Balmoral and Fernwood
This is a long walk distance-wise so make sure your shoes are body-friendly and your car not parked in a one-hour zone. Not that there are any of these one-hour restrictions in the immediate vicinity: more Residential Parking Only signs. So wave to ‘Aunt Fanny’ as you park in front of ‘her house’ with the understanding you’ll ‘visit’ when you return, ‘if you have time’. Anal residents and any lurking traffic commissionaires are sure to be fooled.
Look west along Balmoral. It swoops here. Let’s stroll downhill.
Oh – before we move – glance down at the pavement etching. SAMMY Simple. No embellishment needed. Solid caps, a serious signature, but friendly. Sammy. Not just Sam. I can ‘see’ him, can’t you. In the young and chirpy and hopeful version. And, as the old and chirpy, but not hopeless, man. Sammy. Maybe he’s trotting along with us, now that we ‘carry’ this identity.
There’s a plastic portable greenhouse on the right, tipped open now so the multitude of plants can get sun and air. It looks like basil. God forbid that it’s BC bud and flaunting – or taunting. Wouldn’t that be something.
Across the street is a pile of ‘garbage’ in the corner of a driveway. Such refuse intrigues me. There is lots of wood and a chair or two and what looks like a punching bag; if so, is this the ‘champ’ or has it been ‘laid low for the count’?
On the right is a new house where I can smell fresh paint; there’s a porta-potty out front beside a giant rock (likely an “ohmigod look what I’ve found” from the excavator); a For Sale sign already posted. I am sure this house went up overnight because I think I was at a garage sale at the house that was here before this just last week. It’s a nice sort of ochre color.
Further along is a house with a front garden that is interesting with an eight-foot high clump of ornamental grasses now in glorious flower, ferns and bushes, hens and chickens (the plant), a gravel, meandering path. A nice touch is the mulch of different types of cones – fir and spruce and pine; looks like the harvest of many ‘streetcombing’ walks.
Some sort of bird is scolding me from the adjacent Douglas fir but I can’t see it and I don’t recognize the sound.
The golden and brown house across the street behind trees and bushes and a cement wall sits grandly beside a chain-linked seagreen and brown one. A dog in the yard explains the chain link and flat run area.
On the right a weathered board and batten house with narrow red and blue trim draws the eye. Complementary-hued dried grass in the previous driveway waved for attention and got if from me.
A porcelain clawfoot bathtub (its claws hidden and tamed by the earth) is in the front yard of the bed & breakfast house next along; it’s filled with flowers. But what startled my awareness before I saw the tub was the ‘bust’ on the newel post. I at first thought it was the Queen – the present or previous one – but on further perusal (okay, downright staring) the knobs on top of head may not be a crown. Hmmmm.
A lady passes with her dog and we exchange greetings. The Queen (or not) watches.
A Canadian Diabetes truck shows up, stops, driver gets two green garbage bags – oh, wait – he’s going back – another bag and some other item – and puts this all in the truck. If that was clothing in those bags it might well be on my back in the future. Thrift stores are a wealth of sharing of some quality stuff! I stare down at what I am wearing. Yep. The linen skirt was once a pair of men’s pants that I ‘tweaked’ into a skirt; the jacket is mostly as I found it but I did cut off the collar; the socks are hand knit but not, in this instance, by me. I swear strangers sometimes find themselves smiling, unaccountably, at me because what I am wearing looks somehow familiar.
The street is quiet again. Amazing how the lack of traffic is so natural and its appearance a ‘disturbance’.
As I am standing, in front of the house with the ‘bust’, watching the truck make its pick up, I notice that the green and mauve of the next two houses mimic the mauve and green of the mallow bush in bloom in the green house’s front garden. Unconscious serendipity, I would think. But if it is the on-purpose planning of a thoughtful gardener, then I salute him or her.
I noticed some pavement philosophy awhile ago and am nosey enough to retrace my steps up the hill to check it out. It says Hail to the Big Legs and Long Live the Griffin. Hmmm. I pull off a few fennel seeds from a nearby plant to nibble on as I thoughtfully continue along the block.
There are gardens worth viewing along the rest of the block – and glimpses of patios – but I won’t stop and describe them all. A passing dog (and its walker; the dog is small and sandy-colored, the man with him is tall and sandy haired) have startled a dog behind a fence into frantic barking (possibly exclamations of frustration at NOT being out on a walk) and I can hear someone I can’t see in the yard yelling, “Sit! Sit!” as the passerby human is saying “Hello” and being “Hello”’ed back by the hidden human between the “Sit!”’s.
