Once Upon A Quarry

Looking around, we see no evidence of the limestone which provided the impetus for such staggering beauty. Yet it must be hidden beneath the verdant greenery and ceaseless flowers. Intent on banishing the bleakness of a colorless pit, one very determined woman spent the early years of last century creating a Japanese Garden. While her husband's cement-production business flourished, the plantings multiplied and eventually 55 lush acres nearly consumed the original site.



Almost instantly, I know that mere words cannot convey the breath-taking beauty of Butchart Gardens, about half an hour north of Victoria, B.C. No description is grandiose enough. The walkways must be wandered, the blossoms inhaled, a lifetime of adjectives consumed in an awkward attempt to relate what is being seen. With over a million visitors a year and a Canadian National Historic Site designation, the gardens always mesmerize regardless of the season.



Many incredible gardens are sprinkled throughout this world. We've seen quite a few of them and are especially fond of Kew Gardens outside London. However, Butchart Gardens belongs in an emeritus status. For us, it has no peer. When I mentioned this assessment to a staff member, the lady smiled sweetly. She intimately understood the difference.



Traveling with camera in tow, I'm accustomed to capturing scenes that are wondrous, inspiring, unique. However, I don't recall another location where it is necessary to wait your turn for nearly every single shot. Each camera-wielding (or smart phone equipped) visitor perceives the exquisite beauty all around and is determined not to leave without it.

There are no dead flowers or faded petals. Grass looks as if it were painted, not planted, it's so perfect. Whimsical topiary animals peek from hidden places. The bumblebees must be on nectar steroids as they are huge and abundant. Wood and rock has been woven into nature alongside the perfect juxtaposition of flowering and non-flowering plants. Even the wooden trash containers are topped with plant bouquets.



With ample signage, we're initially directed to the Sunken Garden with its syncopated fountain. Pausing momentarily to absorb the view, we sit on a perfectly placed bench. Arising, I catch one foot on the metal leg of the bench and quickly fall onto the gravel pathway. It's just another jaccident. (I have so many of them that I've coined a new word. It's a combination of my name and 'accident.') A cut palm begins bleeding but is quickly repaired with an ancient Band-Aid plucked from my purse. My jeans probably prevent any significant damage to either knee. I'll check for bruises later. I'm up, revived by Nurse Henry, and ready to continue the tour.



Turning toward the Rose Garden, we realize that blooms are fading but enough remain to provide a sense of their earlier florescence. Through a Torii gate, we enter the original Japanese Garden. That these plants can survive a Canadian winter is amazing. Lily pads crowd water features, conical hats hide lights. We walk to Butchart Cove where the founding family once kept a houseboat and entertained regularly. Float plane trips and sightseeing boats are available today for visitors to enjoy.



In front of the stunning Star Pond, we ask a tall, thin, possibly Scandinavian, young man to take our photo. He obliges with three views. They'll not appear in this format as one will likely be our Christmas card choice.



Next we enter the Italian Garden. It is stately, precision designed, very different from the surrounding versions.

In the Plant Identification building, the experts are asked what background they've acquired for their assignment. One responds, "A passion for plants." That's more than enough.



With multiple dining choices, we are torn. The Blue Poppy Restaurant offers spaghetti and meatballs plus a whole wheat pita with wild salmon salad. Desserts are totally deserved after all that walking. Chocolate mousse and an airy raspberry lemon chiffon slice of pie with a crust that contains Kirsch looks terrific and tastes even better. Sublime actually. Our server is a young man who's embarking upon a 'gap year' before attending college. He tells us that he hopes to join 'the forces' and thus save his parents the cost of his education. He plans to be a nurse. We learn the 'the forces' refers to the Canadian military.



One expects a colossal gift shop to match the grandeur of the grounds. There's no disappointment as aisles are trolled for parting gifts. Seeds that attract butterflies, 'can't fail' seeds for the girls to plant (marigold variety), flower postcards, and a tea bag holder adorned with a single musical note for the Portland resident will leave with us.



Reluctantly, we must leave this pastoral paradise. Infused with such splendor, we're immensely grateful that the third generation of Butcharts proudly preserves the family's botanical heritage.

Ferry Land

We love England, even when it's located in Canada. Victoria is a favored destination for many travelers, deftly combining the infectious pride of our northern neighbors with the enduring charm and heritage of Great Britain.

Concerns about driving GPS-less have been mitigated by the extremely useful and amazingly accurate On Star feature of our rented 2012 Buick La Crosse. Getting lost on Vancouver Island may be impossible, at least for very long.

Situated near the center of Victoria with its captivating Inner Harbor, stately Empress Hotel, and imposing Parliament buildings, the Marriott is an excellent choice for our three day stay. Immediately, we are impressed with the consummate professionalism of each hotel employee. Our fifteenth floor room is spacious, cocooned away from any city noise.


A walking city replete with shops, restaurants, and neighborhoods to explore, Victoria easily enchants voyagers. High rise buildings co-exist with historical landmarks. Flowers bloom in profusion as if this is the last chance to allure admirers before seasonal weather destroys their bounty.



The Empress continues to command the waterfront and though it may be a bit tired, maybe even bordering on tacky in some areas, the storied grandeur can be imagined easily. Famous for its High Tea, dress codes have been relaxed to encourage more participants. Money rules and modifies fashion, even to include jeans which aren't torn or too low-slung.



Accents crowd conversations. Countless people from Europe and Asia have discovered the delights of this island city. Irish transplants abound, their voices distinct even after years away from the homeland. There's a palpable energy exuded by the residents who thrive in a flourishing economy, appreciate home prices that are anything but deflated, and utilize a health care system that includes all, regardless of economic condition or employment.

We're seduced by a candy store that bulges with sweet treats. Taffy will go home with us to be delivered to the neighbors. Gelato in myriad flavors cannot be ignored. I succumb to Mango Vanilla and Butter Pecan. Henry's savoring German Chocolate. The scoops were dainty. I promise. Also luscious and memorable.



On the hunt for Grower's Cider, Pomegranate flavor, we are directed to the rear section of a liquor store. The Quebec-born, French-speaking clerk accommodatingly checks U.S. customs rules relative to liquor imports. We purchase a six-pack well aware that it exceeds the allowed liters. Our Portland daughter hankers for this libation and we'll do our best to satisfy that thirst without incurring any dire consequences.



The hotel concierge recommends a nearby pub for dinner. The Sticky Wicket is a find. There's rooftop dining on a warm September night but we're shown a table on the first floor. Soon we realize that we are simply not in the rooftop demographic. No matter, we're content where we're placed. Henry orders a cheese pizza, special for the day. I'm nearly enraptured by Potted Salmon. This luscious concoction consists of puff pastry, a wedge of fresh wild salmon and a broth underneath laden with leeks, a white sauce, and bits of potato. The entree arrives in an earthenware bowl. I consume every single bit of this unusual dish.



On another day, we tour the Parliament buildings and are introduced to Canadian governmental practices. With lingering ties to Great Britain, the system differs from our own in significant ways. Truly, many of their concepts have great merit and might work well in this country. Not the part about having a royal family, but the dignity that is afforded civil service and elected officials. The people's expectations of their government are lofty and very often exceeded.



The architect for the grand Parliament buildings was a twenty-five year old immigrant from Leeds, England whose life story would make a compelling movie. His vision still resonates more than a hundred years after the buildings were first occupied. Since 1969, thousands of lights have illuminated the structures each evening.


Queen Elizabeth appoints a Lt. Governor to act as head of government for each of the Canadian provinces. As the first tribal member (referred to as 'First Nations') to serve as Lt. Governor in British Columbia, the current office holder opens Parliament and serves as the Queen's representative for many other functions. He is the head of government. The Queen retains the title 'head of state.'

