OMG it's CMG!

You do know that you soon lose the interest of readers if you don't post regularly, don't you?

Well, yes.

And you do realise that you have failed to add a post since last month?  August 31st to be precise.

Yes, but..

It's simply not good enough! Not good enough at all. What have got to say for yourself?

Well, it has been a combination of things, which have erm... combined, combined to make it difficult to write blog postings.

Feeble excuse! More details please.

Well, I'll begin the morning after the night before, you know, the evening at L'ange cornu. I actually woke at 05.00, which somewhat surprised me, since I gad gone for quite a while without sleep. I dozed for a bit and then fell asleep again , waking at about ten thirty.

I'm not sure those are the details  your five readers will be waiting for.

Very well. Here goes. The sun was making an effort to break through a covering of grey  cloud which hung over the city. It was still very warm and humid as I walked down Ste. Famille, crossed Sherbrooke and headed down Jean-Mance to La Place des Arts. I was heading for breakfast/brunch with great expectations of Eggspectations, a restaurant specialising in, ..... altogether now .... egg dishes. I was looking forward to Eggs Benedictine and a glass of fresh fruit juice. Having ordered the meal with fresh fruit as an add-on, I decided to partake of a large glass of pink grapefruit juice, which arrived first. The first sip of juice was an effective jolt to the system, a bit like applying jump-leads to an engine.

Did you say "sip"?  The word sip implies that you imbibed a miniscule amount of grapefruit juice, whereas, if you were to apply your memory more rigorously, you might revise your use of  "sip" to "gulp","mouthful" or in the vernacular of your home region, "a big gob-ful".

You are probably correct. The meal was delicious, and very attractively arranged upon the plate:

When faced with a combination of sweet and savoury items such displayed in the photo, I'm never sure whether to eat the savoury first or second, or simply eat it together. In this instance, I ate the fruit first, and it was truly delicious,

Next came the poached eggs, sitting on toasted half-muffins all covered in a hollandaise sauce dusted with paprika. They were scruly trumptious, oops, truly scrumptious.

Truly scrumptious? Sounds like something out of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang or some other children's film starring Dick Van Dyke.

I don't care which film it reminds you of, the meal was truly scrumptious. There was no doubting the scrumptiousness of the meal. One cannot dispute the veracity of the degree of scrumptiousness claimed.

Having scoffed the lot, I paid and left Eggspectations fulfilled. By this time it was about 12.30 and I had to rendezvous with Alexandre, Louise and Annie-Pier Charette at 15.00, outside the Honore Beaugrand Metro station. Alexandre was driving us to St.Jerome, where we were to have a meal and see Christian Marc in concert. I decided to would be downright rude to walk past Benelux Brasserie/Bistro without going in for a small beer, and to see if any of my acquaintances from previous visits were there, either as customers or members of staff. There were neither, so  I had a swift glass of Yakima, and then left, calling in to a Couche-Tarde store for a large container of  water.

Back at the hotel I began to get my necessary supplies ready for the rest of the day. I just need to pop them into my man-bag. Oh dear, I couldn't find it. Not on the sofa. Not on the desk.Not in any drawer. Not in the bathroom. Not in the kitchen. There it was, gone. All I could think of was that I had left it in Eggspectations, or Benelux or Couche-Tarde, so I rapidly retraced my steps, realising that my time was getting shorter and shorter to reach Honore Beaugrand by 15.00. The bag contained a few medical requisites, but in addition a charger for my phone and my tablet computer. I was very worried that anyone who might have taken it could have access to my email etc. First to Eggspectation - nothing, despite a concerted effort by several members of staff, including the young lady who had served me. Next, back up the hill to Benelux: nothing. Lastly to Couche Tard, but no luck there either. A thousand curses, I said.

Or words to that effect.

