Sunday, December 27, 2020

Covid Christmas


Instead of braving Covid crowds in stores for this year's Christmas presents, I "shopped" in my kitchen. My gifts were home-made mine tarts, oat cakes, pecan sand-tarts and sugar cookies with lots of sprinkles.
 

My friend Linda came up with the idea of knitting a POP! blanket for my grandnieces, Emi and newly arrived Mia. This blanket has its origins in pop art and the bright circles are made of Japanese wool. Linda displays it after finishing it earlier this year. Photo by John Denniston.


This Christmas, John and I didn’t shop, except for food. We didn’t decorate, except for a string of lights around the front door. We didn’t – shhhh -- even clean the house. Why fuss? No one was coming.

And yet, and yet, we still had a fine Christmas. In lieu of shopping, I went into baking mode, the results of which became my gifts. My friend Linda used her knitting skills to solve my other gifting dilemma –something special for my two grandnieces. And instead of hosting family and friends for the usual turkey dinner, John and I made quick back-yard visits to them to exchange gifts and say hello.

Of course it was a very different from what we're used to. No steamy kitchen with guests wandering in and out, no piles of gifts or wrappings strewn across the floor, no blazing fireplace, no blissful moment when everyone is finally at the table together. But still, somehow, the greetings and gifts of our brief, chilly meet-ups gave us the needed jolt of holiday cheer.

We came home smiling, but later, I discovered one of the unforeseen problems of doing Christmas this way: The house really, really still needs cleaning!


This year's baking gave me my first chance to use the cookie cut-outs I inherited from John's mother decades ago. I was delighted to find a star, Christmas tree, Santa, gingerbread man and other fancy shapes.

The production line: pecan sand-tarts underway. The recipe is an old-family one from my friend Ros, who used to distribute these cookies to family and friends every Christmas. I got the recipe from Ros and apparently passed it on to my mother, as I came across it in her old  hand-written special-recipes book. These cookies come with a lot of family connections!

Once baked, they're rolled in icing sugar.

The finished product: lots of goodies to be wrapped in waxed paper and given to friends (not that we didn't save a lot for ourselves!)

A box of cookies ready for my nephew Etienne, his wife Aya and daughters Emi and Mia.

Me as Santa Claus leaving the house with gifts on Christmas Day. Yes, we have lights strung up around the front door -- first time ever! Photo by John Denniston.. 

Emi (left) and Aya inspect the blanket on the back steps of their house during our Christmas-Day visit to them. Photo by John Denniston. 

As older sister, Emi (left) has first dibs on the blanket when she and Mia settle on the couch after our Christmas visit. Photo courtesy of  their mom Aya, who confessed to wondering whether the blanket might be a bit too precious for children so young. They don't appear to think so. 

During our outdoor visit to my friend Linda, she showed us the bright yellow socks she knit herself to provide a splash of sunshine in these grey Covid days. She also made her green finger-less gloves, and is holding a bag of colourful dishcloths she knit me as a Christmas present. I gave her (what else?) cookies, mincemeat and cranberry sauce. Photo by John Denniston.

Our loot. Etienne and Aya gave us ultra-beautiful chocolates and three elaborate desserts, and Emi added her colourful drawings to the bottom of their Christmas card to us. To the left is Linda's bag of dishcloths in bright, cheerful colours.

This is the aftermath of a successful Christmas gift: John and I polished off those three desserts in no time, and that was after eating a full Christmas turkey dinner. We had to restrain ourselves from licking the box!

Sunday, December 20, 2020

Addictive oatcakes

 

These don't look like much compared to the elaborate, highly decorated treats of the season, but trust me, this simple blend of rolled oats, brown sugar, flour and butter is irresistible!

I’ve become addicted to my second venture into this year’s seasonal baking. Since I discovered the recipe for Nova Scotia Oatcakes online a few days ago, I’ve made three batches, and it won’t be long until I’m rattling the pans again to make a fourth.

