Anything that says Breast Cancer Journey is optional reading. At this point, the peripheral things may pop up in my regular blogs. These ones, however, are the meat of the matter. Read at your discretion and I’ll likely be adding a post or two when I go in March for my follow up.
This was a big job and I’m quite sure there will be typos, repeat paragraphs and photos – although some overlap seemed OK. Anything you see that’s wrong, please comment. Read at your discretion. I’ve tried to put photos that might upset at the bottom, and there may be more formatting problems in doing so. There are also photos I meant to include that haven’t shown up, but I don’t have the energy to fix right now. That may follow. I did my best!
Have you been catching yourself typing 2025? I don’t think I have yet but… Anyway here it is another new year. I keep thinking back to 2020 where I reasoned (and prayed) that 20/20 was perfect vision so I was ready for a good one. Instead, it was the beginning of a downslide. Hasn’t stopped yet. Hope is eternal, right?
I’ve been writing up my Cancer Journey stuff but not ready to publish anything. As usual, lots of writing in my head and difficulty getting photos to cooperate. My eyesight is terrible and I haven’t yet got back to scheduling my eye surgery. Waiting for that call. And, honestly, 2025 was the Year of Waiting. It’s just a spillover. I’m very reluctant to post without my photos. They remind me of what to say and add context. Taking photos is still a big deal for me, a great companion when I’m out, and I find myself wishing I’d been documenting more of my life. The past is done with. On to the future and enjoying the present as much as I can with all the nonsense I’ve been going through. The truth is I’m far from feeling well and hoping that as time passes, I’ll feel more myself — better! Meanwhile, welcome to my melancholia – no excuses.
Christmas was quiet. I had many quiet Christmases in London but then everything seemed serene and pretty. I got used to having no one around and having no transport to go anywhere. We’d stock up on M&S treat-like foods and turn on all the lights, candles everywhere, snug if alone. There are family around now but I can’t decorate in the same way (not yet) and we don’t see anyone anyway. On the 27th there was the usual family get together. Krish had asked not to stay too long then asked to delay our departure so that was nice. There was plenty of food at my niece’s. Everyone was smiling. It was nice and I’d like more.
I wanted to make little gingerbread houses but didn’t want to go the graham cracker route again. Ikea, for the second year, let me down on mini house kits. Instead they had tree kits. I bought two boxes meaning to assemble four sets as gifts. Wrong! My energy level just wasn’t there, my icing skills – as poor as they are – were even worse than usual. I soldiered on. I struggled with the decorations but in the end made a decision to finish just one set for now. They could fight over it – or fight because no one would want it. However, the finished result was OK – I mean in a Gaudi-esque way. I have three sets left to finish and suspect they will be a project for next year.
My decorations were all I could manage this year. A little cheering up for sure but not at previous levels! The first photo is from Hackney Christmases — my Christmas advent treehouse from Roger LaBorde. I wanted to buy one for my brother but only the small non-advent one. I really want to unpack my things…
The next picutre is this year. We miss the whimsy of what we were used to but it will come back. Hopefully this Christmas. We each have a toy that isn’t packed and that’s the best of us.
Truth told, the colours of winter now are grey and white. (I read that on Instagram!) I haven’t seen much in the way of decoration anywhere. I would have explored had I had the energy. As well, it’s been a very snowy winter so far. Not an easy slog. The renamed Dundas (now Sankofa* Square had a small Christmas market. I swung by after a hospital visit. It wasn’t open yet.
Talking of hospitals, some of it is actually fun. Every third Thursday at Toronto General, they run a wellness kitchen. It’s set up like a TV show. The chef, Jeremy, makes three courses of healthy and simple meals and at the end we get to sample it. A few of the recipes are regulars for us now. You can watch it yourself at home – recorded or live on the third Thursday at noon EST. Maybe you’ll see me there. Pictured is Jeremy, and the Moroccan style chickpea stew I made at home.
We have to move soon. We like it here. More than like it. I hope we can find something soon and that it’s not far away, if not right here in the building. Every night I watch the windows opposite. It’s a guilty pleasure. I can’t see into the places, my eyesight isn’t that good, but I do think about the individual stories that are going on every day behind those windows.