We come upon a yellow and blue house with an orange bulletin board which I do not read until I have a wonder at the chain link fence advising the gate be locked at all times. I read the bulletin board. Oh – it’s a playschool. The sandy dog and man walk by and the dog stops to investigate something by the fence. The man waits, leisurely, on dog. Lucky dog. Lucky man.
Let’s trot along to the end of Balmoral and meet Stanley.
Oh – wait – notice the wooden front door on the wintersun-colored house on the right with LACERTE grooved into the wood of the door. I assume that is a family name. Or perhaps it is some sort of greeting. I love the fact of the wood being doubly honored – first, by not being painted over, second, by being ‘adorned’ with the letters, whatever their meaning.
Stanley Street. I lean against a fence which is around the house on the corner and am immediately jiggled by the fence jiggling as the mailman opens a gate further along. A dog barks in the house. Postman does his delivery and I am jiggled again as he leaves through the gate. We say good morning as he passes me. Handsome man.
The fence on which I am leaning butts into the trunk of what was once a tree thirty-three inches in diameter; I measure with a small tape measure I carry in my purse; it is not long enough to measure the circumference and I would need another person to help me do it in stages. I look hopefully around for mailman. He has disappeared or I may well have asked him. And only partly because he is handsome.
The sandy man is now across at a house, dog walk finished; he is polishing a brilliant red motorbike in the driveway. A brilliant yellow car is in the garage behind. Glorious yellow flowers tall’ly flank a short flat-topped picket fence; does this negate its ‘picket’ status?
A plane splits the clear blue sky with sound.
A dog trots by me, turns the corner, pees on the flowers, responds casually but obediently to whoever has whistled for him, out of sight, down the street.
Stanley Street. Lots happening on this September morning. To the right is Begbie Street with cars and buses passing but the noise is somehow ‘over there’ and not at all intrusive. I find this fact intriguing. I wonder if there are factors involved like direction of wind or angles of buildings or width of streets or a combination.
There is diverse architecture here, looking back up Balmoral. A large green and maroon house has a Beware of Dog in window – the little sandy one?; if so - what fun. Beside it is a small cream and white stucco with a single ‘raised’ eyebrow over the front door.
A backpack toting girl walks by and asks for the time. I have no watch and don’t feel like digging in purse for cell phone so I say, “Sorry,” and, of course, hold out my wrist to indicate absence of a time-telling device and she is saying, “Oh, that’s okay, I’m likely not that late.” We are polite, we Canadians, and we are also so explanatory!
Let’s turn along and walk left on Stanley – that’s going north, more or less.
I unwind my scarf and take it off. Sun is toasty enough now. The gray green house on the corner with the great porch reminds me of a summer cottage in Ontario. I have some memory of speaking with the owner of this house several years ago when I was making mental notes for these strolls and I could knock on the door now and check this. But I do not.
Further along, at a house midblock, the brick on the ground in a circle with moss, the brick on the front of the house, has mellowed with age. “Mellow” tells you the emotion it evoked in me.
Still further along, a piece of driftwood is stuck in the corner between two fences and seems to be looking along the street and chortling. Behind it the ‘skeleton’ of former trunks in a still living tree makes a different ‘statement’.
Oh – more driftwood figures in the same yard flank the gate and as I peer over I see more in the garden as decoration and structure: beach combing people who harvest!
We come to Grant Street. A jogger labors past. He looks determined.
Grant wings up to the left to Fernwood and wings up to the right to Belmont; we are like the body of the bird at this point.
The mailman suddenly pops out of yet another gate in yet another fence and retrieves mail from the gray box here on the corner. We ignore each other as people do who have already greeted each other and it makes no sense to do so again, particularly as we don’t know each other.
It’s cool in the shade and I am thinking about putting my scarf back on but let’s just move along to sunny patches. It feels sort of ‘damp’ right here but I think I am affected by a vague memory of being told that where I am now standing was once a lake. Water will do that to you.
I love the blue house across the street with the brighter blue trim and wooden front door, wooden double-seater chair on the pebbled patio porch (the wide steps could provide extra seating area), the wooden garage and black cat that just ambled out of the yard and looked across at me. From this angle, garden tools and a hose hanging on a blue board are viewable; lovely decoration of the best sort – beautiful and functional.
At times I think it would be nice if people would put a sign out letting us know what the name of the color of the house is, the kind of paint, where purchased. I don’t really wish it – it would likely be a bit tacky. But the thought does cross my mind at times. Like now.
Actually I have several times knocked on doors and inquired and ended up painting houses of my own in colors that I admired in others. People were most kind and helpful, one lady even digging out old cans of paint from the basement so I could match them. The house on Walnut (described in Walk One; now on Pender Island) was painted a rich chestnut brown like a house on Florence and amber like a house on McKenzie (the Fairfield one).
