The preamble to our Code of Ethics says, “Under all is the land.” With that real estate connection in mind, I looked back to past REM columns (July 2004 and August 2006) about trips to the Broken Islands Group on the West Coast of Vancouver Island. Since then, the coastal freighter Lady Rose has ceased to operate and we have found another hideaway on the mainland of B.C.

I present for your consideration, the community of Lund, gateway to Desolation Sound and Mile 0 of Highway 101, the Pacific Coastal Highway ending 15,202 km away in Chile. You could look it up at www.lundbc.ca.  

The weekend of the Lund Shellfish Festival was between the semi finals and the glory run of the Vancouver Canucks’ claim of the Stanley Cup. No hockey to watch and the only alternative was the Indy 500 – the pole sitter by the way, a Canadian, Alex Tagliani who crashed on Lap 147. Are there any sports at which we suck? Apart from bass fishing? Cow patty tossing? But I digress.

Lund is accessible by roads and ferries, one ferry if coming from Vancouver Island, two if from Vancouver. It’s an 80-minute cruise across the Strait of Georgia from Comox in mid-Vancouver Island, which is how we approached. The Queen of Burnaby, showing every one of her 46 years and rust streaks where paint was just a distant memory, is a dowager of the B.C. Ferry fleet, crossing to Powell River and returning four times daily. But she has a good heart and her crew is fiercely proud. Customer service dictates no car left behind – at least not on our trip. Try that on a major route.

Rolling off and through the harbour upgrades in downtown Powell River, we head north for about half an hour and arrive at the wharf and the historic Lund Hotel. Which pretty well sums up the municipal boundaries. Looking for those old-style green plastic motel key tags? You’ve come to the right place. No chance of demagnetizing these babies.

By dinner time a community bus, a bulky version of a Handy Dart lift equipped conveyance, pulls up and smuggles us and our open beverages away for dinner at the Laughing Oyster Resort. The seafood buffet is amazing – with a bonus pork loin complete with crackling. That isn’t the sound of the surf; it’s the slamming of arteries.

We’re here for the food and the entertainment – a three-piece combo with a Buddy Holly look-alike who teaches music at the local school and knows every song of the era. And plays them non-stop for two and one half hours! Dancing between the tables is encouraged. Buddy briskly bridges from one song to the next, frequently leaving the drummer and bass player a measure behind playing catch up, and gasping dancers begging for a break. Smokers have been known first to go into withdrawal and then quit, waiting for a break in the music.

The marathon ends. We stagger uphill to the bus, calves cramping. The trip home is noisy and fast and the party rooms quickly identified. There is a whiff of controlled substance in the air. See any spotted owls? Maybe after another hit.

For some, the next morning is a painful crawl to the bar fridge for relief. For those who long ago graduated from hangover cure school, it’s over to Nancy’s Magic Bakery, across the parking lot from the surprisingly closed hotel restaurant. Then we see and taste Nancy’s food and realize the hotel simply surrendered to a superior breakfast. Cinnamon buns the size of dinner plates, with or more traditional fare if you insist.

Some go clam digging after a short water taxi ride to almost tropical Savary Island. I’m reading in the pale sunlight while others hike the local trails. Seafood sales are everywhere as festival merchants set up their tents. A parade of local musicians entertain. Live and cooked prawns, complete with tails and legs are causing kids to squirm on the dock. Wait until they see a geoduck! (Google “images for Geoduck” for an X-rated peek.) Divers arrive on a charter with Pacific Pro Dive, enjoying some of the best scuba diving in the world – clear, cold and teeming with life.

A group of motorcycles, mainly Harleys, rumbles down the street and into the parking lot. Like the divers they are largely grizzled and likely retired. A sort of Cheesy Rider. One is the former executive officer of the Fraser Valley Real Estate Board, Ken Mackenzie, doing a circle tour with eight friends, overnighting in Lund and then crossing to Vancouver Island to Victoria the next day before completing the circuit and returning to the Lower Mainland.

In the late afternoon I’m stirred to action by a musician offering a wailing tribute to the many virtues of “plantain.” I escape to the Boardwalk Café – it’s on the boardwalk that circles half the harbour – for cod and chips and beer. Does it get any better?

Well yes – if you count the surprise return of last night’s band. They have tracked us down to the hotel bar because everyone knows Lund hates a vacuum and they go wherever aging baby boomers crave a little more . Everyone’s dancing and the difference between the old and young is simple – the youngsters’ lips aren’t moving because they don’t know the lyrics. Same routine – eat, drink and look for the after party because the band stops playing at 10. They’re old too!

The next day is the local volunteer firemen’s Pancake Breakfast – two pancakes, three rashers of turkey bacon, one bison patty and homemade berry syrup – and a lot of backtalk from the firemen – we feel we’re in an episode with soup Nazi. When we complained of slow service, they said we were late.

As we gathered for the ferry ride home, Dan summed up the weekend: “I don’t need to hear anymore Buddy Holly.” With that, he crossed it off his bucket list.

Happy Canada Day.

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