The very first person we saw on the Island seemed trapped between two places and two states of being. The town and the country. The sane and the insane. A mess of black shaggy hair sticking up amongst the long, dry and golden grass by the side of the highway. Looking both confused and lifeless he was totally and utterly lost in a daydream. We rattled by in a knackered car with a thick coat of dirt and did a double take. “Did anyone else see that guy?” “Yeah” was the response all round. “What the fuck man?”
Although caged in by the car we felt like we’d just been let free. We were here, finally, and back on solid ground - albeit unfamiliar solid ground – ready to move, and to explore this one place we’d heard so much about. ‘A utopia’ some had called it. Others simply said ‘paradise’, or became excited at the mention of the place and got their words all mixed up. Funnily enough, no-one said what made the Island seem like a utopia or paradise. Even funnier, we took their word for it. Sometimes you do. Sometimes you trust certain people’s judgement enough to follow through – to book up and see for yourself, then to make your own judgement. And here we were to do just that. For good or ill – sunstroke or hypothermia – what’s on offer?
What made the culture shock really set in was not seeing but hearing. Hearing Rich, a transplant to paradise from my hometown, talk about the differences in a language I could understand. A brother from the same part of the world spelling out what it is that you are finding strange about things right now. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what was the difference from home on that first quick drive. Mostly you were hit over the head by a barrage of endless looming fur trees. Green, green, green, flashing by the window. On and on. Over and over. To the soundtrack of Rich nattering away and the constant hum of speeding wheels on tarmac.
“It seems new for some reason, immediately reminiscent of some films too. Recently discovered, or uncovered, or something” I wrote on that drive. Vancouver Island was only ‘discovered’ by Europeans in 1774, but has been home to indigenous Indians since forever. The Europeans introduced the concept of private property, and things go slowly downhill from there. Natives had to beg, borrow and steal back the land which originally belonged to everyone. It seems to have taken the Island and its people a long time to get to where it is today, but compared to the UK where we’ve had thousands of years to get a grasp of ourselves it is a quick developer. I mean all mod-cons can be found there, even the people in the barren little fishing towns are walking around with mp3 players, but it just continues to feel primitive – a bit unformed, or slightly haphazard. Like it is holding itself back from getting too old yet. As if too say ‘been there, done that, but what’s coming up?’ It felt young and fresh, rejuvenated. Half of the saying ‘newly wed and nearly dead’ actually felt true. This thought stayed with me during my visit.
The driving on the other side of the road thing I can get used to. But turning right on a red-light is the weirdest and most dodgy difference in driving to the UK (Note: not many other places with which I can compare it). I tend to be a bit of a backseat driver so every single time we passed through a red-light I’d duck or shout or shut my eyes. You learn quickly when transport feels like life or death. I got over it.
That first drive also provided me with the first of many sort of epiphanic moments.
Once it had got dark, and we were still driving around looking at things, we drove down one suburban residential road and there was a girl walking by the side of the road. There were no pavements – just a dirt path (if you could call it that) between the fences of the houses and the road. It was more like a ditch, with some golden grass growing out, and although it doesn’t seem to translate to paper to well it suddenly hit me. I had just seen a slice of local life that I would never, ever see at home.
Our first full day on the Island consisted of driving, driving and more driving. Down half the streets in Victoria we crawled along at twenty, whilst major landmarks were pointed out by Rich. It all passed us a bit too fast, and it was immediately obvious what our first problem was and would continue to be: the ‘luxury’ of a car with which to travel. Yes, you can cover hundreds of miles. And yes, you can easily drive past a million interesting things, but I wanted to get out and touch them. To actually see it up close, and in scale, instead of through the distorted and dirty back windows of a car.
Some Canadians may come to Rugby and be amazed to see the size of the clock tower. Some may be amazed by the fact we don’t all drive huge cars, and that the UK, compared to Canada, is an extremely compact and squashed place. Comparable to a prison. They have the benefit of space, but also the capability, just as we do, of totally ruining it. Of putting up one to many tourist trap statues or tearing up one more field to squeeze in more shabby houses. There is money to be made everywhere, whether the locals or the tourists like or not.
Driving around gets boring fast, and when you’re trying to see anything you have to stop occasionally. You have to explore – its human nature, part of the condition. But, in hindsight, we saw almost too much over our two week stay. It was difficult to differentiate between all the amazing provincial parks we had been to because we’d see so many each and every day. It was difficult to tell the lakes apart because we stopped at most for minutes, not hours. They all blurred together, and without my notebook they all might as well have been all exactly the same.
Our first visit to a supermarket was like no other shopping trip I’ve experienced. The place was three, four, maybe five times as big as supermarkets back home. Not necessarily for the better, by just being a huge capitalist empire, but certainly for the ease of getting everything under one roof. And the trolleys! The trolleys had two static back wheels and the two front wheels moved independently. This meant you could turn any corner as fast as you liked and the thing would stick to the floor. I walked around for about half an hour on my own, just pushing the trolley and looking at stuff whilst the others stocked up for the camping trip. It was the most fun I’d ever had in a supermarket.
The size of the blocks of cheese was mind-blowing. A foot-long length of orange cheddar! What is up with that? How are you going to eat it all before it goes off? It looked like you could knock someone out with it, which brings me to my anti-find of the day: the ‘fish bonker’ – literally a billy club to use on fish. Opposite that were the baseball helmets, which sucked in my attention, I very nearly brought a blue one for $14.95, but decided against it when it just seemed to keep popping off my head. I thought it’d make a great bike helmet. Finally, down the water aisle, above the racks, was a long waterfall! Completely un-necessary, but a great decorative touch.
With no time settling in, and half our questions about this and that unanswered, we were off camping. But before we got to the tiny west coast town of Tofino we’d be making a million little stops. First: Goldstream Park.
Goldstream Provincial Park is fairly small when compared to other Provincial Parks. During the late autumn its main attraction would be the ‘salmon run’ - when salmon return to their birthplace somewhere in the park to spawn. During the summer though, the attraction to the park is the scenery and the endless trails which lead in every which way through the ancient Douglas and Western Red Cedar Firs, along with Western Hemlock, Big Leaf Maple and numerous other impressive trees. You soon realise that these aren’t just trees – that these were probably the most perfectly straight trees you’d ever see. Another tree is extremely common within the park and the Island: the Arbutus Tree. A truly strange tree – it appears bark-less with dark red trunks showing. They are so eye-catching you literally can’t miss them because there are so many. Sometimes they are called a Strawberry Tree but only because the fruit it produces looks like a strawberry. It is edible but mostly tasteless and never actually eaten.
We were heading for the top of Goldstream Mountain. It was a long, long trek in sweltering heat. My shirt had already stuck to my back. First, we followed the dry stony riverbed to the bottom of the waterfall. During the spring when all the snow melts the bed will be re-used. Random tunnels would appear out of nowhere, which, I’m told, are remnants of the Goldstream River gold rush - hence the name. (Funnily enough, the Gold Rushes in British Columbia started in 1850, not 1849, therefore the term ‘forty-niner’ does not apply and ‘fiftier’ sounds terrible. The Goldstream gold rush started in 1863). It literally hurt your neck to look up at the waterfalls top, and when you believed you were looking at the top of the flow you couldn’t be sure or not. It seemed to come from somewhere up there, but no-one could point out exactly where. You couldn’t do much but stand about shaking your head in awe of the locals and in disbelief at the beautiful scenery. We were completely surrounded by lush green vegetation. The water itself was crystal clear, absolutely un-tainted and un-touched, and soothingly cool to the touch.
