Aside from bicycling on the beach for the past three months, our next greatest enthusiasm has been eating. This is a dangerous admission as it may engage the frequently unflattering comparison of “gourmet” and “gourmand”:

“Gourmet, a French borrowing meaning ‘a connoisseur of food and drink, a person of discriminating palate,’ is much more in use in English today than its compatriot, gourmand, which sometimes means ‘a big eater and drinker,’ or even ‘a glutton,’ and sometimes simply ‘a heartier sort of gourmet.’ Gourmet has become a cliche for anyone with pretensions to good taste in food and drink, and the adjective today often describes any cook or any eatery thought to be better (perhaps) than indifferent. Gourmand is fading; gourmet is overused.”
(Kenneth G. Wilson, The Columbia Guide to Standard American English. Columbia University Press, 1993)

I believe however we have erred on the side of gourmet rather than gluttony. In fact my inclination is that we have had superb meals during our winter stay here and that it is the excellence of those meals not the abundance of food which distinguishes them.  I am almost astonished that I am saying so as it isn’t something I had even remotely anticipated. It is perhaps arguable that the observation is nothing more than an admission of the adage, “The best sauce for any meal is an appetite“.  Because we’ve normally bicycled 2 to 3 hours a day on the beach en plein air, and because we customarily have only breakfast before taking our evening meal (with nothing in between), we unquestionably have an eagerness when it comes to putting on the nosebag. I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve had lunch (usually fresh fish at a local beanery called Sea Shack) and we have so sated our appetite that the evening meal (if any at all) is by comparison a mere scrap.  I say this in defence of our sylph-like figures!

Until recently we preceded the evening meals with hors d’oeuvres. Initially the starters were standard things like cheese and crackers, smoked oysters, pickled herring and sour cream, that sort of thing.  Occasionally we succumbed to exotic potato chips. Subsequently we switched to crudités, exclusively pieces of raw carrots, red and green pepper shards, sliced radishes and celery sticks (for a brief period festooned with cream cheese and anchovy), black olives (initially pitted but latterly with the pit still in because they were better) and occasionally some tasty multigrain rice crackers with sea salt. We’ve had oysters on the half shell but only when rarely dining out. The appetizer custom has dwindled with the contemporaneous decline of the cocktail preprandial.  There is a reason those who cling to good clean living regularly dine before seven o’clock – there’s nothing else to do!

As for the main event, we’ve generally had crab cakes (most places here offer prepared crab cakes which are universally delicious), filet mignon (we have yet to have a disappointing cut of Angus beef), fresh Alaska salmon and of course pasta dishes, hot dogs and hamburgers.  The accompanying vegetables have been asparagus and potatoes (white or sweet), sometimes mixed veggies of cauliflower, broccoli, onion and peas. Very recently we’ve opted for a mixed grill of beef, bacon and sausage accompanied by a very reliable cole slaw from Harris Teeter.  On rare occasions we’ve had a pizza.

The desert menu is as ritual as breakfast, at least for my part.  I cannot report what His Lordship prepares for breakfast as I am not awake at that hour – anything from 4:00 – 8:00 a.m.  I have a set menu for breakfast: a bowl of fresh fruit (sliced banana, orange wedges and black berries), black coffee, two eggs “over easy”, ham or roast beef slices, cheese of some description (anything from Laughing Cow to Roquefort) and cherry tomatoes, followed by a bowl of upscale granola (with all the really tasty and fattening things in it). My dessert menu is a bowl of fresh fruit with Greek yoghurt (sometimes sprinkled with either raw almonds or walnuts or a bit of that granola, and perhaps drizzled with organic honey on a good day, assuming we have any honey left which we don’t at the moment).  His Lordship prefers something more elegant for desert – like Whoopie Pie or fancy cookies.  Very early in our tour we stocked magnum jars of Nutella which literally evaporated.  Oh my but it was good!

