Pink Sneakers on the Go

Reining in my ponies as I contemplate the rain

Posted by Nora K ,

Are we there yet?

Repeat three times. Start with an exasperated sigh. Add an eyeball roll, just for dramatic effect. The second time, make sure to accelerate your tone, and notch it up to just a decibel below a yell. Go for Gold in exclamation number three and let your wail rip. You’ll snag an Oscar if you throw the tantrum from hell, an Academy Award performance that is guaranteed to make your head swell.

Remember when you were a Kid, restless and fidgety, squished with your siblings in the backseat of a (gasp!) station wagon sans those restricting seatbelts? Asking that annoying question over and over and over again? You get the visual. Those pointless games of counting cars, belching out 1970’s sitcom lyrics, squabbling about stars, how to get to Mars, anything really, just to pass the time. I’m so bored, there’s nothing to do and I’ve got to go pee!

Was that a lifetime or just a few decades ago?

Welcome home. Shelter at home. Stay at home. Don’t leave home.

Are these roadblocks? Lessons? Or more?

It’s all in your perspective.

I’m celebrating in the rain. Conversing with the clouds.

My Poppa’s favourite expression was: “Whoa baby bird, hold on to your horses!” A pony when I was five would have been just as swell.

Another gem: “You can’t get far in your car without a spare tire”. Being a Kid, I chalked up his statement to the nonsensical ramblings of a Dad who refused to stop teaching about stuff I barely understood. Like, seriously, who wants to get a flat tire? Not me! I just want to get there NOW, ASAP! And, step on the petrol, would you please?

“Thunder and Lightning have a lot to say” was Pop’s most profound declaration.

In one ear and out the other…but those were the good old days.

My Papa is no longer with us, yet his words resonate. I now understand.

I’m reminded of a Welsh proverb that an elderly gent consoled me with last August in Wales. My marathon sprint, albeit with burdensome luggage in tow, had resulted in an unexpected scrape and tumble, leaving me stranded in the railway station. I had missed my connecting train and had no other option but to shelter and wait.

Mwyaf y brys, mwyaf y rhwystr.

The greater the hurry, the more obstacles there are.

A few Welsh proverbs that make a whole lot of sense:

* All waiting is long (Hir yw pob ymaros)

* The kettle is boiling and I'm ready.

* Adversity brings knowledge and knowledge wisdom.

* Go slowly and go far.

* Tapping persistently breaks the stone.

* At the end of the song comes payment.

* The guilty flee with no one chasing them.

* It’s raining old wives and walking sticks.

Next post: Next week! Either Tuesday or Wednesday or thereabouts the w/o May 25th.

Where the journey continues on a vintage caboose in Wales…

Stay home, stay safe and catch up with your reading!

Teg yw edrych tuag adref.
It is good to look homewards.

The sign says it all

All aboard!

Spectacular scenery of the Welsh countryside

The scribbling continues...

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Confessions from my Quarantine Kitchen

Posted by Nora K ,

I’ve suddenly become obsessed with yeast. Or, lack of. Its complete disappearance from grocery shelves has left me on edge, anxious about when the next shipment will arrive. That is, IF it will arrive and IF I’ll be able to snatch a batch of the highly coveted squares.

What makes this statement even more ludicrous is the fact that I’m not a baker. Heck, I don’t even cook, let alone own an apron or rolling pin. I subside on frozen pizza, nourishment that is grown in tins and pre-packaged take-away. The odd veggie thrown in for good measure, blended with a handful of vitamins more than fulfills the nutritional requirements listed on Canada’s food group guideline.

Add a splash of antioxidant infused Shiraz and I’m starting to glow. After all, no need to deprive myself of the benefits of age reversing resveratrol. Well, not like anyone is able to visit anytime soon, but nevertheless, there still is hope for an outing in a distant tomorrow.

Sequestered at home for weeks on end, I’ve been binging on reruns of cooking shows, a much-needed distraction from devouring the grim statistics of 24/7 news broadcasts. With real estate at a premium in Le Confining Apartment, I had no choice but to venture into The Kitchen, just for a change of scene.

So, where to start?

