by Anny Scoones
Saxe Point
Esquimalt is a place where facts are not as important as feeling and ambience. There’s something about the place that fascinates—those windswept, grassy bluffs and the funny old streets, the railway yards, the little wartime homes, the military hospital up on the hill, the spectacular scenery mixed with the giant yellow cranes in the shipyards, the houseboats and floating homes just down the lane from the Naval Officer Training Centre. It’s a place of contrasts, of rough mixed with smooth, wild with manicured, and tradition with modern, and all with a hint of mystery and the unknown. These are feelings you cannot absorb by reading a pamphlet of historical facts; you just have to wander this neighbourhood and enjoy the diversity.
I have always found military and naval lifestyles (as well as the Sisters and their convent lives) very mysterious and secretive. It seems to be a strangely protected life where one feels taken care of; that’s a nice secure feeling, but at the same time it’s rather odd to be protected by such structure and routine.
You might never think it, but the navy and the Sisters have a lot in common. They both practise an intense discipline, usually behind closed doors; they both wear rather curious outfits (most nuns don’t actually still wear habits); they both rely enormously on teamwork; they both hold a great deal of faith; they are both gender based; and they both, I would expect, are a challenge to enter and a challenge to leave—opposite sides of the same coin! But it’s that mysterious life they both lead that is so intriguing. They seem more secretive than a spy or a private investigator because they are more visible within society than spies but you still don’t truly know what they do in their worlds.
Part of the naval base is accessible to the public but much is private. You go through the great red-brick gates at Naden and up on your left is the store—they have their own store ! You can buy everything from a waterproof notepad to big boxer shorts to raspberry candies. They have their own gym and skating rink, and there’s even a little sailing school down the hill at the back of an old building in a gritty parking lot. Naden has a wonderful band too. I never stopped to think about how valuable a band is to the military, but it is, not only for ceremonial purposes, but for the mood of the military, especially during conflict—it’s moving to think of the band playing in the midst of a horrific war. The band is also a link between the outside world and the gated world of the military; the musicians act as ambassadors to their military bases, connecting in a small way from our lives to theirs.
Esquimalt Municipal Hall
The dockyard is off-limits to us, but you can drive or stroll throughout the Naden base, which is a twisting array of little roads, red-brick heritage buildings, and pockets of grassy knolls and shrubbery including a huge, blazing-red rhododendron in front of the library. It’s a strange little community. I cannot pinpoint exactly why I find it so intriguing, but it is; there’s an air of mystery about the place, a mystery combined with an order amongst all this history, with a dark submarine just down the hill, snug against the dock in the off-limits area (probably being repaired) and our grey frigates anchored out in the harbour mist.
The military museum on the base is excellent. It is housed in an old brick building with white trim, yellowed windows, and white columns along a veranda or porch—it looks like something from the Deep South. Heavy bronze radiators heat the musty, carpeted hallway and dim rooms, which are light blue with white wainscoting. There are all sorts of naval memorabilia and displays. In the dark, cave-like Communications Room is a worn poster with red lettering of OFFICIAL SECRETS; there is a photograph of Mollie Entwistle receiving a medal for her “conspicuous coolness and courage” in rescuing people from a fire in the mess hall; there are displays of intricate knots including the “Granny Bend” and the “Single Marriage Bend”; there is a muster kit and the list, in alphabetical order, of supplies a soldier could sign out. Under H is “house wife!” I asked a passing sergeant if this was a joke and he chuckled and said, “Well, let’s put it like this. If the army wanted you to have a wife, they would have issued you one.”
There is a ditty box, a small wooden box for the soldiers to keep their personal treasures in (everyone should have a ditty box, a little secret piece of privacy); an old rusted ration kit that includes a little package of biscuits and a Bible; and, in a battered wooden frame hanging on the wall, a photograph of our first Canadian First Nations woman to sign up, Private Mary Grey Eyes from Saskatchewan.