True. By this time I had to rush back to the hotel, pop my stuff into a plastic shopping bag and rush back down to the Metro station at Place des Arts. I bought a ticket and just missed a train. Tension was mounting, as was my pulse rate. It was almost 14,30, and the journey had been described as taking 30 minutes. It seemed that my trip to Montreal was being dogged by minor disasters. The next Metro train arrived, standing room only, and I boarded it, standing and clinging on to the upright pole to prevent the effects of sudden acceleration and braking upon the human body to take place. On arrival at Honore Beaugrand, the  terminus of the Green Line, I rushed up the stairs, choosing the left exit as described by Louise. There was no-one in sight, well, no-one that I knew. I did notice a pretty, red-haired and petite young lady sitting on a bench.

There's a surprise!

No, behave. I knew from a facebook thumbnail image that Annie-Pier, a friend of Alexandre, had red hair, was pretty and petite (from her description by Louise) and that she would be waiting at the same place. I didn't have the nerve to approach her, just in case it was not Annie-Pier. I wandered round the other side of the metro station and waited for a few minutes. I almost didn't recognise Alexandre when he appeared walking towards  me - the epitome of cool in his shades. After greeting each other, he began to look around for Annie-Pier. I told him that there was somone fitting her description in the Metro station, and then went to climb in the back of the car where Louise was waiting to greet me. After a few second Alexandre appeared with the pretty, red-haired and petite young lady who was no longer sitting on a bench, and who was indeed Annie-Pier Charette.

We then set off for St.Jerome, the regional capital of the Laurentians, which is situated about an hour's drive from Montreal, in a kind of westerly direction. Traffic was fairly horrendous, even at that time of day. Alexandre showed his not inconsiderable driving skills to pick his way through congested roads. En route we listened to some music from South Shields - two albums, one by Jen Stevens, ("How These Things Begin") the other by Tony Bengsston  ("Snake in the Woodpile"), which I had brought for Alexandre. Everyone in the car was very impressed by both.

Eventually we arrived in St.Jerome and found a parking place just 50 metres from Le Tapis Rouge, the venue for the evening's show. Christian Marc Gendron was someone I had not heard of before Louise told me about him and the possibility of getting tickets for his 'souper-spectacle', which provided a meal as well as the show. Prior to leaving England I had checked some videos on YouTube, and was very impressed. Alexandre is part of his entourage, in charge of marketing the merchandise at shows, and so, along with Annie-Pier, he was to join Christian  Marc for a meal and pre-show set-up. Louise and I found a nearby terrace where we could have a drink and watch the world go by until the doors of Le Tapis Rouge (The Red Carpet) opened. The venue was on the first floor (2nd floor if you're not in England), above what looked to be a lively music bar.. We were on a table for six, but for the meal it was just Louise and I. Later we would be joined by Alexandre, Annie-Pier and also by Sylvain's parents, M. and Mme. Légaré. The food was good, well-presented and flavoursome and was washed down by a nice glass of Adam's Ale, in other words, water!

After the meal, and just before everyone else arrived, the musicians began to arrive for final checks, and as he passed our table Christian Marc greeted Louise, who has met before. She introduced him to me ..

Should that not be the other way round? " She introduced you to him," sounds better, more modest.

I guess so. Anyway Christian Marc thanked me for coming to the show, and hoped I would enjoy it. I did. Immensely. Entitled "Rock Crooners" the show proved to be something of a musical journey, beginning in the 50s and moving through the decades. It was full of energy, good music and excellent musicianship. Christian Marc is a superb pianist and guitarist, and matches his instrumental talents with extraordinary vocal capabilities. After the interval he performed solo for a while, presenting a musical history of his career interspersed with songs and snippets of songs. Very cleverly done. 

Here's a video of an earlier performance:

http://youtu.be/F3MDF0ONRgA

He finished with some original songs, performed in French. Very impressive. I liked them so much that I bought them, or at least I bought his new album from Alexandre after the show. In fact I bought three. One for me and two more to be despatched to Krasnoyarsk and Volgograd, to spread the word about CMG in Russia. Christian Marc kindly autographed the CDs and had a little chat before photographs were taken. Sylvain's parents were clearly very proud grandparents and took photos of Alexandre with CMG (sorry about the abbreviation, but it does save a bit of time and he does use it on his t-shirts) .

