Still West

The implied promise of ‘Peregrinations’ is that its subject will be, well, peregrinations. What befalls such a blog in the event of a shortfall of travel adventures to yammer about? Such is the conundrum in which your humble correspondent finds himself currently ensnared.

Ordinarily at this time of year Jan and I would be reveling among the mosquitoes and blackflies of Boularderie Island, Cape Breton. I’d be going on about my renewed acquaintance with eastern warblers or regaling my tiny band of readers with the joys of hiking swamps and bogs with my darling gumbooted identical-twin cousins Lynn and Louise. Or perhaps I’d be rhapsodizing about the culinary delights afforded at the Big Bras d’Or wharf by my lobstermen cousins and friends who are out and about at 3:30 a.m. these days to capture comestible crustaceans for crusty curmudgeons such as myself.

But no, the truth is I remain at the opposite end of Canada, in Victoria, where it hasn’t rained since April, the lawns are all scorched, the sun blocked out by forest fire smoke, the sidewalks choked by a human tide delivered by the promise of a ‘Little Bit of Olde England’ and the arrival of up to three cruise ships a day. The other day I chatted up a congenial Yank who, informed that I yearn to be in my Nova Scotia shangri-la, asked Where’s that? Given an explanation, he asked me whether polar bears were not a problem there. Honest.

On Sunday, lured outside by a great street commotion just outside my window, I got myself a lifer – my first-ever pride parade. It was a jaw-dropping sight for the likes of me: bearded men wearing pink brassieres, chartreuse knickers and precious little else; young women with purple hair, topless but for bits of electrical tape forming Xs across their nipples. And much, much more. There may have been ten thousand people jammed into Oswego Street between Belleville and Simcoe, who knows. I have every confidence that I may have been the oldest, certainly the squarest of them all. I departed wondering just when it was that life had passed me by.

So why am I on the west coast, not the east? Well as it turns out in early March I discovered, quite by accident, that my old nemesis – kidney stones – had reared its ugly head again. I first experienced the questionable delight of renal calculi at age 22, my first kidney stone surgery a year later at 23, in India. I have a marvelous right-side scar as souvenir of my experience with the renal surgeons of Punjab. In the ensuing 46 years I doubt twelve months have ever passed without some sort of nephritic adventure. But in March I reached a new pinnacle: both kidneys ‘shot through’ with stones, as the physician in charge so charmingly expressed it. Since then I have been a gross and sprawling charge upon the coffers of Her Majesty’s British Columbia medical plan – right-side surgery in April, left-side a couple of weeks ago. I am not yet out of the woods: a third, urgent surgery is mooted in the next short while. It seems certain I will not return to Cape Breton before the mid-July end of lobster season.

But I count my blessings. Between surgeries I relished three days of hiking in the mountains of Washington’s Olympic National Park with Jan and pals Mary and Mike. It was a glorious time: oceans of wildflowers, infinite alpine vistas, a good soak in one of the park’s natural hot springs.

Having not spent a July in Victoria since the last century I discover that there is plenty to keep one distracted: neighbourhood ceilidhs, frequent concerts in the park, the July 1^st fireworks extravaganza. I get up early to photograph the sun impersonating a red rubber ball in the smoke-filled eastern sky. One needn’t sit at home pondering whether the living room needs a fresh coat of paint.

Meanwhile, I rely on the Cape Breton Post to keep me informed of the comings and goings my lobster-fisher pals at Big Bras d’Or. Environment Canada freshens my Baddeck seven-day weather forecast. When I fire up the computer I am greeted by a lovely image of the cabin, in sunshine, reminding me in no uncertain terms of what I love about the wrinkled old place.

I cannot say just when I’ll be unlocking the gate at the end of my road but be assured of this: it will be no later than circumstance allows.