Short Fiction in Honour of Armistice

The Following is a work of fiction written in honour of the Eleventh Hour on the Eleventh Day of the Eleventh Month:

            The last few wisps of fog floated up and away, dissipating into nothingness, burned away by the relentless spring sun. Although fog had lain heavy on the Channel for days, today, of all days, it vaporized into thin air, much like the dreams of all his yesterdays; it seemed that Nature had turned her back on the prayers of the men in the boats. Ernie looked skyward, into the now clear blue, cursing himself, the command, even God. Today, of all days, they lose the fog blanket so necessary for the success of the attack.

            “Well,” stated Sergeant Rupp, from the back of the boat, “looks as though all hope for a surprise landing is shot all to hell.” No one replied. It was not needed, the statement spoke for itself. If the Krauts didn’t know they were coming already, the absence of fog cover would sure give them plenty of time to adjust, and bring their guns to bear on the landing craft as they beached.

            “We turn back then?” asked Scotty, up near the bow, beside the door that was designed to lower on impact with the beach, spilling men onto the sand. “Ain’t no sense in going on, is there? I mean, If the Jerry’s see us coming, what hope we got in taking that damn beach?”

            Rupp shook his head. “Nope, we go on as planned. Surprise or no, why, one of us Canucks on the sand is worth two Krauts in the tree every time, right? Besides, word has come down from the top, mission to advance, no matter what. Mountbatten wants us to whelm the Jerry’s hard, make a name for his self as a top battle commander.”

            The boat filled with mutterings at that. It had been assumed that they would only attack if the fog held and surprise was on their side. Casualties would be high without the aid of nature. Ernie, who had heard enough, spoke up at last, saying, “Battle commander? What battle is he going to be a part of? Why, he isn’t even in one of these boats. He is safe at home in England, probably still asleep in his bed!”

            “That’s enough, Private,” Rupp answered. “You know full well, I meant as a tactician, and not a field man. Besides, this is our chance to show the Limey’s that we colonials are just as fit as they are, if not more so. Battle goes on. ‘Sides, it is far too late to turn back now, Beach is within sight.” All eyes turned to the bow, men standing to see beyond the high walls of the metal tub that they called a boat. There, in the distance, were the cliffs of Dieppe, tall and forbidding.

            “Sweet Jesus,” muttered O’Riley. “They are some high. You think the Jerry’s have guns dug in all throughout that there cliff?”

            “We are like to find the answer to that soon enough, lads,” Rupp said, sympathy touching his voice for the first time. He knew that most of the lads in his squad were raw, and unblooded. Today would make men of the youngest boys amongst them, would even break a few down to nothing.

            A distant siren was beginning to wail. The German’s had seen the boats coming. The fog was gone; of course they had seen them. A dull boom sounded, a long gun spewing forth a shell. It was beginning. “Helmets on lads,” called Rupp, “keep those pretty heads down now; things are going to get hairy.”

            Ernie strapped on his helmet, and re-checked his radio equipment. As the company radio man, he was their contact with the outside, with the command away from the beach. He had to be ready, or he would fail his mates. Beside him, Dilby checked his rifle and ammo for the hundredth time. Dilby was Ernie’s best mate, and had sworn to watch his back, so that Ernie could operate the radio without needing to worry about firing back at the foe. Usually a talkative fellow, Dilbs was not saying a word, his face pale, and covered in a cold sweat.

            As the boat got closer, the sounds of gun fire grew more pronounced. All the men in the boat paled. Some began to pray, lifting quiet words up to a God unknown to war. Others checked ammo belts, still others wept silently, the tears streaming, almost unnoticed. Loud “pings” sounded as bullets began raining down on the ship. Mitchel, the preacher’s son from John Street, leaned over and emptied his stomach onto the floor of the craft. No one said a word. There was no shame in the fear; they all felt it, deep inside. The bullets might be falling like rain all about them, but no rain was ever so deadly.

