Warning Olympic fever does not respond to meds

Here I am again - I try to keep blogging but have discovered unless you are a 'freelance writer' (i.e professional blogger or unemployed) then time is not on your side. A more than full-time job and two busy little boys do tend to dampen one's ardour for doing anything other than collapsing in a small heap which is attached to a large glass of white wine in the evening. Then there is the daily paperwork but more on this later.

After the birth of Holden on that first Monday of the Olympics, I had a lot of time to contemplate my navel (or caesarian scar) and watch the fervour while breastfeeding - and what an experience this was, even via the television. I was constantly switching channels - not sure whether to watch Nordic skiing or freestyle snowboarding, skicross or hockey - the extremism of winter sports makes them more enthralling possibly, but also the trousers seemingly involved in curling make for fascinating viewing. The heartstring tugs continued after the untimely death of Joannie Rochette's mother and her heroic ice dance performance that garnered her a medal, followed by the well-deserved gold of Virtue and Moir with a skate that prompted a few tears from my hormonal self.

The chant of "We Believe" continued through the golds of Jon Montgomery in the skeleton and his beer-drinking antics in Whistler which made him a star, to the Canadian men and women winning gold in the ice hockey - the unofficial national sport of Canada - which even caused a shortening of the nails from the uninitiated like myself. I did have a cheeky cheer for Amy Williams - the only Great Britain medal in the Olympics - we have never been known for our winter sport prowess, Eddie the Eagle was the famous underdog that never triumphed for GB in the ski-jump and we loved him anyway.

The medals kept on flooding in for Canada and they resolutely remained at the top of the medal board until the very end. The British press were particularly unkind in their comments, although the Canadian press themselves were not entirely blameless with some inflammatory headlines which prodded at the lumbering crocodile of UK tabloids. 'Are These the Worst Olympics Ever' was probably more than unfair - peaceful protests, act-of-God snowlessness and an unfortunate death do not a terrible Olympics make. We could certainly attest to the unrivalled atmosphere and street partying free of theft and violence (only to be marred by the Stanley Cup Riots some time later) and the professionalism of Vanoc when dealing with the issues. Gregor Robertson, the Vancouver mayor, kept smiling for the cameras with John Furlong, and his matinee idol looks and US-style fervour kept the press mildy amused or bemused while the organisors kept on fixing the backstage issues. It was reminiscent of Noises Off, but done with a Canadian quirkiness and charm that won through by the end of 2 weeks - the stage management crew kept the actors looking good until the flame was transferred yet again - not only to Russia, but to my home town of London.

Now it is 2012 and my city prepares itself for the onslaught - all I would say, is beware the tabloid tongues and take it all as it comes and remember - “If you want a place in the sun, you had better be prepared to put up with a few blisters”

Olympic Baby

Two things happened during the Vancouver Olympics - Canada erupted into a sea of red and white with a patriotism that would make the USA look feeble and I had a baby. Obviously the latter was somewhat more important to me (and no, I did not name him Olympian or Whistler) but both have made an impression that will last a lifetime.

As some may know, after Fraser was born I spent 3 months in hospital and nearly died twice, with 3 trips to the intensive care unit. I will spare you the ins and outs of what went wrong (and the fine British institutions that by turn nearly killed me and then rescued me) but suffice to say I had so many tests and invasive procedures that I was suddenly on the 'other side' of medicine. I certainly gained a new found respect for patients and also an intimate knowledge (in a literal sense) of how these things will feel when I order the tests and procedures myself. But as 'they' say - there is such a thing as the 'curse of knowledge' - so I had spent my second pregnancy in a state of suspended fear.

