Over Beautiful B.C. has been underwritten by Savon Foods and Overweighty.
Proudly serving British Columbians, the pick of the crop for over 80 years.
Over Beautiful B.C. has been underwritten by Savon Foods and Overweighty.
Over Beautiful B.C. has been underwritten by Savon Foods and Overweighty.
Over Beautiful B.C. has been underwritten by Savon Foods and Overweighty.
Freed from the limits of earthbound eyes, British Columbia races away to every horizon.
Youthfully energetic, charged with naive self-confidence by nature rewarded by beauty blessed.
Turned upside down, the land reveals itself in astonishing candor.
This is a journey on a wing of glass over beautiful British Columbia.
Did some god, upon completing this terrestrial jigsaw puzzle east to west,
from the Rockies to the Pacific, have these pieces left over?
Or was he called suddenly away from his recreation, urgently required for some other godly duty
in some other world, and never able to find time to return to the job?
This is a journey on a wing of glass over beautiful British Columbia.
This is a journey on a wing of glass over beautiful British Columbia.
This is a journey on a wing of glass over beautiful British Columbia.
This is a journey on a wing of glass over beautiful British Columbia.
This is a journey on a wing of glass over beautiful British Columbia.
This is a journey on a wing of glass over beautiful British Columbia.
Somewhere in its vestigial memory, Victoria responds to its primordial urge to clothe
itself in greenery, in rockery, in bloom and blossom, to dig its hands into young new world
earth and expose in its gardens the ancient earth of home.
It was here at Victoria that Britons first transplanted themselves on the west coast
of Canada, and those roots to this day nourish the soul of this city.
This is a journey on a wing of glass over beautiful British Columbia.
These are the islands of the soul.
These are the rocks you tread upon crossing stormy waters.
Here are the fortunate harbors of peace and peacefulness.
The sun rises and sets, the tide floods and ebbs, and life can seem to drift here in this
splendid isolation.
This is a journey on a wing of glass over beautiful British Columbia.
This is a journey on a wing of glass over beautiful British Columbia.
This is a journey on a wing of glass over beautiful British Columbia.
This is a journey on a wing of glass over beautiful British Columbia.
This is a journey on a wing of glass over beautiful British Columbia.
This is a journey on a wing of glass over beautiful British Columbia.
This is a journey on a wing of glass over beautiful British Columbia.
Just beyond each tiny dot of civilization in this province, just on the outskirts of
every village, every city, every hamlet, just across every fence at the end of every yard
fall the shadows of monsters like these.
Mountains are the prevailing reality in British Columbia.
No dream can ever totally rid itself of their lurking echo.
No plan can fail to account for their brooding presence, and although we cut them and scratch
up against them, still we serve at their pleasure.
For these mountains are eternal, and they can dash hopes by the simple expedient of
standing still.
China, China, China.
Mountain and ocean, river and rain meet.
In an extraordinary confluence of purpose.
At this fortunate junction, Vancouver sows its silver seed and up from the delta muck
it sprouts, irresistibly charged by fertile earth and fertile imagination.
Some say it's the world's most beautiful city. Who knows? For sure it is beautiful.
Grows more beautiful with each passing year, each cleansing rain, each soothing
tide and freshening wind.
Mountain and ocean, river and rain meet.
Mountain and ocean, river and rain meet.
Mountain and ocean, river and rain meet.
Mountain and ocean, river and rain meet.
Mountain and ocean, river and rain meet.
Mountain and ocean, river and rain meet.
Mountain and ocean, river and rain meet.
Mountain and ocean, river and rain meet.
Mountain and ocean, river and rain meet.
Mountain and ocean, river and rain meet.
Mountain and ocean, river and rain meet.
Back when rivers were highways, they named this Hell's Gate, the Gates of Hell.
Little did they know then that despite the passion of the portal itself,
it led not to hell at all, but to heaven.
See you in the next video.
For more information, visit www.mooji.org
Locked between coast range spikiness and the Okanagan's rhythmic roll, the land hesitates
in lonely indecision.
Not quite Cordillera, not yet Steppe, a rainforest memory and a promise of oasis, the landscape
assumes the fickle quality of uncertainty, bravado and bluff, a sweet and sour landscape.
the land hesitates in lonely indecision, bravado and bluff, a sweet and sour landscape.
the land hesitates in lonely indecision, bravado and bluff, a sweet and sour landscape.
the land hesitates in lonely indecision, bravado and bluff, a sweet and sour landscape.
So much water, and all of it going somewhere else, it rides the fall lines of British Columbia
like a cowboy on a bronco's back, sluicing recklessly down at gravity's irresistible
call, washing smooth gold flecked beds, falling, crashing, exploding, impatient to be gone,
restless for the journey, at the end of which waits only oblivion in the great grey maw
of the Pacific.