Naturally no description of food is complete without an account of what is happening in the kitchen.  Here I confess total ignorance.  While some would hasten to call me spoiled (as I have escaped KP duty) I prefer to soften the reprisal by suggesting that I selflessly relinquish my entitlement to such participation by deferring to those who derive the greatest meaning and spiritual nourishment from the experience.  Add to this the much revered proverb about too many cooks and the broth, and there you have it!

The end of our winter sojourn on Hilton Head Island is upon us.  In less than a week we shall be gone.  For now we are winding down with precision.

Yesterday we stopped at The Sea Pines Resort Bicycle Shop where we rented our bicycles and arranged to have the them collected next Saturday morning after we’ve left. The pick-up and delivery is a welcome convenience reminiscent of a hotel concierge.  Next Saturday will not be the first time the Bicycle Shop has provided the service.  Not long after we arrived here three months ago we were cycling at the north end of the beach (Sonesta Beach) and one of us had a flat tyre.  Andrew, the mechanic and clerk at the Bicycle Shop, came to the rescue by delivering a replacement bike and hauling away the other.  Later when we moved from our temporary (2-week) digs at Beachside Tennis Villas the Bicycle Shop transported our bikes to our permanent  residence.  We have also prevailed upon the Shop more than once to lubricate the gritty gears damaged by the fine beach sand; and I replaced one bike entirely when its poor gears seemed destined to utter ruin.

After we returned home today from our long and agreeable bike ride on the beach (South Beach at Marker 4 to Singleton Shores at Marker 97) we went to Harris Teeter to buy what we hope will be the last of our grocery provisions. We spared nothing in this final fling, stocking our larder with fresh fruit, meats and cereals for breakfast, and crab cakes, salmon and beef for the remaining five dinners.  And Perrier.  We drink endless amounts of Perrier.  We constantly have bottles of the stuff going at our respective desks, in our respective bathrooms and at both the kitchen and dining room tables.

Next Thursday I have an appointment to have my hair cut; and if the weather permits I shall bring the car to the Island Car Wash for  detailing and polish. They are closed if it is raining. On Friday we plan to disassemble the keyboard and pack it in its new carrying case along with the collapsible bench in the back seat of the car (we’re fairly certain it will not fit into the trunk).  We’ll put the rest of our stuff in the trunk so we’re ready to leave early on Saturday morning. Generally speaking we brought very little clothing with us and apart from smalls and socks we haven’t purchased anything else during our stay.  Until we leave Florida in the second week of March we’ll require only our lighter clothing; but then it will be back to long pants and sweaters, socks and shoes.  It’s a small challenge to arrange our suitcases accordingly, hopefully not having later to unpack the entire trunk just to rearrange things for the three-day drive home.

Before we close the door for the last time on our residence here we shall have to relocate some of the things we displaced upon our arrival, for example a large plastic blotting pad which had been on my writing desk.  We also moved certain furnishings to make it more convenient for our purposes.  Other than that, it’s just a matter of returning the keys to the drop box at the estate agent’s office on the morning of our departure.  We’ve already made a reservation for lunch on St. Simons Island en route to our final destination, Amelia Island which is only about a three-hour drive from here.

I suspect that as we leave the Island for the first time in three months we’ll suffer a twinge of regret.  It is however not all bad news because it is common knowledge that this place is crawling with visitors in the summer and we wouldn’t appreciate having to battle our way through the crowds along the beach and the bicycle paths. Being here “off season” one becomes accustomed to tranquillity.

Many, many years ago when I was fleetingly engaged to be married I was introduced to my fiancé’s extended family members one of whom was especially peculiar. I cannot recall either his name (it may have been Stanley) or his relationship (he may have been the widower of a relative).  What I do recall with some certainty was that he was on his own, one of those chaps who gets invited more out of sympathy than anything else. I suppose in those days (now over forty years ago) men hadn’t learned to do anything for themselves in the kitchen so when the opportunity arose for a prepared meal they were invited  along.