I then had my photo taken with CMG, Alexandre and Annie-Pier:

Whilst Alexandre counted the takings from the merchandise stall, and packed away the advertising stands etc, Louise, Annie-Pier and I went downstairs, entering a very loud and lively venue indeed. A guitarist was playing live, with a backing track and a young lady was striding round on the bar counter and tables, belting out rock classics. It was clear that she was in chrge of proceedings, and from time to time dragged others up on to a table top to perform. There was much pelvic thrusting and downing of shots, as well as some pretty good performances, particularly from other members of staff.

 
I do believe that there was an alien woman dancing here - check the photo above!

Maybe they have to pass auditions to get a job there, at the Vieux Shack, which was partially open to the elements. Fortunately, even late in the evening, it was still very warm. We went outside and waited for a while on the pavement outside, along with a lot of other people who were enjoying the ambience of the evening.
Alexandre then joined and we left le Vieux Shack, still jumping, and St.Jerome for the drive back to Montréal, stopping on the way back for an iced cappucino from a Tim Horton's. It was delicious and very refreshing, and I finished it just as we pulled up outside my hotel. Annie-Pier leapt out, and I crawled out of the back seat. Farewells were said, hugs shared and hands shaken, before I climbed the stairs to the 17th floor. Another wonderful evening of music, shared with friends.

Err, just before you finish, would you care to check the accuracy of the last paragraph?

Seems OK to me.

Really? You, and I quote, "climbed the stairs to the 17th floor"? Really?

Well, I climbed the steps into the lobby, and got the lift/elevator/ascenseur to the 17th floor. Don't you allow a bit of poetic licence?

I won't even allow "climbed the steps".

OK I walked up the steps into the lobby, and took the lift to the 17th floor. Satisfied?

Perfectly. Good night.

Going to the devil, but in a nice way!

It was humid, hot and humid. The city was like a sauna, the people were melting. I was sitting on the steps outside 3643 Rue Sainte Famille, watching the world go by. The world moved slowly....

What? This is supposed to be a travel blog not some lurid policier/detective story!

Sorry. I just got carried away with the moment, but it was hot and very humid as I sat outside Trylon Appartment Hotel, waiting for Sylvain to collect me on his way from work. Lots of cars pulled up outside the hotel, as is to be expected, and it's impossible to see who's inside because of the tinted windows and reflections, but after a few minutes I saw a familiar vehicle approaching, pull in and flash its headlights.

Sylvain welcomed me aboard, and we soon were on our way through the increasingly heavy traffic towards Repentigny. We passed several familiar landmarks, including the Olympic Stadium on our way out of the city, and it was possible to recognise some features on the ground that I had noticed as we came in to land at Pierre Trudeau airport. Finally we pulled up outside Sylvain and Louise's house, and I was greeted not only by Louise, but also by Kenzi, the family's canine member.

We intended to head off quite quickly to L'Assomption, but before doing so there was an opportunity to view the evidence of Sylvain's amazing DIY skills. The last time I visited I saw the summer house which he had built in the garden, and this time there was a new extension which is still in the process of completion. Amazing!

There was also time for some running repairs. Those who know me well will be aware of my reliance upon medical adhesive and the consequences of its failure! I shall say no more, apart from the fact that it seemed that the gods were conspiring against me.

Then it was time to drive the few miles to L'Assomption, and to the Bar/Restaurant L'Ange Cornu.

L'Ange Cornu

 For those readers who may be wondering, the direct translation of l'ange cornu, is the angels with horns, and we all know who that is!

No. Who is it?

You know, ... the evil one.

Ah, David Cameron. ( Here readers could insert the name of their most unpopular politician, depending upon where you are in the world.)

No! You know - Lucifer, Satan, The Devil. Oh no I've just mentioned his name three times - he might suddenly appear. No, seems to be OK.
Anyway, that's where we were, at L'Ange Cornu.