Unlike the mincemeat tarts I wrote about earlier, with their thrice-cooked candied peel, multi-ingredient filling and requisite battle with the pastry gods, these cookies are simple. They have seven basic ingredients and take about 30 minutes from start to plateful. If you shut your eyes to the butter and skimp a bit on the brown sugar, you can even pretend they’re healthy given their high rolled-oats content.

There’s nothing wrong with elaborate Christmas baking – for many people, it’s all part of the fun. But when I put my hand into the cookie jar lately, I’ve been noticing that it comes out with an oatcake instead of a tart almost every time.

--

The recipe, tips and variations, can be found at

https://kellyneil.com/nova-scotia-oatcakes/

For those who want a quick summary without going to the site, here’s what I’ve been doing: Combine one cup of large-flake oats, three-quarters of a cup of flour, half a teaspoon of salt, and half a teaspoon of baking power into a bowl. In another bowl, beat half a cup of room-temperature butter until it’s light and fluffy, then add half a cup of brown sugar and one-quarter teaspoon of vanilla and beat until smooth.

Put dry ingredients into the wet ones and work together until combined. Put dough on floured work surface, roll until one-quarter inch thick, cut into rectangles and put on parchment paper. Bake at 350 for 13-15 minutes or until the edges are golden.

Make again the next day!

Saturday, December 19, 2020

Amaryllis surprise

 

The instructions tell you to plant amaryllis bulbs in potting soil, water gently and place in sunlight. This is what happens if you store them too long in a paper bag instead. Photo by John Denniston. 

Shopping for spring bulbs in October, I was seduced by pictures of amaryllis blooms. Dreamy pink-and-white “Apple Blossom,” sprightly red-and-white “Minerva” – what a combo to send a plant-loving brother for Christmas!

I bought them and tucked those scaly dry bulbs away in the basement in brown-paper bags, confident about what would happen next. In December, I’d nestle them into a parcel that would arrive at my brother’s place in Alberta for the holidays. Then, planted and watered, they’d sprout, thrive and flaunt beautiful flowers for him in January.

What, then, were those green things sticking out of the bags when I came to assemble his Christmas parcel last week? Bent, contorted, swooping anywhere but straight up, were thick green protuberances more than a foot long, with buds on top. Without the prescribed pot, potting soil, water or even light, those bulbs had sprouted and were racing toward the finish line!

They were too fragile for a trip to Alberta and besides, their odd shapes would make planting them a pain. I replaced them with plain red – very dormant – amaryllis bulbs from the local hardware store.

As for my two misshapen, misbehaving leftovers, I’ll find a way of supporting their dogged drive to burst into pink and red blossoms. They surprised me and upset my plans, but in times like these, they also seem to send some kind of message about the value of sheer determination.


The seductive "Apple Blossom" photo. Given its treatment, I hope the real thing has enough strength to produce blooms like this.

The "Minerva" looks bright and snappy. I thought it would be a nice contrast with my other choice.

Wednesday, December 16, 2020

Not-ready-for-prime-time tarts

My highly imperfect-looking mincemeat tarts are actually far tastier than any I've ever bought. But I think they're a little rough-looking to present as gifts, and the pastry is, umm, crunchy. John says, "Fine, more for us!"

 Mincemeat is a once-a-year pleasure for me – a few tarts from the right bakery at Christmas are all I need. But this Covid/baking year, when I bought some from the wrong bakery and was repelled by the palm-oil aftertaste, my first reaction was: “I can do better than this.”

And so it began. The research: what’s in mincemeat, anyway? The action: should I actually try to make the filling, or just buy a jar? The dreadful dilemma of pastry: should I stoop to buying it or, with sufficient strenuous effort, conquer a lifetime of tough crusts? (Always remembering the melt-in-your mouth pastry my mother whipped together so effortlessly with her bare, capable hands.)

