Naked ambition

This trip isn't just about seeing new places, eating food, taking photos and learning how to cook. It's about discovering little things about myself. It's about realising what makes me who I am; the little foibles and idiosyncrasies that I possess.

Not without good reason, I could be criticised for taking myself too seriously; for being too concerned about what people think of me. There are things I am not comfortable feeling or discussing, and when my own little fiefdom becomes threatened, my guard goes up. We are probably all guilty of this to some extent, but I can't help feeling that it holds me back.

A lot of this comes down to freedom. Right now, freedom is something I would appear to be enjoying. I am travelling, on a very generous budget, alone, so my own whims may dictate my course. If things become awkward, or situations threaten my freedom, I can always toss a few dollars in the right direction to steady the ship. I suddenly decide I want to do something, like take a sailing course or learn to cook Mexican food in la casita de tu abuela; no hay problema. It shall be done. But this is not freedom.

Freedom comes from within. It is a state of mind, not a state of being. Freedom is what you get when you remove all the constraints that you place upon yourself. All the restrictions, concerns and worries that you allow to weigh you down and inhibit your own movement. The pillars that we all erect to preserve and protect our own fragility - if we can cast them off, revel in their tumbling, then we are free.

Down near the UBC campus, there are a few stretches of beach, the most famous of which is Wreck Beach. It's proper old skool, Dazed and Confused stuff. I spent a few hours down there today. Lying in the sun, you hear the ladies with their cool boxes walking past. Margaritas, mojitos, ice cold beers. Mushrooms, purple haze. Bombay and tonic. To get down here you must first traverse the best part of five hundred steps down through the forest. At the top of the steps is a sign. It says Clothing Optional.

I've always been one to keep my clothes on. I feel unbelievably self conscious if de-robed outside of the obvious situations. So here presents a golden opportunity. An optional nudist beach, where my anonymity is assured. Where I can remove my clothes, lie in the sun and bask in the naked glory of my soul. If that's not a step towards true freedom, towards stripping away the things that hold me back and running through the streets with wild abandon, an ice cold beer in hand, then I don't know what is.

You should try it some time, it's good for the soul.

The eyes have it

The University of British Columbia's Museum of Anthropology is a remarkable place. Despite the summery weather, I decided to poke my nose around the 36,000 objects in its collection for a few hours.

The focus is mainly on the First Nations of the pacific northwest, and their rich cultural heritage. They are probably most famous for their totem poles, but these heraldic giants only tell a small part of the story. The most famous work in the building is a sculpture of yellow cedar, entitled The Raven and the First Men by an artist named Bill Reid. The Raven is integral to most indigenous creation myths in these parts - in this one, he opens a clam shell containing human beings (big mistake).

For me its most striking aspect is the Raven's face, and his eyes in particular. Eyes are everywhere in this museum, following your every move as you track around the incredible exhibits. The faces of ancestors that look down from totems, the birds, bears and the masks that adorn every wall and scream at you with their bold, bright features. Even the dull, colourless ones have a starkness that emerges from their surroundings, as though they were alive.

Elsewhere in the museum is a collection of European pottery. It might not be what I came here for, but I have a look around anyway, and I'm glad I did. The Raven may have created the world, but it's the Owl of Minerva that flies at dusk. How fitting then that its beady little eyes should be the wisest and most haunting of them all.

Famous Grouse

The so called Peak of Vancouver, Grouse Mountain stands some 3,700 feet above the city and is a major tourist attraction. People fill the cable cars to the top and part with their thirty bucks to wander around in natural beauty and attend things like a "Lumberjack Show" (whatever that is). There are others, either more stupid, stubborn or poor, who choose an alternative route to the summit. The appropriately named Grouse Grind®.

The Grind involves ascending to the peak up a trail that climbs 2,800 feet in 1.8 miles. That's a 56% slope (30º), incorporating 2,830 steps fashioned out of rock and wood. Being an idiot, and in the absence of anything better to do with my time, I thought I'd tackle this, and try and beat the average time of an hour and a half (the record is 25 minutes, set by some nutter).

