Well Shake It, Shake It Baby Now….

Today, just for fun I went to watch a master craftsman demonstrating his skills and to listen to him fielding our questions.   His name is Rainer Todson, and he is a master shake-splitter. (If you want to know more background to this event, you can click here and read  a recent article from one of our local newspapers.)

Rainer Todson, master shake splitter.

Before I came to Canada, I had no idea what shakes were other than the milky versions you bought at the seaside if you were lucky enough to go there once a year.   If your town in Wales had an Italian café (ours did!) where the proprietor knew how to make these delicious items, you also might have known about shakes.  In Canada, shakes are roofing tiles.  In Wales a lot of slate is used, on the European continent they might be clay tiles.  In Canada, our original roofing material was cedar which, because of its oily properties, provides marvellous roofing material for homes.  Native peoples were the first to use it here on B.C.’s coast, but cedar is used by many people still and, in my opinion, is probably the best roofing material you can have on your home.

Rainer showed us how to split the shakes from two feet long blocks.  He used two tools, the knife type implement called a froe,  which has a long handle at right angles to a long blade, and a mallet.  Traditionally mallets had wooden heads, but in shake production Rainer’s mallet has a metal head covered in a protective layer of tape, otherwise he went through too many mallets too quickly.  (Nowadays he uses a machine to produce his split shakes)

Rainer uses mallet and froe

Froe resting on block and mallet to the right.

For us, Rainer split several of the shakes the same thickness as the ones he has prepared for the re-roofing of our historic Filberg Lodge.  He and his family are doing the job on the lodge and the new roof, though still unfinished is looking spectacular.

One section of the new roof on the lodge.

Everywhere around the house, the gorgeous scent of this wonderful wood filled the air.  Cynthia remarked that if it could be bottled as a cologne or perfume, it would be a sure-fire winner.

The new shakes going on the roof will likely last for 50-70 years as they are all evenly cut and not tapered.  They are also about three-quarters of an inch thick.

Thick shakes on new roof

Finally Rainer left us with a few tips about cedar shake roofs.  I pass them on for those of you with these roofs or thinking of getting a shake roof on your new home.

1. If you are  thinking of roofing your new house with cedar shakes or re-roofing your current one,  ALWAYS talk first to someone you can trust with lots of experience.  Often people are persuaded into replacing cedar shake roofs that don’t need to be replaced.  Cedar roofs last a lot longer than most people think.

2.  If you must clean your cedar shake roof, just use a blower, and NEVER power wash them.  Better yet, leave the debris on the roof.

3. Don’t worry about moss removal.  Just leave it alone.  Moss won’t hurt your roof and even helps provide another protective layer against the elements.

4.  For the best cedar roof, buy split rather than sawn shakes.

5.  For the best cedar shake roof, hand-nail the shakes rather than use a gun. It takes longer, but hand nailing with galvanized nails produces a better quality roof.

After hearing points 2 & 3 above, one wag was heard to remark to his wife, ” I’m so glad I came and heard these remarks.  I can now relax. Let’s go home dear so I can watch the ball game!”

We all enjoyed the short but informative talk and demo.  It’s great to know that our beautiful Filberg Lodge is in the care of such a craftsman.  Cheerio for now and God bless.

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A Prius-Inspired Bike…Just For Me I Thought.

The Prius Inspired Bike

When I was young, I loved to ride my bike.  At age twelve, our gang of about ten little boys embarked on a 50 mile round trip to a distant lake in Wales, without any preparation and without telling our parents.  Bad moves indeed!  The object was to rent boats and row on the lake.  Long story short, by the time we got there on our little three speeds, it was almost dark and the boats were all locked up for the night.  Eventually we got home at midnight.  As we cycled on to our street, we saw the flashing lights of the police cars, saw the whites of our parents’ eyes and shuddered from what we knew would happen.  It did!

