Our Big Trip to Scotland: Day 1

I ventured off the North American continent for the first time a few weeks ago in September. Greg is a more seasoned traveller than I am but not by much.We both kept travel journals. I am going to post my journal entries in bold with embellishments where needed, one day at a time until finished. Yes, there will be pictures.

Anyhow, I shall begin with  the riveting account of our departure:

Day 1: September 5th, 2016

No reservation for the ferry

This was a major oversight on my part. It was the only detail of the trip I had neglected to tie down. I forgot it was Labour Day and everybody and their uncle (and aunt) would be travelling home. Also only one of the ferries was in service from Wood Islands to Caribou, so there was an unusual four-hour gap between them.

On our way through Montague, I glimpsed the father of the family of Syrian refugees recently settled in town. He was mowing his lawn. I had enjoyed tutoring his mother-in-law in English every Wednesday afternoon all summer, so we stopped to say hello, and he invited us in for coffee. We regretfully declined, thinking we had better get to the ferry.

We reached  the ferry terminal in very good time for the 1:30 crossing and there was no traffic in the lot at all. How odd, I thought. Where were the cars which were left behind for the next crossing? That question was soon answered! Everyone had a reservation and would be arriving much closer to the departure time.  The woman in the ticket booth offered to put us on stand-by; we thought that would be risky, so she directed us to a small side exit — made for clueless people like us, apparently.

So we left Wood Islands at 10:45 am and drove to the fixed link

On the way west, we discussed what we would have done had there been no bridge! Maybe fly out?  Anyhow, the day was lovely, the scenery bucolic, and the traffic light at least until we got to Truro.

A photo I took several years ago of the Confederation Bridge 

I drove from Amherst to the airport… got the shuttle… no problem … Parked in “B” at the end of the driveway near the fence.

We were the only ones on the shuttle bus, which took us the half-mile or so to the terminal. We were too early for check-in (a pattern — unusual for me — which was to repeat itself frequently during our trip), so we explored the airport, then sat on a bench and watched the same people walk back and forth in the concourse. The outfits people choose to wear while traveling are often eye-catching, to say the least. 

Ate dinner at the airport pub, not a bad meal. I had unbuttered boiled potatoes, veggies and fish from which I removed the panko coating.

I am not usually so conscious of food. I just enjoy eating it, but I had had a horrible digestive upset which began the night of July 28^th and lingered for seven weeks. At one point the diarrhea was so bad I thought we might have to cancel the trip. After four weeks or so I went to the medical clinic in Souris (again), and the doctor gave me a prescription for codeine for its off-label side effect: constipation. It proved to be my new best friend on this trip.

Our dinner venue, Maritime Ale House (Source: http://hiaa.ca/at-the-airport/food-beverage/maritime-ale-house/

Pleasant cheerful security people... I walked through the arch by mistake.

Knowing with my fake hip, I would have to go to the imaging machine, I took off for it once the security guard motioned me ahead and walked quickly through the arch most other people go through, thinking I was being very efficient. I wasn’t. I did not however get a chewing out, as I might have in other airports. That is Maritime patience and kindliness for you. I got patted down and then stroked with a wand, and soon Greg and I were sitting on a bench putting ourselves and our luggage back together.

Loooong  Flight — twitchy legs — no sleep

I was assigned a the middle seat on a Westjet Boeing 737-700, a plane  with winglets, which make it look cute and perky and helped instill nonchalance in me. It was full: 130 passengers.

My young seat-mate to the left  spent most of the trip cocooned under his hoodie. After we landed in Glasgow, he said hadn’t slept much either. Could it have been the twitchy restless seat-mate to his right? He was too polite to say. He did say he was from St. John’s, Nfld and was going to spend the next year studying medical engineering at Strathclyde University in Glasgow. (By coincidence, later that day we walked through that very campus.)

Thank goodness Greg was the seat-mate to my right (by the aisle), since I had to crawl out over him a number of times when nature didn’t just call, but hollered. I felt very badly at one point that I didn’t let a very elderly woman, leaning on her daughter’s arm,  into the bathroom ahead of me, but doing so would have been much much worse for everyone.

This is what our plane looked like. (Source: wikipedia)

Finally we landed. I am never going to take another red-eye flight ever again.

The only good things about the flight were that I was not white-knuckled, we didn’t crash, and the Thai chicken wrap I had ordered on-line a few days before leaving — because I thought I might be healthy again by the time we left — was delivered without a hitch.

