London Park With Big Ben London Park With Big Ben This sketch which hangs in my home depicts a view just down the River Thames from the Parliament Buildings in London, England. Directly across the river, the London Eye, that huge Ferris wheel, rotates with its cargo of tourists. When I painted this piece in 1996, that feature was not yet built. I am attracted by the tranquility of parks that are set in large cities because they offer a peaceful pause amid the chaos. I find it difficult to strain out stimulation both audible and visual. I am assaulted by colours and contrasts so this almost vacant patch of green is a quiet room in a city that I love. But if you wish to see a wonderful park, take the #16 double-decker bus as it circles Buckingham Palace. From the top deck it is possible to look over the brick wall that surrounds the palace grounds. That garden is of course strictly private and does not become a public outdoor sitting-room when people eat lunch and play cards and where children kick balls or play tag while watched by nannies or parents. Beside the human activities and the cleverly planted patches of flowers, many gardens such as this provide a setting for public sculpture. Great bronzes celebrating individuals or events add to the beauty and remind me that I am in London with its long history and its endless variety.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Kerry Coastline Kerry Coastline We had the amusing pleasure of being the guests of a dentist in County Kerry. This widely-travelled woman who was originally from Dublin was somewhat dismayed to find herself back in Ireland many years later. "Yes," she said, "who would have thought that I would end my days looking down the mouths of Kerry men?" She may not have been looking at the stunning scenery around her here on the Kerry coastline. Although I have painted in Ireland several times, I don't feel that I have yet had all my innings with the Emerald Isle. This visit coincided with still another peace plan for Northern Ireland. Much was made of this "new start" on television and in the newspapers which are very chatty and gossipy. I was not prepared for our hostess's response to my question, "What do you think of the plan?" "I don't know, but when I hear that Northern Ireland accent, the hair goes up on the back of my neck." That comment did not raise my hopes. Although the scenery is breath-taking, so too are the roads, but not in the positive sense. We experienced a flat tire which meant that the next day, which was rainy anyhow, surprise, surprise, was not spent by me enjoying the scenery, but found me instead in a tire repair shop in Tralee, where tire repairing, while smoking and visiting, has become an art form.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Mill at Woodchurch, England Mill at Woodchurch, England One of the few remaining wind-powered mills in Kent, this wooden structure was close to a pub that I frequented during an extended holiday in Britain in 1998. How pleasant to sit in the front garden of the Six Bells (Six Bells, Woodchurch with this mill sticking its head up above the massive oaks that only partially screened our view. This sight echoed in my memory of mills here with their link to our pioneer past. Have you ever visited an historic site, or really any specialty place, where the interpreters are older people who not only clearly know their subject but also more importantly love their topic? I laboured to the top of another mill in Cranbrook, Kent, England. Just like the Woodchurch Mill except that, instead of serving as a residence, this old wooden structure still was used to grind grain. The building shuddered as the giant wheel turned in the wind. The interpreter, a man of decidedly senior years, explained in such detail the workings of this hulk that reminded me of a ship with its massive oak ribs that must have been cut to size well before Queen Victoria came to the throne. Knowledgeable and articulate, our guide, a cross between a Mennonite farmer and Michael Caine, detailed features and processes. As a background to his heartfelt presentation were the creaking of the wood, the flapping of the sails in the arms, and the slight rattle of the gears in this dusty, cavernous space. For a further related image, see Windmill at Damme, Belgium.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Scotney Castle Scotney Castle This crenellated, fortified house goes back to the 1300's. At that point, raids were being made by the French across the Channel on Kent and Sussex. In the 1500's, this now tranquil moated stone building was the site for a Catholic-Protestant skirmish and suffered much damage. In the 1600's, an Inigo Jones style addition was added to the now dwarfed Elizabethan and Medieval parts. This destruction/construction story accounts for the rather oddly-shaped, but romantic, house. This charming building convinced the Victorian owner, a gentleman artist, to build a new mansion on a hill overlooking what then became a garden feature. The views of this old hero with its surrounding water offer us so many artistic opportunities. Over the years I have produced six or seven pieces, some of which focus on the herb garden and the colossal rhododendrons that provide great swaths of colour in the spring. Living as we were nearby, we had many opportunities to visit the castle and on our last stop, we noticed a bus in the parking lot with the sign of a travel agent from London, Ontario. I placed my business card under the windshield wiper, but I have never received any message from the agency or its clients. That business card drop is something that I do occasionally if I see a Canadian license plate or other indicator from home on a vehicle. Sometimes people write when they get home. One clever fellow sent me postcards from his travels for several years but never signed his name. It drove me mad with curiosity.