the Grouse grind') but the legendary rain of British Columbia put in an appearence so we instead headed for the ski fields of Cypress Bowl. Well, okay, not so much ski fields in the summer rather than good walks amongst the low lying clouds. But we'd been reliably assured that there were good blueberry pickings to be found. And more bears.

We actually forgot the bear stick but once again went unharassed. We also pretty much forgot about the blueberry picking. Funny thing about blueberries: they're really not that nice when you stand around and eat them. They require muffin / pancake type preperation to make them truly unmissable and, well, if you can't eat them whilst you're picking them then fruit picking is a strangely unrewarding pasttime. So, instead, we settled for walking the wet slopes of the mountain in the grey and the clouds. Awesome.


Aaron taste tests the wet blueberries of Cypress Bowl. They failed, sadly.

VANCOUVER - Wonderful logs and seals

Some people talk about escaping Britain but very few actually do it. I'm an exception but, then, I'm put to shame by my friend and former boss at the University of Bristol Chaplaincy, Angus who, having had an epiphany during a visit to Vancouver that he should really be living and working there, ended up in just a few years living and working in the parish of St. Francis-in-the-Wood, West Vancouver. I love it when a plan comes together.


The coast near downtown Vancouver. You can tell it's a Candian beach because of all the logs.

Vancouver is, by many accounts, one of the most beautiful cities in the world. And, darn whoever those accounts were by, but they were pretty much all right. The key to it is that it's a city which is so well built up it can be anything it wants to be. On the west coast of North America it has coastline and beaches aplenty, and the plethora of inlets make it a popular boat type of a place (well, there are an awful lot of boats around here at any rate) It has a big downtown area for all those big downtown kind of needs, but just a few miles down the road the mountains rise up into the clouds and suddenly you're in a paradise of tiny coves surrounded by steep slopes and massive pine trees.


The parish church of St. Francis-in-the-Wood. They really weren't kidding about the 'in the wood' part, either.

My faith in Canada was initially tested after a ridiculously long wait in customns to be interrogated by a completley humourless officer who didn't seem to understand the concept of taking a vacation. One promise to leave the country at the earliest oppotunity later, though, and Angus whisked me away to the west side of the city where my sense of aesthetic quickly readjusted itself from brown and scrubby (see: "California") back to green and very, very tall. St Francis-in-the-Wood is a testament to every pine tree and log joke ever made about Canada: it's set into the foot of a mountain covered in massive pines. Like California, this vast landscape is gradually being taken advanatage of by hardy developers who are perching ever bigger houses onto ledges and between trees. Can't say that I blame them, though.


The cove just seconds away from St. Francis. Whoever planted the church obviously knew what they were doing.


And in case you ever get bored of that one cove, someone thoughtfully stuck an ocean and a few mountains just around the corner.

Wandering around the immediate area produces a sort of pioneer mentality: the more diffiucult and interesting rock formations you're prepared to clamber over and the more interesting and exciting the views of the city across the bay will be when you get there. The highlight of my scramble came at the edge of the water where, after sitting and taking pictures of Grouse Mountain immersed in clouds for some minutes, a baby seal flopped out of the water beside me and sat just a couple of armlengths away. It sat there, flopped around some more whilst I took the necessary photos, and then it flopped back into the water again. You know you're somewhere quite special when that sort of thing happens.


Baby seal on the rocks. All together now: awww.

CALIFORNIA - Giving St. Francis his due

I realise that although I'm actually not in California anymore (not even in the USA at the moment...) I've really not given San Diego it's proper dues yet. I guess the proliferation of big rocks and Disneyland got me distracted. And yet San Diego itself has plenty of things worth talking about. First off: the Pacific...


Me, Olivia and the Pacific Ocean. One of my favourite oceans. Definetly makes the top five.

... about which I have very little to say except that it's very big and has nice white sandy beaches. But it needs more car parking spaces: we had to drive up and down our patch of coast several times before finding one. And the sand gets really hot. (I realise that it's when I start finding things like this annoying that I'm becoming quite Californian)


The first San Diego mission. Featuring, quite literally, bells and smells.

