From the waters to the wild: a winkle's journey

Queenie is feeling kinda dreamy these days. She doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s because of the weather. Even though the summer is drawing to a close, the sun still drags itself up through the mist every morning, burns it off and then draws us all to her warmth. I walk to work each morning with my iPod playing a mix I made lately. I just went through all the songs and picked the two hundred ones that mean the most to me. So the walk is like taking a warm memory bath every day. By the time I get to the office, I don’t want to go in just yet, so I get a coffee from Just Us! and sit in the little garden outside the building and look at the silver sparkles on the water in the harbour. Sometimes there are so many they make my eyes ache. So I look up at the blue blue sky instead.

Where to start, where to start….

And I think about the weekend past, or the weekend coming. And a great big sigh of happiness just comes bubbling up and warms my insides just like my skin.

It’s not that I haven’t had great summers; Queenie could find a party in a Taliban-run fortress with no doors and no windows for chrissakes. But this is the first where I haven’t had to depend on anyone else to go away for the weekend. I just go. And with nice weather and a more relaxed attitude to camping, I can spend two or three days in a beautiful peaceful spot without having to know someone well off enough to own a house there. Or organise a group of people to book somewhere. Or pay through the nose for a single supplement.

The Floating Fire

I have to tell you about the floating fire. I still haven’t gotten over the fact that I didn’t bother to bring my camera down to Oilean Fada two weekends ago. It being a full moon and us going to build a fire in Bear Cove. Silly girl. Never mind. It is burned on my memory forever.

By the time I got down to Digby, the guys had decided we were going to camp in the cove. So it was too late to go back to Halifax and get my camping gear. Never mind – they gave me everything I needed. One of the things I love about here is the fact that a trip anywhere involves at least two pickup trucks rammed with stuff: tents, chairs, coolers, barbeques, towels, sleeping mats, bags, comforters, food, boxes of condiments and sauces. I sat on the deck and let them pack the truck. When we got down to the cove, we had to unpack everything and carry it down. Except we didn’t, as two of them had brought their ATVs to move everything down.

I love this country! They’re so organised.

I suppose I should disapprove of ATVs, but actually I just want one. Who needs a car when you can fit two people and a beer cooler and a tent on one of them? And go anywhere. And then, when you get back, just drive it up onto the bed of the pick up and off you go.

Well, I suppose you need a pickup, now that I read that sentence again.

Anyway, the women made the fatal mistake of letting the guys and Queenie organise the camp, which meant that very little got done in the way of organising before they arrived. I am getting away with murder in the division of labour stakes at the moment. None of the blokes will let me do any of the heavy lifting stuff. And none of the women expect me to know how to turn the barbeque on. So I get to sit on a rock or take photos or generally just ponce around.

They’ll be onto me soon, I’d say. We’ll deal with that when it happens.

The winklepickers and the monologue

Anyways, M and T went winkle-picking and I sat on a rock and listened to an extensive monologue from R about some girl he wanted to go out with even though she had a kid with someone else, but that didn’t matter and he was just waiting on a phone call from her and he was going to go over to Bridgewater and pick her up because the guy she was with now was a real jerk and he treated her real bad even though she had a kid for him and she was real nice not like his current girlfriend who was a real bitch and the other girl (Lisa I think it was) was real sorry because she had introduced the two of them and she had rung him to apologise and he was real pleased because he really preferred her and had wanted to go out with her all along.

Nice save, Lisa, I thought.

The lads told me afterwards R had signed over his life insurance policy to the other girl BEFORE he even started going out with her.

Real nice save, Lisa.

I wonder did my ex ever unsign his? Probably. But if not, that would be a nice surprise to find out, wouldn’t it?

And then I’d get to hear about the money too.

Joke.

I think.

Anyways, M and T eventually arrived back with a big pot of winkles and set about deciding where to build the cooking area. This always takes a long time. They can never decide. And I’m no use, I can’t even figure out the wind direction. Eventually they agreed on a spot, which was conveniently situated right beside me. Actually, that’s usually what happens. The more I think of it, the more I realise I’m a natural. I just zone in on the most comfortable spot in any given situation and you should just build the kitchen wherever I am sitting. T set about building a kitchen. Man, that dude just loves heavin’ rocks around. While he rearranged the beach in order to cook a few hotdogs, M and I had a beer and watched the sunset.

The mossies were ferocious. Huge ones, tearing lumps out of us. They all ended up using my DEET spray even though they don’t normally. It was insane. You’d go for a pee and by the time you’d wiped your ass you’d have four bites in it. Because really, I don’t care what anyone says, you can’t spray DEET there. You could combust under certain circumstances.

Really big, lumpy, sore bites too. Not great for work the following week. Surreptitious scratching has to be just that, doncha know.

Grrrrl Power

M’s wife Tina arrived on her ATV then. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl power with a big gguuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. The muffler’s gone on it, you can hear it coming a mile away, which meant a bit of a spring into action on our part and we had nearly everything organised by the time she arrived. Well, T did. M and I managed to clamber down off the rock and lookabusy.

It’s really interesting, when we go on these trips, the guys do the cooking. They set up the camp as well. But there’s an interesting hiatus in the middle where nothing gets done unless Tina or Amanda or Melissa give everything the once over and point out the mistakes and then take off again. Then the cooking starts.

I don’t know if they’re even aware of it.

Anyway, eventually everyone arrived and we had a bit of nosebag and started building the fire. It has been a very dry month, so we had to be very careful. And the tide comes right up to the grass in Bear Cove. So we had to build it on the beach, which meant it would flood come high tide, due about half past midnight.

So they built it in the lee of an enormous rock. In a little bowl created by the dip in another flat rock. Reckoned she might hold a piece.

And so she did. We drank beer and ate winkles. The wind rose a little as night fell and the tide crept up the beach, silent under the babble of our voices.