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Past the Crown Inn Past the Crown Inn We had the opportunity to live in the Cotswold village of Blockley for a week in June, 2001. This was the view from outside the local, The Crown Inn (established in 1755), which occupied the select position on the main street. We passed this patinated hostelry on the way to our digs that resembled a doll house in its size and beauty. I found this small village, on a dead-end road, delightful and the neighbourhood enchanting. Over the years we have rented flats from many English agencies. From an apartment in a brewery to a cottage in a former stable, from a harbourside look-out to a stone house in a village, not one of the many rentals has proved a heart-breaker. Hanging in our drawing room in Blockley was a photograph from 1900 that featured the main street of that small town. As I moved around town that week, I discovered more vintage photos, a few at The Crown, that excited me to paint a scene of village life in that town complete with kids, dogs, pedestrians and equestrians. I never know from where the finger of inspiration and curiosity will poke. I did not however paint into my work the Edwardian-era innkeeper of The Crown, Alec "Tricky" Taylor.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Jaunting Cart Ride Jaunting Cart Ride Most of the paintings featured in this travel series and its effect on me are sketches—colour notes made on the spot or brief reactions to my photos when I return home. This piece set near Sneem in the southwest of Ireland is however a different type of item. This painting is a full blown synthesis of southern Ireland. My aim in this painting, as in all my extended work, is to distill many pieces of information into one statement that will deliver the feeling of this singular country. Few people who visit Ireland manage to avoid being touched by a country whose biggest export is people. Sneem, the Knot in the Ring of Kerry, provides an attractive setting. Although there are many sharply coloured houses there, I opted for some of the traditional white dwellings from this still rural-feeling town. We spent an enjoyable lunch and afternoon in this picturesque spot having a leisurely meal and numerous jars of Guiness at the Blue Bull pub, which it turns out to be, if I can believe the blarney, the favourite Irish Eating Establishment of Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber. The jaunting cart featured in this painting is a traditional mode of transport, but now is only used for tourist rides. Muckross House and Gardens within Killarney National Park is alive with these vehicles, some painted garish Gypsy-style colours, piloted by the most persuasive hostlers on earth. You have not been charmed until you've experienced the Irish sales pitch. Because cars are not allowed on these historic grounds, the drivers have a trapped audience. No pun intended. No view of Ireland could be complete without the inclusion of sheep and stone fences under an unsettled sky. Because these sheep are in an enclosure, I could allow them to be unmarked, not blemished with sprayed-on spots of colour, their owner's identification marks, as is usual with sheep that graze the common lands. In the 1970's, Ireland passed a law intended to bring artists of all types to the Emerald Isle. As a painter, I was intrigued by their offer of absolutely no personal income tax. I investigated the idea in a cursory way but decided that I could not live in a country where it rained so often. I found the dampness depressing, but I loved the look of the land. I am not able to understand how a country whose weather is so often gloomy could produce a population that is so optimistic.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Blue Bridge Blue Bridge In 1994, Marilyn and I spent a romantic week in a rental cottage in Clare (meaning clear or bright referring to the waters of the Upper Stour so loved by Constable), a small Suffolk town just south east of Cambridge. We were unaware that our visit was to coincide with a grand concert weekend in The Church of St. Peter and St. Paul, just one block from our house with its timbered walls and low-beamed ceilings. Music in Country Churches, whose patron is the Prince of Wales, was performed this weekend, as the brochure says, "In the presence of His Royal Highness The Duke of Kent", which caused quite a stir as I found out when I visited one of the seven local pubs, The Swan. The square-towered church, going back to a time when the Lords of the area were Norman French, looms over the Anglo-Saxon marketplace of this small market town. The sundial in the south porch of the church carries the message, "Go about your business". One of the distinctive architectural features in this area is pink pargetted houses with complicated patterns of chevrons and flowers incised into the plaster. Some of these timber-styled houses shelter under thatched roofs, although most have slate or tile shingles. As with all of England, flowers embroider the edges of these houses which often stand precipitously close to the road. Overflowing window boxes add to the richness of the colour. The spectacular parts, the private areas, are most often the rear gardens that boil over with plantings, many of which have seen generations of gardeners. This painting was inspired by a riverside walk down Maltings Lane at the edge of town to the Augustinian Priory. Exercising my prerogative, I moved one of the prettier traditional houses to a position cuddling the bridge to replace the plainer dwelling that actually overlooked this storybook location. I judged that the uninspiring house was not worthy of the paradisiacal setting. Already back in Victorian times, artists such as Helen Allingham and Myles Birket Foster spent much of their artistic careers drawing attention to these homey cottages. Even in the 19th