There’s a nice grapestake fence across the street. Wonder where the word grapestake to describe a fence came from. Why not beanstake or Russiansunflowerstake.
Vining Street. To the left the Belfry Theater tower is traced against a mass of white/gray turtle clouds – turtle in shape and motion, which is hardly moving at all. To the right a tree-lined street with one – no, two trees shouting crimson and yellow leaves on the ends of some of the branches. The leaves are not yet flamboyant in number, it is after all, only September and not even officially autumn, but oh these early turners are so proudly proclaiming the capabilities for color. “Take that, Ontario!” they seem to say to us transplants who might have been heard to say, “Well, Victoria has wonderful weather but it can’t really compare to Eastern Canada autumns.”
Now there are some colorful houses both ways on Vining and I encourage you to go and see, but I am not accompanying you just now. .
So stroll up and stroll down and stroll back. I’ll wait.
There. Worth the walk, eh? (I wish we had another word for “eh?” which makes me feel sort of clownily Canadian when I use it. “Huh?” seems a bit rude. But a word is needed to imply and encourage agreement, albeit rhetorical. Any suggestions?)
* I do not at all recommend the epidemic of “you know”’s presently polluting our speech.
A screech of sorts makes me look around in time to see a helmeted man with a bike suddenly disappear behind the high board fence on the corner. I guess the squeaky gate must be in the picket section but it has closed seamlessly from my viewpoint here and only the sounds of a bike being locked assure me that I have not conjured up the image.
While I was waiting for your return I glanced across the street and saw a little white lawn chair (for a garden elf, I guess) and myself and a Siamese cat who suddenly appeared from seemingly nowhere walked together across the street to check out the flowers on the chair’s seat. Yes, as I thought – a pot of impatiens; elf must have to perch on the arm. The cat leaves to investigate something else and I go back across the street.
Nine hawks circle in the sky. Nine hawks. I have stopped to chat with a lady and we both stare at the birds. It seems an impossible happening. But I have recorded them, and their magical number, and need not rely on paper tissue memory.
Back strolling again I stop and now gaze at a ‘feel good’ house – it makes me feel good to see it for these details: stained glass in many of the windows, upstairs as well, dual chimney pots, an arched porch, sloped extended roof lines, a garage behind the house at the end of a cement driveway with grass and moss, a brick front walkway and – oh lord, just noticed the front door: a multi-paned wooden door with coloured glass, a balanced design that is not exactly half and half so I suspect there is a story behind this. I imagine a garden instead of the existing lawn but the house enchants me totally.
Here’s another board and batten house; I don’t know why these ‘cling’ to me so delightfully, but they do. This one has a glimpse of a back garden, forest green trim, cedar shake roof, shutters, a bay window with shutters, wind chimes, square wooden flower pots on the steps, a wooden door facing sideways (this is really charming!) and a tabby cat sitting very still and staring at me by a rhodo bush in the front garden. As I gaze back at it and squint my eyes to show I am friendly it sinks slowly to a lying position so that only head and ears and haunches are visible in the long grass. I don’t know if it is narrowing its eyes in return to my gesture or if it is falling asleep. There is a colorful ship buoy hanging by the door; it could be a bell cover.
Next door there is a creative cat ladder leading to a second floor platform and window; it’s a post with pieces of flat wood wedged into it in a circular manner to form steps. Lovely. Painted a forest green.
We’ve come to Gladstone Avenue now. Masses of clouds are tumbled in the distance behind the trees. We are so fortunate to have so many trees in the city. Enough for now. Home.
* * *
I’m back. Gladstone and Stanley. As we cross Gladstone the flavor of the neighborhood changes. It’s subtle and I would be hard pressed to describe any change. This is not an uncommon phenomenon: I have experienced it before. Blocks upon blocks will feel homogenous; then, cross a street, not necessarily a busy, bustling, divisive sort of street (which Gladstone certainly isn’t) and another feeling happens. Weird and rather wonderful.
The Corner Store is on the corner – store’ing. Very well so. It looks so much a part of the community I take it for granted, not really seeing it, as one does with such things, and have to stop and glance back at it. Gladstone Food Market is its proper name. I suspect its anonymity for me is that I have no experience of it, no frequent trips here for milk or bread or lottery ticket to firm it in memory. But many must. It is, after all, a corner store. Serviceable.