I’m not a winkle girl. I wasn’t feeling the best anyway, what with Lady Moonbeam coming to visit (when is she ever going to feck off). Better out than in I say. The fire was so hot I was burning up anyway. So I climbed up the grassy bank and released the winkles back into the wild, and sat on another rock and looked down on the beach. I could see the sea flicking itself around the fire. It slid in among the rocks and filled up the cracks and created a pool. The fire, supported by the lip of the rock upon which it was built, burned steadily in one corner. Not even the maddest Finns in the maddest part of that mad country could’ve built a steam bath like that one. It wasn’t long before they noticed. And they’re in. Well a couple of them, clothes and all.

Better out than in I say, I stayed where I was.

After a while someone came up to check on me and I told them I had chucked up my winkles.

“Oh? Where?”

Well, dearie, seeing as that was your first question, I won’t bother telling you I think it was around about where you’re standing. And I'm fine, thanks for asking.

We woke up at eight the next morning to gentle rain tapping on our tents, and made filter coffee with two saucepans and a roll of toilet paper. We drank it in the wet grass and looked at the work to be done taking the camp down, then walked back to the trucks and went home. It was all still there, untouched, on Wednesday when they went back to get it.

Sure, why wouldn't it be.

Long Tusket Lake, New France near Weymouth

Photos of the weekend's camping under the title as usual.

On the Stump

On the stump on the Eastern Shore - media interviews outside the Lake View Diner

Ended up spending the day travelling up the Eastern Shore meeting people with DD and a strong candidate we have up there. Communications with Halifax became problematic the further up we got, but it's a beautiful area, totally unspoilt and great winding roads like the west of Ireland.

Holidays are comin', holidays are comin', whoohoo

Full moon, Oilean Fada.

Before I start, sincere apologies for not posting sooner. Blame Ray Cunningham and his stoopid computer game. And before that, blame some woman I met on the interweb and her even more stoopid computer game (at least Queenie can do some of the levels on Ray's game).

But I needed a few days of mindless, repetitive action, what with the complete overload of intellectual stimulation I have had in the last two weeks. So let's try to put childish games aside and fill you in on all that's been happening.



First of all WORK. Finally.

Yes, work, that thing I hated so much at home. As Columbo said in an email tonight, why would I want to be faffin' around on holidays for months on end, or something along those lines. As Colombo would say, 'quite'. Although I was very nervous heading into this as you all know. But I needn't have been. The initial reaction is lovely jubbley, as my brother used to say.

It's quite an unusual routine for me really. I go into work at least thirty minutes early every day, because I want to. I do stuff. They're all really happy with it. They tell me I'm great, which those of you who know me know is tiger balm to this girl. I do some more stuff. I go home at five on the dot. I don't think about it. 'Cept I do a bit, but in a nice way.

They've been so so so nice. I've been welcomed and chatted to like I'm an equal by everyone. All the representatives are great: really smart, really energetic, no bullshit, great sense of humour and fun. My crew, the ones I research for, are top notch, a pleasure to work for. The rest of them seem to be really on top of their game. The media is giving them a big love fest at the moment, particularly the head guy. Who has even taken time out a couple of times to come into my office and check I'm okay.

The rest of the staff all seem to be delighted I've come to work here. No jealousies, no standing against a thick wall to avoid knives in my back, no scenes, no tantrums (not even from me :-)!) The woman I replaced spent two weeks training me in so beautifully I was gagging for her to leave and let me at it. My only regret is she's leaving, because we agreed that we would have really liked to work together.

Today I did my first piece of proper work. I found an issue, researched it a little bit, wrote it up, sent it up the line. Got the go ahead, wrote a letter to the Minister. Sent it to the representative. He edited it. He was very amused that I had used the word tranche. The only other person he knew who had used it in his presence was Enda Kenny. Whom he worked with in Bosnia a few years ago. I pp-ed it and faxed it through. He rang me a few minutes later. After a few minutes of idle chit chat (Nova Scotians are great for the idle chit chat, never in a hurry, which is good), he said:

"I'm just checking, when I said sign it for me, you wrote your own name, didn't you, you didnt forge mine?"

"Yeah, yeah, I pp-ed it", I said.

Silence.

"You know, where you write pp and then your name and it means something in Latin about sending it for you?"

"Ohhhhhh, I thought you'd pee-peed on it."

Oh, the joys of being separated by nothing but a common language.

Sent it to the press goddesses, minus the word tranche and a few other bits he'd taken out (with repeated assurances that my work was great, just a bit long) and they did a little something with it. We'll see what happens. Being a little detached helps, I don't have the same need to have my ideas taken on board. However long that will last.

I suppose my main conclusion is that there's obviously a way to work with someone and take some of their ideas and not take others and still send them out the door at five o'clock with a spring in their step. Rather than a murderous heart. And I'm encountering it here and I am thriving under it.

Second of all, WEEKENDS, of which there have been two since I blogged last

I've had two great weekends, travelling out of Halifax to meet friends. Two weekends ago I went North East to River John, to meet Ian and Margaret, who are from Kingston. They have a trailer up there and we had a really nice weekend which I will write up soon. Promise.

Last weekend I went back down to an tOilean Fada and had a great weekend that included a full moon party in the by now infamous Bear Cove. Which I will definitely write up, O.F. being my favourite place in NS and in my top five internationally as well. And the most amazing fire I've ever seen. A fire that floated on water!

This weekend I am going camping with na hOileanaigh Fhaide who are descending en masse to a lakeside somewhere in the middle of nowhere on the French Shore - south west - near Weymouth. Weymouth Nova Scotia that is. There will be ten of them and seven kids and me.

I heard that. Ha ha.

They have assured me that yes, we can camp in a straight line. This is very important. It is advised on the 'how to deal with bears in Nova Scotia' website that I found (yes, there is one, well, it's part of the Dept of Natural Resources site) and bookmarked this week. Apparently, it is better to do this, as if you camp in a circle, the bear gets confused and may attack the Irish girl in the tent over on the left while looking for an exit from the circle.