Anyway what matters about Stanley (I believe that really was his name) is that he was as quaint as his name.  There was more than a hint of tender quirkiness about him. I thought that Stanley was holding back, that there was more to him than he cared to share with others.  He was exceedingly shy, I can’t remember a thing he ever said – other than, “Very tasty indeed!” which was his sole utterance at table.  At the time I dismissed the repetitive lack of novelty as indicative of mental distress, imagining that for lack of anything better he simply resorted to that stock comment.  Today I am not so sure.  I am beginning to think Stanley just didn’t give a damn!  And that makes him both unusual and entertaining, even mildly intriguing.

Adopting a disposition of nonchalance is to my thinking enviable.  While it is normally a description of someone who is calm and relaxed – perhaps the more daring state of blasé – I had the distinct sensation that in Stanley’s case it was a case of being indifferent and dispassionate or if you prefer something more international – insouciant.  That is, there was a strong feature of disregard to Stanley’s otherwise quiet demeanour. What redeems his attitude is that it hadn’t the appearance of mere indifference but rather that he had consciously turned a blind eye. This imbued the condition with elevating logic. I fashioned that he had reasoned his way to blissful ignorance of life’s annoyances; that he had resolved to remain unperturbed by the ripples of life’s experiences.  Admittedly there lingers the possibility that Stanley was merely detached and no more stable than someone wired to lithium but nonetheless his conduct stands as a model of behaviour.  It is equally possible that he not only snapped his fingers at the world but also gave the finger to the world!

Telling the world to get stuffed is an etiquette not normally urged upon others. Instead we’re encouraged to accommodate what annoys.  To be entirely honest it frequently coincides with deceit; that is, the adaptation is designed initially to disguise our disapproval (though it may simply stall the instinctive response in favour of more diplomatic posture).  Whatever the stratagem it ignores the very real preference for blunt rejection.  Yet because of our overriding pragmatic nature we’re generally disinclined to give rein to that alternative.

I have lately discovered that there is a more compelling reason for brushing off the world.  As long as you give your attention to the world, you’re ignoring yourself. I concede that there may be practical advantage to the former but the world is a jealous mistress and requires uncompromising attention. The only loser if any will be you. It is at least theoretically conceivable that the drummer whose beat you’ll be certain to comprehend is your own; anything else is both whimsical and risky.  Perhaps the greatest advantage of flouting the external tempo is that it eliminates the yearning to rationalize it, frequently a tiresome and utterly fruitless exercise.  Turning one’s attention inward vaporizes a great deal of consternation.  Besides it has to matter that it is one’s own thoughts which are being assessed; if there is any fault to be found it is surely better to correct one’s own errors before wasting time on perfecting the universe.  In that respect it is a tactic of elimination, always a good strategy in most struggles.  And one avoids the need to evaluate what in any event is beyond control.  It thus simplifies life.  And that has to be a good thing.

The wind was from the north today. Arctic air has been pushing across Canada and into the United States, its effects being felt as far south as Miami, Florida:

“The National Weather Service says cold air is continuing to cascade down from Canada, causing bitter cold and freezing conditions from the plains states to the Northeast and even into the Southern states. Some of the coldest wind chill readings will dip as low as between 25 and 45 degrees below zero.” CBS News

“The most extreme arctic blasts, blamed on a weather pattern known as the polar vortex, were said to have affected nearly 190 million people.

In Kentucky, an escaped prisoner turned himself in to get out of the cold.

Some parts of the Midwest hit -26C (-14F), as low as the Antarctic coast in winter, and much colder than the inside of a domestic freezer.

Temperature records were shattered in states across the US, including Alabama, Georgia, Tennessee, Arkansas, Michigan, Maryland, Ohio, Pennsylvania and New York.

It was -17C (1F) in the small town of Hell, Michigan, prompting online jokes that the weather was so bad even hell had frozen over.”  BBC

As is so often the case with dry, cold air there has also been endless sunshine and that is something I find impossible to ignore.  Yesterday I went for a hurried bicycle ride on the beach, calculated to have the 18mph wind at my back.  It was however a small concession as I wasn’t wearing either a hat or gloves and my fingers became so frozen that I imagined they might break off.  When I repeated the exercise again today I donned not only hat and gloves but also a heavy cable-knit sweater under my cotton shell. On both days, after securing my bicycle at the front of the house, I sallied over to the pool which is sheltered by the surrounding sea pines.  The sun has a perfect avenue directly upon the northeast corner of the pool and this is where I flatten myself on the chaise longue to absorb the rays.  Surprisingly there is considerable warmth from the protected sunshine though occasionally a gust of wind makes its way through the trees causing me to shudder momentarily.  When however the cool air spills onto my uplifted face it is quite refreshing.

