O Canada

I haven't blogged in quite a while – too obsessed with and appalled by the slow motion wreck unfolding at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.  Meanwhile, Ann’s torn-up knee had house-bounded her for over a month.  We needed to get away.  Thank goodness "O Canada, . . . the true north strong and free" is right next door.  

Our 'little sister' to the north shows us up in so many ways.  Her leader is but 47, has a tattoo, believes in global warming and welcomes immigrants.  His countrymen and women are not so crude as ours are becoming; truly, Canadians are nice.  Life expectancy in Canada is 3+years longer than ours.  A lower % smoke.  Their fifteen year olds rank 7th in the world in math proficiency vs. ours at 40th; 10th in science vs. ours @ 25th; 3rd in reading vs. ours at 24th.  Incarceration?  114 per 100,000 Canadians are in the slammer vs. 694 out of every 100,000 Americans.  (Some Canadians like to remind us that they are "Americans" too, as in North American.)  On the UN "happiness index", Canada ranks 7th, we 10th.  And so it goes -- highway deaths, infant mortality, on and on.  Just under 40% of Canadians are first or second generations vs. 20% or so of we Americans.  Does that fresh blood and energy have anything to do with anything??

No, I’m not one of those so disenchanted with the state of US democracy that I wish to emigrate to Canada, as we hear loosely talked of, but for restoration of spirit there she is -- very sensible, very easy to reach (from Seattle) and so very attractive.

So, Ann and I got away to Canada – specifically, to Saltspring Island, one of the Gulf Island chain  between Vancouver Island and  the British Columbia mainland.  Cross the border, two ferry rides and you are really away.

Saltspring is a quarter old money in graceful English beach cottages plus new-monied summer people in McMansions that stand empty 45 weeks a year. The rest: fishermen, artists, graying hippies -- he with ponytail, she in Birkenstocks and hand-woven granny gown -- and their X-Gen, wanna-be hippie grandchildren strumming guitars, sporting goatees and Dylanesquely inappropriate hats.  No VW Deadhead vans seen . . . but, yes, a ‘64 Cadillac rescue hearse, home-away-from-home.  It’s the 70’s Seattle scene distilled into a concentrate.  And all set in stunning scenery -- mountains, valleys, bays and harbors, old growth, deer, narrow roads with nary a straightaway.

Stephanie Welcomes Ann to the Wetherly

Our base was The Wetherly Inn. Our new friends are inn creators Samantha Gardner and Peter Weldon and their inn manager/Afghanistan veteran/daughter Stephanie Roberts.  The Wetherly is a place of peaceful comfort: well-designed rooms exquisitely, tastefully appointed (no Victorian lace or Teddy bears) amid 37 inviting acres of ponds, water courses and walking trails nestled into the flanks of Mt. Manchester.  Befitting her name, Samantha has created and nurtures lovely English gardens all about the inn which were simply glowing on this rainy spring weekend.


Dining? excellent: Wetherly breakfasts heavy with homemade breads and jams (Stephanie is also an experienced chef;) lunches in local seafood spots (great halibut fish n’ chips at The Seaside;) and top notch dinners (best of the best: House Piccolo.)  But why no oyster stew at The Oyster House?  Waiter said in seventeen years, no one had ever before asked.

Our Gabled Room (upper right) with Balcony 

Rainy, Misty View from Atop Mt. Maxwell (650mtrs)

O Canada, the true north safe and sane. When dysfunction overwhelms, O Canada . . .  We’ll be back.