In another room was a travelling exhibit on naval mascots—animals! There were wonderful photographs of men in their white sailor suits scrubbing the decks with a little white goat keeping watch, or a big cat lying in its own hammock with one leg hanging over the edge. One boat even had a dexterous bear cub who liked to sit on the bow, and there were Gus the goose, dogs, and a parrot too. Cats were especially popular, though, because they kept the rat population in check—rats chewed many a rope in the bowels of the ships.
Before leaving this charming museum (many other rooms were crammed with toy soldiers, brass bells, photographs of admirals, artifacts, land-mine maps, and rum bottles with labels from Waterloo, Ontario), I signed the guest book in the hallway and picked up a few free brochures on the navy’s history. I also picked up a gold and red pin that honours our Canadian soldiers, who not only go to war but are peacekeepers as well. How I wish Canada was more of a peacekeeper! I feel so proud of Canada for our kindness and modesty in the world, but my pride would double if we were still known as peacekeepers—I really think that peacekeeping is one of the noblest actions a country can take on. The pin is on my jacket, next to the art-gallery pin of the Shinto shrine.
As I left I took one more glance at a 1940s poster that encouraged women to sign up; it promised a great life, with good food, recreation facilities, friendship, and a future. Mum signed up and was a war artist—she says it was one of the greatest times of her life.
E&N Railway Roundhouse
Cadboro Bay from Sinclair Road
CHAPTER NINE
Cadboro Bay
My first “encounter” with and reason for going to Cadboro Bay was to do a book reading in the charming little bookshop (sadly, now closed) in Cadboro Bay Village. I was enchanted by a subtle sense of community, of oldness and tradition, of the ultimate village-ness of this rural neighbourhood that sits down the hill from the University of Victoria’s vast forest lands and tasteful, coffee-coloured, modern student residences.
The Cadboro Bay Book Company was nestled amongst a few other little stores separated by tiny red-brick alleyways, which I learned are called “mouse holes” by the locals. An acquaintance of mine calls them “snickets.” The word snicket is an old north-country British expression for an alleyway that is not a dead end. These snickets were tastefully cluttered with clay flower pots and ceramic containers of trailing shrubs and herbs and hanging moss baskets of geraniums. The little shops had freshly painted doors with decorative brass knockers and were selling beautiful items such as French soaps, handmade paper, and beeswax candles.
Next door to the bookshop was a dark and mysterious, burgundy-draped Russian restaurant—one could almost feel Rasputin’s presence across the dark wood of the bar and through the yellowed wallpaper, over which hung some stained mirrors in heavy gilded frames. And to add even more austerity to the dark Slavic ambience, there was a crisp white business card beside the pyramid stack of highball glasses that read SECRET INVESTIGATIONS–PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR with a last name of Jones and a number. I put the card in my pocket—I was intrigued! I decided to contact this detective and I’ll let you know later in this chapter what they do. I have always been fascinated by what private investigators really do. I hope it’s more than spying on sad, aging men having affairs. The next time I ventured down to Cadboro Bay, the restaurant had a FOR LEASE sign in the window and the burgundy drapes were closed.
At the pharmacy I bought a little book about the neighbourhood by a local author, Ursula Jupp. Peppers grocery store next door has won national community
grocery store awards (in its category) for years, and the locals will proudly tell you that their prize-winning store is the hub and heart of Cadboro Bay. They can purchase everything from local island cheese to real imported English toffee under delightful signs that hang over each aisle and offer food trivia such as “The word onion is Latin and means giant pearl.”
Cadboro Bay is named after a British ship, the Cadboro (the kind of ship from the mid-1800s with tall layers of white billowing sails), which anchored in the quiet bay where the Songhees people had established their fishing village along the sandy shore. In a recent excavation on a sheltered part of the beach, a copper shield was found. This finding could well date back to the voyages of Captain Vancouver in the late 1700s or even before his visit—that is the fascinating thing about archaeology, to figure out time—it’s very philosophical. In his journals, Captain Vancouver describes the First Nations’ love of copper and other metal objects.