And we wouldn't want that, then, would we. BTW, the OFers said that there well might have been a bear stalking me. So there! Oh ye of little faith in me.

Nyah!

These weekends are a life saver.

I don't have to deal with Halifax on the weekend.
I don't have to deal with Bruce the strange housemate.
Who is very nice, but a bit strange.
I don't have time to get homesick.
I have something to look forward to all week.
I can pretend I'm still travelling to a certain extent.

And they're rippin' good craic too.

Although Labor Day weekend is soon and then the fun quotient is down and life shifts into a higher gear (in Canada summer is for enjoying yourself and every other season is for working, I am told) I am constantly gobsmacked at how concerned random people have been that I am enjoying myself and not bored or homesick.

They're so good to me. They take me in, feed me, water me, put me up, wash my clothes, eat my cooking, take me out, drive me around, listen to me witter on about Ireland for hours, let me play with their animals, their kids, their kid's trampolines (at three thirty in the morning) their houses, their computers, their stereos, their boats, their basements and their camping gear. They let me take over their kitchens, boss them around a bit, compulsively tidy their sittingrooms.

And then after all that, when I'm gone back to Halifax, they email me to see I'm okay, ring me for the same reason, invite me down again anytime. I have Christmas invitations coming out of my ears, despite my protestations that I'm sorted for the holiday. "Thanksgiving, then, you'll have to come for Thanksgiving."

As I was being driven (seventy miles!!) to the bus (after a lengthy argument about why there was no way he was going to drive me all the way to Halifax - two hundred miles) last Sunday I said it to my host, about how comfortable I feel here, how easily it has been to slip into loads of different layers of Nova Scotian society. In typical NS polite fashion, the other person said that it might be something to do with me, that I fit in well, but I don't think so. I think it's them.

Third of all, PARTIES, of which there have been two in the last fortnight in Halifax

Yes, parties. One dinner party, which was very strange, it being of the work crowd on my second day in work, me being a bit tense therefore. And Joanna's going away do which was last night, which was great. Where I met an Irish guy, from Kerry, who has just moved here as well, for the same reasons as me. Twas hilarious, the conversation that ensued when we realised that.

Let's just say Bertie's ears were burning.

Fourth of all, FRIENDS/ VISITORS, of which there will be two tomorrow

One of the reasons why this is a promo blogpost for the next four blogposts and not a blogpost in its own right (although it is obviously, being a blog post), is because Trish and Keith are coming in seventeen hours and four minutes. Hooooray!!! We're very excited, me and Percy (yes, he's still here, he spent last weekend looking for bears in Bear Cove and didn't find any, but found a big mess of mossies), too excited to marshall our thoughts. But we have set Thursday aside for a massive four hour blogging extravaganza so Friday's the day.

And my clothes are coming.

And my boots.

And my handbags.

And my red suede jacket.

And my blue one.

And my lovely pink cardi.

And my nice skirt from Paris.

And my white coat.


......................... I'm so superficial...........................

Anyway, it's late and I have to get the room ready for the visitors *hoooray* and the phone hasn't stopped ringing all night with Oilean Fada-ers telling me their side of whatever domestic drama it is tonight so I should go do some perfunctory pillow plumping or something. Or maybe just jig up and down on the spot in excitment for another couple of hours.

Jig jig jig jig jig jig jig jig jig jig........

That really annoying Coke ad is in my brain for the last four hours, you know the one - holidays are comin', holidays are comin', holidays are comin'.... and then the Montreal train went past and went 'whooo' at the right moment (did I mention I live near the rail tracks? They're just across the road behind the trees).

‘Just cut its horns off and wipe its ass’ is no longer in my lexicon

Photo swiped from The Guardian's holiday snap competition winners gallery - ta very much. My entry was better by the way.

What a week. And it not even over yet. But only one more day before I can get back into my jeans, pack a bag and sink into a seat on the bus that will carry me north to River John and Margaret and Ian, who will hopefully help me make sense of all of this.

Fuelling up for the day

I got up early on Monday and put on a dress and some slap, which was very strange, and ate breakfast which I never used to do but which I’ve done every day since I came to Canada, to the utter amazement of my stomach which has responded by demanding outrageous amounts of food almost immediately again, or by ten am at the latest. So now, I have juice and cereal and a bagel and coffee and some eggs for breakfast, and then I bring another big bagel and some biccies to work in a bag, along with my sangidges and my fruit and my trail mix. I am ashamed to admit that on Tuesday morning the bag was empty by 11.20am. And by empty, I mean the inside of the biccie bag had been fingernail scraped to get at the last of the chocolate chips.

Well, it is a long walk, up two steep hills. And I am relieved to report that I still actually take the food out of the bag with my hands, despite my rapacious stomach begging me to dive nose first into it. All of this, I seem to recall, was why I stopped having breakfast in the first place, it being too expensive to have an energetic metabolism in Ireland. However, it’s okay here, because food is cheap, and fair trade restaurants abound, that do things like ‘not charge you for the coffee if you buy any food item’ or at the very least, ‘not rip you off utterly like those shysters in Dublin’. And I can feed myself out of the supermarket really well for about $120 a week, which is about €80.

‘Just cut its horns off and wipe its ass’ is no longer in my lexicon

One of the interesting things that has happened is that I have pretty much stopped eating meat, for a number of reasons. I am living in the Maritimes, so there is a lot of cheap fish. I have learned how to cook tofu. If not to enjoy it yet. Not ever, I reckon, although Yoichi’s miso soup is as close as I’ve ever gotten to culinary heaven (apart from those goldleaf-coated truffles we had that one time in Thorntons.)

You’d know I’d cut down on the cigarettes, wouldn’t you… totally obsessed with food….