It is a commonly known trick to place a swaddled baby in the sun on a cold day.  The sun ensures the child keeps its eyes closed and the fresh air contributes to a healthful sleep.  That’s pretty much the effect it had upon me.  Two hours passed effortlessly before I stirred.  The sun was beginning to dip behind the canopy of trees and some gauze-like clouds muted the warmth of the sun.  Until then however I was in a state of reverie, pleasantly lost in my thoughts, aimlessly slipping from one to another.

The view of the earth from space inspires dreamy poetry.  On the other hand a close-up examination of it tends to be less idealistic, even at times sordid. This is especially true when delving into the daily episodes of local politics.

The Town of Mississippi Mills has lately become a hotbed of hitherto unprecedented Machiavellian enterprise.  It is possible that the tableau is particularly dramatic as the Town now has for the first time in its history an electronic newspaper (“The Millstone News“) which has enabled virtually instantaneous involvement of the public in the once largely private conspiracies of Council.

The focus of topical interest surrounds what is popularly known as the “Enerdu” project, a hydro-electric plant in the Mississippi River in the heart of the Almonte Ward of the Town named after the former owners, the Dupuis family. The development/alteration is by the new owner Jeff Cavanagh.  Jeff Cavanagh is the son of Tommy Cavanagh who is a hugely successful contractor/entrepreneur in the area. The hydro project has been touted as costing upwards of $6M and there can be no doubt that the influence of the Cavanagh family (parenthetically a large local employer) has insinuated many parts of the community.  Opposing the project are those who in broad terms have identified themselves as environmentalists, a label which is sufficient to embrace aesthetic features as well. Those in favour of or opposed to the project have, during the last municipal election, fallen into two camps which seldom agree and which appear at times to thrive more upon sentiment and instinct than science. This assessment would no doubt offend the proponents of either side in the debate but it is a reduction which is not entirely inconceivable given the volatile ingredients – money, power and influence on the one hand and nature, impotence and mistrust on the other.

While each side of the campaign has attempted to bolster its position by reference to fact and law (and a good measure of disputed science), the respective attempts have succeeded only to underscore the frustrating ability to do so.  Just when one side makes advances which seemingly highlight the lack of authority of the other, the rebuttal is that the scheme first advanced is itself without foundation.  The esoteric nature of the arguments is quickly lost upon the public which much prefers to rely upon emotional responses uncontaminated by the bafflegab of science and legalese.  The result is inevitably the lapse of the discourse into ad hominem argument; that is, disparagement of who said it rather than what they said, a rhetorical device which engages all the provocative expressions of personal hardship and disaffection.

Make no mistake, however; this dispute is strictly political and its unfolding will in the end have very little to do with general feeling or opinion. The one actor in this drama which is mistakenly and perilously ignored is the Government of the Province of Ontario. The Ontario government has to this point pronounced its approval of Jeff Cavanagh’s proposal.  There have been publicly spirited reassessments to date, but the bureaucratic approvals have so far survived those challenges and there have been no material concessions by the provincial government. As a result the government is in the awkward position of having to stand fast or to resile from the conclusions of its lengthy public process and bend to the perceived public annoyance at the risk of exposing itself to litigation to force its hand in accordance with current legislation.  In a nutshell, the fight comes down to this: On whose side is the law?

