We humans like permanency as a comfortable assurance that our lives will be as comfortable as possible and life will go on. So we tend not to stray from the place where we are most familiar, and we regard our own personal space in that geography as our very own, our castle, so to speak, from which we can look out over the world, near and far, with complacency. That is, if we are fortunate enough to live in a part of the world which will permit us to do this. A civilized society with shared civil values and lawful assurances that we will be secure.

And then, we can venture out further if the mood takes us, either to become tourists for brief periods of time, in other parts of the world unlike our own, to familiarize ourselves with how people elsewhere live, their customs, their heritage. Or, like others among us, we can venture into a natural setting to challenge ourselves to live however briefly without the comforts we have become accustomed to, in our daily lives.

Our younger son has done both, as have we, though not to the extent he has. He has gone off for weeks and months at a time to see what life is like in Sweden, Italy, Spain, Australia, New Zealand, the United States and elsewhere, from time to time. And while there he has explored their cities and also their natural settings, although nowhere near as often and as closely as he does where he lives, in British Columbia. His backpacking expeditions take him to the mountains and his canoeing/kayaking forays alongside the ocean on the B.C. coast.

Take this past weekend, when he discovered that there was still plenty of snow left at his mountain destination. Good thing he'd felt there might be, even on the cusp of July, to persuade him to take along some cold-weather clothing. He pitched his tent where he found fairly flat opportunity in the snow on a mountainside and there he stayed for several days enjoying the atmosphere, the sun and the remote serenity.

In our backyard, another type of home has been established. And in that temporary home eggs were laid and eventually hatched. It's a busy pair of robins who fly about back and forth to tend to that nest. The male can generally be seen sitting fairly close to the nest that was built under the floorboards of our elevated deck. And below now sits the mother robin with her two little nestlings.

Can one logically attribute a mood to the atmosphere of a day; a kind of brooding mood? As though nature is silently conferring with herself, deep in thought and pensive for whatever reason moves her to that state of mind that as humans we recognize but as a powerful force to which all of existence is allied is certainly unknowable.

We had a welcome, light shower last night before bedtime. And the heat of the previous week appears to have largely dissipated, though the humidity remains, even while it is somewhat lifted by the presence of a brisk breeze.

Our gardens look beyond content. They're thriving, blooming, colourful in their array of tints and shapes. And, stationed momentarily in arrested motion as we regard the micro-scenes of one part or another of the garden, it's hard to move on, our eyes really do remain in arrest mode.

But then, we moved on, up the street the brief time it takes to access our neighbourhood forest and then we descended into the ravine. It remains moist underfoot from the robust rain event of several nights back. We discovered yesterday, during our perambulations on the circuit of trails we usually take that several trees had come down. One had been rather precariously perched on the bank of one of the creek's tributaries, and even though it was alive with foliage, down it came, to be caught between the fork of a larger, older tree. So now it lies across that part of the trail where we have the choice of ducking under the side caught in the tree, or to clamber over the part where it touches the forest floor. A trifle of an impediment.

The sole place where meadow rue grows modestly is just beyond that point. And one of the two plants that we're aware of is sending up its blooms, barely discernible, modest themselves. Red baneberry is turning its bright red, and raspberry canes are beginning to show the berries thriving, even as the thimbleberries are just beginning their bloom.

We heard not a bird, saw no squirrels, nor any butterflies or bees. No presence of other hikers, let alone their companion dogs. Still and silent.

Nature, resting from her prodigious labours.

The parched ravine enjoyed a rainy reprieve yesterday morning when in the early morning hours rain began and copious amounts fell in the succeeding hours drenching the landscape in a welcomed rainfall event. We've been far too long without rain; this June has been a little unusual in the sparsity of rain that has moistened the landscape, so that yesterday's robust rainfall was no doubt welcomed fervently by area farmers.

But it was destined to be another scorcher despite the seldom-seen sun throughout the day which burned through a low cloud cover sporadically but never for any length of time. We noted, in our ravine walk, that these conditions have brought to the fore more fungi specimens and it's always interesting to look at their patterns and spread though lately those we've seen have all shared the same symmetry and colour and patterning, unlike the display we've seen at other times with a diversity of colour, shape and pattern.