Seeking a state-owned casino in order to add to Henry's burgeoning collection of player's cards, we venture outside of town briefly. The casino is small but the visit is very profitable. With that largesse, we return to the Empress and decide to eat at The Veranda, a restaurant set on the hotel's porch with a stunning view of the waterfront. Though an extremely informal setting, the prices are haute cuisine. An Angus beef burger is tasty but spendy. So too is my meal of fish and chips. Next to us is a table with four Southern California ladies in town for a golfing vacation. They're elegant, sophisticated, well traveled, definitely Empress quality.



Warm days dwindle into cloudy, jacket required hours. We're wearing our winter clothes. A very nice change for me.

Arriving too early to tour an historical castle, we serendipitously find the Lt. Governor's house and visit his garden instead. With beautiful grounds to maintain, volunteers are at work removing dead plants, adding topsoil, cutting back limbs. Members of the group may be of retirement age but are certainly agile, energized by their tasks. There's a sense of landscape tranquility all around and I have difficulty imagining such easy access to a governmental official's garden in this country.



The Royal BC Museum consumes most of an afternoon. Though impressive totem poles predominate inside and out, there's a curious display in the lobby. It is John Lennon's 1965 yellow Rolls Royce. Far from home, it looks rather lonely but still spirited.





We're saturated with local history as we stroll from room to room. Stunning artifacts include a miniature 1890's village, multiple masks as well as intricately carved recorders, pipes, and knives. The First Nations people are amply represented with dignity and reverence.



Famished from all this learning, we stop at Willie's Bakery and Cafe tucked in the corner of the museum. The cream of chicken soup, laced with slivers of carrot medallions, reminds us of similar soup enjoyed in 1980 while we toured Bath.

Drawn to a store called Out of Ireland, I search for Junkin heraldry. A nearby shopper overhears me and makes a few suggestions. She's on a day trip from Tacoma with her daughter. A Texas resident, her maiden name is O'Brien. Her family originally came from Mississippi. Natchez to be exact. (Are the planets colliding?) She's visited that city for a family reunion. This is getting weird. As we continue to talk, she says that she turned 65 last winter. I'm almost afraid to ask, "What month and day?" She's two days my elder. Another traveling story worth repeating.

Tuesday evening the suitcases are stuffed and taken down to the Parkade where our car is stored.



We'll face the customs officers in the morning and watch Victoria fade into the background as the ferry extracts us from this captivating land.

Precision Port

Sunday is for slumbering, eating breakfast out, taking a short trip, getting ready for the ensuing week. We've motored to Port Angeles from Tacoma, arriving 90 minutes prior to departure in order to secure a place in the vehicle line. With pre-arranged reservations, we're directed to a special space and begin to explore the surrounding hamlet. Cars, campers, motor homes and a few boats/kayaks languish around us.



Immediately we are impressed with the public art displays which set a tone of culture and history for all visitors. Sumptuous hanging flower baskets sprinkle the streets. Magnificent murals adorn old facades and though most passersby ignore them, we pause to study each one.



Our mission is to capture a few scenes in photos and perhaps most importantly, to find lunch. Too many fellow travelers have the same intentions and the abundance of small, local restaurants appear overcrowded and understaffed. Concerned that we'll miss our departure time, we reject the eateries along the main street. I try to buy a healthy Morning Glory Muffin at Urban Spoonful but am thwarted when the barista concentrates on creating some exotic coffee mixture and the line moves not at all.

We dawdle before one looming mural and have the opportunity to talk with the artists who created it seventeen years ago. A husband and wife team with amazing talent, we learn that they are refreshing the scene. Though they were given some parameters for the rendering, the final scene was their own creation. The wife is painting faux bricks which look totally real. The husband is intently finishing a face with precise strokes. Of course they drive a VW bus. Of course they recently finished an assignment at Joshua Tree National Park, about half an hour away from our house.



Having consumed our limited time talking with interesting people, our dining options are almost nil. In hungry desperation, we choose a Dairy Queen. Inside, it is pure fifties with twenty-first century prices but still extremely reasonable. The walls are adorned with Elvis posters. Quaint, perhaps a welcoming sign. Several teen-age girls are busy filling orders. In addition to innumerable ice cream selections, sandwiches can be ordered. The least caloric laden is grilled chicken. It is surprisingly tasty. Thus fortified, we can make the 90 minute journey over water.