Century, however, many thatched houses had experienced the march of progress as low cost tile roofs replaced the more picturesque thatch. I added as well the scroll worked Victorian style boathouse that I fancied from the broad moat that surrounds Scotney Castle in Kent. My attempt in these romantic paintings of England is to distill as many charming components as possible into a believable confection. I am acutely aware that the United Kingdom is host to some of the cheesiest, grimmest, most unappealing industrial and residential properties. However, for thirty-five years we have frequently travelled to England to search out the prettiest, most charming locations. The British themes that I paint are not fiction. They are not some made-up pieces of drivel with baseless fantasy. I avoid the tumbledown cottage with a precarious chimney against a cerulean sky. I root my paintings in reality and allow them to grow. I invent nothing but alter everything.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Door In A Garden Wall (Sissinghurst) Door In A Garden Wall (Sissinghurst) My bride, Marilyn, has a great affection for women writers, in particular Virginia Woolf, whose ground-breaking approach started a new school of writing in the English-speaking world. Our joint interest in things English has led her to infect me with "Bloomsburyism". Not only the literature produced by this between-classes group but also their houses and gardens have become most attractive. Virginia Woolf numbered Victoria Sackville-West among her friends. Because, in the English tradition, only a male heir could inherit a great rich estate, Knole, given by Elizabeth I to her cousin and councillor, Thomas Sackville, around 1566 and reportedly the largest private house in England, did not pass to Vita, as she was commonly known. Instead her cousin, Eddie, was blessed with this huge and historical estate. Vita, cut sharply from Knole, decided along with her husband, Harold Nicolson, to rehabilitate the remnants of an Elizabethan estate that had a passing connection with Knole, both in family and appearance. In June 1930, the Nicolsons purchased the ruins and farm for £12,375. A vast effort was necessary to remove the debris of one hundred years of neglect. Using the outlines of courtyards and a moat, a plan was drawn to convert this ruin into a family home and an outstanding garden. The stable block became their home while the Priest's House provided a bedroom for their two sons as well as a dining room and kitchen. Obsessed with their new garden, the Nicolsons spent any time not taken up with their writing, creating the start of what has become one of the finest gardens in England. Although Vita liked to think that she and Harold managed entirely alone, records show that she had help from a number of eminent landscape architects. Their aristocratic pedigrees (Harold's father was Lord Carnock) gave them easy access to people like Lord Gerald Wellesley, later the seventh Duke of Wellington who was an architect. During the war, the Home Guard took over their tower. The army dug themselves into the woods as flowers gave way to potatoes. Her Country Notes in Wartime (1940) and parts of her epic poem, The Garden (1946) record what it was like. Following the war with renewed vigour, fresh assaults were made at restoring and improving the garden set in its grid of colours. Vita died in 1962 and Harold in 1968. The death duties of £45,000 meant that their son, Nigel, who had inherited Sissinghurst, must either sell the surrounding farmland or hand over the property to the National Trust. Over the years the garden has prospered. Partly because of its association and surely on the strength of word of mouth, its popularity has increased to the point that the Trust does not even publicize it. Indeed, the garden management has been forced to reduce hours, such was the wear and tear from the brigades of tourists mounting daily assaults. Busloads of tourists from around the world, sometimes with their own foreign speaking guides, avid gardeners from England, North America and the continent making copious jottings, and young backpackers just stopping in to see what the fuss is all about, combine to create havoc on the stone-paved walkways. If, however, you visit at the end of the day, the garden breathes again as almost all of the visitors are off to new adventures. Besides the many short visits to the garden that we have enjoyed, we were fabulously fortunate to live two miles away from this beauty for four months. With time we got to know this garden in its various moods. The painting that I show here of the beautiful Kentish brick wall hangs in our dining room and daily reminds me of a visit when I had the extraordinary fortune of encountering Nigel Nicolson in the garden on his way back to his flat in the former stable block. Trying not to sound too much like a starstruck American, I told him of our affection for this property and how we had planned this extended holiday just to be nearby. "Could I possibly take your photo?" I enquired of the octogenarian. "Oh yes," he said, tipping up the brim of his hat. "Now you can get a good shot," he preened. For further related images, to see our section on Belgium.