My butler caused the blister on my bottom

Not directly, I admit, but if it hadn't been for him, I wouldn't still be nursing a raw patch on my buttock. The travel editor of the NZ Herald is also implicated, although in a more tenuous way.

I recently sailed with Silversea on a week's cruise from Alaska along the (no comment) Inside Passage to Vancouver, on their delightful 380-passenger small ship Silver Shadow. Fortunate enough, thanks to an earlier cruise with them, to know that my stateroom came with the services of a graduate of the Guild of Professional English Butlers, I intended this time, for the purposes of the story commissioned by the Herald, to make full use of this feature. I even wrote the first sentence before I left home: "It would have been uncool to ask, but I hope the butler appreciated my new knickers". (I have, incidentally, done this sort of thing before, and it backfired then, too, that time involving a dead mermaid under Brooklyn Bridge.)

The backstory was that, having decided to take the butler up on his standard offer to unpack my suitcase for me, I had specially gone out before leaving home to replace my comfortable but sadly saggy underpants with a whole new set complete with snappy elastic (foreshadowing). That I did so, at surprising expense, the day before the shop had a 60% off sale is neither here nor there; although I'm still not over it.

So that's just what happened, and I had the real pleasure of returning to the suite to conduct a kind of treasure hunt, discovering my clothes and other items stowed in unexpected places throughout the stateroom's walk-in wardrobe, bathroom and many drawers and cupboards. My nightie is still not over the thrill of rubbing up against real clothes, on a hanger for the first time in its life.

The other services performed with cheerful efficiency by handsome young Kripesh are not the subject of this post, although it's tempting to regard them as the ganache icing on the rich chocolate mudcake of a Silversea cruise experience. Back to the blister.

Some days after the cruise ended - a triumph in every way other than the result of the Trivial Pursuit tournament, in which our Operation Deep Freeze team came third, to the deep dissatisfaction of Delta Don, whose long pencil calculation of an interest-rate sum I'm sure he still maintains was correct - I was in Banff. There I went on a trail ride through the woods, to breathe the pine-scented air, look for wildlife, get up-close with all that nature. It was, I admit it, purely my mistake to opt for the serious 3-hour version, rather than the frivolous 1-hour taster in the company of city girls who started shrieking before they were even mounted. (Mind out of the gutter, please.)

The first hour was pure pleasure, the second very, er, real, and the third sheer torture, as to ease the pain I stood in the stirrups, leaned on the pommel and sat crooked on Marshall, who compensated by constantly bearing right and scraping me up against tree-trunks and bushes. When I got back to the hotel, it was to find that the tight and snappy elastic of my new knickers had raised a 50c-sized blister on my right buttock, which subsequently burst and wept and caused considerable discomfort for the rest of the trip which involved, collectively, days' worth of sitting on several buses, two trains and an aeroplane. It's only just healing now, two weeks after the event.

So, quod erat demonstrandum. The butler caused my blistered bottom. But I forgive him, because of the freshly-drawn bubble bath with candles and rose petals, and the beautifully-lettered billet-doux, that awaited my return from a glacier excursion.

Sister cities, almost

Out this morning, on the old constitutional again now I'm back home, I was struck by, first, how lovely the day was, the boats on the inner harbour all perfectly mirrored in the still water, the air fresh and clean, so much green around me and blue above - and then by how much like Vancouver Auckland is. The same gift of a naturally beautiful setting, its suburbs (or this one at least) tucked neatly into the bush by the water, the people out appreciating it on foot, by bike or with their dogs. They both have a bit of an edge in parts of the central city, but generally they're orderly, safe places to live with, despite their traffic problems and ridiculous house prices, an abundance of pluses.

I get why people accuse Canada of being boring, but personally I like that everything works, that people on public buses are alert to the needs of others for the priority seating, that places are generally neat and tidy and that most of its citizens have a sense of responsibility. Because they also have a great appreciation for what they have, and they enjoy it, every chance they get. That first evening of the visit, when I took the photo of Coal Harbour above, was the end of the first sunny day they'd had after weeks of rain, and it seemed that every one of the 600,000-odd downtown residents was outside making the most of it, walking, running, biking, skating, dancing, reading or just sitting. The atmosphere was so relaxed and friendly, people smiling and saying hello to me, that I really couldn't have had a better welcome to the country - or a more appropriate introduction to what turned out to be two full weeks of just the same sort of thing.

Plus furry mammals. That's the main thing that Canada has, and we don't. I really enjoyed them all, even the squirrels that many seem to despise, fluid and graceful and quick, and the chipmunks and ground squirrels and sea-otters and seals, and elk and moose and deer, all of which we saw. And, of course, the bears: thrilling and fascinating and adorable and scary. It was brilliant to see them going about their normal business, the ones in Whistler so close to where people work and live. It's a whole added dimension that I'm going to miss. What do I see on my walks, besides birds? Cats. No contest with a black bear, whichever way you look at it.

