Gentleman's Portion

A majestic ferry to Salt Spring Island

Diane and I are sitting at our respective desks last year, doing something tedious at our computers, when she exclaims: “Oh, how nice.” A friend, whom she hasn’t been in contact with for a while, has invited us to come and stay for a few days at her house on Salt Spring Island, off the south-east coast of Vancouver Island. Sue has long ago uprooted herself from the Toronto scene and has become a successful real estate agent on this gem of an island. We start planning our trip immediately. Early July suits everyone and we hope the island weather will have improved by then.

I’ve visited Vancouver Island many times, but Salt Spring has escaped me. The island was originally inhabited by Salishan people of various tribes, and first settled by emancipated American slaves in 1858. It was not only the first of the Gulf Islands to be settled, but also the first agricultural settlement in the Colony of Vancouver Island not owned by Hudson’s Bay Company. The Bay still doesn’t have a store there. Salt Spring, cleverly named after the island’s salt springs, was officially called Admiralty Island in 1859, after some naval chappie of the day. It reverted to the current nomenclature in 1905 or 1910, and is spelled as one word or two, depending on who you listen to. The two-word version seems preferred by the locals.

West-coast style living

And so we find ourselves on the car ferry from Swartz Bay to Fulford Harbour, the sun shining brightly. Sue has very kindly met us at the terminal, as her house is hard to find. “Brilliant weather you’ve brought with you. It’s been raining for weeks,” she says. We follow her off the ferry and around the country lanes of Salt Spring, through the village of Ganges, named after the naval chappie’s warship, and up a lane to a narrow peninsular, with exclusive and private houses. Her very west coast styled house is lovely and, with help from the friendly dog,  she installs us in a lower-level guest apartment overlooking the sea inlet of Long Harbour.

Locals take the ferry for granted

Within minutes of our arrival a sail boat glides by with barely a ripple. During our stay we sit on the deck and watch boats of all shapes and sizes come and go: posh yachts to the outpost docks of the Royal Vancouver YC; power boats and fishing boats; and two or more times a day, a huge ferry, which seems to touch the channel on either side, going to and from Pender Island. We wave at the passengers, but they can’t see us for the thickness of the trees.

Out for their evening walk

There’s a steep path down to a dock, crossed by another path worn through the underbrush by a family of deer. We see them every morning and evening, daintily picking their way through the vegetation, stopping every now and then for a nibble.  The garden, a riot of flowers, is protected by a very high net fence, more than the six feet an adult deer can easily jump. The dog is master of the garden and helps guard the flowers too.

Busy salesperson that she is, our host leaves us to explore the island during the day, and we do, discovering hidden coves, delightful beaches, and spectacular vistas in our wanderings off the beaten track. Each morning we start late with a generous foamy latté and a light breakfast or an early lunch at the Treehouse Café, a charming spot in Ganges, with the tables and chairs scattered around a huge old tree. We’re encouraged not to feed the birds, although Diane can’t help but throw a few crumbs to the sparrows. The centre of Ganges is where all the action on the island happens and, indeed, it is almost exactly in the middle of the island. There’s a good liquor store, this one still government-owned, and all the usual amenities.

Wooden lady restored

We walk down by the docks and there are hundreds of boats moored. We chat with an old salt, busily restoring a lovely wooden sailboat, still mast-less. Later, we see her cruising up the channel behind the house. She cuts through the water cleanly, and I can imagine how beautiful she will look when her mast is up and sails are rigged.

Continuing with the nautical tradition, we check out the giant buoy at the entrance to Centennial Wharf. Once a Coast Guard marker far up the coast, it’s now been adorned with a mural of life above and below the waterline. Of course, there are orcas. How could there not be?

We take our paperbacks, bought for the flight west, into Black Sheep Books and exchange them for more holiday reading material. It’s one of the best second-hand bookstores we’ve visited anywhere, and the lady behind the counter is helpful and knowledgeable. She points me to the large section of nautical history fiction, where I pick up one of my favourite Patrick O’Brian novels, with another yarn about Captain Jack Aubrey and his friend, naval physician and spy, Dr. Stephen Maturin.

