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Opened in 1971, Ontario Place was built as a theme park to highlight the province of Ontario with exhibits showcasing its unique features. In 2012, the park closed for redevelopment, and has changed from a theme park into a free public park filled with walking trails.
In 1967 the International and Universal Exposition was held in Montreal. The government of Ontario set up a pavilion that was so successful that they decided to create a permanent showcase of the province. The park was announced in 1968, and opened in 1971. It was designed by the architect Eberhard Zeidler and built directly into Lake Ontario, anchored by a chain of three manmade islands, representing an incredible feat of engineering.
In the past, the complex served as a Children's Village playground and water park as well as an exhibition hall. It contains a concert amphitheatre, known today as the Budweiser Stage, and movie theater, known as the Cinesphere, that are both still in use.
Starting in 2012, the park closed for several years while a number of changes were introduced. It reopened in 2017 with the addition of a new walking path. Today, the majority of the complex has been turned into a public walking park where guests can stroll along the waterfront and admire the decaying 70s futuristic architecture and explore the remnants of the old theme park.
Nearly a decade ago, a shipment of several hundred globes from Hillside, Illinois, arrived at a port in Chile. There was nothing inherently wrong with them—they were round, depicted Earth with some measure of accuracy, and would have passed muster almost anywhere else—but customs officials sent them right back to Replogle Globes, the United States–based manufacturer. The problem was that the maps on them didn’t fit with Chile’s view of the world, which includes Chilean dominion over certain disputed territories—claims that are likely of little to no concern to most other nations. “It’s funny, what we find is [one country] usually doesn’t care about anything outside that country,” says Kevin Dzurny, chief cartographer at Replogle, of the company’s international customers. “But I’ll be darned if that political border isn’t showing.”
Dzurny is responsible for the accuracy of the maps on the hundreds of thousands of globes Replogle sells in 100 different countries every year. When he was hired at Replogle 27 years ago, Google Maps was more than a decade away. Replogle had not yet hit its all-time sales peak, which would come in the fourth quarter of 2001, in the wake of 9/11. At that time, at school and at home, globes, atlases, and paper maps were how we made sense of the world’s geography and scale. Now, in an age when you can “walk” down streets in a web browser and pinpoint any place in the world in a matter of seconds, globes, particularly in America, are becoming less primary references than decorative objects. “In a lot of schools, globes will be sitting there for 15 years, which blows my mind,” Dzurny says. “Geography here is not as important as it used to be.”
But abroad, in many of the other countries where Replogle sells globes, they’re still in use in classrooms, according to Dzurny—often in countries where territorial conflicts are ongoing or fresh in the national consciousness. “Geography overseas—in China and Japan, Serbia, places like that—is huge,” Dzurny says. “They teach it and they enforce it and they want people to learn about the geography of the world, not just their country.” For countries such as Chile, a globe can be something more than decorative or even educational—it can be an expression of national identity, a manifestation of pride and a certain geopolitical view of the world. As the company’s lead mapmaker, Dzurny is responsible for plotting and tracking these variant takes of the world, and making sure that the right globe is made for the right country.
Such geopolitical reconfiguring has always been a part of the business at Replogle, which was founded by former school supply salesman Luther Replogle at the start of the Great Depression, and blossomed during World War II as President Roosevelt encouraged listeners to “get out your globe” during his fireside chats. As Dzurny’s predecessor LeRoy Tolman, who worked at the company for 44 years, told The Wall Street Journal in 1986: “The customer’s not always right. But he’s always a customer.”
Let’s take those Chile-bound globes, for example. Any globe acceptable to Chile’s National Department of State Borders and Boundaries must include the country’s territorial claim in Antarctica, which overlaps with both British and Argentine claims. It also must denote a maritime claim that dates back to the 19th-century War of the Pacific, in which Chile won land from Peru and Bolivia, and later claimed a large portion of the bountiful fishing waters off the southern coast of Peru, though the maritime borders were not officially resolved at the time. In 2014 the International Court of Justice in The Hague ruled in favor of Peru, removing 8,000 square miles of ocean from Chile’s claim—but not from its globes. “Chile supplies us with the actual dimensions of the maritime line and the latitude and longitude and direction of that maritime line,” Dzurny says.