Bears to beavers

Our last full day in Canada began early, with a 6am meeting with Geoff the bear man, who took us up the mountain through the fog, checking - well, I was going to say the traps, but that's not right: the opposite, the meadows where the black bears come to graze. And there they were, four of them, the first an unknown female, on her own; then another, shaggy Alice who was nervous - with good reason, as a young male, brown and eager, was after her, sending her galloping down the hill as he came into sight, big and brown; and then another female with a splendid thick black coat.

Though Michael Allen is better known, Geoff was great, full of knowledge, stories and opinion, and the 3 hours passed very quickly - he would have extended the time if we hadn't found bears, but he knew just where to look. Forget about using that cliche alternative to 'yes', by the way: bears poop everywhere, including right in the middle of a parking lot.

Then we left Whistler, its peaks still shrouded in cloud and unseen by us, sadly, and took the bus back down Howe Sound, which was muted and blue and pewter, and lovely. Though Whistler was busy, Vancouver was really humming, as the weather improved and everyone was on the streets and in the parks and on the water, enjoying the sunshine - as you would, if you lived in an apartment as so many do. They were out walking with dogs and kids, on paddle-boards on False Creek, cycling, skateboarding, sitting enjoying a jazz (spit) festival, and thronging Granville Island's market stalls, shops, restaurants and cafes.

Further along the Creek, near the silver sphere of Science World, as the first day of the dragon-boating festival got sociable, we finally found what I've been looking for for days: a Beaver Tails van, making deep-fried pastry topped with cinnamon sugar, apple, maple syrup icing... a Canadian specialty since 1978 and clearly super-healthy. And delicious!

So now we're at the lovely and luxurious Fairmont Waterfront, in a classy room overlooking the grassy roofs of the Convention Centre and across the harbour to where the sun is taking its time in sinking, the sky behind the Coastal Mountains going a deeper and deeper saffron. Beautiful.

Not well weathered

On a trip like this, it’s easy to get to expect too much – simply because each day so far has delivered just that, thanks to the good people at Fairmont and the various tourism organisations that have been generously hosting us. So when you have a more low-key day like today, it tends to feel slightly disappointing. It’s called ‘being spoilt’.

It began very well, with two superb Dungeness crabcakes topped with perfect poached eggs and grilled asparagus at the Wildflower with Kerry of Fairmont – we’re staying at their Chateau Whistler which is one of the grand ones, though not so grand it doesn’t welcome dogs, which is lovely to see. Our window faces the mountains, and that was the problem: whiteout, on our day for going to the top for the Peak to Peak. Encouraged by patches of blue, we went up anyway, on the lookout for the bears and deer which we’d been told could be spotted under the gondola, but all we saw were distant Darth Vaders skimming down the mountain on their bikes.

It was a restful and pleasant 25 minute trip up to the peak of Whistler Mountain, all 1850 metres of it; but the top was in the cloud, with snow, and there was nothing to see. Undaunted (or, with no other choice) we transferred anyway to the bigger cablecars for the Peak to Peak, choosing the special silver one with a glass floor panel. Well, it was like being in a bubble of colour, the rest of the world rubbed out: really, quite weird. The swirling mist did clear now and then, and we had an eagle’s eye view of the trees below, odd but striking. The trip from Whistler to Blackcomb takes just 11 minutes. Only 4 towers carry the cables over 4.4km, including the longest unsupported span in the world of over 3km – all pretty impressive engineering, built for the Winter Olympics in 2010, and we did our best to get excited, but it would have been far better if we’d been able to see the alpine scenery. Or even a bear.

Afterwards, we walked to Lost Lake along a couple of the 45km of paved paths through the forest, well-used by the locals, to a muted silver stretch of water surrounded by tree-clad hills – pretty, but today remarkable primarily for the plague of caterpillars that covered the bridge railings, zigzag fences, leaves and path. One of them hitched a lift on me, I discovered later in our hotel room on the 7^th floor: I gave it a taste of flight from the window, which on second thoughts may actually have prevented it from becoming a butterfly. Oops.

I hope tomorrow is more rewarding, especially as it begins with a 6am meeting with the local bear expert…

Araxi, and other delights

Sorry to lower the tone so soon in the post, but when you’ve spent a couple of hours swigging sparkling Badoit in between half-glasses of Okanagan Valley sparkling and sauvignon blanc, a Californian pinot noir, back to Okanagan for a cabernet sauvignon and finally the triumph of a Jackson-Triggs Riesling ice wine, take it from me, the last thing you need on the 15-minute stroll back to the hotel is the crossing of a tumbling mountain stream, all roar and rush and tinkle.

We’re at Whistler, a very scenic and comfortable 3+ hour ride on the Rocky Mountaineer Sea to Sky from Vancouver along the edge of first a sound and then a river, all the way up into the mountains to this ski resort which actually gets most of its visitors in the summer. Today, as it happened, didn’t look much like summer: our wonderful run of sunshine has come to an end, and our journey was through low cloud and rain. Typical BC weather, as it happens, but it didn’t show the scenery off to its best (although, misty mountains, silver sea, blue islands, rocky canyons and verdant green forest do have their - albeit subtle - attractions).

