Peggy's Cove

Highway 333 was a familiar road to far too many foreigners during the Air Swiss Tragedy. Pulling over to take photos of small inland waters with sail boats, fishing vessels, lobster and crab traps all came to an end when I came upon the site. Stunted spruce with mere boughs etched northward away from the storms at sea, low lying shrubs didn’t dare to grow too high for fear of being attacked by the climes, and the fog that hadn’t lifted left a desolate chill. I was by myself reading the large stone blocks erected to thank the men and women of Peggy’s Cove for their tireless efforts to reach the air craft 11 km. off shore and to care for the families that came to see where their loved ones had died.  To think it could have made an emergency landing yet needed to dump fuel and didn’t make it back to land. Tens of people are still haunted by the experience of what they found in the far off waters. We pray God will bring them Peace of mind, heart and soul.

I had no right to feel what was washing over me but it came, perhaps age, gives us perspective that life isn’t infinite, and that once a human is gone, there is no replacement.  We move on but their gift to each of us lives on only in memory. I text my family back home to feel connected.

The tight winding road heavily shrouded with trees gave way to the open ocean down the road about 10 km. Washing billowed on the lines, a patch quilt of colored homes, several art shops, always a church, and a B and B made up the one kilometer twisting, turning road. I met Fred fixing his netting by his boat. He chatted, I listened, and his dog barked...incessantly, I left.  Sitting on a bench I admired this tiny hamlet of 20 homes in peace for some time. THEN….without notice, like I deserved so sort of announcement, not one, not two, not three, but 9 buses assaulted my tranquillity.

What it is, with the wind at my back, and the sails at my front, I looked out to the tubby boat transferring customers from Dartmouth to Halifax, when I looked yonder, I saw three ships come sailing, come sailing in, come sailing in. I saw three cruise ships come sailing, come sailing in in the morning. Like Putin, without a real invitation they simply impart their ways until he leaves. Point Pleasant Park, Pier shops, restaurants, the Bishops landing, and plenty of space to rest, roam, run and yes, dance along the wharf that stretches to the naval docks km. away. Up and down the streets I clamored to the Clock tower, Central Square, the Trade Center, Civil …., the Cathedrals, to Dalhousie and St. Anne’s University, and lastly to the Hydrostone where the explosion of 1917 brought a somber end to my day.

Expecting a historical site, a park, something, I entered a yarn shop and asked about the history and was given a pamphlet about the explosion. A few placards exist but nothing to say that thousands died, thousands more lost their sight and that it was the largest know disaster in Canada. The boutiques, restaurants, cafes, book and gift shop along with the infamous Starbucks have replaced the existing area….is that progress?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Northern Hospitality

What do you say when someone cleans your car inside and out without you knowing it. There is no recourse, no comeback, the deed is done and your left gob smacked silly in gratitude. A break after camping allowed me to see another side of Cape Breton, the lazy morning visiting friends for hours at the local café and sitting, coffee in hand, watching the yachts come and go in Baddeck. My body ached to move yet my mind was valuing these precious moments, listening with absolutely no agenda and not in control of what laid ahead in the day. What most westerners forget, myself included, is that easterners and more poignantly Maritimers have perfected the sport of friendship. A sense of belonging, having purpose and value, knowing if one blunders and mistakes are made, there is someone there without advice or judgements.

We rolled from one back road to another visiting friends, dangling our toes in different waters of the Bras D’or Lake and for me learning about my friends back home, what really went on in their youth hood. What really got me going was coming back to Big Bras D’or changing into my swimsuit and yelping quietly as our bodies pushed against the currents and weeds. Never having masters the gift of plunging into cold waters, I waddled back and forth on each proceeding rock until my belly, and then like a scared child reaching out to his mother my body squirmed into the liquid. Once in, confidence soars, as if I was born with gills, except if sea weed touched me, we swam up current and floated back down several times watching ships pass by. Dinner was late, conversation was great, and I told to head to Glace Bay.

