The oldest town in British Columbia hosted the annual Cranberry Festival on the Saturday of Thanksgiving weekend. Fort Langley, situated on the banks of the Fraser River that is. And I am not talking about pop-festival here with an exclusive performance of 'The Cranberries', the Irish rock band
from Limerick. Although I must confess that I spotted a few people walking around like 'zombies'. Just like The Cranberries' describe in the lyrics of their same-named song. This most likely also was the reason why the RCMP kept an eye on things. Thanks to the beautiful weather, which looked not so bright earlier that day, people came in droves to attend the festivities. And to walk their dogs. Or giraffe.
But at the heart of the festival there were cranberries. Lots of them. And rightfully so because the name of the festival would otherwise have been rather a silly choice.
The festival did not end with a line up of stalls where a plethora of goodies were offered, as I found out when I had reached the end of the seemingly endless line. There was a boat-race held on the Fraser River. Not like the ones with powerful motorized skiffs, navigated by people 'well passed their teens but unwilling to admit it'. Nope, these boats were propelled by 'elbow grease'. Not much of a thing when paddling downstream but different altogether when paddling upstream. It came as no surprise that the place was rife with real blokes and girls and that the faint hearted were altogether absent.
'Paddlers to be' were obviously anticipating a hefty exercise as I saw them moving frantically to warm up their muscles. Eventually however, they all ended up in their Canadian canoes, bobbing on the waves of the Fraser River.
To me the race itself was more of an obstacle race. All the boats were directed to the starting line downstream of the bridge over the river.
Shortly after the paddlers started stirring the water with their paddles, orders were shouted to throw pumpkins of the bridge. Yep, pumpkins. I was also asked to throw one down but not to aim for the canoes. A pity I think as it would have made things a lot easier for the paddlers. Every boat had to pick a pumpkin up whilst 'speeding' towards the turning point some 500 m upstream.
The boats then had to return to the starting line, once more passing under the bridge. This was a piece of cake as it was all downstream now and no pumpkins had to be scooped out of the water. But there was another task to be accomplished. The boats had to paddle to the shore, where a lovely lady was 
awaiting them. Or waiving at them I must say. Once the boat was beached one crew member, with paddle, had to get out and was given a glass of cranberry juice. Balancing the glass on the paddle the crew member then had to 'run' to another lady some 100 m away, hand over the cranberry juice and receive in return a bag of cranberries to be taken by boat to the finish line. The crew member had to jump back in the boat as well.
The finish line was situated upstream of course. Which I thought was a good way to separate the men from the boys, and the females from the girls.
Many paddlers were looking quite sweaty, could hardly stand on their feet and had a bewildered look in their eyes when they finally got back on 'terra firma' after finishing their heat of the Pumpkin Race. How aptly named.
Someone I did not expect to find climbing out of a boat was a Viking. Not this far up the river and not in this day and age. The only Vikings that can be found around here nowadays are called Nilfisk. And they suck...
from Limerick. Although I must confess that I spotted a few people walking around like 'zombies'. Just like The Cranberries' describe in the lyrics of their same-named song. This most likely also was the reason why the RCMP kept an eye on things. Thanks to the beautiful weather, which looked not so bright earlier that day, people came in droves to attend the festivities. And to walk their dogs. Or giraffe. But at the heart of the festival there were cranberries. Lots of them. And rightfully so because the name of the festival would otherwise have been rather a silly choice.
The festival did not end with a line up of stalls where a plethora of goodies were offered, as I found out when I had reached the end of the seemingly endless line. There was a boat-race held on the Fraser River. Not like the ones with powerful motorized skiffs, navigated by people 'well passed their teens but unwilling to admit it'. Nope, these boats were propelled by 'elbow grease'. Not much of a thing when paddling downstream but different altogether when paddling upstream. It came as no surprise that the place was rife with real blokes and girls and that the faint hearted were altogether absent.
'Paddlers to be' were obviously anticipating a hefty exercise as I saw them moving frantically to warm up their muscles. Eventually however, they all ended up in their Canadian canoes, bobbing on the waves of the Fraser River. To me the race itself was more of an obstacle race. All the boats were directed to the starting line downstream of the bridge over the river.
Shortly after the paddlers started stirring the water with their paddles, orders were shouted to throw pumpkins of the bridge. Yep, pumpkins. I was also asked to throw one down but not to aim for the canoes. A pity I think as it would have made things a lot easier for the paddlers. Every boat had to pick a pumpkin up whilst 'speeding' towards the turning point some 500 m upstream.
The boats then had to return to the starting line, once more passing under the bridge. This was a piece of cake as it was all downstream now and no pumpkins had to be scooped out of the water. But there was another task to be accomplished. The boats had to paddle to the shore, where a lovely lady was awaiting them. Or waiving at them I must say. Once the boat was beached one crew member, with paddle, had to get out and was given a glass of cranberry juice. Balancing the glass on the paddle the crew member then had to 'run' to another lady some 100 m away, hand over the cranberry juice and receive in return a bag of cranberries to be taken by boat to the finish line. The crew member had to jump back in the boat as well. The finish line was situated upstream of course. Which I thought was a good way to separate the men from the boys, and the females from the girls.
Many paddlers were looking quite sweaty, could hardly stand on their feet and had a bewildered look in their eyes when they finally got back on 'terra firma' after finishing their heat of the Pumpkin Race. How aptly named. Someone I did not expect to find climbing out of a boat was a Viking. Not this far up the river and not in this day and age. The only Vikings that can be found around here nowadays are called Nilfisk. And they suck...
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