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Church Gate Church Gate It is ironic that, even though I am non-religious, I am enchanted by small British churches. These sometimes tiny buildings, that are often constructed of stone, speak strongly of their past with a mix of styles, as later additions tell of the popular style of architecture of their day. Lych-gates and porches add to the history of the gravestones that encircle these buildings. Filled with plaques, statuary and stained glass, these quiet country worship places tell the visitor all about the history and indeed the geography of the parish. Tablets set in the wall or in the floor speak of wool merchants, soldiers, courtiers, diplomats, and industrialists. Occasionally even an artist rates a mention. Achievements and virtues are clearly set for all to see in the past, now, and well into the future. The continuity of the community is evident as successive generations have added their tributes to people both living and dead. The craftsmanship of the carvings in wood or stone bespeaks the concern of the donors to provide the very best tribute, not only to the honouree but also to God. Tapestry and work in silver and gold add a bright, yet subdued, voice to the choir of work within these often ancient and frequently small calm places of solace and contemplation. From time to time, special events such as floral shows encourage residents to visit neighbouring churches. When we lived in Kent, our beautiful stone church from the seventeenth century was enhanced by the most lavish display of blooms and foliage. Arrangements not only were set around the church but also wound around beams that crisscrossed the ceiling. These fundraising displays brought a good number of the locals into the church, many who, I am sure, seldom visited this cool and quiet retreat. Flowers also profusely decorate churches for weddings. These overflowing displays of the gardener's art come from small country cottage gardens, not from a florist's cooler. The hues of flowers in chorus with the attractiveness of the colourful wedding-garbed congregation make a romantic picture. Marilyn and I often linger near small churches on a Saturday just waiting for the beautifully turned-out guests to arrive. Women dressed in a style not known here, sporting large and dramatic hats, add even more drama to the scene as a Rolls arrives with twisted ribbons from bonnet ornament to top corners of the windscreen. On one occasion we lingered outside a church for the bridal couple to emerge. Waiting was an open carriage with a team of chalk white horses. The bride and groom braved a storm of confetti down the stone walk to the waiting polished conveyance. At that moment, a juggernaut tour bus rounded the tight corner in this Kentish town. There was a news-conference-like explosion of camera flashes as the Japanese tourists pressed their Nikons to the bus windows. Perhaps I should do a painting of that event, but who would believe it. On another occasion in the Lake District of England, I had set up my easel in the graveyard of St. Patrick's Church (St. Patrick's, Cumbria, England). This stone church with its steeply pitched roof crouched quietly within a stone wall enclosure. Once again, a tourist bus arrived to deliver a group of half-asleep passengers to this prettiest of sites. Not all, however, were dozing. The fourth man off the bus made a bee-line over to where I was painting. Thinking that he might be an amateur painter interested to see my rendering of this small, but handsome, church, I stepped back from my easel so he could see. "Oh, no," said he. "I don't want to see your painting. I just thought that you would have discovered the best angle on this scene." And with that, he stepped in front of me and snapped a photo of my view. For further related images, to see our section on Churches.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Gypsy Caravan Gypsy Caravan People are normally charmed when they watch an artist paint. Unfamiliar with the painting process, most observers are surprised as a painting grows. There is always some comedian who asks where the numbers are. I explain that the numbers are on the lens of my glasses, because if they were on the canvas, everyone could paint. Occasionally, however, there are spectators who are not pleasantly taken by the process. Standing on the verge of a small road near Rye, England, I purred with delight as I crafted a small acrylic of a gypsy camp. My interest in these nomads had been sparked years ago by the colourful renditions of Sir Alfred Mannings, P.R.A. His fascination with that subculture, which was predominated by horses, parallelled my interest in the Mennonites. One summer morning, I was delighted to discover a camp which included several caravans, trailers, kids, chickens and assorted pieces of gear, including two incredibly small cars. Suddenly a very hairy man, barefoot and wearing only a pair of pants and an undershirt, or vest as the Brits say, burst from the small trailer over to my position. "What is going to happen to this painting?" he demanded. Had this situation taken place in an up-market neighbourhood, I might have spotted him a price, but I realized, thick as I am, that he was not asking how much. "Well," I stammered, trying not to be too rattled, "I will be taking it back to Canada with me." He relaxed. He explained that he thought that perhaps I worked for a magazine or newspaper that had me busy doing an exposé about gypsies. That would have meant that the camp would have to be moved because, as is the norm, these gypsies were parked without permission, which does, of course, keep the rent down. On this side of the Atlantic, I encountered another homeowner who was also suspicious of why I would be interested in his house, a tumbling-down wooden creation in Wakefield, Quebec. I had been attracted to this ramshackle place because it was so tattered and precarious, but I was not about to tell that to its owner. Instead I made up some load of malarkey about a newspaper column as my answer to his original rough query, "Hey, what's with the picture stuff?" Still closer to home, I evoked not a challenge but a lament from a tiny Mennonite woman. I had asked permission to set up my easel in the farm drive near the house. I was attracted by the charming entrance way with its green and white fence. After an hour I was finished and knocked on the door to show her my painting. "Oh, no," she said, her hand to her cheek, "does my back door look that messy? I should have moved the broom and cleaned up."

