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Travel & Adventure

Last month, my boyfriend, Neil, and I went back to the UK to visit his friends and family and attend a major wedding.

Neil hails from Plymouth and is distantly related to an infamous pirate named John Thomas. Here’s JT’s grave near Penzance, which we visited 3 years ago. As you can see, it has a real live skull and cross bones etched into it, as well as a very cryptic eulogy, which basically says he was a scoundrel and an all-around bad dude who deserved to die.

Plymouth is located in the South West peninsula of England in an area called Devon. The famous “Mayflower” ship full of America’s first settlers departed from Plymouth Harbour in 1620.


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This coastal area of Devon and Cornwall is the official surfing capital of the UK and boasts long stretches of beaches, quaint seaside towns and the famous and most delicious Cornish Pasty.

I recommend Philp’s Pasties in the town of Hayle for the best Cornish Pasty on the planet. You can take it to go and head to Gwithian, a lovely beach nearby. Here’s the official Philps Pasty Appreciation Facebook Group.

The tiny coastal fishing towns that dot the peninsula are seeped in mysterious history of pirates, smugglers and wreckers. It’s Pirates of the Caribbean come to life, complete with Johnny Depp. Apparently, some scenes from the movie were filmed along the coast and a few locals reported having a cheeky pint with Johnny in the tiniest of pubs.

Wreckers were notorious in these parts. When the storms weren’t working in their favour, they caused ships to wreck on shore, by strapping donkeys with lanterns to trick ships into thinking they were lighthouses. As soon as the crew perished, these vultures would scavenge every last valuable part of the ship.

Smugglers would import and export everything they could get their hands on: teas, spices, textiles, arms, booze, treasure, exotic art and the list goes on and on.

Bloody brawls and mysterious disappearances were common in these parts. Nowadays, these old towns hide their secrets in their narrow cobblestone roads, decorative pub signs, wooden window shutters and their 1,000-year-old churches.


In the 17th and 18th Centuries they were hideaways for the most badass dudes. Now many are retirement areas or tourist destinations; a much less exciting life, no doubt.

Neil and I camped overnight in a town called Sennen, which is located about 5 minutes from the Western most point of England, known as Land’s End. In typical British camping fashion, we spent the night in a field for £5. The field just happened to be beside a 400 year-old inn and pub (The First and Last Inn.).

And a 1,500 year old church!

My meal at the First and Last Inn consisted of succulent lamb shank with roast vegetables and a Cornwall-brewed Doom Bar Ale.

Inside the pub lies a preserved smuggling hole nicknamed “Annie’s Well.” The story goes that Annie was one of the Inn’s previous managers.. She reportedly turned King’s evidence against the inn’s owner, who was her smuggling agent, and made many other enemies along the way. The locals eventually got their revenge on Annie and staked her out on the beach at low tide, where she eventually drowned.

After a bit of a history lesson at the pub, we wandered 20 minutes down a country road to the official Land’s End to watch the sunset and take fun photos.

With all the touristy shops and cheesy 4D theatre closed for the day, the spot took on a more somber atmosphere. The history of the place seemed to seep through the clifftops, the lonely waves and the submerged wrecks.

As we looked out over the water toward the Isles of Silly, I couldn’t help thinking about another tale I’d heard of the area. According to the story, there is a Lost Land of Lyonesse beyond the shores of Land’s End. A land where King Arthur is believed to have had his fateful battle with his son Mordred. An entire city that reportedly sunk in November 1099AD. People have reported seeing church spires and other city ruins beneath the waves during raging coastal storms.

It seems that England too, has its own Atlantis.

I’m 50 feet underwater with a torch shining upwards toward the pitch black Hawaiian night sky. All around me, dozens of fellow scuba divers are blowing hundreds of bubbles. Meanwhile, others are descending into the dark like paratroopers – their torches shining into the abyss as they float weightlessly down, down, down. The combination of lights and shadows and military-esque scuba gear alludes to a science fiction novel.

We wait with bated breath – or a version thereof – for the stars of this science fiction movie: the Manta Rays. After 10 minutes of anticipation, two forms emerge from the shadows like birds on the wing gliding through a watery sky. Pumping their wings with grace, they are slowly illuminated; blurry at first and then gradually coming into focus. Two babies, averaging a six or seven foot wing-span, have come to play.

Part prehistoric aquatic dinosaur; part otherworldly being, they circle the mysterious man-made spaceship of light and bubbles. They glide playfully over the scuba divers, doing somersaults and spins; revealing their soft white bellies with black polka dots. For what other reason than to have fun?

They feed on the plankton that gravitates toward the torches; their giant mouths gulping in water and filtering out the food. We can see right into their bodies: hollow, skeletal and sleek.

I spend 50 minutes at 50 feet, captivated by these creatures. They glide so close to my snorkel and mask, I’m afraid their wings will knock my equipment off my head.

I want to touch them but I know it will harm the protective mucus that covers them. I settle for making eye contact with one of our new friends. Behind the ray’s yellow eyes is primal wisdom and knowledge, with a touch of curiosity and amusement. The eye stares back at me; one organic creature to another. I wonder what he or she is thinking. Maybe something like: “So long and thanks for all the plankton.”

And just as gracefully as they glide into the light, they disappear into the shadows; their wings now a distant silhouette against our torches. It’s time for them to return to the deep, away from our bubbles and torches.

As I surface at our boat, my body is still buzzing with the experience. The creatures of the ocean are so unearthly to us. But, I can’t help thinking tonight that perhaps it is we who are the unnatural ones on this planet.

This Manta Ray dive is known as one of the Top 10 dives in the world and for good reason. The dive site, Garden Eeel Bay, is located off the West Coast of the Big Island of Hawaii (Hawai’i) in a town called Kailua-Kona.

There are a variety of dive shops in town. We went with Jack’s Diving Locker, which seems to be one of the more established in the area. Scuba divers and snorkelers are welcome. The package offers two dives at the same site; one at dusk and then one at night. This is a Bucket List experience, so be sure you take the plunge if you find yourself on the Big Island.

Jesus, Vishnu, Buddha and a French Canadian walk onto a chairlift. They:

a) smoke weed
b) eat poutine
c) chat with an invisible Muhammed

Make that all of the above. Whistler’s fourth annual Chairlift Revue, a locally produced event, ended the TELUS World Ski and Snowboard Festival on a “high” note.

MC’d by the Pique newspaper’s very own social commentary guru G.D. Maxwell, the Chairlift Revue covered the top 3 hot topics that are bound to offend: religion, sex, drugs. The plays ranged in theme from coming of age to “just because I slept with you doesn’t mean I’ll ski with you” to Olympic-withdrawal to an Olympic mascot who dunnit to dangerous encounters with metal and body parts.

The audience was a lot more local and family-oriented than you’d find at the rest of the rowdy evening events filled with industry people and younger ski/board types. But, I kind of like the authentic, genuine nature of the Chairlift Revue. It’s a community performance, supported by the Whistler Arts Council and written, directed and produced by Whistlerites who are passionate about arts and culture in this community. It’s events like this that are the true backbone of this town.

And I have to say, Ace MacKay-Smith (DJ Foxy Moron) was the best darn Jesus I’ve ever seen!

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