Cadboro Bay Village is unique in that it sits practically on the beach, which arcs around the smooth sandy cove where little sailboats bob in the gentle waves. In nice weather, residents and visitors sit on the large driftwood logs that have washed up on the beach in the winter storms or stroll the beach (it’s a great swimming beach as well).
Olive Olio’s
Between the beach and the village is a vast green park that spans the length of the bay—this is Gyro Park, which used to be a huge marshy bog. It is actually slightly lower than sea level but has been filled in with “hog fuel” (leftover wood chips and bark from the local sawmill). The thing about hog fuel is that it breaks down, so in rainy weather Mother Nature has a bit of a laugh and Gyro Park turns into a shallow lake, which is still lovely if you have high rubber boots. There was once a grand hotel on the Cadboro Bay waterfront, and there’s a photograph of it hanging in the village pub, next to a glittering lottery machine. Within the park are three huge colourful sculptures of creatures for all to climb on—a giant red octopus, a blue whale, and the famous Cadborosaurus, a sea monster who is reported to be lurking in the deep, mysterious local waters. “We need a new sighting,” said my guide and new friend Norman, “to keep the myth alive.” (The last sighting was in 1981.)
As in many communities that sit on the water, whether lakes or seas, there have been sightings (by very normal people) of strange and primitive snakelike looped monsters. In Cadboro Bay, the locals affectionately call their monster “Caddy.” In past descriptions from local fishermen, the so-called monster was about eighty feet long and surfaced with his big clammy head, which resembled that of “a sheep or horse, not a cow,” and it was “moving in coils, not slithering like a snake.” The monster never did anyone harm. In fact, one can assume that he was a rather shy, gentle, timid creature, and perhaps he wasn’t a monster after all, but a lonely, drifting sea creature whose appearance frightened the human species. We call him a monster because of his appearance, but perhaps his personality was one of passivity and fear.
The neighbourhood of Cadboro Bay is tightly bonded and there are several reasons for this. The first, according to some residents and business owners who live beside the lovely beach, is that they share the vulnerability of being in the most likely earthquake and tsunami area. If a tsunami ever occurs in our region, they fear that the volatile surf would sweep the entire village and nearby homes out to sea in an instant. The community is well prepared and is one of the few neighbourhoods in the region that has an emergency plan established by the residents! In case of “the big one,” the neighbourhood has stockpiled (bolted in metal boxes in various locations) rubber totes of water, bandages, and colour-coded visors for the volunteers who all have specific tasks and skills. There is a chart of the locations of backhoes, wells, and places for helicopters to land, and there is a list of residents with special skills—the whole plan is based around the philosophy of “neighbour helping neighbour.”
Another bonding factor is that Cadboro Bay is a part of Victoria history and settlement—great-nieces and grandchildren of original families still live in Cadboro Bay; apple trees and laneways and ponds and creeks are fiercely protected by the residents because their great-great-great-uncle used to fish in the creek, or their grandmother sat under the cherry tree in the park on a hot summer day. It is this past-rooted loyalty and sense of history that gives the place stability, a flavour of rich heritage of pride, and a determination to preserve the place for the future.
Norman (whom I met through the Cadboro Bay Business Association’s website) and I strolled through the neighbourhood, and although it was indeed residential, it had a feeling of old country charm. You just knew that it used to be a country community of farms and pioneer families. Every garden contained old fruit trees and heirloom shrubbery, which gently blended in with the adjoining lanes, footpaths, public meadows, and local mossy woods.
We ambled under arbutus trees and between snowberry hedges, through Garry oak stands and old orchards, over brooks on little wooden bridges, and down earthy trails lined with licorice ferns and damp, drooping cedars, and yet schools and homes and even a hospital were all nearby. There was a certain type of fresh and wild space, a big sky, and the smell of wet trees and the sea, of the nurse logs slowly rotting back into the earth, and I could hear woodpeckers at work in the forest. The golden autumn leaves of the cottonwoods and trembling aspens and poplars towered above, shimmering in the wind after a stormy autumn morning.
