King Robert Pays a Royal Visit

We were honoured by a royal visit from one-of-a-kind, incomparable Bob Nagel. At the airport we initially looked in vain for Robert and were approached by a shaggy old hippie. I reached into my pocket for some loose change before realizing the old bum was Robert himself. Wow. He hasn't had a haircut in nearly a year, having decided he wants to enjoy a ponytail before checkout time. Good on him.

Robert knows how to have a good time like no one else of my acquaintance. That's why I and all the others who know him elbow each other for the privilege of hanging out with the old guy. Mary and Mike are among the elbowers. They came for supper and partook of an evening of irreverence and raucous ribaldry. No one called the police.

We took him on a little grand tour -- to Granville Island and Gastown in Vancouver, to Bowen Island where niece Sarah has a new domicile with Pier and two-year-old Teo, to Coquitlam to see soon-to-be-three Lexi and those other people she lives with.

I had completely misconceived Bowen Island: I imagined it an enclave for BMW-driving Howe Street types but no, it turns out to be more like Lasqueti Island, where long hair and Patchouli oil are still in vogue. Sarah and her guys live on the side of a rainy mountain slope. On Friday evening a trusty woodstove kept us warm. Teo liked the red fire engine we brought for him and took it to be bed at slumber time. On Saturday morning we all hiked to Dorman Point, soaked up the views across English Bay to UBC and Wreck Beach then we caught the noon ferry.

It is good for us that Lexi loves the outdoors. Her entourage joined her for a perambulation through the big wood across the road. We exchanged pleasantries with squirrels and turned over logs in search of salamanders and rough-skinned newts but had to settle for centipedes and sow bugs instead.

Robert is ordinarily not a big eater but the Pacific Buffet on the ferry back to Vancouver Island was altogether too tempting even for him. He pronounced it a feast to remember.

Marc and Cai made Bob's acquaintance two summers ago, in Cape Breton. Like so many others they fell victim to Bob's charms instantly. On returning from a day and a half-long trip to PEI they greeted us not with 'Hey it's great to see you!' but with a querulous 'Where's Bob!?' So of course they too elbowed their way to the front of the queue for a merry meet-and-greet.

On Tuesday we climbed Mount Wells to look for warblers and ogle the early satinflower extravaganza. Now bear in mind that Nagel is in his 82nd year; nonetheless he was the one with energy to spare for a flurry of show tunes all the way up the hill. Pal Judith returned in the nick of time after several weeks in Cuba; on the last evening she came to have her way with her old friend.

There was just one problem: it all ended too soon. Robert stayed eight days and then it was done. There is consolation. We can comfort ourselves in the knowledge true and certain that, if we're spared, in just a matter of weeks festivities resume on the opposite coast.

Island to Ourselves

How many of my fellow humans would drool at the prospect of spending a winter weekend on a 25-acre island rock boasting just one man-made amenity: a drafty cabin ventilated by woodpecker holes and shared with a fragrant family of minks residing somewhere below the floor? When pal Mary proposed we mark my 64th birthday with a weekend on a tiny uninhabited island I leapt at the chance with at least as much gusto as other folks might contemplate a stretch at a south-sea resort or California vineyard.

We might never have known a thing about the island and its cabin had Mary not been elected to the BC Land Conservancy board and consequently learned that the TLC owns a property, South Winchelsea Island, one of 19 islands in the Ballenas-Winchelsea Archipelago opposite Vancouver Island between Nanaimo and Parksville. South Winchelsea has a cabin that TLC rents out to people whose joie-de-vivre isn't dependent on proximity to a mall, casino or 4-star hotel.

Boatman Lyle ferried us -- and our lode of food, drink, optical gear, warm clothes and bedding -- on the 25-minute run from Schooner Cove to SWI. For me it really was love at first sight. As we approached the southern island group I saw a wisp of rock spotted with patches of Garry oak, arbutus and shore pine. Lyle lingered only long enough to fire up the propane-powered fridge and hot water heater. Then we had SWI to ourselves (excepting the platoons of sea lions and battalions of gulls just off our doorstep). At Winchelsea water comes not from a well but from a cistern storing rainwater collected from the roof. Solar panels power a few dim lights. A boardwalk leads to a facility boasting a more splendid view than I've seen from any other outdoor privy.

We spent most of our daylight hours exploring the island, botanizing and birding, taking pictures, savouring splendid water and mountain vistas in every direction. We found early wildflowers -- sea blush and blue eyed mary -- but were initially foiled in efforts to locate the prickly pear cactus we understood flourishes on SWI. Fortunately Mike found a riot of it on the last morning, just a stone's throw from the cabin door.

Come sundown we ate and drank well, played Hearts, provided our own merriment. With apology to Lennon & McCartney my pals sang me their own special version of 'When I'm 64': Now that you're older, losing your mind -- and your O-ring too...

The island offered a night life too; under a cloudless sky we aimed the spotting scope at Orion, showed Mike giant Betelgeuse and the amazing Trapezium. The cosmos features billions of galaxies with billions of stars in each. We looked for the soft blur of the nearest galactic neighbour: Andromeda, just 2.3 million light-years distant. Contemplating the night sky helps maintain perspective.

The 48 hours passed too quickly. I can think of nothing to gripe about. No guff. My Winchelsea weekend rates a perfect 10. What a way to take the pain out of turning 64.

Another Sooke Adventure

These are the good old days. Yesterday Tom W joined the usual suspects -- Mary, Mike, Jan, YT -- for another ramble in the magnificent Sooke Hills. Life tastes better in the Sooke wilderness, bigger and bolder too. Am I just a kneejerk member of the love-the-one-you're-with club? Maybe, but yesterday's circumstances --crisp near-zero temperatures, clear blue skies, no wind -- made the outing seem just a notch better than the other excellent Sooke adventures we've shared with M & M over the years.

Big old cedars, hemlocks and douglas-firs dominate the valley bottoms but we don't have to climb very high before these give way to open slopes of arbutus, manzanita and shore pine affording spectacular views of Juan de Fuca Strait and the Olympic Mountains.

Birding is never over-the-top in the hills but gangs of kinglets let us know that we aren't alone in this world. Yesterday a hairy woodpecker hung around long enough for us to give Tom a short clinic on the fine distinctions between the hairy and his little cousin, the downy. Like people, Corvus corax knows the value of balancing work with a measure of leisure: a murder of ravens played tag and revelled in their favourite aerial games. We checked every eagle cruising overhead in hopes one might turn out to be golden but no, they were all bald.

One denizen of the Sooke hills we always keep an eye out for is the sooty grouse. Yesterday I nearly stepped on one; too bad no one else was nearby to share in the startled excitement. We pause to look at maidenhair ferns or read signs that the first blooming of early saxifrage isn't far off. Mary is a photographer, I take pictures. We all delight simply in being where we are.

Around midday we find a suitable promontory to sit, unpack the lunch and watch the world go by. Mike and I entertain ourselves with sophomoric song and verse while the women try to steer the dialogue to more edifying subjects. If laughter is the spice of life these outings are well-spiced. I am always surprised, though never disappointed, that we typically don't have to share the hills with other humans. Sometimes a few, often none

By day's end the old bones may be a bit weary but we feel exhilarated, convinced that life can't get much better than this.