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

View from the Churchyard at Kelmscott View from the Churchyard at Kelmscott In Tom Brokaw's book, A Long Way from Home, a reference to the grave marker at Wounded Knee, South Dakota made me think of cemeteries that I have visited. The six-foot high stone at Wounded Knee where the last holdouts of the Dakota nation were massacred displays the names of some prominent Indians. Chief Big Foot, High Hawk, Black Coyote and Young Afraid of Bear are the expected mentions, but there is also a single chilling inscription "Many innocent women and children who knew no wrong died here." On a sunny afternoon in Belgium, I stood before white gravestones that reeled out to cover several acres. These markers commemorated Canadian soldiers who had died in World War I. It was difficult to reconcile this pleasant spring day with the message on the simple cruciform stones, "A Canadian solder, Known only to God." I turn to another cemetery in Key West, Florida. This burial place, with its white above-ground vault, almost resembles a village of tiny houses. That cemetery is sadly filling with the young victims of Aids, but in the same funeral ground, there is a stone whimsically inscribed, "I told you I was sick." Sometimes, as in the cemetery for the St. Jacobs Mennonite Church, a gravestone tells the life story of the people buried there. How interesting and meaningful, as in the case of the Brubacher pioneers, is a short essay carved on the marker's reverse that tells the life story of the couple, including where they farmed, after their Pennsylvania trek. Their saga is told straight-forwardly, without superlatives, as is the Mennonite way. There is a totally different style of cemetery at Kelmscot, England. This country graveyard, wrapped around a small pretty stone church, is quietly decorative. The great English designer, William Morris, is buried here and he would, I'm sure, be pleased with the patina that time has rested upon that place. I was sufficiently taken with the look of this graveyard that I did a painting of it.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Honeymoon Cottage Honeymoon Cottage I recently had the enjoyment of presenting my work at the Garden Festival in Stratford, Ontario. Not only did I have a display of garden paintings, but also for those four days I demonstrated my painting techniques that I had developed in shopping malls years ago. I used photographs that I had taken in England of the Cotswold area as the basis to compose the painting that is shown here. Standing under brilliant lights, I painted while a video camera captured the process which was displayed on a large screen above my head. Since I was miked, I could chat with the over 10,000 people that drifted through this outstanding garden exhibition. With the sound system, the lights and the video, I found myself doing a poor imitation of one of those vegetable-slicer hucksters that are to be found at every fair or exhibition. You know the kind of lines they use. "I only throw away the skin of the banana, but even the monkey throws that away." I must admit that I do find those performers amusing. Of course, one of the best things about performances, as any actor will tell you, is the reaction of the audience. Over the years, I have had many discussions with professional actors from the Stratford Company about performing. I am always amazed at the ability of the performers to gather themselves for a posted time. I have felt that my endeavours in painting were much easier, since if I had a bad day, I could throw the work away or paint over it, with no one else the wiser, while an actor has his bad day in front of a crowd. "No," counter the thespians. "We may come onto the stage 'flat', but we are able to suck energy from the audience as they re-act to our performances, while you as a painter must supply all your own power." It is true that the crowds at the Garden Festival provided me with energy and a few laughs. A couple who watched as I painted this garden theme questioned what part of Britain I was using for my work. When I told them the Cotswold area, the man replied with a strong English accent, "Practice on the Cotswolds and when you get it right, you should do a painting of Sussex." I was also amused by a woman's reaction that followed my offer to the audience, "If you have any questions, I will try to answer them, but if I do not know the answer, I will lie." She simply stamped her foot and said, "Men!" as she walked away. I think that she had issues. For further related images, to see our section on Cotswolds.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Isle of Skye Isle of Skye "Much can be made of a Scot if he be found young enough." This sign hangs in a friend's home. People who have come from a difficult situation like the Scots exhibit a sense of determination and a great bit of humour. The countryside of Scotland is beautiful to view, but unyielding ground upon which to live. The Western Isles lie like rocky crumbs along the coast of Scotland where the weather often is rainy and foggy. Most of Scotland is really not arable, but rather home to grazing flocks of sheep. The vast vacant fields are picturesque, but not agriculturally productive. Ship building, the only industry in Scotland that once flourished on the Clyde, has withered into a wraith-like image of its formerly robust self. Now tourism is hugely important to Scotland. People come from around the world to play courses like The Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews, one of the over ninety courses. Tourists also come to Scotland to shop for specialty woolens. When my mother died, a heather-tone blanket lay across the foot of her bed. Marilyn and I had purchased that soft warm rug for her almost thirty years ago in a small shop in Hawick, Scotland. Visitors to Scotland also find the range of Scotch whiskeys a great draw. Singular single malts or blends, these whiskeys are often available only in wee places in the country. A poor land with a dodgy employment record, Scotland has sent many of its brightest and most ambitious natives abroad. A reading of the history of the Hudson's Bay Company will find the reader knee deep in kilts. The Scots exhibit a tenacity that is much admired. That determination is no more evident than in the way Scots living away from home stubbornly cling to their accents. I have a friend who left a small village near Glasgow almost thirty years ago, but listening to his country accent is still like a ride in a pick-up along a pot-hole-riddled track. He told me that when he first came to Canada, after working in the ship building industry on the Clyde, he honestly tried "to speak like you lot, but I almost broke my tongue". It is a shame that such a large number of Scots had to leave their homeland to find work, but no matter how long they've been gone, the tug of Scotland is still there. A friend from Glasgow delights in posing this question: "What's the best thing to ever come out of England?" — The road to Scotland. For further related images, to see our section on Scotland.