My OBGYN, who was both a saint (for putting up with my jitters) and a star (the whole thing went as smoothly as James Bond) decided we needed to be in Vancouver for the two weeks leading up to the birth. I looked at her oddly when she told me this. 'What?' she said 'you can stay in a hotel'. Um. 'I am due on 15th February'. She looked back blankly 'and?'. 'The Olympics start on February 12th.....in Vancouver. Hotels may be out....'. She grimaced as she had hoped to be away for the whole period to avoid the crowds. I almost asked her if she had a spare room but I knew she had 4 children (soon to be 5 children I believe). So we went on a hunt and were rewarded by friends offering up their apartments for our sojourn - another incredible kindness. Due to unforeseen family circumstances the condo we had for one week was unavailable with a couple of weeks to go before we were due in Vancouver - my hormonal self went into panic mode, fuelled by the past experiences and the fear starting to insinuate itself on my days. As usual, coastal help was at hand. A kind patient and friend had made some inquiries after she heard about our predicament in the clinic. 'I think I have found you a place' she announced on her next clinic visit. I was disorientated momentarily. 'Place for what?' I thought. She started talking about an apartment in Mount Pleasant, an up and coming borough of Vancouver (and that is not agent-speak for scary and tawdry - it was mainly an area of small businesses and industries) and I realised she had gone out of her way to make sure that we had somewhere to go when there were no hotel rooms to be had in the city, 'not even for ready money' to quote Oscar Wilde.

I was immensely touched yet again by the hospitality of the Coast and how people who you barely know are willing to help with any problems (in 2011 I mentioned to someone how we wanted to go back to the UK and christen Holden but that we could not afford it currently and a cheque appeared in an envelope, with a note stating that family are more important than money - I never cashed it obviously, but we did make it home riding on that sentiment). The apartment had been empty for some time, so this lovely lady and my husband drove down with a mattress and other comforts from her house and when we arrived I was so surprised. The apartment overlooked the whole of Vancouver, BC Place in particular, and the mountains beyond - it was breathtaking. It was owned by her nephew and his wife who now owned a fine winery on the Naramata Bench which we have since frequented and their Pinot Gris is unrivalled (more in a subsequent blog).

We lived very simply for that week - using our picnic basket utensils and I had to climb out of bed using a large pole that was by the mattress. It was idyllic to be honest - Fraser played with his few toys, I sat doing cross-stitch and looking at the mountains and felt a new life waiting to appear. And all the while in Vancouver the Olympics were brewing, but I don't think anyone had any idea of what they would become to mean for the city and for Canada. At BC Place we watched rehearsals of the light show from the balcony and we could hear the opening ceremony practices ongoing (day and night.....). The Olympic village sat right in front of the apartment and national flags were draped from balconies like brightly-coloured symbols of a temporarily united world. We frequented the Three Lions pub round the corner for a 'full English' breakfast - a little black pudding and cumberland sausage can ease any pain.

We moved on in the week leading up to the Olympics to a friend's apartment near Granville Island and the excitement was building in the city. Everywhere seemed more crowded with competing languages and high expectations. We went to the hindmost run of the Olympic torch into Granville Island and Fraser sat high on Craig's shoulders shouting excitedly as the flame went whizzing by and onto a boat for its final watery travels to BC Place for the opening ceremony. Fraser and Craig rode the Skytrain and the Olympic Line endlessly while I put my swollen feet up and watched the world go by figuratively-speaking. The dynamism of the city was almost palpable as the gentle pace that defines Vancouver normally was swept away by the fevour for all things winter sporty. Every other person was wearing a volunteer coat and the CTV commentary box was visible for all to see, choosing to be amidst the organised chaos which gave the broadcasts a human edge that I had not seen before in these big events. There was an ice rink in front of the Art Gallery, people ziplining across Robson Street and large screens everywhere as yet blank and waiting to be filled with medal ceremonies. Those rings were all around and it seemed as if everyone wanted to be part of the large venn diagram that defines Olympic spirit.



The Opening Ceremony introduced me to more of Canada - Joni Mitchell - Canadian? Who knew! I cried watching the athletes parade around, it could have been hormones or the picture of the young Nodar Kumaritashvili, the Georgian luger who had crashed on his training run prior to the ceremony. From Donald Sutherland's majestic voice to the incredible slam poetry of Shane Koyczan things ran seamlessly. I loved seeing Romeo Dallaire, the man who helped save 32,000 lives in Rwanda (read Shake Hands With The Devil) and Betty Fox - the mother of cancer sufferer Terry Fox who was an inspiration to millions. It was heartwarming to see these kind of people representing Canada and not a bunch of celebrities alone, but accidental heroes. A minor malfunction of the torch was later spoofed in the closing ceremony - the funniest piece of self-effacing comedy I have seen in years.

