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.