Once again, “progress,” “public consultation,” “challenges and opportunities” and all that good stuff are unsheathing their collective dagger, aimed at the relaxed and comfy ways of West Vancouver.
My dastardly deadline was too early for a report from the front lines of Wednesday’s “open house” – always a sinister phrase – on town hall’s Horseshoe Bay Park goal.
But, barring fresh news, it says here: Goal scored. Game over. Leave it alone.
Winding seaside paths. Pleasant tiny playground. Grand mountain views – winter wonderland especially – up Howe Sound toward Whistler. Lotsa benches, perfect for a sunny-weather munch from Troll’s takeout across the street. And a few town characters, like the gent who wears Hawaii-style shirt and shorts year-round.
Not to overlook the bikers – good ol’ boys who park their shiny hogs and other big-engine makes in front of Starbucks. This is the most charming, friendly (not phony-friendly, not tourist-brochure friendly), slightly jaunty, and eminently safe western elbow of WV.
But the parks and planning people’s publicly stated ambitions are wrapped in bureaucratic enigma. Their goal is “to create a free-flowing connected park space from the BC Ferries terminal. It will provide a gathering space and focal point for the residents … and visitors alike.”
My hard suspicion: The hidden agenda is to scrap playground, washrooms and Sewell’s cafe, boat launch and parking, to provide a “free-flowing” view from big-$ condos under construction overlooking the park.
True, the old and the dead would argue that Horseshoe Bay was trashed decades ago by the ferry terminal (as was drily said of Rome, H.B. isn’t what it used to be, and never was). Few in West Vancouver and far beyond would want the terminal gone now.
If the busy bureaucrats want change, here’s a big one: As the town’s Unofficial Urinal Inspector, I complained in print months ago that the hand dryer in the men’s washroom didn’t work. Fixed. But now broken again. This is journalism in the big leagues, folks.
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Those same planners are slated to end all Argyle Avenue motor traffic and 70-odd public parking spaces (104 already removed) for the mixed pedestrian-cyclist Spirit Trail – an evil spirit.
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Ah, the Grey Cup. Memories. Ontario-born but with western (Manitoba) bloodlines, I grieved at the 1945-47 Argonauts Grey Cup whippings of the Winnipeg Blue Bombers (35-0, 28-6, and – close, but no cigar – 10-9). Always an auxiliary fill-in, in life then as now, I was assigned as the Hamilton Spectator’s overnight sports copy editor for the famous 1962 Fog Bowl, the only final ever halted – invisible to players and fans alike. When it resumed the next day, the score didn’t change: Blue Bombers 28, Hamilton Tiger-Cats 27.
As a let-loose feature writer, I interviewed an outstanding Hamilton player, 1894-1906, Seppi DuMoulin. I expected a small, swarthy south European, of which Hamilton had a plenitude. Wrong. Tall, patrician, erudite. Full name Septimus (seventh child – how’s your Latin?) of an Anglican bishop. Gather round, fuzzy-cheeked sports guys like Ed Willes and (much missed) Cam Cole and Iain MacIntyre, and Uncle T. will regale you with tales of the olden time.
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For the record: Agent 6Gk2cc strongly contradicts opinions here about the late Rafe Mair and of West Van’s Hollyburn Sailing Club, which he slams as full of alien North Vancouverites and, he alleges, a rude group too. I’m always astonished when a reader disagrees with me.
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I’ve never, in what passes for a fairly long life (all too short, if you ask me) seen a pantomime, what the English call a panto. So I look forward to correcting this loss by attending The Doctor of Oz: A Self-Help Panto at North Van’s cozy Theatre at Hendry Hall, staged on several dates between tonight and Dec. 17 including Saturday and Sunday matinees.
It’s Linda Sharp’s updating of Dorothy’s Oz travels in the self-help age, with the Scarecrow searching for the perfect diet and the Shy Lion yearning to be an Internet Sensation. Veteran stage people Anne Marsh produces, Miles Lavkulich directs, and in panto tradition there’s a promise of “many horrible, horrible jokes!”
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I applied the obligatory 100 self-lashings with a wet noodle for a blunder in this space Nov. 17. The director of the film under discussion, Roman Holiday, was not Billy Wilder but William Wyler – doubly embarrassing because I’d written a UBC essay on the matter.
Small solace, but I’m in large company. In his excellent biography of the movie’s star, Barry Paris notes: “Throughout the careers of Audrey Hepburn’s two most beloved directors, there was endless confusion between ‘Billy Wilder’ and ‘Willie Wyler.’ Wilder, who was slightly younger and more annoyed by the mistake, says Wyler ‘would put his arm around me and say, ‘Come on now – Monet/Manet? What’s the difference?’”
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