Dzurny confirms country-specific adjustments with the relevant government agencies in those countries, but mistakes still happen—“99.999 percent of the time, an error in shipping,” he says. The globes shipped to Chile were in Spanish, but did not include the approved cartography. So back they went.
Chile is one of 11 countries—along with Japan, China, Argentina, Turkey, India, Pakistan, Greece, Israel, Ukraine, and Russia—that require special cartography from Replogle. “In order to sell globes in those particular countries, you have to abide by the rules and regulations of that country,” Dzurny says. “It’s kind of a joke, but in some sense, I almost feel like I could start a war.”
A current hot-button example is Kashmir, the predominantly Muslim Himalayan territory claimed by both India and Pakistan. In August 2019 the Indian government revoked Kashmir’s special status as an autonomous region, sent in thousands of troops, and cut off all phone and internet access in the region. In the next three months, “I probably got 15 calls on Kashmir,” Dzurny says, noting that both American and Indian customers have inquired about how Replogle depicts the region. The answer depends on where you’re seeing the globe. For globes sold to India, he says, “we have to make sure that our borders comply with the government of India,” and show Kashmir within its borders. Otherwise, Dzurny defaults to the Central Intelligence Agency’s World Factbook take, which places dotted lines around the region so as not to demarcate it as belonging to a particular country.
In China, globes have to show Taiwan as part of the larger People’s Republic, using the same coloring as the mainland. They also depict the Nine-Dash Line, a claim to a significant portion of the South China Sea, where countries including Malaysia, Brunei, the Philippines, and Taiwan have also asserted territory—and a claim on which The Hague has ruled China has no legal standing. (In early October 2019, the border appeared on a map in the animated movie Abominable, causing Vietnam and Malaysia to pull the movie from theaters.) “If you don’t include these zones, these lines, you definitely won’t be able to sell globes in China,” Dzurny says.
The cartographer isn’t bothered by making these changes, and the world views they reinforce. “Do I have any political stance? Not really, I mean I couldn't have one in this job, in a sense. It’s about trying to get our product out there to help people learn,” he says. “You can't just say, ‘China's wrong for teaching [their view] or India’s wrong for teaching about Kashmir.' That's their policy ... it's no different than what we do here.”
To Dzurny’s point, the United States Board on Geographic Names (BGN), a federal body that works with the Secretary of the Interior to implement uniform name usage throughout the federal government, and which Dzurny relies on as a key reference, is strongly influenced by American policy. As Trent Palmer, the BGN's executive secretary for foreign names explains, “Because we’re a part of the U.S. government, we need to present a unified U.S. government position on foreign places, which gets into foreign policy.” The Foreign Names Committee is comprised of about 15 members from various federal agencies, including the State Department, CIA, and Library of Congress. “The State Department may have a position about something, and in order to be consistent with that foreign policy, it will result in a certain name being the one BGN authorizes for use,” Palmer explains, leading to name choices that can be controversial, such as the Sea of Japan (disputed by Korea) or the Persian Gulf (which Arab countries call the “Arabian Gulf”). “Names are very powerful.”
Though globes are increasingly less common, Dzurny says that over the past decade he’s noticed an increase in geographic awareness, and particular attention to out-of-date borders, naming, or mistakes. More customers, it seems, have been calling in to complain. “People are more aware of updates to maps than 10, 12 years ago,” he says. “It seems like people follow more politically what’s going on in the world.”
Now that Google Maps becomes the world’s most influential cartographer (so influential, in fact, that in 2010, Nicaragua used a border error as an excuse to invade Costa Rica), Replogle has maintained its business by focusing on globes as artifacts, relics that, unlike Google’s ostensibly real-time and agnostic digital maps, capture the geopolitical moment of their making and the design sense of the customer. For example, Replogle CEO Joe Wright notes that the Frank Lloyd Wright Series, which offers stands based on the architect’s aesthetic, is currently “enjoying a resurgence in Japan.” Presumably those globes also include that country’s claim to four of the Kuril Islands—part of a dispute with Russia that dates back to 1945.
