Christmas on Salt Spring Island

CHRISTMAS DAY WALK

Christmas morning was pretty much spent on the couch observing the tides and weather patterns coming into this harbour. When the sun came out, I rushed out and walked up the road and enjoyed watching a darling little boat come into the small harbour after a Christmas Day ride out to sea.









Mac would have loved this, this view of the water, the sailboats, the tides, so I poured up an eggnog and brandy (tribute to Libba, too) and went out on the deck and sat in the sun to think of him and yell at the birds -- what a racket -- and to watch the ducks skirmishing and then rushing off and pushing the Vees that make beautiful patterns in the water.




Then Farzhana and Keki, darling new friends, came over with delicious homemade Indian food. We opened presents and played with yo-yos and airplanes, and then we ate while laughing all the time. It was a good and tasty Christmas, even without you all.

N.B. Keki is Master of Ocean Going Ships, the first one I have ever met. More about his ocean-going antics later.

FIRST SNOW









This is what it looks like here when it snows at night.

I know, I haven’t described where “here” is actually. I know you all have an Atlas, so please look it up and see it on the map. Salt Spring Island is one of the Gulf Islands, sitting just east of Vancouver Island and southwest of Vancouver. It is called a temperate island, partially I think, because it is sheltered by Vancouver Island (think Victoria if you’re too lazy to get out a map).

I think I can see Alaska from here, so I must be Sarah Palin’s next door neighbor. I wonder if she likes Indian food with her moose chili.







THE INDIAN RESERVE

Walking into the Indian Reserve down south (at Fulford near the ferry with all the rules) is a nice little 35-minute walk through wild forest and which spills out onto a pretty little beach that consists of small, smooth black rocks and broken-up white shells, some huge washed-up trees -- a nice place to take coffee, a blanket and a book. I’ll go here many times, I think.

FERRY MISHAPS


This is not me, I promise.