Hirtle's Beach: one of Nova Scotia's 'best'

Gaff Point. Or thereabouts.

My friend Katherine says Hirtle's Beach is the best hike in Nova Scotia she's found. And she gets out a fair bit. 

While I would classify it as more of a "walk" than a "hike" (hiking being adventures requiring first aid kits and having elevation gain greater than 100 metres, or something like that), I agree it's some of the nicest terrain I've seen in my limited time on the east coast.

But first, you have to find it. 

Of course Christine is happy! We found the beach!

Admittedly, my friend Christine and I don't have the best navigational skills  (we did at least two U-turns before leaving Halifax city limits), but I would still argue that Hirtle's Beach was a little bit difficult to find. Part of the confusion was due to the three hand-written "Hirtle's Beach" signs that pointed us in three different directions!

Maybe the locals don't want us to find it...

I'm hiking in December. That's crazy! Photo credit: C. Delahunty.

It was a beautiful sunny day when we ventured out last weekend, but no one was outside who we could stop and ask for directions. Finally I saw a couple walking on the road. I rolled down the the window and asked them how to get to the trail. 

"We're looking for it too!" They said.

Okay, so Christine and I aren't complete idiots. But that small victory aside, we weren't any closer to finding the beach/trailhead.

Christine thought it was funny that I was willing to go door to door to ask for directions. Back home we'd just go back home and say, 'that was a fun drive!' she laughed. It was surprisingly hard to find homes with cars parked out front. This is cottage country in December - no one is around!

Finally, we found a lovely woman wearing ear muffs who gave us directions. She said she walks there every day but today it was a bit cold.

Short story long, we found the beach.  

And it wasn't cold (relatively speaking - it is December).  It was beautiful. No wind and not too busy.

And a nice variety of forest, cliff, beach and rocks. I think it took us about too two hours, at a leisurely pace.

Yup, definitely the best walk in Nova Scotia so far.

In my limited experience...

Here's a hiking description we didn't used but might be useful.

Looking back on the start of the hike. It does a loop around Gaff Point and back along the beach. 

When Christine and I drove through Lunenberg on the way back to Halifax, the Xmas parade was about to start. So we got out of town hastily! But I was back the next day on another project and snapped this photo under grey skies. 

Trip number one to the south shore of Nova Scotia was a success! I see more beach walks like that in my future.

Scenes from Halifax

Camp Hill cemetery. Famous people such as journalist Joseph Howe and Alexander Keith are buried here. My apartment backs onto the cemetery, which I find quite lovely with all the large trees.

Point Pleasant Park near downtown Halifax. It's about a 2.5 km run/walk/ride from my apartment.

 One of many statues of old men around Halifax.
This guy (Cornwallis) helped found the townsite
 of Halifax in 1749.

Arrr! Lots of swarthy fellow around Halifax.

Down by thee harbour.

Some rules are meant to be broken.
(Plaque reads: For your protection do not climb).
I guess the kids can't read anyway.

Mon ecole! The University of King's College, est. 1789!  All my classes are in that building, either in the basement or on the third floor. The pub is conveniently between the two.  

Yup, that's where I go.

Looking onto Peggy's Cove from Polly's Cove. 

Polly's Cove.

Literally a hop, skip and a jump from chez moi. It's a great local joint.

Halifax ghost tour.

According to my ghost walk tour guide,
Press gangs used to "recruite" men from
bars late at night to join the ships.

A haunted building? Downtown Halifax.

The 15th annual Pumpkin Regatta in Windsor, N.S. Thanksgiving weekend.

Fans at the pumpkin regatta.

Fall colours, somewhere between Wolfville and Cape Split. 

Cape Split with my friend / tour guide Alex from Windsor N.S. He was down for a visit from Dawson City, Yukon. 

Cape Split. Sure was windy!

Hold on to your hats, folks!

Indian Visa woes- Third time's a charm?

Obtaining an Indian Visa from the consulate in Nepal is more than just an administrative process... it's a test of will and determination...

