Canadian Cold. A German Rat Becoming World Famous. Bea Got A New Camera!

I just couldn't believe my eyes, but a second look at the thermometer confirmed my first impression: It was actually showing -20C (-4F) and it was still blowing like crazy out of the west. Wind chill was at -30C (-22F) Dixie got back in like a bullet. Just too cold for doggy paws.

Another day with a cancelled dog walk!

Seated comfortably in front of the blazing woodstove, I studied the news of this morning. That's when I came across a unique story from Germany. 

Can you imagine that a rat can get so fat that it gets stuck in a manhole cover? While rats are a known plague in many cities, the city of Bensheim, sent the fire department and animal rescue team to free the rodent from its precarious situation. The story made it to World News at the Washington Post, Fox News, the Guardian and the Huffington Post plus probably an array of more local papers. 

                                               HELP ME PLEASE!!!

 "She had a lot of winter flab and was stuck fast at her hip - there was no going forward or back," said Michael Sehr, a professional animal rescuer from Rhein Necker, according to BBC.

As the situation looked more and more hopeless, rescuers eventually were able to prop up the manhole and secure a safety loop around the rat, and popped her out of the narrow opening.

Bea had a great day yesterday. A big package arrived yesterday containing a new camera she had ordered. It is a NIKON P900. The camera was almost a revolution when it came out years ago. It features a staggering 2000mm or 83x zoom and  you don't have to carry around a 5-pound telelens, even though the camera body is heavier than the NIKON 5100 we also use.
And if the P900 is not good enough for you, there is now the P1000, which is much, much heavier, bigger and offers a 3000mm integrated zoom.

Bea is very interested in bird photography and hopefully, we will see some of her pics soon. Yesterday we took an explorative trip up to the Head Harbour Lighthouse to experience what the P900 can do. The below pics show the normal view one has from the parking lot, while the 2. pic is showing max zoom. The example from the Herring Cove Beach shows a couple of outhouses with me standing in front of one. The next picture is max zoom on me. The third one is a digital zoom right into my face and was done on Picasa. All pictures were done handheld without a tripod.

  Above: 55mm normal view, 
  Below: Max zoom

It's Still Winter

Waking up to a brutally cold day, we are reminded that it is still winter in these parts. This morning's thermometer reading showed -13C (8.6F) but in the wind it was -24C (-11F) Doggy walks got cancelled and it was Dixie who cancelled on her own. It was as if she knew from the first moment that walking outside was a no-no today. Usually she is bugging us right after her having breakfast to go outside. Not so today. Whereever you go around on the island you've got ice rinks, huge areas covered in concrete-hard ice.

   Pictures above of Herring Cove Beach

Stepping out into the icy wind hurts your face like thousand needles. I was rather quick in getting the firewood into the house.

While it is very cold, the weather also offers fantastic photo opportunities - that is if one is dressed appropriately.

Quite a different thing to do is baking rolls. Whenever the cold is getting to my nerves I place myself in the kitchen and produce something much more delightful. These turned out really well!

Leaving Behind

Many of us know the feeling. You have been born and raised a place and you left it later in life. Reasons for leaving can be many, but you will never forget the place you have been spending a lot of time at.

This morning I watched a drone video about Scotland, and I was in awe about the beautiful countryside there. It is not so long ago that we had a lady in our neighbourhood, who was born in Scotland. She kept the rolling Rs in her accent all her life. I mean you could hear where she was from. She immigrated to Canada and settled here. I am wondering whether she ever missed her beautiful home country.

For my own part, I was born in northern Germany, then lived 25 years in Norway. 

          Memories of home: Summer landscapes in Schleswig-Holstein
In my mind I still carry the pictures of my German upbringing and my later life in beautiful Norway. I am catching myself in bittersweet memories when watching videos about those areas. 

                                              Molde in North-West Norway

Leaving behind your surroundings for ever can cause you to develop homesickness. It's not that I am regretful about our moving around in the world and especially settling here on this beautiful island, but sometimes there is the urge to board a flight and go and reexplore where I once was happy. And obviously, it is also about meeting old friends and seeing again family members. 

It has always been my curiosity which was the motor for living in a different place, as it has also been for extensive travels.
It has enriched my mind and led me to meeting very nice people. Yet, sometimes I feel the urge to "turn back the clock" and reexperience what has been, or at least go to those old places and enjoy them to the fullest.