Meanwhile, it continues snowy and cold. At night in the lights of the stadium opposite we watch the rain or snow falling thick and fast. These are good days for winter naps.
Are we a city of idiots, hibernating in the Toronto way of things?
I hope your Christmas was merry and your new year will be splendid, all year long.
I love pickles. Almost anything — I don’t see the point of pickled eggs. My mum used to say I was weaned on a pickle. Until I was five, we lived with my dad’s mum – Nana. Nana is a whole story of her own, and I think I’ve told it, but one thing she was known for was pickles. Somewhere I have the handwritten (not by her) recipe, ‘Pickels.’ I don’t remember if they were new or fully sour pickles anymore, but they were amazing. I remember the smell, or I think I do, and I can see the container they were fermented in, filled with the cucumbers, the brine and the generous amount of dillweed. It’s not so easy to find today. I’ve spent my whole life looking for a pickle that compares, even if I know a taste today may prove I’ve already found or even surpassed it. It’s just been too long.
In Canada, the taste for pickles is similar to the USA. A crisp and vinegary pickle with a slight sweetness. The UK gherkin from a chippy has the same sweetness but a different flavour. I see Canadians and Americans who live in Britain yearning for the Bicks or Clausen taste. It’s not for me. A brined kosher pickle is my style. There are a few jarred ones that I will eat but perhaps a Jewish deli is the best place to find the right one. If I ever find Nana’s pickel recipe, perhaps I’ll give it a go.
Toronto has a Polish neighbourhood in the west end, near High Park, its biggest park. Once upon a time it was filled with Polish restaurants, delis and other businesses, as well as Polish churches. When the pope was Polish, his photo was everywhere! Robin and I spent a summer on Roncesvalles in the early 90s. I woke every night thinking there was a fire. It was the smoke from the converted garages behind us, where they smoked sausages and hams. The air in the neighbourhood was always smoky. Luckily, I liked it. You had your pick of where to pick up sauerkraut, bigos, pierogies, pickles, smoked fish, cabbage rolls, and sweet doughnuts and pastries, When I left Toronto and visited again, they were almost all gone. Things had started to look smart and trendy. Now there are only two Polish delis left, although the restaurants and a couple of take-out counters for cooked food remain.
Benches beside the planters along the sidewalkNeighbourhood muralTwo long-standing Polish restaurants in the area
The main street is Roncesvalles Avenue. It gets its name from the Battle of Roncesvalles, which took place in the Roncesvalles Pass in Spain in 1813. An early Irish settler, Colonel Walter O’Hara—an early 19th-century Irish settler in the area—played a significant role in the establishment of the neighbourhood. He’d led a regiment that fought against the retreating army of Napoleon at the battle.
Old apartment buildings and Polish churchesUrban mounties, shall we say?
The name means ‘valley of thorns’ in Spanish.) In Spanish it’s pronounced Ron-sess-vie-yes (or with the alternate ‘th’ sound). In Toronto, we call it Ron-sess-vales. When it was first constructed, this was a primarily agricultural area with market gardens. In 1904 many of the estate homes in the area were sold and the east side of the street became mixed-use. Today, at least at the lower end, the west side stays residential, while the east is shops. The homes in the area still seem quite grand but most are now split up into flats.
This was once a gated community off the main road. The houses are grand
Roncesvalles is where you’ll find many greengrocers with vegetables and fruits overflowing wooden display counters. You go for the Polish deli, Benna’s, the restaurants like Chopin or Polonez, the trendy boutiques, European toys and other goods. I like that they do decorate for the holidays and I must go back closer to Christmas when it will be quite cheerful. Besides, I covered only a third of the street.
Greengrocers (not as lush as in the warm months) and the European style boutiques ready for Christmas
I took the plunge to travel by public transport on Monday. I had a false start when I took the wrong streetcar and ended up needing to backtrack and almost start again – my eyes aren’t functioning too well and the driver was reluctant to help! On Roncesvalles, the right streetcar pulled away too hastily from my stop and I ended up further up the street, when I’d had no intention of walking very far. Walk I did, pausing to inhale the scent of Christmas trees on some of the lots. I’d had a few other false starts to buy pickles, and those times I’d not managed it for one reason and another. I ended up buying my pickles from the supermarket instead of from the familiar “barrels” at Benna’s. Benna’s does stock the double-smoked garlic sausage I like, though. That was my only goal.
