At the beach, small crabs scuttled in rock pools, numerous gulls hovered in the air currents and two Germans walked past us in the opposite direction with a heartiness at odds with the misty and mystical tranquility of the place. The waves were not crashing, but they still looked dangerous on the rocks at the edge of each cove. Time to dodge more bears and go get a coffee.

The centre was open, and we sat through the video about the park. Pacific Rim National Park is actually three separate areas: The Broken Group Islands in Barkley Sound; Long Beach, where we were; and the West Coast Trail, an arduous six- to eight-day hike south of Barkley Sound. There were also interesting exhibits on whales - the Pacific gray whale migrates past these shores twice a year - and First Nation whaling, with some dramatic images of small boats alongside monstrous whales, harpoons at the ready. There was also a display of some of the amazing range of detritus that washes up on the shore. I had read that a glass Japanese fishing float was the beachcombers' equivalent of a pot of gold. But no wonder they were hard to find. They seemed so fragile, not to mention transparent.

We walked along Wickaninnish Beach in the mist. It was eerie. After just a few minutes we could no longer see the building behind us. Keeping the ocean on our left was easy enough, the shallow gradient of the beach means the waves start breaking some 30 metres away and then slowly creep up the beach. A man was walking his dog which kept disappearing into the mist and the waves. A dozen or so sandpipers scurried along for a few feet before stopping for another snack in the sand. We couldn't see a thing for the fog, yet it was beautiful.

Back on the main road you would not have known that the Pacific Ocean was just the other side of the trees. The sea fog, caused by warmer air moving over the cooler ocean, had not penetrated the thin strip of rainforest and the road was bathed in sunshine. The distance between Ucluelet and Tofino is perfect for a marathon, and indeed one is held every year here on The Edge as the marketing people call it. No city-centre event this one; you may start and finish at sea level, but the road twists, turns, rises and falls in sympathy with the rythmns and swell of the ocean.

Tofino

The Common Loaf Bake Shop was exactly what you might expect. Friendly, vegetarian-focused, lots of Snapple-like drinks for sale, and a noticeboard crammed with everything from ads for whale watching, to poetry readings and missing cats. We had hit upon the cool hangout in Tofino. Not that there was a lot of competition. We sat upstairs and eavesdropped on the two college girls next to us. "Yeah, my kid brother loves Scooby-Doo... y'know they're making a film eh?" "Neat". "So, did you guys go to Hot Springs the other night?" "Oh man, yeah, was pretty cool. Pitch black but so peaceful. We didn't get back 'til 5".

Hot Springs Cove - one of the must-see attractions of the area - was a good hour's boat ride north of Tofino. We had it on the agenda, but certainly not in the middle of the night - no tour company was that daft. So, the bank - always a Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce (CIBC) in these far-away places - and then back to Ucluelet. There was no doubt that we would be back in Tofino in the next few days, for whale watching, hot springs, and to escape the rain, but we were both glad to leave it behind. There was something artificial in Tofino that was probably well-masked in the tourist season, and irrelevant in the middle of winter. But in this, the tourist equivalent of the intertidal zone, nothing was quite as it should have been.

On the way back we called in at the Wickaninnsh Inn, with its "world-famous" Pointe Restaurant. This was the luxury offering in the area. The yellow cedar lobby smacked of wealthy Americans, but the quality of the views was undeniable. The restaurant juts out over the ocean and, come storm-watching season (these people are ruthless in their regional marketing), the waves crash against the windows while the stereo cranks out Vivaldi to send frissons of danger and drama down the spines of the gourmands and honeymooners. We checked out the menu, in case we fancied a night of something special: expensive for the area, but hard to grumble at the value.

An awful Chinese take-away was too far removed from The Pointe to be funny. The problem was that everywhere in Ucluelet was closed. Time for the cunning pizza-and-video-back-in-the-room plan. Nope. The implausibly named Roman's Pizza was closed too. The only place open was the Chinese restaurant attached to the motel, a rather eerie place. I grabbed a menu from the bar. "You do take-out yeah?" "Yes, take ten minutes" Um, ok, I hadn't actually ordered yet. Anyway, ten minutes and no small degree of confusion later we raced back to Fletcher's Cove with the obligatory tinfoil carton.

If you go down in the woods today...

The well-maintained trail boardwalks are good for the environment but bad for the calf muscles. Those that are designated "interpretive" are scattered with informative signs explaining the forest, the flora, and the impact of the elements. On the Spruce Fringe Trail the emphasis is on the amazing Sitka spruce. This tree only occupies a narrow strip of forest up to 200m wide, where its tall, thin trunks can sway in the high winds and its high saline-tolerance allows it to flourish where other species cannot. As soon as the conditions ease, more robust trees take over and the Douglas Firs, Western Hemlocks and symbolic cedars dominate the forest. It is, of course, a damp environment and chilly in the shade. Not being inherently fascinated in botany myself, I was surprised at how interested I became. The signs explain precisely what you can see around you, and the processes - be they seasonal or paleontological - that are at work.

The Rainforest Trail - one of the longest - takes you past fallen logs that return nutrients to the soil, and act as nurse logs for younger saplings before eventually decaying into the mulch of the forest. As with the Bog Trail, this one is also even better in the rain, as the forest comes to life with the sounds and smells triggered by heavy raindrops falling through the canopy.

Radar Hill is a completely different bit of park history. We drove up through the mist and rain to a deserted car park. The rain showed no signs of easing, so we got out and dashed up the hill. Radar Hill was part of the line of radar installations across the US and Canada that was set up during the latter part of WWII. There is nothing left of this one other than the foundations, and a telescope. We looked out at the viewpoint but it was far too murky to see anything. The oceanside view was equally disappointing so we returned to the shelter of the car and the comfort of its tape deck.

To kill some time, we headed into Tofino, and to the much lauded Eagle Aerie Gallery, a traditional native longhouse-style building featuring the work of Roy Henry Vickers. Famous in these parts, and beyond, Vickers has one dominant style of art - the silhouette picked out against bright incandescent backdrops of blues (nighttime, moonlight), oranges (sunsets), or whites (snow). "Hidden" in the backgrounds are traditional native symbols of bears, whales, hunters and so on. These works are certainly dramatic but also benefit enormously from being professionally lit. In the gallery they are eye catching, in Dennis' hallway we had barely noticed the print.

Determined not to repeat the culinary mistakes of the night before, we went to another of Dennis' dinner recommendations. Mattesons was like someone's front room. Which was, of course, what it was. I spotted oysters on the menu and oysters were big in these parts - Oyster Jim's billboard greeted us on the drive in to Ucluelet - so, throwing caution to the wind, I ordered a plate. These were not the slimy mollusc-in-shell offerings beloved of the wealthy and pretentious. These were roast oysters with mountains of stuff. I had never had oysters before - roast or otherwise - and after one bite I realised why. But surely this wasn't right? They couldn't be like this could they? With those black bits? Knowing that this was going to cause major hysterics back in the kitchen I called the waitress over: "Hi, um, I know this is probably a really stupid question, but I've never had oysters before and, er, well, are they supposed to look like this?" The waitress smiled, looked carefully at the half-eaten beast in front of her, "Oh yes, they're absolutely perfect. And nice big ones too." "Oh, thanks", I said, trying not to convey the tremble in my voice, and warily returning my gaze to the six huge roast oysters in front of me.

I did well, I managed almost two. But then sanity, and the thought of a boat trip on the open ocean the next day, prevailed. Back to Fletcher's Cove.