We're instructed to drive right into the cavernous hull and to park as close as possible to the vehicle in front of us. Once settled, we are to leave the car and proceed upstairs. There's a spacious lounge with soft, somewhat worn chairs. All around us people get out their Kindles, old fashioned books, a few newspapers. The more adventurous travelers, including Henry, exit the lounge area and stroll the open deck. Winds are very strong, causing hair and clothing to flutter.



I'm happy with my novel and notebook. Outside, there's one blonde lady, perhaps thirtyish, who wears a bright orange sundress which skims her lithe body. I muse that she's dressed for our desert rather than the Pacific Northwest. Perfectly chosen pale pumpkin sandals allow manicured nails to peek through. On deck, she dons an elaborate sun hat (also orange) with streamers to keep it secured. She poses, nearly professionally, for multitudes of photos taken by a young man who gazes rapturously at his subject. If pressed, I suppose I could create a back story for this couple. Instead, I doze.



We last ventured to this part of Canada in 1979. A bit more than half my life has unfolded during the intervening years. This trip we return as mature seniors, many years married. More than content with our years together, we're eager to see a special place once again.



As we near the Canadian shore, a voice from the loudspeaker announces that all passengers should return to their vehicles. Abundant staff await the unloading process. With many trips each day, rigorous attention is required to attain an on-time schedule. More than two hundred vehicles depart without incident, leaving gaping spaces to be filled almost instantly for the next watery journey.

Chocolate Trumped

The bard wasn't home anymore. We found him beneath a gaily festooned flower-covered stone. Whether he alone created all those characters continues to be debated, but nevertheless, we traveled to a silvery shrouded Stratford-on-Avon in homage to his unerring prose. Having satisfied our literary curiosity, we needed sustenance of a culinary sort. With tea shops aplenty, we randomly chose one perhaps slightly more quaint than its neighbors.

Inside, we were rewarded with soothing hot tea, served stylishly as English tradition requires. And though the tea was delicious, its flavor has long faded whereas the accompanying Death By Chocolate Cake slices still resonate.

I'll admit to a predilection for all things chocolate. It's a lifelong habit and one that I've reluctantly learned to curb as calories mounted and years, then decades, were added to my personal journey. There's no harm in reminiscing about divine chocolate encounters of the past. Perhaps one of my earliest memories involves plain yellow cake cooked in a shallow pan and spread, still warm, with dense dark frosting. Both the cake and its topping were made by scratch by Mamie, our beloved housekeeper. Maybe it's a good thing I never asked for the recipes. Most likely there weren't any. Mamie cooked by instinct. I know I wouldn't have been able to replicate her results. I am not culinarily gifted.

In the more recent past, I've lost a chocolate cake recipe that included, among its ingredients, sour cream, chocolate chips and a box of chocolate pudding. To frost this cake would have been superfluous. A mere dusting of powdered sugar sufficed.

Some years ago, Henry and I began eating at the 310 Deli on 7th Avenue in Manhattan. In the dessert case, an absurdly rich chocolate cake, studded with chocolate chips assaulted us. We succumbed and I'm embarrassed to admit that we bought more than one slice of this sinfully caloric laden cake. During this summer's visit, we were strong and firmly resisted even a single slice. Any regrets? You bet. There's always next year.

My penchant for chocolate may be deeply ingrained in my psyche but it is totally trumped by my proclivity for reading. I cannot recall a single moment in my life when reading was not a compelling passion. Though I know logically that I couldn't read when I was an infant, I'm also aware from family stories that I mastered reading as a toddler.

My preferred genre is fiction although I am also drawn to other categories such as history, biography, poetry, and the social sciences. Unless required for a school assignment, I would not willingly peruse a scientific tract or one filled with mathematical mysteries.

Growing up isolated on a farm outside of town, books were my transportation. Within their pages, I could be anywhere. I could be anybody. My love and respect for words emanates from devoted reading. I am staggered by the ability of some writers to weave perfect sentences. I find myself gasping aloud and then wondering if anyone heard my exclamations and pondered the source.

