Days of whimsy and wonder

Exploring passion projects on the west coast

My friend Thalia's a passionate person who, like me, knows how to enjoy the full beauty of places and events. Like me, she likes doing things: exploring, finding new hobbies, discussing the intricacies of life and relationships. So I knew I could lavish all my most special places upon her when she flew in to visit last week.

Many of the places I wanted to take her are "passion projects": creative visions brought to life over years of love and investment. I always appreciate seeing someone's personality expressed through what they create.

Day One: Butchart Gardens

Once upon a time, in 1912, Jennie Butchart looked at her husband's depleted limestone quarry and saw past the barren rubble. She saw a garden. She had money, and the Indian and Chinese workers who'd been living in the nearby makeshift village needed work after the cement factory shut down. (The probably sketchy history here is pretty much absent from Butchart tourism, though you can see the foundations of the workers' village in the adjacent park.) Jennie ordered dirt carted in by horse from nearby farms and built raised beds. A spire of unusable rock became a lookout tower topped by trees and shrubs.

The garden kept expanding: a Japanese garden full of nooks and crannies and a seaside view, a vast rose garden, and a formal Italian garden. Today Butchart has all kinds of goodies: a carousel with (unintentionally) creepy animals you can ride, summer firework displays, and concerts where you can dance your Boomer heart out on the lawn to Beatles cover bands.

Sure, it's touristy, Victoria at its most cliché. But it's still classy, still somewhere locals like to go. I live just a few minutes away and used to walk there every week. I've never minded the tourists, who provide a buzz of excitement and remind me that where I live is awesome. (Just avoid the dump of cruise ship visitors and try to go around dinner time, when everyone's gone.)

The last time Thalia visited Victoria was in March 2020, just as the pandemic hit. March is a grey month here. Butchart is post-Christmas lights extravaganza, with only little spurts of green coming up like a five-o'-clock shadow. I wanted to introduce Thalia to full-beard, summer Butchart.

All day I'd been refreshing the high tea reservation page on my phone. High tea is a standard tourist experience in Victoria; our whole shtick is being "more British than the British". I don't think this is true (although Victorians are notoriously opposed to change), but since I'm Victorian both in geography and aesthetic, I embrace it. Thalia and I share a love of all things British.

I refreshed the page one more time and—voila!—we booked a slot 15 minutes before closing.

Thalia is studying landscape architecture and knows a lot about plants. We wandered the gardens discussing floral habits and habitats. The peonies—my favourite—were in bloom; we exclaimed over their lushness.

I miss having a garden. When I fantasize about my future, I mostly just think about having a permanent garden I can nurture. I don't need to transform an abandoned quarry, just a little corner of God's good earth.

High tea is served in the original Arts and Crafts Butchart house. The room is full of sun and potted plants. High tea is tiddly: a glass of trifle, scones and clotted cream, torte and truffles, sandwiches of salmon or pickled apple... and many more. Eating through the tiers is a long affair; go with someone you want to talk to.

It was a perfect way to kick off my visit with Thalia, as we "spilt the tea" over cups of real tea. The couple near us was silent for much of their tea; I conjectured they were eavesdropping. I likely overestimate how interesting my conversations are.

We were so full we saved the rest of the goodies for an evening picnic on the beach. What could be more Victoria than eating crustless sandwiches and petit fours while watching sea lions and otters about their secret errands?

Day Two: Sage Hayward Vineyard, Saturna Island

Each of the Gulf Islands is a small ecosystem full of hidden coves, hilltop hikes, quirky shops, and eccentric characters. I've visited all the Gulf Islands you can reach by BC Ferries (Salt Spring, Pender, Galiano, Saturna, and Mayne). I meant to determine my favourite and return yearly, but it's too hard to decide. I love all my children equally.

Saturna is the least populated, since most of it is parkland. There's not much to do in terms of shops and eats, but it wins my Best Nature Award. I wanted to show it off to Thalia.

East Point feels very east coast, long grass rippling around an old foghorn building. (This is more impressive to me, who's never been to Canada's east coast, than to Thalia, who lives there.) Something about the way the currents collide and swirl over the reef makes this a special spot for sea creatures. We watched sea lions, otters, a very curious group of seals (including a baby), and a bunch of garter snakes sunning themselves on the rocky shore.

Then we drove up Mt. Warburton Pike. There you can hike a long ridge that looks south over the Canadian and US islands. We picnicked on the mountaintop and watched an eagle slowly looping in the updraft as we discussed what kind of children's books we might write.

I said, "I don't think we'll have time to go for a hike if we want to do the winery. Too bad, because I wanted you to see the goats."

