The shapes of fall

All summer, nature works busily away at producing the fruits of the year. In fall, we see the results; usually familiar, but sometimes so unusual that we have to take a second look. Here are some shapes of the fall that have caught my attention lately:

These remind me a little of the coronavirus images that are all over the media these days. In reality, they're the marble-sized fruit of the Korean dogwood tree in our front yard. Colourful and edible to some birds, they weigh down the branches and often end up in a trampled-upon red jelly underfoot. Photo by John Denniston. 

There's a tree on a pathway in Pacific Spirit Park that produces a whack of often-blighted apples that are usually just shoved off the path in a heap. On my walk one day, I discovered that someone had carefully assembled them in a long, snake-like row all along one side of the path. A striking new shape indeed. 

Here's that long line of apples from the other end. The next time I walked the path, the assemblage was gone, and the apples were rotting in heaps in the underbrush.

On our walk one day, John and I noticed some unusual shapes emerging from a tangle of vines edging a garden and wondered what they were. Weeks later, I passed again and saw they had grown huge and assumed much more definite shapes. A little googling tells me they are gourds.

Objects like this were peeking out of another tangle of vines just a little further along; it seems this hairy fig-like shape is another kind of gourd. 

This is the garden of the gourds. Clearly, true gardeners work here. Vines above, and you can see some of the flourishing vegetables -- still going strong in October -- below at the base of the fence.

Tiny perfect round pumpkins on a bed of leaves have replaced the sweet alyssum that in the summer decorated this "bathing" boulevard mannequin. I notice she's lost her flowing blond wig and gained a mask since I saw her last, but the wine glass in her hand remains. 

During our last visit to Saltspring in September, I found a few roses for a bouquet, but mostly depended on the berries, colourful leaves and dried grasses growing around the garden. The different shapes created a mantel display almost as pretty as a summer one full of flowers.

One perfectly shaped, unblemished apple from the ancient apple tree in our back garden. You can see the tree's branches through the kitchen window, and maybe even catch a glimpse of red apples still up there.

And finally, another look at those strange coronavirus/dogwood fruits. Is it a coincidence that they're especially prolific this year? Photo by John Denniston.

 

Gardening lessons

We learned a lot about raising vegetables in our little back-yard garden plot this summer. We'll do many things differently next year.

This little handful of tomatoes is pretty much all we got out of a jungle of tomato plants that took over a whole bed. One thing this summer taught me is how not to grow tomatoes. Photo by John Denniston.

Poking through the enclosure into the lane, another little bunch is still trying to ripen in October. I don't think they'll make it; the vines are already shrivelling. Photo by John Denniston.

 It was an experiment we undertook this Covid spring -- partly for entertainment, and partly due to vague rumours that the pandemic could threaten the food supply. If things got really, really bad, could we grow vegetables in a garden so shady that moss and ferns are the happiest plants there?

The results are in now, and the answer is that we’d survive just fine if we could live on kale, Swiss chard, bok choy and rocket. All those cool-weather, shade-happy vegetables were what was available when I did my panic buying in March; I didn’t know it at the time, but they were exactly what the gardening gurus would have recommended for our garden. Other, more marginal, possibilities failed. The bush beans put out handsome leaves until the moths ate holes in them, but actual pods were scarce. The peas, supposedly of a type that would support each other if planted close together, quickly flopped over, taking their neighbours with them and disintegrating in the dirt. So there were no peas, either.

The veggies that flourished -- rocket, Swiss chard, kale.

Predictably, the worst failures were with heat-and-sun-intensive plants, which we planted against any sensible advice. The basil got smaller every day until it vanished altogether. The tomatoes fooled us by bursting into a jungle of greenery that took over an entire garden bed and climbed 10 feet into the laurel bushes behind. But blossoms were long in appearing, and summer was on the wane before we got any hints of actual fruit. And then the rains came, turning the vines into a fuzzy greying brown and some of the fruit black. Turns out that tomatoes actually do need to be pinched and pruned to produce fruit (I held back, not wanting to discourage their exuberant growth) and they do need weeks of intense sunshine to become sweet and tasty. We gave them the best spot we had, but it wasn’t enough; that whole green tangle of tomato vines produced only a handful of pallid-tasting fruit.