It wasn’t at its best the day I didn’t see Glace Bay. Sheets of rain whipped at my windshield while tree branches feel onto the highway and byways, forcing the semi in front of me off the road, and I followed suit. My gut was wrenched with knots and what I could see of the harbor was bleak. I thought to wait it out and ran into a café, soaked to the bone within 15 ft. Never having experienced this before, I thought hard about asking Hal to move to this part of the country that I have so yearned to return to. Lush landscape, wondrous harbors and colorful yachts, ships, and fishing vessels were not to be seen. What I could see clearly were ships being flung to and fro damaging hulls in the protected harbor. What would Halifax bring?

Hal had buddies from his young adulthood that permitted me to grace them, and it didn’t take long for stories to evolve, divulge, that my husband party and drinking habits have diminished from his past. The virtuous, religious, conscientious man, has altered his state. Blessed with honesty, integrity and humor the Button’s relished my appetite. The husband was originally from the Rock and his father used to send him pork scrunching’s and salted cod, and the story goes that few and far would partake in this delicacy, but Hal was in there licking his fingers. Kindness and generosity radiate from their home and I thank them for allowing me to learn. Halifax was a marvelous gift.

I was also blessed to visit my parent’s friends and learn of their lives, then and now. Moving from childhood memories to new marriages, their work, loves, fears and joys. A lunch at Saltie’s delighted our palates and my ears. I feel very honoured to have met new friends and old.

 

 

 

 

End of the Road

The skip in their step gave them away before their accent. Hardy folks, rugged coasts, and the most northern part of the island is Meat Cove, this is where I met Teri and Ramsey. I lovely elderly couple from Wyoming, cycling Nova Scotia. The last 8 kilometers of road from the Bay of St. Laurence are unpaved, potholed, mud ridden with 15% grade hills, lots of them. A whopping town of about 100 ft. housed one campground pushed up against the mountain, a kayak shop, and an internet shop/café closed for the season and two Inns. I parked my car and was looking for the trail head when this couple approached me on the street and asked if I had any food. I paused for a nanosecond before responding that they had come to the right place.  They had pre-arranged their entire vacation on the internet not taking into consideration distances, knolls, inclines, road composition and off season hospitality, there was no food. The Inn they were staying at didn’t have a host, just a simple note. “Leave the money and enjoy”….I convinced them to stay another day and eat…they looked famished. I thought some rest would do them good, and heat, as the temperatures had dipped considerably in the last day and their down jackets were out. I took off to do some hiking and joined them later for a cup of tea before heading south.

The quaint looking town of the Bay of St. Laurence with an inland and pastoral fields had a reputation that the RCMP deal with to this day, drinking, drugs and facials for free. Up the road White Point was another tiny cove with a hike to the end of the easterly tip. Past many miles of cracked roads, potholes to sink a car, and more mud laid Neil Harbour, it was magical. Walking the photography are hard in these Atlantic Provinces as none of them have sidewalks and few have shoulders on the road. I’ve used my emergency daily whip out the camera and take a shot. I met Larry a local fisherman down by the wharf and he was filled with stories of the high seas. About 70 in age, he’d lived here his entire life, as has his father, his grandfather and great grandfather, coming over from Europe to make a better life. The generational depth is hard for us nouveau westerns to grasp. He spoke in decades, 5 of them, and how fishing had changed. “Nat, nat as gaud, as last year (10 years ago), nat the times are getting hard…The kids don’t want to fallow us auymore, nat a gaud life. I love it mind you, buut it isn’t for everone. See heir nets, they be old ones, nat the new square ones, need to fix them for next season. Keep the wife happy when I’m out at sea, wintar is hard with both of us in house.” I nodded in agreement, not having any idea what that is like. He ventured down the short wharf and into his boat.