Nowadays, in my dotage, I still love to ride my bike, also with friends or rellies and am open to all kinds of innovations around cycling.  Pauline, my good friend and Ben’s office manager, is always looking out for me.  She likes to take friendly jabs at me but really I know she cares for the Taff on the bike.  Today she sent me a scintillating, quite short, but interesting article, which seemed to be just up my street.  I’ll pause a moment and let you read it by clicking here.  ( If, when you have read the article, you close the window, you will return here to read more of my drivel.)

As I read about the bike, it seemed a brilliant solution to my biggest biking problem. No, it’s not falling off, which is my second major problem, but correct gear shifting.  Ben will attest to this as throughout our recent epic 250 Km ride, he would be after me insisting I change up, change down, keep the feet and pedals spinning etc.  This brain-through-the-helmet-controlled-gear-shifting would get me up any hill as smoothly as silk.  No gear crashing or stressed chains for me.  However, as I read on in the article, I saw obvious problems relating to me and my particular cycling case.

1.  The article assumes the rider of this bike has enough brain-power to operate the helmet and hence the gears.  There are those in our family and in our circle of friends, and who shall remain nameless, who would seriously doubt my ability in this regard.

2.  I have a rather elongated and longer than normal head. (I feel this is due to extra brain power but others feel it is from the prolonged tugging of the docs as they tried to deliver me.)  Whatever it was I’m sure my Mum took one look at me after birth and decided, “No more of those”

Now this longheadedness would lead to problems for me and the wearing of the electronic helmet.  It would cause an ill-fit and an ill-fitting helmet would lead to faulty gear-changes on the bike.  Electronic instructions from brain to bike would be garbled, distorted, resulting in all kinds of scenarios.  Imagine as I began a strenuous uphill climb my brain signalled “Shift down” to the helmet but the loose fitting helmet interpreted that as “Shut down”  All gearing would cease and I would be catapulted off the bike thus increasing problem two…falling off.  The helmet might receive “Start Down”, and the chain would race down the gears so fast I would be spinning my pedals so fast but not moving.  Get the idea? Finally, and worst of all the command might be received as “Sh#t down” and I might receive a shock such as no other.  A physical chain (no pun intended) reaction might occur and before I  knew it I would be covered in my own excrement!  Imagine the consequences for someone like Ben as he rode behind me all the way to Seattle!

So Pauline, as much as I love new technology, this bike and especially the helmet that goes with it would not do for me.  As I read to the end of the article I felt a little better as I learned this technology would probably not be for sale anyway.  No decision to make there… Phew! No, I will press on with my hybrid and enjoy the everyday pleasure of a normal ride, gear crashing changes, loose helmet and all.  ’Bye for now and God bless.

More on this topic if you want: http://prollyisnotprobably.com/2011/07/the_toyota_prius_projects_conc_10.php

Keeping Up With The Joneses.

The Jones Family +1 (L-R Cynthia with Sian, Lauren and Andrew Jones at Comox Lake.)

Today was another wonderful day.  They seem to be coming thick and fast and for that we are so grateful to God.  In most instances in our lives, keeping up with the Joneses is not something about which Cynthia and I are remotely concerned, probably like most people out there.  We like to live our lives to the fullest, one day at a time, and allow others to live theirs in whichever ways they choose to do so…also like most of you out there.

Last night, and again today, we had the enormous pleasure of hosting the Jones family, friends from Wales.  Andrew and Sian, along with their wonderful daughter Lauren, made a special trip to visit us as part of their latest visit to Canada, and B.C. in particular. They landed in Calgary a while ago, worked their way down through the Rockies and ended up in the valley last night.  They made a brief visit to us after dinner then made their way back to their hotel in Courtenay for what we knew would be a full day today.

This morning, Cynthia and I picked them up at the hotel around 09.30 and off we went on a loosely planned, full day.  We visited Cumberland and Comox Lake, and stopped to chat with some of the locals about anything from dogs, to the weather, and Jumbo’s hut, left over from the days when Chinese workers filled Cumberland to work in the mines.  From the lake we headed up into the alpine pastures of Mt. Washington to see the ski operation there.  As we climbed, so did the clouds and at the lodge we were favoured by seeing nothing but blue skies.  The mountains were spectacular as pockets of snow still glistened on their slopes.  The view back over Georgia Strait was wonderful and Lauren raved about all she saw, as did her parents.  Andrew treated us to coffee and cinnamon buns at the lodge before we headed back to the inland highway again.

