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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