But mostly I’ve stopped eating meat because I can’t figure out where it comes from. And the organic stuff is mad money. I didn’t think that it would be a big deal, but when you come from a country where you probably passed the cow in your car at some point during its life, and the supermarket has a photo of the farmer in the meat section along with his address, it is not very appealing to think your steak came from some BSE infested factory-farm in Manitoba, or worse, Montana.

Even worse, the tofu place was located next to a chicken farm. Let’s just say, if it’s not free-range fowl, I’m not eating it. Ever.

Sobey's v Superstore

There’s no need anyway. Now that Dr. Atkins has been discredited and carbohydrates are back in, there are acres and acres of nice food to be had for a pittance in Sobey’s, or Atlantic Superstore, which are the two supermarket chains here. Atlantic Superstore is better, apparently. I had this confirmed for me at a dinner party last night, when one of the guests ‘fessed that she worked for Sobey’s and shopped in Superstore. There’s also Co-op, which is a community co-operative shopping concept they have here in Atlantic Canada, where you buy shares in the shop and get discounted food. But they don’t have one in Halifax. Well, they have the anarchist one on Agricola that made me so mad I put the bottles on the roof of the car last week, but I’m not joining that one, if they can’t even get their egg order right.

As I don’t spend money on anything except food (and books - I always think of that great quote from Erasmus, I think, that says 'when I have a little money I buy some books and if I have any left I get some food' at times like these) at the moment, going to the supermarket is A BIG DEAL. Back when, I whizzed around and bought more or less the same thing every week and then headed over to the wine section to see what was on offer. Now I have to check the price of everything and look out for bargains and try new things and it takes ages. And then I have to get a treat because all scrimping and no chocolate biscuits makes me practically suicidal, so I am methodically working my way through the cookies’ section. So far, the President’s Choice luxury dark chocolate double chip brand is a nose ahead. But I found apple fig rolls recently, which intrigued me. They’re not very nice though, and when I offered them to the Labradorians in Wentworth, they laughed and said they were really ‘old’ biscuits. Like Marietta, I suppose.

But how do they get the apples into the fig rolls?

Sorry.

I am the practically the only one who brings in shopping bags and packs them myself. The checkout women all think I’m great. They always mention it and talk about how great Ireland is that they’ve taxed the bags. They’re like the staff in Marks and Spencers – mostly middle-aged women and a few older men. And they have to stand for their whole shift – it’s appalling.

Anyway, how did we get onto workers’ rights in the Canadian retail sector? An interesting vignette into how my mind works, right there for you all. Nosebag – plastic bag – evil corporate bastards. Obvious really.

‘Canadian fantastic healthcare system a complete myth’ shocker

Work, Queenie, tell them about work!

Oh yeah, work. Well, I went into Just Us! for coffee on the way into work on my first day. And there was this reasonably cute guy in there and he was smiling at me, so I smiled back at him, and then he said “So you decided to rejoin the workforce again”, and I was completely shocked – how did he know? Was I walking funny? Was my makeup on all wrong? Was my dress on backwards? What, what? And then I realised it was MY NEW BOSS I was talking to.

Muppet…I am going to have to get my eyes lasered or just start wearing my glasses all the time.

Ooooooh, a thought occurs to me, I wonder does my Medicare cover it? Apparently, I have the hard-core Medicare that only government employees get, that kicks in immediately and covers shiatsu massage and prescription sunglasses and teeth-whitening treatments and crap like that. For seven dollars a week or something like that. Jammy, eh! Canadian government employees look after themselves better than Irish ones. And that’s saying something.

By the way, amusingly, the key problems in the Canadian healthcare system are: - waiting lists, step-down beds for elderly patients, lack of primary care in rural areas, inability to get consultants to work in local hospitals, and the growing emergence of a two-tier care system.

Although to give them their due, they don’t seem to have psychotic obstetricians what take women’s wombs out for personal reasons, or consultants taking swipes at each other and calling each other the N word.

Work!!!!!!!!

Ahem, this is all work-related, really.

Anyways, I got escorted into the building by my new boss, who’s only a couple of years older than me. And very nice. He’s recently had issue, so that’s what he talks about mostly. So he’s normal anyway. And he takes Fridays off to look after said issue, which is always nice to see in a bloke with a high-powered job.

So I said to him, jokingly, what’s all this about a hurricane* alert? And he said, it’s quite possible there will be one.

(* Some of you will know what I mean by hurricane, some of you won’t. Sorry about that, fling us an email if you’re confused.)

So that’s great, first day on the job and I’m thinking I might have to weather a hurricane, and depending on how destructive it is, I might be hurtling across country with an empty wallet and a sense of déjà vu. But you know, that’s okay, because that’s what this year is about. Learning new ways of doing things. Except I have a lot of experience with hurricanes.

Anyways, I’ll continue before I completely confuse my two readers who are not personal friends.

An hour passes...

Well, I just spent an hour on the phone to New Jersey Girl, so I’m pooped and the tale of my first week in work will have to wait until another day, as I’m going to bed now.

I apologise for the state of this post. I am very tired.

Tuesday 9th August

He is almost always a slave that cannot live on a little.
- Horace

Where profit is, loss is hidden nearby.
- Japanese proverb

The One Hundredth Post

Queenie and Percy are pleased to announce that this is the one hundredth post on Percy's Depressed.

In honour of the occasion, of the fact that I have a Japanese friend now (see photo), which I never did before, and in remembrance of the nuclear atrocity that was visited on Japan in the name of freedom sixty years ago, I have written a haiku.

I wrote it on South St on a windy summer's evening. I was on the way into Halifax city for my first night out in my new home. We were going to see KillRadio (an anti-Bush band from LA) in The Attic, the city's most happening live venue. I was very excited. It was the culmination of eight months planning and thinking and travelling.

Unfortunately, Queenie couldn't get into the Attic, because she didn't have a 'scannable ID', whatever that is when it's at home. Her sources tell her Halifax bouncers are not a nice breed.....sigh...

Anyways.....