Continue on Stanley to Pembroke. A man with a cane slowly ambles by but gives me only a sidewise look that does not invite or receive a greeting. He moves something from the sidewalk to the curb to the road with the tip of his cane. Store litter, I suspect. Dropped beside the blue concrete garbage receptacle provided for such tossaways. Let’s be generous in giving the benefit of the doubt and assume the dropper missed the can. And that this elderly gent has the excuse of age and old bones for not picking it up and depositing it. For all I know it might have been a plastic bag with dog poop and I would have kicked it into the gutter as well.
A very slim girl with long flying hair runs by in an easy stride with her dog. I’ve seen her before, often. The dog is black and white and gray. The girl is dressed in black and white and gray.
A lawn umbrella, kids wading pool, lawn chairs are neatly stacked along a fence further along. Victoria’s winter storage, possibly.
The large white house beside the store has a large white sign stating Land Use Application for Rezoning. Some construction seems to be going on beside it.
A car – first or second one I’ve seen or heard since I got here today – stops at the store and a man leaps out, rushes into store, comes out, drops something like a wrapper into the waste basket, gets back into car and zooms away. I didn’t see what he bought. Cigarettes or a candy bar, perhaps. I know the craving of the latter, at least.
A great, old, rounded-cab Dodge pickup truck is in the drive in the front of a house. It looks so solid. I can’t see license plates on the front but the tires look as if they have been in use lately.
Stanley and Pembroke Streets. Turn right. At the moment there is a sidewalk on the right with no curb (as there is on the north side) and this will continue for a few blocks in both directions; there’s a country feel to the grassy boulevard and earthy patch where cars are parked. And this is a perfect spot to pause and compare the two situations. Do so, if you like.
A lady jingles by with a dog on leash (the tags on the leash are causing the jiggling sound) and a dog or two in a nearby house must recognize the sound because a chorus of barking erupts from indoors.
Walk along Pembroke eastward. Immediately stop and admire the tree on the right – it looks as if, like play dough, it was squeezed out of a child’s palm between fingers.
There are nice glimpses along driveways into back gardens as we stroll along. I can see chairs gathered in a friendly circle around one of those outdoor chimney stoves. A white ‘last rose of summer’ (if you are going by the date) leans conveniently and conversationally over a fence and I stop and ‘chat’ with my nose. Nicely fragrant in the cool breeze. It is not a last rose by any means – some roses are in gardens in November and even December here in Victoria but this is the last day of summer, calendar wise, so it qualifies thusly.
A three-wheel bike (a trike, I guess) pedals by, down the hill, and the two people seated side by side in it notice my interest and both wave.
A lone cyclist pedaling up the hill does not notice me or wave: his attention is completely on transportation.
A large cement truck is backed up to the back of some other kind of large truck and together they are engaged in serious business with noise and a walkie-talkie. It seems the cement truck is funneling cement into a container that is piping the cement to the driveway, sort of like a gigantic cake-decorating enterprise. I can’t see the details and am not up to being assertively snoopy just at the moment so we’ll have to imagine intent. The non-cement truck is ‘evened’ by five planks under the right front wheel.
A red car slows down for a look and tips over my already nudged curiosity. Okay – I go and walk in front of the cement truck and peer back – it does look as if the driveway is having cement deposited. I do not go closer. Sneeze five times. Sun and dust.
We come to Belmont. There’s a glorious green/maroon and mustard house on the right – Edwardian style, I think – three mustard pots with trees or top-knotted bushes in them
Across from it is a fence in a yard with a bricked sunny patio in front of French doors and comfy chairs on it (oh what a joy to see seating, comfortable seating, anywhere, gardens included!), a bench under a tree made from a rustic plank and stumps, kids chairs and kids garden tools in sight. ‘Peopled’ gardens are so worthwhile to the occupants and to the observer. I truly ‘inhabit’ this garden for a long moment.
Belmont does a jog; from the west end to the east end along Pembroke it is 98 strides for me. How many for you? I’m counting the speed bump and the angle across the road. I’m not counting (I would have LOST count!) stopping to view the angled fence on the left; it is such a pleasing design. The fence is one of my favorites – 7 ½ inch and 2 inch boards of weathered wood, varying height sections and then – dah dah – a very creative angling of the gate and on the flanking side – oh, this is hard to describe – maybe I’ll have to include a sketch to illustrate – there is a circle cut out of the panel but the 2 inch boards persist across the circle. Can you ‘see’ it? It is glorious.
A wasp just dropped by onto the page as I write but did not linger; now he is on the pen. He doesn’t seem to mind the motion of the writing.
Two Small Men With Big Hearts Moving Company truck just drove by. Driver didn’t look small at all.
