On Canada Day, a civilised breakfast, with no witnesses … the new normality. With toasted bagels, too. Outside, a grey cloak draped around the mountain at my gate; drizzly rain, attempting to dampen the spirits.
I have a temporary plan to get through this, to dry that rain, which involves buddhism – if only I can find the right track.
I take the harbour trail, dodging stacks of fishing paraphernalia – some artistic, some practical, some abandoned – past the interpretive centre to the harbour, inhabited by fishing boats and fishermen and interpretive people and Captain Mark and the guaranteed whales who I think all get stoned in the fake lighthouse together, after dark. At least they can get a light in there.
Following the unpaved road around the mountain to the buddhist abbey.
I don’t know who Gampo is, but whoever they are, they set up shop on a clifftop, overlooking the best of the ocean. Up the coast from guaranteed whales, too … what luck!
I follow the walking tour around the grounds, down the trail to the Stupa of Enlightenment, where I’m told to abandon any hope of fruition, underneath the gold leaf.
Which is fine with me – I usually hope for the opposite.
Also: don’t be so predictable, don’t expect applause, liberate yourself by examining and analysing. And so on.
This is all easy to do when Pollett’s Cove is so unapproachable, in today’s murky conditions.
I retreat back past the vintage Toyota campervan, parked up overlooking the postcard scenery, complete with wild kids playing about on the roof, and jump in the car to head through the National Park to arrive at a waterfall and the Lone Shieling – a Scottish stone hut outside which you’ll always find a kilted man playing the bagpipes. Who will not be cheered.
We’re all going around in circles.
Back in Pleasant Bay, there is less than nothing happening, which is perfectly agreeable.
I feel no guilt in spending a good hour or two sat up on the bluff, enjoying the grey scenery in front of me with a few beers, thinking of nothing except how beautiful it is to not have to be anywhere other than here, to have no schedule or unnecessary commitments.
The rolling waves only serve to reinforce this, almost like a regular heartbeat.
Nature’s outdoor decking, with storm clouds passing over but – incredibly – rarely breaking.
Fishermen sail in and sail out occasionally, cars dropping in randomly with occupants jumping out to take a smartphone snap, only to jump straight back in and speed off again.
Still no sign of any buddhists, but hey I’m in my own kind of nirvana now, I figure – as I crack open another tin.
After a long while, I stroll out along the coast and then inland through the bush, heading to the Rusty Anchor to get my chops around the burger that ate Cape Breton.
I don’t know what this means, other than it being damn fishy. So I take no chances and knock it clean into submission with a few well-placed uppercuts and then straight into my stomach.
This is where it all finally falls apart, lettuce and mayo everywhere, drowning in a super-strength IPA.
Outside, the mosquitoes know this, the sky knows this.
I walk backwards through the trees, re-emerging at the harbour, up the sumberged track, past the guaranteed whales which now seem to be guaranteed cats, and into the gaff.
I think back to the road I passed – a dead end – where the cemetery gates proudly state: “We have an anchor”.
And my thought is … Canada, you can’t fix me … you can’t hold me down!
(although – I wouldn’t mind a plot here, for when the time comes)
An Outside World 