Things start out easily enough. Mercifully, the route is shaded, I am dressed for the occasion, and have plenty of water. The stopwatch is running, and I plan on making a solid, steady pace. Like most plans, this soon goes out of the window. Ten minutes in and I'm breathing pretty damn quickly. The adrenalin has flooded my calf muscles, my mouth is parched, and I need a breather. I begin working out how far I've covered, how much left. A pointless exercise. A good twenty five minutes in, knackered, and I pass this sign:

I've never felt like quitting anything more. Shortly after, I pass a girl coming down who assures me it gets easier the further you go. Whoever she was, she lied through her teeth, but I'd still like to thank her for it. With plenty of breathers along the way, and only knowingly overtaken by "serious" athletes, I finally made it to the top in 1:15. Whilst pretty weak by most people's standards, given the absence of any cardiovascular exercise in the last year (or is that decade) of my life, I'll take it. There's one other thing I'll take too, and that's the cable car down...

Riding high

I've never been one to fight my own body. It wants sleep, it gets sleep. But after three days of doing only fractionally more than nothing, I need something to shake me out of my lethargy. So I get a massage, eat an unbelievably healthy breakfast (Twisted Fork - awesome) and hire a bike for the day.

Riding a bike these days pretty much obliges one to look like a twat. In the past this might have been enough to stop me. Not any more. I've learnt that looking like a twat and being a twat are not the same thing (though they frequently overlap). I genuinely don't care any more, so helmet up and head off.

There are some fairly ominous looking clouds lurking over the city, making things seem a little dull. There's plenty to look at cycling along the seawall, but with that moody sky, the pictures are defiantly black and white.

My plan - head over to North Vancouver to Capilano Park. This entails cycling up a bloody massive hill, at the top of which I take this picture, just to prove how stupid I look, after sitting down for about ten minutes to get my breath back.

What goes up must come down. My worry is that there are going to be some pretty hefty downs to be re-upped in the next couple of hours. The bridge over Burrard Inlet is massive. Coming down the other side, I realise it is going to take some effort to get back up over it. And then another Ditchling Beacon awaits en route to the park. By the time I get there I am completely knackered.

The park itself contains the Capilano Suspension Bridge, British Columbia's first ever tourist attraction. I bet it didn't cost $35 to get in back when it opened. It's a total rip off, naturally. The bridge itself is pretty trippy, when people stop taking pictures and clambering over each other to hold on to the sides. And there's some cool forest to look around, but it's pretty small and all laid out in tracks and treetop pathways. But it's green, and is a strange contrast to downtown, which is, after all, not that far away.

I finally get back to Stanley Park, having made it up the bridge in one piece and, remarkably, without quitting. I ride leisurely around the seawall again, lapping what has to be one of the most beautiful urban parks in the world. It's packed full of people; on bikes, rollerblades and the beaches. It's cleverly laid out, well organised, spacious and tranquil.

By the time I wind my way back to where I started, I am in urgent need of two things: a buttock transplant and a cold beer. I compromise by choosing the softest looking bar stool from which to enjoy my reward, and I'm back in the game.

Vancouver: An accidental food odyssey

When I first arrive in a new city I like to go for a stroll to get a feel for the place. And I like to do it without a map, since in order to find your bearings, you have to lose them first. And you never quite know what you will find that way. Having finally dragged my sorry ass out of bed, I went for a bit of a wander around Vancouver and stumbled upon some unexpected culinary delights.

I'm staying in downtown, and decided to head for the nearest stretch of water, the brilliantly named False Creek. The other side of it I go for a walk, take a few snaps, but I'm getting hungry. I follow a fresh fish sign and inadvertently discover Go Fish. It might look inconspicuous enough, but the queue goes round the block. Actually, it goes so far that they've closed it off for the day, so I have to come back the next day. Which was annoying, because I'd already set my heart on the chilli miso fish soup. Bummer.

I returned for lunch on Saturday. They apparently sell the best fish and chips in the world, but being English, I doubt it. Instead, I plump for a seared scallop sandwich with sweet chilli sauce and caramelised onions. It's a proper sauce too, none of that orange crap out of the bottle. Scallops are one of my absolute favourite things to eat, and here they are rich, sweet and juicy and I could eat this over and over again until I die. Just looking at it makes me want to eat it again.

Next up I accidentally discover Granville Island, and it's excellent food market. I sniff around a few stalls but the real gem has to be Lee's Donuts. Forget Krispy Kreme, these kick ass. They're the best doughnuts I've ever eaten, anywhere in the world. Period. Honey dipped Heaven. One just isn't enough.

Later on I walk past this hot dog shop and somehow resist going in. I'm back later to sample their delights which, if you like hot dogs, are reasonable enough. Somewhat bizarrely, they only sell Root Beer, and carry about fifteen different varieties. They're big on the provenance of the meat they use and the casings, which is promising enough, but somehow I don't see gourmet hot dogs ever reaching dizzying heights. That sign must pull in a fair few punters though.