Dzurny understands the current lay of the land. “I keep the cartography up to date,” he says, “but most people just care what it looks like.”
In the medieval city of Kamakura, Zeniarai Benten (officially Zeniarai Benzaiten Ugafuku Shrine) is one of the most popular spots in spite of its relatively small scale. This is largely due to the belief that coins will miraculously multiply when washed in the spring waters in the shrine’s cave.
Zeniarai Benten was allegedly founded in 1185 by the order of Minamoto no Yoritomo, the first shōgun of the Kamakura shogunate. Legend has it that on the Day of the Snake, in the Month of the Snake, in the Year of the Snake, Yoritomo had a dream that led him to a mystical spring, after which he established a shrine dedicated to Uga-jin, the mysterious deity (kami) often depicted in the form of a human-headed serpent.
Some shrines, like this one, traditionally merge Uga-jin and Benten or Benzaiten, the Buddhist-Shinto river goddess known as Sarasvati back in India, creating a syncretic god. Both deities are associated with money and fortune, and Benzaiten is said to be the master of snakes, perhaps inspired by the serpentine flows of rivers and streams.
Surrounded by steep cliffs, the grounds are accessible only by a tunnel dug during World War II today. A few small shrines and dozens of tori’i arches stand there, but most visitors will sooner or later be drawn to the okumiya, or inner shrine, founded in the aforementioned cave. There are wicker bowls and wooden dippers inside, which the visitors are free to use to douse the contents of their wallets in sacred water. Some people wash not only coins but banknotes, lottery tickets and even credit cards, wishing to receive good luck. In such cases, a little drop of the water is said to be sufficient.
After one has washed their money in the cave, some recommend keeping it in the wallet for good luck, inspired by the folk belief that coins can’t stand loneliness and that they need company or a guardian. According to the shrine, on the other hand, spending the cleansed money will bring more fortune. Whichever suggestion you believe, and whether you believe the whole thing in the first place or not, it won’t hurt to visit this charming shrine and try the miraculous money-washing when you’re in Kamakura.
Located in north Bremen not far from the North Sea, Bunker Valentin was constructed to rapidly produce submarines for the Nazi war effort. It's believed more than 10,000 people were forced to work on the monumental bunker and surrounding infrastructure. The plans called for a combination of a submarine yard, protected by a huge bunker covering the whole assembly area.
In late March 1945, a British air raid hit the western roof of the facility damaging it beyond repair. This occurred just before plans were underway to secure the roof from such raids.
The labor force at the bunker was comprised of civil workers, but a majority of the population were forced laborers from the nearby concentration camps. During and after construction, more than 6,000 laborers died either from harsh working conditions or the death marches that followed a day's work.
In 1960, the Ministry of Defense of the new Federal Republic of Germany decided to use the bunker as a depot for the navy. By 1960, they had renovated the still-intact eastern part of the bunker, and the whole site became a closed-off military zone under the name, Navy Material Depot, Subunit Wilhelmshaven. The navy constructed a partition wall between the ruined western and eastern sections of the bunker, splitting the former assembly hall into two.
First access to the facility was granted during the 1990s, when the German navy allowed survivors and relatives behind the fences.
At the beginning of 2011, the bunker was transferred to the group Denkort Bunker Valentin, which transformed the site into the museum and memorial seen today.
Since the days of the Roman empire, alum was used as a mordant or fixative that allowed textiles to be colored using vegetable dyes. The manufacturing of alum was largely controlled by a Papal monopoly, and after the Reformation in England, the supply was interrupted. This forced the process of dying textiles to be outsourced.
Alum was made, in part, from extracting shale, then burning mounds of it for up to nine months. During the 16th century, Thomas Challone found that fossils in shale along the Yorkshire coast were the same as those found in alum producing areas of Italy. An alum producing industry was thus established in the region.
The process of creating alum involved mixing leachate with aged human urine to provide ammonium, and roasted kelp for potassium. Massive amounts of urine were required, and public urinals were specifically established in Hull for alum production.