We made a left turn at the junction with the highway and headed north to Hamm Road and the right turn there.  We drove past the Island Bison  farm on that road in the hope of spotting some of the animals out grazing in the pastures.  Would there be a photo op?  We didn’t even see the farm!  Undaunted we pushed on knowing the bison farm would have to be on the visit agenda for the Jones’ next trip to the valley.

Ten minutes later we were turning into the parking lot of the Shelter Point Distillery…again!  (If you remember I just wrote a post about the wonderful visit we made to this place a week or so ago.)  I’d mentioned that visit to Andrew and Sian, and they both said they’d love to do the trip in order to pick up some of the produce for Sian’s Dad back in Wales.  Apparently the gentleman loves a wee dram each night before bed, so they were both sure he would enjoy tasting some of this local produce.  We mentioned to Andrew and Sian that Shelter Point’s first run would not be available until 2014, but blends were available.  They thought a blend would be just fine!

Imagine how disappointed we were to find on arrival that even the shop was shut at the distillery.  Cynthia decided we should walk around the outside anyway, and this proved to be a brilliant strategy.  At the rear of the distillery we came across James, the man who’d showed us round last week.  He invited us in to meet Mike, the head man in charge of operations.  Not only did Mike give us a personal and private tour, but he had the till at the shop opened so that the liquid gift for Sian’s dad could be bought.  The Jones family had another wonderful story to tell about the kindness and consideration of the Canadian people.

The tour over, we headed for the resort at Salmon Point and in particular the pub at Salmon Point.  We planned to eat lunch on the patio.  We ate well.  Fully fed and relaxed, we left the place.  Cynthia took the car to the car park at the Oyster River while Sian, Lauren, Andrew and I hoofed it along the beach/forest trail to join her.  Following our intrepid leader Lauren, we made it safely to the meeting point, loaded up and headed for home.  By now it was mid-afternoon and time to get the Jones family back to their hotel so they could get their feet up for an hour or two before joining us for dinner, later in the evening.

We headed home and got things organised for the meal.  Some of the prep Cynthia had done days earlier so we were ahead of the game when the Joneses re-joined us.  Our dinner was great and as the evening was gorgeous, we ended up taking a stroll along the boardwalk at the Comox marina and along Goose Spit.  Finally Andrew drove us home and we said goodbye to them.  They headed back to Courtenay and the hotel, ready to leave for Vancouver tomorrow.

Keeping up with the Joneses had been most pleasurable.  Their obvious joy at being in our gorgeous province and local valley was infectious and made us appreciate even more how fortunate we are to be resident here in God’s country.

Come again Jones family, as soon as you can, so that we can try keeping up with you once more.  The pleasure has been all ours.  ’Bye for now, and God bless.

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A Memorable Week

Last week was a memorable one for me in more than one way.

Firstly, March 1 was St. David’s Day.  St. David is the patron saint of the Welsh people. Oh I know the Irish have St. Patrick and the English have St. George, but the Welsh have their boyo too see butties!

Secondly, March 2 was my Dad’s birthday.  He died in 1985, aged 77, so by my reckoning he would have been 103 this past week.  More to come about Dad later in the post.

Thirdly, I embarked, for the second time, on a project to make digital images of every photograph we have in the house.  Cynthia and I found so many albums hidden in nooks and crannies that my knees began to quake at the prospect of getting this monumental work done.  Nevertheless, I began…again…and I am surprised at how quickly this can be done and sorted on the computer.

I guess these three points got me thinking about Wales, people, and how fortunate I was to have been born in such a beautiful country, to wonderful parents, and then end up in such another gorgeous place for the rest of my life.

