Down to the Sea

One of the first poems I remember learning is John Masefield's "Sea Fever." I lived in the interior and very rarely saw the sea. The rhythm and longing in the second stanza awakened in me the desire to spend time beside the ocean. I couldn't imagine being on it. 

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
  Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying 
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

 My first extended time at the sea was in Ecuador, where we traveled from our home in a small jungle town, up, up, up and over the Andes Mountains, then down, down, down steep and winding roads to the beach. 
At first, I didn't like it very much. I was used to northern lakes, limpid morning and evening, where the haunting cry of loons echoed in the still quiet. 
In contrast, the ocean was never quiet. Waves rose and fell unrelenting against the sand and rocks, restless and noisy. I was never quite certain where the water would be when I woke up in the morning. Was the tide high or low? 

However, as with many unknown things that become known, I learned to love the ocean. It's very restlessness became calming. I found the incessant surging and falling relaxing and spent hours on the beach alternately reading and looking at the sea. 

We now live on a small peninsula on an island in the Pacific Northwest. We are surrounded by sea on all sides; the furthest water access is 24 km and the closest, 3.5 km from our home. 
On Saturday I had enough with puttering around the house. There is always more to do and I was tired. School has been challenging this term, now ended. The wind flapped in great gusts around the house. Trees swayed and the occasional bits of debris danced down the street. 
"Let's go to the breakwater," I suggested to Tim, and off we went. 
The waves crashed and occasionally flung up hard bits of spray as we walked out to the lighthouse. The gull mosaic photos are all of the same gull, balancing against the wind before finally shooting upwards to catch the updraft. 

We then drove to Clover Point to watch the wind surfers scoot along the surface, then catch wind and wave and fly through the air. Exhilarating. 
As we walked back to the car, we observed one wind surfer coming ashore. He carried his board and hung onto the high-flying kite. The kite needs to come ashore to land on ground rather than water for easy retrieval. 
Tim noticed the difficulty the wind surfer had in managing kite and board and offered to help. He carried the board, then held the man's hand as he struggled to stay on the ground and pull the kite ashore. Together they made it and brought the kite down safely. 

Still not ready to return home, we drove up to Gonzales Park, to enjoy the expansive view. The long skinny point of land is Clover Point, where the wind surfers played.

While enjoying the view a group of tartan clad runners gathered. I asked one of them what this was about and he said it was a Robbie Burns Run. He defined the group as a "drinking group with a running problem." When I asked if they would be enjoying haggis afterwards, he said, "for those who eat the flesh, yes." I don't think he was one of them. 

The fresh air, wild wind, and choppy seas cleared our heads and we headed home perfectly satisfied. I hankered after rye crisps with butter and honey, along with tea, and we settled down by the fire, replete in every sense. 

Linking with Mosaic Monday, hosted by Maggie of Normandy Life.    

A Satisfying Weekend

Weekends are a chance to catch up on a few things around here. However, I've learned that it does no good to race around trying to accomplish too much. At the very least, I do the laundry, clean the bathrooms, and do a quick vacuum of the floors. 

Meals are taken leisurely, for the most part. If I feel like cooking, I do, if I don't, well, there's plenty of stuff in the freezer that's easy to heat up. This weekend was a combination - some cooking, some freezer items. Saturday breakfast was baked eggs with Brie and prosciutto. 

On Saturday night we invited children and grandchildren over with the express purpose of helping to whittle down some of the holiday appetizers that still languish in the freezer. Soup and appetizers was the menu, along with a tray of cut up vegetables. 

Tulips are in the stores now, and I can't resist picking them up. These are fresh and just beginning to open. Such a pretty shade of pink. 

The glow of twinkle lights on the mantel makes me feel cozy and warm, closed in by comfort. 