Mom made one mincemeat pie a year – for me, I think – and always used bought filling, so I tried the same route. But Save-On’s “traditional” mincemeat was cloying and my effort at pastry, though tasty, had the texture of cardboard. Aiming higher, I turned to a baking website (address below) for a filling made of apples, raisins, currants, walnuts, spices, brandy and – the coup de grace – home-made candied peel (“it makes such a difference, trust us.”) And so even before I began making the filling, I was twice- boiling oranges and lemons in water, gutting and scraping them until the skins were translucent, then stewing them in syrup, producing a golden bowl of glowing citrus skins.

The result was delicious, if a little heavy on the peel. But the pastry problem remained, probably because I stubbornly refuse to use a food processor (mom did it with her hands, why not me?) No matter how much I chill the bowl, the flour, the butter and sugar, cut it together until it’s just the right consistency and add tiny dribbles of ice-water, that pastry wants to be hard. I tried different recipes, I tried different tart sizes, I experimented with cooking times, but the results were sad.

And so, my fantasies of producing tiny tasteful gift boxes of perfect pastries for friends will remain just that. If I work on my baking skills (or succumb to mechanical aid) in the next year, perhaps there’ll be mincemeat tarts for Christmas, 2021.

--

For those who can't wait that long, here's the recipe site and an encouraging quote:

https://www.baked-theblog.com/mincemeat-tarts/

"These are, of course, a bit more time consuming than store bought mincemeat and pastry shells, but it’s very well worth it. Take the time to make your own candied peel, mincemeat, and pie dough – if you think you don’t like mincemeat tarts, 100% homemade might change your mind."

--

Life is usually far too busy to worry about making your own candied peel, but in retirement, isolation, and Covid times, what the heck is an afternoon? Bottom left are the scraped-out lemon and orange peels; top left are the boiled halves awaiting treatment, and top right are the scrapings.

Once boiled in sugar syrup, these peels will be almost see-through.

Granny Smith apples and the zest and juice of an additional lemon add zing to the filling.

The filling also includes raisins, currents, walnuts, brown sugar, spices and butter, with brandy added after it's cooked.

That darn pastry. Up to this point, it looks perfect. 

Plastic-wrapped for chilling, the pastry then has to be unchilled sufficiently to be workable.

The results. I've put some away in the freezer, and at the rate we're going, I suspect they'll all be gone by Christmas. Whatever their appearance, they really are delicious.




Wednesday, December 9, 2020

Lessons from George Eliot in the age of Trump

 

I found George Eliot's remarkable life story and her novel Middlemarch inspiring reading during the troubled summer of 2020, when U.S. President Donald Trump and Covid anti-maskers took selfishness to new lows. A biography of Eliot by Gordon Haight shows that even though she was born in 1819 and lived in a very different society, her life and her novels still contain some lessons for us today.


In a narcissistic, individualistic age that has seen bragging, lying and selfishness driving the U.S. agenda for the past few years, there is something heartening about spending time with the opposite. And lately, George Eliot, the 19th-century English writer, translator, thinker, multi-linguist – and social outcast – has been my conduit to a different world; one in which kindness, forgiveness, generosity and unselfishness matter.

For me, the essence of what Eliot is about – both in her own life and in her novels – is illustrated in a searing scene toward the end of her novel Middlemarch. It features her upper-class heroine Dorothea Brooke, who – like Eliot herself – is drawn to idealism, self-sacrifice, justice and good works. The scene occurs after the recently widowed Dorothea finds her new lover in what appears to be a romantic tryst with another woman. The woman is the spoiled wife of the town’s idealistic young doctor, who faces professional and financial ruin because of his efforts to keep her happy. Dorothea had earlier discovered the doctor's dilemma and – idealism reaching out to idealism – had taken it upon herself to pay his debts, resuscitate his reputation and save his troubled marriage, the latter prompting an unannounced visit to his wife. When she sees her lover and the doctor's wife in a close tete-a-tete in the drawing room, she flees, wordless.