So much water, and all of it going somewhere else, it rides the fall lines of British
Columbia like a cowboy on a bronco's back, sluicing recklessly down at gravity's irresistible
call, washing smooth gold flecked beds, falling, exploding, impatient to be gone, restless
for the journey, at the end of which waits only oblivion in the great grey maw of the
Pacific.
A scaly finger of desert slithers up a thousand kilometers from its California nest in the
belly of the sun, but its long journey north saps much of its serpent sting, and it arrives
in the Okanagan valleys, a muted and docile creature, gone are the fang and the fire,
gone is the bleak reptile's stare, all gone.
And stripped then of its cold heart, the desert is free to explore the bounty of its nurturing
soul, and to release it upon this compelling landscape.
So much water, and all of it going somewhere else, it rides the fall lines of British
Columbia like a cowboy on a bronco's back, sluicing recklessly down at gravity's lawsen,
.
.
.
.
.
What are you waiting for?
Come on.
You're going to love it.
Come on.
I'm not going to be able to do it.
Come on.
Come on.
Come on.
Come on.
Come on.
Come on.
Come on.
Come on.
Come on.
Come on.
Come on.
Somewhere back in the gray pre-dawn of history, when this
rough and folded land stitched itself onto the open end of a
vast northern plain, it left these scars.
The unrelenting horizontal quality of the race west from
the Canadian Shield turns abruptly vertical here.
Granite spears shoot suddenly up as if to wound a complacent
and innocent prairie sky, and it registers, strangely indeed,
to pass from the cartographic plain with its strict compass
point bearings to a land over which the only meaningful
directions are up and down.
The
who
will
stand
for
you
and
your
family.
I
am
proud
of
you
and
your
family.
I
am
proud
of
you
and
your
family.
I
am
proud
of
you
Pomp and Circumstance
This is the memory we all share.
The golden picture postcard of a place called home.
This is where we all grew up.
In the warm smolder of reminiscence, our minds choose this destination, drawn here by the sweet liquid light,
the endless run of carefree days, and childhood's innocent illusion that the sky stretches to infinity
and the horizon lies distant enough to accommodate even the most impossible dreams.
This is the memory we all share.
This is the memory we all share.
This is the memory we all share.
This is the memory we all share.
This is the memory we all share.
The sky cleared and the sun returned and the ancient continental shroud of ice withdrew,
melted grudgingly back to stand its last over this alien ground.
Retreating, the ice hacked deep revetments from the warming granite,
scraped massive fortifications, but still, inevitably, the sun triumphed.
Eventually, the ice was to hold a line somewhat to the north,
behind which it hulks to this day, brooding and watchful, awaiting its chance.
This is the memory we all share.
This is the memory we all share.
This is the memory we all share.
This is the memory we all share.
This is the memory we all share.
This is the memory we all share.
This is the memory we all share.
This is the memory we all share.
The charlots surface unexpectedly a hundred kilometers from the coast,
surprising the sinuous Pacific swells on their long, effortless reach abroad from Asia,
blocking them almost within sight of their goal,
provoking their frothy rage before spending harmlessly on callous rocky shoulders.
This is the memory we all share.
This is the memory we all share.
This is the memory we all share.
This is the memory we all share.
This is the memory we all share.
This is the memory we all share.
This is the memory we all share.
This is the memory we all share.
This is the memory we all share.
This is the memory we all share.
I'm lost inside your wind, inside your smile, inside your stillness,
and I never want to be set free.
You dazzle like a shooting star and beautiful is what you are to me.
I'm swept before your waves, before your tide, before your magic,
and I never want to be set free.
You hide yourself in ageless art and beautiful is what you are to me.
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful is what you are to me.
I'm trapped inside your song, beneath your sky, against your sunset,
and I'm never gonna be set free.
You take my heart, you break my heart, and beautiful is what you are to me.
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful is what you are to me.
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful is what you are to me.
If the rest of Canada was formed with a trowel, British Columbia was fashioned with an axe,
slashed and gouged from unyielding granite,
the ripped and crumpled left-hand end of the Canadian parchment.
This anarchist landscape, this magnificent chaos,
this wild and vivacious majuscule at the start of our national sentence,
this beautiful British Columbia.
I'm trapped inside your song, beneath your sky, against your sunset,
and I'm never gonna be set free.
I'm trapped inside your song, beneath your sky, against your sunset,
and I'm never gonna be set free.
I'm trapped inside your song, beneath your sky, against your sunset,
and I'm never gonna be set free.
I'm trapped inside your song, beneath your sky,
against your sunset, against your sunset,
against your sunset.
I'm trapped inside your song.
I'm trapped inside your song.
I'm trapped inside your song.
I'm trapped inside your song.
Over Beautiful B.C. has been underwritten by Savon Foods and Overweighty.
Proudly serving British Columbians, the pick of the crowd for over 80 years.
Thank you.