That night I made it to Ingonish just in time for the heavy rain and 4 degree temperatures. Set up camp and headed straight for the Keltic Lodge. Picture a diminutive Banff Springs with large couches and arm chairs dressed in tartan colors and Celtic patterned rugs and patrons sipping hot toddies and nibbling on delicacies that the white gloved staff are serving you. I sat at the bar with a couple from Halifax and sipped cranberry juice while listening to Robert Macgregor singing folksongs beside an inglenook. All was jolly until I returned to the tent and froze my petunias off. All the woollies in the world are grand but the cold temperatures make falling asleep rather cumbersome.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

End of the Road

The skip in their step gave them away before their accent. Hardy folks, rugged coasts, and the most northern part of the island is Meat Cove, this is where I met Teri and Ramsey. I lovely elderly couple from Wyoming, cycling Nova Scotia. The last 8 kilometers of road from the Bay of St. Laurence are unpaved, potholed, mud ridden with 15% grade hills, lots of them. A whopping town of about 100 ft. housed one campground pushed up against the mountain, a kayak shop, and an internet shop/café closed for the season and two Inns. I parked my car and was looking for the trail head when this couple approached me on the street and asked if I had any food. I paused for a nanosecond before responding that they had come to the right place.  They had pre-arranged their entire vacation on the internet not taking into consideration distances, knolls, inclines, road composition and off season hospitality, there was no food. The Inn they were staying at didn’t have a host, just a simple note. “Leave the money and enjoy”….I convinced them to stay another day and eat…they looked famished. I thought some rest would do them good, and heat, as the temperatures had dipped considerably in the last day and their down jackets were out. I took off to do some hiking and joined them later for a cup of tea before heading south.

The quaint looking town of the Bay of St. Laurence with an inland and pastoral fields had a reputation that the RCMP deal with to this day, drinking, drugs and facials for free. Up the road White Point was another tiny cove with a hike to the end of the easterly tip. Past many miles of cracked roads, potholes to sink a car, and more mud laid Neil Harbour, it was magical. Walking the photography are hard in these Atlantic Provinces as none of them have sidewalks and few have shoulders on the road. I’ve used my emergency daily whip out the camera and take a shot. I met Larry a local fisherman down by the wharf and he was filled with stories of the high seas. About 70 in age, he’d lived here his entire life, as has his father, his grandfather and great grandfather, coming over from Europe to make a better life. The generational depth is hard for us nouveau westerns to grasp. He spoke in decades, 5 of them, and how fishing had changed. “Nat, nat as gaud, as last year (10 years ago), nat the times are getting hard…The kids don’t want to fallow us auymore, nat a gaud life. I love it mind you, buut it isn’t for everone. See heir nets, they be old ones, nat the new square ones, need to fix them for next season. Keep the wife happy when I’m out at sea, wintar is hard with both of us in house.” I nodded in agreement, not having any idea what that is like. He ventured down the short wharf and into his boat.

That night I made it to Ingonish just in time for the heavy rain and 4 degree temperatures. Set up camp and headed straight for the Keltic Lodge. Picture a diminutive Banff Springs with large couches and arm chairs dressed in tartan colors and Celtic patterned rugs and patrons sipping hot toddies and nibbling on delicacies that the white gloved staff are serving you. I sat at the bar with a couple from Halifax and sipped cranberry juice while listening to Robert Macgregor singing folksongs beside an inglenook. All was jolly until I returned to the tent and froze my petunias off. All the woollies in the world are grand but the cold temperatures make falling asleep rather cumbersome.

 

Nova Scotia's Highland Park

Crossed over the border from N.B to N.S. and expected a welcome sign outlining that I was now in the land of milk and honey, whisky and wine, Scots and Gaelic, rugged coast and pastoral lands, and trees. Iridescent green forests spotted with red maples blanket the landscape as far as the eye can see. Great Herrings step gingerly through reeds to pluck their prey as sea weed form patterns on the ocean floor in low tide. Battered ships longing for the open sea rest in dry docks not knowing their destiny. And, I max out at 57 km an hour not wanting to miss anything on highway 134, a tertiary road. Reaching Pictou, and the Hector Ship, my lesson of the Birthplace of New Scotland commenced reading a rock outlining that in 1773, 200 Scots came to the new frontier.