            “Heads down, NOW,” called Rupp, just as they heard a long piercing whine through the tumult. The boat rocked, listing to the port side as a shell exploded within a few yards of the starboard wall. The concussion was not a sound to be heard, but was rather felt, deep within the chest. It seemed as though the air was stolen from Ernie’s lungs, and he thought he saw stars. Prayers came louder now, some of the men almost screaming out to God as their fear reached a new pitch. Others added the contents of their stomachs to the pile started by Mitchel. Pale, strained faces, eyes wide, tearful, stared at one another. Above it all rose the stink of shit. Young Geordie, a lad of Eighteen in theory, but more like to be fifteen, had soiled his britches. The others were too lost in their own fear to notice, or to comment.

            “Steady now, lads, steady,” called Rupp. The men loaded near the bow, slipping in the vomit, as the boat ground up onto the sand, the door slamming down, opening like the gates into some unnamed circle of Hell …

 

            The clarion call of the trumpet, bugling the Last Post, brought Ernie back to the present. He shook his aged head, trying to clear it. The memories could do that to him, even now, when he was old and gray, stooped and bent, they could come flooding back, and make him relive that day over and over again. Usually it was triggered by some loud noise, thunder or some such thing. Today, who could say? Maybe it was triggered by the presence of the other veterans, none of whom Ernie knew, crowding around in their dress uniforms, just has the men had crowded around the door of the ship, waiting to begin their assault up that French strand.

            Normally, Ernie did not bother with such formality, did not pay attention to the pomp and ceremony surrounding military functions, but he was a man who believed in looking ones best when you left the house, whether it was a trip to Kresky’s for a soda and a gab, or to stand at attention in the cold November rain, to remember a friend. And so he stood there in his finest, his medals gleaming, and his eyes dry after so many years. Dilby had been true to his word, and had shielded Ernie. Ernie could still see it, that dash up the stony beach, side by side. Dilby, his head exploding, as a German bullet blew out the back of his skull, falling dead to the strand. The feeling as another bullet entered Ernie’s own, open, shrieking mouth, only to exit below his left ear, shattering his jaw. Ernie had fallen, and had dragged Dilby over to him, using the body of his slain friend as cover, pushing rocks and the corpse of a loved one to the fore, a shield between himself and the rain of German steel. For six hours he had lain thus, covered in the gore of his friend and from his own wound, calling over his radio, his broken jaw in agony, hoping to be able to sound the retreat as men were mown down like fleshy, bloody wheat.

            A boy stopped to stare when the Last Post had been reached its stirring conclusion. Did Ernie want to donate and get a yellow ribbon? Surely he supported the troops? The silver maned veteran shook his head mutely, ignoring the youth’s shocked and somewhat sullen response to his rebuff.

            Up on the stage, near to the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, the politicos sat, and then stood, clearly ready to deliver their rehearsed words. With their slick, oiled smiles, and dead, venomous eyes, they would regale the crowd, using words like “honour”, “freedom”, “sacrifice”, and “duty”. Words that were so much wind, for those that would speak them had no idea what they meant, not deep down. They were scripted, used like tools to shape a response from the crowd, political slogans to assist in an upcoming campaign, or to help show that this minister or that was a “warrior” in a time of war. None were; it was utter hogs wallop. None had ever stormed a fogless beach, as friends lay slain around them, covered in ichor.

            Ernie noted, tuning out his ears to the soulless drone, that this politico, indeed that all of them, wore not only the poppy, but also the yellow ribbon. That caused him to smile. Of course they did. Those boys, sent to die and to kill in the wild marches of high Asia were easy to support; none were the children or the beloved of the politicos. They were all safe and snug here at home, lawyers, and doctors. It made Ernie want to spit, but he refrained. It would not do to spit on this hallowed ground where he came to honour Dilby, Rupp, O’Riley, and the others who were all lost that fateful day on the shores of Dieppe.

            The young man asked him, pointedly, why he did not want to wear the ribbon. Ernie considered telling the lad, but again, just shook his head. He had tried to explain it so many times, and today was not the place to do so. There was not enough room for another man to stand on a soap box and preach; enough foul wind was emanating from the mouth of the politician at the pulpit now as it was.

