VICTORIA B.C. : EVERTHING BUT THE QUEEN : From High Tea to Cricket, British Columbia’s Capital Is the Next-Best Thing to England

What, this isn’t Stratford-on-Avon?

Oh, come now, I just caught sight of a British double-decker bus rolling past Murchie’s Tea Shoppe. It was en route to Will Shakespeare’s place and Anne Hathaway’s cottage, which face a gabled inn that’s stuffed to its rafters with suits of armor, ancient swords, Elizabethan geegaws and four-posters in which British royalty once snoozed.

Not only that, an English bobbie was waving his bloody arms off, directing traffic that had bottlenecked outside a gift shop displaying English tweeds and such. The sort of finery one discovers in the modish salons of London.

What with lawn bowling and cricket matches and crowds that queue up for afternoon tea at the Empress Hotel, Victoria continues to display a surprising likeness to a charming British village, while the fact of the matter is that it’s the capital of the province of British Columbia.

Canada, English-style.

So for the traveler who can’t make it across the pond to Britain this summer, consider Victoria.

An island city, Victoria offers the stressed-out vacationer a sense of well-being. First, there’s the trip from the Mainland aboard ferries that sail regularly from Tsawassem, south of Vancouver.

On a recent afternoon, as the ferry made its 1 1/2-hour run to Swartz Bay, the sky darkened and rain spattered the deck. Lightening flashed and thunder exploded while the ferry passed timber-covered islands with their scattering of summer homes.

Porpoises leaped from the water and a lone figure on shore waved to passengers. The captain spoke as a man in love with the Canadian wilds: “You’ll never see anything more beautiful.”

He pointed to deserted beaches and coves and sailboats silhouetted against a clearing sky.

In a world suffocating in its own pollution, British Columbia remains almost unspoiled, a land of infinite peace. To study B.C. by ferry is to glimpse one of the few wilderness regions remaining on Earth.

As the ferry churned along, passengers sipped coffee in a restaurant whose picture windows framed fishing trawlers and beaches choked with driftwood. Gulls wheeled overhead in a stillness that was disturbed only by the ferry’s throbbing engines.

At Swartz Bay, cars and buses moved off a ramp toward Victoria, with its reputation for Old World hospitality. This is not to say that Victoria has escaped unscathed.

While strict laws protect historic homes built by British aristocracy in the early 1900s, fast-food restaurants and mini-malls are unsettling reminders that Victoria’s gentle British image is threatened by development.

Nonetheless, Victorians insist that their parcel of real estate resembles a slice of Britain, which indeed it does.

And while Westminster Abbey and Buckingham Palace obviously aren’t on the itinerary, locals point with pride to Craigdarroch Castle, the Royal British Columbia Museum and Victoria’s Parliament Buildings that are lit up at night like Trafalgar Square.

During spring and summer, flower baskets dangle from 19th-Century globed lampposts and vacationers try their hand at cricket and lawn bowling, just as their British cousins do. Visitors inhale the fragrance of Butchart Gardens and stroll through Bastion Square, a section of Old Victoria with shops and restaurants.

In a recent poll, Victoria came off as “one of the most desirable urban destinations in the world.”

Almost every visitor drops by the venerable Empress Hotel, queuing up for afternoon tea, which at $15.95 (Canadian) a pop seems a stiff price to pay for charm. Even if the menu does have the finger sandwiches, the toasted crumpets, scones and clotted cream that’s guaranteed to hike the cholesterol count to an outrageous high.

Last year, the Empress was dolled up to the tune of $50 million. For five months the doors were closed. When it reopened, the dowager simply sparkled. Only its ivy-covered exterior remained untouched.

All of the hotel’s 482 rooms were redecorated. New Persian carpets were spread across its floors. Furniture was reupholstered. Ionic columns and Victorian chandeliers were spiffed up. In the attic, seven rooms were added for honeymooners.

The redecorated Empress lounge is a showplace, as is the restored Palm Room that features a magnificent glass dome. With its mahogany bar, potted palms and wicker chairs, the Bengal Room brings to mind the Raffles Hotel in far-off Singapore. Scattered throughout the Empress’ public rooms are leather lounges, high-back chairs, museum-quality antiques and myriad plants growing in Oriental urns.

Never mind that at tea time on a busy day, the lobby takes on the appearance of Grand Central Station during the 5 o’clock rush hour. Peace returns as day trippers return on the afternoon ferry to Vancouver and Seattle.

Tea at the Empress has been a ritual since the hotel brewed the first pot in 1908. Over the years the hotel has attracted royalty, politicians and film stars.

Still, the better bet for the budget traveler is the Blethering Place on Oak Bay Avenue, a five-minute cab ride from the Empress. High tea, with jams and jellies, scones, tarts, English trifle and other calorie-packed pastries, comes to $6.95.

What’s more, no one is rushed; in fact, guests are encouraged to linger by owner Ken Agate, a displaced New Zealander.

The Blethering Place is one of those friendly neighborhood hangouts that’s particularly inviting on a rainy afternoon when the windows fog up and the fragrance of fresh-baked pastries is a maddening invitation to surrender to temptation.

Besides scones and such, Agate serves New England lamb, steak and kidney pie, an English-style Cornish pastie, Welsh rarebit on toast, a plowman’s lunch, tomato-and-cucumber sandwiches, turtle pie and date crumble. Next door he operates a teddy bear shop where a grizzly that growls is tagged at $300.

