Thomson Park II

I think this island’s trying to kill me. Thompson Park, eh? Thompson Park. Thompson. Who put that “p” in there? Me. My three and a half readers must be wondering if everything’s going to be okay. Besides wondering what I think I’m doing here in the first place.

It’s a good question. There’s irreverence and irrelevance. You can have one of them but you can’t have both. I thought I’d try to get a little bit more of the lay of the land and try to contribute something because people are desperate for content. It can get so bad they’ll take anything they can get their hands on but it doesn’t have to be like that.

I see “The Saturna Mouse” chiefly as entertainment. Diversion, possibly, and from time to time maybe a little gossip.  It’s going to take a bit of work but the price is right. It could be a kind of companion to the esteemed “Saturna Scribbler” with more anarchy and fewer dark impulses. That’s a joke, by the way, The Saturna Mouse is quite the comedian.

We did the drive down to “Thomson Park” a couple of years ago and were surprised to see absolutely nothing happening with the vineyard. All of that investment, hard work, vine planting and tending looked like it had come to an absolute stop. The whole site was deserted. The grapes on the vines, and there were a lot of them, were just frittering themselves away, shriveling like raisins, untended, unpicked. My God, I thought. Everybody’s dead. Some horrible disease has wiped out the workers. But where are the corpses?

All the harvesting equipment was in the yard doing nothing. The “Bistro” it’d been called was locked up and looking in pretty fair need of an upgrade. Paint was faded and peeling and some siding was falling away. What senseless tragedy had befallen someone’s grandiose plans? Absolute quiet hung over everything. Of course it did.

I love abandoned things.  The swing in the garden.  A ruined career.  I love a ruin. In the quiet of the afternoon sun we had the entire place to ourselves and there wasn’t so much as a security guard keeping an eye on all this property and development.  It was a free-for all down here.  It was a mystery and there wasn’t a thing to eat or drink. We were chuffed.  Something had obviously gone sideways.  What happened to this business we had no idea and cared less.

Then we learned you could scoop up the whole thing for a lousy three million bucks Canadian. It was going to make someone an excellent buy and finally did. A steal.

Yesterday we returned to Thomson Park and the vineyard. The road down didn’t seem half as hairy as the previous time and I had less hair too. The air was clear and cool with an occasional blast of chill wind. Things are looking good at the disc golf course and there’s about to be a fine crop of daffodils. The snowdrops are already. Everything was exactly as we’d left it, and, as usual, nobody around. No one. The only thing different at the vineyard was that all the vines had been cut back to their main stalks with only a few shoots here and there. It’s 2019 and spring isn’t far off.

First Nations Logging Show II

The votes are in and it appears not everyone is ecstatic about seeing all these trees downed just off East Point Road. An informal poll conducted by Roger, another of the safety flagmen, working Cliffside Road, put the numbers at about 90% okay with it and about 10% not happy. Those numbers can only be highly subjective.  The work is going ahead.

We were surprised to see no falling Sunday or Monday and a peaceful realm when Bob last Wednesday caused me to believe falling was going to be every day to follow a tight schedule. We’re cool with Bob. He’s got his misinformation and we’ve got ours. “Blue Thunder” is back at it today, Tuesday, whining and moaning off in the distance. It’s not super melodic but it beats gunfire.