Arriving
at a destination by sea imbues a peaceful demeanour. Islanders — at least those
part of a small population — reflect this, with an easygoing outlook. “Island time” is a phrase heard on
water-surrounded land masses worldwide. Vancouver Island, an island off the coast of mainland British
Columbia — not a province with a reputation for its frenetic lifestyle — exudes an easy
charm.
Relaxation overcomes me as I climb to the open-air sixth deck of the Spirit of
British Columbia ferry from Tsawwassen. A swarm of cumulus clouds hover expectant with rain over the Rockies
to the north and east; to the west only gulls, and at least one eagle, interrupt the clear sky. Even the horn
signalling our departure sounds laconic. I like Vancouver Island already, and I can only see its green
outline several miles away.
I feel sorry for a member of the crew giving
a talk on the birdlife and sealife in the waters around Vancouver Island when, 30 minutes into the 90-minute
journey, the captain takes a detour to pass a Chilean frigate raising its sails to salute a Canadian navy
ship. The whites of the uniform can just be made out. Kids wave from the sixth deck, but no salutes are
returned. Seafaring, it seems, is a serious business.
Pushing the irony card even more, the poor crew member is interrupted again as we
thread through two of the sparsely populated Gulf Islands.
“Whales off the port side,” the captain crackles through the PA. Briefly the
passengers run in either direction. I try to remember a mnemonic to distinguish port from starboard, before
giving up and trusting in majority intelligence.
A jet-black fin flings out into the air, its
black body barely breaking the water, and then three more fins, smaller, also break the water, waving, I
fancy. Beneath the leviathan dives momentarily, followed by its nursery, before breaking the water to oohs
and aahs like views of a maritime firework display. Welcome to Vancouver Island. The tourist board, it seems,
even have the whales trained.
It’s early on a Friday evening when I arrive in Victoria. I check into Parkside
Victoria, a new (and very impressive) hotel and condo complex near the downtown area. During a talk about its
green credentials and an orientation, the concierge mentions that the Oyster Bar at Pescatores has a
buck-a-shuck between 4 p.m. and 5:30 p.m. every day. I make it with 10 minutes to spare. It’s packed. Diners
fill the patio, the booths and the bar. I squeeze past the slurping patrons, and order half a dozen on the
shell and a pint of local ale. I smell the sea from the harbour. I taste the sea in the
oysters.
British Columbia’s provincial capital was established by Hudson’s Bay Company when
it built Fort Victoria in 1843. It was an obvious choice — a natural harbour, strategic position and, I’m
sure in someone’s mind, a pleasant, mild climate (wealthy Albertans spend the winter here). Francis
Rattenbury, a 25-year-old from Leeds, U.K., was commissioned to build the Parliament Buildings in 1893,
opening five years later for Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee — the light bulbs that adorned the building
then still light up the building at night. The young architect also designed Victoria’s other grand dame —
the Fairmont Empress Hotel. His architectural legacy remains heroic in Victoria. (His personal legacy is
somewhat soiled, however. He was ostracized by Victoria’s polite society after taking up with his mistress,
Alma Pakenham, and divorcing his wife. Returning to England he was beaten to death by another lover of Alma,
a 17-year-old chauffer. Upon learning the chauffer was sentenced to death, Alma stabbed herself in the heart.
The chauffer’s sentence was later reduced to life.)
In the evening the cruise-ship tourists — and today dozens of Chilean sailors —
walk around the inner harbour watching live statues and listening to buskers, well, those you can hear over
the bagpipes. Canoe, a large restaurant and brew pub, fills up as the lights go down. I buy a bottle of its
IPA to go and sit on my balcony, watching as someone flicks the switch on the Parliament Building, lighting
up its silhouette as the last seaplane lands at the last sun.
The streets of Victoria offer views in themselves. Follow the view along
Government Street on a clear day and you can see Mount Olympus just north of Seattle and to the north more
modest mountains, mostly
covered by trees. Keeping with the island ethos, I dedicate the trip to slow travel, jumping on a minibus
towards Parksville — a couple of hours northwest on the Strait of Georgia. In it there’s a family from
Winnipeg who took the train over, and a retired publisher from Washington who is picking up his boat in
Campbell River. We spend two hours extolling the beauty of Vancouver
Island.
Vancouver Island is the size of England and I find the fact astonishing. In
England the population (as opposed to that of the United Kingdom) is 40 million. On million. On overawed I
forget to take a photograph. To the west, plains briefly open up to views over snowcapped mountains — it’s 30
C and the middle of August.
My next stop is Pacific Shores, a resort near
Parksville. Set overlooking a small cover, the luxury complex breathes a tranquil air. Within half an hour of
checking in, I’m bobbing along the waves in a kayak. I look at the snow-covered peaks, and again at the great
expanse of water, the Rockies beyond it and back again at the peaks. Only the splash of the seawater against
the kayak makes a sound. Well, that and a seemingly threatening gang of Canada geese coming my way. (If
“gang” isn’t the collective noun for Canada geese it should be.)
Parksville and the neighbouring town of
Qualicum Beach are cute little communities. Qualicum Beach is the kind of place where folk bring out their
vintage Caddys and drive right up to Lefty’s Fresh Food for brunch: “A place where it doesn’t matter who’s
right!” But it’s nature that draws you to these parts; it’s where the coast really opens up against the
backdrop of the Strait of Georgia, the mountains of Lasqueti Island, and the snowcapped mountains
beyond.
Back at Pacific Shore, from the balcony of the Landing restaurant, a wedding party
hums in the background (what a venue), and evening draws in. It takes its time to paint the sky — the one
that so inspired Emily Carr and dozens of other pretenders — and the sea a study in orange. Coniferous and
deciduous trees are silhouetted against the sky, a boat’s outboard motor is clear against the quivering
reflection in the water. Little changes. The sun, it seems, sets slower on Vancouver
Island.•
