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| The Ottawa Journal, February 24 1971 |
This whimsical drawing of a boy climbing Nanny Goat is the work of "Dow", who was for many years the in-house go-to illustrator at The Ottawa Journal. I was introduced to him by a friend with a Yorkshire accent, which led me to misunderstand that "Del" was a cartoonist at the Journal in addition to the man who signed his work "Dow". But no, there was no Del, just Dow.
I can't find any biographical notes on the man and somehow I'm not surprised. Dow (I never learned his real name) was not a prized ornament at social gatherings. Pale-skinned and scrawny, he looked to be past his best-before date by the time we met. His gaze was furtive, his gait a hunched scurry. Long, thinning (once blond?) hair framed a bespectacled face dominated by a nose so distorted and bulbous (rosacea?) that even the charitable viewer would wonder "Can't they can just cut the damned thing off?" I can picture him climbing aboard a Bank Street bus wearing a grimy trench-coat, though this last detail may be a false memory.
Appearance notwithstanding. Dow was a gift to the Journal and to the people of Ottawa. Almost every day one, sometimes two of his drawings would give pause and make thousands of us smile. Dow wasn't interested in skewering politicians, or anyone for that matter. His subjects were most often local "human interest" stories. Dow was sharp observer of people — his quick, sure lines rendered his characters with kindness and affection, often mid-gesture. Shoulders would pivot, glances were bewildered, smiles knowing — children ran and cars screeched, objects flew through the air. Dow's little pictures always drew the reader's eye to whatever story he'd been asked to illustrate. And after you'd read the story, you would always go back to his drawing and nod. And like I said, smile.
The above drawing (taken from the Journal's "Be Heard" feature) illustrates the ideas that 1) there were indeed goats on the hill and that 2) the area's northwestern escarpment was and is a climb best left the young and the athletic, or to goats. Regarding item #1, anyone who has seen John Taylor's Ottawa, An Illustrated History will remember the lovely period watercolor he chose for the cover. It shows several head of cattle being driven past Parliament Hill and toward the Dufferin Bridge on their way to the Byward Market. If we once had cattle on the east end of Wellington Street, goats on the west end shouldn't surprise us.
Unlike so many of Ottawa's place names therefore, "Nanny Goat Hill" recognises neither royalty nor peerage nor community prominence. It simply recalls a farm animal scampering up and down a cliff.
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I first met with the "Nanny Goat Hill" name some time in the mid-to-late 1970s. This was when Sunday brunch was still considered a cutting-edge fashion statement, a see-and-be-seen affair — eggs Benedict, croissants and fruit salad, servers scurrying to refill bottomless café au lait, mimosas and, for the truly piss-elegant, a Kir Royale or two.
Every so often, the in crowd would decamp en masse to the next hot venue. This migration typically played out over three weekends. The avant garde would sniff out the new bistro or whatever on the first Sunday, the Beautiful People would flock to it on the second, and the sad-sack wannabes would trickle in on the third.
It was in the prelude to one such hejira that a friend and brunch avant-gardiste invited me to tag along and sample the Sunday scene at a new restaurant... something something Nanny Goat Hill something whatever. The eatery had opened in a newly completed commercial building on the north side of Somerset, not far from Bronson (a bit west of, I think) and set on an actual slope. I can't find the building any more. Did it burn down? At any rate, my friend judged the food, the decor and the clientele to be blandness incarnate and not worth a second visit. I had to agree.
Not long afterward, a handful of us were invited to what became known as "Stephanie's Human Curry Luncheon" at her townhouse just off Island Park Drive (a peculiar story for another time). Well settled in at a long teak table, we looked forward to our main course, getting rather too sloshed on Beaujolais Noveau as the early winter sun streamed into the dining room. Someone mentioned "that Nanny Goat Hill restaurant" — "Why yes, we've been there" my friend piped up. flashing me an eager smile, "and trust me, don't bother!" Conversation turned to the restaurant's peculiar name as Stephanie wafted into the room, uncorking a crisp Chardonnay ("to sober us up") and pointed out that "it's a real name. The hill. It's called that." Which, frankly, was more than anyone else present that day could offer.
If this anecdote seems as pointless as it is gratuitous. well that's my point. Between Dow's drawing of a cliff, the position of the Nanny Goat Hill Community Garden at the corner of Bronson and Laurier, and that of an erstwhile restaurant on Somerset Street, the whereabouts of our neighbourhood is drifting into focus.
On the other hand, the conversation at Stephanie's luncheon demonstrates that compared to, say Rockcliffe or Barrhaven or even Old Ottawa East, most Ottawans had/have little idea of what a Nanny Goat Hill is, nor as the francos among us might say, ce que ça mange en hiver. Well, we have all winter to find out.