There are a lot of Polish customers in Benna’s. They chat happily with the (mostly) women behind the counters. The English speakers just may be at a disadvantage since some of the servers’ English isn’t fluent. Sometimes I get cheerful service, this time I got a grumpy reception. But I got my sausage. Job done. I also visited the hot counter for a small amount of potatoes and some pork stew, which I ate outside since the weather was mild. I skipped the sauerkraut, the pastries, and the herring that I always buy. This was a light shop.
A quick snack lunch from the hot counter, sitting on the bench outside Benna’s
I got the streetcar straight back, this time without any problems. This driver, unlike the first two, was a gem. I’m going to make borscht and use some of the sausage. Crossing my fingers.
I fear I’ve made lots of mistakes and doubled up on photos. Bring on the editors!
Some years ago I went on a Toronto cemetery tour to visit during Black History Month. It sounded interesting because we would be visiting the graves of prominent black Canadians and abolitionists. I learned a lot and I liked how the areas where most of these graves were had a casual feel, like a local village graveyard. It was on my list to visit again and, since my brother and his wife were in town, it seemed a good place for a touring suggestion.
I think his photos are better than mine, but I haven’t stolen them. I have instead stolen some history for my captions – begging forgiveness for that theft. Think of it as flattery. My brother, John, is my loyal reader and editor and today he’s my unknowing co-blogger.
I wish I had a better memory or had done more research before going this time. I couldn’t find a single grave from that BHM tour. Many of these graves are just markers, as you’ll see.
The cemetery is the Toronto Necropolis. From John’s notes: “The Toronto Necropolis opened in 1850 to replace the Potter’s Field (the Strangers’ Burying Ground) which had been since 1825 the first non-sectarian burying ground in the town. The chapel, lodge, and lych-gate were built in 1872. The crematorium here opened in 1933 as the first in Ontario — 32 years after Canada’s first cremation, in Montreal.” Interesting that it really wasn’t that long ago and this puts some perspective on how very recently the immigration from the south by the underground railroad actually was.
Toronto may pride itself on its multiculturalism and ability to live alongside many cultures, but racism is real here. Some of the stories, while stirring, were stories of immense courage amidst prejudice. I probably shouldn’t talk too much about something I can’t even show here, but despite not finding the graves, I felt their presence during my walk.
It was a very hot day and the cemetery is a good walk from the bus, but we made it, passing through Cabbagetown with its many beautiful houses. Around the cemetery they seem particularly picturesque and for some reason I don’t seem to have taken many photos. Was it the heat? My phone battery? Did they not ‘click’?
1866 Gothic Revival house on Sumach Street. The exterior has been made ‘quieter’ since several years ago when it had 18 different trim colours. Gothic Revival is a very popular style in CabbagetownPark Cafe on Sumach Street. I was tempted by ice cream but avoided the calories This doesn’t look like a city cafe at allJohn and I were amused by these two signs so close together. It felt like we’d walked for a while and there was another long hot road to get along nowThis is the very lovely chapel at the entrance. It was built in 1872 in the Gothic Revival style popular throughout this area.Looking east from the chapel and just past the lych-gate is the caretaker’s cottage, which I somehow missed photographingEnter through the lych-gate, where the coffins would be set and later brought through for the burial. Lych is an old word for a dead bodyInside the lych-gate
More than 50,000 people are buried here. The graves are somewhat haphazardly placed, which adds to the atmosphere of this cemetery, one of Toronto’s oldest. There are some notable people in this place, although most are known only to Canadians: Anderson Ruffin Abbott, the first Black surgeon born in Canada, honoured to be part of the medical team that tended the fatally wounded American president Abraham Lincoln on the night of April 14–15, 1865 – his house was on the street where we lived in Parkdale; and Peter Matthews and Samuel Lount, the rebels hanged for their part in the Mackenzie rebellion of 1837. You’ll also find George Brown (one of the Fathers of Confederation and founder of what is now The Globe and Mail, and whose name graces one of Toronto’s best known colleges) and Joseph Bloore (a fierce looking man, who founded Yorkville Village. One of Toronto’s main streets, Bloor Street, is named for him.) The first person to be buried here was Andrew Porteous. The cemetery’s registry says that his body was stored in the “Dead House” until it was buried on May 22, 1850. He had been Toronto’s first postmaster. You won’t find his grave easily. It’s been eroded over time so that only the base remains.