The Village Feast in Souris was a great success

A contingent from Camp Gagetown NB provides chowder from their field canteen each year. The woman behind the soldier talked to us about one of the charities this event benefits: Farmers Helping Farmers —  building cookhouses in Kenya. 

Greg bought the hat, as it unexpectedly got sunny later in the day. You can't have too many hats. 

The mobile kitchen cooked up the lobsters.

From the tent behind the diners, the sale of local oysters, fresh from Colville Bay, benefits one of the other charities,

Some of the folks in our group enjoying their meal are Kathy, (then a space where my place is), Lynn, Ron (the doctor who sewed up Greg's arm), Maureen, and Kathy.

Joanne is enjoying the meal.

Main course after the chowder: Steak, delicious potatoes and a bit too much gravy, whole grain bread, salad, and a Kenyan side dish whose name escapes me.

All those hats and potato sacks....hmmmm... In the background is the dessert tent, where strawberry shortcakes were on offer.

You line up for your steak at the flag indicating the appropriate stage of doneness. The extremes were" Bloody" and "Burnt."

In the background is the chowder canteen provided by the troops at Camp Gagetown, NB. It was yummy!

Afterwards, the kids swarmed the fire truck and took turns sounding the siren. The hay bales, which marked the paths to take from one food serving to the next , a la IKEA, were provided by Springwater Farm — a great place to visit.

With a $100 donation, several brave souls volunteered to be installed as honourary Islanders.

First, on goes the Ann of Green Gables hat.

Then the potato bag shirt.

Chef Michael Smith explains the ritual involved in becoming an honourary Islander.

Chef Michael introduces the participants to oyster shucking.

Lord help me - it's alive!

Down the hatch:

How to get the elastic band off the claws without getting pinched!

How to peel a potato!

There's where the bridge is on the map.

Chef Michael Smith has the piper lead in all the volunteers, who made the day a success.

Here are some of the crew members. This event involves practically everyone in and around Souris.

My little table centre is now re-potted on the deck.

Bonnie had us all over to her house for drinks and conviviality before the feast.

Grant, Bonnie, Greg and Kathy are heading home afterwards.

There were lovely bouquets like this one everywhere.

All in all the day was seamlessly well-organized down to the last delicious detail.

R is for Ruts

I enjoy Sue Grafton’s alphabetical murder mysteries. In W is for Wasted, she writes that “every good mystery takes place on three planes — what really happened; what appears to have happened; and how the sleuth … figures out which is which.” I couldn‘t agree more.

As I said in a blog a while ago, when we arrived at the cottage, Greg reported on "some ruts" in the untended part of our field. I was too busy sorting linens and food stuffs and generally getting the cottage back to liveable form to pay a lot of attention to his observation.

However, a few days later, I went for a stroll in the field. Our mowers make paths so we can meander down to the water and back; it’s very peaceful, full of birdsong, interesting spiders, and all sorts of wild flowers:

But that day, my goodness, what had happened!  Much of the field was torn up. Deep muddy ruts cut across it in several places. It appeared as if a couple of brontosauruses had engaged in a battle of the epoch. A person could twist their ankle in the up-heaved dirt.

I felt trespassed upon. Not only had someone come on our field without permission, they had damaged it, had so far not ‘fessed up, and had not made things right.

But as Ms. Grafton points out, appearances can be deceiving. What had gone on?

My detective work was made easier in that I could see clearly where a track came from and where it went.  It cut diagonally  across the field next to ours and then continued across our field until it ended in the torn up sections next the property line with another neighbour.

I spent a sleepless night convincing myself that I didn’t need to lose sleep over this, and then I called on the neighbour whose field was also affected. We had a confab, inspected our fields, shared our hurt feelings, and concluded the other neighbours were tearing down trees (on their side of the property line, mind you) and might mash up our fields again. We decided we had to act.

But what exactly to do?  Our paramount hope was that we could restore our fields while at the same time maintain “good neighbourly relations”— a value held dear by Islanders. People trust each other to do the right thing.

For example, our cottage was built over the course of about six months, and I saw it only once during the construction process. The next time was when it was all finished. Everything worked out fine. We chose a great builder. We had our field mowed by a company whose owner we did not meet for literally years. He had the field mowed, trusting us, sight unseen, to pay him, and we trusted him to mow properly. It worked. As in many rural neighbourhoods, people don’t lock their doors around here, a habit that can have disconcerting consequences.  A friend of ours from Upper Canada awoke from a nap and found a stranger in her kitchen; he turned out to be the plumber she had called.