Dorothea’s subsequent response to that shock points, I think, to the huge contrast between Eliot’s approach to the world and the less-heartening one familiar to us after four years of Donald Trump. At first, Dorothea behaves as we might expect of someone thunderstruck by losing love to a rival. Tortured, she spends a sleepless night writhing in bitterness and anger.

But by morning, she has made a shift that many people never make in a lifetime. She begins to think of the doctor, his wife, and her own putative lover as people in crisis whom she has been called on to assist: “She said to her own irremediable grief, that it should make her more helpful, instead of driving her back from effort.” Dorothea asks herself: “What should I do – how should I act now, this very day if I could clutch my own pain, and compel it to silence, and think of those three!” Opening her curtains to the sights of an ordinary day – a man walking down the road with a bundle, a woman carrying her baby, a shepherd and his dog – reminds her of the “largeness of the world and the manifold wakings of men to labour and endurance.” She feels part of that “involuntary, palpitating life, and [that she] could neither look out on it from her luxurious shelter as a mere spectator, nor hide her eyes in selfish complaining.”

 And so she moves from anger to sympathy to a desire to help, culminating in a second visit to the doctor’s wife that very day. Her behaviour there, exposing her own vulnerability while reassuring the troubled young woman of her husband’s love and explaining his struggles, is a masterpiece of how humans can help each other through honesty, kindness and generosity. The wife, at first resistant and suspicious, is finally touched by her visitor’s transparent well-meaning. Then, meeting truth with truth, she rewards her with an honest explanation of what was really happening in that drawing room: her own overtures were being rejected and the young man was in fact pleading his love for Dorothea.

Nobody writes such a passage out of narrowness or ignorance, and in Eliot’s case, I think it was the result of a giant intellect and a generous heart evolving together over a lifetime. Eliot, born Mary Ann Evans in 1819, did not have an easy life. An estate manager’s daughter, she had no fortune, little formal education, and was plagued by the curse of unusual plainness. But she was also brilliant, a voracious scholar who learned Latin, Greek, French, Italian and German and was not only translating – but also absorbing – German philosophical/religious works by her 20s. She supported herself by writing, translating, reviewing and editing for London magazines, but the skimpy pay left her in deep poverty until she began writing her popular novels in her late 30s.

The defining act of her life was her decision to live openly with an already-married man, a bombshell scandal in those times. For complex legal reasons, her lover George Henry Lewes couldn’t divorce his wife, who was already having children by another man. As Eliot noted, she was only doing openly what others were doing secretly, but the punishment was to be cast out of London society. She had expected to lose friends and acquaintances, but she was heart-stricken when her brother – the beloved playmate of her childhood – cut off all ties and insisted the whole family follow suit. Over the years, her increasing fame and fortune restored her social status, but even when she was being courted by royalty, her brother stayed aloof. He relented only after Lewes died, 25 years later.

Throughout, Eliot worked unrelentingly hard, helped raise Lewes’ sons by his first wife, and kept her heart wide open. When her brother finally sent what Eliot’s biographer Gordon Haight called a “stiff, meagre” note after Lewes’ death, she quickly responded that it was a “great joy to me to have your kind words of sympathy, for our long silence has never broken the affection for you which began when we were little ones.” That same forgiveness was extended to friends who once shunned her but wanted to resume relations. Financially, she was always generous. In the days when she and Lewes were so poor that they noticed how much better they felt after a proper meal, she tried to give part of her small income to her sister, who was struggling. When she began making good money, she donated to causes and urged it on friends who had come upon hard times; even Lewes’ wife and her children by another man benefited. Eliot’s generosity assumed other forms. When she became such an icon that her conversation was jealously sought at gatherings, she would make a deliberate effort to talk to the less famous folk who otherwise would have been shouldered aside. Despite her success, Eliot never absorbed the idea of herself as a great talent. Long after her literary reputation was established, she was so tentative about her work that Lewes guarded her from reviews and the comments of friends lest someone drop a word that she would perceive as critical and be discouraged from carrying on.