Back in the city and we stopped off at the first San Diego mission. Founded by Franciscan monks supporting the Spanish colonists in southern California, the missions stretching down the coast served as both points of defence and centres for missionary activity. It's a bit of an odd combination, born out by the design of the missions themselves which still house beautiful chapels and gardens enclosed within high stone walls. Olivia, Laura and I got a kick from bizarre designs on the Stations of the Cross, the quite pitiful set of offerings left for St. Anthony of Padua and the "more tricky than it looks" ritual of throwing silver over one's left shoulder to acquire wishes from St. Francis. Although, it turns out, the only wish you're allowed is for world peace. Darn.


Olivia tries her luck with the St. Francis wishing well. She managed, quite impressivly, to both miss the pool and indeed the statue itself. Just as well, really, as she was throwing over her wrong shoulder. And not even with silver, the cheapskate...

I'm a big fan of southern California. It's appropriatly dramatic for my landscape tastes, and even desolate if you can get far enough away from the cities. But then you'd miss out on San Diego and LA and that'd be a real shame. Much hugs and love to the Taberts for their hospitality: whether it be the free haircuts, the Extrodinary Deserts or the entertainment value provided by attacking Buzz Lightyear. (Yes, really)


Continuing the not-acclaimed-yet "from the air" series: San Diego. From the air.

CALIFORNIA - Disneyland

There are a few simple tests you can use to see whether a person is dead. Lack of heartbeat / pulse and whatever are some of the classics. But possibly the most surefire way of testing deadness is offering someone a trip to Disneyland. If they don't get overly excited or even vaguely hyper, you can just start picking out an urn for their ashes there and then. When Olivia's friend in LA, Akunna, suggested a Disney trip I got more excited than it's really advisable for anyone to be and, of course, I wasn't to be disapointed.


Olivia, Akunna and Olivia's sister, Laura, outside Sleeping Beauty's castle. Either I'm getting taller or these castles are getting shorter.

Having been to Paris and Orlando before, I can safelty say that the LA branch of the Disney empire is by far the smallest but also the quanitest of them all. All the requisite elements which bring forth Disney joy are in place: the colourful fakery of the buildings which all give a pleasingly hollow sound when knocked, the boundless enthusiasm of everyone working there no matter how tedious their job and the careful design of every single ride to ensure that it all has a story which begins in the queue and doesn't finish until you're out of the door. There's no such thing as a roller coaster in Disney. Just wild stories featuring "drops, sharp turns and sudden stops." Disneyland isn't just about thrills and spills but, really, it's experiences.

It's a slightly different experience, though, going to Disneyland when you're thirteen and not a fan of fast rides than when you're twenty three, have been on a few rough plane flights and are in a group with three other theme park junkies. As such, we attacked the wonder of Disneyland from the outset, and systematically covered every attraction in the park. Here's the rundown:

1) Indiana Jones
This was the ride I'd been looking forward to most before coming, being an Indiana Jones junkie and this being a ride exclusive to the LA brach of Disneyland. It's a cross between a roller coaster and a recreation of driving the freeways in LA. Immensly bumpy, but actually not too rough and the effects are great. You're basiclaly in the opening scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark, trying to escape a temple before it collapses down around you. It's got bugs, it's got fire and it has an immense boulder rolling moment which is just fantastic. Also, the queuing area itself is an adventure featuring excevations, secret codes and little ropes saying "Do not pull" which is just an invitation to mess around with them.


The ancient and mysterious Temple of Mara, home of the Indiana Jones ride. Note the ancient and mysterious queing area of Mara as well as the ancient and mysterious litter bin of Mara.

It was such a fun ride that we asked the nice Disney people to let us ride it again. And, when they refused, we got out of sight of them and Laura showed us how to jump over the barrier to get back to the front of the queue. (In our defence, it was a quiet day at Disney with queues no more than twenty minutes all day. And the only people who noticed were a nice family who were impressed with our dexterity and wanted to know all the spots of queue hop in the park.) And we got to ride in the front both times. We rule.