There are art galleries galore to explore. Robert Bateman is a well-known Canadian artist and long-time island resident. A gallery is showing selections of his work and signed prints are for sale.

Mouat’s own a whole block and have been here forever, with hardware and grocery stores. Their clothing shop has interesting apparel for women and men. We buy clothes, naturally, since Diane can’t resist a fetching white sweater.

On our last full day on the island, there’s a Saturday Farmers’ Market in Ganges.  We graze through the food stalls, buying dirt covered organic veggies, scrumptious fruit pies, redolent fresh-baked bread and warm hand-sized quiches, which never make it back to the car. We eat them for lunch on the spot. There are artists and artisans and we admire their work, especially a man making complex mats using rope and an endless repertoire of nautical knots. I covet one, but they’re too heavy to fly home with. We walk up the road to The Fishery, a little shack selling fresh-from-the-sea fish and seafood. I can’t resist wild salmon filets, which we pan fry for supper with our colourful veggies simply steamed. Although I personally prefer Atlantic salmon, these Pacific cousins are hard to beat (See my last blog, SALMON, SIMPLY DELICIOUS).

Best friends and a girl’s best friend

Sunday morning, the weather still spectacular, we leave early for Vesuvius Bay and the ferry crossing to Crofton on Vancouver Island, and a visit with my very oldest friend, someone I’ve known since birth. That’s my next story. As we look back at the island, we appreciate the quiet life our friend has found here, the slower pace, the neighbourliness of the islanders, and naturally, the interesting local politics created when a bunch of independent free-thinkers set down roots, not forgetting the scenery.

If you want to visit Salt Spring Island there are a couple of dozen hotels and B&Bs, most with informative websites. For boaters there are several marinas and public docks around the coast in sheltered creeks.

PS: Please leave a comment if you found something useful or interesting in this story. Or please add your own experiences with these destinations for others to share. 

Perfect beach for strolling … or weddings

Nigel and a pig enjoying a dip

The young couple walking towards us from the beach at Grand Isle Resort in Great Exuma, look really cute. They’re friendly too. We stop to talk and they immediately tell us their names, Alex and Lisa, in the American style, but their accents say England. “English too?” Alex asks. To people fresh from over home, we seem to have mid-Atlantic accents. “North or south?” he continues. We laugh, as this is a continuing joke with us, Diane coming from Yorkshire and myself from London. Turns out they’re from Manchester, but they’ve been travelling for a couple of years throughout Canada, the US, Central and Latin America and now here in The Bahamas. We meet later over cocktails and they tell us about their boat trip and swimming with pigs, which we are going to do the next day (see my blogs CELEBRATING 12.12.12.12.12, December 12 and EXUMA BLUE, THE COLOUR OF HAPPY, December 22, 2012).

Then we hear about their great adventure. You can read all about Alex and Lisa on their own blog at 2people1life, but here’s the short version.

Diane, Alex and Lisa, serial weddings couple

Everywhere interesting they go, they have a wedding ceremony, and Lisa writes a lovely story about it. Wedding photographers and videographers record the highlights and they are talking to an American television production company about the possibility of a reality series. When they’ve travelled round the world, they’ll pick their favourite wedding destination and return for one last real wedding. I hope the real thing isn’t a let-down after all their exciting, different and unusual ceremonies. The next day they are planning wedding number 34 at Chat ‘N Chill, a resort and wedding destination on Stocking Island, at the other end of Great Exuma. They are going to tie the knot Junkanoo style and Lisa is bubbling with excitement about the day ahead. We promise to catch up with them afterwards, but by the time they get back it’s really late, so we just agree to have breakfast together before they leave for the airport.