But it's amazing what some rain will provoke the forest environs to produce. Suddenly yellow loosestrife is in flower, and yarrow is making its presence, though not yet in flower. Red baneberry is transitioning from its initial green to bright red, and staghorn sumac have sent up their floral clusters soon to turn red as well.

We're also seeing offerings of common mullein, these the wild variety appreciably not quite like the cultivated strains seen so often in idealistic versions of English country gardens. They grow to very large proportions, unlike those I've planted in the past in our gardens which thrived for a year or two then disappeared. No mortal hand has differentiated these from nature's original design.

The thimbleberry bushes which arise from the forest floor from virtually nothing every spring are finally being embellished by their bright pink flowers, eventually to turn into sweet thimble-like raspberries. What quite surprised us, though, was the sight of Queen Anne's lace, already thriving and putting out early flower heads.

Our younger son has gone off again on one of his extended weekend trips. As a biologist living in British Columbia the opportunities for him to go off on such trips into the wilderness areas an easy drive from Vancouver are numerous and he takes advantage of them in every season.

Two weeks ago he was on a kayaking camping trip to Saturna Island in the Gulf islands chain off Vancouver. He knows how much I love to see photographs of his trips. There was a time when his father and I appeared in some of those photographs. After our trip with him canoeing the Bowron Lakes circuit and visiting the old growth forest at Chilliwack, we've never been back to Vancouver.

We'd experienced what it's like to camp with him on multiple occasions on canoe-portage trips to Algonquin Park but Bowron Lakes was vastly different. As was our experience backpacking on a mountain. We're too old to even consider such things any longer, though two years ago we did go canoe-camping with him at Algonquin Park; the last time we visited the Park, as well.

Now he's off again this past weekend, this time backpacking not far from the Stein Valley, an area he really favours, and one we became familiar with when years ago we did the same thing with him. He downloads the photographs he takes to Dropbox, and through that medium we're able to share-in-absence-proxy what he has seen on his never-ending trips.

It can be an interesting exercise in learning about people, to read how they react to others, their relationships with those closest to them through familial consanguinity. We imagine that there can be no closer emotional bonds that exist than between father and son, and sometimes that is true, and just as often it seems, it is not. Recently, a young arts journalist who writes for the National Post, posted a Father's Day tribute to his own father. Among the many that could be read in the news media this one certainly stood out. Here's what he wrote:

If you’re like most of us, you probably forget that your dad is still clinging to life, whiling away his twilight years gardening or complaining about Justin Trudeau or whatever it is dads do when they are not waist-deep in the business end of a luxury couch from a discount furniture warehouse. But then father’s day gift guides start popping up in lifestyle magazines, and you remember that, hey, the guy who gave up most of his dreams and his lower back to make sure you didn’t starve to death for the first 24 years of your life probably deserves some socks or something.

And then you forget, because your busy life – full of two-hour brunches and occasionally having to get off the couch to tell Netflix to “Resume” once every three episodes – gets in the way. Now, it’s Saturday, and you have to grab something, and he is once again telling you that a card will be just fine, but you don’t have one of those either.

So, you figure you’ll paper over the growing gap between you with a little bit of money. In that case, you should probably go get a Cosmo or something, because I’m sure they have a big, splashy page full of aprons that say “Daddy’s Cookin’!” among other expensive ways to pretend you still mean something to each other. 

If you’re not the pricey-gift-type, though, maybe you’ll find some last-minute inspiration in the gifts I have been last-minute considering for my dad. Really, it would be great if you could get something out of this, because there’s virtually no way he will.

A subscription to the Dollar Shave Club: Perhaps if you didn’t limit your feelings to History Channel programming that involves tank battles and that one time you met Dave Winfield while you were on a layover in Minneapolis, I would know something more about you than the fact you are a human male and, presumably, have to shave sometimes.

A home-brewing kit: Someone – I really can’t remember who – once told me that the only good things in life come from hard work. So, put down that “lite” lager and taste the bitter hops of poetic justice, Socrates. For your birthday I’m getting you a pour-over coffee maker.

