kaffy_r (kaffy_r) wrote,
kaffy_r
kaffy_r

Dept. of Back on the Bicycle

Too Long Have I Been Away

... aand that phrase is too pompously self-important to let stand without pointing and jeering at it. So I'm doing just that. 

Still, the point remains that I've not really posted much at all since we returned home from Canada. I'd get up each morning, determined to post, and I'd find myself doing everything but posting. It seemed to me as if it was a mind-numbingly difficult task, even though I knew that wasn't the case. Brains are stupid that way; at least mine is. 

So here I am, at the keyboard, determined to say something, even if it's not that important. I suppose that's akin to successful writers telling the rest of us to sit down every day and write something, anything, in an effort to keep my brain working. 

(Aside; I have managed to get another 200 or so words done on my vast Whofic crossover story. It's now more than 7,000 words in length, which means it's heading toward short novelette length. I think it may need another 2,000-3,000 words to be properly completed. We shall see.)

Here are a couple of pictures I took of Hall's Harbour, Nova Scotia, at sunset, taken while visiting my brother. Over the years, the harbour, which is still a working fisherman's harbour, has become a bit of a gentle tourist trap as well. That's in part because you can get lobster suppers and Farmers's ice cream cones there, and partly because it's rather picturesque, as both pictures show. (The road down the hill off the top of the North Mountain to the harbour, is still a bit vertiginous for me. You can catch glimpses of the road behind the homes on the hill.)



This shows the beach and cliffs on one side of the harbour; I went down to the water, treading carefully over the basalt stones, smooth worn and slippery thanks to years of existing near or beneath Bay of Fundy tides, so that I could put my hand in the cold salt water. I almost fell on the way back up the beach, a fall I managed to turn into an almost-graceful ensconcement on those same rocks, an "I meant to do that" moment of real life sitcomdom. 

The harbour though; it was important. It was part of my childhood.

Almost every Sunday, from late spring to early fall, the family would climb into Granddad's Wolseley, and head out for the shore. We never knew where we'd end up, sometimes with a picnic basket packed by Nana, sometimes only on a tour - but more often than not we'd arrive at Hall's Harbour. Sometimes we'd pass through, to inlets farther up the Fundy shore; other times, we'd park the car, get an ice cream cone, scramble up and down the beaches, or walk to the end of the wharf to smell the salt of the water and the creosote protecting the wharf. (Is there a more evocative smell than sea salt and wharf creosote? Yes, probably, but not to me.)

This was all in the time before the lobster dinner places; on some days, the only sound you'd hear, beyond Nana, Granddad, and Mum talking, would be the waves greeting the shore. Listening to the waves could put me to sleep, especially if the sun was hot and the wind wasn't too cold. It still can do that even in cool October evenings. 


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