It was said that barrels of urine also came from as far away as Newcastle by boat and were hauled up the cliff by a tramway. It's estimated that some 200 tons of urine was used per year at the height of the alum industry. The tramway was also used to lower barrels of alum down to the boats.
This site at Ravenscar is one of the best-preserved remnants of this once important industry. It began to slowly lose steam around the mid 19th century when synthetic alum became available. When aniline dyes were invented a few years later, the mordant was no longer required. The last alum works in the region closed around 1871.
The site is under the protection of the National Trust.
When Nicole LaBouff and Emily Beck first decided to create a modern version of plague water, the potent herbal liquor that early-modern Europeans believed could help prevent epidemics, they had no idea how contemporary their experiment would soon prove. It was spring 2018, two years before a novel coronavirus would lead to the worst global pandemic in a century, and LaBouff was looking for a way to illuminate 18th-century French nightlife.
LaBouff is Associate Curator of Textiles at the Minneapolis Institute of Art (MIA), whose holdings include 18th-century period rooms from Paris and Providence, Rhode Island. She wanted to create sensory experiences to bring these rooms to life for a contemporary audience. “What we’re trying to do is get people to understand that real people lived here,” she says. One day she wondered: Why not try booze?
So LaBouff turned to Emily Beck, an Assistant Curator at the University of Minnesota’s Wangensteen Historical Library who specializes in historical recipes. While modern doctors tend to think of food and medicine as distinct categories, for much of human history—and in many cultures today—the two categories were interchangeable. Early-modern European cookbooks were mostly costly, handwritten tomes found in elite households (most people couldn’t read or afford books). They had guides to making everything from poultry to poultices, from pickles to plague water. “I often describe them as early-modern Pinterest, because it’s basically recipes for anything you can think of,” says Beck.
Consisting of dozens of herbs distilled in alcohol, plague waters were a common feature of these cookbooks. Medieval doctors, part of the Galenic medical tradition, believed that illness was caused by imbalanced bodily humors triggered by “miasma,” or foul-smelling air. Aromatics, such as the herbs in plague water, were believed to help counter these smells. A plague outbreak in 1666 England, which killed 750,000 people, reinforced the need for households to be prepared. Even by the 1700s, when boozy nightlife was heating up Parisian parlors, the legacy of regular, catastrophic sickness meant that recipes for plague water shared cookbook pages with more festive intoxicants.
Many early-modern Europeans, says Marissa Nicosia, a Penn State scholar of 17th-century English recipes, made their own plague water in household distilleries, from gardened or foraged herbs. (Nicosia wasn’t involved in the MIA project, but recently did her own research on plague water recipes.) Recipes could call for dozens of different herbs; the one Nicosia recently posted, from 1670s England, called for 27 different herbs, including rue, wormwood, mugwort, and something called “dragons.” The recipe on which Beck and LaBouff hoped to base their recreation, meanwhile, called for two dozen herbs and herbal infusions, including green walnuts, elderflower, juniper berries, and “Venice treacle,” an early-modern apothecary cure that included viper’s flesh, skink bellies, and opium.
When Beck and LaBouff set out to replicate plague water recipes, they realized that—unlike early-modern Europeans—they could not try this at home. Home distillation is illegal in the United States, and the daunting list of aromatics wasn’t available in the grocery store.
The historians turned to Dan Oskey, founder of Tattersall Distilling in Minneapolis, to recreate the drinks. Oskey, LaBouff, and Beck combed hundreds of historical recipes, settling on several sweeter, more straightforward options, such as pear ratafia, a fruity cordial, and milk punch, a rum-based brew that had fortified transatlantic sailors. Plague water was the most complicated. When Oskey encountered the recipe’s old-fashioned language, he says, his first reaction was, “What the heck does that mean?”
