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The entrance to Ruckle Provincial Park features an immaculate heritage farm, with some homes still occupied by members of the Ruckle family. It is one of the only provincial parks I’ve visited that does not have a pay-to-park system. All parking is free.

The sights and sounds of the farm are rich. Cattle in the verdant fields, a pheasant in the distance, the ever-present ravens croaking in the trees, many song birds trill, an army of bees hum through the fruit trees and wait … what is that sound? Yup, it’s gobbling turkeys. The farm has a flock and the boys are feeling showy today, with tail plumes flaring while the hens call out their sweet and gentle sounds. A couple walks by just as a gobblefest breaks out and they dissolve into giggles. Domesticated turkeys are just plain funny.

The wind slips through fir branches as I leave the farm and follow the path to the shoreline, and a memory swirls into view. My grandma and I walking the same route in the 1980s came across a rather large fish smack in the middle of the path, some distance from the ocean. Hmmm. We looked around – no other people or fish. We looked up, way up and saw a rather large eagle looking down, way down at his lost meal lying blank-eyed before us. A raptor moment.

As I reach the shoreline, a quartet of Canada geese honk through the misty air, flying in their signature formation. Several benches are placed in view areas – one is dedicated to Mark, whose memory has inspired his loved ones to sponsor a bench in a timeless spot.

Back at the heritage farm, I realize why the grass is such a luxurious green. Aside from the benefits of ample rain, the farm animals regularly visit the area and, ahem, enrich the soil. My shoes will carry home some extra special memories.

Stopping at the park’s farm stand, I hear a pheasant nearby so I sneak around a hedge clutching my camera. There he is, red head and slender, elegant tail, strutting along the edge of a plowed field. Alas, too far away for a good picture so I enjoy watching him add color to a dull day. I wrap up my visit with a sachet of lavender from the stand. On the way home, a doe trots across the lane and completes my personal wildlife landscape.

Easter weekend signals the beginning of the always wonderful Saturday Market at Ganges, and the launch of tourist season on the island. People will arrive by ferry, by private boat, by seaplane. I’m glad to be wandering through Ganges just before the little town begins to absorb all of that activity. The walkway along the water reveals anchored tugs – great for a photo, even on a cloudy day.

It’s always fun to shoot the colorful Coast Guard boats – note the seaplane behind. I think about the bravery of the Coast Guard crews in this part of the world, intrepid in all kinds of extreme weather and seas.

A visit to the kayak rental store does not disappoint for a photo.

A visit to the local coffee company leaves me stumped – they won’t sell me a half pound of coffee. Only by the pound. Only on Salt Spring!

On the way home I stop off to admire more bicycle art. The mayor of London would love this place. He rides a bike to work and heavily promotes cycling. Much safer on this island than a teeming metropolis, I think!

Tripp Road runs alongside the west side of St. Mary’s Lake. It’s really more of a lane that eventually turns to gravel and dead ends in the forest. I’ve walked its length many times and today, after a few years’ absence, I’m a bit surprised that it’s changed very little. But this is Salt Spring, not the mainland, and things have their own pace and pattern here.

I’m breathing in the fragrances of spring, grateful that my genetics do not include pollen allergies. Bird song upholsters the air – robins, blackbirds, finches, wrens and more that I don’t recognize including a single-noted call that moves through the forest like a tuning fork, only more soulful. The mystery bird drops a key and sings, then moves back up a key and holds onto the note like an opera diva. Pure entertainment.

The lake pops into view between houses and trees, so calm and mellow today. Cars drive by, most drivers wave or nod hello. A bee crash lands in my hair (did I mention there are plenty of bees here?) momentarily distracting me from the view of Maple Ridge Cottages. The handful of rustic cottages look like they’ve been spruced up a bit and all but one has a car parked in front. Guests can wander down the grassy bank to a small pier on the lake.

On the way back, two cars pass me without slowing down and spray me with bits of gravel. Both have B.C. plates. So much, I say to myself, for that renowned Canadian politeness. I see a trillium lily and forget about bad road manners. The white petals are an elegant surprise among the ferns and other greenery.