Every single person we passed on the steep, rugged way up to the peak would say hello and stop to chat for a minute. They’d list what they’d seen and remark on the absolute natural beauty of the place. At the very top was a metal railway trestle, instantly reminding me of the trestle in ‘Stand by Me’ (which was recorded in Washington state, not BC, but not a million miles away). Once we did reach the top the heat was even more unbearable Dan and I got straight into the shade under a rock whilst the others went trampling across the trestle. Trains were no problem. The line and the trestle were still used daily but you could walk across. You’re safe enough knowing there is one train to the North of the Island in the morning and the same train comes back down to the south in the evening. The drop seemed extremely high. I’d guess at somewhere between three to four hundred feet. I put one foot on the first wooden beam and felt dizzy. Forget that. More lush dark greens loomed in every direction you looked.
On the way back down we hopped a fence to see the waterfall from the very top. We navigated our way through a few dozen fallen trees and found the slimy rock pool which lead into the waterfall. Nick just had to get nearest to the edge and peek over to take a photo. Rock pools are extremely confusing. Although they may look only a foot or two deep the water gives a distorted view of that depth. You don’t know whether it’d be safe to paddle in or not, especially with the invisible slime clinging to the rocks. At least that was my opinion, learned from experience on a bike. Some people however did have a paddle. I’m sure they got out alive.
Leaving the park brings you straight out onto Highway 1, probably the busiest road on the Island. The juxtaposition of the two places was instantly questionable.
It first dawned on me that the locals have the same sort of worries and qualms with their locale as we do at home when I overheard an old lady in a lay-by dismiss a breathtaking view across to Victoria and the handful of small Gulf Islands. “When you’ve seen it a thousand times it doesn’t matter anymore. I can come up here every day if I want”, she said to her husband who looked at her a little shocked, “I don’t care for it (the view) anymore.” Many times I have felt the same thing at home. Caldecott Park? Yeah, so what, it looks exactly the same as it always has. But my opinion of local places differs every day, depending on my mood on that particular day. Some days it is all I can do to contain my excitement at being in a certain nice spot. Some days I’ll hate it with a passion. I think that lady may think about it differently if she goes up there tomorrow. She may just appreciate the scenery right on her doorstep.
Everywhere you went on the Island you couldn’t escape a certain attitude to life and health: yoga. It was everywhere. In the middle of nowhere you’d see a sign for ‘yoga here on Sunday mornings’ and that kind of thing. The locals seemed big into the ‘treat yourself with healthy living thing’. I found it a bit strange at first. I’d certainly never been so hit over the head with it before.
Relax, revitalize, relate & reward – these are the words which make you money on the Island. ‘Nurture your soul’ another yoga advert said. I guess there’s a lot of money to be made by getting people to move really slowly. They even advertised it on Sundays mornings at the bottom of the Goldstream waterfall: “Feel the sun beginning to evaporate the morning mist of the river valley”. God. But, and I hate to say it in this case, each to their own though.
It wasn’t until I got back home that those four ‘R’ words made a little more sense. The first book I read when I got back was ‘The Secret Garden’, which is totally natural, spiritual and mystical. Mary, the main character, actually feels as if she’s coming to life once she spends all her time outside. Spending time in the outdoors could actually make you feel more alive, I suddenly realised. Mary achieves all four: relaxes in the Secret Garden, is revitailised by the fresh Yorkshire moors air, learns to relate to people she didn’t think she would and is rewarded in the end by becoming a better person than she started. It all slipped into fit.
But, ladies and gentlemen, yoga is still dumb. Go for a walk.
Between Victoria and Tofino we stuck to Highway 1. Essentially what we’d call a dual carriageway, with two lanes in each direction. All the windows were open wide but the heat was still unbearable. All we could do was keep moving and keep the breeze flowing, just hope for a cool evening. The views either side of us could change in seconds from sheer rock faces to open dry grassy fields to a little town. None of these views I’d seen before so I inevitably found myself staring out the window in awe at the scenery.
Our second stop, after Goldstream, was Chemanius. An ex-logging town the place now ‘survives’ on its 39 outdoor murals. We saw about three before the heat got to us. I demanded we go to the Canadian Legion Hall for a sale, but when I walked into the room it was just a tool sale. There were some records hidden in the corner but I found nothing I’d want to take away. It was all crappy pop stuff. We looked around a little and checked out the waterwheel in the centre before having a quick smoke overlooking the Strait of Georgia. Then back on the road briefly before our next stop.
Qualicum Beach, or just Qualicum for short is the Vancouver Island capitol for the elderly. We saw one girl under thirty riding a bike, everyone else was much, much older. The oldest average population in the whole of Canada is in Qualicum Beach. Actually being on the beach was our first experience with the dried out ex-logging logs washed up along its whole stretch. Every beach we went two over the course of two weeks, and that felt like a lot of beaches, had a good number of washed up logs. It felt authentic. It felt local to the Island. Other than the logs, and the heat, the beach was much like home – all sand and pebbles, seagulls squawking etcetera, but not packed, in fact almost completely barren and untouched. Sky blue sea on one side, dark green trees on the other.
Then we went to the Quality Foods Co-op and brought bits and pieces of food. Random stuff: mushrooms, chocolate, toothpaste – the packaging of all sparked some intense discussion. We were the youngest in the town too, it seemed. In the car park (sorry, parking lot) I almost got run over by this big lady in a truck. She reversed so fast I didn’t know what was going on. When she got out she said “Don’t worry honey, I know how to drive. Believe me”, but that didn’t calm my nerves at all. Back in the car we joined Highway 4 and left the east coast in a Westerly direction. This proved to be an intensely scenic windy road.
British Columbia is number one in the world for Lake Monster sightings. Almost every lake had its own Loch Ness Monster-esque story to go with it. The next place we stopped was Cameron Lake, which is a huge fucking lake. Another impressive-looking steel railway trestle was nestled neatly into the cliff face on the opposite side to us. Behind that, a dark green cliff rising up and up to a dark green point. We stood on the pebbles and shook our heads. A stranger came along and jumped into the water, followed by his two dogs. On the other side of the Highway, behind us, were more mountains. Mountains everywhere. You soon realised why the Island was so mountainous, and why the bigger towns are by the Coast in the flatter (but not flat) parts of the Island - Volcanic activity at some point in its history. These weren’t subtle rolling hills like back at home, these were rough and ready, sharp edged, grey and black, aggressive looking mountain ranges.
Between stops we listened to Elvis FM for a while. I wondered how many times a day they would say ‘Elvis’. They said it fifteen times in a minute. Every minute or so someone in the car would say ‘Whoa, look at that’ and we’d all turn to get a good view of whatever it may be; mostly shapes of mountains which we’d never seen before or patches of dead or logged tree stumps. Some trees were left dead, and were instantly eye-catching. These were perfectly straight, but completely lifeless trunks reaching up during their long, long final breath. All stark and creepy here and there by the roadside. We were constantly entertained by new and exciting surrondings, but we were passing them all by. I wanted to see it all. But, alas, there’s never enough time to see everything.
MacMillan Provincial Park was our next port of call. The perfect forest, if ever you’re looking. Huge Cedar, Red and Douglas Firs, some as much as eight feet in circumference, and stretching up to three hundred metres high. Little signboards were scattered around for people to lap up the information. The biggest tree was aptly called ‘The Big Tree’. Apparently if a tree falls in the forest it is better to leave it than clear it up. They adhered to that idea here. It’s better because these trees are Epiphytes: a plant or tree which grows on top of another plant or (fallen) tree without being parasitic of the plant it grows on, just using the plant for support. Ivy is an Epiphyte, Firs too. Once you’re inside a forest everything is brown and dark green. Brown soil, brown tree trunks and brown branches – green foliage, green leaves (or, and mostly, needles), green moss, and a green webbed type weed growing on almost all the branches which hung down and made the trees look eerie when you walked amongst them. Like a graveyard scene in a Bela Legosi film – moving slightly in the wind, blurring around the edges.