Wind-tossed trees on South

Heave sibilant summer sighs

But not me tonight

Raymond of the Rooftops, by Paul Durcan

The morning after the night
The roof flew off the house
And our sleeping children narrowly missed
Being decapitated by falling slates,
I asked my husband if he would
Help me put back the roof:
But no - he was too busy at his work
Writing for a women's magazine in London
An Irish fairytale called Raymond of the Rooftops
Will you have a heart, woman - he bellowed -
Can't you see I am up to my eyes and ears in work,
Breaking my neck to finish Raymond of the Rooftops,
Fighting against time to finish Raymond of the Rooftops,
Putting everything I have got into Raymond of the Rooftops?

Isn't it well for him? Everything he has got!

All I wanted him to do was to stand
For an hour, maybe two hours, three at the most,
At the bottom of the stepladder,
And hand me up slates while I slated the roof:
But no - once again I was proving to be the insensitive,
Thoughtless, feckless even, wife of the artist.
There I was up to my fat, raw knees in rainwater
Worrying him about the hole in our roof
While he was up to his neck in Raymond of the Rooftops.
Will you have a heart, woman - he bellowed -
Can't you see I am up to my eyes and ears in work,
Breaking my neck to finish Raymond of the Rooftops,
Fighting against time to finish Raymond of the Rooftops,
Putting everything I have got into Raymond of the Rooftops?

Isn't it well for him? Everything he has got!

For AMD, who knew Paul.
Sleep well. x

Hnefetafl and peek-a-boo bears in Wentworth Valley

Photos under the title - click on it to see them.

So I decided a few days quiet contemplation in the wooded Wentworth Valley would chase away the dragons.

The first challenge was getting there. One of the myths the rest of the world has about Canada is that it is in some way better than everywhere else. Consequently, everyone reasons, it has better public services.

NOT TRUE

Well, not in Nova Scotia anyway. Apparently Alberta is better, because Alberta has oil. The fact that Nova Scotia also has oil is, apparently, irrelevant.

Fact 1: Nova Scotian roads are worse than Indian roads.
Fact 2: Nova Scotian public transport routes are a load of steaming you know what.

So I get on the bus with my free newspaper, that I get when I travel on Acadian Bus. Which is fantastic, except I’d prefer they ploughed the newpaper money into sending the buses where I want to go. This time I get dropped off at a liquor store, six kilometres from the hostel. Normally, that isn’t a problem, but I have four days worth of food, as well as my laptop and my rucksack with me. I cross the road and stick my thumb out.

A Mercedes Benz screeches to a halt within a minute of me doing so. I get in. The Asian guy driving it is fascinated with my lack of a motor and insists on driving me right to the door of the hostel. Up a dirt road. Bless him.

Welcome to the Hostel California

Paul comes out to greet me. Paul is the manager of the Wentworth Hostel. I am the guest. The only guest. Apart from two guys camped out back. As he checks me in Paul tells me that he has learned how to play Korean chess. Nice. Apparently, it’s not as difficult as Japanese chess, which he also recently learned. I see two makeshift chess sets on the table in the lounge. I wonder whether I am supposed to offer to play him, but there’s no point as I can’t even play normal chess, so I say ‘don’t worry, I won’t make you learn how to play Irish chess’. That goes down like a lead banana.

I settle in, and Paul takes me for a walk up to the Look Off.

A Look Off is any spot in Nova Scotia high enough to enable you to survey the surrounding landscape. As Nova Scotia is mostly flat, there aren’t many Look Offs, so I ooh and aah with what I hope is an appropriate level of enthusiasm for a view that isn’t half as spectacular as what you get in the Slieve Blooms.

As we walk home, the talk turns to bears, as it so often does in Canada. Paul tells me a story about a woman who got eaten by a grizzly when out jogging with two friends somewhere in Alberta. The other two got away. She made the fatal error of climbing a tree. I ask whether there are bears here. Paul reassures me that they’re not a problem, unless for example, I was walking quietly and rounded a corner and surprised one. Particularly a female with a cub.

Back down to the hostel and onto the porch to read my book in the sunshine. I am reading about the Acadians, who were deported from Nova Scotia because they refused to take an oath of allegiance to the British Crown. I think I’ve mentioned them before. Their annual memorial took place in Grand Pre a few days ago and I missed it because they didn’t tell me about it. George thinks they deserved it anyway. That’s because he’s English.

One of the two campers emerges from his tent, where he has consumed something that caused his eyes to glaze over completely. His name is David Tobin and he’s from Labrador. I ask him what Labrador means. Something Indian he says. I wonder. La Bras d’Or, I always thought. The other Labradorian is called Sean Sheppard. They could be from Kinnitty.

Pasta and Politics

Dinner-time and I rattle round the kitchen by myself cooking dinner. Paul has disappeared into his private quarters. He is writing a PhD in Computer Science so I assume that’s what he’s up to. I find a collection of back issues of MacLeans magazines. They’re the Canadian Magill. I read all the political articles, to try to familiarise myself with federal politics. I am struck by the amount of bile emanating from the journalists. Mostly directed at those lazy politicians who use bile to score points off each other. I wonder am I spotting the irony because I am a newcomer. Probably not.

I notice an article about a festival of documentaries. One of them is about a Canadian guy who stalked and filmed grizzly bears so avidly he got himself and his girlfriend eaten by one in Alaska. Someone else pulled his footage together to create the documentary, which also contains an interview with the coroner who took four plastic sacks of human remains from the dead grizzly’s stomach.

The Labradorians light a fire in the firepit, so I go outside to join them. They’re nice. Really laid back. We don’t talk much, just stare at the fire. I try to slow down my speech to match theirs. It’s difficult for me. We play a few games of the international backpackers card game – Shithead. We have a beer, which is very bold because HI Hostels are alcohol free. But we’re outside, so we get by on a technicality. We talk about hockey. Sidney Crosbie the Nova Scotian wunderkid got picked first in the NHL draft on Friday, so all of Halifax is abuzz with excitement.