Back at the house, I sit on the deck and think about the little yellow finch I saw earlier in the day as it took a pit stop on a nearby branch, its beak stuffed with nesting material. Glancing at the northern horizon, I can see part of the Coastal Range, the mountains that give Vancouver its world famous backdrop. Just before dusk, my sister and I watch the pair of yearling deer take a stroll in the front garden, nibbling on grass. The city, with its traffic and crowds, seems a faraway place.

Hummingbirds pay their respects to newly opened blooms in the garden, a blur of color against the green grass. The ground-level garden is strategically planted to discourage foraging by the ubiquitous deer. Sometimes they don’t chew, sometimes they do. The signs in Salt Spring nurseries declaring a plant deer proof are to be taken with a generous grain of salt. Bumblebees trundle across the expansive deck that is furnished with large pots, anticipating a feast once new plants open more faces to the sun. There is no shortage of bees on this island, especially bumblebees, and I wonder if pervasive organic gardening is at least part of the reason. We are busy planting pots of flowers on the actually deer-proof deck – at least I am happily serving as gardener and my sister as master planner as she recovers from hip replacement surgery.

The day before, we had gathered up a bevy of potted lovelies at Thimble Nursery on the southerly side of the island, found at the end of a long, leisurely drive down a two-lane country road interspersed with farms set on rolling hills. Spring lambs in shades of cream, brown and black are a roadside delight in their pastures and I try to forget most of them will become delectable meals – island lamb is renowned for its flavor. At the nursery, a very mellow resident dog rambles up and leans against my leg with a sigh. He doesn’t move and as his warmth spreads into me, I imagine him saying, “Oh hi, I missed your leg so much.” I part company reluctantly – I could have sat down right there for a big hug.

On the way home from the nursery we stopped at a roadside stand to buy a large bag of donkey manure for 2 bucks. A deal, as cow manure at the nursery was $6. We need it to remediate the soil in the deck pots. I pop a toonie in the plastic yogurt container and heave on a bag. Nothing moves except my arm sockets. I set to dragging the bag to the car in stages, forcing my desk jockey body to obey. Once the deed is done, I am in the car, gasping and laughing with my sister, recalling days gone by when we were much more buff, able to haul around sundry items of heft.

This morning I am enjoying a cup of coffee with the last of my cherished hot-cross buns. They are among a collection of goodies that I cannot find in the U.S., including hermit cookies lush with nutmeg, allspice, cinnamon, nuts and raisins; Spartan apples, rather like old-fashioned Macintosh but a bit firmer and crisper and grown here in B.C.; bread that is not loaded with salt and sugar; Eccles cakes; butter tarts and more. I make a mental note to be sure and bring home supplies to freeze as I take yet another photo of the lake’s many personalities.

I was walking a route I hadn’t travelled in four years, past impromptu gatherings of daffodils on the roadside, fences propping up creaky fruit trees, and bicycle art. The spring air still had a crisp feeling whenever I walked in the shadows, cloaked in the moistness of the nearby sea. I was back on Saltspring Island, visiting my sister and brother-in-law, who have returned after a few years in Vancouver, B.C. Though I had once considered making this special island my home, I have always been a visitor, happy once again to slip into a more relaxed pace for a few days.

My sister’s place overlooks St. Mary’s Lake, which provides both a bucolic view and a water supply for nearby residents. While ravens croak along the treetops, eagles cruise the altitudes sailing past local hills and mountains. Today I heard a flock of Canada geese, those feathered wayfarers who seem to show up everywhere and yet still intrigue me. The robins here are fat and sassy, hopping through the garden in search of a morsel. Many different birds sing in the trees. Deer have a longstanding route around the house – last night we saw a pair of yearlings on the ridge out back, about 25 feet away.

Morning time means coffee in the living room, gazing out the large picture windows at the lake, listening to and watching all the wildlife, glad that this place exists and that my family has returned to it.

(Click on the photo to enlarge.)

Our last day in Grand Cayman – we arrive at Seven Mile Beach. At last, the morning contains the sounds I remember, rather than a multitude of roosters crowing. In the trees doves coo and in the distance I can hear the Cayman parrot. The topaz-blue sea laps in and out, and when I stand on the water line I feel the soft sand wrapping around my toes as the water slurps around my feet.

