It was a happy accident that found me in Waiting Area Q at 10:57 p.m. on Thursday, May 30.

Let me preface this by saying my flight from London Heathrow had landed at Toronto Pearson International Airport an hour-and-a-half earlier, and I had determined I was far too cheap to pay for a hotel room for the time remaining between then and my 10:15 a.m. flight to Sudbury. I was not alone. My giant backpack had come through the luggage claim in need of rechecking in the morning. For one hour I lugged it across Terminal 1 like a scrawny waterboy carrying an entire hockey team’s gear, my pride turning grimace to smile when someone gently hinted I get a luggage cart (spoiler alert: I did).

After trying to recheck my bag for my Friday morning flight, the Air Canada representative confirmed my suspicions: no bags could be checked until the morning. (This is when I gave in and got a cart, feeling as though I was Atlas unloading the weight of the world from my shoulders)

Settling into one of those comfortable-at-the-outset-but-awful-once-you-realize-they-have-high-metal-arm-rests chairs, I slung my legs over the bar and welcomed my fate: 12 hours of complete discomfort and body contortion. I bought a Fudgesicle to console myself (because I’m five-years-old), and continued reading Game of Thrones on my iPad.

Then, as if out of nowhere (or maybe from behind the flight check-in counter, I was distracted by Jon Snow’s exploits beyond the wall), the Air Canada baggage clerk reappeared, a kindly-looking gentleman who had chuckled and clucked his tongue at me when I had tried to rid myself of my backpack earlier.

“Do you know about Waiting Area Q?” he asked me.

“No,” I replied, for earlier walks had only brought me so far as the Popsicle purchase, some two floors below the departures area.

“Well,” he said with a small grin, “if you follow these letters all the way down to the Q section (he gestured at the tall platforms with neon yellow lettering), they have seats without the arm rest barriers. They even have televisions.

It’s like he could sense my anxiety over the metal bars.

I nodded my thanks, trying to not outwardly display my compulsion to toss down my Fudgesicle and push my cart to Waiting Area Q as fast as I could. After all, how many people was he telling about seating area? I would not have it be full.

I finished my snacks and bolted.

As any sensible person who didn’t just come off an eight hour flight from a place where it was now 2 a.m. would have realized, Area Q was close to abandoned. A man sat sleeping by the floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the hangar-like terminal, and there were a few others scattered around the 100 metre by 100 metre area.

Unlike the other parts of the airport with those screwed down, arm rested seats, Waiting Area Q had gone rogue. Banks of pleather seats had been moved everywhere, creating contained two-row “beds” and benches with spectacular window views. I initially settled in the kids play area, attracted by not only the prospect of a long row of seats, but moveable foot rests/pseudo-playthings and a squishy surface under foot, a pleasant thing that seemed to utter “liability-free” with every step. I watched old Spiderman cartoons on the flat screen television.

My iPhone bleeped at me. “Charge me!!” it wailed. I relocated my stuff 20 metres over next to a window and a small Xbox stand.

I quickly realized that in the land of stiff limbs and low volume oldies that monetary currency of any nationality is null. Waiting Area Q is a place where electricity – or more specifically the outlets that provide it – make you the area overlord. It’s a battle for power, in the most literal sense, and my overnight fortress was been primely positioned. I was sitting in a corner with not one, but two power sockets. Simply put, my stuff was safeguarded by new friends throughout the night in exchange for the use of just one sweet socket.

It’s now 2:51 a.m. and I’m half writing this story in my Moleskine and half people watching. The aforementioned kids section across from me is now full of adults, some splayed out under a plastic tree structure, as though it were the Tree of Life. A cleaning woman makes her rounds, dusting and cleaning up after phantom passengers. To my right, a number of Air Canada employees are dozing off while facing out the window.

In the transience of our journeys, we have all ended up here, in Waiting Area Q, united by convenience and the human need to sleep. As the sun rose, phone alarms jingled like handheld music boxes, and people dispersed. The atrium of Area Q was awash with morning light, the brightness acting as a magic eraser, inviting people to rise and move on. Tomorrow night I’m sure these seats will be filled and rearranged once more, and that temporary shared bond between strangers will start again, at this far end of Terminal 1.

(“You Can Go Your Own Way” by Fleetwood Mac just came on. How appropriate. Now, I sleep.)

I am in Cornwall right now. Cornwall is the western-most county in England, and was the first destination on what promises to be more than a few trips away from the busyness of London.

On Friday I took the train from London’s Paddington station all the way to Penzance, Cornwall, a town on the Celtic Sea that is considered to be the gateway to western Cornwall. I’m ecstatic with my choice so far. I hadn’t even planned on going further west than Plymouth, at the edge of Devon county. That was, until I had a chat with a local now living in London – she went to school in Falmouth and insisted Cornwall was worth exploring. And, since I determined long ago that locals recommendations are better than those of the tour books, I took her advice and boarded the five-hour train to Penzance. More to come on my love of train travel.

It is now Saturday, day two in Cornwall. Shortly after arriving I decided I wanted to go to Land’s End, the most westerly point of England and the infamous edge of the country. It’s all Atlantic Ocean from there, baby.

So this morning I hopped aboard the 300 bus (a fantastic purple and cream coloured double decker with deeply hued magenta seats), Land’s End-bound. I initially planned on walking the 10-or-so mile journey, but decided against it when warned of how narrow and windy the roads are.

But there was no shortage of walking today.

After getting to Land’s End (I just want to call it King’s Landing SO badly, damnit, Game of Thrones!), I took the obligatory “Land’s End marker” photo and headed on my way. Land’s End itself was a little too “look at all these kids amusement things we’ve erected in hopes of taking all your money!” for me, and I was eager to hit the trails.

