The Beauty of Solitude

Part 6

Books were unpacked, shelves were put together, and my worktables were assembled in the dining room. The living room was set up. The kitchen, I left. The camping gear I’d brought with me in the car would do for now, as far as dishes and pots went.

Internet was an issue. I had planned to use the data on my phone as my internet for the time being until I figured out what my best internet options were. I knew there was no fibre optic. I’d be lucky to get intermittent dialup from the one monopoly provider in the area. Everything else could wait a month. The closing costs and the expense of the move really set me back, not to mention the oil and wood deliveries. Internet was an expense that could wait.

Really, the only thing I depended on it for, was music. I have a good iTunes library for sure, but I get tired of listening to my overly familiar, downloaded cds. I know I’m showing my absolute ignorance here about the availability of music in this digital age. I know about Spotify. I pay for my daughter’s subscription. Of all the ways to get music, I choose CKUA. It just speaks to my sensibilities. I am absolutely going to give it a plug here. CKUA was the first public broadcaster in Canada when it began broadcasting in 1927. “It is a donor-supported arts organization that inspires and connects through the power of music, arts, culture and story, with a focus on musical discovery.” I love it because they play everything. No commercials, no silly radio banter. Just good music of all genres. Through them I’ve been exposed to contemporary indigenous music, excellent Canadian content, and good sounds from around the world. 

I spend a lot of time alone, and the music and announcers are like friends. God that sounds sad! I am just one of those people who cherishes time alone. The more, the better. I was the kid who didn’t join the group of other kids playing. I hung back and watched, because I found it so much more interesting. I’ve always stood on the outside. At the same time, I’m highly adaptable and can fit in anywhere I go. It means I’ve had conversations and made acquaintance with some varied and colourful people. 

Before I left Ontario, I spent some time looking for property both north, south and west of Toronto. One Saturday, I took a drive out to the village of Queensbororough, north of Tweed, to see a couple of properties that could have potentially been in my price range. One was a piece of land with a well and septic with a trailer. The other was a house in need of repair on a small property. It turned out the house was in need of much more than repair and the piece of land was completely bare, and across from a chicken producer. 

I drove around the area, turning off onto a dirt road that crossed gently rolling farmland. I drove past a beautiful old white clapboard house that was obviously vacant, on a farm that had laid fallow for many years. The windswept, grassy fields drew me. I pulled into the driveway, and got out of the car to walk around. Of course there was no one about. I walked down behind the house where the land sloped downwards towards an open wooded area and a creek, with more fields beyond. There was the foundation of an old barn, and the most beautiful oak tree I’ve ever seen. Sturdy and stocky-trunked, it had been there for a good long time. I stood letting the wind pass around me and over me, waving the grasses in an undulating dance. A man pulled up in a pickup truck and came striding towards me across the field. I met him halfway and said hello. It turned out this was his property. 

“I’m so sorry to be trespassing,” I said, ”You have such a beautiful property. I was drawn to it and just had to walk.” He told me then that he is a Druid, and that the land we were standing on contained veins of important minerals that he has been studying for years, traveling the world to collect, research, and teach, all in the name of building soil and converting overused agricultural land back to its natural fertile state. He said his daughter and her husband had been living in the house, but they had pretty much trashed the place. He told me he lives on a different property; one that has a cave. And an owl that lives in the hillside at the top of the cave. We talked about the healing power of plants and and I was intrigued at his home. So I followed him there in his truck.

So I know some folks might think, “But you’re out in the country, all by yourself, you’re a woman, and you’re following a strange man to his remote homestead? Aren’t you afraid he could hurt you?” First of all, I do have radar. I can spot the crazies. And just so you know, the crazies are not usually the oddballs. Oddballs are most often just quirky, with interesting stories to tell, living on the fringes of this world. This guy was just quirky. And he was small enough that I knew that I could physically overtake him if I found myself in a situation that warranted it. He lived in one room, in a converted shed with his parrot. I saw the cave. I even saw the owl as she flew in to her nest. We walked and he showed me the wild medicines through the woods and around the small lake on his property. He gave me a trillium to eat and some moss.

I’m used to being alone. I love being able to be spontaneous and follow a path of my choosing. In someone else’s company, I tend to defer. This pandemic has been a welcome excuse to not have make excuses as to why I can’t/ don’t want to hang out. But music has always been a companion when silence no longer is. I cranked the volume for my allotted four hours of listening time per day, as I was on a data budget, and had to make it last. 

I started working on the back bedroom, the one that would be mine. It was in rough shape. Painted pink and torn apart. There were gouges in the walls and doors that spoke of someone practicing their knife throwing. Two chain locks were on the inside of the door and red tuck tape all around, having been put there to seal the edges. There were marks carved into the wall. Counting of days, a heart with initials, strange symbols. The room did not have a creepy feeling, yet I wondered exactly what had taken place there. 