Antigonish, Am Baile Mór, in Gaelic, host the oldest highlands games outside of Scotland and home of St. Francis Xavier University, which bursts the town population from 4000, to 10,000 with wild hormonally active 18 – 24 year olds, sensory overload. The coastal towns gave way to lush forests rolling upwards to the island Highlands and my passage to Cape Breton. I reached Mabou by 4:00 pm. and exhaustion was upon me. I looked in at the Red Shoe restaurant/café and noted their line-up of entertainers for the evening. The tent was up, friends were made and my ears perked up listening to local fiddlers, step dancing, guitar and the most eccentric 80 year old man playing spoons off his thighs, shins, forearms, and biceps, off beat, on beat and everything in between.

The next day Inverness treated me to beachside board walks along a linked golf course. And, a new 25 ft. ceiling café called Down Street Café. Marvelous plush beige couches, black walks with chalk designs furnished with orange, and white tables and black chairs…..the coffee seeped into my pores for 2 hours.

A hike, 1 of 8, I did over the next 4 days awaited me that afternoon. I had heard and was spooked by the girl from Vancouver that was killed by coyotes 2 years ago. The folklore grew larger as it headed westward as does the size of their coyotes Hal reminded me. I stayed on major walking paths for the afternoon viewing old settlements of the Acadians, hiding not only from the Loyalists, but the local government that evicted them to create the Highlands National Park. Can they get a break anywhere?

I went into town to listen to more fiddling, keyboarding and Gaelic singing at a fish restaurant. Never had so many salads in 5 nights. The following morning I nestled up to 38 local hikers doing the Highland Hiking Challenge, 10 days of hikes throughout the Park and region. It was great, as the heavily forested area was the perfect place to see my first black bear. Steep hills were always rewarded by captivating scenery of Cheticamp and area. That afternoon we did another 2 hikes, in the area. The Skyline trail, probably the most popular hike in the park has a loop. Most people choose to do the same well warn route in and out. I chose the path less travelled and headed westward on the route back. Within minutes I heard a noise, sounded like a male having difficulties relieving himself. I backed away down the trail and 3 meters in front of me was a mammoth moose. I froze, it sauntered across the path, swaying with an uneven gait. The hind leg had a saucer size gaping wound. It stood about 3 meters into the trees, as did I and captured 10 shots of its rump and rack.
With the finding of one of Shakelton’s ship perhaps Harper can now return some of the money it took from the National Park. It is in desperate need of upgrades, many of the scenic campgrounds are closed and those open don’t cut the mustard. Clear skies were upon us tonight and that meant stars, heaps of them, gleaming down for our glory. With an interpreter next door to me, a group of campers were being taught about our universe, the truths, myths and wonderments.

 

The Acadian Village - 1700

A dusty road covered by overgrown trees forests the sunshine walking into the 1700 century. Shingled homes reveal the customs of the time. An elderly women large in stature becomes part of the tale of the house that she resides in. I follow her out to the barn where were are accosted by a 700 lbs. pig. This beast had more teats that women had children, even back then, I stop counting at 18. Unable to truly focus on her dialogue, I leave. Not without noticing the sheep, geese, hens, and goats all penned in tiny plots with tall thin wooden poles as barriers.

Next the general store with two elderly men posing in period white shirts and blue pants held by suspenders, vests as there was a chill in the air, and woolen caps. Actually all the men are dressed pretty similarly. I think Mao should have visited here to attain a more stylish outfit for his country. They are disappointed I didn’t want to buy their horse, as it was for sale, but their humor is appreciated.

Interlocking log fences leads me to another home. The flies have taken over the kitchen and I thank God for the women who invented screens. This large elderly women, getting the theme, has just baked bread and it is covered in tea towels. As it is noon, each home has prepared a lunch as they would have done from vegetables and meat grown and harvested on their land. I find this rather iniquitous, as I did pay to enter the park and I thought it included lunch. I digress. Each home has been redone to keep the authenticity of the family that owned it, including China from England, and the linen and wool made on site.