The tomato jungle to the left. This plot originally also had peas, rocket, bok choy and basil, but everything succumbed to the monster tomatoes and disappeared.

I didn't plant any tomatoes in the plot closest to the lane, but suddenly, there they were, growing and heading through the lattice for the road (and the sunshine.)  I assume tomato seeds left in the bed's compost germinated and took off. Tomatoes are a lot tougher than I thought. 

We had fun with our gardening experiment, and our successes reminded us of the vast flavour chasm between home-grown greens and store-bought ones. But our little effort at defying the gardening gods has returned us to reality. Vegetables touted as flourishing in shade and cool weather do just that. And sun-lovers won’t thrive in the shade because of wishful thinking. Nature has its rules. Which also seems, somehow, a good lesson for Covid times.

The failure of the tomatoes has me wondering about the future of the strawberry bed I planted so hopefully in the spring. I took all the buds off this year, but when they bloom again next year, will shade-grown strawberries have any flavour?

Once you start veggie-gardening yourself, you begin noticing other people's efforts. John and I came across some wonderful beds on a boulevard during a walk one day in the summer. The kale in this one beat mine hands down. Photo by John Denniston.

Chard and other greens to die for. Photo by John Denniston.

Whoever was responsible for these was thinking not just of vegetables, but of adding beauty to the street. The beds are unusual, made of grey blocks instead of boards, and surrounded by grasses. Photo by John Denniston. 

Cool Thanksgiving

This Thanksgiving weekend brought us our first glimpse of our newest grand-niece, Mia. Because of Covid, we had to meet outdoors, but luckily Mia has the best baby blanket ever, made by my knitting friend Linda. Photo by John Denniston. 

We all got a little cold, standing in the back yard, but it was as close a nod to Thanksgiving as we were going to get this year. My nephew Etienne and his wife Aya, who are as serious about Covid precautions as John and I are, dropped by with their six-year-old daughter Emi to show off the family’s month-old latest arrival, Mia.

No food was served, and Emi had to make do with exploring the garden instead of entertaining herself with drawing, as she usually does. But it was a chance to reconnect with family, and to be grateful for what we have, rather than what we’re missing.

Their visit brought together two strands of my life that I’m particularly grateful for. One is Etienne, my sister’s son, who arrived in Vancouver from Montreal as a bachelor about 10 years ago, and is now surrounded by family. The other strand is my friend Linda, who wasn’t there in person, but was well represented by the pretty blanket she knit for little Mia, who was probably the only cozy person in that back yard.

They've all met, mainly for Christmas celebrations, and it's a pleasure to me that they like each other. Linda knows how to play with Emi, and Aya and Linda share a similar aesthetic sensibility. Aya says that when other young mothers ask her where she got that blanket, she tells them she has a rather special connection.

Aya, Emi and Etienne with Mia, in our back yard. Photo by John Denniston.

Another closer look at that blanket. Photo by John Denniston.

A Thanksgiving without goodies is unthinkable, so I made a carrot cake to send home with our visitors, pictured here in its box for transport. 

Living in bird-land

 

When you live surrounded by birds, you start thinking of creative ways to make them happy. Would this dollhouse, photographed in the back yard of our Saltspring place, make a good bird condo? Photo by John Denniston.

One of our existing contributions to the neighbourhood bird population is a birdbath. It's a well-used stopping-off point for a drink or a swift splash of the tail-feathers. Photo by John Denniston.

We live amongst the birds here on Saltspring Island, which is a beautiful thing.

They soar past our windows, singly, doubly, or in flocks, zipping up to settle in the tall trees around us, or plummeting down to check out the birdbath or goodies on the ground. They settle by the dozens on the hill behind us, pecking and scratching, turning part of the hillside black. Herds of quail with their head-plumes like ridiculous hats motor past our doorway, swiftly diverting if we dare to open the door. And the song! Sometimes it’s almost a wall of noise, one set of birds laying down their warbling and chirping overtop the next and the next, with a few high-pitched trills belling out over top. When I left the house for a walk this morning, I could hear the song from our place two houses down and around the corner.

