Periods of Rain, Sometimes Heavy

August of 2012 in Cape Breton was just about the hottest, sunniest and driest August on record. Relentlessly hot, rainless weather left the rain barrels arid, the roadside spring reduced to a trickle. In sweltering August we exploited the swimmin’ hole almost every day, sometimes twice. Now in late September Mother Nature exacts retribution. If it’s a refreshing dip we’re after we need only step outside; the rain barrels are in constant overflow, Bigadore’s trails negotiable only in gumboots. ‘Periods of rain, sometimes heavy’ is the new weather mantra.

One of the matters Jan and I see completely eye-to-eye about is that the screened porch is the best bedroom in the entire world, availing the freshest air, the brightest starry skies, the fairest night-time soundscapes we ever encounter. Since arriving in June, three months ago, we had slept nowhere else in the building – until last night when a storm blew complacency away. In normal circumstances we have time to install contingent polyethylene storm windows but last night’s guerilla ambush was so sudden that everything in the porch – bed, bedding, bedmates – was drenched almost before we knew what’d hit us. We sought refuge in the drier but not-so-airy sunroom and managed to resume snoring. But here’s the thing: never before has nature allowed us such a long, unbroken stretch in the porch. In a typical year wind, rain or cold would have driven us indoors long before the end of September.

Our store of firewood demonstrates that this year has been one for the books. The woodshed is almost as well-stocked as when we arrived, the woodstove seldom called upon to raise the indoor ambient temperature. But, yes, the Drolet is blazing this morning and I am freshly mindful that it is time I got going on building next year’s fuel supply.

The altered weather offers rewards. The woods deliver a mother lode for amateur mycologists. Never have we seen mushrooms in such abundance and variety as currently arrayed under the neighbouring spruce and fir. Some we know are safe and choice to eat, others are unfamiliar, strangers we dare not ingest without careful consultation of the field guides in the cabin library.

Meanwhile, out on the Great Bras d’Or growing flocks of surf scoters confirm that summer is past, their wing-whistles a benchmark of early fall. Yesterday the first red-throated loon went about its fishy business below the cabin. Bald eagles are backyard birds again, returned from their summer sojourn out around the Bird Islands. The woods are mostly silent now, bereft of the singing warblers and sparrows of early summer, but chattery, roving bands of chickadees entertain us in the birches and mountain-ash out front, blue jays sound the alarums when one finds something new and choice in the compost bins, ravens share thoughtful commentary on the state of their world.

Jan’s little raised garden yields its harvest: tomatoes, beans and all-important basil, essential to the high-voltage pesto much prized in these parts, particularly by me. Batches of green tomato chow and crabapple-rosehip jelly already behind her, Canner Jan has now moved on to her second round of spiced beet-and-onion pickle. We feel wealthy.

Summer was hectic, social and boozy – all very well in season – but we have no complaint that we now have plenty of sober time – especially in the rain – to attend to other priorities. We dedicate hours to improving our bananagrams skills for the next word-war with Lynn and Louise, or to reading, or listening to CBC Radio. We appreciate The Current after breakfast, As It Happens after supper, Ideas later in the evening, and chastise ourselves for allowing opposite-coast distractions to stop us from doing likewise in winter and spring.

Sometimes the CBC payoff is not just ideas but something material. This morning Jan was quick-fingered enough to be the first in line for a pair of tickets to a big literary event at the North River community hall this Saturday. We’re keen about that and also about what’s nest on the order paper: Celtic Colours, the annual music festival celebrated far and wide.

But wait a minute . . . it’s stopped raining, ducks are swimming, gulls are sailing. It’s time to get going.

Magical History Tour Delivers the Goods

On September 12 Bob Nagel signaled the unofficial end of summer by clearing out for Boston. With no responsibilities to keep us in Big Bras d’Or, and Environment Canada offering a terrific long-range weather forecast, we decided to hit the road. Focused principally on war memorials, birds, historic sites and museums – and as much bluenose seafood as we could stick on a fork -- we covered close to 1500 km in our amble, chose back roads over main highways as much as circumstance allowed, enthusiastically welcomed the first Cortland apples of the season, hung out with kith and kin.

At the extreme eastern end of mainland Nova Scotia, the town of Canso drew us for its war memorial and nearby Grassy Island national historic site. Parks Canada spoiled us rotten: with no other visitors demanding attention, boatman Tom Kavanaugh delivered us not just to the historic island but on a tour of the entire Canso island group. Still better, it turns out Tom is a serious birder: we paused whenever opportunity arose to look at returning winter ducks, migrant shorebirds and whatever else flew within binocular range.

At Charlos Bay we stayed at SeaWind Landing, our first NS ‘Unique Country Inn’, and liked it well enough to target more. Though a native Nova Scotian and a resident for most of my first three decades, the far Eastern Shore was a ‘lifer’ for me. We took our time, charmed by old-town Guysborough, the Acadian Ancestors Park at Larry’s River, the Port Bickerton Lighthouse.

Sherbrooke Village preserves a community of mid-late 19th century houses and businesses. In this her sixteenth NS summer season Jan got to see Sherbrooke for the first time. Among the several highlights we sussed out I was particularly pleased with the MacDonald Brothers water-powered sawmill; it conveyed in spades that ingenuity, resourcefulness and self-reliance were once everyday qualities in people, not rarities.