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Church Square, Rye, Sussex Church Square, Rye, Sussex I suppose that a psychiatrist would be able to tell many things about me by viewing a gallery of my paintings. What would he say when he discovered that over the years I have painted many pieces that focus on doors or doorways? Might there be a desperate meaning to the fact that almost always in my paintings the doors are closed? In fact, I can only recall one work, a view into a walled garden, where the door is ajar. In that painting, a lady in Edwardian dress is carrying a trug as she walks along the edge of an English garden bursting with flowers (Gathering Flowers). There are drawings of hotel doors and watercolours of restaurant entrances that all fit into this category. I have several ecclesiastical doors, their Gothic tops pointing to heaven. Not all of the church doors now lead to houses of worship as some have been converted to residences. I believe adaptive re-use is the term—an idea that I think we should practice here in North America where we demolish old buildings far too quickly. From a white door in a pink Bermuda hotel to a gray barn door in Canada, from stone-walled surrounds in the U.K. and Europe to a red brick entrance, I have tackled colourful doors in homes as well. Often these portals are edged by flowers. Sunny and delightful is the way that I see them, or perhaps I just tend to paint those doors that attract me. Would the psychiatrist read something else into the floral edging? Some vain attempt to soften the harsh reality? I have not personally talked to a shrink about my paintings and what they reveal, but I have had several academics tackle my apparently fraught psyche. If what these papers surmise is true, I must be heavily conflicted—sunshine and peace on one hand, while the opposite side reveals dark and desperate feelings. I think that you can tell that I don't take those grimmer readings all that seriously, but I suppose some would say that I am just in denial. Perhaps however like the idea that if you truly resemble your passport photo, you are definitely too sick to travel, my paintings show only my momentary reaction to these unopened doors and a return visit would produce quite a different result. For further related images, to see our section on doorways.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

View from Miller Howe Hotel View from Miller Howe Hotel When we arrived in our room at the Miller Howe Hotel on Lake Windermere, we were somewhat prepared for the dramatic approach that that Hotelkeeper, John Tovey, practiced. A retired actor, he brought a theatrical presentation that few hotels can match to that luxury English hotel with its panoramic views. Our room looked out over the lake to the Langdale Pikes, and a booklet in our room told us just how to get full appreciation out of this well-loved walking country. There were instructions about ordering a packed lunch for the next day's trek. "These are a specialty at the Miller Howe and represent excellent value for money. Away from the general run-of-the-mill sandwich-type lunches, we do plated salad meals which are exciting, interesting and very filling." The brochure did not lie. We also found his instructions about the Bowness Bay Boating Company to be helpful, although we had no need to heed the directions that "Mooring sites on the Lake can be obtained for visiting craft." Here we were in Wordsworth Country, beautiful and serene, bursting with flowers at the beginning of June. We visited his house and also Hill Top Farm, the country residence of Beatrix Potter who wrote so many charming children's stories that she modeled on the nearby village of Sawrey. In Grasmere, we visited an artist's gallery that has influenced the way that I structured my own gallery in Waterloo. We climbed and trekked in preparation for the real reason that brought us to the Miller Howe, the food. My bride had read somewhere that John Tovey had planned to duplicate the five-course meal served by Constance Spry to Queen Elizabeth II and her guests in the Great Hall of Westminster School after her Coronation on 2nd June 1952. Since this was the Twenty-fifth Anniversary of that event, the dinner was appropriate. Starting with cheese and herb pâté in a puff pastry coronet, we progressed to a tomato and tarragon soup. In turn that was followed by farm trout in aspic and then Coronation Breast of Chicken with accompaniments. Our tables were then cleared for a "Loyal Toast" lead by Mr. Tovey and his staff, after which we were entertained by twenty minutes of harpsichord music. That respite gave us a chance to gather ourselves for Lemon Soufflé, Brandy Roulade, Strawberry Galette, or Stilton with homemade biscuits. Given the amount of wine that we had enjoyed with the meal, we were only too happy to see the coffee arrive, but, of course, Petit Fours also were presented. Lest you think that we were absolute pigs, I should point out that we did not eat like that every night of the three that we stayed there, although a quick perusal of the menus that Marilyn has cleverly kept show that we were there for a reason. One of the delights that we did not expect, however, was the way the awnings that shielded the dining room from the late afternoon sun were so dramatically raised in unison during the dinner. "Ladies and gentlemen, the sunset over Lake Windermere." For further related images, to see our section on Lake District.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