So Oskey and the two scholars embarked on some culinary detective work. First, they had to figure out which herbs the recipe actually meant. “The name might have changed over time, or it might have been a region-specific name from 400 years ago,” says Oskey. Then, they struggled with historical recipes’ notorious imprecision. “We were trying to determine, What’s a handful? Was it fresh? Was it dry?” he says. A more serious roadblock: Some of the ingredients were unavailable, not approved for human consumption, or even poisonous. A 1667 recipe from The London Distiller, for example, called for ambergris, an aromatic substance that comes from whale intestines. A 1670s recipe, from a home English Cookery and Medicine Book, called for pennyroyal, an English herb since shown to cause liver damage.
“There was a lot of improvising,” says LaBouff. After months of trial-and-error—dropping the Venice treacle, and substituting the herb lepidium for unethical ambergris—modern-day plague water was born. The drink was aromatic and bitter, a “big, fresh, green herb flavor,” says Oskey. “It has this kind of mushroomy, umami quality to it,” says LaBouff. The team unveiled the elixir at the Tattersall Cocktail Room at a March 2019 fete. Guests milled around to music, snacking on early-modern English pastries and sipping milk punch. At the time, the reality of pandemic seemed so distantly historical that the event’s starring cocktail was whimsically dubbed “Plague Party.”
A year later, Tattersall’s cavernous Cocktail Room is empty. The distillery has shut its public-facing operations in accordance with social-distancing guidelines, the result of a pandemic that past party guests likely couldn’t have imagined. Tattersall's distilling rooms, however, are frenetic. Every morning for the past few weeks, while many Twin Cities residents shelter at home, employees enter the premises, keeping a six-foot distance from one another. They work 12-hour days to make a modern version of plague water: hand sanitizer.
Tattersall has converted its facility to make isopropyl alcohol, rather than the ethanol of drinking liquor, for first responders, homeless shelters, and other public services. It’s part of a public-spirited attempt by distilleries around the U.S. to augment the country’s dire lack of medical supplies. The demand for hand sanitizer is so high, says Oskey, that even after producing more than 9,000 gallons of the stuff in the past week, the company still faces a backlog. “Everybody needs it and wants it,” says Oskey. “We can’t keep up.”
There’s an irony, of course, to Tattersall’s transition from artisanal plague water to mass-produced hand sanitizer. While drinking the herbal alcohol likely didn’t help prevent plague, the medieval apothecaries who connected distilling to public health were onto something. They just didn’t realize that rather than drinking alcohol, they could have been using it to clean their hands.
LaBouff finds a kind of comfort in the sudden, uncanny relevance of her research. “It does get you to forge this empathetic connection with people in the past,” she says. “Being in the midst of it now, you experience it in a whole new way.”
“It’s almost an attempt to try to take control over a situation that doesn’t make sense,” Beck says of historic plague water recipes. She sees similar meaning-making attempts today, as COVID-19 throws daily routines, and deeper certainties, into question. “Can I still go to the grocery store? Do I have to quarantine my mail?” Beck asks. “It’s so unclear to people.”
In the midst of this uncertainty, we turn, as our ancestors have always done, to what is familiar and fortifying: food and booze. While both the MIA and public health officials advise against heavy drinking—excessive alcohol use can weaken the immune system and increase vulnerability to COVID-19—plague water recipes reveal that, in times of social crisis, humans have long sought a stiff drink. If you do find yourself having a cocktail while sheltering in place, you’re in good company. “Drinking throughout the day?” says LaBouff. “People were doing that in the 18th century, too.”
From Tattersall Distilling and the Minneapolis Institute of Art
• 1 ounce Green Chartreuse (substitute for Plague Water)
• ½ ounce Becherovka (substitute for Aqua Mirabilis)
• ½ ounce pineapple juice
• ¼ ounce honey sage syrup
• ¼ ounce lemon juice
Honey Sage Syrup: In a saucepan, add 1 cup honey, 1 cup water, and 1 tablespoon fresh sage roughly chopped. Cook on medium, stirring until simmering. Reduce heat and simmer five minutes. Cool and strain.
Combine Honey Sage Syrup and remaining ingredients with ice. Shake. Strain. Pour in coupe glass. Garnish with lime wheel.
