Memories of Yellowpoint

For over twenty-five years, Ken and I spent a few days each April at Yellowpoint Lodge, near Ladysmith. We have such happy memories of those precious times.  

We packed the car up with books, scrabble board, wine and 'goodies' for our stay.  We had the same cabin each year, so it seemed to us like 'home away from home'. Sometimes we invited friends to stay in the cabin which adjoined ours, separated by a common door.

After a good night's sleep, it was a bit of a walk from our cabin to the Lodge.  As we meandered along the trail we encountered other guests and exchanged pleasantries.  We often came upon rabbits, deer, otters or even eagles, perched high in the tree tops.  There were Easter lilies galore and many wild roses.

As we approached the lodge, the gong rang out welcoming us to breakfast.  With much anticipation we joined the very well-behaved guests lined up either side of a long table outside the dining room, where an array of juices, cereals, prunes, yogurt, porridge and temptingly warm muffins greeted us.  Once we entered the beautiful country-style dining area:

and chose our tables, we selected from more substantial offerings of scrambled, fried or poached eggs, bacon, sausages, toast or pancakes, all accompanied by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

Of course, over the years, we made many friends. 

After breakfast we often joined them in the spacious and comfortable lounge for cosy conversations held to the accompaniment of gentle classical music and the odd crackle from the fire in the giant floor-to-ceiling fireplace.  

And then there were the walks through the quiet engulfing woods or along the inviting beach.  Often we came across items of interest on the beach and one year Ken made a point of photographing some of the flotsam and jetsam we encountered.  We had much fun composing captions for the photos.

Lunch was a repeat performance of the breakfast routine. Various salads were offered, as well as delicious home-made soups and just-out-of-the-oven chunks of wholesome bread, all very nourishing and satisfying.

We returned to our cabin to light our fire for ambiance and then read, rest and play scrabble. Around 4 p.m. we began our pre-dinner glasses of wine, and, if we had friends in the adjoining cabin, we invited them to 'come through' and join us.

Once again we strolled toward the Lodge, beckoned by the dinner gong.  Supper was usually brought to our tables of eight by friendly young staff. Some evenings we sat with the same people, sometimes with new people we had met.  After dinner we enjoyed some more chit-chat around the big fireplace before returning 'home' to our cabin for some more reading or one more scrabble game.

Once snuggled up in our comfortable bed, we were lulled to sleep by the steady lapping of the waves on the beach outside the window below us and often by the contented purring of the resident (forbidden) cat on the foot of our bed.

(My niece, Dale Stofer, painted this lovely rendition of the Yellowpoint cat)

We have very fond memories of our times at Yellowpoint and are fortunate to have wonderful photos to take us back in time to enjoy it all again. 

An Inscrutable Man - my father

My father, Arthur Featherstone Priestley, was born in England.  As I stated in an earlier post about my mother, my dad met my mum in the Indian village of Aiyansh, near Terrace, in northern BC, where her father was the first 'white' missionary in the area.

Dad decided to settle in Aiyansh and built a house overlooking the mighty Nass River.

He also built a store to serve the Indians and settlers.  The supplies for the store arrived by boat and were hauled up the steep incline by means of a skid, which dad no doubt also constructed.

As well as having a large vegetable garden, catching salmon, shooting deer and moose, Dad did a great of trapping - beaver, wolf, otter, lynx, marten, weasel, mink.  I don't know who he sold the hides to, but his efforts paid off.   

He also provided all the wood for our cook stove and heater, using a whip-saw to do the job.

To add to these accomplishments, dad was made a Justice of the Peace and Notary Public, and Mount Priestley was so-named in his honor.

I still don't know why, in 1917, when  my older sister was only 6 years old and my brother Les was just 11 months, dad volunteered his services in the first world war.

He left mother to look after the store and care for the two young children, with the help of neighbours. Interestingly, dad served as a stretcher-bearer even though on home ground he was known to faint at the sight of blood. He was discharged from the army May 24, 1919.

Upon his return, he and my mother had two more children, my brother Ken in 1921 and then me, in 1924.

In 1927 we all paid a visit to dad's parents, who had relocated to Vancouver.  We must have attended the PNE because dad won a car!

However, dad didn't drive so he sold the car and we returned to the north until 1929 when we sold up and moved to Victoria.

Dad had many vocations.  He ran a second-hand store, an auction room and for many years worked for the hardware firm of McLennan, McFeely and Prior.  He was so knowledgeable that people would ask for 'Pop' Priestley to serve them.

My father didn't get a driver's license until he was 75 years old, when he became a bouncer (!) in a hotel/pub in Port Renfrew.

Dad lived until he was 100 years old.  He loved to play cards and golf and although he was a very insular person (you might say 'inscrutable'), he loved 'the ladies', especially if they were attractive.  He was not what you would call 'warm and fuzzy' and I certainly did not like the way he treated my mother.  There were times when I could cheerfully have strangled him, but he was my dad, and Father's Day seems like a good time to remember him, all his accomplishments as well as his foibles.