Before the new Council was swept into power there was much said to admonish the previous Councillors for having rolled over in the face of the provincial government’s decision to approve the hydro project. There was a popular misconception that the jurisdiction to determine the viability of the project lay with municipal Council rather than the provincial government or at the very least that Council should have something to say about it. Given the fact that municipal governments are merely creatures of provincial statute and that the magnitude of the project invited the involvement of senior mandarins it should come as no surprise that the provincial government trumps municipal Council on almost every front. It can hardly be expected that Ministers of Her Majesty in Right of the Province of Ontario have any intention of condescending to the whining of municipal Councillors much less their committee delegates (one of whom has brazenly though fecklessly weighed in upon the discourse).  The highly charged objections from the local level will ultimately face an abrupt confrontation with the proverbial “letter of the law” which in this case is unquestionably weighted in favour of the provincial government.

In an effort to thwart the unimpeded progress of the Enderdu project the last act of redemption by the outgoing municipal Council was to initiate a study to create a Heritage Conservation District, a process which pointedly included a building permit moratorium in the nature of an interim control by-law clearly aimed at the broadside of the Enerdu armada.  This apparent legal loophole was a stratagem designed to stifle Enerdu.  In a surprise turn of events, a delegation of local businessmen presented themselves before the newly elected Council and succeeded in gaining the support of 7 of the 11 Councillors to rescind the moratorium.  There has subsequently followed endless jabs at both sides of the contest from opposing interests. The fracas is however doomed to redundancy because neither Jeff Cavanagh nor the provincial government has any intention of being intimidated by these peevish legal tactics.  Aside from what is expected to be the Ontario government’s belief in its own legislative paramountcy (sustained as it is by the network of government ministries and agencies who have already participated in and approved Enerdu’s application), there is yet one last legal principle which may in the end eclipse all others – and that is the once archaic principle of equity which stands for the proposition that “You cannot do indirectly what you cannot do directly“.  Thus even if it were found (as I doubt it will be) that there is any legal mechanism within the Heritage Conservation District designation process which enables the Town to inhibit whatever Enerdu proposes to do, the Court will no doubt find that in the event of a legislative conflict the determination of the Ontario government must stand. In essence it would be unthinkable that Her Majesty’s minions and subalterns should suffer the indignity of being manipulated by either a newly elected municipal council which derives its very existence from Queen’s Park or by local citizens whose most forceful instruments of battle are red T-shirts and balloons!

This latest conundrum precipitating the rescinding of the moratorium has for the first time in the long debate shed light upon the face of those who are reputed to support the Enerdu project (even though that was not ostensibly the object of the exercise).  Quite aside from the bona fides of the opposing views of the project based upon science or law, there has from the start been an undercurrent of animosity between two polarized groups.  The people behind the delegation to rescind the moratorium, while they are not as overtly public as their more vocal opponents, are believed to include many of the long-standing business people in the Town, people who are generally aligned with authority and capital.  There is unquestionably an Old Boys network in the Town and to deny it is callow.  They are people who socialize together at the golf club and local institutions and who harbour a republican view of society which is best adapted to private enterprise.  In fairness these same people genuinely believe in the good intentions and ready capacity of Jeff Cavanagh to fulfill his objectives; they have no inherent mistrust of the likely outcome especially as it has achieved the standards set by the qualified and trained government analysts.  These Enerdu supporters have been lumped into a group of long-time and active residents. Because of their reclusive nature they have in turn attracted the support of people who are generally considered conservative or mainstream.

Opposing this camp of Enerdu supporters are people who have, whether fairly or not, been characterized as “newcomers” to the Town; and, who in addition have been tainted with a brand of ingenuous intellect.  It is their common refrain that they are being ignored by Enerdu as though they were somehow entitled to deference.  It all adds up to a naive maelstrom.  Not insignificantly Jeff Cavanagh has for the most part refrained from theoretical involvement in the public debate.  His only formal submission to Council touching this debate has been a very polite submission regarding on-going architectural drawings. It is reported in The Millstone News that “…he commits to aligning the Enerdu project with the character and beauty of Almonte’s river setting and history”. He has done nothing which could be interpreted as acquiescence to the jurisdiction of the Town.