            Ernie had discovered a few years back, that he was now beyond all such partisan emotion. He had gone back to Dieppe, to that place of horror. His son had suggested it to him, and reluctantly, Ernie had agreed to go. It was important to Ricky that they share in it together. While there, on the cold, windswept beach, he had seen another gray and grizzled man wandering about, looking here and there, not registering the present, but recalling the past, as Ernie himself was doing. Rick had gone to get them coffee or tea, to warm his old bones. Ernie walked over, and shook hands with the man. “Ernest,” he said by way of introduction, “Royal Hamilton Light Infantry.”

            The man shook heartily. “Hans,” he replied, with a thick Germanic accent, “Ze Ninety First Panzers.”

            Ernie had recoiled. After the war, he had hated the Germans, hated them all, no matter whom or what they had been. When a family had moved to his street, Ernie had made it a point to ignore them, to revile them. There had been no forgiveness in him. Hans saw his motion, and smiled sadly, nodding. He understood. “It waz here” he said, “vhere I lost zis.” He pointed to his chest, over his heart. “I shoot,” Hans made the motion, like he was holding a rifle, “boom, boom, boom, and many Tommys, zhey fall. It kills inside of me too.” He finished, staring out at sea, eyes bright.

            Ernie stared. What did this Kraut want from him, forgiveness? No, it was not that. It had been war, there was nothing to forgive. Ernie knew given the chance back then that he would have shot Hans, just as Hans had quite possibly shot Dilby or the others. Not sure what else to say, Ernie said, “My insides died that day too.” Hans again nodded. And then something remarkable had happened. The two aged warriors shook hands again, firmly, as men. And they had smiled.

            When Rick found Ernie, he was alone, but he was far away. “You know Ricky,” he said, “a part of me died here that day. All the good things, anyway, the innocence, the naivety, the youth…the wonder. Men are savage beasts, capable of such horror, and yet we are also capable of such remarkable kindness, even to an old enemy.” And he looked off up the strand where there walked another gray haired man, moving away from the father and son.

            Ernie was not about to explain to this young man that what he had found then was the belief that to support the troops necessitated a lack of support for the other side, who were equally human, equally good, and equally bad. If he wore the yellow he was saying “I hope that Canadian soldiers shoot to kill, while those we fight die.” This was not something Ernie was willing to ever say, not since that windy day in Dieppe when he had found a friend hidden behind a Germanic accent.

            Another youth (all men younger than fifty being youthful to Ernest nowadays) on another day had scolded him for saying such. “How would you explain that to the mother of a dead soldier?” he had demanded to know of Ernie. Ernie had smiled sadly, much like Hans had done when Ernie had made to pull away, and said “How would you explain that to the mother of a dead Afghan?” The man had stormed away in a huff. It was funny how those who had never tasted of the bitter draught of war were so quick to condone its savagery, and forgive its excesses, so long as its excesses were committed against some nebulous, fearful “other” in lands unknown.

            Ernie turned to look back up at the stage. The poison eyed politico was wrapping up to sedate and appropriately solemn and muted applause. He was looking pleased with himself, as was usual. This man had an uncanny ability to look smug most of the time, a feature Ernie found galling in the extreme. No doubt he had successfully married the image of the brave World War veteran with the Afghan conqueror. This was his favourite past time it seemed to Ernie, especially once the leaves began changing, and the summer season turned to autumn.

            Lions led by donkeys, he thought, looking again to the leaders of the nation, filing away, having paid their public debt to the fallen, garnering votes and applause for how well they successfully tugged on the heart strings of a bygone generation. He thought of Dilby, and of Hans, of some unnamed Afghan bleeding out into the dry hillside, a Canadian bullet lodged in his intestines, of himself in that damned boat, nearly pissing himself in fear. All of us, Lions led by donkeys.

Eastbound, Down

                The lights on the North Shore shine like stars off in the distance. It is night, and I am approaching Riviere du Loup, a milestone of sorts, a bend in my road. Their refracted glow bobs on the waves of the great river, dancing under their twins overhead. My journey east has been defined by waterways. From the banks of the Grand, to the big water of Ontario, then beyond, to the arterial river which opened this land so many centuries before to European interests. It is fitting that these ancient thoroughfares still direct the flow of human traffic, albeit it to a lesser degree. I am a modern day Voyageur, east bound in autumn, canoe traded for a metal chariot. The rivers flow as the land dictates. The newer tarmac routes tend to be straighter, more direct, less fulfilling.

