An old-fashioned Coca-Cola sign. A shuttered gas station. A slow street of small, old-fashioned shops.

The neighborhood of Yarrow, tucked away from the highway, is almost entirely a town outside of its time. Walking its main street, I can imagine a kid in a cap and suspenders jogging across the street to trade the pennies he earned from washing cars or delivering papers for an ice cream. Girls in wide, flouncing dresses point at him and giggle, demurely covering their smiles with their hands.

Then I pass several brand-new houses, stickers still plastered on their big windows, and the illusion fades a little. But it doesn’t vanish. 

In this instalment of the ongoing tourist-in-your town series, I meet a local potter, explore a heron reserve, and take a wander through a town known for its markets, art, and old-timey charm. 

I drove to Yarrow on a cool, clear morning in mid-October. I turned one corner, then another: the long, straight streets that divide the farmland off Highway 1 were never asked to lead drivers right to the small hamlet that, today, is part of Chilliwack. 

But, soon, I turn onto Number 4 Road and am quickly met with small homes lining the blocks into town. Halloween decorations are up in some yards. Yarrow unfolds in front of my windshield—two gas stations, little shops, and several churches—and vanishes just as quickly. I drove through the entire town in about 45 seconds. 

I turn onto Majuba Hill Road, a drive one of our readers told me I should explore. It climbs one of the enormous hills that towers over the area, and up I drive, bumping clumsily from gear to gear on the steep corners.

The views from the road, between the tumbling fall foliage, make the journey worth it. The valley in all its autumn colours spreads beneath the narrow road. Trees heavy with amber leaves stretch their branches over the twisting road, creating a long, grand hall. The road turns downhill, and I follow it. I drive across the railroad tracks at the base of the hill and land back on the valley floor. Fields full of red-leaved berry bushes line up neatly along my left. I’m soon back in Yarrow.

I climb out of my car at the Yarrow Pioneer Park. There’s a picnic shelter, a skatepark, and playground equipment nearby. I walked down the main street, stopped by a small MCC thrift store, and picked up a hot dog for a quick lunch at Perfekt Deli. I took it back to the park and ate at a picnic table. 

From there, I planned to drive to the Great Blue Heron Nature Reserve. But a sign on the road catches my attention and, instead of walking back to my car, I walk past it down a small lane. Oak trees arch above me, and I feel like I’m walking into a fairy tale on some mysterious quest. As though there is treasure waiting for me at the end of the road. And, in some ways, there is. 

Yarrow is known for its plethora of artists and artisans (and farmers markets where they can be found on summer weekends). I was lucky enough to meet one—and do a little Christmas shopping—on this trip. 

The sign on the road was for pottery by Shelley White. Another sign points me down the artist’s driveway and still another sends me around the garage to the house’s backyard. The quest continues.

There was no one around, but a sign on the door welcomes me in, and I push the door open. A world of glossy, colourful pottery—teapots and mugs and piggy banks, plates and cups, platters and dishes—opens up before me.

I’m soon joined by the potter’s husband, who often helps mind the small shop she has set up in her backyard. I browse through the handcrafted pieces (and pick out a Christmas gift for a family member while I’m at it.)

Shelley White, the potter herself, soon comes over from her studio on the other side of the yard to point out her different pieces. She loves to craft “functional art” and kitchenware that is clever and useful, as well as beautiful.

One odd-shaped dish, a little like a Bundt cake pan, is of White’s own invention. It’s for making “beer can chicken” or a recipe that requires stuffing a beer can up a chicken to roast it evenly. 

She thought that was a little unpleasant. So she made a chicken roaster designed to be both pan and beer can. The little shop is full of similar useful creations between racks of plates, bowls and mugs.

White shows me the studio behind the shop, where she was working on inventory before the Christmas season began. She says that the shop will soon be full of people hunting for gifts, and the little table in the store would be where she spent most of her days. But for the moment, she’s still in creating mode—hand-building, sculpting, firing, and glazing each piece. I watched her take her place at the wheel in the corner of the shop, where she also teaches private lessons occasionally. 

She returned to the toothbrush holder she had been making before I arrived. Under her practiced hands, the clay spins upwards and flares out, its shape slowly becoming clearer and clearer. She points out where she’ll cut holes for toothbrushes later, once the clay is leather-hard. 

When the holder is nearly finished, we walk back to the driveway together. Her yard is still full of flowers, even so late in the season. She looks up at the mountain I drove up earlier the day, and smiles. She loves how beautiful the place she gets to live is. 

I get back into my little red car at the end of the road. My next stop is the Great Blue Heron Nature Reserve on the other side of the Vedder River. I wind back down Yarrow’s streets and drive across the Vedder bridge, pulling over for a moment to watch fishermen fling their lines, laden with bait and the ever-present hope of the perfect catch, into the shallow waters. They’re fishing for salmon as they dash upstream.

The Great Blue Heron Nature Reserve rests under a solid, vivid blue sky. A visitor centre and gift shop welcomes visitors and offers maps of the 325-acre reserve. I start down one of the five main nature trails that wind through forests, wetlands, and marshes. Undergrowth climbs up around the narrow paths and spiderwebs gleam in the afternoon sun. Duck blinds are built at strategic points in the reserve for dedicated bird watchers. A bridge spans a still portion of the slough, and small ponds throughout the park are speckled with lily pads and cattails, waiting for visitors and various birds alike.

Not far from the visitor centre, a massive metal staircase pushes towards the sky through the trees. The viewing tower is oddly incongruous with the bushes surrounding it. I climb several stories, to a platform of grates at the top of the forest, and look out over the leaves. Signs point out which mountain is which as the sun sinks in the west. Ducks dot the wetlands below. 

Back on the ground, I start the long walk back to my car. I still haven’t seen a Great Blue Heron, the birds the reserve is famous for. They nest in the spring in a far corner of the park, but can also often be seen foraging and sitting in the tops of trees. I suppose I missed them, just like the disappointed fishermen hiking back to their cars empty-handed. I don’t mind; it just means I have an excellent reason to return someday.

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