Photo by Pat Butler
Dropping our suitcases just inside our hotel bedroom, we head to its sliding door and onto the deck. This is our sixth consecutive visit to this resort on Georgian Bay, a segment of Lake Huron nearly large
enough to be a Great Lake itself. During previous stays our room was on the third (top) floor of this Sportsman’s Inn, so our private deck had no cover to relieve the relentless sunshine. When
lingering to read or write, resting a large golf umbrella on the wrought-iron table gave me shade.
This year we are on the second floor, so there’s welcome shade provided by the overhead level and no barrier prevents neighbours from walking past our door. No matter. Guests respect each other’s space.
It’s the second week of August 2026, and the weather is perfect for a summer holiday. I plop down at our table to soak up the atmosphere of this oasis. Watching a dragon fly land on our hanging basket of red geraniums, the tension in my shoulders dissipates. Unpacking for our stay can wait.
It has taken us over four hours to drive to Killarney from our Toronto home. After leaving the Trans-Canada Highway, the final 70 km were on Highway 637 through dense forest. The only establishments passed were entrances to parks, trails, and Killarney Outfitters. (Heaven help
you if you have car trouble.)
Killarney was established as a trading post in 1820 and old black and white photos adorn our hotel, which was first built in 1885. The village of Killarney was “water access only” until 1962 when Highway 637 was completed. It boasts a natural harbour because the Killarney Channel (narrow
enough to swim across if boats weren’t a constant hazard) separates the mainland from triangular George Island. The open water of Georgian Bay lies at each end of the channel.
Cradling glasses of cool water, Eric and I relax and absorb the ambiance of our home for a week. On our side of the channel, there’s a T-shaped wooden dock. Red-shirted staff fill gas tanks of visiting watercraft: large cruisers, various sizes of sailboat with inboard engines, motorboats, and
sea-doos. At dock bays closer to us, small boats, canoes, paddleboards, fishing boats are tied up while their owners enjoy the restaurant and pub situated below us. Across the water, a long dock has many bays rented by large boats mooring overnight or for several days. Many fly American flags as sailors arrive from Wisconsin and Michigan.
George Island is principally uninhabited, so its forest is untouched. Within our sightline sit a couple of rentable houses near the opposite shoreline. Tenants are transported across by The Tinkerbelle, a water taxi. When paddling or sailing along the channel, we’ve noticed several cottages at either end. Terrain is not nearly as densely populated as some other Ontario cottage country lakes.
The water is always placid, as it’s too narrow for whitecaps to be whipped up by the wind. Perfect for canoeing or stand-up paddling. Kids with fishing rods sit patiently on the dock hoping for a nibble.
Dogs arriving on small boats are keen to stand at the bow with impressive sure-footedness.
Why does this place feel so calm as I survey it from above? It could be 1956, not 2026. There is no elevator in this recently renovated building. I can’t see any cars or people on their smartphones.
Patrons from the area or visiting boats settle under red umbrellas at tables below us to enjoy refreshment. No music blares. Nobody is hawking wares.
There’s always gentle movement somewhere. I notice an unsteady toddler hanging onto Daddy’s hand for balance. Teenagers in bathing suits or cutoff jeans disembark from motorboats for a change of scene from the family cottage. A quiet dog leaps onto the dock to find a patch of grass on
land. A waitress approaches a table to take an order. A sailor takes the canvas cover off the mainsail preparing to motor towards open water. Having grown up on my dad’s sailboat, having a daily feast of boats to watch – tied up or moving slowly – warms my soul. Sunshine sparkles on the water by day; moonlight reflects by night.
After unpacking, we lunch on the Inn’s veranda. Then we pass lots more boats while walking about a quarter of a mile along an empty road to the Killarney Mountain Lodge – a sister property to our hotel. Ready to test the water, we use the swimming dock’s ladder.
As the week progresses, we’ll come over here for a few dinners, two sails on 46-foot “Stormy Night,” hikes to the lighthouse, trips in kayaks, and evenings of live music in the Carousel Lounge. The only
place to buy anything is Pitfield’s General Store which has been here since the late 1800s. Boaters using the marina can find practically anything in there.
I find Killarney to be an oasis in the middle of modern life. The fact that the village lies 70 km from the main highway means you decompress while making that journey. And it’s difficult to leave.