Seems that no crimes occurred last night – certainly none that anyone is aware of, or otherwise freely admitting to – so we can all enjoy our hot breakfast relatively guilt-free. Even Jeremy Corbyn! (sic)
As I wolf my down my bacon and eggs, without much thought for the chickens and pigs, I’m contemplating making a covert call to the fashion police to report this Jeremy Corbyn (sic) and his wife from Surrey.
Him: navy blue slacks and blazer, buckled brogues. Her: denim blue culottes and winkle-picker boots.
What is this, the French Revolution arrived to breakfast?
I’d mention all this in passing to my host Anne-Marie, but her blooming head of hair distracts me.
Instead, I pay the bill on credit and leave, slapped on the arse as I go by one of the swinging doors.
Outside today, we’re all travelling into the grey and before the end of the day we’ll all sink like flies into the soup of the day.
None of us knows how this will end, other than a slow decline into the sodden ground.
In the parking lot, Heather seems to be the only one laughing at all of this – while Megan and I are exchanging knowing glances, which denote our clear regret at not having had a wee dram of whisky with our porridge and cream, too.
It could be anticipation that will drown us today.
Sure enough, as I drive off, there’s a storm cloud following me, all the way to Canso, the place where it all kicked off, again and again, in raid after raid.
Today, the harbourfront is so quiet and still that the only raid I might be part of is one on the Fisherman’s Co-Op.
Ahead of that, an incredibly dismal walk around a harbour which has disappeared, submerged, taking all of it’s murky history with it.
This is a day so drab and subdued and wet that it appears all local human life is currently in hibernation.
Then I spot a lone fishing boat quietly and optimistically and slowly making it’s way out of the harbour, from one grey gloom into another.
My plan of hiking along the coastal trail this morning is pretty much dead in the water … I can’t actually see anything, nevermind the lighthouse where the path starts from, by the hospital – where I may well end up with my trials of a life, and the associated aches and pains.
( … “The hospital! But what is it?” … “It’s a big building with patients, but that’s not important right now”)
When I emerge from this nothing soup, I realise there is nothing here except frozen lobster and incessant drizzle, coating the remnants of an industry forgotten – it swam off with the cod, by all accounts.
It was a right old steamy affair; controversial, too.
I’m still in mainland North America – just.
Hours later, I’ve transferred over to Cape Breton Island, via the Canso Causeway, my car arriving in Baddeck, where the sun has risen and I can discard the snorkel.
Alexander Graham Bell is up the road … in fact he’s leading me up the garden path, what with all of his crazy ideas. Get that man a hot air balloon!
“Start me up like a good fellow, with ideas I can pitch into and attempt to demolish”
It’s unclear who exactly started him up, and whether or not he was pleased or even tickled by this, but once he got going it’s apparent there was no stopping that man’s cogs from whirring and whirring, constantly throwing out schemes and ideas and theories and designs.
Some of which took flight, others which stayed grounded. And many which got buried – for good reason.
Through the trees, the view across the bay, towards the summer home.
We stop thinking when the museum closes. I wander around the resort village below searching for life, and a wi-fi signal – Bell, this is your fault.
When I’m done waving my phone in the air, I take an early evening stroll to downtown, to the Freight Shed at the harbour.
Perched at the bar, I meet Ernie and Beth, here from Vermont. Our fish supper is cooked fresh directly in front of us – the bar circumnavigates the diminutive kitchen.
My to-die-for haddock main is justly washed down with a jar of Death by Cookies IPA (freshly picked from Big Spruce, up on the main highway).
And just when I think I might be able to crawl out of here still breathing, I’m nearly finished off by the large slice of carrot cake which Ernie insists on buying for the three of us to share – although himself and Beth leave the lion’s share to me.
Must look like I need a good feeding, or something. Or finishing off.
When we’re done with exchanging stories about things we don’t know about, we pay our checks and exit via the fire escape.
I’ve lost a few dollars, but gained a few pounds. Swings / roundabouts.
On the shoreline – cannons, boats, sheds, creels, lost souls, past islands, neglected lighthouses.
Alexander Bell and his femme fatale, his partner in crime, sat down on the boardwalk, over by the loved-up couple.
The lonely pier pointing towards the lighthouse on the other side of the lake, with a solitary Victorian streetlight tying the whole scene down under fading island skies.
Back up the hill is the gospel hall, proclaiming ‘Seek ye the Lord while he may be found’.
No doubt I’ll find him on the other side of the road, in the Fisherman’s Co-Op – down in the freezer aisle.
An Outside World 