We didn’t make any elaborate summer vacation plans this year. We live in a seaside village. Why leave the Deep Cove beaches and popsicle shop during a glorious Vancouver summer? Let’s wait for that grey wet stretch between October and March, and then consider skipping town.
Pete’s parents came out for two weeks at the end of August, and we did jump over to Parksville (on the east side of Vancouver Island) for five days. I love Pacific Northwest beaches. I’ll take pinecones and grey moody waters over hot white sand and palm trees three days out of five.
Deep Cove has mountains hulking over it and short rocky beaches. There’s nothing subtle about it. Parksville has sandy beaches that stretch on forever, and discrete coastal mountains on the horizon. It’s very demure.
We rented side-by-side cabins for us and the in-laws. The kids rode bikes and collected sand dollars. My father-in-law mastered Instagram and I read Emily Carr. We ate at our favourite Indian restaurant, watched the salmon run, visited Cathedral Grove in the rain and hopscotched over to Hornby Island for an afternoon.
It was Emily Carr's The Book of Small that I had with me, in which she writes about her childhood experiences in Victoria in the late 1800s. It’s a delightful read, remote enough to be fascinating and current enough to be recognizable.
“The waters of the Straits were icy. Occasionally we were allowed to put on white cotton nightgowns and go bathing in the sea. Your body went down, the nightgown stayed up, icy cold bit through your skin. At the first plunge you had no breath left; when it came back it was in screeches that out-screamed the seagulls.”
- p 104
“I was a very small girl when the business men of Victoria chartered a steamer and . . . made a tour of Vancouver Island. It took the boat, the Princess Louise, ten days to go all round the Island . . . Father was overwhelmed by the terrific density of growth on the Island. Once when they were tied up for three hours he and another man took axes and tried to see how far they could penetrate into the woods in a given time. When the ship’s whistle blew they were exhausted and dripping with sweat but their attack on the dense undergrowth scarcely showed. Father told of the magnificent trees, of their closeness to each other, of the strangling undergrowth, the great silence, the quantity of bald-headed eagles. . . . Great white owls flew silently among the trees like ghosts, and, too, they had seen bears and whales.”
- p 109
Reading about her own pleasure in these very woods and waters underscored my own.
Above left | Cathedral Grove.
Others above | Salmon run at Stamp Falls Provincial Park. See the little guy that didn't make it, on the ledge? There's a parable in there somewhere.
Below | Tribune Bay, Hornby Island.
We've been back a few weeks, and it's that crossover time of year when the burgeoning front hall closet has boots and flip-flops, sunglasses and toques. The kids are back in school (Grades 8, 5, 3 and preschool), we're into our annual fall surge of refugees at the clinic, and Pete's putting in a tonne of fourth quarter traveling.
But if we're returning to routines, so is everyone else - which means that with summer's end, Deep Cove beaches are handed back over to the locals.