So tact was paramount, but so was firmness. We decided it was better strategically not to include Greg right off the bat. He is big, and with his beard, he can look quite severe especially when things don't go right. We did not want to set off more testosterone than absolutely necessary.

We felt a couple of bewildered five-foot-two grannies would be more likely to get the results we hoped for: reparation of the field with neighbourly feelings intact. It felt like a tall order.

Evening came.

My neighbour reported that she had seen activity in the driveway of our prime suspects. We hopped in her car, drove around the corner and parked in their driveway.  “I parked behind them so they can’t leave,” she said, clearly way ahead of me.

A gaggle of 20-year-olds stood in the driveway looking at a large piece of earth-moving machinery. They did not look pleased to see us:  no smiles, no hellos.

I did not know where to begin, so I said the first thing that came to mind, “Boy, that’s a big piece of machinery.” As a conversation opener, it was a non-starter.

My companion in sleuthing came more directly to the point, “We need to talk to whoever’s in charge here.”

Then we introduced ourselves and explained the reason for our visit:  We were simply puzzled by the ruts in the field, as it seemed to have been torn up by some kind of big machinery. Did they know anything about that?

Three of the yoots  (yes, it was a My Cousin Vinnie kind of moment) faded back leaving the fourth  alone to explain there had been a family emergency last December when the furnace quit and they had to replace it. It was easiest to come over the fields, rather than up their driveway, “We thought, it’s just a farmer’s field.”

I expressed my sympathy for the plight of a family in a freezing cold house, but nevertheless, it seemed to me asking permission would have seemed a wise and proper thing to do. My compatriot agreed.

But no, youth-in-charge had had no way of contacting us for permission. And anyway, his father had asked him to do it.

Ah well, there you go… I did not press that point beyond making it but persevered in the real purpose of our visit.

“So when can you get it fixed?”

“Well, later when we are not so busy.”

“Well, maybe we should get your phone number so we can contact you later.”

Neither he nor I had any paper or pens, so my friend went back to her car to retrieve some. While she rummaged around, I said only half-joking, that it was lucky they had not destroyed the labyrinth because if they had done that, I would probably have come over and personally lynched him. He looked a bit startled at that remark. I was a bit surprised at myself as well.  I think I intended to say “throttled.”  So I navigated the topic around to other happier times when Greg and I had chatted with him and his dad in previous summers.

I added that I did want to be a good neighbour and would not want to stand in the way of their dealing with an emergency. I left other of my thoughts unspoken.

My partner returned, and we all exchanged names and phone numbers. Dad did not have a phone number, alas. “Oh well, then we can call you if need be?” I said.

“Oh, I see my dad every morning.”

“Ah, well, that’s good then.”

“So when might your dad get at this work? End of this week, maybe end of next week?”

He’d have to ask his dad.

While this was going on, one of the other yoots began hitting the shovel part of the machinery with a sledge hammer thereby making it very difficult to talk. (Apparently, they were under a time limit to disassemble it).  I ignored the noise, figuring it was not my problem. Finally youth-in-charge told his friend to “stop that.” He did.

Much easier on the ears. Then mission accomplished, we thanked them, got in the car, drove back to the cottage, and had a cup of tea to calm our nerves.

Now what would happen?

As it turned out, youth-in-charge did speak to his father, who came over a couple of days later. After some preliminary chatting about the awful winter and the slow spring, we discussed fixing the muddy mess. I reiterated I understood things were different in an emergency and added  the fields didn’t have to be garden perfect, just smoothed out so we could walk safely on the paths .

But, what had actually happened?  Well, the ground wasn’t frozen in December, was very wet, and the truck carrying the new furnace got stuck and had to be towed off the field. No wonder it looked like a saurian playground.

 “And this won’t likely have to happen again?”

“No, it won’t.”  

“Well, okay then.”

And a couple of days later, the equipment operator  he hired came over and restored our fields to a walkable state.  The undergrowth will grow back soon enough. So all is well again on the happy little island. 

Trespassers Will

We are back at the cottage for another summer. I am always filled with trepidation, as we turn off the highway onto Howe Point Road and I see the cottage for the first time in eight months. Is everything OK? Yes, it all seems intact, at least from from the outside. Big relief, especially considering the 25 feet of snow which smothered the province last winter. But what about the interior? Have mice chewed the place to bits?

Not this year, thank goodness, but we did have a number of other trespassers — from the animal, plant and human worlds.