At the covered bridge I am overtaken by a large group of students from Guinea, Africa. They couldn’t believe this park, they were intrigued, listened attentively at each site, and especially the boys when we were at the lumber and garage that were fully functioning. Chatting amongst themselves about how happy they were living in the present, I did hear one girl say, “Incredible how small the homes were for so many kids, 16 – 17, why didn’t the women want larger homes.” I almost laughed out loud, and said, because the more ‘STUFF’ you kids have the more we have to clean, including our homes. That was for every parent that has had to ask our kids to clean up….

What caught my eye and ear were two men up on a stage in front of a crowd of 500 strong. Laurel and Hardy had taken on the village. They were selling off the animals that they keep in this village for the season. A large man…..waved a hen around in the air, caged of course, and began the bidding. If you even flinched you were part of the bid, he had the swarms in stiches. He held a turkey up. “You know you need this turkey, Thanksgiving is coming up. You haven’t got any friends, so this is a sure way to get some, feed people.”

A sheep in a plastic bag is hung for all to swoon over, I think I am going to spew, but you carnivores might have been salivating. It was huge, everything in this imaginary village is huge, the humans, the food, and animals. People start jumping to be seen and the number rises rapidly far above the market price, I guess they love this place….it was magical and you did feel blessed to be living now and thank them for ploughing the fields to our ease.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Searching for Abegweit

Lennie Gallant – enlightenment struck me in his first song. A large screen stationed behind the band illuminating his sister’s art work of the island that mildly resembled Emily Carr’s paint stokes with gliding sweeps of trees, faces, and landscapes. Lennie, his two nephews, both about 20 with thick curly hair, Jonathan vibrated in his wrangler jeans playing the keyboard, while Jeremy more subdued, played the bodhruan, and a guitar, Sean Kemp played the fiddle, and an Acadian Caroline Bernard, played the accordion and whose voice was heaven sent.

Easing the audience into his photos, songs and stories about his family’s general store in North Rustico dating back to 1803. He cogitated life in the 1970’s skating on homemade rinks, wearing the “Canadian” jersey, being given his first guitar at 12, and learning the myriads of family Gallants. Most families were having 10 kids strong. I heard a women from Nova Scotia remark years ago that only the poor can have many children, because they got nothing to keep, and they just give from their hearts. I remarked that ain’t it funny those kids all seem to have prodigious souls, imposing wits, and an abundant love to give.

Folk music has a melodic sound that soothes, moves and absolves aching shoulder and spirits. Sentiments grasp generation of hardship, joys and the reality of life then and now. If you’ve ever stuck your tongue on a frozen pole, had frozen feet that wouldn’t keep you from another game of shiny, tobogganing, winter fishing, or hanging out with your best friends then Lennie’s tales have you covered.

Libations were flowing at our table with 6 women on a mission…. 4 were sisters named, hear me, Debbie, Dawn, Delores, and Deirdre. I didn’t know whether to shed apologies or hoot. They were living testament of a true PEI family, all living mere blocks from one another to this day. Their mother had 9 girls, 3 boys, I didn’t dare ask the other sister’s names for fear they might be more D’s. They’d seen Lennie twice, once in the summer and they knew his sister, and everyone on the east side of the island. “Never venture to the north, no, not much to see over there and don’t know anyone, so what would be the purpose in going.”  A different perspective and one that kept me very quiet. There are roamers and settlers.

The Ross Family, night two, at the Stanley Bridge Sterling Women’s Hall. I know I thought Sterling – What? They are a group of women that do good works in this tiny hamlet of 4 stores, a marina and 82 people. Humming birds on speed had nothing on Stephanie, her fingers strummed the strings at lightning speed.  Her brother, Johnny tried desperately and failed honourably at remaining seated while playing the key board. His legs bounced erratically throwing them into mid-air. By intermission, everyone needed a break. The calm, demure sister, Danielle playing the violin was a joy, and her palliative sound for the grey hair crowd was much appreciated. Scottish, Irish, Celtic, and Acadian songs sung in French and English were accompanied by their step dancing. Their mother joined them on stage for several resounding performances that touched everyone’s hearts. It took a good hour to uncoil afterwards while driving home in pitch dark, squinting to see my exit while trying to keep pace with the Jackie Stewarts of the island. I think I found Abegweit.