Yeah, whatever, I hear you say. Aaaah, you’ll be hearing a lot more about hockey soon, boys and girls.

Queenie and the bears

Next morning, the sun wakes me at 5.45 because there are no curtains in the Wentworth Hostel. I drowse until nine, then get up and make breakfast. Still no sign of Paul. I lie on the couch in the lounge and finish my book on the Acadians. I am preparing to write an article on them to pitch to a newspaper. The morning passes along tickety boo.

The Labradorians come in to say goodbye.

Paul emerges from his quarters intermittently and logs onto the internet and types furiously for a few minutes. Then disappears again. Either he’s at a critical point in his PhD, or he’s gaming. I know which one my money’s on.

After lunch I go for a hike, even though it’s starting to rain. I get about twenty yards into the beautiful, deciduous forest and stop dead. What if I disturb a bear? I start having a mild panic attack. I cannot move my legs. I cannot propel myself forward. I turn and scuttle out into the meadow where Paul showed me the blueberry bushes. Then I remember that bears eat blueberries! I scuttle back into the forest. I stand there, petrified. I want someone to come get me and take me back to the hostel where the bears can’t eat me. But nobody’s going to come get me, are they! I have to get back there by my ownself.

Eventually, the rational part of my brain overcomes the irrational part enough to let me pull myself together a bit. I make myself walk along the track, but I have completely terrified myself and I see bears everywhere. Mostly they turn out to be logs (see photo). I hear a branch snap and I am halfway up a tree before I realise that’s the wrong thing to do. At this point, I lose it completely.

A few minutes of petrified quivering later and I am so annoyed with myself. I decide to make myself go for a hike, despite the danger. I will make a lot of noise, thereby warning the bears of my approach, so that they will run away. I walk along the track singing The Teddy Bears' Picnic.

If you go down to the woods today, you’re in for a big surprise
If you go down to the woods today, you’d better go in disguise
For every bear that ever there was, yes sometin’, sometin’ sometin’
Today’s the day the teddy bears have their picnic!

The rain has gotten really heavy, but I cannot put up my hood because it will muffle the sound of bears approaching and reduce my peripheral vision. I am increasingly convinced that there is something behind me. I keep turning around suddenly, but whatever it is keeps ducking behind a tree so I can’t see it.

Gradually, over the course of about thirty minutes, my fears subside enough for me to enjoy my hike a little bit. I eventually forget about bears.

Paul the amazing conversationalist

I get home and change out of my wet clothes. I decide to begin the article on the Acadians, so I start reading the guest book in order to empty my brain so I can write. All the entries follow similar lines:

Thank you Paul for a wonderful time. For sharing your life experiences with me. For the fantastic company and conversation. I’ll definitely be back.

Yadda, yadda, yadda.

I wonder what the problem is with me. Every time I try to start a conversation with him, he looks like he’s seen a bear and runs away.

Never mind.

I spend a couple of hours writing the article on the Acadians. Then I cook dinner. The woman from next door comes in and barks at Paul. She wants him to walk her dog while she’s away. It turns out she’s the President of Hostelling Nova Scotia, so I suppose he has to. As soon as she’s gone he disappears.

Then some Germans appear to retrieve a map they lent him. As soon as they’re gone he disappears again.

I give up at eleven and go to bed. One of my roommates in the Halifax hostel gave me the new Harry Potter book so tomorrow is sorted.

Paul the amazing conversationalists, part two

Strike that second last sentence. I was just going to bed when Paul appeared and engaged me in reasonably intellectual conversation for three hours. The subjects were:

- whether or not third level institutions should charge fees
- whether or not we are over-educating our young people
- the approaching environmental disaster and how we can persuade people that they must do something
- ancient board games, on which subject our Paul is a bit of an expert. He has a Viking board game called Hnefetafl which he is going to teach me how to play
- the recent terrorist attacks in London (where Paul lives when he’s not running the hostel)
- public transport in Canada
- whether or not Europe is a better place to live than Canada

I had to read Harry Potter for an hour before I could go to sleep.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince is...

… very long. And is reasonably good. It has too much of an eye to the screenplay, but I suppose the poor girl is trying to get as much of it done as she can. The Quidditch matches are crap. The enormous spoiler at the beginning of the book doesn’t work. Not doing it would have added to the shock horror bit at the end. And she doesn’t quite get the lustful Harry, although I think she makes a good stab at it.

Afterwards I went for a very long hike. I took some photos – they’re under the title as usual – and I was less worried about bears. But there were still a couple of tree stumps that made me jump out of my skin. As I walked I realised that the bear thing is a metaphor for the work thing. So maybe that’s why it happened. I don’t usually freak out like that.

Hnefetafl, on the other hand is...

… excellent and I will find some way to get you all to start playing so we can have a league when I get home.

Basically, it’s on a board that’s 13 x 13. There are two players. One has 20 pieces, arranged in groups of five on each edge of the board. The other has twelve pieces and the king. The king is in the centre square, the twelve pieces are clustered round him in a diamond.

The king has to get to an edge square to win. The other player has to stop him by surrounding him on four sides (to make a cruciform shape). Moves can only be made vertically and horizontally (like the rook in chess). The king cannot move more than three squares at a time. You capture an opposing piece by surrounding him on two sides.

It’s very difficult. You have to think in four dimensions. Well, four directions in two dimensions. I think. I always do very badly in spatial stuff in those brainiac quizzes. Then, once you get one side's moves a little bit sorted out in your head, you have to switch to the other side and it’s completely different. I prefer it to chess though - I like the fact that there are two different games within one. I think I am hooked already. I have to find someone to play with me. Poor Yoichi……….

Home sweet home at last

I left the hostel today and hiked back down to the liquor store. I had to ring the bus company the day before to get them to come this way to pick me up. They forgot. When I rang, they were really apologetic. They had to send an empty bus back from Truro to get me. It was great fun.