A brief stop in Port Alberni brought my first thrift Island store experience, and it was a good one. Six LP’s for fifty cents each – all old punk stuff, and two of the rarer Steinbeck novels. I couldn’t say whether the Salvation Army thrift stores are the ones to go for or not. This particular store was the size of a small supermarket, but filled with racks and racks of clothes and the normal stuff you’d find in a charity shop, just on a bigger scale. As is the case with things in North America it was grandiose with twice as much of everything; twice as many clothes, twice as many books, and twice as many records. Back on the street we had our first taste of crossing main roads. What happens if it’s okay to walk but someone is turning right on a red light? It is super-confusing, but we made it in the end. By the mouth of the river we came across more Brits sitting on a bench. “Have you seen the factories?” they said, and pointed downstream to the industrial district which supports the little town. In the distance huge chimneys blew black smoke into the sunny afternoon sky. Wait a minute. Did we travel all this way to look at warehouses in amazement? We’ve got enough to look at back home.
A short drive West of Port Alberni is Sproat Lake. Only a quick stop this time – just enough time to watch the one other person also there launch his boat and have a smoke.
The journey to the next Lake was only about twenty miles, if that, but it took a long time. The Highway, if you could call it that now, was thin and windy. Even precarious in some places, with steep rock faces on one side of the road and sheer drops into the green and rocky abyss on the other. Every turn seemed hairy, whether it was or not. And just to add to our nervousness and trepidation we were being followed by an enormous truck. As we sped up on the safer stretches so did the truck – it was right behind us, no matter what we did. We thought we might have to pull over to let it go by. When we lost it round a corner I’d look out the back window until it came back into view. “He’s following us man, step on it!” I’d scream, trying to induce some sort of Duel-esque schizophrenic paranoia. No-one else in the car had even seen the film and so thought I was just playing some silly mind game with myself. Ha! The truck stuck right with us until we turned off for Kennedy Lake, the biggest lake on the whole Island. Clouds seemed to have gathered quickly on the other side of the Lake, all resting on top of the distant mountains in a lifeless hover. Suddenly it was quite cold, and the sky mimicked this with a grey instead of blue. Apart from the water lapping onto the pebble beach the Lake was dead still and totally silent. It was the epitome of serene; calm, composed and lifeless. It was so quiet that you became aware of any movement you made and every breath you took. The slightest noise was almost deafening. It was an experience I have never had before or since, and goes to show just how far from the rush of life we were. Soon enough the car started up again to continue or way to the Pacific Coast – I covered my ears with my palms for a minute.
Further along the road, which was marked ‘tsunami evacuation area’, we eventually rolled into a campsite. We were really in native country now, and signs were all marked with the original, native name and the English equivalent. We split in two, Rich and I got the fire going whilst Dan and Nick put up the little tent. We were so unprepared to camp it was unbelievable. We’d got some supplies – some, and they were all piled on top of our bags and things in the boot. The car was already a complete mess. Being the only vegetarian I ate only a few spoons of pasta and herb that night, and relied on having a decent breakfast in Tofino in the morning. We kept ourselves to ourselves in our little shaded alcove between some bushes that night, eventually rolling into the tent to smoke and fall asleep right on the uneven floor.
Tofino was small, smaller than I expected, it was maybe too big to be classed as a village in England but too small to be a town too. The Canadians called it a village, with its population of almost two thousand. Exactly like the Insight Guide said it was a haven for ‘surfer types, hippies and family groups’. Family groups seemed to be the only ones actually visible on the streets in the mornings, all flowing in and out of the one convenience store in the village. The surfers and hippies came out later in the day. Presumable they felt as rough as we did, they were round the camp fire all night.
The morning started quite cool, jumper weather, but got progressively hotter as the day drew on. We ate breakfast in the only pub in town and had our order memorised by the waitress! No pad or nothing, just memory. Her accent seemed thick and heavy, probably the hardest to untangle since we arrived. “Right on” was what she said after everything, followed by “awesome”. On the way out I spotted a framed poster by the door. It looked like a R. Crumb original. The live at the Mayfair it was called, but I couldn’t find his damn signature. I felt awestruck somehow.
The few streets in each direction which made up Tofino were cool and misty. The small wharf was all quiet, all rusty, with seaweed covering the legs jetting down into the water. And the Pacific coast? This was the first time I’d ever seen the Pacific, and it felt good. It was truly the edge of the world – a long lost paradise, regained, reclaimed. By tourists, like us of course, out to find that feeling of being fully and unbelievably at the edge of the whole world. Maybe even the end of time. Just the faint whiff of a life, unfathomable and unliveable, to a bunch of small town English guys. It was like finishing that final chapter and wondering what to read next. An incredibly exciting feeling captivated us all I think. We’d seen the Pacific, finally – what next? From Tofino the answer would be Long Beach and the Nuu-Chah-Nulth Trail, which are both still on the Pacific Coast, and part of the larger Pacific Rim National Park Reserve.
MacKenzie Beach was where we camped, and on the first morning, before anyone was awake and long before our brief breakfast in Tofino I strolled down there to smoke a joint. The cold was bordering on unbearable. Half a dozen little islands were dotted around the bay; some maybe accessible at low tide. In the distance some people walked their dogs and got a fresh breeze on which to base the rest of the day. I kept huddled by a log, looking out for bears (so British!) and thought it was maybe a bad idea to even bother moving at that chilly hour.
After our breakfast we started on Long Beach, and most of the trails and spots which are scattered down its six-mile length. Radar Hill was our first port of call. Evident when you get to the top of the hill are the remains of a radar station used during World War 2, but you have to put two and two together because all that is left of the station are a few blocks of concrete scattered about randomly. From the lookout point you had a great panoramic view of the inlet, the mountains and the ocean. Mostly it was dark green, the two words I’ve taken to saying to people when they ask about the trip. Standing up there and looking out across it all helped us first find some air and clarity before our long day of hiking and stumbling along all these various trails which I will go into each in turn.
South on the map from Long Beach is Florencia Bay, which we went to second. There was a long, slow descent down to the bay – aided by the steep wooden steps from the top of the hill. Well worth the climb down though, and at the bottom you are greatly rewarded by a perfect beach of golden sand and the most picturesque bay. Standing in the middle of the beach the bay curves round on both the left and the right, and is lined, obviously, by dark green. We sat on a dried up old log and shook our heads in amazement. Florencia Bay is also known as ‘Wreck Bay’, due to the wreck of The Florencia just off the Island by exactly the same name which sits right in the middle of the bay. From the lookout post we debated as to whether a dark lump just off the Island was a boat or a whale. We all wanted to see a whale, a bear too; and it was likely enough that we’d see both so we were on the lookout. I ran to get the binoculars and when I had them focused on whatever it was it certainly looked like something big, dark and moving just under the surface. We debated between a wreck, a rock or a whale and we settled on thinking it must be the wreck, but we weren’t sure. No info boards gave us any clues. Then we took another trail (the name escapes me as we went on so many) back to the car.
Although the heat was almost unbearable at this point we all seem to be wearing jumpers in the photos I have, this I can’t explain. The next stop was the hottest and most painful stop we’d made yet. Long Beach itself. Golden sand and golden girls in dark green bikinis prancing about. We sat moodily in one of the many makeshift log shelters you find occasionally on the beaches and talked about girls instead. Apart from Rich we were all still pale, of course. Not golden and not willing to get in the water, or prance around, or move much in the heat. Typical.
Later, on the same beach, we took a long walk right into the distance. Soon there was no-one around, and no-one even in sight. I kept my eyes on the tree line, watching out for those bears. We followed a stream right along the beach, past a burnt-out car, and eventually gave up on top of a large sand dune. Then we made our way back to the campsite and ate more pasta for dinner. I mostly talked about how much I hated camping, and I was telling the truth. The great outdoors is cool, but I wanted for some busy streets, unknown faces and book shops. The city basically. We’d get there eventually, but I was keen.
