SA VARY 1S LAN BB

blurbs one would, at the sound of those two words, outdo the travel folders in purple

rhetoric. That is, if one had been to Savary; and even more specifically, had

attended the Art School sketch camp there. Savary is in what is amusingly referred

to as ‘’the banana belt.” “It is a horned crescent eighteen miles above Powell:

River with fifteen miles of white sand beach.’ So reads the advertisement. To us

who lived the glorious life of an art colony in our own world of the Royal Savary

Hotel, white, firm sands, bright sun, grass on the cliffs, exotic foliage, nights of

song around the campfire. Melodrama, masquerade parties and the shining stars |

weave into a fabric of nostalgia. :
Spring cruelly has forced our secret longing again — fired our days with

desire. Savary is the answer. Plans are under way for another June camp. Escape,

a resolving, an entry into the full life, a tussle with the problems of landscape and

more issues, more chortles and merriment in the concoction of that inimitable con-

fection, The Savary Pudding.

There were twenty of us.

|
Below: A poem by a last year’s camper. 4
|

All God’s people—chosen twenty.
And we went to God's island
—Savary Island,

That gem of the whole Pacific.
There were twenty of us—

All very different—twenty types.
And we were all keenly happy

And industrious

In this Pacific Paradise.

And we worked in harmony

Twenty different ways—happy humans.
And we lived deep

In the sun

On this Savary Isle.

And there was no war talk

Or hideous headlines. Twenty exiles
From a sordid city, we,

Living full for ten days

—Like ten minutes—-

In our perfect world.

Se

ce

And in the morning there

The bracken pitched sunward—
dripping green

And the sea hurled blue at clouds

And they scooped up the blue in billows

And our island blazed!

But in the evening there

Someone sent a dreamy glow—dquiet
crimson.

And even crows stilled

And we called ‘‘cripes’’

And our island echo answered.

There were twenty of us

But we’re home now. Magic memories

Of another world,

God's world—and our’s—

Will live—tlike our island, forever.

f

ek SUL

Bendel SIE a «ARP Na NE Rios toa
SAVARY ISLAND

blurbs one would, at the sound of those two words, outdo the travel folders in purple
rhetoric. That is, if one had been to Savary; and even more specifically, had
attended the Art School sketch camp there. Savary is in what is amusingly referred
to as “the banana belt.” “It is a horned crescent eighteen miles above Powell
River with fifteen miles of white sand beach.” So reads the advertisement. To us
who lived the glorious life of an art colony in our own world of the Royal Savary
Hotel, white, firm sands, bright sun, grass on the cliffs, exotic foliage, nights of
song around the campfire. Melodrama, masquerade parties and the shining stars
Weave into a fabric of nostalgia.

Spring cruelly has forced our secret longing again — fired our days with
desire. Savary is the answer. Plans are under way for another June camp. Escape,
a resolving, an entry into the full life, a tussle with the problems of landscape and
more issues, more chortles and merriment in the concoction of that inimitable con-
fection, The Savary Pudding.

Below: A poem by a last year’s camper.

There were twenty of us.

All God’s people—chosen twenty.
And we went to God's island
—Savary Island,

That gem of the whole Pacific.
There were twenty of us—

All very different—twenty types.
And we were all keenly happy
And industrious

In this Pacific Paradise.

And we worked in harmony
‘Twenty different ways—happy humans.
‘And we lived deep

In the sun

On this Savary Isle.

And there was no war talk

Or hideous headlines. Twenty exiles
From a sordid city, we,

Living full for ten days

—Like ten minutes—-

In our perfect world.

EAL
oe

And in the morning there

The bracken pitched sunward—
dripping green

And the sea hurled blue at clouds

And they scooped up the blue in billows

And our island blazed!

But in the evening there

Someone sent a dreamy glow—quiet
crimson.

And even crows stilled

And we called “‘cripes’”

And our island echo answered.

There were twenty of us

But we're home now. Magic memories

Of another world,

God's world—and our’s—

Will live—like our island, forever.