Like many people on this island, we are charmed and delighted by this abundance of feathered life, which seems like a cheerful, hopeful thing, especially in a world turned dour. And like many others, we do what we can to encourage it.

Our neighbour Kathy, who loved wildlife so much that she suffered the deer to eat her precious roses, attracted flocks of birds with seed- and sugar-water feeders on her balcony, and distributed peanuts to favoured regulars every morning. There was an emptiness in the air when she died six years ago, but now a new neighbour one house down has taken over. Six or more feeders and plenty of places to perch have turned his front garden into a Grand Central Station of busy birds and their chatter.

We haven’t put out birdfeeders ourselves, as we are here so sporadically (plus, rats!), but we do our little bit. Our birdbath is a local hit, a lively focal point for splashing, drinking and territorial disputes throughout the day. The birdhouses John built 20 years ago, painted to mimic our own house, have been so well used that when he opened one this summer, it was packed front to back with straw and feathers.

Soon, we hope to up the ante. This summer, John spotted a two-storey Victorian-style dollhouse in a pile of free stuff just down the street. “A birdhouse!” he exclaimed. If renovations go well this winter, we hope to be offering the birds of Vesuvius some choice condo units this spring.

Me at the door where quail often roam underfoot, and a birdhouse overhead attracts occupants every spring. Photo by John Denniston.

A close-up of the birdhouse, painted to mimic the colours of our house. Photo by John Denniston. 

Another  birdhouse sits high atop an unused chimney. Photo by John Denniston.

Another look at birds on the bath; such photos are rare because the birds are so skittish that they vanish at the sight of a camera. They seem to tolerate the cherub, though. Photo by John Denniston.

Burgoyne Bay

John and I have periodically visited Burgoyne Bay Provincial Park on Saltspring Island over the years, mostly to indulge my fantasies of what life must have been like on the farms that once existed there.  Oh, to look out from one of those old wooden barns, where the ghosts of long-gone cows still linger, onto a golden field surrounded by bucolic lanes and stately mature trees! To make a short walk down the hill to the serenest ocean bay imaginable; to look up over your shoulder at Mount Maxwell, surrounded by its own clouds. Could any farm have ever existed that brought together so many beautiful different elements? Every once in awhile, it's a pleasure to be reminded that the answer is yes. 

On Saturday evening, John and I and our friends Andre and Margo, who are moving to the island from the city, walked some of the trails around the park. Here are some photos from that excursion, all taken by John Denniston:

Burgoyne Bay is where you want to be during winter storms on Saltspring Island. Protected and serene, it's long been a place for houseboats and small-vessel live-aboards.

Bucolic lanes bordered by trees meander through the old farm-sites. Here, Andre, Margo and I provide some live bodies for John's camera to focus on. 

Margo and I walk what once have once been a farm field, cleared in the late 1800s. 

Over our shoulder, Mount Maxwell looms.

A Burgoyne Bay version of a root cellar, so much more elaborate than the one I remember on the prairie farm where I grew up. Built in 1901 partly of stones, it backs into the hillside behind it.

One of the old farm buildings, built of fieldstone and wood between 1900 and 1910 for storage of farm equipment. 

A barn and workshop from the original farms. Lofts and mangers in the barn still hold the ghosts of the animals that once inhabited it.

A hike takes you to this peaceful spot to watch the sun go down.

 

Country roads

Most mornings of a recent three-week visit to Saltspring Island saw me on one section or another of this road, part of a seven-kilometre route near our place in Vesuvius.  I've walked it for years, but especially appreciated it after months of avoiding city crowds in the Covid era. The blue water in the distance is St. Mary lake. 

As you can see, most of my companions are trees: no need to wear a mask here.

I’ve walked the same country-side-road route on Saltspring Island off and on for 20 years, appreciating it sometimes more than others. It’s narrow, hilly, tree-lined, and in the depths of deserted winter, can make a lone walker feel like the last person on the planet. But in summer, especially this summer, after months of Covid restrictions in the city, ah! 