It takes time to harden resolve.  Plus a measure of self-confidence and strict logic.  It would otherwise be possible to construct what initially passes as strength upon nothing more than emotion (which is characteristically not an entirely reliable model for governing one’s behaviour).  The application of those three additives – time, self-confidence and logic – provides what I have learned to be substantive guidelines in the conduct of one’s affairs.  If I were to be completely honest I would have to include an element of instinct (but I believe that is more often than not merely a battle-scarred bi-product of the other factors).

The relevance of resolve in the pursuit of what one does in this life is that it affords the basis on which to build the superstructure.  Certainly it is quite possible to rebound from one position to another without any predetermined purpose or intent other than a temporary visceral response but the danger and risk in doing so is that it may result in a pattern of performance and comportment which is erratic and even meaningless.  The weight of one’s conduct is inevitably unavoidable; and if the load one is carrying is senseless or misaligned with what upon reflection one wants or expects, the moment of reckoning will come.

It is never too late to adopt resolve in what one does.  The goal is not only to make a decision but also to find a solution.  There are naturally endless instances in which that objective can prove useful; but the important thing to keep in mind is that no matter what one does resolve is both tactically significant and beneficial in the long run.  The feature of time is perhaps paramount because so often it is the only thing that ultimately lays bare the strengths and weaknesses of what one is doing.  It also affords a wider window of experience and perception which in turn allows for the fluctuations of ephemeral and whimsical sentiments.  To sustain any pattern of human conduct over a period of time requires more than concerted effort; it also requires favourable circumstances and what amounts to effortless habits. When the reflection is second nature it’s aspect is most clear.  Once the perception is clear the implementation of self-confidence and strict logic will bolster the solution of what is to be resolved.  It is rather like identifying the question then providing the answer.  Self-confidence is more than outright commitment to what one chooses to do.  It is assertiveness balanced by judgement.  And insofar as possible that assurance should be based on rationality, wisdom and common sense.

Like baking a cake one mustn’t only have the right ingredients. They must also be given time to set which in the context of human relationships frequently means to toughen. Once again it is the component of time which supplies both the patina and durability to the decision.

To trumpet a history of sun bathing is by current standards as seductive as proclaiming a lifetime of cigarette smoking.  It’s plainly no longer fashionable. But after lying in the sun this afternoon by the pool for about two hours I am reminded of what it is about sun bathing that so captivates me.  My earliest recollection of my trance with the warmth and effect of the sun is oddly a wintertime memory.  My longtime friend Max and I used to walk about the campus when we were at boarding school together.  If it were a sunny day I would make a point of throwing myself upon the snow with my arms and legs splayed (in the fashion of making a snow angel) and lie there with the sun beating upon me, jokingly urging, “Burn, Baby! Burn!”  Of course it was pointless to expect that I’d get anything approaching a tan from such an interlude.  However in the warmer days of late Spring I would take a break from my studies by going to the back fields of the campus where I would sprawl upon a towel in the warm sun.  That was serious business and though I may live to regret it, at the time it did a lot to advance the brownish colour of my skin.

A more glamorous rendition of sun bathing was when I was about seventeen years old traveling with my family on the Costa Brava in Spain. We had a beachside “apartmento” for a month.  Every morning around 10:00 o’clock after the Mediterranean fog burned off, I crossed the esplanade to the beach where, lathered in copious amounts of Sea and Ski suntan lotion (the stuff in the iconic dollar green plastic container), I alternated between the beach and the sea.  When I subsequently arrived in Paris, France to meet another of my school chums he told me he didn’t recognize me when I was standing on the opposite side of Avenue des Champs-Élysées waiting for him; he thought I was a black man!

While studying at university and law school I returned to my parents’ home in the summers.  At the age of 18 I had begun what was to become a lifetime affair with the bicycle. I spent almost my entire spare time cycling on the splendid paths which crisscrossed Ottawa and the nearby Gatineau Hills. When the weather permitted I would wear only my tattered bicycle shorts to afford maximum exposure to the sun.  As a result I cultivated a deep tan. Sometimes after cycling I would relax in the sun on a chaise longue in the back yard of my parents’ home.  The summer of Articles after graduating from law school saw me bicycling about 100 miles per week, a lonely existence following the dissolution of my engagement to be married, but otherwise healthful and colourful as a result.