A YouTube video of me winning the Stanley Cup in NHL 16 on Sony Playstation: Maybe if half my genetic material didn’t come from a stubby-legged goon whose body looks like a silverback gorilla ran out halfway through a waxing appointment, this could be a TSN highlight package. Anyway, choke on every time you told me to go outside and get some fresh air, which was often enough that I did not become the billionaire founder of a social network, but not so often that I can’t make Fake Connor McDavid do a wicked toe drag three times out of five.

A self-powered lawnmower: YOU GET OUTSIDE MORE.

A computer mouse shaped like a Corvette: Remember that time you were teaching me how to drive, and I pulled in a little too close to the curb, and I scratched the front bumper and one of the hubcaps, and then you were so mad you couldn’t get your seatbelt undone at first, and then you yelled at me when you saw it, and then gave me a lecture on how I was a lollygagger who needed to pay more attention to things while you drove us home, and then you wouldn’t take me out for two weeks after? Yeah, well, next time your wifi won’t connect, don’t call me until you’ve fit this thing all the way up your ass.

A VHS copy of Field of Dreams: I know you don’t have a VHS player, which means you will be able to watch this roughly as many times as we played catch when I was a boy.

A barbecue fork: Remember that time I let the gas on the BBQ run a little too long before you went to light it, and you got so mad you wouldn’t even let me have a burger, but it was kind of okay because it took two weeks for your eyebrows to look normal again? No, no reason to bring it up, it’s just a happy memory.

A copy of The Greatest: My Own Story, Muhammad Ali’s autobiography: A lot of your generation’s idols sure seem to be dying lately, huh? Bet that feels terrible.

A photo album consisting of every time I have been so drunk I threw up in a urinal: Just in case you want to pretend you have left a worthwhile legacy.

A grandson: Trust me, this would be a surprise for both of us.

A framed, signed photo of the Property Brothers: Which one do you think Mom fantasizes about more? Both? My money is on both.

A half-empty bottle of some bottom-shelf bourbon: If I had an inheritance to look forward to, I could probably afford scotch, and if I had a retirement to look forward to, I could probably keep it untouched in the time it takes to ride the bus from the liquor store to your four-bedroom in the suburbs.

My latest student loan statement and a self-addressed, stamped envelope: You just put in however much cash you think is fair, considering you are not getting any younger and I can probably find an online tutorial about taking power of attorney. No cheques, please, I prefer to do my banking online.

Some socks: It would be a shame to put an end to the family tradition.

A gift certificate to Red Lobster: I love you, dad.

This 'tribute' would win hands down in any competition some warped mind might elevate to the high art of 'letting it all hang out', about on a par with the competition for a winner in the 'ugliest dog in the world' contest. It ranks among the most despicably vicious vituperative exercises I've yet come across, and I hope never to read anything remotely like it again. 

I certainly feel for parents and children whose relationship is fraught with misunderstandings and an inability to see one another's perspective. This is not quite the meanest, nastiest relationship I know of, actually. But it does rank among the most publicly-aired of the category. Love such as this man made public to humiliate and slander his father in the most public of forums is love that anyone might wish to be spared. 

Oh, did I forget to place his name above for easy identification? Sorry about that. It's Dave Berry, a fairly confident young man, it seems who identifies his character as being "an otherwise nice guy". Reserving judgement, I yet disagree.

He's become nature's mother hen, so to speak. Concerned over whether there's enough fresh compost from kitchen waste taken out to satisfy the cravings of our constant visitors, the neighbourhood raccoons. It's amazing how attached one can become to these wildlife visitors. Before the pail is full but when it contains things that my husband feels would be nutritiously useful to the raccoons, out he hauls the pail. Anytime from the late afternoon to the evening and night-time hours the tell-tale sound of the composter-lid being moved informs us that our guests have returned.

During the winter months, he was scrupulous about putting out birdfeed and nuts in abundance for our neighbourhood squirrels, the occasional visit by wild rabbits and the raccoons, seeking cold-weather sustenance. Then it was concern for returning migrants, which came along in little flocks, eager to take their share of the offerings, particularly the oiled black sunflower seeds. And now, of course, we've got hefty sunflowers growing in the gardens, after I culled and thinned out some of the hundreds that managed without too much trouble to manifest themselves.