Victoria’s No. 1 pub, the Fogg n’ Suds, operates out of a Dickensian dungeon half a block off Government Street, where the barkeep pours more than 250 different beers and ale, the labels running from Red Stripe and Anchor Steam to Moosehead and Snake River, along with barrels of Guinness stout.

Fogg n’ Suds, with branches in Vancouver, is operated by a couple of ex-schoolteachers who traded their textbooks for a license to pour booze.

Gerry Kierans and Paul Carino named the pub for Phineas Fogg, the idea being to come up with 80 beers to match Fogg’s 80 days around the world, complete with “passports” for the customers. But Kierans and Carino freaked out and ordered hundreds of labels.

Now each time a customer samples a different beer, their passports are stamped. After they’ve drunk 400 beers they’re elected to the Hall of Foam.

Besides beer, they serve a McFogg burger, a Fogg dog, chocolate pecan pie and ice cream sundaes. Pass the Alka Seltzer, fellows.

In the same neighborhood, the Elephant & Castle prepares Cockney burgers, Welsh rarebit burgers, a publican’s plate, pork pie, bangers and mash, shepherd’s pie, English chips and sherry trifle. With its timbered walls and oak bar, the Elephant & Castle is a reflection of the Old Mitre Inn in Oxford.

Meanwhile, on Beacon Hill, white-haired officers late of Her Majesty’s military, meet regularly on the bowling green and afterward retire to the Oak Bay Beach Hotel for afternoon tea or to quaff a pint in the hotel’s pub, The Snug. With fireplace blazing, The Snug exudes the warmth of a pub deep in Devon--as indeed does the entire hotel.

I commend the Oak Bay to the traveler who prefers peace to pandemonium, a handsome Tudor-style inn in that stylish neighborhood residents refer to as being “behind The Tweed Curtain,” which is to say it’s all “veddy, veddy” British.

From the dining room, sea and gardens are framed by picture windows. Killer whales swim through Haro Strait, and on a rainy afternoon the Oak Bay’s lounge with its immense fireplace and deep sofas is an engaging spot to doze or read.

Sightseeing is offered aboard the inn’s 41-foot yacht and during summertime the skipper steers a course for the out islands and salmon barbecues.

At the Oak Bay, I occupied the King Henry VIII Room, which adjoins the Restoration and Sir Walter Raleigh rooms.

With a canopy bed and a curtain of Nottingham lace, the feeling is that of the Connaught in London or the Crescent in Bath.

Other guest rooms are furnished with an assortment of antiques gathered on buying binges in the Old World by proprietor Bruce Walker. A four-poster graces the Queen Anne room and a Crusader chair appears in the lobby.

The hotel attracts a colorful clientele. There’s the old gentleman who arrived 4 1/2 years ago and simply never left, and the retired British major who marches stiffly in front of the hotel greeting guests.

And then there’s the countess who, with her personal entourage, spent months at the Oak Bay, visiting The Snug daily and commanding pianist, David Vuckson, to perform concerts while she sipped sherry of an afternoon.

Similar Old World atmosphere pervades the baronial halls of the Olde England Inn on Lampson Street. During the ‘40s, ex-RAF Squadron Leader, Sam Lane, transformed his five-acre parcel into a slice of Britain, creating replicas of William Shakespeare’s digs, Anne Hathaway’s cottage and Dickens’ Old Curiosity Shoppe.

Guests stroll down Chaucer Lane, peer through leaded windows and congregate in the pub for a slug of port. Although Lane has taken his leave of this earthly stage, his son Cyril carries on.

Lodging is provided in a two-story country manor and restaurant where yeomen and waitresses in Elizabethan garb serve steak and kidney pie, a mixed English grill, Yorkshire pudding, sherry trifle, black currant tarts and caramel apple crumble.

The half-timbered inn is a repository of museum pieces. Guests snuggle in beds from the reigns of King Edward VII, Queen Victoria, King John VI of Portugal and other royal figures.

During Christmas, Cyril Lane dresses as King Henry VIII to lead a Boar’s Head procession through the halls of the Tudor mansion with its swords and suits of armor. It’s not Buckingham Palace--but Queen Elizabeth might wonder.

While the Olde England Inn is a bit somber, on McClure Street I discovered a B&B; that’s as bright as a bouquet of springtime tulips.

Every adjective, every cliche applies to Abigail’s: charming, cozy, quaint, serendipitous, a place where romantics surrender their souls.

Abigail’s is impossible to fault--a four-story Tudor with vaulted ceilings and suites with fireplaces.

Guest rooms feature beds with goose-down comforters. Eyelet curtains flutter at the windows. There are baths with Jacuzzis, pedestal sinks and brass pictures. Happily, Abigail’s isn’t one of those share-the-bath fixer-uppers.

At Abigail’s, oak floors shine like mirrors, shelves are crowded with books, and joy of joys: no telephones, no TV.

It is a European-style inn that’s immaculate from kitchen to attic. The rooms are named rather than numbered.

There’s Foxglove, with its love seat and double Jacuzzi bath. And Abbey Rose, with antique beds and a double fireplace that sheds its warmth in the bath as well as the guest room.

The same owner operates an Edwardian B&B; called Beaconsfield Inn that’s similarly spotless. Each room has its own bath.

A couple of down-filled love seats await couples in The Attic with its wood-burning fireplace. And there’s Lillies with its wooden-canopied tub. Queen brass beds await the couple in Dukes room as well as Wee Willies.

Built during the heyday of Victoria’s British aristocracy as a wedding gift for a sugar baron’s daughter, Beaconsfield remains a romantic retreat. One scribe described the old inn as “one of the best places to kiss in the northwest.”

That, luv, should prove our point.