It wasn’t until I was in my early thirties that I could afford to take holidays on my own yet it was only for a week at a time and most often no more than twice a year – once for a week around Labour Day and later for a week in the winter.  When I was on Cape Cod in September I virtually maintained office hours at the beach. I deliberately walked to the beach from Provincetown so that I could maximize my exposure to the sun. I would remain in the sun for the entire day, sometimes returning to the Town looking terribly red.  Yet in spite of the foolishness of such over-exposure I invariably felt terrific after a day in the sun.  Whether there is any truth to the Vitamin D theory about the sun I have no idea, but something about the sun made me feel especially good. Naturally there was a measure of vanity at play and I did everything possible to capitalize upon the effect of a deep tan – wearing lemon coloured clothing, shiny jewellery and watches, that sort of thing.  But the predominant motive was always the rejuvenating internal effect of the sun upon my body and soul.

When I was not going on southern vacations I had to satisfy myself with only an occasional bit of lounging on the small back porch of my house. Because the house faced southwest, the afternoon sun could become incredibly hot in the summer.  Sunbathing in that context hardly compared favourably with sitting on a beach or beside a pool.  If I needed a pool I had to settle for one at the better hotels, specifically those which had outdoor pools which are not exactly common in Canada.  The former Four Seasons Hotel on Sherbrooke Street in Montréal had one such pool but sunbathing there was at the mercy of the hour of the day as the pool was on the third level of the hotel surrounded by office buildings.

It has only been in the past five years of my life that my winter holidays have been extended. After much trial and error our destination is Hilton Head Island, South Carolina.  The weather there is never what you’d call hot though it hasn’t prevented me from getting some colour while reclining on the beach or by the pool.  Obviously the necessity to dress for the weather mitigates against getting a full body tan but that is rather more a bonus than a disappointment at my age.  Happily I am still able to combine the glorious sunshine with my love of bicycling.

Bowling Green
The Everly Brothers

“Kentucky sunshine makes the heart unfold
It warms the body
And I know it touches the soul“

Will you be my Valentine
Forever and a day?
The thought of you is all I need
To make me feel quite gay.

Will you be my Valentine
Before time slips away?
I want to spend it all with you;
You make me feel that way.

Will you be my Valentine
Or make me stay at bay?
It’s all I’ll ever want
Both now and any day.

Will you be my Valentine
As I see no other way?
The chance we have to be as one
So please do not say nay.

Will you be my Valentine
This time and every day?
The thought of you is all I need
To make me feel Okay.

While I abhor the possibility that Hilton Head Island could be characterized as a ghetto for Canadian tourists, I nonetheless appreciate that we were invited to join a knot of our compatriots for lunch today.  The seven of us congregated at the very popular “Crazy Crab” restaurant in Harbour Town.  For our part, we bicycled there from our nearby digs in Calibogue Cay, about a ten-minute hike.  The others motored from their place also in Sea Pines but further distant.

We all sat together at a long, heavy wooden table highly polished to a gloss, reminiscent of the traditional furnishings which are commonplace in Cape Cod.  Our dark blue face-cloth napkins complemented the look.  It was the measure of our delight being in one another’s company that even after the waitress had taken and delivered our drink orders no one had decided what to have for lunch.  The waitress abruptly interrupted our flow of conversation to press upon us the details of the daily specials.  Clearly our leisurely agenda did not correspond to her own. The table chatter continued, skipping lightly from one subject to another, music, books, real estate and travel.  Remarkably we avoided politics entirely.

At the termination of our lunch we succumbed to the usual need of tourists to take photos of the congregation.  We even enlisted the now defeated waitress to assist.  Outside the restaurant the photography continued, this time with the harbour yachts as a backdrop.  At last we parted company but only for a moment as we agreed to reconnect at our hosts’ digs oceanside.  Once there we languished on the deck overlooking the sea and the late afternoon sun on the surf and the beach.  We Canadians were a very long way from the cold and snow, blissful in the surrounding beauty of the Island.