16 June

I’ve overnighted in the most stylish loft apartment above a multi-car garage next to a recently-built detached house down by a sound of water that I’ve ever stumbled into; all of these buildings constructed by a part-time carpenter, stylised by a retired teacher, guarded by a German Shepherd.

I feel like this should be featured in some kind of design magazine – if only the resident hound would allow it.

I’ve been living a turquoise life, above ground, liberally draped in French-Canadian chic.

When I bring myself back down to earth, via the wooden stairs, suddenly everything is grey.

In the open air, Paul the Carpenter is busy Doing Things, with tools and machinery.

I awkwardly interrupt him at a key moment in his concentration, just to say thanks for building the most stylish loft apartment above a multi-car garage next to your recently-built detached house down by a sound of water that I’ve ever stumbled into.

And hey, see you later!

At the longest beach in the province, Martinique, the sky overhead is like an endless grey soup merging into a slightly less dull murk, occasionally threatening to break out of itself (although it never does).

It’s several shades of grey conspiring with each other to meet up and do stuff.

No surprise that there’s a black dog hanging out of the window of the 4Runner on the unpaved road to the shore – this is to be expected.

Everything grey, everything semi-morose, everything low, with dogs in tow.

The lost, on a beach. Congregating in waves, a million miles from each other.

And under our feet, fossils of a long-forgotten nature. We’ve all washed up here today, in a story that’s difficult to explain in daylight hours.

On the way out, there goes the black dog again.

Along the road that hugs the southern shoreline to meet my cheese sandwich in a harbour I’ve never seen before.

Through the Prince Alfred Arch, where a lunchtime mob of kayakers are busy bothering the water.

The commemorative metal arc frames things I never knew about, all digested into a nothing gloom.

Up the coast at Taylor Head Provincial Park, dogs are walking their owners on another resolutely widescreen beach.

On the far side, a clandestine trail that leads me to Bob’s Bluff.

So secret, in fact, that most of it appears to have not yet been created; all I’m doing is adding to someone else’s desire path, to the heartbreak ridge.

At Bob’s headland opening, of course the bay down below is called Psyche Cove … what else would it be called.

And being a child, all I can think is …

Watch us wreck the hike, watch us wreck the hike, watch us wreck the hike … Psyche! Let’s get ready to stumble. [copyright PJ & Duncan / Byker Grove]

It’s no surprise that at this exact moment, the rain arrives.

Heavy teardrops fall, as I curse myself for opening my mouth, rushing back to the beach, reinforcing the trail as I go, beating a path through the spooky hallowe’en trees, and finally down the steep track to the shore.

Once my feet hit the sand, I find myself following everyone else to the, er, other end of the beach.

The parking lot was roughly in the middle of the bay; but without thinking, I’ve absentmindedly shadowed other human beings and excitable canines over to no-man’s land – the other side of the bluff, if you will – in the mistaken impression that they were also returning to their jalopies.

Salty curses float through the sea air once again, before I take an about turn, and then spend ten minutes trying to find the concealed path off the goddamn beach.

No signs … which in a way I’m grateful for. This shouldn’t be easy.

When I arrive back on the right path, suddenly everyone appears again, and we’re all following each other once more – thankfully this time to the actual car park.

And then we jump in our cars and drive down remote pot-holed roads to places where crimes are possibly committed.

I’m fully expecting a murder mystery on approach to the Seawind Landing, and it’s mildly disappointing to not hear a few muffled screams.

Instead, a cheery Anne-Marie welcomes me with a blooming head of hair, next to the quirky gift shop, selling recovered driftwood amongst other curios.

Dave wants to show me the beer list, which doesn’t seem to exist.

We’re all going around in circles, busy with it, we’re all in it together, and yet still no crime has presented itself. This is a set-up!

Yet it’s the view from out of my bedroom window which nearly kills me – despite the early evening gloom.

I put a smart shirt on and go to dinner, but end up sitting in the parlour reading about an American singer playing a gig for Polish miners, while no-one notices.

I contemplate breezing directly into the kitchen just to get a square meal and a drink, but before I can execute this plan, a man with a beard appears and sits down next to me. He wants to chat, yet I want to eat.

Minutes later, I’m rescued by Anne-Marie from my armchair position in the reading room and seated in the dining room, with a view and a beer that overtakes all things – including the menu.

Not sure if this is classed as solid ground; if not, when I start sinking I’ll be sure to wave.

At the next table, Jeremy Corbyn (sic) on holiday with his wife from Surrey.

My Acadian haddock main remains in the background throughout, while we run through the whole traveller conversation template … where we’ve been, how very lovely it is where we are right now, and where we’re going.

It’s all very civilised, and I regret not wearing a blazer (forgetting the fact that I don’t own one).

Later, my Eton Mess introduces me to Heather and her daughter, Megan, who are touring around Nova Scotia in their Florida-registered Fiesta, throwing chunks of lobster out of the window as they go.

This is how we live now.