Go Canucks Go!!

Damian strode down the bar towards me.

“Not long now” he said.

“Not long to the clash of the titans, David v Goliath, Little Red Riding Hood confronts the Big Bad Wolf eh?”

Damian was a walking cliché. He could have been Keith Jackson or Chick Young in disguise.

He was right though, even in Vancouver the temperature was rising both metaphorically and literally, as the clock ticked inexorably by; and with each passing second either the fears of the apparently helpless fans dissolved into a black-hole of irrelevance and confidence began its unstoppable ascent towards irrational certainty; or like ying and yang the upbeat buoyancy was eroded by the constant riptide of bad memories, and the insidious fear became magnified as it echoed loudly around the dark dank cavern of what might happen in our nightmarish imagination.

Daft really how the game grabs you and puts you in a tumble drier of ever-changing direction and temperature.

More of that later.

Meanwhile, Vancouver is undoubtedly (and possibly surpasses the Italian City) the Rome of the north. Seven hills would have been a mere warm up stroll for those who have hewn this city of magnificent geographical and climactic contrasts in a cooperative endeavour of Caucasian, Chinese, Inuit and most importantly indigenous Indian inhabitants.

Romulus and Remus might, just might have been hired as willing and promising apprentices.

From the arrival of the Canadian Pacific Railway in 1887 as it hacked, battered, mined, and exploded apparently impassable stone, and then weaved its way over, under, round and through the gargantuan guardians of the Rockies, this community and its peoples have spread to every corner, every depth of valley and every height of mountain imaginable.

If ever there was a definition of the word ‘Railroaded’, then the establishment of Vancouver is its expression carved in concrete, flourished in forest and manifest in mountain.

A city built on mountains and a city built with a respect for the environment that sees not only bears a relatively common sight, but also numbers among my sister’s occasional garden visitors such cuddly little, soon-to-be domesticated pets, as timber wolves and cougars.

Next week I have promised myself a walk in the forest and, passing the pinned-up requests and pictures for information on the whereabouts of lost family pets, hopefully to experience the thrill of even the possibility of an encounter of the first kind – although not quite the same encounter as the mourned family pets, so forlorn on the fading novenas!

Me and wanted posters have a bad history!

Of course evolution will sprinkle the necessary fairy dust of survival and something will probably give, and maybe even here, the sights and sounds of our fellow travellers will be but a final cry in the dwindling wilderness; but I hope not and hope even more that this is the place where an equilibrium has been reached within which we all can live and trumpet an example to the world.

Burns' observation of "Man's inhumanity to man" is rightly resonant and famous but while the term inhumanity would be illogical in relation to other creatures, it is hard to be emotionally neutral at the prospect of the loss of the natural magnificence of Gaia’s gift to all of us.

Take away the gift and what is there to appreciate other than the rats in the race – and sadly we’re the rats.

Anyway if you’re ever in the area then remember that scene from “Where eagles dare”, as you ascend in a Gondola to the top of Grouse Mountain.(where you must try some of the Grouse Mountain Cream Ale)

Stare down on three sides at the valleys, the mountains, and the vast ocean inlets, forests and huge conurbations and breathe, taste and wallow in the genuine awe of man’s ability to fashion shape and form from whatever raw materials he happens upon; wonder at the motivation, imagination, expectation and final thoughts of those who first set foot here and having experienced the vagaries delights and challenges of the four seasons, said to themselves “yes, this is a good place to be”!

Stare over the Cleveland dam and in the mind’s eye and ear for a second or two put yourself in the place of Dr Richard Kimble peering down into the unforgiving power and depths of the murderous white cataract, Marshal Sam Gerard cornering him, and then (I know it was only a film) making the decision to dive or jump.

Look upon the mountain called the two lions as they appeared to the original settlers and also at the man-made Lions Gate bridge, built by the Guinness family, and wonder what was the greatest of the achievements, but have no doubt about what given the true course of nature will be the most enduring.

These Lions get everywhere (there's a Lions Park Station in Calgary as well - I wonder why I notice things about Lions?)

And then there is the Capilano Bridge!

Here lies acrophobia unbound, as the prospect of a sudden gust of wind or the man-made rocking of the bridge’s equilibrium threatens to toss all upon it, into the Capilano river some 230 ft below!

“I believe that many in this room will live to hear a whistle of a steam engine in the passes of the Rocky mountains, and to make the journey from Halifax to the Pacific in five to six days” Joseph Howe 1851

Joseph Howe was a Nova-Scotian journalist, politician and public servant!

Imagine that! A combination of probably three of the four most ridiculed professions (imagine if he had been a lawyer as well....only joking), and yet one who not only had vision and imagination but one whose portrait of the future came to fruition in 1887 as the final rocks fell away and the age of steam travel heralded its arrival on the west coast no doubt with a celebratory scream of the steam whistle!

What would we do now for individuals with such creative minds to trigger the endeavours of men and women, to see life as an uplifting challenge and not as a grinding burden.

And with that first train and those that followed, came people not just with imagination and dreams, but with the skills and callouses, perseverance and belief, stubbornness and heroism; men and women versed in taking on the wilderness, not to destroy it but to open up its magic to all who wanted to see.