Now, it's concern over the welfare of the pair of robins that have chosen to nest under the elevated floor of our deck. They first made a couple of 'practise' nests, then finally completed the third, and have been busy sitting on eggs for several weeks, the male seen constantly alert nearby, often with a worm in his beak, preparing to deliver it to the female.

They don't seem the least bit perturbed by our presence nor that of our little dogs who often make quite a racket as they race about under the deck in their frequent chases. On one occasion my husband left small bits of cheese and halved, pitted cherries on top of the fence where the male robin often sits. We can't be certain whether he made use of them or whether squirrels made off with them, of course.

But my husband did notice something peculiar; last night when he took our two little dogs out before bedtime and Jillie squatted close to the nest under the deck, he hesitated to pick it up for disposal, not wanting to disturb the robins. A short while later, when he went out to pick up the stool to flush it down the toilet it wasn't where he'd last seen it, under the deck. A smaller version of it remained, removed a few feet beside the backyard gate.

And this morning, when Jackie eliminated in almost the same spot, the male robin made to swoop down on it, and my husband, fearing that a diet including dog stool might not be the healthiest in the world for the birds, swept it away for disposal inside a paper napkin before the bird could reach it.

What's more, aside from cautioning me not to make too much noise around the robins and their prospective nestlings (they may have hatched already), my husband went out on a mission, to acquire a reel mower. The electric lawn mower makes too much noise, he said, so he's using the hand mower now to silently cut the grass in the backyard. Just as well, it's a small backyard.

It's a somewhat sad and disturbing event, one that will affect a lot of people. Many won't care, but many more will find their lives disrupted and their dreams of the future tipped upside-down and inside-out. Like many marriages this one had its share of ups and downs. But the stresses on the marriage, economic and societal and not least the feeling of autonomous-decision-making hampered beyond comfort, had the final say.

Divorce it was, and it will not be a pretty one. The disgruntled parties who have found themselves waving goodbye with great reluctance and more than a bit of resentment to the partner that has decided it is best to leave than to stay, will not be wishing the one leaving all the best in the world.

They were of the opinion, obviously, that with the union intact the disaffected one was intent on leaving a situation where they already had 'all the best in the world', and finding it wanting nonetheless, was determined to sunder the covenant that made the union the envy of the world. True, within the marriage abrasive and violent arguments ending in conflict were avoided. True, the strength of those within the marriage whose market was robust carried the least robust ones with them.

But there were sacrifices, even as those within the union had the freedom to roam at will, those who remained found their culture, their traditions and even their laws impinged upon, suddenly subservient to an order that melded disparate cultures and traditions into one great melting pot, an aggregation of values and heritage that sat poorly on many.

Finally, when one too many penurious members of the union lived above their means at the expense of others in the union, and an unannounced and unanticipated mass influx of strangers suddenly disrupted the serenity that did prevail, the decisions made by the more powerful, feeling authoritatively entitled, bullied the others into a collective agreement that sat poorly on their own sense of destiny.

In the end, Great Britain may have saved its heritage, traditions and self-respect, settling into the old-new normalcy of self-government. What remains to be seen is how the other collective spouses will ultimately react; a spur to similar action by some, or a morose acceptance and a tightening of the union, to exclude the Sceptred Isle.

Our garden is clearly content this morning, basking in the early morning sun before the day heats in intensity, with a light breeze drying the excess of last night's rainfall. What more could a well-mannered garden hunger for? And what more could possibly render unto us a sense of serenity and calm as we wander through it slowly, taking note of new eruptions and emerging details.

Needless to say it's the macro-perspective that catches the eye, that overwhelms one with the beauty of the garden when viewed from afar; say from inside the house, looking down at the front from one of the library windows. The stillness of the scene, and its quiet beauty imparts a feeling of visual satiety reminiscent of a Dutch still-life.

But it's when we wander about together after breakfast pointing out to one another areas of mutual interest and details of individual plant appearance that calm descends and we are compelled to slowly wind our way along garden beds and borders.

This morning ritual is one that our two little poodles hugely appreciate. They're happy to be outside as long as we're there, too, not so given to roaming about on their own, while we're indoors and they're not. Even though Jillie has learned to slide open the screen portion of the patio doors so they can enter when they wish to, they'd still rather we be out with them.