I own a toaster oven, a few pots and pans, a blender and a 1970’s percolator. Just don’t ask about the stove. Oh, and a set of Dutch patterned cups purchased in the one and only shop that was open in Delft when all of the other vendors were “Gesloten” (Closed) on a holiday Monday. Memories. But that was then and this is now. Shuttered shops and sheltering at home is the “new normal” and I’m on the hunt for yeast.

The need to knead is real and I’m in a quagmire. I can’t get started. Where to begin?

I haven’t a clue.

Next thing I know, the kitchen’s a mess. The cupboards are bare, soup and sardines in tins strewn everywhere. I’m slipping on dried beans, packets of vintage crackers and fossilized who knows what. Came dreadfully close to an unexpected hospital stay when an avalanche of canned corn almost knocked me out.

My well-stocked pantry apparently expired in 1989. Not a good sign.

With my fleeting Martha moment now a shelved thought, I’ve more pressing matters at heart – Kitchen Clean Up!

On the chase for disinfectant and wipes!

Memories of Happy of not so long ago in Delft.

Closed. Shuttered. The sign says it all.

The scribbling continues...

Next post: Sometime next week - The w/o May 18^th, either Tuesday or Wednesday or thereabouts. Stay tuned!

Where the journey continues on a vintage caboose in Wales…

Addendum:

I was on the hunt for yeast this week and have no idea what exactly sprouted my obsession to attempt to bake loaves. I'm a thinker and a scribbler, yet these quarantined times have left me surprised as I contemplate and reflect on a new tomorrow.

I felt compelled to share and that is why this week’s blog post veered a tad off track and left me stuck in The Kitchen instead of reminiscing about a vintage caboose ride in Wales.

The struggle and challenges of our new quarantined reality are oftentimes overwhelming. But, it is not all doom and gloom. We are all in this together and we will persevere as we look forward to a new tomorrow.

Penning my thoughts and sharing my perspective (albeit with a touch of much needed humour) is what I need to do.

A bit of reflection, contemplation, a laugh and a rhyme…

Till next time!

Stay home and stay safe, my dear readers!

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A tale of a bar, a biker and a beagle in Wales

Posted by Nora K ,

Had I not spotted that doggy in the window, I would never have hitched a ride on a vintage caboose en route to a village called Beddgelert and paid tribute to a hound named Gelert.

It all started with a billboard directing us to “the smallest bar in Wales”. Located mere steps from a 13^th century medieval fortress, Bar Bach was a gem of a find in the Welsh town of Caernarfon - that is, if you are able to accurately pronounce it. I must confess that I struggled to correctly enunciate, repeatedly garbling this tongue twister of a name. Like seriously, how challenging is it to say “Kar-Nar-Von”?

How and why Travel Bud and I ended up in a remote Welsh village is a tale best told another day, so those details will just have to wait, as this week’s scribble is about a biker and his dog that led us on a railway journey back in time.

Whether a gimmick or a trick, the wording on the placard outside the micro-pub worked like a charm and we had no choice but to saunter on in. Rustic and intimate, the décor was a mélange of wooden beams and stonework. The crackling fireplace added yet another layer of cozy to the Inn.

And, there we found Toby, lounging on a red leather covered barrel.

Next thing you know, Travel Bud and I were indulging in some Guinness and chatting up a storm with our newly found biker friend.

Uh - oh!

Drat! Meant to say Fiddlesticks instead!

Under normal circumstances, there is no way in Hell that I would strike up a convo with a heavily tattooed dude and not fear for my very existence. Whether you label me either a princess or an overly skittish prude, the sight of a Harley Davidson motorcade sends shivers of fear up my spine.

But alas, first impressions are oftentimes misjudgements of character.

The bond between the burly biker and his four-legged companion was undeniable. Toby was the epitome of gentleness and on his best behaviour. The pair had just returned from an excursion to the countryside, riding the rails on a narrow-gauge steam-engine choo-choo. The village of Beddgelert was a highly recommended stop, a picturesque spot where dogs cavorted and played and the home of a 13^th century hound named Gelert.

And with a woof and a paw-shake, Toby bid us a slobbered adieu.

Next post: Come along for a ride in an old-fashioned caboose as the journey continues.....

Post will be published in a week or so. Sometime the w/o May 11^th. Either Tuesday, Wednesday or thereabouts.

Stay home, stay safe, catch up on your reading and look up the Welsh folk-tale of Gelert, my friends!