The next morning we drove to Ucluelet, a little town about twenty miles south-east of Tofino. The name is a derived from the Nuu-Chah-Nulth, the indigenous people, and means either “safe harbour” or “good place to land canoes”, depending who you ask. It seemed busier than Tofino, and the Co-op car park was literally rammed, with people constantly coming and going. I brought a paper and sat in the shade, Dan took a good photo of me with the mountains as a background. Mt Ozzard and Mt Frederick I think they were called. There was what looked like a giant golf ball on top of one of them. Those mountains are home to the Ucluelet First Nation, the indigenous locals, who have their own reserve over there. Originally no-one owned any of it – it was just land. Dan and I slowly strolled down to the harbour, stopping at a thrift store on the way. I almost bought a cap with the iconic 7-11 logo on the front but thought twice. Once we’d reached the bottom we unfortunately had to walk all the way back up the hill.
The waitresses of the Swell Restaurant (a one-storey wooden shack) had this punk thing about them. They must have been sisters or something, they were all equally golden and wearing black with their brown hair tied up. The most attractive girls we met in my opinion. I finished reading ‘The Painter of Signs’ under the shady umbrella and waited on my omelette. The local fire department (three guys) came along and sat on the next table over, gossiping loudly like hairdressers. Mrs Dean had lost her cat to a bear attack, and that is the talk of the Islands small town.
Our plan was to head back to Langford, a suburb of Victoria and Rich’s surrogate home, with an overnight stop somewhere ‘in the middle of Island’ for a final nights camping. Rich and Nick didn’t stop talking about how much they wanted to go swimming so on the drive back east on Highway 4 we were keeping our eyes open for a suitable spot. I sat up front on the drive, whilst the two guys in the back struggled with space between all the stray bags of food and clothes and beer and weed. I regretted not buying sunglasses and kept my eyes constantly squinted. We wound our way through the ranges slowly, avoiding the many potholes. Rich and I chain smoked up front, and they complained about it in the back.
We did find a nice secluded spot a ten-minute drive down a dirt track but the river was inaccessible. We found ourselves on a strange concrete bridge with these looming mountains surrounding us. The river below was crystal clear, no algae at all, and was a great example of a river which would double in volume during the spring when the snow melts. It wasn’t silent – the water lapped against the stones as it made its way, but everything else around was silent and blissful. As soon as we got out of the car we realised we’d better keep moving sooner rather than later because of the intense heat.
Ten minutes up the road we came to a truck stop adjacent to another larger, or at least wider, river. Everyone decided to have a dip. Once we’d clambered down to the rocky waters edge we all tested the water to see how hot it was – or should I say cold. I dipped my toes in and felt like I’d been stood in a freezer for a whole day! It was the coldest water I’d have ever swam in. “It’s all coming off the mountains” Rich boomed out, “it’s gonna be cold”. I didn’t understand it. All this water coming off the mountains, rolling down amongst the trees (which lock-in the heat) and then ending up here, still mid-Island, but freezing cold?! It didn’t look too deep, although looking through water is deceptive. But it was wide, at least 50ft wide I’d say, with a million little ups and downs on the bed. Nick jumped first. Off the rocks we were sat on debating whether too or not. As soon as he came back to the surface you heard an almighty gasp for air – the cold had sent a shiver through his whole body. Then Rich jumped, followed by a gasp of air too, and then a fast swim back to the rocks. Once out of the water they were completely dry in about three minutes.
Dan and I debated from the rocks. “I’m not”. “Go on man”. “Fat chance!” “I ain’t either then”. “You pussy”. “You jump!” “What! Did you hear those two die in there!?” Neither of us did, and choosing the insult back on the road instead. You only get one chance - and although it may not kill you - it may hurt you for a second, and what’s the point in that? It didn’t seem like it would have been fun to me, whether or not it actually was. I’m not about to dwell on things I haven’t done, although I agree, it probably sounds like I am.
Rich went to chat up the burger van girl. We stood by the car watching this huge beetle with massive antenna (like three or four times the length of its body) crawling all evil over the hot tarmac. Peaks stared down at us in all directions.
We kept driving back across the Island to camp ‘somewhere’ one final night. Then we would travel onto the city to get cosmopolitan for the next few days. Little Qualicum sounded good to us, so we camped there for the night.
A word must be said about the Provincial Parks on Vancouver Island, which I presume are run in much the same way as on the Mainland. You pull into the campground and drive around to find an empty space (or empty pitch as they each individual party pays for a certain patch) and then set-up and wait for the warden to come around. The warden usually comes round in a pick-up truck with firewood, which is like $4 a bundle (they don’t want you to chop the trees down you see, or even use the fallen twigs and logs). You pay the warden, around $10 - $15 a night, which is per patch, not per person. Each pitch has a picnic bench and a metal fireplace which you cook over (unless you have an RV, which is not camping and therefore cheating!). Your neighbours are likely to be a friendly bunch and will definitely come over to say hello and see what you’re doing, how you’re doing, where you’re going, where you’ve been, what pets you have, where you’re from, what your Grandma’s first name is and all that. The campsites are often retired couple, out travelling their country, and didn’t seem to mind if you smoked a joint whilst you talked to them or not. A real relaxed breed. They’d tell you everything of interest nearby – which was great. There, at Little Qualicum, we discovered there were a large number of waterfalls in quick succession, and they were about a minute away.
Later, on our way to the waterfalls, we watched this German guy jump into the cold river. He seemed well prepared for the chill, and his gasp for air was nothing compared to earlier in the day at our little stop. We took all the trails which were marked off, and not for use, just because they were abandoned. It was obvious why they’d let these trails go, half the paths disappeared into roots or rocks. We must have doubled our journey time climbing over all the obstacles.
Once you’d seen the falls you couldn’t quite believe it. Each fall was a big drop, and there were so many you didn’t know how far down into the ground they would go. The water was loud there, so loud you’d raise your voice to be heard. Clear too - so clear and clean we debated whether or not to wash in it, but, as we were so kindly told: “You don’t know what’s died upstream!”
Outside Little Qualicum, and back East a mile or two, was Cruiser’s Bar ‘n’ Grill. The number of motorcycles out the front of this outback little food and drink shack were unnerving, to say the least, but once inside we realised we had nothing to worry about. No-one stared. We flicked through the Harley-Davidson 2006 catalogue and ordered some food. Our waiter, if such a derogatory term could be applied to such a nice guy, was the owner of the place. He didn’t seem to want to stop talking. When he saw me flicking through the catalogue he jokingly asked: “Ah, When are you getting your Harley then?” I laughed. “Probably never.” He proceeded to tell us about his money-making scheme during his late teens. He and a couple of friends used to buy a Harley each, ship them to Europe, drive around on tour for a couple of months and then sell them on and go back home - no richer and no poorer financially. They never made any money out of it, he said, but they would always break even. Nick was excited at the idea of being able to do that. He talked about the idea for ages.
Our food came out, and proved to be the best meal we’d had so far. I couldn’t say any of the food was bad actually, the Canadians seem to have real good tastes in food, even though they tend to be a little weary of vegetarians. The veggie burger I had was by far the best meal I’d had – and it was a thick thing with gherkins, fried onions, ketchup, cheese, a large burger and salad with sweet potato fries on the side. Sweet potato fries are the best thing ever by the way.
Inside we ran into a British guy also eating lunch. Rich got talking to him. “Going to any festivals?” he asked, to which Rich said he wasn’t, and that he in fact lived on the Island. “Oh” the guy said, “I could have got you tickets for Glastonbury. Michael Eavis is my cousin”. The world is a pretty small place; even the British seem to get to every single far flung corner. You can’t ever really seem to escape.
Back on the road we followed a car with a bumper sticker that read: “Unfuck the world”.
A quick drive back to Langford that evening, and then we went onto Rich’s house to watch films all night and gather our energy. His house sat on the side of a valley, humorously named ‘Happy Valley’. From his place you could see a scattering of houses on the opposite side of the valley, two neighbours houses a minute or two walk away and a couple of hilly dark green peaks in the distance. No afternoon would go by at his house without seeing deer. A whole family of deer – which would stand up on their back legs and help themselves to plums and apples from the trees in the garden, all the while you’re only ten feet away, max. Never had we seen such brave and unfazed deer. Here you saw them everyday, along with raccoons climbing roofs and these weird rabid dogs. I saw two of them, on a leash, but with these crazy hollow druggy eyes which screamed “Fuck you! I’m wasted!”