You can see the MIA and Tattersall’s full selection of historical recipes online at Alcohol’s Empire. Public service providers in Minnesota can request Tattersall hand sanitizer through the All Hands site.
As we’re all learning these days, not all hibernations are happy ones. Some are punctuated with boredom, bad sleep, and morose, empty food stores. Cave bears could relate. Turns out their long hibernations—combined with their veggie-heavy diets and spacious sinuses—may have been what caused their demise.
Alejandro Pérez-Ramos, a paleobiologist at the University of Malaga in Spain and lead author of a new study published in the journal Science Advances, says that cave bears developed big sinuses to help them hibernate for long periods of time. But evolution giveth and evolution taketh away: In doing so, the bears’ capacity to chew with their front teeth was impaired.
Bears are famously omnivorous animals, known for their spectacular fish-farming on salmon runs and their deft tree-clambering to access acorns, berries, and, of course, honey. But cave bears were different. A species that could grow up to 50 percent larger than today’s grizzly bears, they spent most of their time indoors, sequestered in the many caves of Europe, before going extinct at the height of the last Ice Age, about 25,000 years ago.
A prevailing theory posits that humans seeking shelter in those caves are what threatened the bears’ homesteads and survival. Now, Pérez-Ramos’s team suggests a second culprit: The cave bears’ large sinuses, they say, prevented the animals from acclimating to a frigid world with fewer greens.
Using 3D computer simulations of different feeding scenarios, the team analyzed how the bites of 12 different bear species distributed strain across their skulls. Cave bears, with their large frontal sinuses—which may have promoted hunkering down to hibernate—held most of their chew power in their molars (good for fibrous foods, as is the case with pandas).
Cave bears are thought to have hibernated for longer periods than their modern relatives, due to those long Ice Age winters. Pérez-Ramos says that while their large sinus area helped make their hibernation efficient, their sparse diet could have led them to run out of fat reserves during their months-long slumber.
When the Ice Age reached its peak chill—a time when temperatures plunged to 10 degrees lower than today’s average—it changed what was on the environmental menu. Vegetation couldn’t grow and fuel the ecosystem’s meat-eschewing habitants. While other predators could hunt down prey and satisfy their protein needs, cave bears were out of luck, their grinders biomechanically opposed to the meaty menu that the ecosystem was offering.
That, and the expansion of humans into Europe’s grottoes, ultimately proved too much for the lumbering cave dwellers.
While few of us can afford to doze for months on end, the fall of the cave bears is a friendly reminder to make sure your pantry is well-stocked—and not just crammed with toilet paper.
You can find the Galata House Restaurant on a dimly lit side street in Istanbul, hidden away in the shadow of the tall, unwavering silhouette of the famed Galata Tower.
But while the queue for the tower stretches many times around its base, there’s no queue for the Galata House Restaurant. Perhaps that’s because a restaurant in an old British jail, serving up cuisine that would be more at home in the former Soviet Union isn’t exactly high on most tourists’ eating lists.
Ring the doorbell and you’ll be met by one of the owners, Nadire or Mete Göktuğ. For the rest of the evening, you’ll be proudly regaled with stories of the old British jail and the history of Istanbul’s Galata neighborhood, as your hosts provide both dinner and entertainment. You’ll become so engrossed talking about the history of Istanbul as you drink Georgian wine that you’ll forget you even placed that order for Russian-style pelmeni dumplings.
The Göktuğs are Turkish, but somehow they’ve accumulated a unique menu with an Eastern European flair. Mete’s family has strong ties to the Black Sea and the far east of Turkey, where Georgian-inspired khinkali can be as commonplace as a Turkish breakfast. Over time, they’ve added Ukrainian borscht, Russian beef stroganoff, and Turkish classics such as dolma (stuffed vine leaves) to the menu.
And what does the Eastern European food have to do with the British history of the jail? Not a lot really. The Göktuğs, though, are avid historians as well as restaurateurs, and they couldn’t resist the temptation of such a historic building when it came on the market.
As you dine on soups from the Russian steppes and sip on wine from the Caucasus, the Göktuğs will delve into local history. How many centuries back you go will simply depend on how much time you have and how many other customers ring the doorbell.
As far as the historic building goes, it was commandeered by the British Consulate in the early 1900s. They needed a prison for unruly British sailors causing trouble in Galata. The prison passed into French hands, then eventually the Göktuğs purchased it in 1990, opening the Galata House Restaurant in 1999. Despite all the changes, the building has always been unofficially known as the Old British Jail, even today.
In many ways, the Galata House Restaurant is more representative of local history than a traditional Turkish restaurant might be. Despite its seeming peculiarities, this is a restaurant that fits well into the narrow, winding maze of steep streets that make up Galata.
Originally founded by the Genoese, before the Turkish had conquered what was then known as Constantinople, Galata evokes the multicultural nature of a city built at the crossroads of Europe and Asia. The Galata House Restaurant evokes this same feeling, too, and the menu has as many culinary layers as the streets of Galata have layers of history.
You may be upset to learn that the Okanagan Desert, home of the Osoyoos Indian Band and billed as Canada's "only desert," in fact receives too much rainfall to qualify as a desert. The Osoyoos-owned Nk'Mip Cellars is, however, North America's first indigenous-owned winery.
The Band owns 32,000 acres of rugged, undulating hills dotted with salty-green shrubbery, just north of the Canadian-U.S. border. It's one of the driest and hottest corners of Canada. Of this lot, some 1,350 acres are dedicated to growing grapes, a tradition that began in 1968.
While the Band has maintained vineyards for decades, selling grapes to wineries around lower British Columbia, the opening of Nk'Mip Cellars in 2002 represented the Band taking ownership of the full process. Indigenous winemakers now showcase their skills as enologists and vignerons through a class of Pinot Noirs, Merlots, Chardonnays, and a series of blends. The wines are available in their winery as well as next door at the Spirit Ridge Resort's restaurant, The Bear, The Fish, The Root, and the Berry, which specializes in indigenous cuisine and boasts a stunning view of Osoyoos Lake framed by handsome mountains.
An indigenous-owned winery producing award-winning wines from a desert-like landscape, Nk'Mip Cellars upends conceptions of Canadian culture in the best way possible.
The coastal city of Plymouth is renowned for its history of captains, kings, and pilgrims. In 1620, the Mayflower departed from its docks carrying some of the earliest British settlers to America. Thirty-two years earlier, naval commander Sir Francis Drake famously spotted the Spanish Armada approaching whilst he was playing a game of bowls on Plymouth Hoe. But Plymouth's history didn't end after the 17th century, and many locals hoped that a piece of interactive artwork installed in 2016 would attract those interested in Plymouth’s more recent history.
In 1967, on the very same limestone cliffs Francis Drake played upon, John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr, of The Beatles, rested while filming The Magical Mystery Tour. The photographer David Redfern took a photo of the musicians enjoying Plymouth Hoes’ open view of the English Channel. As well as capturing the world famous band, with a backdrop of Smeatons Tower—Plymouth’s iconic lighthouse—the image encapsulates one of the best views Plymouth has to offer.
The image, unsurprisingly, went on to become very popular, especially among local fans who often visited the location the photo was taken so they could sit where their idols once had rested. Half a century on, it is now easier than ever to find the spot, thanks to four copper bum-prints sitting on the exact spots chosen by the band in 1967.
These life-size copper prints, secured by a galvanized steel framework, are not just of backsides, but include hands and crossed legs also, allowing visitors to perfectly imitate the image of the 60s icons. Both Smeatons tower and the Tinside lido still dominate the background, completing the recreation. The prints are decorated with psychedelic and kaleidoscopic patterns, adding not only more beauty to the interactive artwork but also harking back to the era of the Beatles peak popularity.
The bum prints themselves were cast from the backsides of The Fab Beatles, a tribute band who have emulated the Beatles in style and sound for almost 30 years. The creators, Thrussell and Thrussell, reside in the local Bodmin Moor and as a company aim to bring about a sense of community ownership of the art they create. As such, they hope the photos their art helps to inspire will spread online under the hashtag #beatlebums.