 I skirt Montreal to the south, seeing for the first time the hulking mass of Mount Royal squatting above the shimmering glass towers in its entirety. I am glad to be missing it. It is a city which does little to please the eye as you pass through it on aging highways suspended above the ebb and flow of daily life. Night comes quickly in November, especially as you go eastward, racing away from the sun. This means I see little of the south shore as I drive. I have seen it before, the  narrow Habitant farmsteads, the St. Lawrence, the scattered bulges of a distant Massif, like broken teeth jutting from the soil, a massive reminder to the power of a glacier in recession. That does not mean I won’t miss the sweeping vistas; quite the opposite in fact. That I am familiar with the scenery means I miss it all the more. I have no intention of stopping, though. I have much too far to go, and too short a time to do it in. Stopping is a luxury I cannot afford.

The darkness brings with it memories. It is late in the season for colours, all the autumnal hymns have largely been sung. Blazing reds, and violent oranges have been replaced by muted copper, and drab browns. That sets my mood in a melancholy tone, which does not displease me. Autumn is a time for reflections of this sort. I am running east, in part to escape my memories, in part to embrace them. It is a confusing juxtaposition of the mind. The self-same remembrances which offer me succor also scourge me. Remembered eyes, brown ones filled with pain and questions, green with anger and disappointment. In the darkness they catch me back up.

Grand Manan, the island at the mouth of Fundy, calls to me. I am headed there with only my faithful hound dog for company. He is a constant companion, having been with me through all of the upheavals in my life. His liquid golden eyes are gentle, and carry an old soul within. Wolf eyes, I have been told. I owe this aging canine a great deal. There had been a time when things were at their blackest, those golden eyes, trusting and loving me, pulled me back from the ragged edge. Wolf eyes perhaps. This island is a sort of refuge. I feel at peace here. The ghosts of my past do not snap at my heels when I am there. It resonates within me. My mother believes that when we find such places, places that speak to the deepest parts of our souls, it is an indication of a connection with a past life. This could well be it; I have no better explanation. I just know that some places resonate more deeply than others. Grand Manan is one such place.

I turn south onto highway 189, away from the St. Lawrence and Quebec. New Brunswick awaits. I am lost in memory now, recalling faces and deeds. Ted and Bobby teaching me to shoot, the mantra “Red means Dead” on their lips. The payoff to those lessons only a few weeks later, when two moose crest the rise above my hiding place out in the cold of the John Black, and old Jimmy’s voice coming in over the walkie talkie, “Shoot the cocksuckers!” The cow going down in my scope after a single crack of the rifle, the calf falling after two more retorts. Slaps on the back, a great many hands to shake. Winter meat to fill twelve freezers.

I am aware that time is moving, although my own life had been trapped in a terrible stasis for a number of years. It was the ten year anniversary of my homecoming from Europe not a month gone. A decade having slipped by. It seems like so much time, and yet like no time at all. I am not that same young man, not now, not after everything, and yet I am. Or I want to be. I miss the smiles that came so easily for that other Geoff, I miss his easy manner and open heart. Is hoping that he will return enough to make it so? That is a question I am not equipped yet to answer. Time will tell, as is so often the case.

Road weariness overtakes me after I cross the border into New Brunswick. The clock changes ahead an hour, the Maritimes having been officially reached. I pull off the road and get a room. Sleep takes me. I awake to a crystalline sky, and cold. Frost rims the world. It is bracing. I note that none of the trees here have any remembrance of fall colour. The birch and poplars stand skeletal, white and bare. The conifers offer a show of green, made more severe by the empty limbs around them. Smoke issues from the mills in the river valley, plumes of white made greater by the cold. This is a truly Canadian scene. The memories are pushed to the back of my mind, tucked away once more, as I enjoy the gifts of the road. An empty highway, and bracing sun, songs on the radio.