With these three points colliding last week, I thought I might share a little of growing up with a great father.  This is not meant to minimise the role of my Mum in my upbringing.  Rather, it’s to honour Dad, as memories of him came flooding back last week as they do at other times of the year, but especially on or around his birthday.

Dad and younger brother Billy

Dad had a good education but not as full as it might have been or he would have liked it to be.  He left school at a fairly early age to help with his Dad’s business, delivering milk.  My Grandfather had a dray, drawn by a horse, and according to Dad and Grandpa, that horse knew every stop on the round.  The war took Dad away.  He served in the Royal Artillery and drove a truck which towed a field gun.  I was born in 1943, the product of a spot of home leave.  When the war ended, and Dad was one of the fortunate ones to return, he took over the milk round from his father, and worked on that business for 41 years.  Most years he worked seven days a week, with two weeks holiday each year.   His brothers also worked with Grandpa and Dad on the round, and being with them as they worked produced some of the happiest times of my life.  The old picture shown here is of me riding in Dad’s first van, an old Morris 8 I believe.  It actually ran away down a back alley one day when I was in it, but Dad’s brother Percy came to the rescue.

Riding in the milkvan at about age four.

I worked with them on the milk round, off and on, until I left home to go to teacher training college.

I can never remember my Dad getting really angry at me. Neither did he ever lay a hand on me in anger. He spoke quietly, with authority, when I had to do something, and I did it. I think he earned my respect as I worked with him from a young age. Only once do I remember him chasing me. I was very involved in a kids’ rugby game on the street. Wales was about to beat England, the hated rivals, and I needed to be in on the kill. I ignored Dad’s call to come in and went for the try-line. He came after me, but I was too quick. I bolted down the street with him in hot pursuit. At the end I took a turn around the corner, but unknown to me, Dad had taken a short cut through a back lane.  He was waiting to snare me as I came up the road. Sadly for him, and fortunately for me, he stuck out his head with its mop of curly hair. It protruded too far beyond the wall where he was hiding. I screamed with excitement that I could see him and his cover was blown. He sloped off up the road, making his way home, saying nothing to me. I followed behind at a safe distance thinking of what lay ahead of me. Unknown to me, but as I learned later, he had burst into laughter on entering the house and told Mum what had happened. When I got in, he read me the riot act for running away and disobeying him, but all the while, there was a twinkle in his eye.

Later, at school, I played rugby and cricket for the school teams but Dad couldn’t be there for most of the games as he was working. Nevertheless, he asked all kinds of questions about how the games went, who scored and how did we play. He was always vitally interested. Later yet, I so appreciated him when he would organise a bus for the neighbours to see me play in important games. He did this on several occasions after organising his milk round so he could take a day off here and there. I will never forget him for that.

We spent many holidays together, most of them in Blackpool where he and Mum loved to paddle in the day and have drink in the evening.  He loved the shows, and we’d spend time at the pitch and putt at Stanley Park, a gem of a park in that area.

Dad and me in one of those photo booths

Night with the family at the working mens' club. Dad second from right

I met Cynthia and married her and she was welcomed into the family. My Dad loved her and had the utmost respect for her ablities, particularly as a mother and a teacher. We spent quite a few good evenings with them when we came home to visit whilst living and working near London.

Eventually we emigrated to Canada and had our two boys here.  That was a tough time for my parents as I was their only child.  Mum was very upset, probably Dad was too. However, he wished us well and helped us go.  Years later, on one of their many visits to us he confided to me that, “You did the right thing in coming to Canada Mart.”  I always appreciated him saying that to us.  My parents came many times to see us, and we went back to see them every two years.  Their time with Ben and Tim was limited, but I know that both my lads loved and respected their Grandpa.

Ben and Tim with Grandpa in Abertillery, Wales.

I’ve rambled on a lot and I thank you for your patience in reading this. Let me finish by saying that I am a Canadian citizen and I love Canada dearly. However, there will always be a very big place in my heart for Wales, and in the centre of that place will be my father.

Here’s to you Mel the Milk!

Cynthia, Dad and Mum one night before they returned home from Canada