I am a lighthouse keeper. I have my whale bone. I have my Viking stories. I possess many flares, and a startling array of luridly-coloured waterproofs.
My beard is on loan, from a novelty shop.
In the dining room decorated with floral-print wallpaper and heavy darkwood furniture, I have my pot of steaming tea, I have my hot sausage breakfast, all laid out on a paisley place mat.
It’s murky and dank at Cape Anguille this morning, so I turn the outside light on – the one in the porch … hopefully that’s sufficient, is my thought.
With that, I will now abandon my lighthouse keeper’s post, to go to another province, on a Marine Atlantique ferry which I booked online.
I’d like to see the gannets do all of this!
We the great unwashed congregate in queues by the docks at Channel Port-aux-Basques, basking as we wait in the dim glow of an overcast morning.
Bikers to the left of me, truckers to the right – and here I am, stuck in the middle lane with all of the nearly-departed.
We shuffle onto the boat in polite waves, doing exactly what we’re told.
And then the miracles start … everyone suddenly throwing away their walking sticks and wheelchairs and clutch bags of prescribed drugs for the scramble up the decks to the best seats on the ship.
These folk are dosed, is my thought, and well-practised at this drill … it’s all done in virtual silence, but carried out with an elegance and quietly urgent energy which belies their outwardly remote appearance.
It’s a curious kind of octogenarian choreography, only ever witnessed to the best of my knowledge on a scheduled ferry.
Of course, I’m compelled to join in on this rush up the stairs, doing the same as everyone else and leaving all conditions and ailments behind on the vehicle deck – in this way best-placed to enjoy the trip.
Over the Cabot Straight to Nova Scotia, in the middle of a sporting contest playing out on all of the TV screens, and stuck fast under a slow-moving cold front.
Desperate not to make the same mistake as on my outward ferry crossing (18/06: calling out “Iceberg!” in front of bewildered passengers … not my finest moment), I get my beer in early, while the bar is most definitely open for business.
As I sit back down, I immediately catch sight of some dolphins / porpoises wafting in and out of the water down below … a brief but stylish show.
I mention it to the group on the table next to me, who are all on the lookout for marine wildlife … yet each one of them has managed to divert their gaze from the window at the precise moment some appear.
They spend the rest of the crossing practically glued to the glass, but never catching sight of any aquatic mammals.
By the time we dock at North Sydney, the group are somewhat despondent, to the point where I wish I’d never told them what I’d seen.
Or, maybe their meds have worn off.
My motel stopover is down the road from the ferry terminal, and in there I wolf down a very welcome Chinese meal in a mostly deserted restaurant; in fact, the only other diners are a couple from Stockport, which is weird.
Gazing out over the highway to the lake, we talk of Manchester and Nova Scotia and all the things in between. It’s ten minutes well spent, in a roadside diner.
Paying the check is where things could boil over – if only my host would do the right thing and lend me a kettle.
I need a brew, I do!
As I wait to be handed over an electrical appliance, I crack open the fortune cookie.
“Do not worry, you will have great peace.”
And I think … yeah, I will!
There’s no-one else staying at the motel tonight.
An Outside World 