My Introduction to Guiness

My first stop, on Day 1 of my three year world tour on bicycle, was a derelict castle along Loch Lomond. I asked a local to take a picture of me, and The Beast, with the castle and loch in the background. One of my favourite shots; mainly because I was close to packing in this adventure a mere few hours before.

Next stop was a hostel along the northwest shore of the loch. I wasn’t too comfortable there. But the host assured me he would lock up The Beast. I sauntered into town and found a resort on the loch. I started chatting with the barmaids and the chap who took guests out for water skiing and sea-dooing. When discussions turned to supper they opted for Chinese. “What Chinese do you like, Willie?” “I’m good with whatever you guys want. Just throw in an egg roll for me.” The three of them started giggling. “What?” “You want an egg rolled up, Willie?” “No, an egg roll is a roll stuffed with sprouts and sometimes meat and/or seafood”. “Oh, you mean a spring roll!” “Yeah, I guess so.” This was my first introduction to colloquialisms. And this was English!

The following day I tackled Ben Nevis or The Top of The World, in a drenching downpour, of course. As I’m struggling up the mountain, a couple of kids, on bikes that barely had 5 pounds of luggage, whipped past me. I think they were laughing at this old guy but, hey, I was only 24. So I dug deep into my reservoirs and pedaled up the steep gradient.

Upon reaching the summit, I was too exhausted to enjoy the grandeur of the scenery. There was a small trailer, manned by a chap selling coffee and chocolate bars. I staggered over and barely had the strength to utter, “A hot chocolate and a KitKat, please.” He said, “Coming right up, mate. Say, would you be from Toronto?” I was apoplectic! Turns out he had traveled the world, including a two year stint in Toronto, and, boy, did he know his accents.

We chatted for a while, recalling familiar bars, whilst I gathered my strength back and the rain finally stopped its incessant activity. I now had an opportunity to enjoy the panoramic view of the Highlands.

I was looking forward to just coasting all the way down the other side of the mountain. After bidding him au revoir, I gathered steam until I was going so fast I thought I heard Scotty say, “You can’t push ‘er any ‘arder, Cap’n!”

As I approached the bottom before leveling out, “BOOM!” I blew a friggin’ tire! And I go tumbling! When the world stopped spinning, I checked the status of my battered body for any fractures, contusions, gaping wounds but all was okay, except for some minor abrasions on my knees and elbows.

By the time I got the tire changed, I was ready for some anesthesia for the growing aches and pains. I wheeled into the next town, Inverary, parked The Beast outside the only pub and sauntered in, trying to not display my discomfort. I found the two lads, who had passed me earlier, sharing a pitcher. I introduced myself and proceeded to be introduced to Guiness…Before I made sleeping arrangements for the night.

I regaled the boys with tall tales from Canada between calls for “Another pitcher, please, my good man!” “Willie, you better slow down, as Guiness is pretty strong.” “Fear not, my good man, I was born in a snowbank with my skis strapped on and a wineskin of XXX. I know what I’m doing.”

Next thing I know, the barkeep is barking “Time Gentlemen”. “What the heck does that mean? Does he want to time how quick I can down this mug?” I utter. “No, Willie, it means that the bar is closing and this is last call.” “Cripes, it’s only 9:30! Heck, in my country, we’re just getting cranked by now!”

No good. My winging fell on deaf ears. I ordered one more for the road. Then I realized I had not made any accommodations for some downtime. The few rooms that the bar had were filled. No worries, I am self-sufficient. So, I hopped onto The Beast and wobbled out of town. Just beyond the extent of town lights, I pulled The Beast off the road and up into the forest. I pulled out my bedroll and just as I got all comfy…the rain started again. Sheesh!

Sir Richard

One week after my daughter was born, we moved to the first house I ever bought. It was a cute little old farmhouse in the Caledon Hills, with grand views to the north, east and south of checkered farm fields and forests. To the west, we had an acre of mixed forest, including fifteen larch (tamarack).

With living in a new place and caring for a newborn, the missus and I agreed we should get a dog. She saw an ad in one of the local grocery stores…”Tree planter returning to the city after five years with a shepherd collie cross that needs a good home in the country”. I made an appointment to meet the owner and mutt after work the next day. We immediately bonded.

One problem. His name was Kruger. The kid had picked him up at a pound as a puppy on the same day a serial killer in the U.S. got a pardon from the electric chair. Guess what psycho’s name was? Yup, you got it, Kruger.

On the way home, I stopped at one of “my spots”. These are places just north of Toronto where you can get a wee bit of country – a creek or river that isn’t surrounded by habitation. We shared a sandwich and I let him splash in the river. When I called his name, he immediately came back.

The missus fell in love with him right away and, once again, we agreed (Gadzooks! Twice in one week!) to change his name to one more likeable. She chose Sir Richard, which I quickly shortened to Dick, much to her chagrin.

A few days later, the missus called me at work to inform me that the oven wasn’t working. I suggested that she ask one of our neighbours to recommend a repairman. When I got home, she was just bubbling to tell me what had occurred.

As soon as Dick had heard a knock at the door, he dashed there and sat down to the left. The missus opened the door to find the repairman. Dick then started a low growl. The missus turned to Dick to say, “It’s okay, Richard” and he backed off to allow the man inside. As the chap was walking through our living room he saw my daughter on the couch. He started to walk over to her and Dick was instantly between them, baring his teeth as he quietly growled. Mr. Repairman backed off and proceeded to fix the oven and depart rather concerned for his extremities. The missus was overjoyed in that this was the perfect protection she wanted.

During walks with my daughter and Dick, I discovered that he had another awesome talent – Great Hunter of Dirtpigs (groundhogs). He’d spy one stick its head up a quarter mile away. I’d turn my head and a few seconds later he’d be back, proudly carrying the carcass in his mouth.

I would come home from work to find Dick standing at attention at the front door, with the usual dead rodent beside him, patiently waiting for me to congratulate him on his hunting prowess. The neighbouring farmers quickly learned of his stalking abilities and wanted to hire Dick.

Unfortunately, it became quite an obsession with Dick. To the point that my weekends were spent digging up stinking bodies of the legions of groundhogs he was burying in our yard. Then having to put them in several layers of garbage bags and haul them off to the local dump. I knew there was no point in dumping them in a nearby forest as the determined little bugger would ferret out their rotting corpses and bring them back. He would thoroughly enjoy rolling all over them, hence my favourite name for him.

It would absolutely horrify the missus when I would stand at the front door and yell “Here Dickhead! Where’s My Big Smelly Dick?” Heh, heh! It was great sport baiting the missus like that.