Norman walked me down the footpaths within all this lovely nature and we came upon the back of historic Goward House. Goward House was built in 1908 by the Goward family, who settled here from England. The family home was originally called “Woodlands.” The Gowards led a lovely English country life in Cadboro Bay, painting watercolours of the countryside, rowing in the bay, picnicking at the little nearby coves, and taking holidays and rides in their carriage. Goward House today is a seniors’ activity centre where there are classes in everything from Death and Taxes to Chinese Brush Painting. You can also join the Purls of Wisdom Knitting Club or the Sun Room Bridge Group. Inside it is warm and cozy, with big sunny rooms and a fireplace, and a nice little place to have lunch.
The receptionist at the desk was very welcoming and told me that she’d lived in the area all her life and how it had changed—she used to ride her horse, Little Joe, into the woods and go mushrooming just down the street with her grandmother. But you know, I think you could still do that! Well, you might have to trailer your horse over from the nearby rural road in the Blenkinsop Valley a few miles away, but you could certainly still go mushrooming. And actually, I don’t think a horse trotting down the streets of Cadboro Bay would seem that out of place.
I don’t know what it is about mushrooms—they remind me of clowns, sort of deep and dark, with an ounce of lurking humour. What is a clown thinking? What is a mushroom doing in the deep earth amongst the rotting leaves and microbes? Is it the unknown that makes it so mysterious, and the element of darkness? They both seem to belong to a mysterious underworld—until they come into the light, and then we love them. A clown becomes happy and funny, and the mushroom produces a delicious fruit (apparently quite high in protein). Neither creature should be so macabre and misunderstood, because when you stop and think about it, the clown and the mushroom both represent a great and valuable life force; the clown is our human condition (well, maybe that is scary), and the mushroom is a great fertile-soil maker that enriches our earth and forest floor.
Cadboro Bay consists of a few other unique properties. Norman and I passed Queenswood, a quiet, fourteen-acre landscaped property, now owned by the University of Victoria, which began as a home for the young Sisters of St. Ann who were studying health care and education. The building was then a retirement home for older Victoria nuns, and in recent years the Sisters used the property as a peaceful urban retreat and shared its tranquility with the public, offering courses in gentle spiritual pursuits such as meditation and prayer, healing and well-being.
The building at Queenswood was designed
in the shape of a human body; the residences are the legs, the hospitality centre is the heart, and the head houses the chapel. Some buildings cleverly succeed in imitating human anatomy, and others, I suppose, do not. Maybe the body and heart are easier to navigate than the brain—designing a brain building might be pushing one’s luck!
Across the road from Queenswood are the Haro Woods, which recently became, in large part, a public park, thanks to the persuasion of many loyal local naturalists and residents. Norman and I traipsed along the lovely grassy trails as the sun shone between the great trees. A group of enthusiastic mountain-biking youth had created discreet trails and humps throughout the forest; my sense is that they just have to do it; it’s an obsession—they can’t help it. It was what I did in my youth in the woods with my old horse Missy—I created little jumps from logs and branches to achieve that two-second thrill of sailing over the obstacle in perfect form. It’s what drives us all, I think—to get completely in tune with our rhythm and with nature’s rhythm at exactly the same moment. We see it in sports more obviously, but it exists in art and ideas and in community spirit too, a connection perfectly right at that moment between being human and being in the world. What bliss it is.
Norman and I came upon “the great slab of the Haro Woods.” The slab is an enormous granite stone about which a myth exists. The great mossy stone sits stoically amongst a stand of fir trees. It is glacial, probably tossed or rolled as the glacier melted and now embedded in the forest floor. Norman reckons that, like an iceberg, seventy percent of it is underground. The local myth is that if you place your hands on the stone in a specific place, heat from deep within the Earth, through this gentle giant slab, will enter your body and change your life.