One of the many joys of travelling is that brief period of disorientation immediately after waking in a strange place. However, when I woke one morning in what resembled a bus shelter with eagle-like birds flying below me, it took me longer than normal to get a grip on reality. I recalled that I’d booked into an open-fronted lookout on a high ridge somewhere in Canada, and the “eagles” resolved themselves into turkey vultures, riding the first of the morning’s thermals in the valley below.
Beyond them, thickly wooded islands were sliced here and there by slivers of the Pacific, while further afield was Washington state’s Mount Olympus, its peak still coated with snow in the middle of summer. Closer at hand – almost within touching distance – dragonflies zipped about until a brace of red-headed Anna’s hummingbirds turned up for a good old-fashioned scrap.
An hour away by ferry from Tsawwassen, near Vancouver, Galiano Island is routinely overlooked by tourists eager to visit its Southern Gulf neighbour, the much larger Salt Spring Island. This is an injustice, for though Galiano may only be a mile wide for most of its 17-mile length, it is a haven of peace and natural beauty. Its thousand-odd inhabitants – many of whom are the families of hippies and US draft dodgers who found sanctuary here in the 1960s and 70s – are, I discover, a friendly lot. Before the week was out I knew more than 30 by name, had an invitation to stay at one family’s house “as long as you like”, and had been asked to take part in the island’s annual soccer tournament.
The five wooden lookouts (and one discreetly placed compost loo) were built last year by a local couple who wanted to share the fantastic views from their land with travellers. The three-sided structures are generously spaced out along the wooded clifftops of Ben’s Bluff, each one resembling a bus shelter on stilts and with a screen that can be hooked across the otherwise open front to keep out mosquitoes (though I never saw any). There’s also a shelf, two plastic chairs and, pleasingly, a pair of binoculars.
laid out my airbed, sleeping bag, water supplies and stove (campfires are banned to avoid forest fires) and my home-from-home was complete. While there are beautiful black-tailed deer on the island, unlike in much of Canada there are no bears, cougars, moose, coyotes or other life-threatening wild animals, so I slept soundly, safe in the knowledge that I wouldn’t be savaged in the night (my only nocturnal visitors were mice). And even under cloudless skies, it didn’t get cold at night, so I dozed until the sun rose.
I set out to hitchhike my way to Dionisio Point, a provincial park at the far north of the island … and the first car of the day gave me an exaggeratedly wide berth. Ever after though, whenever I stuck my thumb out I was offered a lift by the first driver who came along. I quickly found myself speeding north and chatting, first with Diane, then Keith and finally with silver-haired Dan.
“Dionisio, eh?” he said when I told him my destination.
“Well, if you give me a hand loading some gas onto my boat I’ll give you a ride there.”
Half an hour later, I was walking down the ramp of Dan’s landing craft on to the silver beach at Dionisio’s Coon Bay. The foreshore was strewn with blanched tree trunks – escapees from logging operations around the coast – some of which had been fashioned into a Crusoe-like shelter. Once Dan sailed off I felt Crusoe-like myself in this eastern Pacific version of paradise. I was not completely alone, however, for soon a river otter and her offspring came close by to conduct a lesson on fur maintenance (see video below). This rather made up for the fact that I’d missed the pod of orcas who had been playing off the coast here the afternoon before.
On another baking day, I hitched to nearby Montague Harbour (I could easily have walked but I was enjoying the chats) for a sea-kayaking tour led by Chessi and Skyllar. A small group of us paddled along the Trincomali Channel and its scattering of little islands, while ospreys, black oystercatchers, great blue herons and belted kingfishers did their thing around us and harbour seals kept a wary watch on our passage. Chessi threw out tasty morsels of information while Skyllar plucked bull kelp from the sea and offered it to me to try. “It tastes like leaves but saltier,” she observed all too correctly. Thankfully, I would soon be sitting down to more nourishing food.
Galiano’s regular bus service closed last year but a former school bus shuttles people, free of charge, between Montague Harbour and the island’s only pub, The Hummingbird. The driver, Tommy, has the look of a survivor from a 1980s soft rock band and is full of Galiano anecdotes. As the 40 or so passengers boarded, he handed each a percussion instrument and exhorted us to play along as the Ringo Starr end of the Beatles catalogue blasted out from the speakers. He kept time on a hi-hat fixed above the windscreen. It was music therapy, Galiano-style.
I sat on the Hummingbird’s terrace amid fairy lights and ate a freshly made veggie pizza while chatting to members of staff I’d got to know on previous evenings.
“Hey, Dixe,” the pub’s owner Debbie said, “this is all from our own farm.” And she proudly presented me with a plate of salad fresh from the field.
The rest of my days were filled with an idleness that befitted the island’s unplugged atmosphere. When not lazing about in my lookout or on a beach, I was communing with the deer on the many forest trails, poking about the island’s 40-odd artists’ studios, browsing the excellent bookshop, or sampling one of the smattering of cafes and restaurants in Galiano’s southern half.
There’s almost no light pollution on Ben’s Bluff, so each night I had the joy of drifting off to sleep gazing up at a spangled sky. Serendipitously, my visit coincided with the Perseids meteor showers, so I had the added joy of watching space rocks career about the silent heavens.
Article source:www.msn.com written by Dixe Wills from Guardian
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