While Alex and Lisa were off having another special day of their own, we found ourselves witnesses to a case of bridal panic in Emerald Bay. Everything was ready, the beach setting was gorgeous, the floral arch spectacular, the sun was getting low on the horizon, so why was the bride upset? Apparently the wedding planner had left the specially chosen music in her car and had lost her keys. The guests waited while a runner was sent off in a hotel golf cart to the bride’s quarters to retrieve a duplicate and eventually the proceedings went on. Diane stayed to watch, but I tired of the waiting and repaired to the bar for a “gentleman’s portion” of rum punch.

This got me thinking about beach weddings and their popularity. Lisa tells me that they’ve been married on many beaches — a First Nation’s ceremony on Vancouver Island; in Quintana Roo, Mexico, an ancient Mayan ceremony, with a little bit of dressing up for the tourists; in El Salvador, a sunset ceremony on Valentine’s Day, who could resist; in Chile, at a typical fishing village, Horcon, among the brightly coloured fishing boats; Myrtle Beach, the grand finale of a James Bond themed wedding day; and now Exuma. I’m sure there’ll be lots more to come. When we help Alex and Lisa into the taxi with all their bright Junkanoo souvenirs, we tear up. It’s almost like saying goodbye to our own kids. Diane is justifiably proud of these two young Northerners who had the gumption to pack up and follow their dreams.

Romantic beach stroll

Sailing crew celebrates

A few years ago a gang of us sailors chartered several yachts out of St. Vincent, cruised around the Grenadines for a few days working on our tans and ruining our livers, and ended up anchored in Bequia, where two of our company were getting hitched. Today, happily, they are the parents of rug rats but, sadly, have sold their boat. Their wedding ceremony was held on a beach on the beautiful east coast of the island. The guests had gathered from around the world and sat under the palms while the celebrant read the couple their vows and pronounced them man and wife. Then we were off to the resort for a splendid evening of feasting. Several sailors had to endure the boat ride of shame the next morning, returning to their yachts by water taxi, still wearing gear from the night before.

It was very cool and beyond romantic. It combined all the wonderful and lovely emotions a wedding brings on. And as a bonus, we all got to dip our toes in the warm Caribbean waters.

One day, I thought, if I ever get married again, I shall do so on a beach.

In December 2009, I had just such an opportunity, marrying Diane on a beach in Barbados. More accurately we were married near a beach, as the tide had come in and reduced the width of available sand somewhat. Our ceremony took place on the terrace of Cobbler’s Cove. We had not invited anyone to fly down for the occasion, relying on the good nature of my Bajan friend Ian, and his beautiful wife Marguerite, to act as witnesses, best man, matron of honour and so forth. They performed all these functions with their usual grace and charm.  A local musician played “Here comes the bride” on his steel pans, which made a colourful background before the ceremony, conducted by a charming lady magistrate. Because we had relocated from the beach rather late in the day, there was a slight conflict with the manager’s weekly cocktail party. As it turned out we had a modest crowd when we said our vows, who responded with cheers, applause, good wishes, and a few tears. Our champagne wedding reception was thus a freebie, but we did go on to a special dinner in a candle-lit gazebo with just the four of us.

The wonderful Yvette at Cobbler’s Cove took care of all the details, sending us around town with a driver to get the licenses issued and approved. We had a good laugh when we had to note on one form that Diane was a “spinster of St. Peter’s Parish.” When we had to put down our father’s occupations her dad was declared to be a “cutlery factory owner” and she was peeved she couldn’t come up with a posher sounding title. I pointed out on this island that would probably rank with plantation owner, a lot posher than my dad’s bland “business executive” title.  At a local florist Diane picked out white anthuriums and tiny white orchids for her green and white bouquet.

The morning of our wedding, we had early morning tea on our lanai overlooking the lush tropical gardens, and fed crumbs to tiny honey creepers and Lesser Antillean bull finches. (OK, there was a bird book in the room and I looked them up.) Then we went for a swim on the little reef  off the beach and for a while I floated in a school of round bright blue tangs, more than 50 of them. An enchanting moment and one of the very many happy memories I carry of that magical day of our own beach wedding.