There used to be a church on the corner of Belmont and Pembroke. It still has a cross on the side but the building is now used for something else, I believe.
We are now at the top of Pembroke. “I’m the King of the Castle” comes to mind, a childhood memory. I never heard any girl substitute “Queen” way back then. I was a pre-women’s lib child, I guess. Or maybe we girl children back then just assumed we could be kings, thank you very much.
A boy on a bike slides by with one foot dragging on the ground. I can imagine his mother asking him how he wears his right sneaker down so much and him replying, “I dunno.”
Forbes Street. The house on the corner used to have many hanging flower baskets in the tree carcass in the front garden. It doesn’t now but you can still see some of the ends of branches are painted.
Now I can see that the former church is Happy Smiles Day Care Center and Victoria Shambhala Meditation Centre. I note the different spelling of center/re and have a mild ponder as to the why.
* * *
Next time out. Foggy but the sun is streaking through in bursts. The gray and black and white girl (from the other day) just walked by without her dog and if I had seen her approaching sooner I would have mentioned him and asked where he was.
The sun playing peek a boo is making me glad I have on wristlets (knitted cuffs) which keep my hands warm; likely has to do with warming the blood as it scoots through my wrists because the hands themselves are not covered. I can’t seem to write with fingerless gloves so wristlets are just the ticket. (Hmmm, wonder at the derivation of that word to mean what it means in this context; appropriate – ticket to destination of keeping hands comfortably write-able.)
A garbage truck lumbers by and that is the exact word for it. Lumbers. A mascot of a wrinkled-jowl stuffed dog nestles in the back of the truck.
A woman with a red bow in her long silver hair shakes out a colorful tablecloth in front of the house with a redbud gate. Three houses in a row sport crimson to some degree. Cheering and charming.
The wealth of acorns on the road have gutter-gathered and then been turned to nutmeal by passing cars.
Let’s move along Pembroke to Victor. First we come to Forbes and this looks interesting but I want to see the front of the school that spreads between these two streets and the front is on Victor.
The rocks – no, I can’t leave it at that – (oh lord, a hail of acorns just dropped from the tree that I am almost standing beneath; I might have discovered what an acorn bruise looks like had I been right underneath and looking up!). Anyway – we have been delayed by huge rocks on a hill. Or a hill on huge rocks. They are mossy and grassy and oak tree grove’d and steep enough for an adventurous ascent to get from street to parking lot of former church; likely a shortcut for the agile. A special type of urban green space.
From here, to the left, is a long vista (or is this repetitive) with Mt. Tolmie (I think) at the end.
A man with a handlebar mustache wheels quite easily up the hill on a bike and I say good morning and he nods back. His handlebar mustache reflects the handlebar of his bike; it really does. Dogs and their masters can tend to look alike. Bikes and their riders? I cut my eyes to my bike. Hmmmm.
There is moss on the sidewalk around the speedbump sign. It does feel a bit moist on this street, and, as I gaze along its length toward the ocean, I wonder if sea breezes affect the climate and the vegetation even at this distance. My hat and scarf are dug from the saddlebags and are donned. As I am doing this my eyes rest on those saddlebags and then drop to my hips. Hmmmm.
There are more vistas to the left, to the north, between houses. Mt. Doug(las) is in the distance. Him I recognize. Big.
Trees are just beginning to change color.
We’ve come to Victor. Turn left. There’s a casual gardener’s garden on the corner alongside a dark terra cotta house. In progress, as really, all gardens are.
Many birds are ‘chatting’; I wish I understood their language. I can imagine what they are discussing and this is fun. But oh, for a universal tongue!
Amazing how almost instantly toasty a shoulder covering (my scarf) can be. Those shepherds with their cloaks knew how to deal with weather. I plan to weave a shawl.
On the left is a most impressive stone wall, chest height. Gate posts are neck height. There is a black iron gate. The house is subdued grand with a black door and a chrome door knob.
Crows behind and above me are dropping acorns onto the road to crack them. There are so many acorns already on the road split open by cars that this seems unnecessary. Maybe it is walnuts they are dropping; I don’t see any nearby walnut trees. I could investigate but if the crows think I have designs on their morning snack they may swoop and peck my pony tail.
Look at Victor School on the left. It takes up half or more of an entire block and is low and square and rather squat. It’s multi-windowed in a discreet way. There is no embellishment unless you count a painted green cement block wall around what looks like the electrical supply equipment. There are neat holes in some of the cement blocks and I can see teasel growing inside. The soul does cry out for beauty and will fine-tune to seek it. The teasel soothes my soul.
