November on Mayne

Mayne Island, traditionally called S,ḴŦAḴ in SENĆOŦEN, is an enchanting place that finds you rather than the other way around. Nestled in the Salish Sea, between the bustling mainland and Vancouver Island, it beckons with fog-drenched mornings, a steady rhythm of life, and a profound stillness that permeates the air. Here, the atmosphere is alive with the distant sounds of ferry horns cutting through the mist and the haunting calls of ravens in the treetops.

Yet, it’s the enveloping quiet that truly reigns supreme, punctuated by occasional midnight owl hoots and the deep grunts of fallow deer in their rut. For those fortunate enough to call this tiny island home, it feels like a sanctuary—a precious retreat where the modern world hums just out of reach, lingering in the background of our digital lives.

As autumn settles in, the air turns crisp and invigorating, signalling the end of a vibrant harvest. The fields have been emptied of their produce, and fruit trees stand bare—save for the bright pops of rosehips and haws along many a country road. The medicinal plants we foraged are carefully processed and tucked away for the months ahead. We transition into quieter rhythms, revelling in the bounty preserved in jars and baskets.

This is the season for reflection, a time to engage in small, intentional rituals that carry us through the damp embrace of winter. My work intertwines the wild beauty of nature with the digital realm. I write, create, design, and operate a small alternative therapy practice from a cozy nook carved into the steep hillside at the edge of a misty, lush forest.

The days here follow a gentle cadence. If not a hunting day for my partner, we rise later as soft morning light spills across moss-covered stones and illuminates dew-kissed flora and fungi. Stepping outside, I inhale the salty aroma of the sea air mingling with the rich scent of earth, the world around me suspended in a delicate veil of humidity. Dew-drenched spider webs glint like tiny jewels in the early sunlight while fields stretch out, fading into an eerie whiteness as golden sunbeams pierce the grey sky. 

Amidst these serene moments lies a quiet magic. As the day unfolds, my home becomes a hybrid workspace where creativity meets tranquillity. I check emails, draft proposals, and prepare for client sessions while the rhythmic patter of rain dances against the skylights, fluctuating between pizzicato and thunderous percussion. The wood stove crackles to life, filling the space with the warm, fragrant scent of burning cedar—a reminder of our connection to something larger: our coastal land, the rhythm of the seasons, and the ancient western red cedars that stand as witnesses to the passage of time.

The ever-present mist cloaks everything in an air of curiosity. It signals that the fallow deer are deep in their rut, with their majestic antlers rising and falling like shadows against the fog-laden backdrop. Observing them reveals an odd beauty, a reflection of nature's age-old tempo, which ebb and flow unconcerned with the schedules of the outside world.

On Friday mornings, after milking some happy yet spirited goats, I often stop by a charming mobile café for a meticulously brewed double espresso and, if lucky, two homemade doughnuts to bring home for my honey. In those fleeting moments, I connect with others—sharing smiles and snippets of conversation with fellow islanders in the queue, including small children who are not bothered in the least by my hay and manure-covered boots.

Evenings beckon us to linger over simple, nourishing meals. The dark ruby membrillo—quince paste crafted from our harvest—pairs exquisitely with homemade cheese and warm, fragrant sourdough. There’s no haste here; time seems to stretch as the last golden light of day spills through the corner windows, casting long, dreamy shadows on the wooden floors. 

Our dog and cat have settled onto their cozy cushions while my partner and I snuggle on the sofa, the enticing scent of venison ‘chevreuil du jour’ sizzling in the kitchen. As day fades into night, the moon rises over the tree line, casting a gentle glow on the landscape as we surrender to the tranquil embrace of island life. 

There’s undeniable beauty in the simplicity of it all—the intricate spider webs, whirling fog, and graceful deer that shape our lives. Yet the cherished rituals and resonant pulse of the seasons weave meaning into our everyday existence, creating a tapestry rich with purpose and belonging.

​©2024 Susheela Kundargi