We savoured a short stay with sister Nancy and Donald at the Black Rock mansion and spent much of a day at Truro with pals Garth and Carol, sharing enthusiasm for rugged Victoria Park and a musical evening with early-music virtuosos Chris Norman and David Greenberg.

Annapolis Royal goes back to the early 17th Century and has the heritage buildings to prove it. We visited Fort Anne, the oldest national historic site in Canada, and stayed at Hillsdale House, circa 1860, another Unique Country Inn. I can’t speak for Jan but I was entertained to sleep and snore under the same roof that once sheltered Lord Tweedsmuir, Mackenzie King and Prince George, the eventual King George V.

Yarmouth delivered a Henri Hebert war memorial figure so excellent and authentic that I had to modify my personal list of the ten best memorial sculptures in Canada. In Shelburne, founded by Empire Loyalists in 1783, we investigated three museums, stayed at Cooper’s, our third UCI – if you’ve been paying attention you’ll know what that stands for – and relished our best restaurant feast of the trip, a four-star scallop linguini at the Charlotte Lane Cafe.

Herman’s Island near Lunenburg delivered excellent food, drink and conviviality with sister Nora and Ron and something rare for me, an opportunity to boast of a victory at bridge. Jan seldom has to endure defeat when facing me at a bridge table but, paired with Nora, I enabled my better half – at least briefly – to experience the humility of being a bridge loser.

We went into rainy Halifax to see and photograph three more monuments including the oldest in the country, the 1860 Sebastapol memorial to two Haligonian soldiers killed in the Crimean War. Pals Stephen and Sheila hosted us grandly at Ferguson’s Cove. Hours spent with S & S are always edifying: this time Stephen even managed to add good value to my store of war memorial lore.

We’d planned to be on the road for maybe four or five days but diversions were broad and deep enough to keep us away for ten. I even managed to get arrested. Approaching Tantallon (emphasis on the second syllable if you need to know), its lights flashing and siren squealing I was pulled over by an RCMP squad car. The young constable, all courtesy and good manners, inquired whether I was feeling alright. Indeed yes, thank you, I am. He claimed that I had wandered across the centre line. Are you the registered owner, he asked. Yes. May I see your driver’s license? On producing my BC permit, the young constable laughed and came clean: it seems that in the ongoing search for fugitives, miscreants and diverse ne’er-do-wells, Mounties are forever checking license plates. On asking his dispatcher about mine he learned that while the vehicle is properly registered in Nova Scotia, the owner hasn’t been licensed in the province for a third of a century. With things nicely cleared up the baby-faced cop sent the old fart on his way, the latter mildly disappointed at being deprived of a juicier tale to tell.

Now we are back at the shack, struck by the quietude surrounding us. It is officially fall now, but continuing warm temperatures belie the fact. Still, there are autumn signs: squirrels attempting to break into the cabin in search of a good spot to build a winter den, the woods bereft of birdsong, the ground lightly covered by the litter of early fallen leaves.

Autumn Leaves, Roadside Anthropology

So I did indeed command Lee Valley Tools to deliver a critter cam to Old Route 5. It has been in place more than a week, at a trailside spot well tracked by deer, coyote and bobcat. Alas the only images we have to date are of the two-footed creatures checking on what’s been captured on camera.

Meanwhile, as autumn leaves begin to drop bird migration is in full swing. Small waves of warblers and sparrows drop by en route to Central America. Loud honking marks the southbound passage of Canada geese. Signature wing-whistles betray the morning presence of surf scoters on the Great Bras d’Or. A big, handsome northern goshawk – a good bird for these parts – flew across our bow and may have been the culprit responsible for the scattering of grouse feathers spotted on the trail the next morning.

We paid a visit to Marble Mountain, cherished in my memory for long-ago days spent there with great-uncle Harrison. Now it is summer home to Harrison’s son Dan and daughter-in-law Pat. We enjoyed lively conversation, wrung our hands at the hard-to-believe prospect of a Romney-Ryan White House, shared memories of loved ones long departed. Jan appreciated an excellent haul harvested from Harrison’s old crab-apple, destined for conversion by her hand to jars of premium jelly.

The Mahone Baysians – John, Naomi, Hannah and Sara – bestowed their companionship over the Labour Day weekend. We flew kites, blasted away on the apple cannon, enjoyed a swim and cookout at Bob’s beach, played countless games of Uno. Sara turned seven on Saturday and profited handsomely from the occasion.

A small anthropology project proved illuminating. Since our June arrival we have seen a steady increase in the volume of litter gracing the two- or three-hundred-metre stretch of roadside between my road and Bob Nagel’s back lane. What’s to be learned about the preferences of the good folks who throw their trash out the car window as they drive along our bit of countryside? I decided to find out. I gathered the refuse in a large garbage bag, then spread it out to examine the proceeds. ‘Seems our local litterbugs like to drink and smoke and dine at Tim Horton’s and Robin’s doughnut emporia; they prefer chocolate milk to the unaltered variety and are prosperous enough to include perfectly good clothing in the roadside jetsam.

I counted 21 booze containers. Budweiser was the beer of choice; Iceberg vodka and Bacardi rum were also favoured. There were even bits of the kitchen sink – drain and strainer – among the debris. For a few hours – or was it only minutes? – the roadside looked fairly pristine but by next morning fresh contributions – a pint rum bottle and can of Coors Light – decorated the road shoulder. It makes a fella swell with pride to reside in such a civil neighbourhood.