Fly like a bird, not like a Boeing!

As a member of the Cardiff branch of the U3A, my mother belongs to a Prose and Poetry group who exchange insights and instances with one another, taking turns. The subject of their October session is "Hobbies," and Mum has chosen 'cello-playing as the hobby she's going to present to the rest of the group. Although she doesn't play the 'cello herself, she wishes she had learned. She has shown me her quotations from the 'cellist, Paul Tortelier, whom she saw on TV during the broadcast of a master-class he was giving (some thirty years ago). Impressed by what she was hearing, she had jotted down and kept these quotations in her notebook. Here are a few examples of what Tortelier said, in his memorable French accent:

• If they knew how joyful it is to play the 'cello, all the world would play the 'cello.

• Breathe inside the music, not out of it.

• You must fly like a bird, not like a Boeing! You must have contrast. Variety is what the world lacks; it is all mechanism and monotony.

• [This music] is too beautiful to talk about. It is a mystery. Mystery should not be talked about. I have talked too much.
  

Among the Inuit and the Old Masters

Today being grey and damp, the National Gallery was the place to visit. My mother was interested in looking at some Inuit art so we descended to the basement level where the sculptures and drawings are normally exhibited, only to find that "independent Inuit video productions" are currently being shown in the exhibition rooms instead. The films (from the Isuma company) that we stopped to watch this afternoon were already half way through and, on closer inspection of the notes, turned out to have a very long running time, so we saw just a snippet of each to give us an idea of their content; very strong meat they were, too.

We came upon Atanarjuat The Fast Runner at its most violent point, where Amaqjuaq, the brother of the runner, is speared through his tent and killed; we preferred not to carry on watching this one. In another film on a different screen some animal (a seal?) was being very bloodily butchered on the snow (close up of a child's face smeared with its blood) so we gave that one a miss also (I may return to watch the Inuit films later without my mother!) and a third film seemed only to be getting into its stride with an Inuit elder explaining to a young girl, who had removed her furs, that she shouldn't be so interested in "having sex with dead people"... (?!) My mother then thought she might feel more at home on the top floor of the Gallery amongst the European art, so we transferred our attention by means of the glass elevator from the rawness of Nunavut into Renaissance Italy, thence walking through the Flemish and German "Masters" towards later centuries.

Come to think of it, the European artists often conveyed some fairly shocking scenes, too, perhaps with more detachment. Because we're more familiar the subject matter in this case, we aren't so upset by it. Is that a bad thing or a good thing?

Aschenbrödel or Aschenputtel

The traditional German story gives her one name, the Swiss version another. I saw Prokofiev's ballet Aschenbrödel with my children in Bern, in 1980, and kept the programme for it, which I showed to our Konversationsgruppe yesterday after we had read the story in German, talking about its different versions and origins.

We met at Vija's house in the woods at Carp, golden leaves all around us, and sang Lustig ist das Zigeunerleben! and O wie wohl ist mir am Abend in three parts. Tanya said if there were more singing in the world there'd be fewer wars; therefore music teaching in schools should be given a much higher priority. I think she's right.

In the Laurentians

View of Mt Tremblant and Lake Ouimet from the hill behind Gray Rocks, a being seen in St-Jovite, and the Rivière Rouge. Other illustrations have now been added to my previous blog posts, below.

At Mont Tremblant

“Very nice, very civilised,” commented Elva as we were being served supper at Gray Rocks last night and Carol used the exact same phrase to describe tonight's meal. The iced water had a splash of lemon in it. Gray Rocks resort on Lake Ouimet dates back to 1905, with an old fashioned lobby, sitting room with striped armchairs (where I'm writing this) and a concert grand in the corner. In the opposite corner are French windows opening onto the lakeside lawn, through which a squirrel came scuttling in across the carpets on the wooden floor. Our bedroom windows also slide open onto the lawn where, beyond the pine trees that border the lake, we have an unobstructed view of the whole of Mt Tremblant, in perfect autumn weather. The dining room has a similar outlook, lake and mountain at sunset, which aptly rounded off our day that had begun with a view of the early morning mist rising from the Gatineau River from our breakfast table in Maniwaki.

Mum, reading the hotel's Répertoire des Services, says you can have a white clay body wrap for $105, if you want one. Or an algae and marine sediments body wrap for the same price, she says. She doesn't like the sound of that one. She's giggling away now about the Polynesian massages for $215: “That's over a hundred pounds!”

No extra charge for swimming in the hotel pool though, as I did before supper on Monday evening.

We spent most of yesterday in Carol's car, driving through the hills between Maniwaki and here via Mont Laurier, the mountain of that name to the north of us, and Nominingue where Le P'tit Train du Nord cycling trail has a couple of attractively landscaped stopping places, converted from the railway stations and signal stops they used to be. We found Nominingue's municipal beach too (closed since September 3rd and therefore beautifully deserted). Butterflies fluttered around over the seed popping milkweed (the fluff from which was used by the early settlers to stuff their bedding), the asters and the black-eyed Susans. Above the shore of Lac Nominingue the gîte, Chez Ignace, where we enjoyed a stay in 2002, is still in business, its Belgian flag still flying from the flag pole, so it can't have changed hands either.

We ended the day by star gazing again at the foot of the same steep slope (grass covered ski slope) that we climbed earlier so as to see more of the view.

Today we went up a much higher mountain, Mt Tremblant itself, cheating, by taking a ride in a gondola from the "village" where after another walk along the track of the P'tit Train du Nord, this time along the shore of Lac Mercier, I challenged my mother to a game of Mini Golf. Note the cable car in the sky behind the putting green. We rode on that one as well.

Back to Maniwaki

Three of us who were last here on New Year's Day took my mother to the Chateau Logue in Maniwaki, up the same road through Kazabazua, etc., after stopping for lunch at Wakefield. The Gatineau River, very blue this time (rather than white) was on our right for most of the way through the autumnal farmland. They haven't started harvesting yet in the Vallée des Canneberges (cranberries) but we bought some dried ones from a gift shop. Also stopped at the Algonquin Trading Post at the Kichimikan reserve, where, had we not had the promise of a bed elsewhere, we could have spent the night in a teepee or wigwam. We had time for a look around the aboriginal displays inside, then on to Maniwaki itself where there's another point of interest: the draveurs' tug-boat, the Pythonga, that used to pull log rafts (booms) across the Baskatong Reservoire, now beached on the roadside and surrounded by information about the log drive. We went for a pretty walk along the river bank and board walk to get there, on the way back stopping at the stadium to watch the last few minutes of a hockey game, a Zamboni coming onto the rink to clean up the ice after the skaters had cleared off. Supper at the hotel pub at a table overlooking the river at sunset, and afterwards, Mum saying she would love to see the stars, Carol drove us a short way down the road to a darker place so that we could gaze at the Milky Way on this clear, cold night.

Lots of ladies

Yesterday saw the start of a new season with the Ottawa CFUW's Diplomatic Hospitality group, when at a coffee morning held in Vanier we introduced ourselves to the new diplomats in town and reconnected with the ones we already knew. My job is to man the photography table on these annual occasions, at which I sell my photos of the last season, as well as home-made cards.

On the previous morning Mum, I and seven German-speaking Canadians had been round to see a Anke on MacKay Street, sitting round her dining table and sharing stories of what we'd each been up to during the summer.

Elva, home from Paraguay, came round for supper yesterday evening (with Laurie, Don and Kathryn) and tomorrow she'll be setting off with Carol, Mum and me for a trip into the Laurentians, returning next Wednesday. That one won't be such a dressy outing.