There are no rocks on this beach. Rather, there are chunks of coral washing in and out with the waves, gradually morphing into sand. I think of what some local divers told Simon during our visit. They have done some very deep dives and at a depth of 300 feet, they find what looks like another shoreline. I wonder what that means as I walk along the beach with hubby, soaking up the early morning time when few people are out.

I think about the hurricanes … how Ivan’s surge divided the little island into three pieces for a time and traumatized a group of Canadian expatriates so deeply that they left everything and returned to Canada. One said that living through the hurricane was like believing you could die at any moment for 30 hours. After the storm, his Caymanian house was gone – all he could find was the cement pad. Ivan is the reason for all the feral chickens – their coops blew away and those that survived never came home. I look at the sea, so peaceful. The sand, with a smattering of tiny shells and pieces of coral. The beaches used to be covered with shells. I gather a small handful and tuck them in my pocket.

A few words of the national song float in my memory, from National Heroes Day:

O sea of palest em’rald,
Merging to darkest blue,
When ‘ere my thoughts fly Godward,
I always think of you.

Cayman and its people remain as lovely and complex as the surrounding seas.

We visited the small fish market at the harbor in Georgetown, where fishermen come to sell each day. As they clean their catch, brown pelicans arrive, ready to catch fish heads tossed their way. A few steps away, amazingly large tarpon hover in the shallows, ready to devour whatever bits find their way into the ocean. A teenager hooks some meat on a line, throws it toward the school of tarpon and immediately one of them bites, surges into the air and in moments snaps his line.

Geckos and iguanas are almost as plentiful as the chickens. Given the amount of bug spray I had to use, I was grateful for the little geckos. Especially this guy, who lives inside a wall ornament on the balcony of the condo we rented. One afternoon, an iguana draped himself over the patio door frame of another condo – it was amusing to see about 2 1/2 feet of lizard dangling over someone’s door.

Who says signs have to be serious? I wish I could have spent more time taking pictures of signs that tickled my funnybone, such as one tacked to the front of a harborside fish café that proclaimed, “Any fresher and you’d have to slap us!”

A dolphin encounter enterprise left me with mixed feelings. Families came to get in the pools with Atlantic bottlenose dolphins, who chirpily perform tricks and connect with kids and adults in return for fish treats. What better way for people, especially children, to gain a lifetime appreciation for these incredible creatures, than to interact with them? But the confines of their captivity bothered me, even though they have a lively life enriched by socialization with humans.

Across the street from the dolphins is a turtle farm that breeds green sea turtles, native to these seas. Somehow, this operation manages to pull off breeding turtles for consumption plus breeding for release and charging a large sum to allow visitors to walk around tanks of them. Visitors can even sponsor a turtle for release (not to a plate – to the ocean). I have always been fascinated by turtles and when I saw them while snorkeling in Hawaii, would follow them around in the water. Eating them is not an option for me, though they are said to be tasty. Their shells are a work of art – each one different – and their eyes are expressive. Hanging around all over the farm are iguanas. My sister and I do not remember ever seeing an iguana when we were on the island all those years ago so we are fascinated with them now. The blue iguana, native to Cayman, is highly endangered and threatened by other species that have arrived more recently.

Sunrises are as beautiful as sunsets here. Not being a morning person, I was delighted to discover the sun does not fully rise until 7 a.m. The sun sets, far more quickly than in the northern hemisphere, at 6 p.m.

A favorite memory … dinner at the Cracked Conch (pronounced Konk) restaurant, which has outside decks built right up to the shore. As night fell, we watched divers come and go, their lamps glimmering in the sea like underwater fireflies. This was our best meal out with excellent service, but pricey. If you go, assume $75 – $90 per person, U.S. for an entrée, a shared appetizer and one drink.

Looking at the ocean from the shores of Grand Cayman, I recall flying over Cuba to get here and think of Hemingway and his book, The Old Man and the Sea, with its intense examination of our fascinating, challenging and sometimes consuming relationship with the sea. Obsession and this glorious watery world seem well paired. I found an older Smithsonian article about Hemingway’s time in Cuba, which is worth a read.

Coming to Cayman is all about the multi-hued water. Being near it, on it or in it. Yes, the sun is amazing, but it is the equation of sun and sea that makes a visit complete. Without the sea, the sun is nearly unbearable in the afternoons. By the sea, it is delightfully pleasant. And in the sea, it is magical.