Hah – just unintentionally intruded on a crow and saw what it was picking up from the road and yes – I mean, no, not an acorn – a small walnut. By disturbing the bird I have also set off a dog in a nearby house into frantic barking although I am not on its property. Close enough, I guess. He has his idea of ‘territory’ which does not recognize property lines.
There is a ‘feeling’ to the school, a different energy in the single sprawling structure on all that land. A balance, I guess, to shoulder-to- houses with their shared space.
Denman Street. If you look to the right you can see to Shelbourne and even Richmond where the Jubilee Hospital is. The block of houses between Shelbourne and Richmond reminds me of small town Ontario and this section is where Wildfire Bakery originated with an outdoor brick oven.
I notice a penny on the road. It is soon in my pocket.
Crows are complaining about something on a wire over my head. Maybe it was their penny. Maybe they think I picked up a walnut. I hate it when they dive on people, usually in the spring with babies they have a mind to ‘protect’ – or show how to ‘bomb’. I hold my hands over my head when they do this and tell them, “I feed you, damn it.” But maybe feeding the crows at the Polish Deli doesn’t count with those ones.
To the right along Denman I can just glimpse what seems to be the longest ongoing paint job on a house. I would love to inquire but this seems rude curiosity and may offend.
Continue along Victor past Denman. Some ‘special kids’ from Victor School are on an outing with their caregivers.
On the corner a house has a tree root, I think – it may be driftwood – perching prettily if ‘pretty’ can be applied to such bulk. And there are balanced stones – I forget the name, oh, yes, inukshuk – and a painting or colored glass in the front door window. A chestnut tree is heavy with potential conkers and I walk under it quickly. One of those landing on my head would certainly make an impression.
There’s a large dragon of some sort largely in the front window next door, not facing out to the street; maybe watching television.
Interesting infill of houses has happened along this street. Houses behind houses. This is an immediate contrast to all that land with the single building school on it that we just passed in the last block.
Bay Street. Let’s have some noise after all that quiet, remind ourselves that Victoria is a city and does have traffic. A man with a gas mower is cutting the lawn nearby. A skateboard powered by a man with thick dreadlocks whizzes by, followed by a girl with a long blonde ponytail also motioning a skateboard. She has her left foot on the board: he had his right. I take a moment to decide which would feel right for me. I don’t know. I would have to try. I suspect it is not as easy as they make it look. Comes a consoling thought that I can knit without looking, which is some sort of accomplishment, and then a chuckle at the need for such consolation.
Across the street is a cottagey-looking house behind bushes but not a high hedge. Look smartly – we just made a dash across busy Bay, taking advantage of a space in the cars; there is a Xwalk further along but the space opened and I took it. This house we rushed to see has three cranes of colored glass in the front window – exquisite! – I thought at first they were painted on the glass. All three are keeping an eye on the front door with its purple/rose steps and railing. There’s a seating area in corner of the front garden. I can’t express enough how worthwhile seating areas in gardens are. And comfortable seating areas are remarkable in their benefits. As you will well know if you have one. Or more.
The house next door is totally hidden by a living wall of hedge, high above my head and when I walk back to peek in the entrance I see that the hedge must be eight to ten feet wide.
Wow, lots of traffic on the road just now.
Turn left on Bay, that’s to the west, and walk along to Victor, which jogs (of course!). Turn right on Victor. A dog is on a front verandah, rather a large golden dog, and it begins to bark. I hope it is friendly. There is not a lot of space or any barrier between it and me. Now dog has stopped barking and is lying down, head on paws, regarding me, tail wagging. Duty done and ready for a greeting, I suspect, should I be visiting. I wave at the dog as I pass along. A woman, looking slightly surprised, waves back at me from a front window. I wave again, this time at her, and we have become acquainted, each with each, introduced by a dog.
Interesting gardens are along here. A rock and shale meandering one is on the right, a curved dry stream bed on the left with an orange and white cat sitting straight and still but with head swiveling as it looks around. There’s something majestic about movement from such a stance.
A chickadee calls from a birch tree. The sun is now fully out, fog gone, but the breeze is autumn cool so I leave on my shawl as we walk along.
A lady with a dog – Mugsy (she tells me) – walks by and we chat. Dog and I pat each other, he my knees and I his head. Lady tells me about a book someone she knows has written about a street in England when I tell her what I am doing. A harmless looking woman with a bike and a notebook invites such exchanges. She wishes me good luck.
A young woman jogs by with an Airdale dog. Dog is hardly doing more than a walk, the benefits of four very long legs. The woman and I smile at each other. If she was not jogging I would have asked her how to spell Airedale. Spell check will correct it for me.
