I think I’ll put-up some chutney this week. It just seems the right thing to do. Somehow, I know that canning will be just the ticket to easing the transition from summer to fall.

Last night, the traditional last night of the summer holidays of my youth and that of my children as they were growing up, was one filled with nostalgia, and even though I have been out of school for—can it really be true— 30 years, and my “children” no longer live with us, it still gives me a brutal attack of the blues, followed by a serious case of the butterflies.

Back to school; back to the real world; back to long pants and closed-toe shoes; back to Scouts and music lessons; back to early mornings, not just because it is light out and you don’t want to miss a moment of a perfect day, but because you don’t want to be late; back to the world of alarm clocks and school bells; back to the world of “ have-to.”

For our final summer hurrah, we had a houseful of visitors; an essential component in staving off mean, old reality. We hiked through our island parks, proudly showing off our island’s beauty and I even resisted telling our guests that the locals often made a fine chowder out of the black and green slugs that threatened our every step.

 A long walk into the village ended with lattes at the Island Village Café, and I could sense that our visitors weren’t relishing the thought that they would soon have to leave. We spent the compulsory ½-hour outside Coastal Realty, admiring and even dreaming of owning one of the tantalizing properties posted in the window. Like Jordan and myself only 12 years ago, I’m sure  they were all imagining what it would be like if they could one day come here on  vacation, and not go home again.

It didn’t help that of the entire long weekend, the final day was the finest weather. Let’s rub salt into that wound!

As one couple prepared to leave on an afternoon seaplane, we sat on our boat at the dock (aptly dubbed the “Departure Lounge” for the afternoon) watching the comings and goings of visiting boaters and locals; already the traffic showing that end-of-summer slow- down. Cue Bob Meyer, returning to his slip just two down from ours with a group of very happy fishermen; they had caught a big one, and Bob was off to clean and fillet it for them, right on the dock where my cousins were departing. I could see that my sister-in-law was not unaffected by that scene of Bob and the fish; they were both glowing in that late afternoon sunshine.

In a sudden burning desire to prolong the inevitable end of the day, we decided to go out in the boat. I could almost hear the wheels turning in our visitors heads as they admired the summer homes on Ruxton; wondering if they should invest in a summer get away. The water was like glass, with only a few pleasure craft about; those like us trying to squeeze that last drop of summer out of this day, an essence of bare feet and wet beach towels.

We saw a family with young children doing some beach combing on an otherwise uninhabited shore. No doubt, they were feeling the same as we were; watching the sun beginning to drop in the sky, sending shimmers of golden light across Gabriola Passage. As long as that sun stayed in the sky, thoughts of school and work the next morning could be kept at bay. Cue the adorable harbour seals!

As we finished our dinner on the deck at Silva Bay, watching the shadows rise on Tugboat and Sear Islands and the distant mountains mellow into mauve, there was a unanimous need to race across the island and watch the sunset just one more time from Malaspina Galleries.

We got there at that perfect moment when the sun has dropped from sight but the festival of orange, gold, and mauve was just beginning. It was with some sadness that we stood and watched; my in-laws were headed back to an empty nest as they had just brought their son to his first year at UVic, and for us it was a reminder of all the evenings we had sat on this point with our sons and our friends, the Harle family.

I wondered how long it would be before my good friend Pam, who had suffered a stroke at the beginning of this promising summer, could once again join us in a Gabriola sunset.

And so, this morning, as I rose early because I had to tackle my month-end bookkeeping, do several loads of linens, and write this column, I couldn’t help but be thankful that I have to do these things here. That’s when I began to think about making a batch of chutney.  The warm and comforting smell of cinnamon and clove and the satisfying sound of the lids going “ping” are all I need to carry me over the threshold between summer and fall.

It is afterall just the start of another glorious season on Gabriola.