We are staying a few days at a hotel: Kingfisher Oceanside Resort and Spa near the small town of Comox on Vancouver Island. Like much of the Pacific North West Coast, this area is known as unceded territory. It is a notion with many complexities, but broadly speaking, it arises from the fact that in many parts of Canada, the British Crown authorities failed to agree land treaties with indigenous peoples. As a result, the First Nations consider that their traditional rights to the lands and natural resources have the same legitimacy as they had before the coming of European settlers. And in this spirit, we respectfully acknowledge that we are currently standing on the Unceded traditional territory of the K’òmoks First Nation.
The hard reality is that the coast here is heavily occupied with suburban houses set in woodland gardens. The grounds of the Kingfisher Resort are carefully manicured, replete with flowering shrubs, water features and (largely decorative) fire pits. And yet. Step down to the shoreline and you are in different, strangely magical world, a limininal space that is under the dominion of the tides.
Yesterday, we decided to defy the proposition that the only options for lunch were the Kingfisher Aqua bistro or getting into a car (which we haven’t got). We started by clambering over the rocky shoreline, inspired by a sign which claimed (over-optimisticly) that there was 1km footway to the nearby hamlet of Gartley. Along the way, we encountered myriads of tiny crabs that scuttled away in panic as we approached.
Once we reached Gartley, we asked directions for Royston, which according to the map appeared to have a small store and a pub that served food. Our informant was somewhat incredulous when we volunteered that we planned to walk there, but pointed us in the right direction. After a rapid and nervous 10min promenade along the edge of Island Highway South, accompanied by fast-moving 4x4s and biker posses, and negotiating a narrow bridge over the Trent River, we ended up at Roy’s Towne Pub. This turned out to have a charming, sunlit patio and an imaginative menu that vastly exceeded our expectations.
For our return journey, we ventured back to the shore in the hope that we could avoid the highway. We clambered over more rocky inclines that opened out to the broad estuary of the Trent, the sea still far out in the distance. We skirted huge, ornately weathered pine logs washed up against the sand and shingle. We gingerly waded across the weed-strewn shallows of the Trent debouching into the bay, hoping that no menaces were lurking hidden under the green fronds. 
Triumphantly across the river, we soon realised that we had only crossed one of several outlet streams, and paddled a few more times through tepid, weedy streams. Despite finding a small path through the grasses that ran close to the treeline, it was still unclear where we were or how many obstacles were still to be traversed. When we eventually returned to leafy paved road, we realised that we had spent over an hour circuitously covering the same as-the-raven-flies distance as our earlier 10 min trot along the highway.