Now I’m in my new house. I’ve unpacked all my stuff for the first time in a couple of months. Ganesh is on the wall. The dragonfly chimes are in the window, so are the candles. The dragon and the cat are on the bedside table. (Thanks to everyone for the gifts)

So I suppose this is the end of the beginning, isn't it.

Just before dawn on the Minas Basin

Queenie had an emotional roller-coaster of a week last week. The long soft landing had gone to my head a little bit I think. Last week, the runway of reality loomed up with a velocity that almost unseated me. But I’ve steadied again. Not without a few tears though.

After my Long Island escapades, I went back to Grand Pre and busied myself there for a couple of days, before heading up to Halifax to look for somewhere to live. Of course, I started to miss Long Island as soon as I left it, as I knew I would. At least the weekend is the weekend there, unlike the farm, where the weekend is when most of the work gets done.

The vibe on the farm was a lot tenser than when I left it. I don’t know what happened while I was away and it’s none of my business. Yoichi and Janna, the German wwoofer, had both left for Halifax, so maybe the family dynamics aren’t so good when there isn’t company. The first day there was a Saturday, so I did the farmers market in Wolfville, which was very pleasant, before tackling the hillside jungle of docks and clover that is their lawn. No wonder I have big muscles in my arms, dragging the lawnmower up and down that slope.

I actually have scarily big biceps at the moment. For a girl that is.

Sunday was even more tense, with tears and slammed doors, so I ended up bringing the youngest to the pub for a couple of hours to try and relax her. As we drove home, the most beautiful moon I’ve seen in Canada so far was rising over the hill at the back of the farmhouse. It was the continuation of the full moon I experienced on Long Island, but the orb seemed closer to earth, more rounded and more golden down here in the Annapolis Valley. Its pull has had a profound effect on my body in the last two weeks, which was a bit freaky at the time, but it’s great to be back in sync with it. However, the house was early to bed as usual, so I couldn’t watch it for long.

Searching for a home from home

Monday morning, I got the Acadian Bus to Halifax and for a while it was nice to wander the streets and drink a proper cup of coffee and be the mistress of my own hours. Even though I was house hunting. To my surprise I found myself getting a little bit stressed. Nothing like I was in Ireland, but still, the heart rate was up a bit and I was tetchy. It was strange to feel stressed, not having felt like that for two months now. I was in for worse, though, as Monday and Tuesday both were made up of fruitless hours pounding the pavements.

Monday in particular was awful – it poured rain all afternoon and I wandered the streets phoning numbers on To Rent signs all around the South End, only to find the flats were unfurnished. Then I viewed the flat from hell, you know, the one you ended up in at the beginning of second year in college when you had no money and no sense. This time I took advantage of my opportunity to have a go at a rackrenter, and I let fly at my proposed landlord, asking him how in the name of God could he stand over his statement to me on the phone that this was a nice apartment, when it was blindingly obvious that it was nothing more than a damp, basement, cockroach infested firetrap. With no windows. The cheek of him, wasting my time like that.

I felt great afterwards.

A wet Monday night

Back at the hostel though, reality began to seep through the cracks in my defences and I felt really disoriented and a bit lonely. It was raining. In Halifax, when it rains, it RAINS. A sweet little Australian girl, on her way to Winnipeg to work at a Christian mission there, comforted me a bit, and we talked about why we found ourselves meeting each other, halfway across our worlds, in a small room with six beds and no curtains in a wet city on a Monday night. What drove us to do this? We neither of us had an answer for ourselves that night.

After we put the lights out, I couldn’t sleep for a long time. I lay worrying about my job, about my house hunting, about money, about my job again, about whether I would be able to make the enormous intellectual leap they are asking of me. How am I supposed to get up to speed on the political system of a completely different COUNTRY in a couple of weeks? Not to mention learning the policy ropes. Not to mention figuring out all the nuances of the party and the provincial legislature. Not to mention coming up with innovative ideas. Not to mention doing it all at the speed of a parliamentary day, which is something akin to the speed of light. Not to mention doing it with forty people wanting me to make a mess of it, so they can get the job. I eventually fell asleep. I dreamt of my days back with the old party, the old fear of fucking up came back and prowled around me again, and when I woke I could taste its metallic tang on my tongue. I didn’t want to face the day at all.

Tuesday with a morose Yoichi

After a morning of phone calls that weren’t providing me with many leads, I met up with Yoichi, who was in a foul mood as well. Unsurprisingly, he is not yet fluent in English after just two weeks of classes, so he was engaging in that most Japanese of pastimes, metaphorically battering himself around the head for not being perfect. I really wasn’t in the mood for it, having spent the previous evening doing it to myself, so we spent a couple of hours sitting morosely nursing our Tim Horton’s cups, looking out at the sea. He was silent because he wouldn’t say anything unless he could construct the sentence perfectly. I was silent because I was panicking about what I was doing with my life. Finally we separated, as I had to view a house. Two minutes later, my prospective landlady cancelled. The evening stretched out endlessly in front of me, so I ran to the ferry terminal, but Yoichi had already gone back to Dartmouth. I felt so alone.

Wednesday, the sun blazed down on Halifax and everyone’s mood lightened as they looked forward to the long weekend. My new boss emailed me and didn’t appear to have any misgivings about hiring me. Some woman called Jill rang to say the room she thought she had let had become available again, so did I want to view it? I still can’t figure out who she was, or how I got in contact with her. I don’t remember ringing a Jill. Anyways, suddenly I had three places to view in one day. I’ll have to get one of them, I thought.

Finding a south end address

I have walked the length and breadth of Halifax city (not suburbs) at this stage. It’s quite compact, with the residential areas all situated very close to downtown. They are mostly blocks of detached clapboard houses on small lots, with trees lining the streets and very little traffic. I had pretty much resigned myself to having to trade proximity to the centre for access to a garden, having spent two days struggling with this decision. The first viewing was almost what I wanted, although it was just a bit far out, and not fantastic enough to merit the distance. Nevertheless, as I walked away I felt that at least I had something do-able in the bag.