And when we are, the opportunity for them to rush about after one another, snarling and growling in mock fighting-mode as they grapple and feint and dash about represents yet another opportunity to appreciate the things in our lives that make it comforting and pleasant, enabling us to rise above the events that we have no control over but which diminish the quality of life.

Looks as though finally, our problem with Jackie's digestive system has been solved. When the veterinarian recommended a brand of dog food we detested, meant to address his particular problem we were skeptical, unwilling to substitute it for the much finer nutritional value inherent in the food we give Jack and Jill, not a big name brand, but with constituents sourced locally and organically. In the end, the vet was right, we discovered, when we made the transition. Jackie's refusal to eat his food abated until to the present time, he no longer has those bouts at all when we can recognize symptoms of stomach upset when he assumes that "crouch" position, following his food refusals.

We've kept Jillie on that better source of nutrition. They both also are given top-ups of plain cooked chicken that I've used in the preparation of cooking chicken soup, and they also have their kibble moistened with chicken soup in the evening, along with wild salmon oil. They get kefir as a treat, as well as yogurt, and a mix of cooked and raw vegetables chopped into a salad after their evening meal. So they're healthy and vigorous and always up to some kind of mischief together.

We've continued to keep them on leash attached to their harnesses on our daily forested ravine walks simply to restrain them from constant browsing, which they remain attached to. It's become a firm habit, one that has gotten Jackie, with his more delicate constitution in trouble more than a few times necessitating an urgent drive to the veterinarian hospital where he's placed on intravenous pumping saline and medication into his system after he's ingested some kind of pathogen which has made him violently ill.

But they're coming along nicely. Two little rascals whose romps everywhere are noisy and exuberant. Still, their antics haven't dissuaded our pair of robins from nesting under our deck, where we constantly see the male robin sitting nearby, sometimes with a worm he's preparing to deliver to the female, sitting on her eggs. The robins are so accustomed to our presence, I can pass within a foot or so of the male robin sitting on the fence while I go about my business in the garden.

Famed landscape artist Frederic Law Olmsted, whose most lingering effect was his design of Central Park in New York City started in 1858, has been quoted by Olmsted scholar Charles E. Beveridge as citing "texture, color, play of light and shade" of plantings in a garden or a landscape as representative to Olmsted of "the highest kind of sensibility that a gardener should have".

And it seems to me as someone who enjoys gardening, and absolutely treasures the visual delight experienced from observing the outcome, that his sensibility is echoed in the eyes, minds and souls of countless people who love nature in both her natural presentation and the evolution of the cultivated world of the garden.

Gardeners owe much to those intrepid botanists whose sense of curiosity took them in centuries past throughout the world to discover new species, and to send samples back to their native lands, where those species were cultivated to grow in soil alien to their natural roots. So many of our most beloved plants have come from elsewhere; China, Turkey, Japan, Central America, for example and without them our gardens would be far lesser places of serenity, contemplation and pleasure.

We perambulate through our extremely modest gardens on a daily basis, observing the changes that take place on a daily basis. Stopping here and there to stake something, tie something, deadhead something else, separate clumps and replant them elsewhere in the garden, and in the process step back to regard the results.

We never pass our front door with its glass insert without stopping momentarily to glance outside at the gardens at the front of the house. Invariably, that glance turns into a brief tryst with visual brilliance in reflection of Mr. Olmsted's philosophical and aesthetic values.

Can someone who takes delight in a garden compare the sumptuous lusciousness of a rose to that of a peony? Does sunlight falling on an urn of assorted annuals transform them into a glorious apparition of perfection, or does shade, muting the colours, or rainfall, intensifying the colours, shapes and perceptions do that? How about observing the garden at night, and breathing in the sumptuous fragrances emanating from its constituents?

Can our pleasure in the simple pursuit of mimicking nature to achieve an effect that you find irresistible in reflection of your own instinct to 'improve' on nature, betray our innermost hubris, or is it an innocent pursuit of the unattainability of perfection?

It's likely that ours is the smallest backyard on the street. The lot size is average, 100' by 50' but the house seems to take up an awfully large part of it. Mind, the house is set back from the street more than most, and that's a feature we certainly appreciate.

