Farewell, With Generous Side of Cranberries

As if wanting to extend condolences apropos our imminent departure, Cape Breton availed sublime weather for our last days on the Island. On one of many fine days in the last week we played hooky from close-up duties in favour of heading out to the Simon's Point area near Louisbourg. It was here, in 1758 that General James Wolfe mounted the final, fatal attack on the French fortress. Craters caught my eye, great divots said to be relics of artillery blasts from the British siege.

On this day, however, it was not craters, but cranberries, that drew us to the coast with Lynn and Louise. Nature afforded a bonanza and in a couple or three hours we had collected several kilos worth. I did not spend every minute picking but paused from time to time to savour sun and sky and to inventory passing birds – gannets, yellowlegs, scoters and eiders. I felt luckier than a guy having a banner day at the slots in the neighbourhood casino.

Close-up duties seem to take longer with every passing year, partly attributable to the fact there is more to close up than was the case in the early years at 'Bigadore' but perhaps also because a 66-year-old worker is a pale shadow on his 26-year-old antecedent. Whatever, we managed to get all our tasks completed by 5 on Friday afternoon, bade farewell to the cabin then enjoyed a last supper with the twins at a good restaurant in Sydney, after which I bade a fond goodbye to the darlings, more than a little chagrined that eight months will pass before I get to benefit again from their boon companionship.

We flew across the country in four stages on Saturday. I am always mildly surprised – and ever so appreciative – when our airplane stays up as it should and delivers us to our destination in one piece. We arrived on Canada's left coast about 2 a.m. Nova Scotia time, feeling fresh gratitude that bro-in-law Marc and young Cai were on hand to receive us and ferry us to the James Bay digs.

By this time of year Victorians venturing outside customarily find themselves requiring rain gear and brollies but the cosmos remains kind: we have had sunny weather every day since Saturday – and we've capitalized on that happy circumstance. We spent a half day with pal Mary at Goldstream Park where the annual salmon spectacle is well under way: hundreds of chum salmon completing their last duty, spawning in the Goldstream gravel beds before they die and offer themselves up as carrion for the legions of gulls eagerly awaiting their expiration.

Yesterday evening we stayed up late to see a favourite singer-songwriter, David Francey, perform at Herman's in downtown Victoria. I confess to nodding off once or twice, no, not due to David losing his edge but because jet lag has not yet loosened its grip on me.

We give top marks to the summer of 2013 in Cape Breton but we're happy to be back at the winter shack, where plumbing and central heating provide soothing comfort to old bones. There of course is no television at the Big Bras d'Or cabin, something never missed when we are there. But Steve Nash is now the oldest man in the NBA and the new season is just under way. What's more, Game Six of the World Series is about to start. Gotta run . . .