 The plan was to have 'souper' and then go into the salle de spectacles which was at the back of the restaurant, in a converted garage. This music venue was partially open to the elements, so we were hoping that it wouldn't rain, as we had noticed the wind increasing a little, and a few clouds rolling in.

We found a table on the terrace at the front of the restaurant, and ordered our food, some water and a beer. Guess who the beer was for!

I suppose that's a rhetorical question?

I suppose that's a rhetorical question?

I ordered a Salade Thon Nicoise, and a St Ambroise Noir beer to accompany it. Now in England, and in fact in France, every Tuna Salad Nicoise I have ever had has been tuna from a tin. 

I obviously don't eat in the right places. 
When my meal arrived it looked like this:

Oh boy, this was a first. It was delicious! The few seconds contact with a grill of some sort had simply seared the outside of the tuna steak, the rest remaining raw. A squeeze of lemon juice. Excellent - I might try this at home!


What about the beer?


That was excellent too. Not real ale in the strictest terms, but very pleasant.


After a little while Louise went to see if she could find our tickets for the show. Luce, or as I always call her when corresponding with Iraida and Daria, notre chère Luce, had very generously provided us with tickets for the show as her guests. Louise returned with the tickets and a young lady who proceeded to stamp a little red devil on the back of our hands. To prove that we had eaten at the bistro, which gave us priority over those who arried for the show only.


So, having waited until the appointed hour, we found our way through the restaurant into the salle de spectacles, and found seats not too far from the stage, about twelve feet away in fact. All the time I was clutching a package wrapped in a tasteful green floral tissue paper. This was a small present for Luce, from her Trois Lucequetaires de Loin. Iraida, my young friend who lives and works in Krasnoyarsk, Siberia, had designed an image which was to be printed on to a T-shirt for Luce, as a delayed birthday present from herself, Daria and me. The postal system between Siberia and Quebec is not very swift, and so it was much easier for Iraida to send the image to me so that I could have it printed on a T-shirt, and actually hand it directly to Luce.


As I sat down, a lady sitting beside me asked if it was a present for Luce, and I tried to explain to her in French what I have just written in the previous paragraph. "Ah, c'est formidable, si gentil. Bravo monsieur."


After a few minutes longer the house lights went down, and a disembodied voice announced the arrival on stage of Luce and her musicians, Jean Garneau et T-basse. The audience greeted her with applause, hoots and whoops. Iraida and Daria have given Luce the name 'notre magicienne', and as Luce came on stage her magic was clear. The audience love her. Her rapport with those watching is wonderful as is her talent for responding to comments from members of the audience. She has one of the most infectious smiles and laughs you can imagine, and if you tear your eyes away from the stage, and look at the faces of those around you in the audience, you can see that she is working her magic. Smiling faces, smiling eyes, rapt attention - what a gift to be able to share like this!


And the the music began, with songs from her latest album "Du temps pour moi", and between each a little story to share. I had my camera, of course, but I wanted to enjoy the show without peering too much at an LCD screen. At the same time I knew that there were at least two people who would be expecting me to take as many photos as possible, so that they could share in the occasion. So here is one:

And here is one more:

 

As you can see from the second photo, there was a lady in the front row who's head tended to obstruct my view, or at least obstruct my camera's view. Never mind I could still see very well, and hear even better. As I mentioned earlier, Luce is a very good raconteur, and she told us about her early career singing in blues bars and restaurants, about her collaboration with the many writers and composers who have provided her with the wonderful songs which have filled her albums. One name figured large, that of Richard Séguin, a great artist in his own right, who has written songs and collaborated with Luce on many occasions. On the latest album Richard sang with Luce in one such song "Quand nos rêves" . On this occasion T-basse proved to be an able substitute. Richard Séguin also composed the beautiful song Belle-ancolie, one of my absolute favourites, and which tends to bring the occasional petites larmes au coins de mes yeux .

Go on, you can say it in English, I think they will understand.

...brings small tears to the corners of my eyes. I find it a very emotional song. It's just that I so wish it was possible for other people to be there sharing the experience with me, those who for different reasons can't be there. God, those tears are there again... oops.