2) Splash Mountain
I hated this one when I was a kid. It's a tortorous experience when you're a nervous rider. Basically you're waiting for the end of the ride: a fifty foot near vertical drop. But rather than just getting to it, Splash Mountain puts you through five minutes of slow boat rides and animal songs to heighten the anticipation / act as a sedative. Despite feeling a lot less intimidated by this one as I once was, I only managed to pull silly poses as far as the little camera which takes embarassing pictures of your screaming. Otherwise, I was hanging on for dear life and wishing for a nice roller coaster.


Splash Mountain. Notice the cute fitieth anniversary badge and the poor suckers doing the drop.

3) Matterhorn and Big Thunder Mountain
Strangely enough, Disneyland has two rollercasters which are pretty much the same. Matterhorn is an exclusive: a bobsleigh run around a giant mountain where you're pestered by the menacing red eyes of a big yeti type thing. Big Thunder Mountain has been exported all over the world and has you racing around a different mountain, this time in a train and often in the dark. They both rock.


The Matterhorn is a darn impressive sight in the park. You can see the crazy guys who spent most of the day climbing and abseilling down it: in the blazing California sun.

Having survived both of these, we decided to go tackle the biggest ride in the park:

4) Space Mountain


Moments away from riding Space Mountain. Look how happy and non brain squashed we were.

Not too long ago you wouldn't have even got me to look at a ride like this. An immensly fast, twisting coaster. And all in the dark. If I list things I hate then all those would be somewhere near the top. The thing you soon learn about roller coasters is that they're always pretty short. And, although being in the dark is freaky, it's probably better not to be able to see that you'e about to go through a nasty corkscrew. But, then, a bumpy landing at Cincinnati Airport is a lot worse (although admittedly that doesn't ake your brain physically ache so much inside your head than Space Mountain.) Full marks, also, to Akunna for her truly awesome levels of screaming. Good fun, but I need a few months recouperation before doing it again, thanks very much.

5) Buzz Lightyear's Astro Blasters

Okay, so whoever designed this one should get an award for the most fun ride in the history of the world. Ever. It's a mix of a ride and a trip to Lazerquest where you're given a gun and have to shoot all sorts of alien nasties whilst you ride around listening to music from Toy Story And they give you a score at the end so you can see how great/shamed you should feel from the whole experience. Olivia and I (both non gun people and me with only my left hand) took on Laura and Akunna. The results you can see below by virtue of the handy in ride camera (which, embarassingly enough, we didn't realise were there until afterwards)



Olivia and I kicked Laura and Akunna's butts. Easy to see why: note the seriousness of our experessions and the purposefullness in our shooting. Whilst Akunna looks thoroughly terrified by the whole business. Incidentally, notice that although Olivia beat me, she had more hands than me.

6) It's a Small World and Mr. Toad's Wild Ride
And finally we get to the truly scary Disney rides. These are the ones which stay with you long after the day is over. It's a Small World is an infamous voyage through a happy, clappy and united world which makes you want to scream and vomit in equal measure. It was made for the World's Fair in the fifties and, sadly, hasn't been updated since. There's something very disconcerting about the fact that every African country is represented by people in masks playing bongo drums. And there's a weird bit with a cowboy dancing with a native American guy. The sheep will lay down with the lion, and all that.


Olivia puts on a brave face during It's a Small World.

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride has been championed by my family for some decades now, ever since we read unflattering reviews of it in a Disneyworld Guide Book (the British, you understand, always root for the underdog) Ten years later and Mr. Toad's charms remain precisely the same in their slow, trundling, pastel painted glory. But the ride has a bizarre metaphysiology which is slightly disturbing: Mr. Toad rides around the British countryside causing all sorts of bother, is tried and imprisoned by a judge without a jury in sight, goes to jail and escapes only to hit a train and be sent to hell... Where the ride ends. Now that's all really rather disturbing when you think about it. Not sure how the ten year olds cope.