And we were off - the Maple Leaf was everywhere and chants of Go, Canada, Go rang out all over town. On Day 1 we trotted (well, I was more lumbering like a giant bear swathed in woolies) to the Richmond O-Zone which boasted a juggler that my English friend upstaged sneakily(a misspent summer earning pennies as a street performer), a huge screen playing sports, some singers and the Dutch beer tent for which the queue was lengthy (unless you happened to have a Dutch passport, I was wishing for my orange Queen's Day hat, just for a seat in the warmth). I dutifully waited in line with Fraser for a balloon animal and cheekily gathered information from the BC showcase on wineries in the Okanagan (I had waited 40 weeks for a glass, so was getting desperate for the mere hint of wine in my future). An Eastern European performing troupe fascinated my son for some time, from their small caravan they brought a whole story to life and he was mesmerised.

Why the fuss about this particular Olympics for Canada - well, they are known for winter sports, ice hockey is their unofficial national sport (the official one is apparently lacrosse but most Canadians have no clue what this is - they should try getting beaten round the feet for a ball by 7 vicious schoolgirls) and had never won a gold medal on their home soil. It was a matter of pride. On the first day Jennifer Heil was robbed in the freestyle skiing and could only bring home a silver, but Canada regrouped for day 2 and the anticipation turned into apprehension. Could it be done?

February 14th 2010 was a sunny Sunday. More kind friends picked up Fraser at lunch and took him off to the Coast again as he would not be allowed in the hospital the next morning. Craig and I treated ourselves to a leisurely lunch at Earl's - a chain restaurant, but a comfortable one for an enormously pregnant woman who could only walk a few metres at a time. An afternoon snooze, a cheesy movie, and a pizza to go later, with my feet up on an ottoman, we watched Alexandre Bilodeau win a gold medal for Canada in the men's moguls on Cypress Mountain (troubled throughout by its lack of snow, but not lack of spirited snowmaking and dumping from elsewhere). The city felt like an eruption - cheering in the streets and the commentators abandoned all hope of being dispassionate and equitable. But this was no ordinary victory - the first person he went to was his disabled brother Frederic and embraced him - more tears from the very pregnant author. He then gave $25,000 to a cerebral palsy charity and encouraged other Canadians to give to charity as much as they could.

The next day I was in the hospital at 6am - it was still abuzz with excitement from the victory and the breaking of the medal curse. The anesthetist was chatting about it and I barely remember getting a spinal and all my fears had vanished, caught up in the Olympic maelstrom and dissolved. Holden was born at 9:55am with a full head of dark hair and a true Canadian cry. The headline on the newspaper that morning? Simply - GOLD. How appropriate.

It has been a long time - interrupted by babies, work and immigration

I was suddenly reminded of this blog I had started back in 2009 to shed some light on working and playing on the Canadian West Coast when on my Twitter profile (another casualty of my techo-descent in the last two years, apart from a chat with one of the Empire magazine editors during the Royal Wedding). It seems as if having another child in the house increases the amount of child-related business you have to do exponentially as if you are the Old Woman Who Lives in A Shoe. This in addition to the 4-5 hours of nightly paperwork that come with a thriving family practice in rural Canada combined to make somewhat of an excuse for my radio silence. I feel like making up for it is going to be rather like an extended episode of How I Met Your Mother, without ever getting to the punchline, but I will give it a try.

However, my recent immigration woes have prompted me into action to catch up on the last 2 years and continue to write this ex-pat guide to Canada and the life abroad. Several times I have thought about picking this up again - when a patient came into the clinic and stated he couldn't be too long as he had to go and skin a bear that had been shot by the Gibsons RCMP - apparently he is the 'go-to' guy for this task. And again when my husband was late home from the store and said 'sorry, I had to follow the bear down the road'. Or possibly when I was cycling at night and a coyote gave me the evil red-eye and scampered off into the night.