Ok, I've had a drink (just water), let's continue.

Its a good job you decided to write this post in your hotel room, and not in Benelux, isnt it?

True.

Back to L'Ange Cornu:  during one of her inter-song dialogues, Luce began to talk about her lack of ability with computers, and then about My Space and Facebook, and about friendships made through that media, and about my travels to Québec, my love for quebecoix music, and her friends in Russia. Then having asked me to identify myself in the audience, she dedicated her next song to me, and through me to Daria and Iraida. "You've got a friend."

Oops there he goes again.

I was in a good position to watch Jean "Johnny" Garneau on guitar, and paid special attention when he played on lap-steel guitar. Some of you know of my efforts to learn to play a musical instrument, the instrument having been chosen to suffer  torture at my hands being the lap-steel guitar. I watched especially closely when Johnny played the amazing accompaniment to "Des Milliards des Choses", the first song I ever heard Luce sing, on internet radio, quite a number of years ago. This arrangement is totally different to the original, and is so atmospheric and powerful. I surreptitiously filmed it in 2010, at a concert in St.André-Avelin. If you're interested you can find it here: 

http://youtu.be/6tc4R4xefQc

The show went by so quickly, with standing ovations after almost every song - greeting her greatest hits and others not som familiar, such as a song from her recent tribute to Edith Piaf, in which Luce performed with a choir of, I think, 500 voices. She finished with a stunning performance of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah". Absolutely stunning, "stupéfiante", comme tu as écrit Iraida! I surreptitiously videoed this too, but can't as yet transfer it to my computer in the quality it requires.

And that was it. The show was finished and the room quickly emptied, and we all went home.

No we we didn't.

No we didn't. We waited for a few moments and then Ti-Basse appeared and guided through to the loges, the dressing room, where Luce was waiting to greet us. Big hugs all round!! Then I delivered the present, and Luce asked if he could open it straightaway.

 Of course!

Iraida and Daria - she loved it!

Sorry about the quality of the photo. There's a much better one at the end of this post, but I wanted to include this anyway.

And then was time for a few more photos:

And I forgot these from ealier in the evening:

And then we all went home.

Well almost. I had a little chat with Jean and Ti-Basse about guitars, had another big hug (from Luce), and then with the words "See you next week!" ringing in my ears,  we left, and Sylvain drove me back to the city, dropping me off at the hotel before dreiving back with Louise to Repentigny. What good and kind friends I have met here in Québec!

I've looked at clouds from both sides now, from up and down, but mainly down.

It is very strange, isn't it, that when you know you have to be awake in a few hours, it seems impossible to go to sleep, and then that amazing body clock wakes you before the alarm goes. In summary, after writing the previous posting to this humble blog, I had about two and a half hours sleep on top of the covers of my very comfortable bed in my very warm room at the Ibis hotel. I suppose my mind was still reeling from the events of the first day of my epic journey to Montreal.

I think the use of the word «epic» is a bit pretentious.

Knowing what lies ahead, I don't think it is at all pretentious.

Ah …. yes, I know where you're coming from, and where you're going to for that matter. Proceed.

I shall. Breakfast at the Ibis commences at 4.00 am, and it was exactly 03.59 when I trundled my hand-baggage through the reception area into the restaurant. There were a few fellow guests there, including a group of children who were clustered round the hot drinks machine with a lady who seemed to be having some trouble in getting the machine to provide her with the beverage of her choice. As I approached she turned and, in an accent which I guessed to be Russian, asked me if I could help. One of the children simply wanted a mug of hot water, to make some tea. It was one of those slightly embarrassing moments for both parties when I simply pressed the button labelled hot water and the machine instantly began issuing forth with, well, hot water. The lady thanked me, as did the children, and then I was able to get a mug of hot chocolate and a cold croissant, which I managed to consume very quickly, before going outside to wait for the Hoppa bus to Terminal 4. The bus was due at 04.18. I was second in the queue, and was then joined by the eight children and their 'mother', who asked me if this was the right place to catch the 56 bus to Terminal 5. It seemed to me that the children were speaking Russian, and so I asked if that was the case, in Russian. No, they were from Ukraine. One young lady, who I took to be about 11, then asked me if I could speak Russian. “немного “ I replied.

