Next to my dentist’s surgery, my favourite stopover is the Old Dutchman’s Dairy Farm (now renamed Dutchmen Dairy) in Sicamous, British Columbia, on the road from Calgary to Vancouver.
Our first “family” trip was for Alex’s christening, when my whole English family and Laura’s sister from Boston formed a convoy west through the Rockies, across mountains and deep lakes, towards Vancouver.
When Christopher arrived, we continued the tradition, travelling across the land each year—long journeys accompanied by Harry Potter and Aesop’s fables on CD. Nowadays, they do the driving while Laura and I sit in the back.
No matter the circumstances, one stop we never miss is the Old Dutchman’s Dairy Farm. When the boys were young, they would rush in to choose their favourite flavours—not simply maple walnut, rum and raisin, or butterscotch. Progressing slowly behind a line of customers, we would pass the glass cream cabinets one step at a time, the boys standing on tiptoe, their tiny hands desperately gripping the steel trim, devouring the sight of boysenberries ‘n’ cream or saskatoons, bubblegum, tiger tails. Laura and I stuck to our constant favourites: pralines ‘n’ cream, and for me, always, fresh peaches and cream. Cones in hand, the boys would dash off to the petting area to join camels and llamas, Friesian cows beside their calves.
Now, with Alex calling Vancouver home and Christopher in his final year at university in Calgary, Laura and I are left to drive without them. Entering the store, it’s not so much the anticipation of mouth-watering ice cream, but the echo of voices from the past—of family and friends who accompanied us year after year.
When did I first discover this place?
My English mother had passed away, leaving Pop—her roly-poly, inarticulate husband—to inhabit the flat they had shared for sixty years. Pop never left Maidenhead, except on family excursions to the coast—Deal, Bracklesham Bay, Lowestoft—for two weeks in summer. I was then happily settled in Calgary, with no real thought of visiting England. Out of the blue, I received a letter from Pop: “Can I come visit you? It’s so quiet without Flo.” I couldn’t believe it. In his late seventies, Pop had decided, for the first time in his life, to travel by aeroplane for eight hours to come and see me.
Pop arrived. I had no car. Eddie, my retired best friend, volunteered to be our chauffeur. Pop loved to ride around town. His favourite store was Confetti’s Ice Cream, where we always ended up at the close of a summer’s day. Each time, I’d ask, “Which flavour would you like?” His invariable reply: “Vanilla.” Pop decided to spend the whole summer with me. After a month, I ran out of ideas of where to take him. Eddie came to the rescue. “Why don’t we drive to Vancouver and show him around?” Ten years in Calgary and I had never left town.
Eddie loved travelling across the country. We took Pop to Banff and ferried him round Lake Minnewanka. “Do you want to walk around with us?” I asked. “No, I’ll stay here. You go.”
Next stop: Lake Louise, its water the colour of emeralds, fed by meltwater from the glaciers. “There’s no parking. We’ll drop you by the lake and wait for you. If we’re not here, it means we’ve been asked to move. We’ll be back within minutes.” It took some persuasion to convince Pop to visit one of the most memorable sights in Canada—if not the world.
“You watch,” Eddie chortled. “Your dad will be there for an hour. There are plenty of benches to sit on and enjoy the view.”
Pop came back within ten minutes. “What happened? Did you see the lake?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Not bad.” That was all.
In Pop’s vocabulary, “Not bad” was his highest praise. The second best was “Alright.”
We spent the night in Field, the hub of the Canadian National Railway. Across the highway stood Takakkaw Falls.
As long as Pop didn’t have to walk, he was happy—dozing and, when occasionally awake, gazing out the window of Eddie’s Cadillac.
Our next stop was a Husky petrol station and diner in Golden, BC—reputed by Eddie to have the best liver and mash, Pop’s favourite.
Eventually, as we drove along the highway, a sign appeared: “Sicamous”.
Without explanation, Eddie veered off the highway, took a side road, and braked in front of The Old Dutchman.
There, I experienced my first taste of freshly made peaches ‘n’ cream.
It was nearing twilight. “Pop, what would you like?” For once, he was silent—probably ruminating over the choice of flavours he’d never experienced. I wondered what it would be. Cherry Custard? Hackberry?
“Vanilla.”
“What?! Why not try something different? There are so many fresh flavours.”
Pop retreated into transcendental meditation.
Ten minutes later, he revived. Breathless, we waited for his answer.
“Alright then. Vanilla/Vanilla.”