After my last post things in rural BC moved onward and upward. My father unfortunately became very ill with Crohn's disease which necessitated a speedy trip to the UK and many visits to St. Richard's Hospital in Chichester. While I was there I found out I was pregnant and that I would be having a little Canadian - which of course has since transpired, but more on that later.

Gradually, we insinuated ourselves upon this rural community - via various groups of people we came to see what makes small towns tick. I remember in the 80's being in love with John Cougar Mellencamp and his song Smalltown, as well as the Boss' My Hometown. I watched Footloose endlessly and also around this time fell in love with country music - something that boasted of little southern towns, where there's a county fair every fall and your friends are there no matter when you call (borrowed from Where I'm From by Jason Michael Carroll)....This love never faded and was only reinforced by a later trip to Nashville and all night in a honky-tonk - much to the general amazement of everyone I meet (there is something odd about a doctor from central London who can sing you all of Tammy Wynette's hits.) However, is it really that strange? I grew up in a city where it was rare to know your neighbours and the stifling pressure of thousands of people surrounding you like an amorphous mass could be both comforting and isolating. I remember seeing Doc Hollywood, the dreadfully monikered but much underrated Michael J. Fox movie of the 80's about a hot-shot ER doctor from DC on his way to work as a plastic surgeon in LA who ends up doing 'community service' in a small town in the South and is lured by the informality, the warmth of feeling and of course, the beautiful girl in this outpost. Despite the old adage (townie is transformed by smalltown ways), there were some lovely moments in this film, especially one moment where the eponymous doc looks on as people watch an old black and white movie in the open air, with the mist of humidity in the light of the projector.

It is from this movie that I borrow a line frequently - 'you can't poop in this town without everybody knowing what colour it is'. I had always wanted to live somewhere where this may be true - and where you could leave your car unlocked, where you could drive home in bare feet and where you can see everyone you know while out shopping. And I have to say, now we do, it pretty much lives up to expectations - my poop is generally a warm ochre for those who wish to know....

This will be our 4th Canada Day in Canada - the embodiment of all things Canadian and also all things smalltown. The parade is a mysterious commixture of entities from the environs of the Coast - an autocade initially of the Coasters car club, pristine cars you could eat your lunch on meandering past with the drivers throwing candy to the children from the windows. Then children on the bikes they have spent all morning decorating, followed by a set of proud parents covered in crazy glue and propped up with caffeine. Then floats from various local businesses, occasionally the MP with large grin shaking hands and kissing children, the La Leche league (mothers for breastfeeding who I was mistakenly calling the Dulce De Leche league for some time - still I am sure the breastfeeding goes well with banoffi pie), the hospital auxiliary who tirelessly raise funds for our little local hospital and the war veterans whose mere presence in this procession makes me cry for those lost. Bringing up the rear - the emergency service vehicles, watched intently and cheered by my 3 year old - 'look Momma, a big fire truck'!

After this families pick up their folding chairs, umbrellas on occasion, Canadian flags and small children and amble to Hackett Park for the stalls and bouncy castle. Graham Walker is a local children's entertainer who makes great cd's full of music that don't make you want to kill someone (take note Wiggles) and often is playing here, with a field full of kids pretending to jump like frogs and buzz around like bees. There are craft stalls full of jewellry, pottery, carvings and glass, some of which is worthy of a purchase or two, and a huge bouncy castle. The First Nation have a salmon lunch stall where you can purchase BBQ salmon and sit and eat it on the empty bleachers which until recently were full of parental bums, cheering on their teens. After all of this there is usually a house party or two, and running through it all, the illustrious (or should I say industrious, as I feel the Canadian flag works hard) Maple Leaf.

This was what I had dreamed about - on this day we sit on 'our corner' with a bunch of friends. We speak to everyone and there is a congeniality and warmth that feels welcoming and undemanding. Small town life at its most picturesque and accessible.

But just remember, I also love these lines -

And that road rolls out like a welcome mat
I don't know where it goes but it beats where we're at
We always said someday somehow
We were gonna get away gonna blow this town

So maybe one day I will. But it's not going to be anytime soon.