One of these was an ‘Entrepreneurial Scot’ who went by the name of George MacKay, who having bought land either side of the Capilano River enlisted the help of two Indians, August Jack and Willie Khatsahlano to erect this bridge for no reason other than to create an attraction.(Not sure if Jack and Willie were their given names!!)

He arrived in 1888 (a fine year) and by 1889 the first real public attraction had been opened in British Columbia.

Pictures do so little justice but believe me when you see, grown men take a breath and sway with the bridge while putting on a brave face or where similar souls sink to their knees as a sudden wave crosses and lifts the securing cables, and then when you walk across its cedar planks yourself, as a slight wind urges you to hold the side (just to set a good example mind you), then you realise just what a marvellous idea it was, especially since no evidence can be found of George MacKay having any engineering qualifications.

Wherever you go in this unforgettable city you cannot escape the mountains.

On bus, train, boat, car, foot or even plane there they stand not brooding but smiling like a master conductor waving his baton, bringing order, fun and resounding music of life to the land, sea, sky and creatures who enjoy and enhance this unique garden.

And as the day disappears beyond the Vancouver Island and the rim of the pacific it’s time for a bit of modern day mental massage and though there’s Gastown and Chinatown there’s nowhere better than The Library Square Sports bar, home of the Vancouver Shamrock CSC.

Damian’s yer man on the bar and he and his staff have been given the expert’s award for the most well poured pint of Guinness in Canada. Not necessarily the best pint taste-wise (it was excellent mind-you, but so were others), but in terms of the ritual, chat, and final body and head he and the gorgeous girls who serve in the pub are beyond reproach.

**the expert who made this award by the way was me!

I suppose it would be crass to note negatively just how ice-hockey, and sport in general, mad this nation is, especially coming from as football daft a culture as our own.

BUT.

Three screens confronted me as I sat at the bar, my Guinness to hand and my eyes flicking left to right and back again as each game vied for my attention.

One was dropped almost immediately; I had no emotional or logical ties to either team.

The others were different.

To my left a City that I have rarely had little time for, Washington, were performing heroics against the obviously arrogant supremacists from New York – those garishly clad red, white and blue New York Rangers.

There was only one team for me! "Go on you Capitals! "

To my right, a stirring and close fought contest was being enacted by the San Jose Sharks and the Pittsburgh Penguins.

I was about to eliminate them from my roving attention when the subtle and attractive shades of the Sharks Green and White caught my eye.

That was it!

Just “Show me the way to San Jose”.

Cross eyed and neck-strained I switched and swapped from the support for the Sharks to the antipathy for the Big Apples!

The games were even. Capitals ahead, Capitals Drawing! Sharks ahead, Penguins reply. Pitch and toss, to and fro. Time was called on both games. Full time draws.

Overtime began.

My self-imposed limit on Guinness had been reached and my last pint of the evening was all I had to see myself through to the potential tension and guillotine of a shoot-out.

One minute to go, San Jose on the break, but so are Washington. Shimmy right, shimmy left, the goaltenders advance , they’re left stranded as the Shark leaves the Penguin all at sea, and the Capital outprints, I mean outsprints, the lower case rangers.

As one, the two attackers swing their sticks and in synchronised acclamation the bar (well me rise) to greet two amazing and stonewall deserved victories.

Unfortunately both shots take off like a Dixie Dean penalty and the whistles go.

I sit back down, silent, humbled and but for the dregs in the glass, bereft of booze.

Two shoot outs and you know the rest. Is it not always thus!

Capitals and Sharks both lose 2-1.

Still it’s only Hockey!

Except “only” isn’t really an applicable word.

This is a great sport!

It has speed, skill, aggression, controversy, commitment and artistry that rivals everything but one other sport. I not only could get into this but I am already into it, and through my family out here all I can say is “Go on Vancouver, Go on you Canucks”

And so Sunday looms and the gathering of clans is taking place here in Vancouver.

Damian asks me if I am going to watch "The showdown!!! "

“I’ll be here” not wishing to sneer too much at the daftness of the question.

“Better get here early “he says,” it could be packed, there are a lot of both camps in town and they all want to see this one”.

“Aye but there will only be one team’s support in here” I suggest

“Nope, open doors here buddy”

I’m going off him now!

“Being as you are the Vancouver Shamrock CSC, AND I only see Celtic games advertised, AND there is only a Celtic scarf to be seen, AND the huns will be off seeking necks to bite at 4.30 in the morning, I would have thought that this would have been exclusively a little bit of Paradise, the Holy Ground, Celtic Park, Heaven on Earth EVEN Parkheid”

He shakes his head forlornly!

“I’m taking about Vancouver against Montreal, the Canucks against the Canadiens in the afternoon.”

I try to look as forlornly but with a frisson of pity back!

“It may be speed, skill, aggression, controversy, commitment and artistry, but sorry Damian it’s still a game for pussies” I said

I look even more forlornly into my barely damp glass, and drain the remnants of the evening.

“Hail Hail, see you after Damian”

“After? After what?” he queries.

“After now” I reply.

He shakes his head again.

“OK, see ya buddy”!

Hail Hail

Matt