One fireworks display later, followed by a quick escape (to all those we nearly flattened on our mad dash out of Disneyland: we apologise. It was all Laura's fault) and a three hour drive later we were back in the hills with our lives, wallets and brains intact. A joyous day.


Posing with snakes and swords in the Indiana Jones shop...


... but none of us can wear a hat quite like Laura.

CALIFORNIA - Thousands of Words

"Sure, San Diego is a nice city," my friend Olivia has been telling me for the past couple of months, "But I don't actually live there. I live in the middle of nowhere with nobody for miles around and it's much less interesting." Well, that's not enough to put me off a visit, especially when (A) The west coast is one of the few American coasts which has so far eluded me and (B) I have a habit of finding dull things interesting.

Flying is becoming something of a cliche at this point in the journey. I've taken four flights in the past two days and there are only so many distractions on most US internal flights. You don't quite appreciate how big the States is until you realise your flying times from coast to coast are roughly the same as the flights to get to the place from Britain in the first place: only with no free meals and only one inflight movie with Amanada Peet in it. Snaps to United Airlines, though, for hooking up their cockpit / flight control communications to the inflight radio system.


Modern fountain with pretty water feature meets skyscrapers. San Diego all over.

Cosmetically, California is alien territory for most Europeans. We just don't get the desert. So despite Olivia's continued protests of dullness as we departed the city and headed for the hills, I got very excited as we passed through miles of semi arid mountains wondering why the local rock formations are so very big. As you get further from the city, the rocks get bigger and the roads finally give up trying to be American and barge straight through them, allowing much winding through spectacular mountains.


Reason one why any visit to California should take you outside the cities.

It's a landscape which couldn't be boring even if the scrubby vegetation got burnt away just leaving a load of rock (which, funnily enough, happened last year) Obviously various other Californians agree, which is why the area is littered with expensive houses clasping onto the sides of the hills and some bizarre colonial landscaping which Disney spends most of its time trying to recreate in theme parks.


Olivia at Ramona Castle. Apparently a batty European woman decided she wanted a two hundred room castle in the middle of the desert which, from the outside, looks like a big cottage. What you can't see, to the right, is the big tower which looks like a lighthouse.

Still Olivia protested boring surroundings. Finally we reached Chez Tabert: a house which looks like a fort on top of a hill surrounded by other hills with incredible views for miles around from San Diego on one side to miles of awesome splendour on the other. Based on my fairly limited range of travel so far, I can safetly say that it's probably the most incredible setting for a house in the history of the world, ever. "See what I mean?" Olivia tells me.


The view from out the back of Olivia's house. Dull, dull, dull... Except for the hills and mountains, of course.


Sunset from the hills with San Diego on the horizon. The mountain in the foreground is called Mount Starvation. Don't ask me why.

OHIO - A Long way for Shrimp

We don't have any great lakes in Britain. We have some good lacks. And some pretty lakes. And even the odd fantastic lake. But no great ones. So, to redress the gaping hole in my world awareness we took a drive up to a great lake. Lake Erie to be precise. Where we visited the beach, found a lot of oyster shells (empty ones. Thanks a lot, sea birds) and then ate shrimps. Kinda like being at a British seaside, really. Only greater.


Merry at Lake Erie.

And that was Lake Erie. We drove four hours both ways to get there and we were maybe up there for about two hours. Which would have been kinda pointless if it were only a good lake or an indifferent one. But it was a great one. And that's a whole different deal.


Lake Erie from the air. Note the reasons for my continued emphasis on the word *great*

That was pretty much Cincinnati. There was some random assaulting of local drivers with water bottles, and eating in one half of a duelling set of Indian resteraunts and even an impromtu visit to a children's hosptial (not for my sake, this time) to talk about: but there just isn't time. Cheers to Merry and the Briskis without whom the week would have been a whole lot less fun. And kinda uncomfortable, I'd imagine.

KENTUCKY - Shake, shake, shake...