In order to convert or join some religions, it’s necessary to visit the Rabbi/Guru/Leader three or more times in order to show sufficient levels of commitment and zeal. Obtaining an Indian visa from the consulate in Nepal is a similar ordeal requiring equal degrees of persistence and virtue, not to mention patience. The process lasts about ten days (if you fill out all the forms correctly the first time) and requires three separate visits to the consulate.

Visit #1
When I arrive at the consulate at 8:30 a.m, there are already twenty people in line waiting for the big metal gates to open at 9:30. An hour later, we enter, take a ticket and sit, reading and re-reading our applications to ensure every ‘i’ is dotted and ‘t’ is crossed.

My number is called and I put on my nicest smile and sweetest namaste. I hand over my application and hold my breath. Check check check, the man scribbles on my paper. Four thousand rupees, he demands, which I eagerly hand over. Take my money! Just let me into your country! Come back next week he says in a tone that suggests that my turn is over. 

The good thing about a visit to the consulate is that it’s very social, because there’s a lot of waiting time. “Everyone I know in Kathmandu I met at the Indian consulate,” a Canadian guy tells me. He accidentally used his single entry visa during a six hour outing from the Delhi airport en route to Kathmandu and needs to re-apply. We went out for lunch after and took a tour of Patan the following day.

Visit #2
I return four weeks later, after 21 days of trekking and some relaxing time in Pokhara. This time there is an even greater line because the consulate was closed for several days last week for Holi celebrations and things are backed up. I talk to a couple who have a flight to Delhi this afternoon, yet this is only their second visit. They are hoping to pull some strings and get their visa today. I keep my doubts to myself.   

I scramble to the counter when number 31 is called. I hand my receipt to the man and wait while he leafs through three piles of applications. He looks at the top five documents of each pile three or four times before deciding to dig a little deeper. I would have thought it was a make work task if there weren’t 50 people waiting in line behind me (my friends have ticket  number 84). He finally pulls out my application and I breathe a sigh of relief as he asks for my passport, in which my visa will be pasted. With the same tone of finality, he tells me to come back the next day at 5 p.m.

Visit #3
Visit number three is more of a free-for-all, with no number-calling, just one big mob lingering by the counter to pick up their visas. I see the American couple who were not successful in obtaining their visa yesterday and had to re-book their flight. They are already two days late for a yoga course in Rishikesh.

After more than 30 minutes of waiting with absolutely no communication between them (the employees of the consulate) and us (the poor beggar-travellers), an official-looking person walks into the compound carrying a briefcase. We suppose it is full of passports and visas. Finally we form a disorganized queue and people start moving through. I don’t know why I’m anxious, because it should be a done deal at this point: everything’s been approved, I’m just picking up my passport and visa.

Pass or Fail?
But it’s not so for everyone. A young American man is distraught. They told me to come back in two days, he exclaims, trying to keep his good humour from cracking into pure frustration. Why? The supportive crowd enquires and he says he was given no explanation. That’s how it works here, one way communication.  Now I’m nervous. Why did he get rejected at this stage? What if I was rejected too?

At this point we’re all resigned to our fate. Either they let us in or they don’t. If I get rejected I don’t know if I’ll try again, from scratch...another ten days. Maybe I could go on another trek in Nepal to kill the time? Or forget India! Maybe I’ll go to Morocco, or the Philippines? Do I really want to go to India anyway?

I hold my breath as my turns arrives. I’ve got it! I’ve got my Indian visa! Hallelujah!

After all this, travelling in India will be a piece of cake...

Explorations in Arambol Part 1: BioDynamic Breathwork

Gyrating for trauma-release: “a cathartic, orgasmic experience.”

Every night at sunset in Arambol there's a drum session on the beach which becomes a venue for dance, yoga, poi, hula hoop, selling jewelry, smoking hash and enjoying life.

I tear my eyes away from the heavily panting woman writhing around on the floor in front of me. Forcefully ignoring her gyrating hips, convulsing chest and outbursts of laughter, I alternatively study the woven mat under my feet and the enthralled faces of my friends across the circle. I’m grateful my friends don't return my childish glances, as it might put me over the edge and getting a case of the giggles right now would be embarrassing and entirely inappropriate. Christine*, the soft-spoken facilitator, speaks with conviction and calmness as she guide Donna*, her hyperventilating guinea pig, through a  BioDynamic Breathwork demonstration. 