A Saturday usually means doing something social and not sitting around doing nothing, at least for me, and it is no different in BC – especially if it’s a hot summer Saturday. In Langford the majority of people under the age of 25 will make the trek up the highway one exit to Thetis Lake. It becomes some sorta teenage playground for the afternoon. Looking at it on a map you’ll see the Lake is shaped in the oddest way – like the letter ‘N’ drawn in water. Little bits stick off here and there, there are a number of small Islands. The edges are blurred by the jagged rocks. We sat up on the top of a hill, with the packed mini beach in sight and fought for shade. All the locals were here, swimming and soaking up the heat. At any one time there were ten rubber dinghies floating about, and a hundred or so people swimming. Dan and I just watched people jumping off rocks, thirty feet up, forty feet up. Anywhere but England! In England there’d be fences and no swimming signs and people hoping not to get sued for liability. All those rules, stupid or not. The vibe was liberal. The thought in regards to swimming was: “Do it and be careful, but if something happens it’s your fault, sort it out”. One guy on the far side jumped from fifty feet, and once he’d hit the water actually slid down a slimy rock faces. He came back up unhurt, but the “oooo” from the watching crowd said it all.
Girls seemed to outnumber the boys here by about three-to-one, and mostly waked around flaunting themselves in white bikinis. Whereas the sun seems to drain me of most of my energy and will to live the girls seem to thrive on the rays. Why is that? Dan and I sat in the shade, moving our spot when it moved.
Thetis Lake is another lake with a legend attached to it. The legend of the Thetis Lake Monster. Scary stuff. In 1972 two locals kids reported having been chased from the beach by The Creature from the Black Lagoon, a half-fish half-human with gilled hands and feet but of human height, size, etc. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police were forced to do an investigation, as one of the teenagers had apparently been slashed across the hand by the creature. Tensions mounted amongst the locals. A month later the RCMP got a call from a local who had lost his Tegu Lizard in the area the previous year. Tegu Lizards are more crocodile looking than lizard, sharing an equal length body but without a long jaw; instead having a stubby, squashed-looking face. The RCMP closed their investigation. I wonder now if any of the locals there, other than the one who’d told me the story, even knew about this monster. They all looked so carefree. If they knew about it would there be so many people swimming in the lake? And it’s dawned on me now: Just tell people in England that they wouldn’t want to swim in Quarries because of the Creatures living in there! That’d put them off.
I met my cousin who happens to be living in Victoria that day. I waited around on the nice watered green grass (not golden) in front of the Legislative Building, next to the totem pole. Tourists strolled past and the locals paced. I flicked through this book to find the one story about totem poles to read before she arrived.
When she arrived she was immediately pointing out this and that and I realised she was the exact tour guide I needed. “That statue over there is Captain Cook and no-one really knows whether he got here first or George Vancouver, who is over there” she told me pointing at the two statues within view of each other. “The government for BC is run out of the building behind us, and you can go in there and have a peanut butter sandwich with the cabinet in the restaurant if you want”. Again, the things which gave me the initial ‘that’s weird’ culture shock feeling were pointed out to me in words and ways I could understand. The things I found alien had to be noted and remarked on quickly, before they were pointed out.
Rudyard Kipling said Victoria was like “Brighton Pavilion with the Himalayas for a backdrop”. A totally accurate observation and a nice thought, but Victoria seemed to live and breathe one thing: British-ness. The place was buzzing with ambience and was definitely a great environment to stroll and explore, as The Rough Guide put it: “It’s not named after a Queen and an era for nothing”. To quote the Rough Guide again: “Its tourist potential is exploited chiefly for American visitors, served up with lashings of fake Victoriana and chintzy commercialism, and astute echoes of empire at every turn”. But that should read “pretty much every turn” if you ask me. Strolling through the crossroads of the James Bay (the oldest neighbourhood on the West Coast north of San Francisco) I couldn’t imagine being any further from England. We chatted away, and my cousin Fay mentioned all the things that were really worth mentioning, also giving me the lowdown on how to cross the road, however basic it may sound. James Bay is the most ‘desirable’ part of town, and its small collection of extremely straight streets are lined with different coloured wooden character houses. Wooden Houses are so enthralling to the British, as they are so alien, and I found myself no exception, walking round with wide-eyes and a big smile, wishing I had a wooden place of my own. It was a real nice old neighbourhood. Some newer apartments are dotted around, but were (or at least seemed) quite well disguised. We crossed the first baseball / softball field I’d ever seen, surrounded by metal chain link fencing, and walked along to Beacon Hill Park where I’d been assured the view would be good.
Beacon Hill Park has this area of long dry grass with black rocks sticking up randomly – it reminded me of space rocks for some reason. Like the surface of mars or something. A homeless Lady was sleeping under a thorny bush. Unlike the UK it seemed like it was only left to be a park because it would be such hassle to build anything on it due to the shaky terrain. There was an Orchard-type area, and more sports fields, along with a horse-drawn carriage giving their own tours around. We headed down to Dallas Road, which runs alongside the sea. Good views indeed of Washington State and the Olympic Mountains lining the coast on that side. I thought about Raymond Carver sitting on his porch in Port Angeles writing twenty, thirty years ago. I felt close to the heart of something. Something new and exciting but old and weathered – beaten – at the same time, something that would need contemplation, lots of contemplation.
The path at Dallas Road is the busiest dog-walking spot I’ve ever seen. But all the dogs here were sober and obedient. The ‘Mile 0’ Highway marker is also down by Dallas Road. All it really is is a big stone with ‘Mile 0’ written on it, but it’s the start of the Trans-Canada Highway, which worms its way 4,860 miles to Newfoundland, at the very opposite end of Canada. A bit further toward the city centre is the harbour. We walked along the breakwater and tried to spot a starfish. Fay kept pointing them out but I couldn’t see them, probably because they were purple and in fairly murky water. You can’t ever see everything, and when you’re discovering a new place it’s important to remember that, however much you try to ignore it.
Then back into the city centre for some dinner. Re Bar is where we ended up, with its slightly off-putting slogan “modern food”. Not too big, but also not too small, Re Bar is a veggie-friendly, lefty, juice bar and dare I say it ‘hip hangout’. It’s at 50 Bastion Square if you do visit, and I can highly recommend the Almond Burger. Between here and the Cruisers Bar ‘N Grill I couldn’t say which was the better meal, they were both delicious and well-needed at the time. We sat at the bar for a while on high stools and my cousin jotted down places to visit in town in my notebook. She told me about Alice Munro and the giant hockey stick and the weird little harbour ferry. I watched the staff, all dressed in black, using this industrial juicer.
After eating we strolled some more. Around the square streets – up a block, across a block. Down by the harbour were half a dozen different buskers and performers. My favourite street busker by far, seconded by the Darth Vader violinist directing traffic, was this guy Dave Harris. He sat down by the harbour right in the way of all the tourists, clever chap. “There’s no need for me to travel as people from all over the world come to Victoria” I overheard him say as I took up a seat on the steps at the back. “The world seems to come to me! I have been to England, Coorrrrmmwaall, in fact.” On a little stand beside him were two resonator guitars, a violin, a twelve-string, a stand with assorted cowbells and wood blocks and then this box under his feet. On the front of the box was one drum skin and his feet rested on two, or three, pedals: snare, kick drum and tambourine. It was genius! I’ve only ever seen street buskers have a cable connected to their foot for the kick drum – never with a contraption like this! I was immediately enthralled. Oh! And, he was playing blues standards – well. Apparently he would even jam with the next busker along who played the steel pan.