I headed out along the Coast Path, the morning wind blowing roughly through my hair. The sights were spectacular. Really just inexplicably beautiful. Jagged granite cliffs reach up from the crashing shores of the Atlantic. The violent winds, salt spray and high acidity of the soil mean limited vegetation grows along the cliffs. Bushes clumped along the surface, and bright yellow flowers made patches of gold.

Rounding a corner, I saw the first stop along the Coast Walk: Sennen Cove, a small village built up onto the rock. It was like the Cornish equivalent of a Greek island town, only with less steep of a climb to the top.

I adored Sennen Cove. I explored fishing boats that had been dragged to the shore.

I wandered onto the wide swath of beach, my hiking boots sinking into the sand with every step. I looked back to see my footsteps, but the surf had almost immediately reclaimed the spot, the natural culprit refilling my path as though I was never even there.

I spent the next while on the beach until the incoming tides chased me back to shore. I knelt over and scoured for pieces of beach stone as though I were seashell picking on the shores of Skerries, Ireland, just as I did so many summers as a kid.

After a lunch of Cornish pastries and tea, I headed back to Land’s End. One of the attractions of the town is a place called Greeb Farm, where there’s a small livestock petting zoo (goats!!!!!) and roosters running free round the lot. There’s also a workshop area where traditional Cornish artisans have set up shop.

That’s where I met glass engraver Bill Davenport.

And, like any good journalist on vacation, I spent far too much time chatting with him, our conversation peppered with one-sided questions and a wide-eyed curiosity for his art.

Bill started as a glass engraver more than three decades ago, after he bought a set of tumblers to engrave as a gift for his mother. For those first pieces he used a silver engraving tool, but quickly discovered the tip to be too crude for such delicate handiwork. After displaying at one show and inadvertently selling three pieces (he had deliberately priced them “too high” as to not tempt buyers), Bill got serious about the craft and relocated to this workshop at Land’s End.

Now Bill uses a stipple tool for commissioned works, chipping away at the glass until it creates the image of an animal, household, etc. The pieces he sells in this workshop space are created using a hand router tool, which buzzes like a piece of dentistry equipment as we speak.

Bill primarily creates his designs freehand, though he says he will sketch in advance if it’s something with firm customer specifications. I wasn’t permitted to take photos of the finished glass, but just imagine the meticulous work Bill puts into pieces. And, as he told me, the most important lesson he ever learned was to not overdo the design, but rather to let the negative space that is not chipped balance that which is.

My day in Land’s End finished with a walk to Sennen, a cappuccino at the Apple Tree Cafe and another double decker bus ride back to Penzance. The sun had come out so I sat in the open-air top, my hair once again a tangle worthy of Medusa, my eyes fixed on the Cornish countryside below.

Hey, blog world. I don’t think I told you of my plans for this, but I’m in London, U.K. right now.
I have an entire month off work, and I decided to take advantage of the time and pay a visit to some of my best friends who are currently residing “across the pond.” Namely: Ariel and Natalie. I just arrived this morning, and, after making myself well acquainted with the London tube, found myself on the first adventure of my trip.

I only found out about the Columbia Road Flower Market about a week ago when Momentum Mag posted this video on their Facebook page, depicting a cute English hipster biking in the neighbourhood. I immediately marked it down on my list of places to visit, and, just as I was about to text Ariel about this newfound destination, she sent me a text proposing we pay the market a visit on my first day in town (the flower market is only open on Sundays). How’s that for a coincidence?

The flower market is about a 10 minute walk from where Ariel, Natalie and Conor live. As you draw near, there are some sure fired signs you’re heading in the right direction. All things floral begin to appear; being carried in bicycle baskets, strollers, and canvas grocery carts. My favourite was a gentleman who was walking with a tall house plant. Its top was blowing in the wind and would occasionally brush the trees above the sidewalk.

The market itself was quite something to take in. Columbia Road is already narrow, a length of street lined with artsy-looking storefronts and food places. Compound that narrowness with bunches of roses, tulips, hydrangeas, herbs and general greenery on each side of the road and you’ve got a bottleneck maze that reminded me of Ottawa on Canada Day. There was live music every block, from an accordionist playing the main theme of “Amelie” to a guitarist strumming and singing the “Jungle Book” song to a gathering of young families.

While the flowers were predictably gorgeous, one of my favourite parts was something Ariel warned me of ahead of time: the flower sellers with thick Cockney accents peddling their wares onto the hordes of people. It was like Adele had been multiplied into an army of florists, their voices ringing in tandem across the crowd. Though I’m trying not to journalism-out this trip (it is my vacation, after all), I just know I’m going to return next Sunday, microphone in hand. You have to hear it to believe it.

The Cockney florists put their booming voices to use when a mother and father lost track of their 10-year-old daughter, Alice. The concerned parents were yelling out her name, at which time the flower vendors took up their cause. “Oy! Everyone stop for a moment! We’re looking for a little girl, Alice. She’s wearing a cream jumper and red leggings!” This amplified across the market, the vendors passing down the message in an intricate game of “Telephone.” Ariel, Nat and I didn’t stick around for long enough to see a resolution to the search, but I hope with all my heart Alice was found.

While ducking out to avoid the crowd, Nat and I also discovered a sewing shop that sold an assortment of all things Hilary: pastel-coloured buttons, assorted packs of ribbons, fat quarters, other fabric… We bought two packs of ribbon for 10 quid, and have already re-fashioned some of them into DIY watch bands (coincidentally my $10 vintage watch broke in two places just this morning). As Nat put it, “you’ve only been here for a day and we’ve already made a craft.”

Much more to explore…but tonight, we’re relaxing at the first of what promises to be a marathon of pub visits. Cheers!