Out of such a life, and such a person, came novels about flawed characters who were often wrestling with right and wrong in the face of severe dilemmas. Her goal, Eliot told editor John Blackwood early in her novelistic career, was not to create irreproachable characters, but to present “mixed human beings in such a way as to call forth tolerant judgment, pity and sympathy.”

For me, this summer was a perfect time to be immersed in Eliot’s life story and philosophy. Her biography and her novels were heartening antidotes to the last eruptions of the Trump reign and his supporting cast of anti-maskers defending their right to ignore the safety of others.

Remembering back to Dorothea’s decision to turn her attention away from herself and toward the hurting people around her – and the subsequent good that resulted – we can see how a single act of unselfishness can untangle a web of hurt and pave the way to healing.

I’m thinking that Eliot’s works may be just the thing for our narcissistic, individualistic age. What could be better than books that inspire “tolerant judgment, pity and sympathy”?


Thursday, December 3, 2020

Ho ho ho

Early and elaborate, Christmas decorations seem to be one of the ways we're responding to the bite the pandemic is taking out of our traditional celebrations this year. An entire village of inflatables (including Santa in an outhouse) take up most of this front yard. Photo by John Denniston. 

These are not traditional Christmas motifs, but one Dunbar neighbourhood has sprouted a series of  celebratory-looking, if unusual, street-side decorations (more below). Somebody felt they needed to
 brighten things up, even if they used spring flowers to do it. Photo by John Denniston.

 

Halloween pumpkins were still fresh and plump on the doorsteps this year when Christmas trees began glowing in neighbourhood windows. As someone who reluctantly hauls out the Christmas decorations as close to Dec. 25 as possible – if, and only if, company is coming to notice them – this seemed like an alarming development.  Two full months of indoor trees drying to tinder-explosion levels? Of inflatable yard-display figures drooping and capsizing through months of winter winds, rain and snow? Of eye-straining light displays keeping neighborhoods ablaze until well after the new year?

It seems to be a pandemic thing. Trapped in their houses, isolated from friends and family, people are turning to the warmth and sparkle of Christmas decorations to lighten things up. CBC had a story this week about Christmas trees flying off the lots – sales are up and taking place earlier than usual. People who usually go away for the holidays are hunkering down and pampering themselves, sometimes with not one tree, but two.

We’ve always been the Grinch house on our block. Neighbours scale high ladders to string up sparkling strands that brighten our view and we respond with …darkness. But this year, as all those early decorators have decided, is different. Now that we’re respectably into December, maybe it’s time for us to join the crowd and shine a little Christmas light ourselves.

Inflatable figures are taking over from more traditional decorations in many Vancouver gardens. Photo by John Denniston.

But not everywhere -- this highly decorated garden featured lights and Christmas-tree balls. Photo by John Denniston. 

A mix of old and new. Giant-size traditional bulbs, a "neon" Santa and a couple of wicker figurines for the kids. Photo by John Denniston. 


Back to the Dunbar-area street-side display. I have no idea what this is about, but it is colourful and cheerful, which may be the point. Photo by John Denniston. 

This may be making a nod to Christmas, given the use of traditional red and green colours. Photo by John Denniston.

But this? Oh my. Photo by John Denniston.

Similarly, no lack of colour here. But it looks like somebody had fun. Photo by John Denniston. 

This is the boulevard bathtub lady I have used in previous blogs. Last time, she was surrounded by pumpkins for Halloween. Now she's in Christmas fettle. Love her or hate her, she gives people something to talk about in the middle of a pandemic. Photo by John Denniston. 



Thursday, November 26, 2020

Murmuration and other bird mysteries

 

Intrigued by the flocks of birds that performed unusual manoeuvres outside our windows on Saltspring, we learned that they're probably starlings doing something we'd never heard of before. The phenomenon called murmuration is a fall thing; birds fly together in tight formation, apparently to fend off predators, keep warm and tell each other about food sources. Photo by John Denniston. 