I make good time to Blacks Harbour. My spot on the ferry is assured, booked in advance. I step from the car, leashing the aptly named Khayyam. I let the smell of the sea wash over me. It is the first breathe of salted air I have had in over a year. It soothes me instantly. I am excited, not only for the travel ahead. This has the feel of a homecoming. In a way it is, this is my safe haven, my One Particular Harbour.

I will be on the Island alone but for my wolf eyed friend for a week. A week with nothing but my memories and a pen. The long nights do not worry me, I am eager to let my mind wander, to allow the twins which chase me to scourge and succor as the case may be. I am eastbound. I am alone to find myself again.

On the Aroma of a Garden

               Today was a great day. It was the first real kiss of a golden summer promised but that has yet to arrive. Walking my dog down an old country lane, rutted beyond vehicular access, the red winged black birds sang loudly, echoed by distant frogs in the grips of spring’s amorous fervour. A friend had just departed my house. Her presence is always a welcomed edition to my day. On a spring day as full of summer’s promise as this, her green eyes sparkled in the afternoon light.

                Grilled meat and bird song, flowers awakening and yearning for the sun, these are portents of lazy dog days soon to arrive. I found myself wishing for the re-emergence of the catalpa, whose scent overpowers the late spring nights. It always makes me remember Greece, which is in itself an oddity. There were no catalpas in Greece that I can recall. Their distinctive scent played no role in the tapestry that was woven into my memory. Perhaps it is simply a floral scent at night, potent and vigorous, that triggers this memory. That is certainly possible. Greece, dry though it was in high summer, exploded with blooms. And so, the presence of a garden’s heady perfume awakens my mind. It is a good working hypothesis. So much of Greece can sear the soul, so this does not surprise me.

                I recall lying out, under a canopy of bougainvillea, the star’s wheeling overhead. Brad and I were in Olympia, the locale of the ancient Olympic Games, and the birthplace of the modern. In the distance, mighty thunder clouds massed, preparing to assault the Peloponnese like a legion Athenian hoplites. Later that same night the storm would break over us, forcing a retreat to the safety of Camping Diana’s covered patio, as our terraced tenting space filled with an overabundance of water, the ground too beaten and dry to absorb the torrent. But at that moment, the storm was a rumour, nothing more than a whisper of chilled air hidden in a chorus of floral breezes. The pink blossoms that crowded the pergola above my head were alive in the night air, their aroma more than a match for our worn out boots, and drying socks, freshly laundered in a campground sink.

                Earlier in the day we had wandered the site of Olympia. I had a minor advantage over Brad, as I had studied sport in the ancient world. For me, walking amongst the faded glory, past leaning pillars and collapsed plinths, it was a near religious experience. I knew that the great ivory statue of Zeus, stolen from the temple to the same god, was one of the seven Wonders of the Ancient World. I knew that Milo of Kroton had bent his head to pass under the victory arch in six straight Olympiads, head bedecked in laurels, hair dripping olive oil; a man whose exploits were never to be paralleled in either the ancient nor modern Games.  Philip of Macedon, an empire builder, and father to the great Alexander, captured non-martial glory with his horses, his quadriga winning him an athlete’s immortality at the Games.

                We ran the stade, feet kicking up dust, the only spectators a stand of straight backed cypress trees, and a collection assorted tourists fresh off of their bus. Wandering away from the ancient site, we rounded a bend, and saw a lone pillar in a quiet stand of trees. Baron du Coubertin, the father of the Modern Olympics, in memorial here amongst the cypress needles, a solemn place not made for pomp or celebration. I wondered then what the Baron would think if he were to see his dream now, what his amateur ideal had morphed into as the years rolled on by; a circus of money and politics, ideals as faded as the fallen temples and little remembered athletes who graced this place with their blood and sweat.

                Luke and Carmen, an Australian couple who shared their time with us as we wandered Olympia, took us for supper in town. A taverna, where grilled meat filled the air with charred aromas. A spirited game of Uno and a few bottles of retsina, that acrid and potent wine found only in Hellas, were to follow on the patio of the campground (the same patio where Brad and I were to seek shelter later that night as the storm broke over us with a violence unfamiliar in the Peloponnese).