Floating over staghorn coral at the Cobalt Coast Resort, l look down and see fish stacked up in the branches, adding dashes of color to their underwater condo. Some look up at me looking down at them, as we all move with the rhythms of the water. Peering through my mask it seems I can almost touch them. Twenty feet down, the fish know better and maintain their posts.

My favorite spot to snorkel was Sunset House, where I saw a large barracuda, a shoal of fluttering squid and other fascinating creatures. It’s the oldest dive resort on the island – the dive shop operation opened in the 1970s. Storm surge from hurricanes wiped out parts of the hotel more than once, but it’s been rebuilt and maintains its iconic charm. A short swim out from shore is Amphitrite, Simon’s equally iconic mermaid sculpture, 50 feet down. We were told that during Hurricane Ivan, her head was spotted in the wave troughs – a fearful example of the storm’s power. Amazingly, she was not damaged. Even more amazingly, Tradition, Simon’s other sculpture, also emerged undamaged. At the time, it overlooked the harbor, but spent three days underwater in storm surge. Later it was moved a couple of blocks inland to Heroes Square.

The divers in our group liked the Cobalt Coast best for a shore dive. We also snorkeled and dove off the “backyard” of Bonnie’s Arch condominiums, where we stayed during our visit. We hooked up the condo’s ladder to the rocks and dropped right in the sea, where the fish were plentiful, including the spectacular Lionfish, which are a spreading scourge in the Caribbean and other warmer waters.

Swimming was fun in the warm, shallow waters of Rum Point. Heavy surf and churning sand meant low visibility at Smith’s Cove, so no snorkeling there, but plenty of wave jumping! The water has high salinity, so everywhere we jump in, we feel weightless … floating is a breeze.

Of all the wordplays one might like to make on a travel blog, this is right up there. Or down there.

There is a very tiny village in the West Bay area of Grand Cayman called Hell. And we went there. On a very hot day. We arrived at the same time as a horde of tour buses that had downloaded crowds of truly hot, truly sweaty tourists from four cruise ships that had docked in Georgetown. And what better place for all of us on a hot, humid day than a quick trip to Hell?

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We found chickens. No surprise there. And stores full of corny postcards, T-shirts and other bric-a-brac with pithy sorts of statements about our location. I popped into a store (named Hell Store #1) and was greeted by a lovely lady behind the counter. She asked if she could help me and I said I was looking for hubby. She said, “Well you better find him, dear, as you wouldn’t want to leave him in Hell, would you?” Just for a moment, I pondered how many times she has said that.

So the reason for the name is black rock formations that look like they were designed in the depths of the earth and were shot to the surface. I did not get a pic because of the angle of the sun, but saw a large lizard run across the path just before taking a peek at the Mordor-like scene. Nothing like a reptile on the path to get you in the mood during a visit to Hell. Just remember, there are lots of chickens in Hell.

The tourism brochures don’t crow about it, but this island is overrun by chickens. Chickens in Georgetown, chickens in Bodden Town, chickens clucking around tables in uptown outdoor restaurants. Chickens on the roads and chickens in the trees. Chickens in Hell (I’ll get to that in my next post). You can hardly turn around without a chicken in view.

This morning I took a bag of trash to the dumpster. On the way, Simon said “Be careful – there’s a rooster living in the dumpster and he gets annoyed when you throw garbage on his head.” Oh ha, ha, I thought – a rooster in the dumpster – sure, sure. So I chuckled all the way over there. As I lifted the bag to toss it in, a large and energetic-looking rooster emerged from the depths of the bin and gave me a filthy stare. He leapt onto the top of the trash with a grumbling “BAWK!” and for a moment I thought I was going to do morning battle with this feathery protector of all that has been tossed. And I knew who would win … not me. Best of luck, he did a good impression of a roadrunner, dashing across the trash and away into the bushes.

We saw a lot of stray chickens in Hawaii, too, but I think for sheer numbers per square mile, Cayman would win, hands down. Or beaks down. The roosters here also have no sense of time. They crow most of the night. So if there were to be a midnight crowing contest, these birds would be champions.

The things the glossy brochures don’t tell you…