"Setting out on the voyage to Ithaca you must pray that the way be long, full of adventures and experiences."
- Constantine Peter Cavafy "Ithaca"
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©2008 W. Ruth Kozak

A friend and I set off on a weekend road trip across the US border from Vancouver BC to visit some historic locations in Washington State. Our fun-filled road trip lasted four days and every moment of it was a special delight. If you are visiting the Pacific Northwest it’s worth taking the trip.
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Driving north from Palma on the MA13, towards the Castello d’Alaro, the Tramantuna mountain range instantly alters any preconceptions tourists have of this island of Mallorca. The surrounding rural countryside is frequented, for the most part, only by intrepid cyclists practicing for La Tour.
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This little Western European country surely packs a punch. It is a country with a long and rich history, with cities dating from Roman times, ancient battlefields and a phenomenal cuisine. The country’s most well-known export products all have to do with food: waffles, beer and chocolate.
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We crested the knoll and were rewarded. Below us ran drift-wood artistry crafted along the tanned body of a broad beach welcoming the incoming tide. Not a soul in sight. Welcome to Savary Island; originally named “Ayhus” by the Sliammon (Tla'amin) First Nation people, meaning double-headed serpent.
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Fine red powder coats the dashboard, floor and seats of the Toyota Ipsum as our team of twelve Vancouverites bounce along the rutted road from the Rwandan border to Kabale. Terraced, fertile fields and banana palms dwarf the one-room, mud houses that cluster at crossroads.
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Some thirty years ago I repeated a walk when on holiday with family in Yorkshire, which I had done often in my teens. Yorkshire, a lovely county and a favourite of mine, allows easy access to lovely dales and outstanding moorland and to the wilds of Northumberland and Cumbria.
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In 1967 I was working in London. To me, London Bridge was an unremarkable piece of masonry blackened by 136 years of coal smoke belching from London chimneys but I found the idea of selling the bridge quite bizarre. Who on earth, I wondered, would buy this dirty pile of old stones?
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What does it mean to be a descendant of war veterans? Do I carry their torch, as poet-soldier Dr. John McCrae, suggested in ‘Flanders Fields’? Do I carry it high and not break faith? The summer of 2012, my husband and I went to Bayeux, Normandy.
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