He looked exactly as you’d expect a bluesy old time busker to look – huge rimmed cowboy hat, long greying beard, a shirt tucked into jeans with big leather boots. He could have just got off the ranch for all I knew, straight from his ‘real’ job. But no. Busking was his job, and his wife was picking him up at eight, like she always does. He told us! He was an honest busker and a great performer, totally endearing. In the few times I strolled past him after sitting down to watch there were never less than fifty people listening and watching with their full attention. Albeit tourists, like me, but still. I threw a dollar into his guitar case, and asked for some J.J.Cale. He obliged and did a medley! When someone threw a little change into his case he’d quickly squeeze a ‘thank you’ in-between the lines of the vocals. In the middle he broke the medley down a bit and grabbed his violin, still tapping the beat with his feet and singing along, then reverted back to the guitar. He even sped the beat up for the final chorus on his pedal drum box.
I wondered whether he could even feel his fingertips after playing a twelve-hour gig, everyday, on the waterfront, in the heat. Surely that much metal on flesh couldn’t be good for anyone – except maybe the money in the pocket. Then it dawns on you – he loves doing it, so all is forgiven. The tourists bring in a quick buck for him and why not make use of that? Half the world practically runs on tourism, so along the lines some musicians have to make a little money out of them. That’s the business of it. It depends how you think about it but do you or don’t you mix business and pleasure?
Before I left Dave Harris introduced his next song with a popular saying in Victoria: “If you don’t like the weather – wait five minutes”. I thought this to be a totally apt saying. The grey clouds had dispersed since the beginning of the last song. We walked back up to the Legislative Building Totem Pole, where we met earlier, and said goodbye. “Probably see you back in the UK next”, I said, “In a few months”. We waved goodbye.
The next day we spent in and around Langford, Rich’s new home ‘city’. In the UK it’d be a very small town but over here, or most of North America, seems to call everything a city, except occasionally when you’ll run across a village, like Tofino. First things first – breakfast. Rich suggested the Royal Roads Cafe in Colwood, right next to Royal Roads University (Where they do, like, only three different courses. One is called ‘Disaster Management’!).
Royal Roads Cafe (1951 Sooke Road, Colwood) is filled with local working guys. You can usually spot them by their dirty baggy jeans, chequered shirts, trucker caps and aviators, however typical that sounds – it is true! From where I was sitting (in this little cubicle type thing we also don’t have at home) I could see everyone in the whole place. Most of the working guys wouldn’t be working today, a Sunday, but they looked as if they were off to work anyway. Or fishing maybe. They had plates and saucers and cups and tea pots piled up all around them, and seemed to be stocking up for a busy day. Excess with food and drink in the morning usually helps me have a better day somehow, and these guys seemed to be doing the same. They were shovelling it in. Everyone was not just here for breakfast though, they were here to meet someone or read the paper, or do a bit of writing – all the parts that make up decent cafe culture. ‘If I lived here, I’d pop in for breakfast everyday and get to know some of these locals’ I thought dreamily.
The walls were dotted with local artists work. A nice extra touch, we all agreed.
I ordered a pot of tea (two and a half large cups), an omelette with tomato, peppers, cheese & onions cooked in, hash browns, a side of Rye toast (the best toast I’ve ever had!) then a delicious cinnamon bun for a sweet. Cinnamon buns seemed to crop up on various menus all over the place so I thought the locals may have had a special recipe or something. They didn’t – but it tasted better than any I’ve had before. After eating we just sat there for a while, letting it all go down, postponing having to walk.
The rest of the day was great – full stomachs helped. We drove around a bit, stopped in to visit some locals, and had a smoke on their driveway – porches seem essential to the Canadians, and I don’t think they could imagine life without. Most nights you’ll see people out the front of their houses, having a barbeque or a drink, or reading, or just sitting. ‘Porch life’ seems much more intact than any kind of hanging around that people do at home. At the end of the little cul-de-sac was a red octagonal stop sign, then a road and beyond that the railway tracks surrounded by long dry grass. It was an iconic view to me. I had to take a photo.
We all got on well with this bunch of local friends. They flipped when they heard we hadn’t tried root beer yet. We went down to get one immediately. It came in this frosted glass – a dark brown liquid with a head of its own. It wasn’t alcoholic, and unlike ginger beer is mostly unknown of outside North America. Someone over here should start importing the stuff because people would go mad for this stuff – I’m sure. Everyone loves fizzy drinks. Now I like ginger beer - I fucking love ginger beer - but this was something else. Something un-tasted before. We left and took the glasses with us. Spent most of the afternoon sipping from this huge mug.
Back at the house we all chatted away, looked at the hockey sticks, played one touch one bounce in the street and generally kicked back with a nice bunch of locals who were our age – our Vancouver Island counterparts. At random they’d say “fuck the bridge”, in opposition to the proposed floating bridge joining the Island and the Mainland. A floating bridge which spans roughly between ten to fifteen miles in length (depending on the proposed ‘options’) seems like a bad idea anywhere, but an exceptionally fucking dumb idea crossing the Georgia Strait. The Strait is extremely deep in places due to past seismic activity, boats pass through regularly and it’d be a drain on public expenses (they estimate a yearly repair budget of $57 million alone!!). It just doesn’t seem viable to me, not matter how angry our local friends got about it.
“We’d get all those idiots driving out here and screwing the Island up” Andre said with added aggression, an Islander born and bred, with a passion for the place he lives and loves – pretty comforting to see. I realised that even here, however many miles away from home, many of the same problems are debated every day between the locals: new housing estates, crime, drugs, unemployment and boredom.
At six you began to hear this almighty horn in the distance, and it gradually grew closer and closer – the one train on the Island. I walked to the end of the cul-de-sac to watch it go by. Two carriages in length. Two measly carriages travel all the way North in the morning and then South in the evening. But, the noise its horn made was almost deafening as it rattled by. A minute down the line was Langford Station – essentially a British-style bus shelter with a small wooden bench, where it stopped briefly and then carried onto Victoria. I tried to imagine the Midlands, or even the UK, without a rail network.
The local drug of choice, by far outweighing anything else – even alcohol – was marijuana. At least among the people we met. They smoked it pure, and laughed when we tried to roll up with tobacco. “No. No. No! Tobacco! The Devil’s own!” they cried. It’s all in the local ritual, what can I say? When in Rome. They had good skunk over there. Decent organic outdoor greenery, which was equally as strong as the hydroponic stuff, but no mention of hash or thai. No-one seemed to have any qualms with us smoking on the porch well into the night, even the neighbours.
I’d heard about these things called ‘Timbits’ and wanted to find out more. I’d been told they were the centre of the doughnuts, the wasted middle portion. I strolled into the coffee and doughnuts place. At the counter I asked for 20 Timbits. “Assorted?” the lady asked and I just said “Pardon?”
“Assorted” she said again, “all different ones?”
“Yeah, whatever’s cool” I told her, “I not sure what you mean, but its cool anyway”.
She looked confused. I’d never even seen these things before and although she was speaking English the accent threw me slightly. “Assorted. Different flavours. Chocolate. Strawberry Jam. Honey dip. Apple fritter. See?” she asked, pointing at a huge rack of metal trays loaded with the round balls of dough.
“Ah!” And it was one of those times when you feel completely dumb. When you realised you should listen to the people behind the counter when you’re not at home. Not just be stoned and say yeah. A queue of locals behind me looked at me with amazement in their eyes. ‘He’s about to enjoy himself’ they must have thought when I took the first one out of the box and turned round to open the door with my back.
We didn’t stay in the city too long and we were off again within two days for another camping expedition. This time the South-West part of the Island, and in particular a stretch named ‘the West Coast Trail’. This trail is about as hardcore as it gets – in places anyway. For its 47 mile span it winds through beaches, forests and bogs. Up and down ladders at some points, and past waterfalls, ancient trees, through mud, over rock and headlands. According to my notes it is really hard work, which is an understatement. It’s definitely best to be prepared to do the thorough trek, and probably best to take someone who has done it before (although you don’t have to). They believe that parts of the trail have been used for thousands of years by the locals as trade and travel routes. A week is what they recommend to take the whole trail but it has been known to have been run in a day! That is no easy feat believe me, and props to whoever managed that. They must have been knackered afterwards. We were, and we’d walked a mile if that.