“Ha!”, exclaimed Viktoria, “That's what every one says when you ask them if they can speak Russian - немного !!”

Then began a fascinating conversation in a mixture of Russian and English, which continued as one bus came, and then another, but not the 56, which was going to both Terminals 4 and 5. We spoke about London, New York, Moscow, St. Petersburg, and my meeting with Yuri Gagarin back in 1966. So, the bus was late. It arrived at 04.45, and we all piled on board. As I disembarked, I had to shake several small hands, and as I was leaving them the lady in charge said quietly, “You can look us up on the internet – it's …......Horizons” . I thought she said “Research Horizons”, but my brain was still asleep, so I have forgotten exactly what she said. I just wondered if she was one of those wonderful people who bring children from that radiation blighted area of the Ukraine to spend time in the UK and USA. For me it was a special few minutes.

Well, that's the first hour covered!

OK! On arriving at Terminal 4, I checked in and printed my two boarding passes for the flights to Paris and Montreal. I wandered slowly through the duty free shopping area, pausing only to spray on some Hermes “La Terre” from a sample bottle. Very nice, and free! Next it was a bacon muffin and coffee at Costa before going to wait at the gate for the flight to Paris. Eventually all of the passengers were on board except one who had changed his/her mind about travelling. So, for security reasons that person's baggage had to be identifies and removed. Guess what! That meant that we were delayed. My pulse rate was beginning to increase again..... Eventually we took off and arrived at Paris Charles de Gaulle some 40 minutes later. It was then a case of transferring to another terminal in what a helpful lady charmingly called “Le Petit Train”, a rapid transit system just like the one one at Heathrow. Then came an opportunity to wander through another duty-free shopping area consisting of all the top names in French high fashion, parfumerie and jewellery. Very swish and even more expensive.

While I was standing with the rest of the economy class passengers waiting to board the Boeing 747 Jumbo jet I noted with some jealousy the very small queue for business class and priority passengers, and the seeming random manner in which a member of staff would allow someone from the extremely long queue and allow them to pass through the priority gate – lucky s*ds, I thought. Then for some reason I became a lucky s*d, being ushered straight to the desk for the final boarding card check. Don't you just hate it when a computer beeps loudly and the operator looks closely at the screen? So, on reading the boarding pass, the computer beeped loudly and the Air France lady looked closely at the screen.

 “Ah”, she said, “votre passeport monsieur, s-il vous plait.” She must have discerned the concern on my face. 

“Don't worry, it's just that there's something wrong with the boarding card. I need to enter your passport number again, and there is not a correct seat number here.”

Before I could begin panicking, she said, “There we are, a new boarding card and your seat is 69K. Bon voyage monsieur!”

It seemed like a very long walk to the actual aircraft, but eventually I found myself on board and began walking down through the immense fuselage, looking for seat 69K. I couldn't find it! I would clearly not make a good poker player, because the puzzled expression my face must have been displaying attracted the attention of one of the flight attendants.

 “Can I help you monsieur?”

“Yes please. I cannot find seat 69K.”

A smile crossed the face of the attendant as he replied, 

“Ah, monsieur, 69K is not here, it is upstairs.”

“Upstairs? Upstairs!" 

Of course, this was a 747, and there is an 'upstairs,' a cabin as large as some smaller aircraft. And there were only three seats on each side of the centre aisle, rather than what resembled the rows of seats in a cinema in the main body of the aircraft. And the seats were bigger, and there was more space between each row! Yes, dear readers, I had been upgraded! Not to business class, but to some intermediate class whose name eludes me.

Having settled into my seat, it was just a question of waiting for all of the other passengers to board. And they all did, apart from one, who, it seemed, had decided not to travel.

Hang on! Are you detecting some kind of pattern here?