Honeymoon Over

There is a period when you move abroad when everything seems more shiny and rosier than your previous home. Greener grass syndrome some may call it - no medical name as yet. Mostly we wandered around translating everything from dollars to pounds and saying 'wow, isn't that cheap?'. We also marvelled at the scenery, the slower pace, the friendly work environment and the ease of transition. This will inevitably wane like the moon and real-life, with all its unfortunate 'realities' will eventually set in.

The winter was reasonably harsh here - much worse than it has been for the last 40 years - but we did not mind the weather particularly. Since the New Year, work has descended upon me like never before. An unprecedented amount of patients have joined my patient list and my husband tells me I have become obsessed with the electronic task list generated by my electronic medical record system. Every day this list is full to bursting with results, referrals to be written and endless demands for phone calls and scripts. If you do not keep on top of it, it will be on top of you. This is how I have discovered that there are not enough doctors per capita on the Sunshine Coast and I am heading well past 1200 patients currently. 

Unlike in the UK, where you have a practice from your local area and you are one of the doctors that cares for the patient, here you have your own patient list. Difficulties therefore ensue when you are taking patients from other doctors and even worse when they leave you. I have had one patient who took her leave and it is hard not to take these things personally. I had invested some time in this patient, who was very ill, including home visits (and a trip to the ER for a tetanus shot after her dog managed to get its teeth into my shoulder) and felt very aggrieved about this for some time. I have since learnt that this 'doctor shopping' is very common and should not result in hours of wondering where you went wrong. The doctor should also move on to new patients and other problems. 

As a doctor who has always taken her work 'home' emotionally-speaking I am still finding things a struggle. I feel as if I can not be 'off-duty' at any point and selected cancer/housebound patients have my cell number in case they fall ill out of office hours - this is not compulsory, but it is another service I like to provide. This also means that when patients die, you are going to associate with the grief so much more, especially if all their family members are also patients. 

The other thing that is new to this doctor is being the place where the buck stops. In the hospital in the evening and at night you are the only person available to treat all the patients - in the ER and on the ward, which includes a small intensive care unit. Recently I had one of 'those' nights that doctors dread - a huge trauma case in the ER (a man with fractured scapulae and pulmonary contusions), several ER cases involving sick and injured children who needed constant attention and a lady in the ICU who needed resuscitation. I ended up throwing in central lines and intubating people - this after being yelled at by the nurse in ICU who felt she was not being listened to when I was hardly twiddling my thumbs in the ER. The only bonus from this was the flying paramedics offering me a helicopter flight which should make for an excellent blog.

I must admit to tears after this night - I suddenly missed my family, missed my friends and most of all missed my doctor support network to discuss the wins and losses of a horrible night in the hospital. 

So reality does really bite, but this will be a good thing - we need to start living our life here and realise that it is not an extended holiday but a place with ups and downs and not just on the mountain trails. As our second summer approaches, there have been changes and they are welcome. Bring it on, Sechelt.

The Good, The Narcotics and The Truly Ugly

Being a doctor here is mainly a good thing. This seems like a short and simple statement but the intricacies of modern medicine make it difficult to say whether it is enjoyable, or frustrating or well and truly disheartening. With the central pressures on the NHS in the UK - governmental targets which are impossible to meet with lack of funding and doctors - and the postcode lottery of treatment, medicine ceased to be 'fun' even at a basic level. 

A family doctor in a small town can expect a whole different set of pressures - a long workday which does not necessarily end, even when not 'on duty'. A large investment in the emotional as well as the physical well-being of patients and even families. A very different kind of doctor-patient relationship than I have been used to up until now, will less formality and no clear-cut boundaries. And the proverbial buck stops with you, as you are the end of the lifeline.

I like this most of the time - my patients call me Bella, and if they are feeling more formal, Doc Bella. They feel comfortable to share their lives and vulnerabilities. They are complimentary when they feel as if they have been taken care of and listened to, even if no obvious solution is forthcoming. I look after them through pregnancies, family crises, severe pathologies and even death (or I hope to, as I have not been here long enough yet to achieve all these things). This was how I wanted to run my practice in the UK, but was hampered by time limits (no sign on my wall here that says 'YOU HAVE 10 MINUTES ONLY', and there would not have been one in England if I had not been found to have removed mine surreptitiously), ridiculous targets and a high patient turnover in the area. 