On the other side of the water, at Iona Beach Regional Park in Richmond, snow geese were carrying out their own fall ritual. They stop over in many areas of Metro Vancouver to rest and eat during their annual migration from arctic lands to warmer climes. Photo by John Denniston.

It’s fun to watch a lone hummingbird assume lordly possession of the back-porch feeder, a robin puff itself to twice its size in the birdbath, or a bluejay contemptuously kick aside the autumn leaves to search for goodies beneath. But these are humble, back-yard moments. They’re a different thing altogether from the eerie mystery of what great gatherings of birds get up to.

This year, possibly because Covid has meant more time for idle observation, I’ve been paying more attention to what birds do in bunches. On Saltspring this fall, we were intrigued by the sight of hundreds upon hundreds of rather ordinary, drab-looking birds swooping and looping past our windows, all flying together and changing direction on a dime, as if linked by a common brain.

That’s how I learned about murmuration – the phenomenon of birds, usually starlings, flying together in swooping, intricately coordinated patterns. Bird telepathy was the original explanation of how this was done, according to the website https://animals.howstuffworks.com/birds/starling-murmurations, but later studies revealed something less psychic. Each bird simply keeps track of the movements of seven other birds around it, the website explains. “Considering all these little groups of seven touch on other individuals and groups of seven, twists and turns quickly spread. And from that, a whole murmuration moves.”


Here's a hint of what murmuration looks like, with groups of birds forming different patterns in the sky. Photo by John Denniston.

Our Saltspring version was rather modest because of the size of the flock, but web videos  (https://phys.org/news/2019-02-starling-murmurations-science-nature-greatest.html) are more impressive. When thousands of starlings get together, they can blacken, then lighten, the sky in ever-changing, ever dividing and reconnecting waves and circles and columns.

Then there are the snow geese, who stop in various areas of Metro Vancouver on their annual migration from arctic lands to the warmer south of the continent. They seemed like a visitation from another world when we saw them at Iona Beach Regional Park this week, whitening the shore and drifting like snow on the water. Their chatter was constant, an interrogative screeching, and I wondered what they were telling each other in all those thousands of exchanges. On the shore, feisty young geese snapped at each other and flapped their wings like bullying teenagers, while their tired elders snoozed on their feet, heads tucked under wings. They ignored the photographers standing mere feet away, but when a trio of dogs raced along the shoreline, they rose squawking, forming waves of white mystery against the autumn sky.

 

The snow geese in Richmond, resting up for their migration ahead, were remarkably calm about photographers getting close. Photo by John Denniston.

But add some dogs, who surely thought this the best sport in the world, and the geese were off the beach in an instant. Photo by John Denniston.

Uprooted, they joined their companions in the water, there to sleep some more. Photo by John Denniston.

Friday, November 13, 2020

Covid summer, remembered

 We thought we had a strange summer this year thanks to Covid, but as winter and the pandemic’s dreaded “second wave” kick in, those months of sunny freedom are starting to look pretty good. We saw fewer people, hosted almost nobody, and I lost my last chance of ever walking in a graduation procession after SFU cancelled my June convocation. On the plus side, I upped my baking game, learned that kale and arugula are the stars of a shady garden, and walked a lot of woodsy trails. We also spent more time than usual at our place on Saltspring Island; isolating is easy when the birds, deer and rabbits outnumber the neighbours.

Now that the winter rains have hit and we’re all hunkering down at home under stricter pandemic rules, here are some scenes from that strange but in retrospect, pretty okay, Covid summer:

Flaky biscuits have always eluded me, but Covid isolation gave me time to perfect them. This pan is awaiting strawberries and cream for one of our count-on-one-hand social gatherings.

The finished product. Yum!
This is what preparation for guests looked like this summer: everything outdoors and very widely spaced. Notice the blue hydrangeas and yellow hollyhocks serving as living floral arrangements.

                                        

Our guests, John's cousin Janice and her husband Jim seemed to enjoy the strawberry shortcake.


Another day, another guest, but the same widely spaced chairs, this time in the back garden. My friend Linda talks with John.