 

 

 

PEI - The Land of Plenty

Saturation – means satiated, overload, inundation, permeated, those don’t come close to describing PEI

Wow…..

What grabs you first is the concrete magnificence, the Confederation Bridge, that your wheels are placing full confidence in for 13 long or short km. depending if you trust the quality of the concrete, and it hasn’t been bought from the mafia held construction firm in Quebec that sprinkles water in their makeup to assure they always have business.

Then the speed limit slows right down as your eyes twist from side to side not watching the U.S. Open, as Federer was beaten, no, here your eyes move past the tractor taking up most of the road to potato fields moving uphill flouncing the horizon. A patchwork quilt of high corn fields, low alphafa, strict rows of potatoes, sweeping strokes of hay fields,  linear rows of vineyards, divided by thick lush knotted green brush and evergreen trees remind me of Ireland, Greece, and cultures where farmers are as deeply rooted as their plants.

The coastal highway 115 where few if any cars passed me in either direction for hours leaving plenty of time for my lens to gravitate skyward with the myriad of church spires. They have mystified me since Quebec and here a red and white stripped on the Anglican church stands tall admits the big skies of P.E.I. Taking side roads to lighthouses no one chooses to walk the 2 km., invites photos of hanging buoys in trees, worn vessels laid to rest as flower planters and fishing equipment, weathered barns that housed cows, ships, antiques, kayaks, and relatives. Here the sky is as big as your ambition, around every corner there is an entrepreneur. PEI enlists only the finest, musicians, dancers, writers, poets, artists, wine makers, craftsmen, boat builders, farmers and this list goes on.

Harbors are another lure, the men drawn to the life at sea, generation after generation, taking over their fathers, and grandfather’s vessels. Mending lobster traps from the season past in North Rustico is where I met the infamous Bearded Skipper this morning. 50 years he’s worked this wharf, his fingers, thick with knowledge of the waters, his body arched from heaving heavy traps and a worn blue woolen cap filled with yarns. He winks out to sea when he speaking of his families fishing locals, not mentioning coordinates. “Diversity is the key to this business, not working 2 months and then going on the pogie for too long, it makes a mean man. I’ve always found work off season, making museums for the feds., and taking tourists on tours. Had to give that up the 90 hour weeks takes a toll on a man. That building right there, pointing to a grey shack, couldn’t walk past it for a year after I sold it, I had to go around the harbor to avoid it. I love teaching so now I work in the schools, a local radio station and they bring me in for consultation when they don’t know what they heck they are speaking about.”

What could possibly cap that morning, yet just down the road, a found a cheese factory tucked away, a traditional sweater and woolen tapestry farm. Looking over the rolling hills I can’t stop thanking God for this land, this province, our country and the wonders of the world that we need to preserve

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Bouctouche – Eco-center meets the Eccentric

 

The Irving eco-center is a magnificent 12 km. sand dune peninsula hosting Great Blue Herons, piping plover, mussels, clams, scallops, sea urchins, purple sea stars, sand dollars, tiny crabs, snails and slipper limpets. I sampled each. The 1 km. boardwalk snakes through the reeds leaving you at the beach where you determine how far your legs can carry you. There is a light house at the end, my legs, stomach and dehydration stopped at km.6

The camera ran out of batteries at km. 6 so you’ll have to image brilliant sea life, I wasn’t able to capture on film only in my heart. Long walks give you time to ponder your life, your gifts, your losses, and the creative juices that flow wildly. The world problems solves, our dysfunctional families solves, but those Catholics, only God can wrangle that one.

Driving down the Acadian coastal route 115 your eyes are drawn to farmed oysters on starboard and blueberry picking on port, then all of a sudden a pirate ship is upon you. A home with a full mast and bridge is sitting dry docked right beside the road. Eccentric is putting it mildly, over 200 hats hover in her tiny shed that hosts anything British. Jewels, dishware, dresses, shoes, silverware, crystal, chandeliers, and Christmas ornaments, and to think she is from Halifax.