The village is lively and busy with more young people than I’ve noticed so far on this Baby Boomer-type trip; and the public music is heaps better than the throat-slitting Frank Sinatra-type elevator music that our hotel foyers seem to favour (Ingrid Michaelson, yay!) We watched mud-splattered young men leaping out of the trees over a small cliff at the end of the mountain-biking trail that’s the summer substitute for snowboard thrills, and nodded approvingly at the wash-off hose provided and the stand of cable-secured tools for on-site repairs to – what? Loose derailleurs? Anyway, thoughtful.

Best of all, though, was going tonight to enjoy – oh! how we enjoyed! – the chef’s selection at Araxi, a fine-dining restaurant in the Village Square that was buzzing with people this Thursday night. Such treats we had! Melting seared albacore tuna with magical ponzu pearls, crisp wild BC salmon in a scallop foam, rabbit! wrapped in pork cheek and prosciutto, super-tender (spit) Australian lamb – all with interesting vegetable detail; and then a fabulous lemon tart with raspberry and a little hot doughnut to dip into crème anglaise with gold leaf on top, and espresso icecream – plus that glorious ice wine, the grapes picked at night when they’re frozen, to concentrate the sugars. Bliss! Go there: honestly, it’s the best meal we’ve had, the whole trip. Araxi. James Walt, chef. Knows what he's doing, y'know?

Tours by Locals - Vancouver Hiking

The sunshine became more liquid today, so when we arrived back in Vancouver and I met up with Lois of Tours by Locals, she scrapped her original plan of a high-level hike. Instead we went to Deep Cove, a neat and pretty (and expensive) little pocket in North Vancouver surrounded by forest and on the edge of a small bay on Indian Arm.

It’s only 20 minutes from the city centre, but you’d never know it, once you’d climbed up the flight of steps at the start of the Baden Powell trail. We were surrounded by lush, ferny forest, the new tips of the hemlocks brilliant green (also tasty and a great source of vitamin C, according to Lois, who knows all about these things). The trees kept the rain off so we could enjoy the trail that picked its way through rocks and roots. It was a steady climb – very steady, at Lois’s measured and unhurried pace – all the way up to Quarry Rock, a huge bare boulder of granite with a stunning view over the inlet.

The sky had cleared and the water was a pewter sheet textured by the ripples of the yacht fortuitously crossing the bay, of kayakers and stand-up paddle boarders. Deep Cove had a little marina of pleasure boats, there were a few distant skyscrapers poking above a hilltop, other hikers were picnicking on the rock, eating something that smelled delicious, but mostly it was all nature: trees, water, sky. Fabulous.

But, honestly, nowhere near as fabulous as the promised doughnut at Honey's café back in Deep Cove: glistening with honey-glaze on the crisp outside, inside soft and fluffy and perfect. Apparently they also come with maple or chocolate icing, but it’s hard to imagine how such glory could possibly be improved. It was the best doughnut of my life, and my mouth is watering now. Is yours?

Tours by Locals: how to discover the secret delights of a destination that will take your visit to the next level. Friendly, easy-going, interesting and well-informed, Lois is particularly recommended.

To Vancouver via VIA

Fairmont Jasper Park Lodge is a lovely place, all log cabins scattered around neatly-kept grounds in amongst the trees, and the girl who's in charge of watering the 750 hanging baskets daily is a star - but it has to be said, the hotel's no match for the beauty of its setting. It's a bit out of town, between two lakes, this one, Beauvert, stunningly clear and colourful (though really it should be Beaubleu) with views across it to a snowy range including the impressive Mt Edith Cavell. We slept well in our huge and comfy bed, but I was woken at dawn by a noise under the window, and peeked through the curtains to see an elk grazing on a bush directly outside, to our mutual surprise.

Sadly, we only had the morning here before catching the train back to Vancouver, but we took a bike ride around the edge of the lake to the golf course, hoping to see the grizzly but instead encountering another elk peacefully grazing beside the road. It looked calm, but there were calving grounds marked nearby and we'd been lectured about how dangerous they can be, so we had to take a bumpy detour around it. Later the concierge, taking us into town, said he'd been charged four times in the last year when he's been out mountain-biking, and that the elk are much more of a danger than the bears. So we didn't feel like complete wusses.

Then at lunchtime we boarded the Via train, which was a chaotic business but found us eventually installed in seats in a dome car, waiting hopefully with jolly fellow-travellers for the rumoured champagne and canapes - which did eventuate, thanks to obliging barman Luko, who was even persuaded later to put on a wine-tasting for us as the mountains and trees and rivers and waterfalls went by. Dinner was delicious, and tucked up into our bunks later, magicked into place by Pierre, we slept like logs. Which was appropriate, I guess.