The cemetery seems orderly compared to the last one I saw in London (Abney Park), but it has an intimate feelI’m going to guess these are cremated remains. This marker looks very different to the others in here, almost like a catalogue
It really was a hot day. I hadn’t brought any water. I had wandered over to the back of the cemetery to see if there was any sign of the graves from my last visit and I looked to see houses I’d remembered from that time too. Only they weren’t there. My memory must be faulty, or I was too hot and tired to wander to another corner to discover them. Walking back towards the entrance, there was a tap. A man in a wheelchair was filling up his water bottle and I remarked that he knew all the good places. He winked and said he did, and this was his favourite filling station. I managed to get a nice, cold drink before we walked on.
Can’t finish this without talking about how much I love the old, rough grave markers. I hope I’m not alone in that. Most of the graves have become anonymous, the engraved letters long since worn down. There’s a sadness but also serenity in that.
The way in is also the way out, so I had to stop cursing about retracing my steps and get on with it. Across the road is the Riverdale Farm, with its animals. There were some cute pigs. A child asked an attendant what sort of pigs they were. ‘Tamworth,’ she answered. Without even thinking, I remembered a lovely meal at the Smoking Goat in Shoreditch and said that ‘their meat was delicious.’ I don’t think John will ever quite forgive me for uttering such blasphemy ‘in front of a child no less.’
Suitably told off, I walked with him back to the main road, passing many houses that will fall under the ‘things I didn’t photograph’ category. Each garden was green and full of colourful, often wild, flowers. At the main road, Parliament, we chose our route home and had to wait some time for a bus to arrive. I took the opportunity to buy a cold drink and linger much longer than was polite in the air conditioned shop. A scorcher in Toronto and our tour was done.
The time had sped by. I’d been mostly sleepless overnight. The noise from the street was even heavier than the night before and when the sun started to rise in the morning there were still revelers slowly winding down their drunken, chatty, sing-y time out. I knew I was going to spend as much time resting before checking out as I could possibly wring out.
We made the unusual decision to go to the Wetherspoons pub across the road for a cheap breakfast. Before that I’d gone up to the top floor to see what Krish said was a rooftop restaurant – not there, just a short corridor filled with what I guessed were the fancier rooms. On the first floor, I checked to see what was on offer there. A lot of boring looking typical breakfast foods were sitting in their serving containers. Nothing to see here, so Wetherspoons it was. The pub is in a beautiful building called Lloyds, so a former bank? The inside was typical, quiet, vast and somewhat gloomy, We ordered our ‘American pancake breakfast’ – small for me, large for Krish. It arrived, the usual chewy-never-fluffy British take on an American pancake along with sausage for me, while Krish’s had sausages and eggs. Strangely, there was a layer of an attempt at streaky bacon in between my two pancakes. Amusing. But we were fed!
We looked about George Street, which had some interesting buildings and then I took some photos of the hotel, which itself has an interesting history as Nottingham’s oldest inn.
Viscosa House – Krish wondered if it was Italian in some way – an ordinary building with some nice details. Now home to Attenborough Dental. Attenborough must be a Midlands name.
At the hotel, we continued to pack and check for stray items and took our case down for reception to store.
The last day of a trip is always an odd one. There are all the bits and pieces you haven’t seen yet, and the train journey is looming. We’ve had our share of almost missing those trains. Today was a day without much of a plan.
The plan we did have was to get a tram and bus pass and look about a bit further out. (This never happened.) Krish wanted to see the university campus and I wanted to see if we could see any signs of the original Boots building – Boots first store was in Nottingham and it was here that ibuprofen (originally Brufen) was developed by Dr Stewart Adams’ team in the late 50s, coming to stores in 1969 after several clinical trials. Boots had started as a herbalist on Goose Gate (just by our hotel) in 1849. I’d not done the research so didn’t notice the building. Later Krish told me he had seen it there. No photos.