The plumber, who came a few weeks ago to turn on our water, reported evidence of a squirrel in the crawl space under the cottage. Thank goodness, he seems to be a bachelor, the squirrel not the plumber, that is, as there is no evidence of a nest for babies. I was heartless in wanting him gone dead or alive, until I saw him scampering around the bunkie, the woodpile and most recently the deck.  So cute.  He seems to have eschewed the crawl space now that the weather has improved. One of the vents, which he pushed on to get in, needs repair, something Greg discovered when he lowered himself into the depths.  Greg is tired of doubling over and ducking his head down there, so Nutkin's departure is a good thing.  

Alas, the bad news is that Nutkin has also rejected the live trap we set. We used  peanut butter as irresistible bait. A friend suggested using Squirrel peanut butter rather than the No- Name brand might have been the better choice. 

And people at church attest to the native intelligence of PEI squirrels. Apparently, they have long since figured out you can get at the bait by putting a paw through the bars and not actually going in. 

We have reduced the amount of peanut butter to a dollop rather than a ladle-full and have now placed the trap out by the woodpile. I am not holding my breath. The young woman who sold us our trap at Home Hardware in Souris said they caught two birds, a mink and several other critters before nabbing their squirrel.

We shall of course have to get the vent fixed. Our builder was by early one morning to investigate, and the thumping and crashing convinced us we had caught the squirrel, but no, unless squirrels have also learned to drive trucks and are called Mackenzie.

My second area of concern was the labyrinth which I have renamed the dandelinth, because of the thousands of  dandelions now overtaking it.  There is also a lot of twitch grass invading the path. However, the path is still visible, and Greg has made a few more  runs for the large, flat, red sandstone rocks we use to mark the outline.

Initially I was quite dismayed by the weediness. But then I thought it is a wild labyrinth not a perfect one.  Dandelions are great for bees, but I must admit not seeing too many redeeming features to twitch grass. I may try to discourage it by pouring on a mixture of vinegar, salt and Blue Dawn dish detergent, a non-poisonous remedy  recommended by friends on Facebook. I will keep you posted.

Then there was the possibility of ear-wigs in the well. The plastic casing around the electrical wires had come apart, thereby opening a way for bugs to crawl in. Initially I thought the mowers had hit it, but more likely it was the result of frost heaving the ground and snapping the housing. When I went to pay the plumber’s bill, I asked about it. Turned out it was something plumbers fix, not the well drillers. Go figure!

Lucky I mentioned it, as having earwigs get into your well contaminates the well and is therefore something to be avoided  at all costs. A somewhat taciturn young man turned up at our doorway at breakfast  the next day and once we realized why he was there, he put things to rights and we had a nice chat about the weather. So our delicious water is now safe from insect invasion.

The fourth trespassers were of  the human variety and a bit more complicated to deal with. I’ll save that for another instalment, as I  have promised myself not to be too lengthy. Also I have run out of steam for this afternoon and feel a murder mystery beckoning.

 ‘Til later then…

World premiere of Evangeline rocks

Usually I don't go out of my way to see musicals. If a friend or relative is in one, I'll make an exception, but there is something about people breaking into song and dance  at the slightest impulse which baffles me - well, unless the musical is about song or dance, then that is different. I enjoyed Billy Elliot (dance ) and 2 Pianos 4 Hands, but goodness, maybe the latter was not actually a musical but piano playing and great lines. Jersey Boys  and Abba had great songs; I enjoyed them.

I do remember seeing the Sound of Music several times when it first came out, mostly, I expect, to savour Christopher Plummer. Having just read Jane Eyre, I was awash in a Mr. Rochester complex.  I  thought the hills really were alive with the sound of music which says more about my taste (musical and otherwise) at 16 than I would like to admit.

However, Greg and I made the hour-long trek into Charlottetown last weekend to catch a matinee performance of Evangeline at the Confederation Centre for the Arts. Several friends had highly recommended it. Ted Dykstra wrote the book, lyrics and music. The program reminded me he had co-created 2 Pianos, 4 Hands, so my expectations were raised. I was not disappointed. As it turned out, I really enjoyed it.

 

The front page of the program was illustrated by Steve Adams.

The story is based on Longfellow's epic poem of the same name and recounts the expulsion of the Acadians from the Maritimes (specifically from Grand Pre, Nova Scotia in 1755). A century or so later, this region would be coalesced along with Quebec and Ontario into the Dominion of Canada.