A sign on a tree and in the window of a house (whew! – off goes shawl and off comes hat!) has a colorful picture of an egret or heron or crane (a squirrel with a nut in its mouth just ran by nearly going between my feet!) and on it says Community Ego Partner Rock Bay We’ve taken the pledge. Hmmm.
Next a punctuation mark of a rock lines a garden and cuts the grass in front of a rise of rock and an addendum of stones. I think the word is more ‘divides’ than ‘cuts’ to give my meaning.
Off comes my cowl. I am going to write an autumn poem about how the seasons overlap quite seamlessly at this time of year.
A birdbath with water (a ‘working’ one, obviously) is further along in a corner of the lot garden and a squirrel dashes from nearby and crosses the road. A nuthatch is clicking but I can’t see it; perhaps it is saying it wants a drink now that the squirrel has finished and I am in its way. In my experience nuthatches are not at all hesitant to eat with a human nearby but perhaps bathing is a different thing. Let’s move along.
Here’s a box with Free stuff. Looks like purses. I love this increasing practice of Free boxes.
Across the road is a house rather uplifted by being on rocks, behind a hedge, red steps ascending in a curve to an archway. Curved walkways are so delightfully mysteriously beckoning.
From here I can see all the way along Victor to Ryan. A mailman appears in my view, a long ways along the street, seeming about two inches tall.
Haultain Street. A brilliant red door across the corner has just caught the sun in a perfect moment of light and shade. As I pause to admire this the two inch mailman has walked my way and is now five plus feet and is doing his thing at the gray box on the corner.
Turn left along Haultain. These trees lining the boulevard are spectacular in the spring, heavy with blossoms. Each year I walk under them from Fernwood to Shelbourne, admiring each in turn, up one side of the street, back the other. I try to choose a time just after a rain, just around sunset, and feel life can’t get much better than to thusly walk a city orchard. Also these blossoms get counted for the Annual Flower Count in February and, with each tree estimated to contain one million flowers, Fernwood does a major contribution to the count with this section of Haultain trees. If someone actually did count each flower on a tree to come up with this estimate, it had to be a Fernwoodian.
We tend to take for granted the laurels that do so well here in Victoria, both the English and Portugese variety. A wall of them to the left reminds me of this year round as they are evergreen.
Forbes Street. A bus stop with a bench. Yes! Benches are so civilized. I wish more of them occurred in city places.
And blue must be the color of the moment for the city: street signs, garbage container, the bus stop bench, my pen. Glad to know I’m in tune with the times with my pen.
Blue is also the color of the Johnson Street bridge downtown and for years I thought this was a primer coat waiting on its final color but apparently not. I think it could be a much nicer color, even a darker blue like these street signs. But, no, it continues on – primer’ly!
Look both ways along Forbes. Trees! They make such a difference on city streets. Shelbourne comes to mind. St. Charles. Trees. Trees. Trees. I send out great thoughts of energy that their importance be recognized and their benefits continue and hopefully increase with more and more plantings. More and more.
Purple steps. A blue door. Not on the same house but on ones side by side. Singular in their ‘statement’. Sort of like someone counting on the impact of saying – just – one – word but making it portent in choosing which one to say!
Walk along to Belmont. (Oh, those purple steps and blue door were on Haultain, not Forbes, in case you are walking along virtually with me.) Belmont Corners. Happenings.
UOMO Modern Barber is where you can get a hot towel shave, thirty minutes of pampering for the men. Video Uno Store. Haultain Consignments with a storeload of interesting items. Owners Sally and DJ are usually accompanied by the ‘two vicious guard dogs’, Whimpy and Sir Montague (Monty).
Two corner grocery stores, face to face across the street. A Laundromat. Certified General Accountants. Poundmaker Coffee Company for drinks and snacks and also the home of the Knit Café where KIP’ing (Knitting in Public) takes place and a Talking Tables venue.
*Kim and Poundmakers is now gone but not at all forgotten.
The Ministry of Casual Living is a storefront art gallery that ‘speaks’ Fernwood. It ‘covers’ the rest of Victoria but I can’t imagine it quite being anywhere else but Fernwood.
At the moment a show called Found Photos is on view through the front window, by Damaris and Sean, perhaps eighty or more photos; the one of Boy Scouts mounted on a chunk of wood hung on one wall above a log fire catches my eye.
In the door, above the mail flap, is printed “comment?” and on the flap itself “love letters?”
The 50/50 Arts Collective at 2516 Douglas has a sticker on the door advertising its One Inch Button Show, 500+ Buttons by 50+ Artists.