His shop, the ship, has every trinket imaginable. He builds full scale drawing out of wood. Pierre Trudeau canoeing in the deep woods of Algonquin Park with family, friends, and his political caucus in the back drop of a maple forest. Large eagles fly off of Noah’s Ark along with every animal, two by two. He has created a full size coffin with him in it that was rather creepy as I scooted down the backstairs, only to tumble upon hoary moonshine jugs, linen, and tapestry.

A drawer full of keys, marbles, stones, pegs for poles, licence plates hundreds of them, bowls for cooking, more carved wood pieces and hanging lanterns in every vintage and color to match your taste. The side of the boat is adored in paddles, snowshoes, wooden shovels, ropes, colored shipping balls, sponge and Styrofoam buoys in oval, square, diamond and round shapes.

Tractor seats, milk jugs, and park benches greet your eyes, before your eyes are drawn to the female figurehead at the front of the ship garbed in rope. She is busty no less and has to serve as: route finder because men refuse to ask for directions, to ward off spirits, for we all know who the spiritual gender is, and the ropes….well that is as always some perverse male idea.....

Life in Cap Pele

Once the laundry had been hung on the line today, I noted dragon flies making love while in flight, not just one, countless. My eyes were riveted, what had I been missing. Fluidly, tenderly they roam the air in pairs, consecrating their love, no simple reproduction. I have no idea if they mate for life, so it might be rather utilitarian. Nonetheless, why don’t we fly around?

This fresh air is truly getting to me. Meditation after daily prayer is an exercise I have vowed to do. My lofty goals of an hour crumpled the first day I opened my eyes and noted that a mere 11 minutes had vanished, I almost stared laughing. I do believe it is good for the soul to be centered, so I will persist.

Tim’s is exactly 3 km. on a curved route, passed homes, a massive RV park where sardines would find more room than they have and a couple large buildings with who know what’s inside. I have my suspicions. The locals gather daily and in droves, you think they actually liked the product? I could make a fortune in this town if I opened a café, with Press Café. Lines of men on either side of the table 20 strong discuss the industry, politics, we have an election people, and they discuss their lives. If the library is open I go there to write, and the idea of me being here was to write, yet the landscape as you might have gathered has captivated me, I have been absolutely immersed into its elegance. The internet hasn’t worked in the full week and 2 days I have been here. Sporadically it spurts itself to life, like an adolescent trying to line up his lips for a first kiss, there is no finesse.

The town is so small they must wonder who this Albertan is driving around each day, going about her business, but not really doing anything of worth. Or so they think, I’m writing about them.

Nightlife is riveting. I finally figured out in a cabin with no internet, no T.V. and no telephone how to use my computer to view movies. If you know me, I watch 3 a year, and that’s on a good year. So as mentioned before I am coming along. I watched the “The Help” and cried my eyes out long after it was over. Why are humans so utterly poisonous to one another? Books are my thing, the other 4 films might have to wait for another year.

The CIA secrecy justifies itself in the name of freedom, seems at odds with one another. Sweet Tooth a novel by Ian McEwan has captured me. Espionage and the famous five Cambridge men - Deutsch, Kingdom, Philby, Burgess, and Blunt notion are woven into this love story with a back drop of chaos. The paranoia that was felt in Britain during the Cold War of the '50's has some persistence along with the setting in the '70's with the author himself that has placed his personal life into the book . It sounds all too close to what I am missing back home with the Catholics, not to mention the priest here that have got themselves in hot water too.

It was another goal of mine to enter the bay waters each day. That quickly came to a halt after several storms, most named after women, flew through here, toppling chairs, all the potted plants, and sending the garbage cans over to the neighbor’s yards. Dan says it was just a breeze, compared to when he watched electrical poles snap like toothpicks. Always a competitive edge with a N.S. trying to outdo the N.B. It scared me right out of my sleeplessness, which I am averaging about 5.5 hours a night, thought I would be averaging about 9, must be Hal’s absence.