On Saturday evening the wind rose and howled around the house throughout the night. I awoke often as gusts clattered against the windows. Sunday, the wind eased, and we went for a walk in the afternoon. Just as we reached the furthest point from home and were beginning the return part of the loop, rain fell. Hard. We arrived home drenched, very happy to change our clothes, make some hot tea, and lounge in front of the fire. Comfort, indeed. Very hygge-ish. 

Last week's leggy tulips have been trimmed. The mosaic is composed of photos taken throughout the week, from tightly closed buds to wide open blossoms.

Sunday evening's dinner was a pan-fried salmon filet with spinach, roasted vegetables and couscous. Quick and easy. All in all, it was a satisfying weekend. How was yours?

Linking with Mosaic Monday, hosted by Maggie from Normandy Life.  

A January Walk

Last Sunday the clouds scattered, skies lifted, and the desire for a long walk led us to the Selkirk and Songhees walkways. From Victoria's protected harbour, a winding waterway, The Gorge, meanders inland. Along its shores residential and industrial buildings mix in relative harmony. 

Several bridges cross The Gorge Waterway, including our infamous Blue Bridge, soon to be replaced by another. Construction has been long and fraught with delays of one sort or another, but in a few months, the iconic bridge above will be replaced by a sleeker, modern version. 

Roses in January? How can that be? These were blooming in the shelter of shrubs. Such pretty blossoms for winter. 

We saw many birds along the way, including Mr. Old Grumpy, aka Great Blue Heron. 

Others had the same desire for fresh air and when a woman coming from the other direction cried out, "oh look," I looked. From a stone wall above the walkway, a clump of snowdrops looked down on passersby. 

Cloud-streaked skies and delicate colours let us know that it was time to head back to the car, an hour away. 

Since Sunday, more rain has fallen, but have you noticed the days are noticeably longer? 

January Comforts

During this rainy, dark month, I crave colour. I wear a bright scarf, perhaps pink or cobalt, and put bright oranges on a cheerful plate from Mexico. Rosemary survives the winters here, and I dash out between the raindrops to clip a sprig or two to throw into a roast chicken, or a warming beef stew.

Although it's only been a week since school started, I'm exhausted. A couple of days of filling in for another teacher turned into all week, and next as well. I came home on Thursday, completed knackered (don't you think that's a great word?), and felt the need for a little self-care. The cheese, orange, and tea were lovely, but as someone who saw the photo on FB said, "where's the chocolate?" Where, indeed? I was all out. That was remedied today!

We slept in today, then lingered over a bacon and egg breakfast. A bit of laundry, grocery shopping, and some house puttering filled the rest of the day. Puttering included repotting a couple of houseplants, and finding a home for this tiny succulent I bought. There's a hyacinth getting ready to bloom, as well. I've put it in the corner window where it will get the most of the pale, watery light.

I ventured out to the garden, too, and discovered bluebell shoots poking up through decaying leaves. There are snowdrops, tightly closed, but with pearly beads showing through translucent tissue that will soon burst. My heart filled with such joy at the life appearing in the garden. 

From my window I see the maple tree beaded with silver on every branch. The raindrops catch the faint light and softly sparkle. I couldn't catch the sparkle on my camera, but imagine every branch beaded as the one above.

This evening we're having shrimp tacos for dinner, and we'll watch a movie and/or read books. I'll light some candles and put the twinkle lights on. January is the time to practice coziness. How are you faring in this first month of the year?

Linking to Mosaic Monday, hosted by Maggie of Normandy Life. 

Back to Real Life

During last week's trip to the mainland, Tim and I stopped at Brae Island for a walk. The island is in the Fraser River, alongside Fort Langley, built by the Hudson Bay Trading Company in 1827. The fort itself is a National Historic Site, and there is also a small town grown up beside it. It's a fun place to wander, with cute shops and interesting buildings. But this was New Year's Day and little was open. 

The Fraser River is navigable by fairly large ships for a long ways. These abandoned pilings bear mute witness to the industry that once bustled along the shores. 