My favorite show at The Ministry was all the heads of State sculpted from licorice allsorts, the size of large marbles, recognizable! More than once during that show I stood either on my own or with friends in front of the window staring at all the ‘heads’, identifying, marveling.
Belmont Corners. Benches and planters filled with flowers and gardens around the trees are all due to the efforts of local people who decided to revitalize the area. It’s great. There’s an annual Street Party with the road closed to traffic. Nice to see what neighbors can accomplish.
Continue along Haultain. Imagine what it is like to walk along here in February at night, after a rain, when the trees are laden and fragrant with blooms. And if the wind shakes down petals – well, immediate overwhelm.
There is another impressive length of laurels, high over head, glistening green in the sun. They look polished. Two white chimneys rise from the green into the blue of the sky. A tall, solid wood board gate keeps private whatever is on the other side. The gate is in the laurels; the hedge extends a foot or so above the gate and the gate is at least six feet high itself so you get an idea of the massive perspective. I begin to feel quite Alice in Wonderland’ish the longer I stand and compare size.
A front-end loader thunders by and turns left along and up Asquith which has been Road Closed for days. Maybe waiting on this machine. Asquith climbs up and out of view on the left and on the right is bike-friendly flat for its long stretch. The street looks ‘established’ somehow.
I like to test my eyes with distance: I can see a For Sale sign on a house far along the street and the red of the SOLD sticker. When your eyes have been serving you well for nearly sixty years such ‘sights’ are reason for awareness and gratitude.
The house on the corner here is in the process of being colourfully painted: blue/mauve, two shades of green, amber, terra cotta. Unusual tones. Complementary, warm, and fun.
We come to another wall of hedge, this time of forsythia and ivy; the yellow blossoms amidst the green are cheerful in the spring.
Avebury Avenue. Some say Ay-vebury. Some say Aa-vebury. Your choice. A large slug on the sidewalk that didn’t make it across the expanse of cement looks like it died of dehydration rather than being trod upon. And as I peer at the slug I notice a thin-stalked mushroom in the nearby grass with its flutes on the top; looks inverted but it seems to be growing that way.
Between Avebury and Roseberry a man cuts his lawn with a push mower. Such a pleasant sound I am thinking as a young boy suddenly appears from around behind the house with a large gas mower and asks “Why are you using that?” of the man and without waiting for an answer powers up the gas mower with one or two no-nonsense tugs on the start cord and begins to cut the grass. Not such a pleasant sound.
On the north east corner of Roseberry there was a white-sided house behind not-too-tall hedges. One day the hedges disappeared.
Wait – I must digress – a few weeks before this I went to a garage sale behind those hedges in a lovely hidden garden and overheard someone say they had to move because the house was going to be renovated or something; you never know what a garage sale will offer – so the absence of hedges was not a total surprise.
After the hedges went the house took several steps backward! Machines came and dug a huge hole. A few days later the white house stepped forward again and is now perched airily above that hole on square stilts constructed of square beams stacked horizontally. This must have been something to watch (and the actual promenading to and fro of the house, for goodness sake!) the placing of these beams, each by each, just so. I suppose they could have been already built units but I don’t think so. There are five square stilts, four foot to a side (I measured), 16 six inch by eight inch beams, staggered.
I have a sense that the house is now facing a different direction but I don’t think this can be; such a chore to actually lift a house, to also turn it seems just too much to do but I can sort of imagine it being done.
Having now walked by the house and surveyed it from this side I think it is in its original situation. There is a beautiful alcove. Venetian blinds are in all the windows, some closed, some opened. I’d like to keep watch on what was happening if I were a house and the opened blinds seem to resemble open watchful eyes.
A mailman on a bike (I don’t think I’ve ever seen one on a bike before; he must be on his way home) begins the steep climb up Roseberry tacking back and forth as he goes. I am reminded of the mailman in the Miss Read books who does the same thing. This Canadian one must be off duty; I see no mail bags.
A white cabbage butterfly flits by, mirroring the white of the house.
Someone in front of the house where the back grass is now being powered mowed is now washing a car out front. It’s that kind of day. Summer sneaking by, inspiring summer activities. I’m tempted to rush home and use my hand mower but decide I don’t want or need my grass ‘shortened’ just now. It’s just on ‘shaggy’.
A man on a bike stops and we discuss the raised house. He says it was built in the Fifties. I thought it was older. I was ‘built’ before the Fifties and it seems ‘age’ier’ than I. Hmmmmm.
Well, I started this book with a house on the move. Seems fitting to end it the same.
Walk along the next block of Haultain and you are back at Fernwood, turn left and trot a few blocks and you are back where we started.
I’m off home. Thanks so much for coming along!
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