In the early nineteenth century, a group of religiously inclined Americans decided that the second coming of Jesus had, in fact, already occured and that rather than living in the heady heights of their new hard fought for democracy, they should head off into the countryside and build themselves a utopia to escape the millennium of trauma which was bound to follow. Off they went, building themselves villages of mighty sizes where men and women would live separate lives but in fellowship. They shunned family life and industry to become self sufficent and developed a form of worship which involved some singing, dancing and a lot of unusual shaking. Thus were born: the Shakers. Needless to say, with a name like that and an historical re-enactment village just a few hours down the road, you'd have had to fight to keep Merry and I out of there.


A typical Shaker bedroom. Note the incredible functionnality of the design. Spartan beds and dressers, and the hooks all around every room to hang things on when they're not being used. Also note the cat, which may or may not subscribe to Shaker teachings. We didn't think to ask.

The guides at the Shaker Village we visited on Pleasant Hill, Lexington, went out of their way to assure us that Shakerism wasn't a cult. In fact, the religious side of their beliefs barely gets a look in on the displays around the lovingly recreated village. Funnily enough, for a group so keen on escaping the modern world and going back to an older way of life, the village emphasises how the Shakers were thoroughly progressive sorts of people. Ever used a flat broom before? The Shakers invented that one. Circular saw? Their's as well. And so was the tune for Lord of the Dance (which you've never truly heard until a man in costume is singing it at the top of his lungs to the pair of you, even though you're the only two people who turned up for the singing recital) As well as being dab hand inventers and communal livers, the Shakers were also rather efficent Capitalists as well. Realising they were making good quality products and attracting interest from local travellers, they began selling their wares and making a fair bit of money. (Kind of ironic given the free market was exactly the sort of thing you'd have thought they were trying to escape...)


Shaker architecture: symmetrical. Straight lines. Two doors. One for men and one for women, you understand.

It's not entirely clear from Pleasant Hill and all the success stories why the movement diminished. I might hazard a guess, though, that the enforced celibacy and no marriage (married couples who joined the order would live apart for the rest of their lives. Rather masochistic, when you think about it) probably didn't help when it came to passing on these wonderous achivements to the next generation. Thank goodness for historical re-enactments. Pleasant Hill has around thirty Shaker buildings, but apparently the original site hosted over two hundred and housed four hundred people. Gotta say: the thought of all those people in one room shaking in unison makes me feel a little weird.


Gardening Shaker style.

So: baseball. Having somehow managed to be in the States half a dozen times and not gone to a game, Merry insisted I go to one on this occassion. Now I may not know who the Cincinnati Reds or the San Fransisco Giants are but I *do* know that the Reds' Ken Griffey Jr. was once on The Simpsons ("Wow, it's like there's a party in my mouth, and everyone's invited.") and was, therefore, worthy of my support.


Baseball. It's a game with bases. And balls. And bats. So why not "Bat and Baseball", eh?

Ken didn't fail me: one home run was enough to see the Reds through a rather dull match which did nothing to shake my deep rooted suspisions that baseball is actually just a *teensy* bit dull. Like being back at summer camp, though, there are enough silly chants and random harassed looking people being beamed onto the giant screens to make the whole thing immensly enjoyable. And, you know what? There might even have been just a little bit of shaking going on in the stadium, as well.


For reference: items which the Cincinnati Reds fear may be used in potentiol terroist attacks. I wish the list were longer as, you can see from the bottom right, it was beginning to get delightfully silly.

OHIO - Dickens Missed Out on Ice Cream

If you ever want to see some farms and you're kind of bored with Suffolk then I heartily recommend Ohio. They have some truly nice ones. They also have, of course, an over abundance of Walmarts, K-Marts and the like belching all over the countryside but those things are so key to Americana these days that it really wouldn't feel like America *without* them. My hosts for the next week are the delightful Merry B and the rest of the lovely Briski family. We're close to CINCINNATI (got it right that time. Ya happy now, Merry?) and the Kentucky border, which means all sorts of interesting things just outside the door. Including the big whole in the front lawn where some men just came along and dug it up because they needed to check the gas mains. Without any sign of a relandscaping job to repair the damage. Only in America.