PS: Please leave a comment if you found something useful or interesting in this story. Or please add your own experiences with beach weddings to share.

Built in 1069, still partially standing

Lewes Castle looms so high above the historic market town of Lewes in East Sussex, it’s hard to believe it’s constructed on an artificial mound, made of chalk blocks. It was built only three years after the Normans arrived, by William the Conqueror’s brother-in-law, also William, and 1st Earl of Surrey. The last of his line died in 1347 and is buried in Lewes Priory, another local crumbling ruin, except that one was torn down by Henry Tudor during the dissolution of the monasteries. Although the town was sacked by the French in 1377 and the castle damaged, worse destruction was to come in 1620, when parts of the fabric were removed and the stone sold off. Since 1846 the castle has been owned by the Sussex Archaeological Society which is responsible for restoration, and running the museum and tours. For a ruin, it’s in pretty good shape.

It was my father who first took me to the top of the one remaining tower, a hearty climb, with the reward of a spectacular 360 degree view of the surrounding countryside. I was at a boy’s boarding school in nearby Battle, actual site of William’s defeat of the English. It’s hard to go anywhere in Sussex without bumping into history.

Early 14th century extension

All around one can look down on ancient buildings clustered in the castle’s shadow, built right up to the walls along Castle Ditch Lane. Leading away from the ditch are a number of steep narrow alleys called twittens, used in the defense of the castle, when large boulders could be rolled down on the surprised attackers. Climbing up one of these lanes from the car park, one can imagine the invaders going down like bowling pins, when the rocks came roaring down, bouncing off the cobbles and banging off the flint walls.

The Barbican is the gate house and in much better shape, with a road to houses behind running through it. The small museum has interesting highlights of the history of the area, the ubiquitous video and a room with dress up clothes for the kid in all of us.

The area draws me back again and again when I’m in England. Mostly because my 96-year-old mum lives there, but also to renew Sussex roots. Mum’s maiden name is Lush (not a reference to her daily medicinal Scotch) and when she signed up as a motorcycle despatch rider during the mid-century disagreement with the Germans, she was known to one and all by her last name. Lieutenant Dad came back on home leave in 1941 and they were married, but Lush stuck as a nickname. In her 10th decade, she drives a Smart car around town, and works a few days a week as a volunteer at the local Red Cross charity shop, where everyone still calls her Lush. She has a town house down by the River Ouse, which occasionally floods, the water so far stopping short of the front door, and a postage stamp garden, where there are always chores for me to do. Lush is that indomitable type of Englishwoman exemplified by Mrs. Crawley in Downton Abbey, and I’m proud to be her son.

Tudor living space

My late father’s grandparents had a farm only four miles from Lewes, in Glynde, now famous for the opera performances at the Glyndebourne Festival. We have never been able to discover the exact location of the farm, but I sometimes visit my great grandparents graves in the tiny dilapidated church in Bedingham. The churchyard has seen better days and someone has been sensible enough to put a flock of sheep in there to hold back the grass and weeds. The ancestors are in a corner surrounded by an almost impenetrable thicket of nettles, so I bring gardening gloves and clippers and hack them back. The legend carved into the stone has almost disappeared, but years ago I brought two of my kids here, so the location will not be completely forgotten.

Glyndebourne is an excellent reason for a visit to the area, if you like classic opera at its finest. The Christie family opened the Festival here in 1934 and 75 years later it’s still a family enterprise. Originally only Mozart operas were presented, but since then the repertoire has expanded to include Britten, Verdi, Rossini and more. The theatre has expanded from the early 300 seat affair to a 1,200 seat opera house 20 years ago. Guests still dress up and come by train from London to Lewes, where there is a coach service to Glyndebourne. I always found it amusing to see the toffs in their tuxes in the early afternoon, hauling picnic baskets off the platform. But the performances are timed to have an extra long intermission so a repast and champagne can be enjoyed in the gardens. The curtain calls last only long enough for the crowd to catch the train back up to town.