More difficult are the times you are buying a bunch of incredibly unhealthy food at the store (usually an assortment of chips and baba ganoush, which is more like garlic mayo here), when you are flagged down by a patient who asks for test results. To be honest, unless I see them regularly then I usually will have trouble recalling their name, never mind the intricacies of their head CT. I have to wave this off currently 'not sure if I have seen them yet, why don't you give the girls a call on Monday and see if they have arrived....' , which I always hope will elicit a nod and an appreciative smile. At least they can pass me off as the eccentric English doctor who calls everyone 'sweetie' - a euphemism for 'I have no idea what your name is' more often than I care to say.

Another problem crossing the pond is the narcotic use here. Although I am sure that Canada is not on a par with the US, where it seems narcotic scripts are a part of life (see Woody Allen and Diane Keaton's great conversation in Play It Again Sam, a 1970's film where they are discussing the relative merits of various narcotics and anxiolytics with certain soft drink combinations or in more modern times the addictions of House MD), it is still far beyond the UK where such potions are tightly regulated. The only patients I had on anything stronger than codeine were palliative care patients who were dying of cancer or other disorders. Here hydromorphone (have never used this before) is given out like smarties and oxycodone is massive on the black market (physician's triplicate script pads are worth around $3000 dollars).  Patients who are addicted and even selling the tablets will 'doctor-hop' to get more tablets than they will or should use. I have generally been unwilling to give out these and the patients who I have inherited who are on them, I am trying to wean off or transform their pain by other means. 

And lest I had forgotten I am English, as we have been so welcomed here and feel almost part of the community already, I ran into a little 'racism' the other day. I was working hard in the ER and a man came up to me while I was note-writing and asked me if I was going to see his child. I replied that yes, she was next in line and I apologised for the wait - I had been seeing a stroke patient, a heart attack and an elderly gentleman who had fallen (such is the importance of triage). His face changed from passive to aggressive in the space of a heartbeat - the hospital and all the doctors were accused of unbelievable behaviour and he obviously felt that he had been ignored at other times. Incidentally, his daughter was suffering from a minor problem much better suited to the GP's office. I attempted to apologise for myself and my brethren and again reiterated that I would see her very shortly. He refused and dragged the uncomfortable-looking child out behind him. As he went, he uttered 'and piss off back to England'. My immediate reaction was to utter something equally outrageous to his departing back, but luckily he did not hear me as this was marginally unprofessional. 

This has stuck with me - if only to remind me that there is only one race still - mankind.

From perogies to poutine - the gastronomy of Canada

Having generalised (probably a little grossly) about Canada so far in my blog, this is definitely the time to separate the country, when discussing food. As most will know, this is a subject dear to my seemingly ever-expanding stomach, so I would not want to attribute BC vittels to those in other provinces. Canada is made up of British Columbia, Ontario, Quebec, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Manitoba, Prince Edward Island, Newfoundland and Labrador, Saskatchewan and Alberta (for those who did not know and yes, that included me comprehensively). 

British Columbia has benefitted from the whole Pacific Northwest cuisine movements, which emphasises fresh, seasonal and local foods and is lucky enough to have the bounty of the Pacific to draw on. BC is famed for salmon - there are 5 types - chinook, coho, pink, chum and sockeye and they are all edible. The smoking process here is somewhat different to the delicate cold-smoking that you find in Scotland (this is not the same as 'smoking in the cold' which happens frequently in Scottish pub car parks since the ban and is not so delicate). Even cold-smoked salmon has brine or sugar added for a heavier taste. The First Nations make salmon candy - which is smoked salmon marinated in maple syrup, smoked again and black pepper is added - this results in a sweet/fishy treat (two words I had not thought to use in the same sentence) that only Fraser seems to like in our family. Salmon jerky is smoked, dried and smoked again and is often to be found in the backpacks of hikers for a 'protein treat' on the run. A local technique which we discovered in the summer is to BBQ salmon on a cedar plank which gives it a unique piquancy that is duplicated in the nostrils on a wander through the red cedars of the local forests.