Linda and me during the same visit. Oh, how far apart we are sitting!


Proof that I'm now a master of liberal studies at Simon Fraser University came in a special box, containing my degree and a graduation cap. I had to celebrate  in the back yard after convocation ceremonies were cancelled due to Covid. Photo by John Denniston.



As I've documented in several previous posts, Covid prompted us to begin a little veggie garden by the back fence. In spite of our efforts to get some sunshine into the space, we found that only shade-friendly veggies like kale, bok choy and arugula flourished. Lessons learned for next year.


That same lack of sunlight prompted delphiniums to reach for the sky, higher than ever this year. These must have been about 10 feet, and needed to be propped up on sticks after rain knocked them sideways. Photo by John Denniston. 


Like everybody else, we walked a lot this summer. The woods were a beautiful, peaceful place to stay safely away from everybody else.  Photo by John Denniston. 


There are always discoveries when you walk, and we were impressed by this ghostly stand of trees around a slough in the Ruckle Park area of Saltspring Island. Photo by John Denniston. 

Another view of those dead trees in the swampy green water. I think our late painter friend Kathy Robertson would have enjoyed doing justice to this scene. Photo by John Denniston.

A lookout bench on Channel Ridge on Saltspring Island; the joke is that the view has been obscured by the trees. Photo by John Denniston.

And somehow or other, I always end up posing in the giant trees we come across on our walks. There were many such photos this summer. Photo by John Denniston.


Saltspring was our refuge from the city's pandemic craziness. This view of our property, looking down at the house with the ocean beyond, says everything. Photo by John Denniston.
Picking blackberries for dessert from a wicked tangle of brambles in our yard was part of the daily routine on Saltspring. So much better than donning a mask and going to a grocery store! Photo by John Denniston.


A leaf swaying in the wind, seemingly attached to nothing, had John down on his knees in the back yard one day. It was actually on a spider's web attached to the tree above, but it fascinated John enough that he turned it into a weirdly soporific video clip. 

Our new neighbour on Saltspring has departed from his predecessor's strict devotion to a manicured lawn. We kind of like the relaxed feeling that a summer's worth of uncut grass produces. Photo by John Denniston.


Another view of that back-to-nature back yard.  What a playground for the two young children who live there! It wouldn't have been a confined Covid summer for them. Photo by John Denniston.

The morning view from our Saltspring living room. We watch birds, boats and barges, and the pandemic is a long way away. Photo by John Denniston.

The view from the deck outside that same window is always changing. At sunset one night, John caught ocean, clouds and mountains sandwiched between the silhouettes of our neighbour's trees and chimney stack.. Photo by John Denniston.

At just the right time of a cloudy day, the little Vesuvius ferry looks magical against a backdrop of ocean, clouds and the lights of the Crofton pulp mill. Photo by John Denniston.

The deck comes in useful for various ways of entertaining ourselves. Here, John wanted to know if we could read out there by the light of the old coal oil lamp from my parents' farm. The answer was yes. Photo by John Denniston. 


Not every day was sunny during our time on Saltspring. Here I am on a non-swimming day on Vesuvius Beach. Photo by John Denniston.

John, however, thought a little rain wouldn't deter him from his daily swim, so here he is in the water.

Later in the season, when the water was getting marginal for swimming, I joined a couple of hardy neighbours and braved the cold. This time, John stayed on the beach. Photo by John Denniston. 


Here's John at the little Vesuvius cafe, with his coffee, computer and internet connection, which was the real point of going there. The inconvenience of depending on coffee shops and dodging other customers finally persuaded us to sign up for internet on Saltspring.

The cafe took Covid precautions seriously; only two customers at a time and a big bottle of hand sanitizer at the entrance.



Near the stairs leading down to Vesuvius beach is a little chunk of waterfront property that belongs to the pretty cottage across the road from it. This little bit of quaintness, the handiwork of longtime owner Jack Clement, who died this year, is a reminder that people and pandemics may come and go, but the beauty of nature goes on.