Nanaimo, B.C.

flowerbed.png“I’ll take you for lunch if you like.”

Of course, I’d like.  “Can I bring my camera?”


So we head downtown with no particular destination in mind, other than to find a place near the water.  At the harbour front we find a park with manicured gardens, concrete walkways, and plenty of parking.

“Let’s come back here after lunch.”

We stop at a White Spot nearby and Ric orders the halibut and chips and I have a salmon filet with caesar salad.  White Spot, our waitress tells us, used to be a hamburger joint but has expanded over the years to full table service.  It’s a chain on the west coast.  Not bad.

Treeatharbour.jpgThere is no rain today, and the sun has made an appearance although the wind is still cool, so we bundle up for the walk along the water.  The flower gardens at the entrance to the park are a spectacular tribute to spring.

We are right beside the ferry docks, and I notice that the trail seems to cross the main road and carry on beyond.  We will stay on this side.  There is certainly lots to see.

Buffleheads bob in the water not far off shore, and I notice what looks like a nose popping out of the water and then disappearing.


“There’s a harbour seal in there,”  a man says in passing.

dark-eyedJunco.png“Must be lunch time,”  Ric responds.

He manages to catch the nose as it pops up again.

I am photographing this plump Junco, who with its mate is enjoying the sunshine.

We find a bench and sit to watch the ferries coming and going and the water planes take off.  Sail boats sit in their slip waiting for more summery weather, and a water taxi takes passengers out into the bay.

“I could live here,” Ric says aloud.

BCFerries.png“It would be hard to tire of this,” I agree.  “Even with all the rain?”

“I’m getting used to the rain.”

On the way back to the car, a toddler on a trike races past us, her mother, pushing a twin stroller, trying desperately to catch up with her.  Another father hollers for his son to wait up.

I miss my grandbabies.

Mr.Whiskers.pngMovement in the grass draws my attention.  A large, dark rabbit with a white chin is busy feasting.

“What kind of rabbit is that?”

“Domestic.  It’s obviously an escapee.”

Is that what we are, I wonder: escapees?

“He’ll be fine here,” he reassures me.  “He’s got everything he needs to survive.”

Question is:  what do we need to survive?  Could we really live here?



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Permission to write, paint, and imagine are the gifts I gave myself when chronic illness hit - a fair exchange: being for doing. Relevance is an attitude. Humour essential.

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