My grandma had a brother who moved to Canada in 1950. he ended up spending most of his life in Vancouver,BC. However, when he retired he got the urge to move back to Germany. Following this urge, he sold his apartment, got everything including his big Lincoln, into a moving container and off he went. Arriving near his old home town, he got a house built and settled in.

However, it didn't take long and he got regrets. Things had changed over 40 years. Germany wasn't anymore what he remembered. There were too many people, the roads were too narrow, too many rules and regulations and he couldn't find the freedom he had grown used to in Canada. He had gotten homesick for Vancouver and finally moved it all back to British Columbia. Sometimes following these sudden urges doesn't work out.

When visiting Germany I enjoy my visits, but after some time I am always longing back to Canada. The same would happen if I would go to Norway. Nice to see it all again, but it's not home anymore. With the example of my granduncle and my own experience I can withstand the feeling of having left behind something very familiar.

                            Beautiful Campobello Island

Why the British don't like Trump

Nate White is a witty satirical British writer. The below piece explains in detail why the British don't like Trump. I would add that it is not only the British which can't contain their disdain for Trump.

by Nate White

A few things spring to mind.

Trump lacks certain qualities which the British traditionally esteem.

For instance, he has no class, no charm, no coolness, no credibility, no compassion, no wit, no warmth, no wisdom, no subtlety, no sensitivity, no self-awareness, no humility, no honour and no grace - all qualities, funnily enough, with which his predecessor Mr. Obama was generously blessed with.

So for us, the stark contrast does rather throw Trump’s limitations into embarrassingly sharp relief.

Plus, we like a laugh. And while Trump may be laughable, he has never once said anything wry, witty or even faintly amusing - not once, ever.

I don’t say that rhetorically, I mean it quite literally: not once, not ever. And that fact is particularly disturbing to the British sensibility - for us, to lack humour is almost inhuman.

But with Trump, it’s a fact. He doesn’t even seem to understand what a joke is - his idea of a joke is a crass comment, an illiterate insult, a casual act of cruelty.

Trump is a troll. And like all trolls, he is never funny and he never laughs; he only crows or jeers.

And scarily, he doesn’t just talk in crude, witless insults - he actually thinks in them. His mind is a simple bot-like algorithm of petty prejudices and knee-jerk nastiness.

There is never any under-layer of irony, complexity, nuance or depth. It’s all surface.

Some Americans might see this as refreshingly upfront.

Well, we don’t. We see it as having no inner world, no soul.

And in Britain we traditionally side with David, not Goliath. All our heroes are plucky underdogs: Robin Hood, Dick Whittington, Oliver Twist.

Trump is neither plucky, nor an underdog. He is the exact opposite of that.

He’s not even a spoiled rich-boy, or a greedy fat-cat.

He’s more a fat white slug. A Jabba the Hutt of privilege.

And worse, he is that most unforgivable of all things to the British: a bully.

That is, except when he is among bullies; then he suddenly transforms into a snivelling sidekick instead.

There are unspoken rules to this stuff - the Queensberry rules of basic decency - and he breaks them all. He punches downwards - which a gentleman should, would, could never do - and every blow he aims is below the belt. He particularly likes to kick the vulnerable or voiceless - and he kicks them when they are down.

So the fact that a significant minority - perhaps a third - of Americans look at what he does, listen to what he says, and then think 'Yeah, he seems like my kind of guy’ is a matter of some confusion and no little distress to British people, given that:
* Americans are supposed to be nicer than us, and mostly are.
* You don't need a particularly keen eye for detail to spot a few flaws in the man.

This last point is what especially confuses and dismays British people, and many other people too; his faults seem pretty bloody hard to miss.

After all, it’s impossible to read a single tweet, or hear him speak a sentence or two, without staring deep into the abyss. He turns being artless into an art form; he is a Picasso of pettiness; a Shakespeare of shit. His faults are fractal: even his flaws have flaws, and so on ad infinitum.

God knows there have always been stupid people in the world, and plenty of nasty people too. But rarely has stupidity been so nasty, or nastiness so stupid.

He makes Nixon look trustworthy and George W look smart.

In fact, if Frankenstein decided to make a monster assembled entirely from human flaws - he would make a Trump.

And a remorseful Doctor Frankenstein would clutch out big clumpfuls of hair and scream in anguish:

'My God… what… have… I… created?

If being a twat was a TV show, Trump would be the boxed set.