In A Fog

In a fog,

or smoked?

Across the land

choking smoke rises

from volatile forest fires.

Spontaneous combustion?

Coincidental ignition?

Arson, anyone?

And we, in a fog,

paralyzed by inertia,

destined to be forsaken

to the mists of time,

smoked or not.

Lorraine & Baleine

There was a young girl from Lorraine

who fell for a boy from Baleine;

they chose to make the most

of their wild lobster coast,

side by side they pledged to remain.

Wild Angelica

Wild angelica is blooming here at Oceanside Wild and on the hillsides around us. All manner of bees and other pollinating insects are drawn to the flowers which are known as plentiful pollen providers. The plants grow a couple of metres tall and branch out robustly. The bottom picture shows how deeply they root. The stems of seacoast angelica (angelica lucida) are eaten as wild celery. Wild angelica (angelica sylvestris) is seen as having been brought to Cape Breton by the French and is commonly viewed as an invasive species, having proliferated. However, angelicas are native to temperate and sub-Arctic regions of the northern Atlantic and Pacific coasts. The roots and seeds are sometimes used to flavour gin. Its presence accounts for the distinct flavour of many liqueurs, such as Chartreuse. Angelica sylvestris roots have been used in the traditional Austrian medicine internally as tea or tincture for treatment of disorders of the gastrointestinal tract, respiratory tract, nervous system, and also against fever, infections, and flu.

Summertime

Summertime is finally arriving at Oceanside Wild. After a snowy winter that was nowhere near as cold and unforgiving as the ones we endured in Ontario, there has been the long wait for temperatures to climb, winds to moderate, and spring fogs to clear. We are just off the eastern extent of Canada's huge landmass, separated by the Canso Causeway, on Cape Breton Island's wild east coast, off mainland Nova Scotia, facing out to the open north Atlantic.

Lobster fishing season here coincides with the main season of fogs as the cold sea temperatures catch up to the slowly-warming land. Now, in mid-July, the boats in the cove and the spring peepers in the pond relent their activity, our cove goes quiet, and the glory days of summer begin. Already, the wild flowers in our reborn meadow are in full bloom - hawkweeds, oxeye daisies, strawberries, clovers, long-eared grasses mostly, with knapweed to follow. We stopped cutting the grass last year, except for push-mower cut paths for access to the dock and beach. There, seaweeds wash up, bladderwracks and egg wracks are exposed by low tide and - joy of joys - we get to swim in the clear, salty sea, floating freely as puffy clouds scoot by in the deep blue sky. 

Our ark looks our over two 'barrachois' freshwater ponds formed by rainfall drainage from the land meeting the stone-and-pebble beach barrier cast by the sea. Black ducks and wigeons migrate between sweet water and salt, cajoling their ducklings in a tight trail behind them. They nest, they sleep, they forage. They swim, they dive, they play, they grow. What a life, the living on an ark! Most of all, they listen to their Mom and she nurtures them from hatchlings to independents within weeks. By and large, they share the pond and seascape with the crows and the gulls who each work hard to see off the predatory eagles. The blue herons are still to arrive and we are yet to see a red fox this year. Red squirrels, yes; we have a few chirruping away. 

Walks around to the headland and the open ocean are past hillsides of wild angelica and blueberries, on spongy carpets of crowberries, moss, lichens, and spruce and balsam fir wooded trails interspersed with stony beaches. The blueberries, strawberries, raspberries, bunchberries are flowering now, soon to turn into delectable fruit. Needless to say, all these things - the birds, the frogs, the flowers, the berries, the trees, the seaweeds - have chosen this place to grow wild and free. At this ark, we shall treasure them all, through every season, always.

Braiding Sweetgrass - The Honourable Harvest

I am loving reading Braiding Sweetgrass, a seminal book of immense wisdom written by Robin Wall Kimmerer, member of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation.

She writes so eloquently of the Honourable Harvest:

"Collectively, the indigenous canon of principles and practices that govern the exchange of life for life is known as the Honourable Harvest. They are rules of sorts that govern our taking, shaping our relationships with the natural world, and rein in our tendency to consume - that the world might be as rich for the seventh generation

as it is for our own. The details are highly specific to different cultures and ecosystems, but the fundamental principles are nearly universal among peoples who live close to the land."