Other ocean bounty that is employed on the menus of BC chefs and in homes - ling cod, steelhead (which my husband has been promising to go off and fish for in the local creek recently), sea urchins (most of which are exported to Japan), gooseneck barnacles, crab and shrimp of various varieties. 

Vancouver appears to have a diverse food scene that tends to concentrate on the local and fresh with heavy leanings towards the Pacific Rim. Sushi, sashimi and noodle houses seem to be on every corner, although I have been reliably informed that quality can not be guaranteed and to hunt down specific places. Secretly I am longing to go to the Legendary Noodle House where you can watch the chef making noodles by hand behind a glass partition - sounds somewhat like a hibachi and just as much exhibitionist fun. 

There is a hearty Slow Food Movement here and lots of 'artisan' farmers, although this word is bandied around a little too abundantly and I have even seen a sign for 'artisan' smoothies. However, there are some interesting small producers - at the Tapastree (geddit, ed?) they serve a huge variety of small plates that utilise a number of different cuisines and they include a mozzarella that is being made on Vancouver Island by a farmer who has imported the buffalo. We have had several locally made cheeses and smoked meats in the Salt Tasting Room in Gastown (in a street called Blood Alley, which makes it sound somewhat less appealing and like a Jack the Ripper hunting ground). Venison, elk and buffalo meat are all available and a lean substitute for steak or traditional hamburger. At the Sechelt Farmer's market in the summer there are a number of smallholders who sell sea asparagus, wild garlic, chanterelle mushrooms and heirloom tomatoes, and these markets are replicated in small towns throughout BC.

Just in case you are beginning to think all I do is eat, we must not neglect the wine of British Columbia which is well-kept secret outside the region. Pinot Gris and Pinot Noirs abound from the Island and the more famous Okanagan Valley and some of them are outstanding (I am no Jilly Goolden, but they are worth a try if you can find them outside BC) - we also appreciate the names of the vineyards - Church and State, Dirty Laundry, Therapy, Zero Balance, Burrowing Owl and even See Ya Later. Better known for Ice Wine - an exhorbitant but delicious dessert wine, the Okanagan seems to be hiding its lights under a bushel and is content to do so.

As far as the rest of Canada goes, we shall just have to see. The Ukranians brought pierogies, which are dumplings with a cheese and potato paste in the centre, and these seem to be ubiquitous (and like lead on the plate and in the stomach for several hours). Poutine originated in Quebec and spread across the nation - 'french' fries with fresh cheese curds and beef gravy - but we have yet to sample this 'delicacy'. 

So, as I sip my Tim Horton's coffee and eat my maple syrup laden pancakes, I will be back to more medical stories - and not the one where I go for an angiogram hopefully......

Poutine - doesn't it look appetising?

Canada is not the USA

When we first came to Western Canada to see Sechelt and meet our long, lost relatives, we quickly realised, that despite the proximity, Canada was most certainly not the USA. Both countries make up North America, have the longest shared border in the world and are intimately related by trade and job provision, but they maintain a difference that is tangible. There is definitely a need for a separate cultural identity as it would be easy to be overwhelmed by a richer, more influential and more populated neighbour. Trudeau once said relations with the US were like sleeping with an elephant - no matter how friendly and even-tempered is the beast, one is affected by every twitch and grunt.

There are more obvious factors that separate the countries - Canada still has the Queen as the head of state and the French culture permeates all of society, not just Quebec. The amount of space versus population, which always amazes me as you can drive through so many places in the US without seeing a car (although obviously a lot of it is not frozen wasteland, unless you have been to Nebraska in the winter). Canada is truly enormous and recently the government announced they were going to protect a large area of Boreal Forest in the north of Ontario - the area concerned is twice the size of England alone (although, let's face it, England is slightly smaller than Oregon). Even more shocking is that the population of England (not the UK) is over 49 million and the whole of Canada has a population not far over 33 million people.

