I have idyllic memories of my childhood at Lake of Bays. In approximately 1930, my parents, Fred and Helen Tate, purchased a large property near Baysville, comprising 1,100 feet of shoreline, 11 acres between the lake and what was then a gravel road between Baysville and Dorset, and an additional 70 acres across the road.

A beautiful summer home (not a “cottage”) was built on the property, displacing the original two-storey frame house. The house was quite magnificent, with eight bedrooms, a huge stone fireplace, woodpanelled walls in the living room under a cathedral ceiling, etc. It was named Monifieth in honour of my mother’s birthplace in Scotland. An old boathouse was also razed and a new boathouse and dock were built by Baysville’s Henry Langford.

The land was rocky and a chap from Glenmount, Mr. Gazeford, was employed as the local explosives expert for the necessary blasting. My father was always a bit leery around him, as he casually carried detonators in his pants pocket. The detonators had a long fuse and would be stuck into the end of a stick of dynamite. The detonators were considered very dangerous, liable to explode at the slightest knock. How Mr. Gazeford never blew himself up was a mystery.

Driving up from our Toronto home usually took an arduous four hours; heading north on Yonge Street was the only option at that time. The turnoff from Bracebridge to Baysville was a dirt road barely wider than a car. [Ian’s sister Cynthia remembered that the family car could only make it up the hill towards Baysville by going up backwards.]

My father, Fred Tate, was the business manager of the Toronto Daily Star [later the Toronto Star]. The paper’s publisher, Joseph Atkinson, summered at Bigwin Island and took a great interest in Monifieth as it was built. Mr. A. would tear down the lake in his absolutely beautiful Ditchburn boat – the most beautiful I have ever seen – for tea with Mum and Dad, sitting out on the lawn in front of the house, overlooking the lake.

We kids (me, sisters Sheila and Cynthia) spent all summer at Monifieth, my mother taking up residence there when the school year ended, accompanied by her maid/cook, who lived in the “Maid’s Room” on the second floor. We learned to swim off the dock; I recall nearly drowning, I thought, when my father would hold the two ends of a tumpline that went under my chest, and walk along the dock towing me in the water. I would then go splashing and spluttering into deeper water and flail away with both arms and legs. I guess it worked, as I can still swim. We swam, we skipped across the rocks along the shore, a pair of which we called “the running cyclone” over which we’d race, and plunge into the water. We canoed and boated. We picnicked. We were totally carefree. Once each summer, Mr. Atkinson would invite the whole family to lunch at Bigwin. That called for proper dress and our very best behavior. One time, it happened I was sitting beside my little sister, Sheila (“Shee”) in the very splendid dining room. Toward the end of the luncheon, the waitress placed a finger bowl by each person’s elbow: warm water with a sprig of mint in it.

“What do I do with this?” Shee whispered to me.

“Drink it,” I whispered back.

Fortunately, my mother’s withering eye caught us both, thereby preventing further misbehavior.

There used to be two regattas, one at Baysville and the other at Bigwin. At the Baysville regatta, one of the most spectacular events was the log-rolling competition: two men would stand on a large log and make it spin with their cleated boots, the object being to make the other man fall off. Each carried a long pole to help him balance. They were very exciting contests, usually won by one of the local Vanclieaf brothers who had a long history of lumbering in the area.

Another spectacular event was tilting. Two opposing canoes, each with a paddler in the stern and a chap standing up around midships with a long pole with a boxing glove at the end of it. The object was to knock the opposing tilter into the water. Pete Pangman and I entered the junior event one year, and won!

People I remember from those days include Billy Langmaid, who owned the most popular general store. That’s where I learned to like bologna. Billy would cut slices off a long chunk, as thick as we wanted, when we were in the store. He ran the supply boat, which he would load up with groceries and go up the river to the lake, tooting his horn as he approached each dock.

The planing mill by the dam was owed by Henry Langford, who built the Monifieth boathouse and dock. Henry was an expert at crib-work and also built complete cottages. He had an unmarried sister, always known as “Miss Langford”, who operated the telephone switchboard – the kind where she would take your call and plug a wire into a vertical panel to connect you. Miss Langford was a key person for the area. One might call up someone and Miss Langford, likely as not, would recognize the caller’s voice and tell that person that, “Oh, Mrs. So and So went shopping in Huntsville this afternoon”!

Postmaster Carl Campbell was another popular person. The Post Office was a little building opposite Billy Langmaid’s general store and beside it was Carl’s house, always with a very neat garden.

At age 12 I was allowed to take out the family runabout, “Chifs” (named for Cynthia, Helen, Ian, Fred and Sheila). Coming home in the dark, the Monifieth boathouse lamp shone like a beacon to guide me. As occasionally someone forgot to turn it on, I made note of the shoreline: three long, dark humps and then a little one. At the end of that was our dock.

The years went by at Monifieth, and as we married and had children of our own, a new generation of children learned to swim off the dock, and paddle the family canoe (which at time of writing, 79 years later, is in the hands of my second son, Davidson). But eventually, Monifieth became an increasingly burdensome responsibility for my father. None of his children could afford its upkeep. In 1975, Monifieth was sold.