Mt. Warburton Pike is renowned for its feral goats. We'd heard them bleating but couldn't see any. We packed up our blanket and food and stood to go. Then I saw them. Below us, adults and kids capered on the edge of the steep, bare slope threaded with goat trails. "Very The Sound of Music," we agreed.

We drove down the road to other side of the mountain. Sage Hayward Vineyard sits at the mountain's foot. I discovered it randomly with my friend Gayoung one spring a couple years ago. We drove to the flat fields below the mountain and saw a wooden building with a gothic window. "What is that place?" we wondered. It was a winery, but it was closed for the season. I planned for years to return in the summer. Now was the time.

The Feral Goat café is an old barn shipped over the water and reconstructed, spruced up in west coast Craftsman style. Far from its rustic genesis, full of light and exposed wooden beams, it's a place I'd happily live. The vineyard had become too much for the previous owners to keep up with and was overgrown and unused; the new owners have slowly been reclaiming it.

As we sipped wines and pretended to understand tasting notes, I asked about the etymology of nearby Murder Point. The server called a young man over. "So, you want to know the story of Murder Point?"

I half-expected him to sing a sea shanty or declaim an epic poem. Instead, he told us (in ordinary prose) the story of a father and daughter whose boat was caught in a storm in 1862. They had to take shelter on the point and were killed by some indigenous people (not sure why).

Murder was far from our minds as we sat out on the patio with a glass of wine. The patio overlooks a gazebo, pond, and vineyards sloping down to the Salish Sea. Thalia asked me what I'd do with a year of my life and unlimited money. I determined I'd spend a year writing a book about whatever I was doing, maybe spending a month on each Gulf Island immersed in its peculiarities.

When we had to leave to catch our ferry, I said, "I want to stay here forever." It seemed as if we would stay on Saturna forever when we rolled up at the ferry and were the only ones, no boat in sight. I'd mixed up the Thursday and Friday ferry schedule, so we had an extra hour to kill. We could have lavished it on the goats or the winery. Instead, we surprised some nude hippies down at a secluded cove and backed up the hill to enjoy a less-exposed view.

Day 3, Part 1: Munro's Books

My favourite bookstore in Victoria used to be Russell Books. I think it was most everyone's favourite. It had slowly taken over three stores. First, it travelled from ground floor to consume the old nail salon upstairs, featuring a whimsical purple door with a driftwood handle. Then, it descended to a subterranean vintage section, where a small stage tucked under the stairs hosted various literary events.

Each of the three areas had its own aura and mystery, a kingdom of teetering piles of used books and winding, musty stacks. I always imagined a meet cute in its aisles. (Yes, I imagine way too many meet cutes.) With all this real estate and a devoted following among literati, it seemed Russell had all that could be desired. Thalia felt like she'd won the lottery when Russell hired her to rise to cool hipsterness with its other staff.

But Russell betrayed us all.

Russell moved across the street into a former Staples, an escalator going up and down between the open-concept upper and lower floors. What is this, Indigo? More like, indie-gone. Gone was the must and mystery. Gone were many of the loyal patrons. Even the super cute British man they hired, probably for the vibes, can't win back my heart.

Thalia feels the same and refuses to besmirch the past by going there. Instead, we went to Munro's Books. Munro's is as classy as Russell was once quirky. Started by Canadian literary icon Alice Munro and her then-husband Jack in 1963, the bookstore occupies a historic former bank on touristy Government Street. It's solid and self-assured; it knows it ain't going anywhere. Murchie's, the iconic tea joint, cozies in beside Munro's, equally certain of its importance. What could be more Victoria than tea and books (other than sea life and tiny sandwiches)?

Quilted banners of the four seasons drape the walls high above the books. Plaster cornices ornament the pillars. A glass case displays a Lego recreation of the store. A new little shrine in a bookcase honours the recently deceased Alice.

Munro's is old money. It has nothing to prove. All the books are new; there's no chance of stumbling on a long-shelved treasure. It's hard to imagine a meet cute in its perfectly curated aisles. But unlike Russell, Munro's knows what its patrons want. Russell didn't understand its own appeal. Munro's relishes its grand dame status. It may sell tote bags and fun socks, but it will never debase itself by moving into an old Staples.

Munro's welcomed Thalia and I like a stable, predictable ex after our whirlwind romance with a brooding artist. We felt safe, comforted. But that doesn't mean we've forgotten Russell. Such stacks. Such must.