A bookmobile brought a ready supply of new 'reads' to my country school each week. I worked my way through the entire 'Childhood in America' biography series. Through those pages, I learned about women important in our history. Meeting Amelia Earhart, Clara Barton, Maria Mitchell, Julia Ward Howe, Susan B. Anthony and others, I felt a pride in their accomplishments. At the time, I didn't realize that the biography series was more 'story' than reality.

If I exhausted my stack of books before I could turn them in for others, I might resort to reading the Hardy Boys' mysteries. Clad in khaki covers with dark brown print, these novels, designed for boy readers, fascinated me. I read every single one of them, on loan from an older male cousin. I moved on to Nancy Drew but found her rather insipid compared to the adventures experienced by the Hardy brothers.

Magazines at our house consisted of the Farm Journal and The Progressive Farmer. Not scintillating stuff for a young girl, but I read every issue. I even entered a contest once, sponsored by one of the journals. All I can recall is that I did not win.

By the time I was in high school, a traveling salesman had convinced my daddy that our household must have a set of the Word Book Encyclopedia. The books were bound in bright red and yes, I began at 'A' and proceeded on to 'Z.' I will confess to generally skipping those entries devoted to subjects in which I had little or no interest.

Books are my constant companions. I still have a wonderful compilation of English and American poetry given to me by my first cousin, Reg, and his wife, Judy, when I graduated from high school in 1963. How could he know I would still treasure this volume nearly fifty years later? Among my most prized possessions is a massive three volume slip cased set of The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson. The books' provenance is especially endearing because they were among the very first gifts I received from Henry shortly after we met. He knew of my deep fondness for Dickinson and wanted me to have her entire works always readily available. The books are prominently displayed on a shelf attached to my desk. I cannot look at them without being nostalgic.

Whenever I'm about to take a trip, I know that I will overpack. It's in my nature to prepare for contingencies that never occur. Multiple outfits are carefully folded into suitcases. Tucked in amongst the excessive clothing is always an equally excessive number of books. What if I finish one and need another immediately? What if the one I'm reading loses its appeal? Better take two. Maybe three. One in each suitcase?

I've shared this book taking trait with my sweet daughter. She's been known to call me in frantic voice as she wanders the aisles of a bookstore on the night before a departure. "What should I buy?" she asks almost plaintively. She, too, has many books in her personal library but..... I offer authors whom I've enjoyed. Some are acceptable, others scorned. She never leaves home without her book cache.

If I am desperate, I will resort to reading the bottom of a Kleenex box. Did you know that much of what is written there is in French? Fascinating. I read labels long before it became a health necessity. Newspapers enthrall me, as do magazines. My favorites are the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times and New York Magazine.

This summer I've mostly foregone the pleasure of chocolate (a few lapses) and concentrated on the comfort of novels. Thoroughly enjoyable and not the tiniest bit fattening are the following:

Cable's Crossing and March
by Geraldine Brooks

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
(How did I miss this treasure all these years?)

The Year We Left Home by Jean Thompson

Big Stone Gap, Big Cherry Holler, and
Milk Glass Moon by Adriana Trigiani

Major Pettigrew's Last Stand by Helen Simonson

I also indulge in something I call 'popcorn for the brain' which describes fiction that requires little effort on the part of the reader. The stories are generally happy and though there may be a bit of mayhem or missed communication, things generally turn out just fine by the last line. These books give my head a rest and keep my eyes focused. Authors to whom I've assigned this category and who might not appreciate the status are:

Sophie Kinsella (The Shopaholic series)
Dorothy Benton Frank
Haywood Smith
Maeve Binchy
Debbie Macomber

As I write, my dining room table is groaning, not with food, but with clothes. There's another trip in our future. Books form several discreet piles with final decisions to be made just before suitcases are zipped shut.

I may take my pages with a bit of English chocolate as we enjoy the beauty of Victoria, British Columbia.