The North Channel from Knockinaam Lodge, Scotland The North Channel from Knockinaam Lodge, Scotland We drove our car from the narrow pea-gravel road out onto a knoll bordered on three sides by granite boulders. Marilyn and I set up our easels and with our car doors open, we could listen to Irish radio. We were not in Ireland; however, we were painting on the Mull of Galloway, the southernmost point in Scotland. Only 20 miles across the Irish Sea, Northern Ireland crouched blue-gray and out of focus. Tourist books tell you that the Isle of Man is visible from this rocky, desolate bit of Scotland, but certainly not on the day that we decided to paint the wave-washed walls of stone along these shores. We were kitted out in yellow slicker suits, such was the mood of the weather. As we painted, the sun would mysteriously appear through thin clouds which changed from gray to mayonnaise. Gradually the sun would fade as the clouds darkened and the wind rose. On several occasions the mist turned to rain, and we retreated to the car, scattering the more than a million hares that owned this bleak head. These creatures were as plentiful as squirrels and just as cheeky. I thought of my Mennonite friend who dealt with the question of beer-making. "To make the best beer," he said, "follow a rabbit for a mile and collect the hops." These umber-coloured critters were cat-sized and incredibly nimble, and we were miles away from any pub. When the rain stopped, we returned to our overturned acrylic paintings and continued. To our left, we could see layers of weather heading our way with clouds separated by sky-blue, like filling in a layer cake. Only later did I realize what a mistake I had made in not collecting a few of those jumping jacks that had watched us paint. Clearly I can use all the hares I can get. For further related images, to see our section on Scotland.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Enjoying the Gardens, Mount Stewart, Northern Ireland Enjoying the Gardens, Mount Stewart, Northern Ireland Although we had visited the Republic of Ireland several times, this was our first experience in Northern Ireland. Since our cruise stop was to be brief, we had to choose very carefully how we were to spend our precious half-day. I had the feeling that wherever we went, I would find something to paint so the decision was made by my bride to visit a National Trust garden just 45 minutes outside of Belfast. Mount Stewart is the home of Lady Mary, the daughter of the late Marquis of Londonderry, and is a lasting symbol of the wealth and power of the English. Although this substantial Georgian house with its acres of formal gardens is impressive, this was really the Londonderry's summer cottage. Their main house was in London on prestigious Park Lane. They did also own a further 23,000 acres in Scotland. Over the generations, the various properties have been sold. Still Mount Stewart stands on a gentle rise beside the ocean, proclaiming to anyone who will look that way how important the British were and are in this country. One section of the garden features a flowerbed in the form of a hand. Red blossoms carpet its shape. A fable is attached to this oddly-shaped bed. In ancient Ireland, so the story goes, there was a race to the Island, with the person whose hand first touched the soil to be made King. O'Neill seeing that another boat was likely to outstrip his, cut off his left hand and threw it to the coast. This symbol has been adopted by one of the Loyalist paramilitary groups called the Red Hand Commandos. Riding in a cab to and from this splendid home, I took the opportunity to get some local information from our cabbie. Anyone who has ever visited Ireland will realize that you do not have to pay an Irish hack driver to talk, to shut up maybe, but not to talk. As we drove through the residential area where the Protestants and Catholics collide, we were staggered by the murals, on either side of the road, depicting the valour and courage of these violently opposing views. I was surprised by the artistic quality of some of the painting. Clearly this goes way beyond graffiti. This is the work of professionals. These wall paintings partially obscured the stacks of wooden pallets that were being readied for burning on the "Glorious Twelfth", the anniversary of the British victory over the Irish. For over three hundred years, the marching season has reinforced that dominance. These marches, of course, rub salt in the wound. Our taxi driver told us that the marching has been somewhat curtailed by charging any group that wishes to march with the cost of policing such an event, but some of the groups, obviously well funded, continue on this sad tradition. The battles between the "rebel" groups and the police and army continue. Young kids and teenagers hurl rocks and small explosives at these symbols of authority, then run away and vault walls to the safety of their quarter. They cynically call this the Summer Olympics. The signs on the walls proclaim "Democracy Denied". I asked our taxi driver just how much he paid for fuel. "Well," he said, "I pay 45 pence a litre, but the real price is 78 pence. I buy it without the tax." He told us how certain gas stations sell gas that has been "liberated" from the Irish Republic. Liquor also follows the same path. He also claimed that he had not paid income tax for ten years. His address is officially in Dublin, but he actually lives in Belfast. Because he is in an all-cash business, it would be difficult to catch him out, and anyway, the authorities are fully occupied with issues of security. It appeared to me that there are many people who benefit from the troubles and want them to continue.