The shade of the trees eases the grade of all those up-and-down hills. The blackberry-lined meadows bake golden in the heat, and the air smells of sweetly drying plants and salt-water ocean. The sounds of triumphant roosters, mildly discontented sheep and dogs disrupted in their sleep drift on the wind. A rustling in the bushes nearby usually means deer: ballerinas of the animal world, they leap from their cover and dance across the road, feet barely touching the earth. (Alas, their grace is no protection from speeding cars, and deer corpses are common along Saltspring roads.)

As for people and their houses, they're few and widely spaced. On my two-hour walks, I'd often meet only two or three people, and their properties are big and tree-surrounded. No masks, no crowds and plenty of room to play; it's easy to forget the pandemic here.

For anyone who didn’t get a chance to walk a country road this like this this summer, here are some scenes from mine. All photos were taken by my partner John Denniston.

Near the beginning (or end) of my walk, depending on the direction I take, is this road running past Meadow Lane and Sugarland Farm. Further on, there's a driveway called Serenity. Surrounded by names like that, who can think bad thoughts?

Blackberry bushes, meadow, a touch of ocean and mountains beyond -- this little glimpse of rural paradise has always been one of my favourite parts of the route.

All along the route are these plastic boxes for newspapers, but most seem to have been unused for years. John was fascinated by this visual reminder of an industry changed forever. Plus, the light and front yard were great.

I watched this rock wall, which to me looks like a sculpture unto itself,  being built many years ago. The lot remained empty for a long time afterwards, except for a big pile of boulders near what appeared to be the housing site.  I wondered if somebody had spent all their money on that wall and had none left for a house. But this summer, there it was -- a modern Frank Lloyd Wright-style house overlooking the ocean. The boulder pile is still there, curiously well-suited to the house and now planted artistically with flowers. The owner has given good value to the neighbourhood, providing a sculpture we can all appreciate as well as a mystery that intrigued us for years.

I saw this house being built last year, and cringed at the amount of concrete being poured. Unlike the house above, it bows not to its rural island location; it could be in any city suburb anywhere.

 Work crews were busily digging up the area in front of this house when I first walked past it at the start of my three-week holiday. Days later, they were gone, leaving behind this clean-lined fence and level gravel area. I didn't appreciate it until John stopped to take this picture, but the changes emphasized the beauty of the two evergreen trees left when other bushes were cleared away.

But, I have to say, this is a more Saltspringy -- and typical -- kind of entrance-way. Narrow tracks through the woods leading to who knows what kind of structure?

There are many ways to display your address, and trust it to Saltspringers to find an unusual one. Discoveries like this tap support-post are what make walking -- and photographing -- in an unfamiliar area a pleasure.

A perfect stretch of Saltspring country road on a summer day -- something to remember in the city in the rain this Covid winter.

Any walk, or bike ride, on Saltspring involves many hills of various degrees of steepness. This spot, at the top of a fairly steep hill about a kilometre from the Vesuvius ferry terminal, is known locally as Breakup Hill. It seems that by the time cycling couples have hauled their bikes -- overloaded with camping gear and sometimes kids -- up the hill from the ferry to a pullout near here, they're ready to call it quits. For some reason, many people still don't know that Saltspring, with its narrow, no-shoulder roads and steep hills, is not a biker's paradise.

For the same reasons, some might say it's not a walker's paradise either. John catches me trekking up one of those many hills. I was in better condition at the end of the holiday than at the start.

But for every up hill, there's a down, and at least there are no crowds, few cars and plenty of open space. 

John took this picture because it's a journalistic no-no. Only small-town papers run photos of people pointing at things, so here I am posing at the spot of a dramatic incident that happened during my walk a few days earlier. An RCMP truck passed me as I was descending a hill; then I heard the crack of a rifle."Likely a deer," said a woman who happened to be getting into a car at a house I was passing. "They have to shoot them if they're hit by cars." When I got to the spot, a man was leaning over what I presume was the deceased deer, while the officer was standing nearby. Unjournalistically, I didn't stop and poke around, but days later, I was willing to play small-town voyeur.