Feeling prickly.

All the radishes from the second round of seeds have been yanked from the garden. Those that were left either cracked or turned spongy inside. I’d missed the opportunity to harvest them at their peak. The garden now looks a little tragic, with only the tomato plants showing any promise.

A couple of metres away in the alley, there is a massive blackberry bramble that I’ve been snacking on post-run. There are few scents I find more magical than blackberries on a warm day. As usual, the plumpest berries are high up and well out of reach, so I messaged the landlord requesting to borrow his pole rope pruner, which I’d initially called “the long grabber stick”. Armed with this rusty magic wand, I returned to the bush to grasp at the juiciest of juicy-looking clusters.

The pole rope pruner wasn’t the game changer I’d expected it to be. The berries of beyond were so ripe that they rained down on me when I tugged at the thorny stems, totally missing the bowl they were meant to go in. Half an hour later, I walked away from the bramble in triumph with a large bowl of berries, bleeding legs, and purple splotches on my face.

I’d do it again, but in pants.

It’s been almost two weeks since my return from Slovenia, and I am still dealing with a severe case of the post-trip blues. I’d spent three weeks conversing in sign language daily. Not even in ASL, but BSL: British Sign Language. Before this trip, the extent of my BSL was the manual alphabet and a few signs/phrases such as “good morning”. Now I know over 170 signs. I’ve entered them in an Excel spreadsheet with the intention of reviewing what I’ve learned once a month, and adding to the list with the help of the online BSL dictionary.

Continue reading “Feeling prickly.”

What’s the deal with British food?

A few minutes after getting home from work on Friday, my phone notifies me of a new email from work. I usually ignore these when I’m not on the clock; however, this email announced a few free slots for the Royal Victoria Marathon for interested staff. Within five minutes, I’d signed up for my first marathon.

Along with entering my shirt and sock sizes, I was asked what I wanted the announcer to say about me when I cross the finish line. Not that it makes a difference, as I won’t be able to hear it anyway. Nevertheless, I hope they honour my wish:

Before flying to London, I recruited the upstairs tenants to water the garden, as the roomie was also headed out of town for a week. I’d planted new radish seeds a week before I left, fully expecting to return to a new crop of fist-sized radishes, along with a bounty from the tomato, bush bean, and Hungarian hot pepper plants that had yet to bear fruit.

I’d long become disillusioned about my purple moon cauliflowers, of which sprouted leaves that only continued to get larger and more abundant since this June 20 picture:

A week before I was to return, I received this picture via WhatsApp. The purple moons had sprouted in my absence:

Continue reading “What’s the deal with British food?”

Thus begins the trip recap.

Your blog is no longer something that belongs to you alone, so if there’s a reason why you’re not updating it, then you need to communicate that. Please ensure that you are reachable at all times. You didn’t reply to my messages, and I was concerned for you.

The relevance of this quote from my current read, Hooked by Asako Yuzuki, feels like a fitting way to resurface after an almost month-long hiatus. The story follows a socially awkward woman named Eriko, who becomes obsessed with a popular blogger known for her unfiltered posts. Eriko is so self-unaware that even when she intentionally bumps into the blogger, Shoko, at her favourite café, she doesn’t realize how stalkerish her actions are. Initially, Shoko bonds with Eriko, but Shoko soon realizes that something is off about the woman. Sensing impending rejection, Eriko scrambles to manipulate Shoko’s impression of her to align with her idealized self-image.

Like Shoko, I did not start my blog aspiring to become an influencer, especially since “influencer” wasn’t yet in the lexicon when I started blogging in 2000. Unlike Shoko, my candour has yet to attract a large following. This blog remains a niche within a nearly dead form of digital media.

So, thanks for sticking around awaiting my resurrection.

I got back from Slovenia last Thursday, spent an evening in Vancouver and then, from Swartz Bay, carrying nearly the same amount of load as I did three weeks earlier, I made the sunny return home riding on the Lochside Trail. Three weeks continues to be my limit for being away from home. I travel because I seek adventure, not because I don’t already live in a place bursting with beauty, as was evident while rolling towards home. Even the annoyingly strong headwind wasn’t enough to wipe the smile off my face.

Summarizing my three-week trip will be no small feat. I plan on publishing it in fun-sized, easily digestible bits, peppered with post-trip events; otherwise, I’ll never catch up, and you guys will kick into tl;dr mode.

Also relevant:

Continue reading “Thus begins the trip recap.”