In the Garibaldi Mountain Range across the river, these peaks played peek-a-boo with the clouds. The peaks were originally named the Golden Eyries, but the name became Golden Ears, and that's how these peaks are known today. The park encompassing the mountains is popular with hikers and campers, although I wouldn't have wanted to be camping up there in January. 

Once home again, I spent some time sewing. I wanted to make another project bag to hold my embroidery. As I began pinning the pieces together, I realized that the large floral print was directional, and going sideways instead of up and down. So I cut the bag dimensions in half, turned the flowers right way up, and ended up with two smaller bags. 

One of my New Year's intentions is to use up some of the many teas I have in my cupboard. There is a large box of various kinds, and they get ignored since I usually grab a bag from the canister on my countertop. So I sorted through the individual bags and put them into a small bowl in plain view where I'm more likely to use them. I like a little honey with my tea, as well. There's been a lot of tea made during these days at home. 

I'm beginning the new year with a new journal. Starting a blank book is full of possibility, and scope for imagination, don't you think? 

I have three of Laura Calder's cookbooks, and took this one from the library. I think it will go onto my wishlist, as well. I've never had a bad recipe from Calder - her books are full of inventive, but not labour-intensive ways to prepare vegetables, soups, and main courses, with a few desserts. You won't find muffins or very many cookies in her books. 

And one more photo from the mainland - of the birds at the Great Blue Heron Nature Reserve in Chilliwack. These were taken after the ice storm, and the birds were happy to crowd around the feeders. 

A squirrel was happy to clean up some of the mess made by falling birdseed. He looks quite fat and content.

School begins tomorrow, with a bang. A couple of hours ago another teacher contacted me - due to a family situation, I'm covering her morning classes. As well, a couple of visiting students from Brazil will be in my Spanish class in the afternoon. I find that I can understand Portuguese because of its similarity to Spanish, so we'll see if that works in reverse.

Linking with Mosaic Monday, hosted by Maggie of Normandy Life.  

Back from a Little Jaunt

On the second-to-last day of 2017, we boarded the ferry for a trip to the mainland. We spent a couple of nights in Vancouver, with our youngest daughter and her husband. I didn't take a single photo. The weather was chilly and sunny. 

We brought in the New Year with a crab dinner, watching Star Wars on Netflix, and headed to bed shortly after midnight. 

On the first we wound our way through Vancouver, crossed the Port Mann Bridge and drove along Highway 1 towards Chilliwack. As we approached Abbotsford, the scenery beside the road changed dramatically from greens and browns to crystal clear and white. 

The ice coating caused by the storm a few days earlier was preserved by the cool weather. The first photo shows a blank billboard along the highway that I decided to write in. 

My grandfather once owned a raspberry field alongside the highway. I spent a summer picking berries there and always think of him, and that summer, when I drive by. It's now a blueberry field, and although the second photo is blurry, the sea of white ice covering the plants is still dramatic. Each branch appears coated in clear crystal. 

Before driving to my parents' home, we stopped at the Great Heron Reserve along the Vedder River for a short walk and some photos.

As we walked along the trail, the sharp snap of ice cracking overhead accompanied us. Small shards fell and stabbed into the snow on the ground. The beauty was breath-taking, but also treacherous. Many were without power for several days. Branches and entire trees snapped under the weight of ice. 

It's amazing to me that more trees didn't collapse. The ice is so thick compared to the delicate thin branches. 

A larger view - a winter wonderland!

I'm looking forward to a few more quiet days at home before school begins. I've not had time to reflect on the year behind and ponder the year ahead. Some time writing in my journal and updating calendars will happen. Simple cooking. A little stitching. Quiet days. 

And now a huge storm is forecast for the east coast of Canada and the USA. One of my work colleagues is stranded in the UK with his son who played for Canada in a rugby match. We're assuming it's because of the impending weather. I hope and pray that those of you affected will remain warm and safe.