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Stream Through the Village Stream Through the Village This painting is a montage of views from Welford-on-Avon in the heart of England's Shakespeare Country. Welford is a small community three streets deep and two blocks long. This pretty, quiet, Warwickshire village is only five miles downstream from the bustle of Stratford-upon-Avon. My interest was to build a picture that demonstrates the romantic storybook feeling that I get in a small, chocolate box, English village. I was introduced to this burg when I stayed at Clifford Chambers, a village only two miles away, and I have returned several times to convince myself that its beauty that I remember is indeed real. The Cotswolds area of England presents so many possible opportunities to paint that it seems almost like a movie set, given the number of thatched "black and whites" and cottages built of a softly faded Naples yellow-coloured limestone. Many of these cottages date back to the 17th Century when this area of England became prosperous from the rich farmland dotted with flocks of sheep. In fact, in the Middle Ages, 50% of England's economy was based on sheep. This village-studded agricultural area named after a 12th century landowner, Codwald, is sparsely populated. There are only 85,000 residents, but the tourist flood reaches 38 million each year. Walkways lace this part of the country and make available to the many visitors, beautiful views at every corner. I best be careful. I am starting to sound like a tout from the Chamber of Commerce, but it is difficult not to, because this area hosts beautiful scenery, idyllic architecture, and pubs like The Cottage of Content which is nearby Welford. For many years, my paintings were shown at a gallery in Broadway, a small town overrun by tourists during the holiday season. This personal connection gave me a perfect excuse to visit the district often. I am amused when I hear from people, "I was just in England, and you know, it is just as you show it in your paintings." I do not make up any of my subjects, whether from Mennonite Country or England, but rather hope to point out some features of those places that attract me. To be sure, there are many aspects of the United Kingdom that I never paint. These places would however provide subjects for some other artist but not for me. All any artist can bring to a work is his own point of view. I find it difficult to imagine the kind of person that I would be if I had not discovered beautiful England for myself over thirty-five years ago. I have developed such affection for that sceptred isle that I watch British television, drink at the Duke, a British pub, and regularly read the Daily Telegraph on Sunday morning. I even eat British food, BSE aside. Frequent jaunts to the U.K. keep my painting imagination topped up. I recently talked to a man who said, in jest I hope, that I must have a great deal of aggression bottled up inside to paint pictures that are almost unfailingly tranquil and pretty. For further related images, to see our section on the Cotswolds.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.

Croft Castle Croft Castle Sitting cross-legged on the floor in a converted barn, Alison, a five year old with a Dutch-cut hair style, explained about her dog named Pig. The black lab lounged next to her chewing on a stone. "He doesn't have any pockets, you see, so he must keep his stone in his mouth." This charming tyke seemed to be part of the package for people like us who rent a flat on the upper floor of a barn, named Cork and Bottle Barn. With leaded lights and exposed beams, this beautifully converted accommodation was furnished like a true English country house with antique furniture and chintz. This treasure had been booked from here in Canada and was chosen from a brochure that extolled the virtues of this peaceful location west of Hereford, with one wall almost in Wales, very near to Hay-on-Wye, the home of so many shops that sell second-hand books. A recent article in the National Trust magazine, which we receive four times a year, featured an article on Croft Castle which is nine miles southwest of Ludlow, so very near our rural digs. This extraordinary property has been in the Croft family since the 11th century and was most recently owned by the late Lord Croft—Michael Croft who was the Honourary Keeper of Contemporary Art at the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge. That connection means that Croft Castle has long been known for its fine collection of contemporary paintings and sculpture. But fortunes change over the years, and the house and grounds have now been taken over by the National Trust which not only maintains this gem but also sponsors and encourages research into its hidden history. In 1641 Edward, Duke of York, took it as a sign that the Holy Trinity would protect him from Jasper Tudor's army when they clashed at Mortimer's Cross in one of the bloodiest battles of the War of the Roses. More than three thousand were butchered in that clash and Edward was crowned King one month later. A decisive victory, to be sure. The site of this butchery was less than two miles away from Croft Castle on land belonging to Richard Croft who had backed the future King. The present Croft Castle is built on foundations that saw that bloody episode but there are few records that go back before 1700 that deal with its history. Now scholarship suggests that there may have been prehistoric farmsteads around the Iron Age hill-fort of Croft Ambrey. There is also evidence of elaborate 17th and 18th century gardens as well as traces of a network of Georgian carriage ways that twist and turn across each other, made apparently for dandies to race around. The research continues, and the National Trust even is open to recruits who are willing to work under supervision. A note in the Trust's magazine invites people to get more involved with archeology through the Trust's Working Holidays. Interested amateurs might also find the Council for Archaeology helpful. As well as running the Young Archaeologists Club for 9 to 16 year olds, this outstanding organization also presents two Archaeology Days each year at various sites. You can learn more at www.britarch.ac.uk/nads. A recent notice from Sotheby's New Bond Street tells of the excitement as antique furniture from Croft Castle went under the hammer. In due course the massive art collection will also be sold by Sotheby's. In a way, these sales are a sad ending to one family's connection to a piece of history, but fortunately this castle will be lovingly cared for by the Trust and will continue to live for the benefit of the public.

This piece was published in The Record, Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario but may have been edited. Some articles have also been published in Collectibles Canada and Tourist, Canada's Newsmagazine for Travellers.