Day 3, Part 2: Market Garden

A couple years ago, I went to Market Garden for the first time. My parents had been telling me about it for a while, but the mundane name kept me from checking it out. When I finally did, I almost cried. Room after room opened in strange splendour: a maze of chandeliers, muraled ceilings, nooks sheltering ceramic horses or Chinese statues, an owl peeking out of a potted plant, a man playing a grand piano, tables piled with exotic chocolate, cabinets filled with metallic sprinkles or pasta shaped like hats. It felt like a bizarre dream. How could I not have known this was in my own backyard?

I texted Thalia, "I went to the most magical place today. I'm not going to tell you its name or send you any photos, but we have to go when you visit."

When she came to visit, we went. "The front of the building looks pretty innocuous, right?" I asked. "But look at these shopping carts." In front sat a row of small antique carts with little golden wings.

We entered the depths, confronted by rows of cheeses and baskets of fresh mushrooms. Deeper, deeper, past the new Dining Room through the Mirrored Room of non-alcoholic wines, into a newly-added Room of Beauty Products surrounded by rose trellis murals and a stained glass skylight, winding into the Chocolate Room under the rainbow glass chandelier, and finally to a chat with one of the owners, who stood under a cascade of origami birds at a counter full of chocolates painted with birds or shaped like pigs. The employees are all artsy and mysterious as they proffer wares from shadowy recesses. It's a bit intimidating. But the owner was chatty, eager to explain how they order in crystallized fruit from Italy at Christmas.

Thalia was as agog as I could have wished. I could research the genesis of this place, but I'm content to leave it shrouded in mystery, informed only by rumours and hearsay. You should be grateful I'm even telling you about it. Market Garden is about as anti-Walmart as it gets, a superfluous, ever-expanding warren that appeals to culinary magpies and artsy wanderers alike.

Day 4, Part 1: Crow and Gate Pub, Yellow Point

Sunday was thick with rain. Thus, indoor pursuits. We took an hour-ish drive up-island (it takes about six hours end-to-end). The highway was full of puddles that sent my car in little hydroplanes; I gripped the steering wheel and waited for the turnoff onto country roads and lower speeds.

As we took the exit, fields and distant hills appeared through the gauze of rain. Yellow Point is mostly farms—and one very popular pub, in what feels like the middle of nowhere. Eventually, we reached a painted sign of a crow grasping a pint.

Any Anglophile longs for a snug country pub with low-beamed ceilings and a roaring blaze in an open hearth. This is the Crow and Gate, once recommended to me by a very British insurance salesman as the most British of our pubs. The building is relatively new (1972), but legend has it many elements were brought over from England to create authentic Tudor vibes.

Whether you enjoy a frowsy cottage garden in the summer or a wintry fireside chat, the Crow and Gate is your jam. It's best enjoyed after a vigorous hike. The only thing they could improve is having a deep fryer so they can make me some proper chips. Bangers and mash and an excellent conversational partner almost made up for this oversight.

Day 4, Part 2: Hand of Man Museum, Maple Bay

After Crow and Gate, we headed south forty minutes to Maple Bay, me once again white-knuckling through the highway downpour.

I'd seen the billboards, but until I visited a few years ago I had no idea how bizarre Hand of Man would be. It's still relatively unknown, even to locals. Take one big game hunter with a big ego. Let him buy his kids' old school and fill it with relics from his worldwide travels, as well as various family photos. Ignore your suspicions about that one room of taxidermy where you're cautioned that you absolutely can't take photos. Plunge into the Wunderkammer that is Hand of Man.

Only a private museum can pull this off. It's by donation, and it's a journey into one man's mind and very quirky life. Would you like to see old anatomy models, a collection of turtles, traditional indigenous cedar clothing, a painting of a bear mauling a man, or a stuffed frog smoking a pipe? Hand of Man has you covered. Love it or hate it, or maybe some of both, you've gotta admit: Hand of Man is something else.

By the time we made it home through the rain, I was ready to curl up on my comfy chair in complete silence. The passion projects had drained me of all passion. But it had been worth it. (Hopefully you feel that way if you’ve made it this far through the post.)

The theme of this post may be, "Listen when your local friends tell you about something cool." Maybe your area is truly boring. Or maybe you just need to check out that new pub, market, or taxidermy museum you keep hearing about. Sometimes what we miss out on is well-kept secrets, like The Market Garden. Other times, we miss out on things we think we know too well, like Butchart Gardens. When a friend comes to visit, it gives me an excuse to be a tourist in my own place again and see it through new eyes.

Granted, not every place has as many rich weirdoes as the west coast. It makes me wonder: if I had unlimited money to devote to a passion project, a place others could visit and be amazed by, what would I make? If I ever get rich, you'll find out. And if you're not sure whether that's a promise or a threat, you've got it right.