“Wow, that was a lot more intense than I was expecting,” Donna says breathlessly a twenty minutes later, after she has been instructed by Christine to "return to her body" and rejoins the circle.

It was a lot more intense than I was expecting too, but I've learned to go with the flow here in Arambol, Goa where there exists a niche for new-age and spiritual anything. In this small community filled to the brim with hippie expats, normal is boring and predictable doesn't exist.

Today's session is a sneak peak of a ten day course Christine and another guru are offering called "BioDynamic breathwork for trauma release.” It sounds kind of "out there," and it kind of is. What I gathered during the demo is that by breathing "into" different parts of our body, we can help to release trauma, or baggage, that we are holding onto. Despite the awkwardness I felt at watching such an intimate demonstration, I'm curious enough to try a private session with Christine. She compares the experience to “having a full body orgasm,” which makes me simultaneously intrigued and afraid!

A week later I'm on lying on my back on the floor of Christine’s roof-top “clinic,” panting like a maniac and flopping all over the place. I'm trying to "lose control" but isn't the effort of trying a form of control? Nonetheless, I shed my shyness and inhibitions and give it an honest go, essentially hyperventilating myself breathing vigorously through my mouth. 

“Lift your hips up and down,” Christine instructs me and I comply, trying not to think about how this would look to a passerby (thankfully, there are none). I'm aware that my head is rolling, my legs are in motion and now I'm gyrating my hips, under the command of a complete stranger, albeit facilitator. Send me to the loony bin before things go further!   

Yet some minutes later, without realizing the passage of time or the change in my actions, I realize that my body is still, my breathing has returned to normal and my arms are resting comfortably above my head. I'm the most relaxed I've ever been and feel as though I couldn't move if I tried. It’s like my whole body is encased in cement, but in a good way. I'm not sleeping and I'm not meditating; I'm somewhere in the middle. And it's heavenly.

Slowly my awareness returns and Christine guides me gently back to seated. I'm not entirely sure what happened, but man, do I feel good! Rejuvenated, uplifted and at peace, like nothing in the world matters right now. Christine holds my gaze silently for long periods of time, like she’s reading the secrets of my soul and I let her. The peaceful smile on her face likely mirrors my own happy yet dazed expression. While I’m more than mildly surprised by the results of the treatment, this is nothing new to her. 

Although I'm still not entirely sure what “Breathwork for Trauma Release” is, especially in a scientific sense, I will say that my experience was memorable. While I don't personally feel like I'm carrying a lot of trauma around, I guess we all are, to some extent. I just know that I felt amazing for the rest of the day and that an issue that had been seriously irking me that morning became inconsequential after the session. I was on cloud nine.  

An orgasmic, cathartic experience? You decide. But the facilitators advise against trying this on your own, so get in touch with a professional. Check out The Energy of Breath Institute for more info.

*names have been changed to protect the identity of the facilitators and subjects. 

The perfect çay

I think this picture speaks for itself.

Tea. If I didn't love it before, I do now. With sugar and served in tulip glasses as displayed above.

Thanks to Turkey, I am addicted to çay (pronounced 'chai'). Delicious black tea from the hills of this beautiful country.

 What better way to begin this blog than with a tribute to tea?

In Greg Mortensen's book, 'Three Cups of Tea,' he speaks to the importance of sharing tea with people. Drinking tea with strangers breaks the ice, creates connections and sometimes leads to lifetime bonds.

It's no different in Turkey, where I have been invited into many peoples' homes and shops to drink tea. Even restaurants have invited me in for tea without accepting my payment. Often, we speak little. A word or two of Turkish, a word of two of English. But I have always felt welcome and left with a smile.

In a perfect world, drinking tea is not a vice. It's a cultural phenomenon.

Oh, the picture? Pomegranate and çay below the pass of Mount Olympos. Turkish hippies have taken up a part time residence in a little shack and offer tea to passing hikers.

Pure bliss...