Serenading the Stars

The night skies have been breathtaking of late here on Cape Breton Island on the Atlantic Ocean. 

The pause in excess human activity has perhaps given the Earth's atmosphere a break.

One Year Ago Today

A year ago today, our household packed into a moving truck, we set off on a new adventure. Our Ford cargo van packed solid with immediate necessities like food, money and clothing, we departed our Ontario home of twenty years in the hills and began our three-day journey eastwards, all the way to our new home on the Atlantic Ocean in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia.

The weather was sunny and the landscape through eastern Ontario and Quebec largely draped in snow. Having skirted Montreal and Quebec City, our first night's rest was at a lovely inn in Montmagny. The second day, we pressed on into the high, open mostly-treed terrain of New Brunswick, all the way to our longtime friends Anna Torma and Istvan Zsako, who live at the border to Nova Scotia in lovely countryside outside Baie Verte. After a bubbly reunion, a hearty meal and a pleasant overnight, we set off on day three into Nova Scotia and then across the Canso Causeway onto Cape Breton Island, rising up in welcome before us.

The drive along the eastern shore of the Bras d'Or Lakes is winding and scenic, offering long vistas. By afternoon we reached Marion Bridge via a dirt road shortcut as the fog filled our vision. Here we picked up our new house keys from Judy Hussey, our real estate agent, and negotiated the last leg to Louisbourg and along the bumpy, pot-holed road to Little Lorraine. Our house and surrounds sat shrouded in mist, and the boom from the ocean, waves on the beach, salt-tang sea air greeted us energetically.....

And, here we are today, one full year later. We sit, yes, shrouded in mist and the ocean is booming, waves rolling in, fresh sea air filling our lungs. We are ensconsed in our home, looking out in all weathers to wonder at our good fortune to have found this haven. Spring was cool and foggy; Summer took her time to arrive, then passed in a flash; Fall lingered lusciously with extended warmth and colour; Winter has been largely white, punctuated with several snow- and wind-storms. The coast and sea are mesmerizing, continually changing in appearance as the winds rise and fall, the sun comes and goes, the skies cover up and clear, precipitation sets in and tapers, dark follows day, and the tides rise and fall. And a panoply of stars reveals itself by night, as the Milky Way appears to tumble into the sea.

Gundi likes to comb the beaches for purple and green-tinged rocks and pebbles, striated, flecked, weathered, and polished. I tend to sea-gaze, take in the wave action, and scout out seaweeds of all kinds - kelps, dulse, wracks. Each passing storm system washes up a whole new shoreline of deposited plant material, dredged and ripped up from the sub-tidal sea floor. Upon the land, our step springs with the bounce from the carpet of berries, mosses, lichens.

Gundi is always working her hands. She is designing, making, sewing, crocheting, reading, cooking, eating, drinking, exploring.... I find myself drawn to reading, writing, learning, and, lately, growing, gathering, and harvesting food. This act of producing and consuming food locally, in our own community, is vital as we negotiate fresh paths in our common future. 

We have got to know our friendly, caring neighbours, local fisherfolk, farmers, food producers, chefs, community leaders in Little Lorraine, Louisbourg, Albert Bridge, Gabarus, and Sydney; we have established new friendships. Everything takes time and perseverance, especially in this current pause of distanced communication and interaction. We are using this time - while we are precluded from exchanging visits - as an opportunity to connect more with friends and family who live far away. I believe it is deepening our personal bond to each other, our love for each other, even at a societal level. Our heightened vulnerabilities strengthen our empathy.

Here by the ocean, we miss the changing colours of deciduous trees, the folds of the land in the Northumberland Hills, the village of Warkworth, farmers markets and regular customers, the warmth and company of dear friends. I still miss family and friends across the ocean. But, we make our choices in life, and this move to Cape Breton, with its natural beauty, vibrant geography, history, and culture, has been a very rewarding one for us. In a year, we have been off-island just once, to visit with friends and take in the bountiful attractions of our new province of Nova Scotia, over on the mainland. While no man is an island, I guess I always was, will remain, an islander at heart.