We walked over to the university, which proved to not be very far away. You don’t have to walk too far from the centre of town to find yourself in more open and residential territory.
The university was just after the shopping centre area and before the road widened. On the way I’d checked to see if there was a market but there was no sign of one, only a few stalls and vans scattered in the side streets. I wasn’t finding it easy to walk anymore so I said no to climbing the steps up to some of the higher street areas, and Krish said he wouldn’t go alone but stay with me instead.
At the tram stop was a university building called Boots Library. I got excited, thinking that they might have some historic stuff in there, then saw they had a roof garden. I asked the security guard if I needed ID to get in and he let me know that, because it was exam week, no one was allowed in. I asked if I could use the lift to see the roof garden, since it was located right at the entrance but he said no again, telling me to come back in a couple of weeks. So no go. Disappointing but I’m glad I tried.
My tram ticket for the day was a concession price of £3, for Krish it meant £1 for any short hop (covering the four or five stops in the city centre) journey so he decided on that option. I love trams and try to go on one in every city we arrive in. This one wasn’t as modern inside as it looked outside. It was like a Toronto streetcar, but not newest generation.
We took it to the last stop for short hop – one station too far, said Krish as we got out in a sparse residential area. The suburbs had already begun just one stop south of the station. With nothing much to see here, we turned back to the city in search of a seat for me, and lunch for both of us. To be honest, I was done and knew I didn’t have another step in me.
But there were several hundred more! Looking for a restaurant, we fell into the usual frustrating trap of not seeing one that pleased us both. I was ready for a pizza and a seat but Krish is dairy-phobic right now so that was out. We sat in a Chinese restaurant looking at an uninspiring menu, then left. We walked around the block and back again, settling for a very disappointing fish and chips between us. It was so bad but I had my seat and enjoyed the rest. I really didn’t care what we ate.
We had a little time before we needed to head to the station and I wanted to see Sneinton Market. There were signs pointing to it so I asked Krish to go find it and let me know if it was worth the hilly walk. He came back into view and waved me to come down the hill. The market is a small area of shops in two or three rows. It was very quiet. Two young women sat eating the mandatory avocado on toast outside a shop. I considered buying chocolate and then left without it, took a few photos and out of the market again. Not really worth it, not at that time of day at least.
Sneinton Market – deserted
Up the hill again, grab the suitcase, a quick hop into Sainsburys to get a drink and a snack for later, and then to the tram stop. I had my ticket already and Krish would get a short hop. I had a mental block when the tram arrived suddenly and went into Toronto mode thinking he could buy his ticket on the tram. In I went and, as the door closed behind me, noticed that Krish wasn’t with me but was at the ticket machine at the stop. A forehead slapping moment. Luckily his tram arrived just a couple of minutes after mine. There was a lift down to the station hall waiting area and we were about 20 minutes early. There were absolutely no seats available anywhere and Krish went off to explore the area promising to be back within 15 minutes. I was really relieved to see him about 10 minutes later. I’d had to stand the whole time and knew that Krish was often late for things. But all was fine, we got down to our train and were on our way home.
The journey to St Pancras went by quickly. On our way down the escalator I noticed a huge queue doubling back on itself right across the central hallway of the station. As we headed towards the exit and turned the corner, the queue continued gathering strength with at least one double-back. There were masses of people and my only guess what this was now how it looked when you take the Eurostar during Covid and Brexit. This was a really sobering thought. We’d travelled by Eurostar many times and never encountered more than a few people in the queue ahead of us. Mind boggling.
The bus was coming just as we reached the street, the easiest connection from Kings Cross that we’d ever made. From the bus to our Hackney stop, to the flat, a light dinner, a cup of tea or two and finally back to our own bed. Nottingham done!
The university was just after the shopping centre area and before the road widened. On the way I’d checked to see if there was a market but there was no sign of one, only a few stalls and vans scattered in the side streets. I wasn’t finding it easy to walk anymore so I said no to climbing the steps up to some of the higher street areas, and Krish said he wouldn’t go alone but stay with me instead.