Cincinnati. Shiny!

First stop on the grand tour is Lebanon. Like many other small American towns everything looks so shiny and new you wonder if Disney employees are hiding in little nooks and crannies and coming out at night to paint a new coat of sheen on it all. Lebanon, though, is a town with a really cute sense of history which has clearly had a lot of love put into mantaining it. First of all there is the real history. The town is home to the Golden Lamb, Ohio's oldest pub and frequented by eleven presidents and a favourite of Charles Dickens (for my younger readers: that guy in the crazy ghost episode of Doctor Who) That means two things (1) A gift shop filled with more cutesy lamb imagery than is healthy for anywhere and (2) An excuse for overpriced non-food to be served. After soaking in all the atmosphere we could for free, we retreated to the local fifties recreation diner with its reassuringly cheap looking cups and soup bowls.


The Golden Lamb. Where Dickens ate. Not shown: the Ice Cream Parlor. Where we ate.

The most interesting threat of Lebanon's fascination with history, though, is the plethora of antique shops in its steets. Now, antique is a subjective word when we're dealing with America and, indeed, the mix of fifties dinnerwear and souvenirs from somebody's eighties holiday in Paris is a tad bizarre. But there were some real finds including a vast number of ornate tea sets. My wallet remained firmly closed but a cake dish complete with lid was good and practical enough to pesuade Merry to part with eight of her hard earnt dollars. Elsewhere in town there was a nice jarring reminder of Dorset with the local recreation railway. Just like Swanage. And it includes a Thomas the Tank Engine steam engine. Just like Swanage.


The golden age of rail... Shame that was a few decades ago, really, as the train is so nice and shiny.

All in all, a nice quirky mix of history and non-history proporting to be history which I love and the like of which America does a lot better than anyone else. My personal favourite: the chapter in Ghost Stories of Ohio in which the gift shop owner at the Golden Lamb reports on the series of strange occurances in her shop over the past few decades including the cash register printing of its own accord and an entire shelf of cuddly lambs leaping (not falling) to their floor. Without a note of irony in sight.

NEW YORK - Back in Brown

It's a little sad going back to a world where every corner has a little screen or wad of paper telling you how bad the world is at the moment. Whilst waiting for my bus out of Springfield (courtesy of Colleen and the other wonderful Braceys) to New York I watched ten minutes of CNN and was informed that lives in the the American space programme are in mortal danger because of NASA's incompetence, that iPods are probably causing permenant hearing damage to all who use them and that Angelina Jolie has no hope of happiness like, ever. Now, none of this really came as a surprise (Space, dangerous, really? Sound pumped directly into the ears may cause damage? Shocker! And we all know the woman's unhinged. She married Jonny Lee Miller, for goodness sake) but it's a change from camp where you wake, eat and sleep to songs about great big moose, frogs going oom-ah and smiling at storms because Jesus is in your boat. It's going to take some getting used to. I think I'm going to spend tomorrow in Central Park with a good book to calm my nerves.

So, the last week of camp... A busy one as, like most other weeks, a lack of volunteers meant our staff was syphoned off for counselling duties leaving just myself, Mark and Colleen to run programs for the entire week. When you wake up in the morning and spend an hour and a half helping Finders Sleepers camp across ropes, followed by another hour and a half showing Horse Camp how to build a squirrel's nest before leading Basketball Camp on a night walk (with cleaning and leading meals and songs in between) in the blazing heat your head begins to do funny things to you. I was fully convinced that I had gone mad by about Wednesday. All in all, though, it was a good week. I spent more time with Horse Camp than was healthy, giving them all sorts of games, initatives and getting a little scared at the ferocious fires and shelters they built after only a half hour coaching from me. They were all lovely. And Finders Sleepers, already blessed with the presence of counselor extrodinaire Emma B, did a great job playing cricket with not a single piece of proper equiptment on the whole camp. It's amazing what you can do when you improvise. Of course, according to CNN, improvisation leads to a premature death, or something... Honourable mentions, too, for Adventure Camp with whom I conspired to have a Basketball Camp counselor successfully kidnapped right out from amongst them during a nature walk. It's amazing how devious and silent one camp can be and how unobservant and noisy another can in the same darkened woods at the same time.