When I looked at my map I realised I could walk down to the sea on the other side of the isthmus upon which the south end of the city is built and follow it round to the second house on my list. That was how I discovered why everyone said I should live in the south end. The road cuts through a big park, then meanders along a series of beautiful streets, with big hedges hiding gorgeous houses and large gardens with mature plants and trees. I found my street, Beaufort Avenue – the fourth house down, the yellow one, she had said on the phone – and suddenly I rounded a bend in the road (an actual bend in the road, boys and girls) and there it was. It was love at first sight and I had three hours to go until I viewed it. I went and sat in the Public Gardens and bit my nails.

Thankfully, I got it and signed the lease on the spot.

So now I have a home at last and it’s very nice. The rent is EU340 a month, which includes all electricity, heat, water, cable, phone and hi-speed wireless internet costs. As well as all my sheets and towels and blankets, which saves me a major expense.

I walked back to the hostel down South St. and the sun was shining and I realised this would be my walk to and from work. The DalPlex sports complex is five minutes from the house, as is the sea. Suddenly, it all seemed plausible, workable, manageable again. Yoichi and I went to the pub to celebrate. I had a pint of IPA and he had two pints of some Guinness-like concoction they make here which is quite nice. Then he brought me to a really serious looking Japanese restaurant for sushi. We were having a rare old time, trying to get my hands to mould into the right shape for using chopsticks, and failing miserably, when I got a text message from my mother with some bad news. Which brought me right back down again, and discomfited Yoichi terribly, as he is not used to western displays of emotion. He finally decided to deal with it by eating all of the sushi except for the piece I had ruined by my tears plopping onto it.

Back to Wolfville for the last time

I had promised the farm family that I would work at the Farmers’ Market in Halifax on Saturday, but I had asked them to pay me this time, to cover my expenses in the hostel. We agreed on fifty dollars – which is outrageously low, but never mind. However, as I had found a house there was no reason to stay in Halifax, so I decided to go back to Wolfville and stay until Saturday. That way I could help with the preparations for the market and save the family fifty bucks.

I returned to complete chaos. I kept my head down and cooked dinner for everyone. There was a new wwoofer, a sixteen year-old home-schooled vegetarian called Zephyr, so I cooked tofu. Which is so boring. There was nothing else to eat, though. The atmosphere was so tense that afterwards I watched a dvd on the laptop in my room. After three days of broken sleep in the hostel, my body relaxed in the quiet of the countryside and I slept in until ten. I got up just as they were leaving to bring the produce to Halifax for the market. Oops!

When they were safely gone, Ron sloped over for a fag and a moan. He and the youngest had had a fight. He didn’t go into the details, but I assumed he had wound her up too much as usual. Then he told me they’d been moaning about having to pay me for the market. He shouldn’t have. But he was mad with them.

As I pushed the lawnmower around their endless, ever-growing acre of grass for the fourth time in a month, I began to get so angry about it I could spit. I tried not to. I wasn’t supposed to know this, so I shouldn’t get mad. And they were short of cash. And I hadn’t mentioned the fact that I wasn’t going to charge them.

But still.

The darkest hour

Next morning, I was up at 4.45am. It was still pitch black outside, with no stars or moon to relieve it. The darkest hour truly is before the dawn. As we drove through the valley, the sun came up over the Minas Basin and streaked the sky boldly in scarlet and shocking pink and orange. I thought about the funeral that was taking place at home. I wished I were in Springtown with my friends, not in Halifax selling tofu to hippies for a woman who didn’t think a day of my labour was worth a miserly fifty bucks. When she offered me the money at the end of the day I refused to take it. She didn’t need to be told twice.

Although cynicism is at best not constructive and at worst destructive and there’s too much of it in the world, the problem with idealism is that people always let you down in the end. One of the questions I often ask myself is how do I find a steady state in which to operate that exists somewhere between these extremes?

After the market, we had to do deliveries. It was very hot. I was very tired and cranky and the car was stuffed with boxes, bags and coolers. We got to the Grainery, which is an anarchist co-operative foodstore. Their order was under a box of glass soy milk bottles. I eventually unearthed it. When I brought the order in the three people in the shop, none of whom had phoned in the order, started having a row about whether or not they needed the eggs.

I pointed out that they had ordered them, so it was irrelevant whether or not they needed them. They argued some more. Eventually we agreed to take them back. I made a couple of narky remarks and shoved the egg box back into the car and we took off. Muttering to each other about feckin' hippies and how disorganised they are. We drove up Robie and stopped at the lights. Two rednecks in a pick up truck pulled up beside us and grinned down at me.

Oh, for God's sake, I thought, ignoring them.

"Miss, do you know you've got a box of glass bottles sitting on the roof of your car?"

"Oh shit!"

I jumped out and rescued the box and as I got back in the lights turned green and we sped off buckled with laughter.

Sitting on the dock of the bay

After all that, I was exhausted. I sat in the blazing sunshine on a rock in a deserted corner of Halifax harbour. Which is the second biggest natural harbour in the world apparently, after Sidney. The Mi’kmaq called it Chebucto, which means ‘great harbour’. I watched the tall ships and cruisers, motor boats and yachts go by. At one point they were dwarfed by an enormous container ship bearing a Swedish flag that boomed its foghorn majestically as it headed out to sea. I wrote a letter to a friend. After a couple of hours, I heard someone on the rocks behind me and looked round to see Yoichi, who had left the library early and found me somehow. He took his flip-flops off and rolled up his trousers and splashed around in the water like a four year old until he got me to laugh.

Yeah, it was a tough week in more ways than one. But I’ve decided to stop imagining dragons for a bit. Life is too short to be scared.