The spare room at mum’s is tiny, with a narrow single bed, even worse than the ones at boarding school, so now we elect to stay in a B&B or a hotel when we visit. Recently Diane and I have discovered Pelham House, in a lane off the high street. It’s a gorgeous Georgian mansion with extensive gardens and a fine restaurant. In the friendly bar we’re offered a glass of local sparkling wine. Apparently the area has a similar climate and terroire to the Champagne area of France, and Breaky Bottom winery seems to have got the process down just fine.

We’ll also be back in November to celebrate bonfire night, which in Lewes is a very big deal. The bonfires and fireworks not only commemorate the traditional Guy Fawkes Night, but more importantly the Lewes Martyrs, 17 Protestants who were burned at the stake by “Bloody” Mary, Catholic daughter of Henry VIII. Over the centuries six major bonfire societies have developed to dress up, parade through town, light a huge bonfire on the Downs around the town, and set off the biggest fireworks display. Mum watches the parades from her upstairs living room, but Diane and I will be in the thick of it, to enjoy the throng of smugglers, Mongolians, Greeks, Romans, Tudor nobles, maidens, monks and more dragging burning tar barrels through the ancient streets and carrying burning crosses advising “No more Popery.” Pelham House has a very good bonfire package and we’ve had to book almost a year ahead to take advantage of it.

We support the Waterloo Bonfire Society which meets at The Lamb of Lewes, a traditional pub, though more popular with the young and noisy music loving crowd than I would like. This year, Diane and I will dress as smugglers, the original costume adopted by the once illegal Bonfire Boys to avoid being recognized by the forces of law and order. The Waterloo crowd wear wide red and white striped sweaters to distinguish them in the parades. A local lady is going to knit ours this summer.

Anne of Cleves cook’s collection

Another of my favourite pubs is The Snowdrop Inn, over the river in Cliffe. It’s name doesn’t celebrate the tiny spring flower but a disastrous avalanche in 1836, the worst ever in English history. Cliffe, not unsurprisingly, has a huge chalk cliff, visible for miles around. An unusual accumulation of snow slid down onto the cottages nestled below and crushed the occupants. The pub had become a bit run down over the years. I recall one winter visit where the ice machine had broken. Insisting on ice for my Scotch, the bartender just went outside and broke an icicle off a drainpipe. However, two chaps from Brighton bought the place in 2009 and have brought it back to life, winning awards for pub food and beer in 2012. Tony and Dominic source all their food locally and even raise their own pigs on a local farm. Not your usual pub fare. The beer is excellent too. In addition, they host gatherings of the South Street Bonfire Society, founded in 1913. This is their 100th anniversary and we’ll be looking out for their brown and cream smuggler’s uniforms in the parades.

Espaliered quince tree

A further Lewes link to the Tudors is to be found at the Anne of Cleves House, a 15th century timber framed hall. The house was given to Anne by Henry VIII after their unconsummated marriage was annulled, due to her ill-favoured looks. It’s a good name to bring in the tourists but she never actually visited her property. Nevertheless, the house provides a great snapshot of life in those times. I love the kitchen with its collection of weird iron implements. In a back area is a fascinating display of cannons and cannon making equipment. The garden features a few rare trees from Elizabethan times and an espaliered quince tree. If I ever find a quince at the fruit market, I’ll make some quince jelly.

Contemplating dad by the pool

The Pells Pool, built in 1860, is the oldest freshwater lido in England. It’s been rebuilt since then, but the water still comes from a freshwater spring. There’s a gentle walk down to the river and along the banks that takes you between the lido and a decorative pond, fed by Pell Brook, where ducks and moorhens roost on little artificial islands away from predators. My dad loved to walk this way and a commemorative bench in his name has been set up at the north end. I always sit there and take a quiet moment to remember him, though his ashes were scattered thousands of miles away off the tall ship Tenacious, in the Atlantic near the Canary Islands. That’s a sailing yarn for another day.

PS: Please leave a comment if you found something useful or interesting in this story. Or please add your own experiences with these destinations for others to share.