The downside to living on a beautiful Gulf Island is that people, damn them, come and visit. They clog the roads, buy all the eggs, and wander randomly into traffic. And why not - they are on vacation after all, regular rules don't apply!
Last night, after midnight, Mischa sounded the alert. Irregular activity in the neighbourhood! It seemed someone was camping at the property across the road, and they were enjoying a campfire. I guess all the "Extreme Fire Danger" and "No Fires" signs posted everywhere on the island didn't connect with the carefree holiday makers. The Fire Department was called, the chief aroused from his slumber, the fire doused. Thankfully, the whole island didn't burn down: tinderbox doesn't begin to describe how dry it is here.
When I'm not busy spoiling someone else's fun, I'm dodging the sun that beats down day upon day upon day. Most people would probably consider it perfect weather, but I am much more of a mushroom than a sunflower. I can't wait for the grey, drizzly quiet of November.
We have a wonderful farmer's market here, but I just can't bring myself to fight for a parking space and be jostled by the hordes of visiting fresh produce lovers, who fill their huge baskets with baguettes, zucchinis and stupendous heads of lettuce. Bless the local farmers and craftspeople who benefit from the off-island dollars, I truly wish them great success, but meanwhile I'm staying home on Saturdays.
I suppose it could be worse. At least I don't live in Port MacNeill, whose poor citizens were threatened by an invasion of Rainbow People. I'm seriously considering going somewhere less desirable next summer. Perhaps Tierra del Fuego - it would be the off season there.
P.S. The Next Day
God took pity on me and offered up a lovely, deep soaking rain. I picked blackberries, appreciating the sounds of tourist-filled SUVs zooming off to the ferry to return home. Bless them.