3rd June 2018

They say retirement gives you the freedom to do what you want, when you want. Lovely theory, except in practice, “freedom” still involves more planning than a military operation. Since my last blog, most of what Sue and I have been doing is preparing for our Canadian adventure to visit Aunt Gwenda. Not the flights, hotels, or hire car, that was all booked months ago on those wet and dreary January evenings when the only thing to look forward to was the next mug of tea. No, this has been about readying the house and family for the shocking prospect of Sue and Dave disappearing for two whole weeks.

Notifying the offspring is an exercise in itself. Charlotte will be managing her ongoing spinal injury without our immediate support. Sarah and Lee will have to forgo their dad’s invaluable sailing lessons (which I suspect they see as optional extras). Mia, the dog, will pine for her long walks and café lunches. And then there’s Jamie. He hardly needs us at all, apart from the occasional website check, garage access for tinkering with cars, and the general reassurance that we’re still alive. To be fair, telling Jamie we’re going away usually achieves very little. The news goes in one ear and straight out the other. He only realises we’re absent when he rings the house phone, gets no reply, and wonders aloud why we’ve not answered.

Of all of them, Jamie probably lives closest to the idea of “real freedom”; he does what he wants, when he wants, with barely a passing nod to anything else. Case in point: last night he rang to say he and a mate were off to Rhodes for a week. This wouldn’t be notable, except he’d only just come back from Rhodes with Ashton. I cheerily wished him a good trip, adding that we’d be back from Canada before he left. Today he rang again, astonished to discover we were heading to the airport. His main concern? How on earth was he supposed to get his quad bike out of our garage with the alarm on? Priorities, eh?

Meanwhile, Sue and I have been buried under the far more pressing matters of laundry, garden, pool, two allotments, and the delicate art of running down the fridge without leaving a cheese graveyard. Over four decades of travel have taught us some harsh lessons; there’s nothing quite like coming home to a rotting greenhouse, a biohazard of a fridge, or a washing basket that could walk itself to the machine.

In the end, we’ve delegated. Val next door will handle the garden, greenhouse, and pool. Charlotte and Suraj will monitor the house through the cameras. And us? We’re off to see Gwenda. What will be, will be.

This trip begins with our friends Sean, his son Dominic, and Dominic’s girlfriend Caitlin. By sheer coincidence, we’re all on the same flight, staying in the same Toronto hotel, and even hiring from the same car company. One might almost think it was planned. We rendezvoused with Caitlin at a service station off the M11 for lunch, before convoying to Stansted.

We’re flying with Primera, the self-proclaimed first budget long-haul airline. They’re Icelandic-owned and, judging by their business model, have clearly borrowed Ryanair’s handbook: cheap seats, with everything else charged extra, luggage, food, seat selection, probably oxygen if you’re not careful. Still, the seats are surprisingly comfortable (more so than O’Leary’s plastic perches), and while there are no seatback TVs, you do get a USB port and are encouraged to bring your own entertainment. Personally, I’m not convinced this is progress, but I suspect the idea will spread like a bad cold. On the plus side, the plane was sparkling new, and the service was refreshingly efficient.

The flight itself was excellent; a strong tailwind whisked us across the Atlantic in just over seven hours. Customs and security were painless, and our travelling companions even had their luggage waiting by the time we reached the reclaim. Sue and I, having chosen the minimalist cabin-bag-only approach, breezed through. With multiple hotels ahead of us, travelling light seemed the only sane option.

A shuttle took us to the NU Hotel (which, to its credit, does look rather new). Sue settled into our room, sensibly tying up the loose ends of the day, while Sean and I went to locate much-needed refreshments. Dominic and Caitlin elected to stay in, no doubt tying up their own “loose ends.”

Sitting in a North American bar is always an experience. The portion sizes are gargantuan, diners happily shovelling it all in with a lone fork, a sight which still offends my European sensibilities. Honestly, how hard is it to use a knife? Still, I can’t complain about the quantity, which I very much approve of.

Sean and I eventually rolled back into the hotel at 2:30 am (a sensible hour, if one is still on Greenwich time) and collapsed into bed.

What will tomorrow bring?