Horse Camp's groovy shelter. Avaliable now from all good Walmarts. Horse campers not included.

Leaving was kind of sad but, actually, fairly painless. After four hours of cleaning in far too hot sunlight we were all glad to escape to places where air conditionning is a reality. I'm looking through my photo CD already, though (prepared by the mighty Adam B) and my staff photo. Won't be long before I begin to miss all you Aldersgate guys. You'd better start commenting on the blog, or I'll send CNN after you...

UPDATE: Have to relate an incident of most wonderful randomness. The heavens opened at around six and it's been pouring for over an hour here. I spent thirty minutes in a bus shelter just one block away from my hostel: that's maybe a three minute walk but the rain was that bad my cast wouldn't have made it back. After fifteen minutes or so, a lovely family came and joined me and ranted for ages on how terrible and unnatural the rain was (and no, meteological fans, I didn't correct their misconceptions on rainfall during extremley humid periods) before searching all their bags for a spare plastic bag so me and my cast could manage the sprint back to the hostel. I got soaked, but it meant I sat here and booked all my flights for my US travels. Thank you random family: I shall keep the plastic bag as a souvenir...

RHODE ISLAND - Eight down...

And so the final week of camp rolls around faster than a really fat person rolling down a steep hill. Or something. The wrist is still immobilised, which has continued to prove a challenge (note to makers of child proof caps for medicines: you're discriminating against people who can't use both their hands! And children who really wanna take drugs) but I've had two very excellent weeks:

1) Soccer Camp
... Was great. As predicted ominously some weeks ago, we only had six kids with which to experiment with the art which is football. So out went all the carefully designed full team drills and in came a lot of shooting practice and trying to arrange for other camps to play us. Our kids were, however, awesome and managed to demolish nine strong Waterskills Camp and, most impressivly, our reduced team of five then successfully took on sixteen person Hogan Camp (yes, another one. And, yes, I was very glad not to be directing *them* again...) before soundly thrashing Waterskills in a canoe race. Much credit belongs to my counselor partner in crime Emma Beckman (who, get this football irony fans, has a father called David) who on top of returning to counsel with me after the horrors of Hogan Camp is also a football player extrodinaire with a mighty right foot. We all had a lot of fun, and I was most gratified that Emma and I soundly thrashed all our kids in penalty shooting competitions. So what if they're all nine years old? I revel in small victories.


The wonderful Soccer Camp. How all good camps should be.

2) Living Arts camp
We followed up with Living Arts. A strange blend of tie dying, music, creative expression and glassy eyed puppets all served up with an incomprehensible schedule (Laura was driven to the very brink of insanity) However, for me the week meant the excitement of actually becoming a creative writing tutor for the week. My loyal band of devoted girls (and John) constructed many a clam and cheese obsessed excercise. And particular credit goes to the version of Pirates of the Carribean reconstituted as a self help book. That's the kind of randomness I thrive for. I also got scheduled to lead a session on improvisational comedy. Cue the 'Whose Line is it Anyway?' playbook of games and a thoroughly entertaining hour of Party Quirks, Questions Only and Press Conference. You've never realised the joy of teaching until you're getting nine year olds to improvise pretending to be the first man ever to give birth, or the first woman to have surgery to become an elephant.


Creative writing Camp Aldersgate style, and not a beret in sight. Eat your heart out, Paul Magrs.

So next week I depart ickle Rhode Island and discover the joys of Cincinatti, California and North Carolina. It's been a pleasure to be here and an awesome camp, but it feels time for me to be able to eat a meal without being forced to sing songs afterwards, and reincoporate swear words back into my vocabulary. So, watch out America. I'm coming to get ya...





A couple of the more spectacular sunsets over Camp Aldersgate this summer.