But back when fences were being built demarcating property lines twenty-five years ago, both our neighbours on either side insisted that their property lines extended into ours, despite legal documentation to the contrary and the staked marking of professional surveyors and my husband simply didn't feel like contesting their claims, allowing the fence on either side to intrude on our property. It would only have represented at most a foot on either side, he felt, and wasn't worth arguing about.

Since our house is located within a loop of a street where it bends most profoundly that's another reason for the shortened property line. Those located on the outer bound areas of the loop have immense backyards. But the size of ours suits us well enough. We find it represents enough garden work area to keep us busy. And it's the gardens, beds and borders that delight us.

And the size is suitable to reflect the exercise-room required to keep two little poodles happy, running about after one another with abandon. We have an elevated deck with about a four-foot height of headroom, and they race under the deck and around all the garden obstacles, up the rock garden and down again, in their chases after one another. So they've got exercise aplenty.

Even their racing about, barking after one another doesn't seem to disturb the mother robin sitting on her eggs in the nest she and her mate built under the joists of the deck.Their presence has placed an obstacle on my husband being able to extract the last of the stored garden furniture out from under the deck where they've been throughout the winter months. We'll wait until the hatchlings have fledged to get that done.

Bilberry Creek ravine, Orleans

Heat absent humidity, with a nice brisk breeze represents today's weather emphasis. Heat as in a projected 33 degrees. So, best to do as we did this morning, deciding to exit the house and go along on our woodland ramble right after breakfast. The night time temperature didn't fall beyond 24 degrees last night, so it certainly won't take long for the heat to build up.

But when we entered the ravine and were enclosed by the leafy forest, it was relief from the heat felt out on the street walking to the ravine entrance. There, it was cool and the breeze penetrated for a very nice effect. There are areas in the ravine where the sun manages to send its warming rays through the leafy canopy, but those areas are a moving target; fully exposed at one point, in the shade as the sun moves majestically across the sky.

Daisies, cowvetch, buttercups, bedding grasses

As we draw ever closer to official summer, the change in the micro landscape of the forest floor is also interesting to note. Daisies are now in abundance alongside buttercups and clover and cowvetch. The blackberry flowers have already faded and the nascent berries can be identified just as has happened with the cherry trees.

Bedding Grass

There is the occasional maturing clump of wild geranium, a new proliferation of milkweed, not yet close to flowering, and the bedding grasses have finally begun to flower, sending up their exquisite fragrance.

Thimbleberry

Finally as well, the thimbleberries are starting to flower, their bright pink, fair-sized blooms seen quite a distance as one approaches. We've now seen the first of the hawkweed, which means that we should soon also be sighting ripe wild strawberries, tiny and sweet.

Hawkweed

And the fleabane also are in bloom. Trailing lotus blooms now at the edge of the ravine. Nature's abundance of colour, texture, fruiting bodies, a cornucopia of eye delights.

Fleabane

Trailing Lotus

Now that floral chintz represents the changeover in our dinnerware set in the dining room, the extension of meals for hot weather has also undergone a change. More salads of one kind or another, for one thing. Lighter fare, as it were, to reflect the atmospheric heat no longer requiring good, solid hot meals to warm up our frozen selves.

There is an abundance of fresh fruits on the market. Take, for example, a delightful basket of fresh seasonal strawberries from our neighbour-province Quebec. The strawberries are at the height of their perfection, sweet and moist and firm and luscious. Their taste bears little resemblance to those we import all winter long from the U.S. and Mexico.

On the other hand, we're now getting ripe red cherries from Washington State and they're excellent. A nice change from grapes that we also eat on a regular basis, but anything can pall when they represent a steady diet.

We also, this week, have a case of Ataulfo mangoes grown in Mexico. We'll enjoy them throughout the week, alternating with the other fruits we have in abundance.

But I decided to sneak a baked dessert in there for a guilty pleasurable treat to cap Friday night's dinner. One of our favourite baked desserts is buttertarts. Starting off with unsalted butter and plenty of corn syrup to ensure the finished product remains slightly runny, I used one double-yolk egg, brown sugar, vanilla and poured the syrup over huge black Thomson raisins and whole pecans. Formidably delicious.

Just as well I baked only a half-dozen. Large ... tarts.