French Beach Provincial Park was our first port of call. A nice shaded campsite. We got set up and had some food over the fire. The warden came round and told us to make sure we locked up the food because there had been bear sightings the previous day. Now we were a little nervous. Generally the bears aren’t going to come near you when you’re sitting on the beach or anything, but if it’s late at night and you’re quiet, near food and don’t have a fire going they could appear to see what’s what. We kicked a football around in the campsite for a bit, and then walked down to French Beach to pass the evening. When it got dark we hid in the tent. The bears never did come.
Next day we set off early to work our way up the trail beach by beach. Sombrio Beach was our first stop. An orca hotspot apparently, so if we were likely to see a whale at all it would be here. A turning off the main road (which was full of potholes itself and more than a little uneven) led us onto a dirt track. Ten minutes later we reached the small car park. It was another fifteen minute walk before we even hit the beach but it was worth it when we did. It was a perfect mix of pebble and sand, dried logs and slimy orange seaweed. A short walk up the beach revealed a small stream running through the sand. We walked upstream through a sandstone corridor to find the near-mythical ‘moving waterfall’. It was true! It really was a moving waterfall. Running through the sandstone the fall moves a little further and further inland every year. The spray as the water hit the sandstone was the most soothing thing I experienced on the whole trip. On the beach we checked out the various small makeshift campsites of that summers residents. Next year it’ll be another group of random hippies or trekking family groups. Also worth noting is a tree we saw which had grown over the edge of the headland, then grown down and then back up. It was folded back on itself. Really strange. We clambered over loads of rocks for a bit, then sat down to catch our breath, then clambered back.
We stopped further West at Port Renfrew, maybe the smallest place ever, but most of the town would have been hidden behind the thick trees. The Coastal Kitchen Garden Cafe (a bit of a long-winded name) was kind enough to introduce me to sweet potato fries (chips). Oh my! Go out right now and buy some sweet potatoes to make your own! Port Renfrew is so tiny we could hardly find any sign of life, except the local grocery store, where maybe four cars were parked out front. It’s a small logging and harbour community on Highway 14 (one lane each way) which ends here. We asked for directions to the nearest petrol station, and it turns out the only petrol nearby was in the harbour yard, where a local boatman had “a tank full”.
The harbour yard was over the river and from the bridge joining the two you can still see the remnants of the old, rotting harbour long abandoned. The whole area felt weathered and felt worn. The atmosphere was hardy, which is the only word for it. The guys in the harbour yard were the epitome of hardy too: trucker caps, dirty chequered shirts tucked into dirty blue jeans with cigarettes dangling from their mouths. They were either on the way out to fish or they’d just got back. Hundreds of little boats filled every space in the yard, along with rusting tanks of this and that, big chain link fences and a small white, red and green petrol pump from the sixteenth century. Like most places on the Island they serve you. Meaning you can just sit around even more aimlessly. Obviously, anyone can use a petrol pump, but they seem to get a bit annoyed if you even pick up the nozzle.
Crossing the bridge back the other way I expressed my disappointment at having to go home in a couple of days without seeing a bear. Everyone agreed, and although it seems like a lie a minute late Nick screamed “bear!” and Rich slammed on the brakes. Sure enough, fifty feet in front there was a bear at the side of the road. “Quick, move, go!” we shouted, eager to get nearer as we were in a car. As soon as we moved so did the bear. It hobbled across the road and disappeared into the forest. The general consensus was that the bear wasn’t quite large enough to be an adult and so it must have been an infant, which meant that the adult wouldn’t be too far away. Better keep moving. Although we joked about it there apparently had been fatal bear attacks in the area before.
A short drive took us back down the bumpy highway to Botanical Beach, an amazing place. The strangest looking place I think I’ve ever been. It looked like another planet. A moonscape. The area mixed golden sand with jagged rocks, large rock pools curved perfectly out of the soft sandstone. There was once a Station here where researchers and students alike would come to discover the abundant wildlife on and around the beach. From a booklet on the area: “The organisms that live here must be able to handle a wide range of conditions. When the tide is out there are large changes in temperature, predators and food sources”. On the walk down to the beach you couldn’t help but see the signs which asked you specifically not to take anything away from the area. Escape tracks popped up here and there in case you needed to escape any of the many additional obstacles: bears, cougars, and the ever-faithful and unpredictable tide. A bald-eagle flew round and round up above. Vast cliff-faces hang over and kept you in your place by looking so grand and daunting.
And back to our campsite at French Beach... Get a good fire going, put on a jumper (as it gets cold quite fast when the sun is almost down) and then eat more scraps of this and that.
Scrambled eggs and mini wheats for breakfast with a can of the fizzy stuff and I was ready to take off. We were going to take the mountainous logging road to Lake Cowichan. The forty mile journey took a while but every second was worth it. I’ve never seen so many trees. But also, as a stark contrast, I’d never seen such dead-looking patches of land. These patches had fallen victim to one of the areas biggest trades: timber, or logging. The locals are getting a bit angry as the largest sawmill anywhere nearby is shutting down due to lack of timber, but meanwhile dozens of truckloads a day leave other mills for the states. Seems dodgy to me. Why export when you could use it locally or at least on the Island? The answer, quite obviously, is money. The loggers are going to go with the highest price. Whether or not it’s what the local people want.
That said, it’s not being illegally logged. Illegal logging seems to me to be impossible to carry out here. And pointless too - as you’d need machinery, trucks etcetera to get it to the buyers. As it goes sections of land are marked off, logged, and replanted later on, so the process is constant. Certain areas are designated for logging this year or next year for example. We drove past dozens of signs with huge dates printed on them “1946”. “1978”. “1992”. These are replanted sections of forest, which will be logged one day, and replanted again. The Canadians are really on the ball with the replanting, or so it seemed anyway.
The road wound through the mountains. Sheer drops occasionally appeared at the side of the road. All you could see for miles was dark green, with dotted bare patches.
In Cowichan we ate at a crappy pub and I checked out the local second hand store. It was easily the worst second hand shop ever, with the least amount of stuff. We kept driving South, toward Victoria, but stopped at Stoltz Falls Provincial Park, where we camped for one final night. It was the smallest campsite we’d been to yet. A two minute walk from the Cowichan River. We walked down there on the first evening in our shorts, ready to brave it this time and paddle across the river. Rich and Nick got in first, again, and started wading through the water. It was fast-flowing, above knee height but the rocks were slimy and slippery. I couldn’t decide whether to wear sandals to navigate them or just go barefoot. I went barefoot but it took me ages to get anywhere constantly, fighting against the current and trying not to fall over with all this stuff I was meant to be guarding at bank side: a camera bag, cigarettes, a walking stick and two towels. A couple crossed with a trepidatious dog, which they picked up and threw in the deep end! It was the time of day when the heat levels off for a while, in lieu of the sun going down, and here we were taking the perfect dip in crystal clear freshwater.
The campers next to us, or should I say pseudo-campers in their RV had these two horrible dogs. They looked like a poodle crossed with a sheep but I couldn’t be completely sure. Anyway, these dogs made so much fucking noise, and would always be tramping their paws. During the night came our first bad action towards any of the locals. After waking everyone up, these dogs just continued barking, Nick shouted: “Alien sheep!! Give that dog a bullet!” I couldn’t help but laugh. Their owners must have heard because they were right next to us and they got the dogs inside pretty quick after that. Sometimes I believe that Brits abroad can be real stuck-up, and although you don’t want to add any truth to that it can be true. In this case I’m sure you would have wanted to shout something if you’d heard the damn dogs.
