In some of my recent posts, I’ve struggled with setting stories in historical context. How it is that living on the West Coast of Canada is to understand that the majority of us are “from away”, and our roots are not deep here, our history is documented only over decades, not centuries.  The First People seem to have left the least permanent mark on the land, and we Johnny-come-latelies have paved and built new over any record there may have been. But what did our grandfathers know, then, of the desire for an anchor to our past?  They were interested in the future.

And so it is that we hold precious any antique structures left to our stewardship, and mourn their loss when the unthinkable–or inevitable–happens.  This weekend we added another ghost to the list with the loss of The Quamichan Inn, a beautiful English-Style inn and B&B, site to hundreds of weddings, celebrations and special family moments. My memories of the place go back to who I think of as the original owners, at least the first to run the 1911 manor home as a business.  Sheila and Archie Owen were as famous as landlords as the building was iconic.  Many of us who grew up here have memories of special dinners and gatherings, and I have a few of those, too, but I also have a memory I am sure is unique.  My mother was an acquaintance of the owners, and I remember being quite young– 7 or 8– and my mum taking me out to the Inn on a weekday morning for a special breakfast which we ate in the kitchen with Sheila. Pam and Clive Cunningham were the next owners, also British ex-pats like their predecessors, as much about the experience as the meal.  After the Cunninghams, the Inn changed hands more rapidly, bought and sold by a few consortia, it’s only “local” owner I can think of was Robin Duke, who ran the Inn along with her husband for several years, filling the guest rooms with her own beautifully crafted quilts. In fact, that’s another special memory I have, meeting a girlfriend for lunch on a quiet day, and Robin inviting us to go upstairs and wander through the guest rooms (there were no guests registered at the time).  It was the one and only time I ever saw the upstairs. I don’t have any memory of the Ghost of Mrs. Adams who was reported as residing in the Inn long after leaving the physical plane, but I can imagine her not wanting to leave her home, nightly descending the grand stair case to the lounge.

It’s easy to say “The main thing is no one was hurt” and “It’s only a building”, but it’s more than that– an historic icon is lost, and it reminds me not only of how tenuous are our roots, but how easily they can lose purchase.  I share some other altered and lost icons from my childhood: