I could swear those trees outside the lodge have edged closer to the lakeshore overnight … shuffling forwards in an attempt to reclaim some lost ground – taking their chances when no-one’s looking, after dark.
Either that, or Nancy has been chopping down some of the hardwoods. That log pile does look bigger.
I’m pondering this under a clear blue sky, eating breakfast alfresco, in sunny limbo with fellow guesthouse intern CJ, who is busy putting together all sorts of convoluted plans for the day ahead.
Spends almost an hour piecing together a frankly ridiculous schedule, frequently having to be reminded that he has a flight to board back to reality, mid-afternoon.
The airport is a three hour drive away.
Yet it goes over his head when I suggest the runway will at least move closer to him – once he jumps in his car and starts driving.
Me, I’m heading in the opposite direction, back towards Cape Breton Highlands.
Exactly one week ago, driving the same ribbon of road snaking around the oceanside mountains, but this time in the clarity of a blue sky day, not with a grey atmosphere threatening to collapse onto the scenery.
I’m on the trail, on the old route to Cap du Rouge, the logging track, in search of the remains of an Acadian settlement.
Remnants of a forgotten civilisation scattered in parts, in clearings; although not much to see when the residents lifted their homes and moved them down the coast to Chéticamp.
Strange to think there was a whole community here once, hidden amongst the trees.
Hanging on to the sheer inclines of a heavily-forested mountainside, the part considered the most dangerous I guess, before being closed to through-traffic in 1940. No wonder – the passing places are a little precarious.
And as sudden as a car accident, the path unexpectedly and steeply descends, collapsing through the solemn trees to a stream burbling down the rocks and under the footbridge, everything in competition to determine the fastest route.
As I stop for lunch, the realisation hits of how odd it is to have walked along this trail with not a single other soul around, considering how hectic most of the other tracks are around here.
Taking the reverse route, birds up above some merrily chirping and others loudly squawking, as if I’ve rudely interrupted their midday siesta.
One even wanders out from the shrubbery, to stare me out on the path, to escort me off the overgrown premises and make sure I clear off.
Motoring up the coast, I arrive in Pleasant Bay to watch a baseball game.
The one between the local firefighters and the buddhist monks, obviously.
I’m in the stands – everyone else is on the pitch. Yet for some bizarre reason, I’m asked if I want to join the game, as a buddhist monk – they’re one short.
I politely decline … I can barely throw a dart straight, nevermind pitch a ball or, worse still, attempt to catch one with some degree of skill, or dignity.
Mind you, my good-natured refusal was on the basis that the assembled teams were in some way skilful themselves – even the monks still dressed in their red robes and heavy winter boots in the warmth of the afternoon.
It’s soon apparent my thoughts are not valid or logical, as the game becomes steadily and increasingly comical.
Partly due to some of the players knowing less of the rules than I do, and partly due to the head-scratching and general bewilderment in the crowd when one of the monks, so slightly-built as to be barely there, smashes the ball right out of the park on every single attempt.
And just when it can’t get much more surreal, we have a pitch invader – an excitable Jack Russell, bounding onto the field of play, desperately wanting to take part … first chasing the ball and then the monks.
It’s like a Dave Allen sketch for buddhists.
A flustered owner manages to get the terrier back on the right side of the pitchside barriers, but not before catching someone out – quickly ruled inadmissible by the umpire (the local butcher).
As the game concludes, the monks get the loudest of cheers from the hordes of people in the stands, even though they lose the game, convincingly.
With the rowdy mob slowly dispersing, Leith and Karen skip over and introduce themselves to me, thinking I might be the mystery unicycle rider they saw earlier today.
I quickly confirm to them that, while I’m a mystery, I’m definitely not a unicyclist. But weirdly, as I’m saying this out aloud, I’m thinking … am I a unicyclist?
A young kid hears our conversation and shouts over that the one-wheeled peddler is one of the buddhist monks, which reassures me and makes some kind of sense – an enigma on a bike, lost a wheel yet still at peace and well-balanced.
I drive out of Pleasant Bay well and truly disoriented, wondering what on earth I’ve just witnessed, questioning where I am, why, and how.
The funniest thing is … I couldn’t be more relaxed and laid-back about it, the realisation slowly dawning that it was actually the monks who won – and they know it.
The long sprint back to Wagacamogh goes by in this blur of serenity, a few hours later arriving back at the lake and deciding to avoid the hostel, taking the narrow side road up to the brewery tap with the perfect view.
I need a debrief on the events of the day, and a fresh beer.
I stroll in just as last orders is being called (6.45pm!), to find a ripped and tanned well-built bloke, several beers under, wanting to buy a brewery-branded singlet and shoot the shit with the lone server, while he keeps me waiting.
With my newly-acquired tranquility and calmness, my cheery patience is rewarded with a sublime lime-flavoured IPA, served in a stem glass and guzzled quickly in the mosquito-proof outhouse decking.
Here is Military Chris, his unnamed daughter (bored) and Chris’s friend Kevin (drunk).
Around us, customers are drifting off, and the barstaff are cleaning up and rearranging tables.
With fast swigs of their strong beer, they’re quickly off, and suddenly I’m the last person standing, shortly after 7pm … despite having just arrived.
I’m swiftly offered one for the road, which is reluctantly declined due to having driven here. Obviously, I take a carry-out instead.
Returning to the hostel, I find the two cyclists have arrived back – Steph and Gwen, partners in crime and possibly more beyond, having toughed out the loop around the Highlands, and in full daytime sun and heat all of that time.
I feel a pang of guilt for having completed the same looping journey in a climate-controlled rental car.
After a long slog through the Highlands, they’re knackered but in good spirits … small wonder they’re downing a bottle of wine between them.
I get travel recommendations, received gratefully.
Go to Maine, they say. Fly in to Boston. With that, they’re gone.
I go outside to watch the pastel colours of the sky overhead slowly dim, before the fireflies take over to put on their own display: this one more manic, more urgent.
While they dart this way and that, I’m completely inert – swigging on a tin, grinning every now and then at the day’s events.
An Outside World 