No Longer Incommunicado

‘The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.’

These past few months the tiny, select group of readers who pay slight attention to Peregrinations might have wondered whether the blog’s author had been abducted for ransom. Or—aggravated by the worsening state of the world—resolved to take a vow of silence. Or simply gone to his reward, the corpse hauled up by loyal friends into the top of a tall spruce to provide carrion for eagles starved for better dining options.

None of these is the reason Peregrinations fell silent this summer. Jan and I departed Victoria for our humble Cape Breton paradise exactly three months ago, July 3. Jan has a new laptop I was persuaded might be a faster, worthier tool for editing photos and writing blog posts than my own ancient beast. That might have been a good option had I made a point of ensuring that Jan's machine was armed with the word and photo-editing programs I would need to carry out these vital chores. But I didn’t, and the shiny new laptop proved critically short of the essentials I needed. 

That not-small problem was aggravated by another: the buildings and place I dub ‘Bigadore’ has many charms—ones I perhaps see more clearly than other folks do—but it is not furnished with the range of features modern folks tend to like. No running water, no indoor plumbing, no electricity but for the tiny quantum provided by a single solar panel. Etc. Nor does it boast internet connectivity. Finally, though our cellphone signal is always feeble, this year it was often non-existent. This is the combination of circumstances that led to my being missing in action.

Our Boularderie Island summer was glorious, with more sunshine and less rain that we are accustomed to. August perhaps featured altogether too much sun. Day after day, even week after week, the indoors temperature reached 30°C while the outside thermometer flirted with 40°. Conditions sometimes put me in mind of my time in India. We yearned for cooling rains.

Despite the heat I would have been happy to spend our entire three months at Bigadore but Jan prevailed on me to agree to accepting a five-day absence in September to see friends and family on the Nova Scotia mainland. That hiatus was all well and good, but I was happy to return to Boularderie.

One of the highlights of the summer was making a new friend, a young American not inclined to adore Donald Trump or wear a MAGA ball cap. We saw plenty of Luke and learned we had much in common. The rear bumper of his truck featured a Bernie Sanders sticker and Luke was given to wearing t-shirts lambasting racism. Did such apparel ever raise a ruckus with fellow Americans, I inquired. Yes, Luke answered. After several weeks, without a single thing to grumble about him, I decided he was my favourite American. Granted he doesn’t have much competition.

Meanwhile, we had the cabin pretty much to ourselves, apart from excellent visits from cherished nieces, Sarah and Naomi, and their families. I have seen to it that my 10’ x 10’ workshop is dual-purpose. When not being used for producing sawdust and wood shavings, it serves well as the ‘Tom Sawyer Bunkhouse’, its amenities not much poorer than the cabin’s own.

Lynn and Louise, my beloved identical-twin cousins, were regular daytime visitors. Their skills as table-hockey practitioners continue to grow but in several fiercely contested tournaments they failed to knock the old guy from his champion’s pedestal. That will no doubt happen soon enough.  

Then came the equinox. Colours had begun to change among our own hardwoods and the maple forests of Kelly’s Mountain across the Great Bras d’Or. We were told by the weather authorities to batten down the hatches for a ‘post-tropical storm’—why not the term we’ve grown accustomed to all these years, hurricane?—named Fiona. Two days after the equinox Fiona struck Cape Breton and other parts of Atlantic Canada with no mercy. The cabin, now 51 years old, stood firm against Fiona. My woods not nearly so well. Scouting Bigadore’s trails after the big blow I found countless trees snapped in two or uprooted and overturned. 

Fiona toppled an admired black spruce close by the cabin. This magnificent conifer, 67’ tall and 18” wide at six feet above the base lived about 95 years by my count of its growth rings. Friend Stuart Squires has a sawmill all his own; he will convert the logs to boards and two-by-sixes.

There was insufficient time to start the huge cleanup chore before our September 29 departure. I left the old place in far greater disarray than I ever have before. If the cosmos grants me the privilege of returning to Cape Breton next June I will have plenty of projects to keep me happily occupied.

By June of 2023 I expect to be in a better position to revert to normal form with Peregrinations. Kindly forgive this year’s protracted silence. In the meantime here is your link to my Flickr album, 'Downeast 2022'.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/bigadore/albums/72177720302522358