From the Enrichment Guide, the painting of the 1755 expulsion  is by Claude Picard.

This is a great production of this little known, but shameful story. Canadians today can get off the hook by noting this happened when the British were running North America and were embattled with the French (and soon the Americans) for control of the continent.


Nevertheless, the themes of displacement, unfairness, prejudice, and callousness ring true on a deep level. We are reminded of other populations and races suffering similar horrors. Families, deported to various destinations in the British colonies to the south and to the French colony of Louisiana, are  separated never to see one another again.

Another painting by Claude Picard is printed in the Guide.
 

Conditions aboard the ships are  recounted in letters home read by Lt. col. John Winslow, the English commander (played by Laurie Winslow). The decks in the hold are only four feet high and the human cargo is allowed up on deck for fresh air only infrequently. Not surprising the mortality rate is high. The colonel can't understand why they are seen as a threat to the Crown.  Others are not so sanguine and there is a cast of non-Acadian characters who range from indifferent to dangerous.

However, counterbalancing the desolation and loss of home are the universal themes of undying love and the lifelong quest for the lost beloved. Newly married Gabriel Lajeunesse (played by Adam Brazier) and Evangeline Bellefontaine (Chilina Kennedy) are sent on separate ships to different destinations.


Gabriel, believing Evangeline has drowned, becomes a wandering trapper; Evangeline is certain he is alive and the story is her quest for him. I like the idea of a woman on a quest. Usually the hero is male.  She has spunk and determination and compassion (kind of a toned-down Lizbeth Salander or Katniss Everdeen).

Especially poignant are the scenes where Evangeline and Gabriel share the stage but are not aware of one another and sing a duet in which they express their sense of love and loss.  A lot of audience throat-clearing occurred here, and the man beside me was mopping his cheeks with his handkerchief.

Oddly, for what I expect is a largely secular audience, the religious imagery and themes are not played down (reminded me of Les Mis), but the book is true to Longfellow's poem and Acadian life, as well as raising other issues around the advisability of turning the other cheek.

The stage setting is a series of huge images and maps projected behind the actors. It's very effective. A rapidly moving red line shows the path of Evangeline's wanderings over many miles and many years.

An orchestra provides the accompaniment, and the actors aren't overly - or overtly - miked. As a result, the sound quality, as distinct from the songs themselves (which are very good), is not so overpowering that you have to block your ears.

If I had a criticism of the production, it would be that the scenes at the start showing the idyllic life in "Acadie"  go on a bit too long  and the use of a sort of pidgin English when the Acadians were talking to  English speakers is jarring.  These are minor, and not everyone might agree with me.

Apparently Mirvish Productions had to give up on the production in Toronto as it was becoming  too expensive to mount so Dykstra moved it to PEI - a brilliant move for a world premier, which touches the lives of many people here who are descended from the first Acadians.

If you get a chance to go to see this production, do so. Toronto's loss is Charlottetown's gain.



Claude Picard's rendition of life in "Acadie."

 

In which Silver goes to church

A couple of Sundays ago, Greg and I went to St. Alban's in Souris so that Greg could preside at the service that morning. It is such a wee tiny church.

 

 

 

Since we were early, I wandered around the cemetery looking at the gravestones.

 

 

 



Soon I was joined by a small tabby cat.

 

 

which seemed to know just here she was going.

 

 

Yes, off to church:

 

 

 

Greg was inside setting things up and generally getting ready.

 

 

 

 

No water for the wine! A human congregation member - the warden, in fact - feeling it would be inappropriate to get a glass of water from the restaurant right across the street went off to "the store"  for a bottle of same. Would that have been the Co-op, the variety store or the Save Easy?

 

 

Meanwhile, decisions, decisions: which pew to choose ...

 



Aha, right at the back - very Anglican -




But before settling in, some more exploration would be fun. If only the organist were here, we could play a duet:

 

or I could help Greg with the prayers:



It seems I am not needed in the chancel:





This seems to be a comfortable pew:

Nice service, great hymns, thought-provoking sermon, I enjoyed the service. Now home for lunch:

 

 

 

Apparently Silver the cat has been in the habit of attending church for quite a while. At a recent service, she joined the priest at the front, and he picked her up and lead the congregation in singing All things bright and beautiful. I am sure she enjoyed the impromptu serenade.

At this service, she visited each pew during the sermon and of course was patted by everyone.

 

 

Alas, her people are moving, so Silver will have to join another congregation soon. She will be missed.

 

But St. Alban's doors will be always open in case she want to return.