The two countries were once at war - in 1812 the US and British forces in Canada brushed up against one another and gained a little piece of land each which was restored as quickly as it was hard won. There is a war of sorts being fought now over the Northwest Passage which the US maintains is 'international waters' and Canada is claiming for its own (and with threats to militarise.....). Barack Obama chose Canada for his first international visit and met with the premier - unpopular and head of a minority government, Stephen Harper. The Canadians greeted him with a fanfare reserved for royalty and the Pope and seem pleased that he is ideologically closer to the Canadian ideal than his predecessor (Canadians are fighting in Afghanistan, but not Iraq). 

We live a short drive to the border and enjoy being able to go to the US relatively easily, but there is no doubt once the lengthy border process is over things do change. There are plenty of residents in our town who have never been to the US, but often fly over it to the winter sun of Mexico. As you leave the Peace Arch, food portions get bigger, public places get noisier and gas gets cheaper (or should I say even cheaper having come from the UK where it costs about $100 to fill up). Although much of the television in Canada is from the US, they do make a few of their own programmes (the ever-amusing Corner Gas and the cult Degrassi Junior High anyone?). When we first came to BC, my lovely relative pointedly interjected 'they're Canadian you know' into conversations about famous movie stars and indeed it is true - Jim Carrey, Mike Myers and John Candy, as well as more contemporary stars like Seth Rogen and Ryan Reynolds, came from the largest country in North America (and in fact the world now Russia has been split). There is definitely a large dose of national pride and Canada Day is celebrated with parades, Molson and perogies (more later). This is actually refreshing to us - in a national survey only 20% of English people knew the date of St. George's Day and we are relegated to national pride only when our football team and fans are embarrassing themselves on the fields of Europe where their forebears fought and died.

Canadians should be proud to wear their Maple Leaf on their backpacks across the world, although one bit of history to end with - the US and Canada were once just colonies of the Empire - how things have changed.

Canadian Myths Debunking........

1. That it is snowy in Canada for 11 months out of 12 in a year.....

This is our first winter here and Sechelt had its

 worst snow in over 20 years. Apparently we normally have one week and it's gone. This was the view from the cove down at the bottom of our back garden and we enjoyed watching the coasters compare number of inches in their driveways in a manly fashion.....

2. That there are bears wandering around everywhere, even in your back garden....

This charming cuddly cub (ahem) was trotting around our backyard during most of the summer, eating plums and pears from the tree and once scaring Craig out of his wits. As he walked through from the garden next door where he had been collecting some wood, the bear

 was around a metre away from him, staring at him quizically, all 8 furry foot of him. He gradually backed away from the bear, growling loudly as he went - the poor animal pretty much shrugged (who is this crazy guy with not enough fat on him to make a good hibernation feast) and ambled off.

3. That all Canadians are wandering around dressed like mounties.....

Well, this was July 1st, Canada Day, when all the RCMP (Royal Canadian Mounted Police) do get dressed up in their ceremonial togs to parade. Unfortunately it was about 30 degrees so the sweat factor in all that red worsted wool must have been somewhat high. Most of the time

 they seem to copy their US counterparts and are to be found in blue costume and cap in Starbucks or shooting their speed guns at you on particularly tricky corners of the highway. I frequently get to see them in the ER escorting handcuffed assorted felons or mental health patients to be 'pinked' by me (the colour of the mental health forms that summarily detain people who are a danger to others or themselves).

4. That Canadians are obsessed by the Maple Leaf flag and all things maple........

The flowers are by the Peace Arch where British Columbia meets Washington State on the coast and where the three of us have spent some fun times in summer heat waiting to cross. Not only do we have the car wait, but then the foot wait inside the wonderful customs building which makes it very clear that there are no toilets despite the two hour queue and the lack of

 chairs. Luckily Fraser is quite accommodating about being changed on a narrow wall heater. Welcome to the US......

Fraser is enjoying both a dead bear and the general Maple Leaf theme here - although actually both belong to a transplanted American friend in West Sechelt. However, he did kill the bear and skin it himself, so he is pretty much a Canadian.

5. All Canadians have big four wheel drive trucks......

Our beloved Jeep Patriot - the first car I have ever owned and which proudly displays my novice driver sign (although I am positively amazing compared to a large number of the coasters). And this one is definitely true - even in the city.

6. Canada is a big country with some of the most stunning scenery in the world, not a myth.