Yes, it was becoming a recurrent event. Baggage had to be located and removed, and time slots are missed, so take off was LATE!!!! About an hour late. I've often wondered how something as huge as a Boeing 747 manages to lift its weight off the ground, and my curiosity prevailed until it did.

The flight was excellent. Champagne served as an aperitif to a pleasant meal. On board entertainment system provided all manner of diversions – films, music, games and the flight details which I find fascinating. So I watched a bit of a film, played touch-screen Sudoku, Who Wants to be a Millionaire and Hangman. The latter two were made a little more difficult because they were in French. My record winnings in Millionaire were 48000 euros!

There were glimpses of the Channel Islands some 30000 feet below, and then more of the Atlantic, before, some six hours later, Newfoundland appeared below us. The aircraft had made up some time, and so it was just 30 minutes late when we landed in Montreal at12.30. I needed to be ready to leave the hotel just after 15.30 with Sylvain, to head for Repentigny, and then on to L'Assomption for the show at L'Ange Cornu. Immigration control took about 10 minutes. Not bad.

Baggage retrieval was next. I did not retrieve my baggage. After waiting and watching luggage go round and around on the carousel for an hour, it was clear that my suitcase wasn't there. It transpired that it was still in Paris.

Probably living it up in Montmartre, or taking a stroll by the banks of the Seine.

Be quiet!

Forms were filled in. Forms were stamped and returned to the place where you fill forms in. After a couple of swift phone calls to Louise, explaining what was going on, I sped off through customs and caught a taxi into the city. It was warm. No, it was hot, and very humid. The taxi had no air-conditioning other than when the window was open, and it wasn't.

I eventually arrived at the hotel, checked in and asked the staff to expect my suitcase to arrive at some point overnight. I just about had time to wash and change …..

Change? That must have been difficult when all of your clothes were in transit from France.

True. But I had packed a lightweight T-shirt or two in my hand-luggage....., pauses for dramatic effect....., just in case of such an eventuality.

In our next posting, read about the trip to Repentigny, the onward journey to L'Assomption, and another wonderful evening in the company of Luce Dufault, her musicians and her very appreciative audience.

Blog! Blogue! Блог! - An unexpected journey!

Well! As I begin this new series of blog postings, it is 21.21BST on 27th August. The only problem is that I am not where I thought I would be at this time. I should be sitting somewhere over the Atlantic, ensconced in Seat 28K (window) gazing out over clouds tinged by the setting sun as the Boeing 767 chases the reddening orb westwards. But no, I'm not. I am sitting propped up in bed in a hotel a very long stone's throw from London's Heathrow Airport. In Room 16 of the Ibis, in fact. Not that there's anything wrong with the Ibis Hotel, I have to say - it's comfortable and clean,and for me, tonight, it's free.

Tell them about the Guinness - that wasn't free!

Oh no! My literary conscience is back again. But he's right, not only was the Guinness I was quaffing at the end of the last sentence not free, it was extortionate! A point of normal Guinness - I'm not sure I wanted to brave the abnormal Guinness - and a small bottle of water cost £6.35!!

Tell them about the free T-shirt!

Ah yes, I am lying on the bed, propped up against two pillows, resplendent in a sparklingly white T-shirt, compliments of British Airways, whilst a small distance away from me lies a complimentary plastic bag, with complimentary shower gel, complimentary tooth-brush, complimentary comb, and complimentary tooth-paste. So free hotel, free dinner ( Caesar Salad starter, followed by traditional English Fish and Chips, except that the Fish and Chips didn't exactly follow, because they came at the same time!), free shuttle bus (which took longer to get from the airport to the hotel than it took to fly 260 miles to that same airport from Newcastle. Flight 40 minutes, bus ride 50 minutes!), free breakfast at 04.00 tomorrow morning and then, yes free shuttle bus to Terminal 4.

If I know British Airways, and they're giving you all these amazing free things, something must have gone wrong today, that linked with the fact that you're sitting half dressed on a bed instead of fully dressed in seat 28K on that Boeing 767 winging its way westward chasing the sun to Montréal.