This was more than enough excitement for my first three days in Vancouver. The good (or bad) news is that I'm going to be here for a few days yet. Having finally got to see an eye specialist with my corneal herpes, he wants me back on Thursday. So there's more than enough time to discover a few more treats yet, assuming I can get out of bed.

Perchance to dream

Sleep. Everyone knows it's quality not quantity that counts. For seven nights on the boat, I was deprived of both. The constant rocking motion, Jeff's snoring, the confined space and my various ailments combined to wake me every hour or so and deny me any kind of rhythm. I don't think I've ever been this knackered in my life.

Finally off the bloody boat, I got myself to a walk in clinic to have my eye looked at. He took one look at it and told me to go to hospital, so I packed my bags, promptly missed a ferry to the mainland by ten seconds, waited an hour for the next and dozed my way via boat and bus to downtown Vancouver. In a stroke of luck, the motel I'd booked is opposite the hospital. One hour, $750 later and I'm strolling back across the road with antibiotic eye drops and the diagnosis that I have almost certainly transferred my cold sore to my eye and am suffering from herpes of the cornea.

I retire for an early night. Lying in bed with my eyes closed, I can still feel the gentle lilting of the boat upon the water. I'm ready for a flurry of dreams about sheets and knots and points of sail - like at cooking school when all I could dream of was food, sailing has dominated my nocturnal life for over a week now.

Knowing what is wrong with me, and knowing that only more sleep can really lift me from this weary low that I find myself in - body and mind in irons - is a blessed relief. I can stay here as long as I want or need to convalesce, and with this thought, I drift off and sleep until 4pm.

Captain's Log

A sailing course has been on my radar for a couple of years now. The little patch of homesickness I encountered back in Texas persuaded me to take the plunge sooner rather than later, hence my jaunt round the Southern Gulf islands these past six days.

Our vessel, Windfall, was a Bavaria 40. Not quite the height of luxury but a reasonable place to start. She sails well, though a little extra space around the place wouldn't have gone amiss.

Windfall, anchored in Todd Inlet

The berth I shared with Jeff, who snores like a bastard

I came aboard last Thursday, 24th June, armed only with two large sailing manuals that I hadn't read, and not knowing my stern from my shroud. The first guy I met was the Skipper - Victor, a seventy five year old Englishman who first learnt to sail when he was four.

In the morning, the rest of the crew came aboard. Jeff, my cabin-mate is a Canadian who used to fix boats for a living and is going back to sailing after losing the sight of one eye. A top man, he could do with snoring a bit (lot) less. Then a family consisting of James, the dad, his eighteen year old son Asher and sixteen year old nephew Philip. They're a tight little family bonded by a shared love of sailing and singing. Despite having highly dubious hair and bits of lego for ear rings, Phil is a sound guy.

Phil at the helm

Once you're on the boat it's a pretty steep learning curve. Strange words from books take on new meanings as I see what they actually do. We do a few man overboard drills and once I've got the feel for the wheel, it all goes swimmingly. We get the sails up in the afternoon and the feeling of being purely under sail for the first time in my life is exhilarating. This could turn out to be expensive, I think to myself...

First night, under anchor off Russell Island

Cowichan Bay Marina, where I decanted myself into a hotel bed

The days kind of blended together out on the waves. Deprived of sleep, windswept, ill (see previous entry) and dosed up on a cocktail of drugs, it felt not dissimilar to cooking school, with its daily demands upon the body that you just can't keep pace with. Despite all this, I found myself learning quickly, and genuinely enjoying the experience.

Me at the helm. No dramas

Ganges Marina at sunset

The course actually covers Competent Crew and Day Skipper, meaning you have to know sail trimming, reefing, docking, anchoring, navigation, float planning, buoyage, tides, currents and weather as well as the basics of how to sail a boat. This keeps me pretty busy throughout, and means the manuals, by the end of the course, are well dog eared.

Plotting a safe course around Beaver Point

And now, at the end of it all, and rather worryingly, I am certified as the skipper of a live aboard sailing vessel, to be responsible for the safety of vessel and crew, while day sailing in familiar waters, within 10 miles of safe harbor, during daylight, in moderate wind and sea conditions, using basic navigational skills. You'll probably read about it in the papers...

Back in Sidney, cold beer in hand, plotting my next voyage...