I started again with removing the painted layers of wallpaper, revealing some really pretty old patterns. I filled all the gouges and marks, and the room started looking less like a horror movie scene. The closet was a little walk-in with original wallpaper and linoleum floor. I took out the linoleum which was just laying over, not adhered to, the pine boards below, but decided to leave the wallpaper. What a difference a good paint job makes.

The day after finishing the bedroom, I drove down to the bottom of Cape Sable Island. The Hawk is a white sand beach on the southernmost tip of Nova Scotia, where lies a 1500 year old petrified forest that only emerges at low tide. At the bottom of the Cape stands the tallest lighthouse in Nova Scotia at 101 feet, the first one built in 1861, after the crash of the SS Hungarian into the rocks, killing all 205 souls aboard. 

On a clear day, you can see the lighthouse on Seal Island, about 17kms offshore from Cape Sable Island. Every year a sheep shearing festival takes place there and everyone in the region brings their ewes across on boats to be shorn. There’s something invigorating about a beach that faces the wild ocean. The rhythmic sound of the waves. The constant wind that blows in salt-scented air. The things that are washed ashore. At once you feel the strength of the place and the smallness of yourself in front of this majestically beautiful, and unforgiving power.

My ears stills ringing from the wind, I drove to the No Frills in Barrington Passage to pick up a few groceries on my way home. Through the checkout, the clerk finished ringing up my things, and I realized I didn’t have my wallet on me. “Um, do you mind if I just put these aside until I drive home to get my wallet and come back.” “Sure,” the young girl behind the plastic screen said to me. I fumbled, embarrassed, trying to get out of the way, when the young woman behind me in line, said, “How much is it? I’ll pay for it.” She looked at me. “That way you don’t have to drive all the way home and back.” “Oh my god,” I stuttered, “ I… I… um. I don’t know what to say. Thank you.” And then, remembering we live in a digital age, I said, “Let me e-transfer you the amount. What’s your email address?” She told me and I fumbled to get the letters into my phone, looking like an old lady with my glasses pushed down on my nose and my plunk plunk plunking the letters in, as my daughter says I do.

I am constantly taken aback by the kindness of the people out here. Why is the rest of the world not like this? She would have been fine with me NOT e-transferring her the money. Wow, world. Take note.

The next time I was at the post office, I heard about Dumping Day. It seemed an odd thing to get excited about throwing out your trash. Everyone was talking about it, planning for it. It was an event here and I thought, maybe this is a good time to get into the garage and see what needed to be thrown out. I would join in the festivities of getting rid of stuff. But I had to ask. And who better to ask than the postmistress who is the holder of all of the knowledge of the goings on in any small community? “Jody,“ I asked, “What exactly is dumping day?” 

She told me it was the day that lobster season opens and the boats all head out to the fishing grounds to dump their traps in the water. “It’s quite a sight,” she said, to see all the boats leaving the wharfs in big bunches, with their lights illuminating the pre-dawn sky. Neat, I thought, I want to see it! She told me it happens on November 30^th, with the boats usually leaving the wharfs by 6:30am or so.

On November 30^th, I woke up at 5:30. This is no mean feat for a person like me who would much rather see the early hours from the other side of sleep. I made coffee and toast to go, jumped in my car and headed down the road. Except I wasn’t exactly sure where I was going. There were other cars on the road at that time and I felt an excitement building, like the anticipation of waiting for the sky to get dark enough for fireworks to begin. I thought I’d take the long way around to Barrington, as I’d be passing a number of wharfs along the way. Of the cars on the road none seemed to be heading to any one destination and I ended up losing them all in the dark morning as they turned off in one direction or another. 

I went all the way down to Baccaro, thinking I could see the lights all heading out to the open ocean, but down there, it was just dark, and windy, with no one about. I took a couple of wrong turns on the unlighted road and made it to the causeway by 7am. There was nothing happening, that I could see, so I drove farther down the island to see what I could. The moon was full and just setting behind some low-lying clouds, giving the morning an eerie, late-night feel. I stopped at a convenience store and, sounding like one “from away”, I asked where I would be able to see the boats going out for Dumping Day. I was told by the lady working behind the counter, “It’s been postponed due to poor weather off-shore.”

On the drive home, the sun was just coming up. 

A week later, it was a go. I got up at 7 and missed my first dumping day. So I didn’t end up seeing the boats going out, but the anticipation in that dark morning drive, down unfamiliar roads, towards something I’d never seen, felt like enough. I’ll make it next year.

Next: Holidays