Very perceptive of you. Family and friends on Facebook will have possibly kept up to date with events as they unfolded at Newcastle International Airport this afternoon. My daughter Julia gave me a lift to the airport, dropping me off at about 14.25, in good time to drop off my baggage and go through security. The flight was due to take off at 15.25, but when I checked in my suitcase, the young lady at the desk informed me that there was a 55 minute delay. She said that if no further delays were incurred, I should have no problem in connecting with the Montreal flight which was due to take off at 18.15, but... if there were, she was sure that something would be done to help me. She must have seen the consternation on my face, as I spluttered, "But, I've got to be there before tomorrow evening ... it's really very important to me..."
"I'm sure it will be fine," she said consolingly.

But it wasn't. The flight was delayed for another 25 minutes, which meant that it would be impossible for me to get through security again (!!???!!!) and to reach the gate before it closed at 17.55. After what seemed an eternity of watching the minutes remaining ticking down, and then sticking on 3 minutes for at least 15 minutes, the overhead screens announced that Flight BA whatever would fly from Gate 3, and that this was the last call for passengers!!! The staff at the boarding check were less than helpful - nothing we can do about it here, unless you want me to cancel your  flight. Absolutely not, my eyes flashed the message, and the young lady stepped back in awe.

No she didn't, and no you didn't - keep a grip!

Well, I wished I had. You know - "By the fiendish power invested in my eyes, I demand that you contact Heathrow immediately and have someone lay prostrate on the ground in front of the nose-wheel of the Montreal-bound Boeing, until I arrive,  to be whisked through security and along walk-ways, down escalators, down more walkways,  by  underground shuttle train, up more escalators and finally entering the aircraft, to be greeted by cheering masses in all classes of seating. The captain would be standing, his cap in hand, and congratulating me on being only 20 minutes late for the flight........

Yeah, right.

So, the flashing eyes not having worked, I was about to try the tearful approach, but the queue behind me was building, and therefore I moved disconsolately on to the aircraft....., as I entered the purser, a very pleasant lady looked at my boarding pass and then at me, with sympathy in her eyes. "We don't think you're going to make your connection, but our staff are doing everything they can to re-arrange your flight for tomorrow. I'm sure you are aware that there is only one flight per day to Montreal."

"TOMORROW! TOMORROW? I need to be there before tomorrow night." I'm not sure how many of those words I spoke out aloud, but regaining my dignity, I gently said, I don't want to hold up all of the people behind me, so I shall find my seat and perhaps you could come and talk to me there?"

"Oh yes, of course sir, I'll do that."

And she did, several times during the 40 minute flight,
finally announcing that 'they' had booked me on a flight tomorrow, with Air Canada, which would arrive in Montreal at 18.00. 

Unfortunately, at 18.00 tomorrow, I am scheduled to be sitting down for supper at L'Ange Cornu at L'Assomption with my good friends Sylvain and Louise, prior to watching Madame Luce Dufault in concert at the same venue. So I told her that was not satisfactory. She advised me to head straight for the connections desk as soon as we landed. We landed at 17.48 - the Montreal flight was still there, but the whisking through the airport wasn't. Sooooo frustrating!

After 15 minutes or so at the Connections desk, the lady there finally announced that they could get me to Montreal for 12.00 noon (Montreal time) tomorrow - Tuesday 28th. It would require me to catch the Air France flight to Paris at 06.40, and then the 10.30 flight from Paris to Montreal. Time zone differences began to get the better of me for a moment, but bearing in mind that Paris is 6 hours ahead of Montreal, it means I'll be leaving Paris at 04.30 Montreal time.
So, having decided to let my suitcase have a little overnight stay in Heathrow, to be hopefully re-united with it in Montreal, I caught the free shuttle bus to the hotel (normal fare £4).

And that's almost where we began....

So, hopefully everything will go well tomorrow, and I will be sitting in L'Ange Cornu tomorrow evening, waiting to see and hear the wonderful Luce and her musicians perform. That will make all of this worthwhile.