Shawnigan Bay, just South of Cowichan, had this record shop which popped up out of nowhere. The nearest houses were a few minutes up the road, and they were only dotted about. Over the road was a restaurant, a co-op and this and that. Not much happening, which is why I thought a record shop was just a touch out of place. We struggle to have a second hand record shop in a large town of two hundred thousand, but Shawnigan Bay manages to have one and their population is around four thousand. Doug, the owner, seemed surprised when I strolled in. I was probably the only customer that day. There were too many records to sive through so I just asked for this and that until he managed to find some of it. The LP’s I brought came at a reasonable price, and he also listed some places I should check out once I’d got into Victoria. Record shop owners continue to be friendlies.
We got back to Victoria for the last weekend. I’d been gagging to walk around the city more – look around all these places I’d been recommended. “Look” I told the other guys “are you going to want to go into every book and record shop in the city?” The answer? No, of course. So we split up. I was armed with a list of shops and a rough map; they were armed with their senses and chance. Chance of stumbling across where they wanted to go. I knew where I wanted to go and systematically went down the list, working further out of the city centre as I went. I will narrow down the places I visited to keep this from being too boring. If you do visit I can recommend popping into the following.
Russell Books was like something only ever encountered in dreams – a huge two-floor independent bookstore completely packed (and I mean packed) full. Floor to ceiling, narrow corridors wide enough for one at a time, people sitting in all nooks and crannies on un-matching chairs with their noses buried. Although in good order, and well organised on the shelves, it took so long to find what you were after. You’d have to walk all the way up the aisle with your head tilted – which took ages. Not that I’m not used to it – I’m in the library every other day, but not with aisles that long! Also, it must be said, the poetry section was sparse.
In Chinatown, down Fan Tan Alley, was a place called Turntable. A tiny little place, stocked full of vinyl. Mostly classic stuff – Beatles, Stones etc, typical second hand record store, but with some good stuff hidden here and there. I picked up a Phil Ochs LP because they are hard to find. Some old rocker type was entertaining a small crowd of other aging rockers with the history of his whole musical career whilst I browsed. From what I overheard he had Donald Dunn play bass on his solo album, he’d been touted by Lou Reed as the next biggest keyboard player ever and he’d once, only once, met Paul McCartney in Austin or something. I was the only person who wasn’t totally transfixed by this guy – still, I wanted to start talking in a loud smoky voice about the bands I’d seen, driven or played in. The owner drew out a little map to Ditch Records.
Ditch was a punk’s wet dream. Well, a modern punk’s wet dream. Tons of vinyl, CD’s, zines and punk rock girls working behind the counter. There was a section dedicated to a certain bunch of local legends. The girls did seem evasive when I asked where they got a certain zine from. Still, the place was well worth a look. Hang around and spot how many greasy ex-Dad leather jackets stroll in.
Munro’s Books is both an illustrious and legendary Victoria bookshop and also a stop-off point for every cosmopolitan, 9 to 5 office-job city dweller in the city. Alice Munro (Ontario-born, prize winning short story writer, dubbed by the Canadians as ‘our Chekhov’) founded the place way back with her husband. The place was well-organised, but the prices weren’t all too friendly (and then you’ve got to pay Goods Service Tax). No second hand stuff at all – only stuff for the brand new pristine paperback freaks. I found it a bit cold and stale. Plus, I was eyed by a security guard for my whole visit. I played it cool, although I had nothing to hide, and stood around looking at the tidy shelves, fiddling with spines.
Walking around Victoria on a busy Saturday was not too much unlike any other Western city. All the bums and charity-collectors were there, and so were the random suits and the punks sitting in the doorway smoking weed. I played it cool. Don’t look like a tourist, I thought to myself, and so employed my own method of blending-in: 1. Walk fast and dodge people. 2. Look like you know where you’re going. 3. Leave the map at home (photographic memory handy). 4. Avoid stopping on the street. Finally, 5. Look busy. Seems to work for me – in fact a tourist asked me for directions! Absolutely flattered – took me for a local.
During our final evening we somehow ended up at an antique car show. It was much the same as they are at home, but these cars had huge engines and all the owners had been driving for years instead of weeks or months, like the car fanatics in our town. Lots of polished alloy and stainless steel. I strolled around smoking. Someone’s Mum said I should put my joint out, not realising what a roll-up was. I brought another slurpee from the nearby garage then browsed the magazine rack. They actually stocked Mad Magazine. Then I walked around a bit more aimlessly, looking at all the cars I’d already looked at. Eventually we ended up on the pavement (sidewalk), about ready to leave. I looked over these two Fords in front of us. “You’ll never guess where they made these two” I said to Dan. “Where?” “Dude, Coventry!” Just another bit of proof that you can never get away from your part of the world, wherever you may go. Don’t even try to disconnect from your part of the world.
On our final night we got drunk at the pub. Pitchers of beer all round, which the British drank twice as fast as the Canadians. For a Saturday night the place was surprisingly quiet and subdued. Apart from us huddled round the pool table there were only about half a dozen other people drinking slowly. Not much noise at all – none of the hustle and bustle of a Saturday night back home with the usual rowdy conversation, drunken karaoke or stumbling round pools of friends vomit. Just quiet Canadians out for a shared pitcher. Calm, reserved and a bit shy, talking amongst themselves. Things would have got boring very fast without the company or the beer.
Later we headed to Andre’s for a drunken farewell smoke, one of those stupid ideas. When the time came for food we nipped out again, crossing the railway tracks and going through the hole in the fence. Outside the takeaway the local record store were having a party in the parking lot. Fucking “Highway to Hell” was sounding out through the fifty or so people over a crappy little P.A. Please no! Had it have been “Janie Jones” or “Carbona Not Glue” I would have wanted to get into conversation, and drink some of their beer, but the amount of bad tattoos and hair put me off. Classic rock. Urgh, spare me. But it wasn’t the most barren and outback record shop – I’d already been there.
Then we shuffled and stumbled back the way we’d came, carrying food - through the fence and over the railway. Everyone coughed. I looked left down the tracks and saw the silhouettes of four policemen also on the tracks about thirty feet away – just able to make out the uniforms against the moonlight. The dog handler let go of a big dog – and it ran towards us sniffing around. I thought it was all over – arrested in another country, detained maybe. Worries ran through my mind. ‘Don’t look, keep walking, get back, just get back to the house’ I thought uneasily. In the distance sirens wailed constantly and the occasional blue flashing light would illuminate a crossroads. Shit! Were they or weren’t they coming for us? What had we even done? Smoked one joint? No-one else even saw the dog, or the policemen, and continued strolling none-the-wiser. Not knowing – must be bliss! Thankfully they weren’t after us – or they surely would have nabbed us easily enough.
Our local friends said their goodbyes quietly, with added sighs for emphasis, and we could only shake our heads. Going home. How great. Quietly we hoped into the car and stared moodily out the window all the way to our bed for the night. On the journey you’d see a stream and think ‘great, means almost nothing now’. The atmosphere was really quite depressing – it was practically over, and you could feel it.
We were totally silent when we got back to our pad – quiet in knowing we’d found a place we would refer to as our second or third home from now on. That somewhere that just clicked in your heart. A place that both satisfies and soothes the soul, cleanses the ache of being a human. The people who’d made our trip complete were gone now, and the likelihood of meeting ever again seemed slim. A distance was forced between us, just something you have to accept.
The Island may never be our home, and we may never cross paths with the friends we made again but you have to resign yourself to the fact that for two weeks the place was our home, and that those people were our friends. We did live and love there - maybe even just as much as we do at home.
It’s six months now since I got back to my rightful home on this earth – the Midlands – and I can honestly say that the wonder and excitement of finding a new place wears off quickly. It was a holiday, that’s all there is to it. Holidays end. There is no likelihood of recreating the feelings we shared during that short time – they are long gone – and I really wouldn’t dream of moving there. I know where I belong; where my heart beats at the right speed. Isn’t it strange how you have to go away to really appreciate what you’ve already got?
-Originally published as #16, reproduced here in full