                Always, acting as an undercurrent, was the scent of flowers. Oleander, bougainvillea, blossoms bursting, nights filled with their song. As summer awakens now, still with the faint whiff of cold in the air, and flowers peek out from their long rests, I think of Greece. I always do, which is a glad thing. So much of Greece can sear your soul, but not all burns need be feared.

The blossom breathes its

Kiss unto the night; alive
With wild promise, sing

On a Grecian plain,
Beneath stars aflame with life,
Shrouded in bloom, breathe.
(“On the Aroma of a Garden”, G. Ludkin 2007)

What is in a Name?

               CBC Radio Two Drive featured a new song by Canadian singer/songwriter Raine Maida recently. The song is entitled Montreal. During the refrain, Raine sings about the “cold winds of Montreal”.  No doubt Mr. Maida had something very specific in mind when he penned the lyrics, something personal and beyond the scope of my experience. And so, my mind did what everyone’s does – it took those words and applied its own meaning.  It didn’t matter what Raine himself felt or envisioned; I saw a canoe, laden with furs, straining up the river, hard men sun burnt, smeared in bear grease, returning home after a trading season deep in the Canadian interior.

                As this is almost certainly something that Raine Maida was not thinking of when he wrote Montreal, it made me think about how people can hear something – a song, a place name, a poem – and apply their own meaning to that one thing. Paris is such a place. Almost every person can hear that name, and think of something unique, something that Paris means to them, much as the winds of Montreal made me think of a band of voyageurs. Paris might call to mind thoughts of the Eiffel Tower, the Arc du Triumph, Notre Dame, a Left Bank café. It may even make you think of a hunchback, or a bereted mime. For me, it calls to mind a bookshop, a place of wonder and good will.

                I did not think much of the City of Love when Brad and I first arrived. It was big, noisy, and busy. We made our way past a variety of posh shops that dotted the Champs Elysees, and came out to Napoleon’s triumphant arch. Crossing the river, we nosed our way past African street hawkers who peddled cheap trinkets at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. Stopping in a café, we drank lukewarm coffee, breathing in the fumes of diesel Citroen’s and Peugeot’s as they drove past. It was a bustling modern city, whose iconic landmarks were so over advertised that they seemed to lack all nostalgic appeal.

                More than a little disheartened, Brad and I decided to let our feet wander, and we stowed the tourist map in our packsack.  Our feet, of their own accord, led us into the Latin Quarter, saving Paris, casting it in a new light. The quiet lanes lazed in the hot summer sun. People drifted, not without purpose, but without the frenzy found elsewhere in the sprawl. It was relaxed. Brad stopped to watch a gaggle of octogenarian’s battle it out in a heated game of bocce that dominated a small park lawn. We wound up along the Seine, and saw Notre Dame, with its statue of Charlemagne across the river. More impressive even than that, we walked into Shakespeare and Co., and found Paris.

                Shakespeare and Co. is an English language bookshop, run by the elderly George Whitman. He was a one time traveller, and had once attempted to walk around the world. Although he did not make the circumnavigation, he did find untold kindnesses along the way. Knowing that he could never really pay back the people for their generosity, George decided to pay it forward, opening his bookshop on the Seine, and letting backpackers stay free of charge. The shop is a ragtag place, piled high with books, every spare cubby crammed with paper, but also cots and beds; these makeshift book shelves are cleared nightly, and George allows new generations of world-walkers to rest weary heads free of charge. In return, these thankful people work a shift in the shop, helping George in the running of his dream. Literary giants the likes of Henry Miller have graced the shop, shoulder to shoulder with other, less celebrated peoples.

                That system of kindness was a breath of fresh air. After hours of browsing, we emerged renewed into the street, laden with copies of Joseph Conrad. Sadly, the relative fame of the bookstore meant that it was beyond capacity with occupants, Brad and I forced to stay where we were at the camping ground in the Bois du Boulogne, but that was a minor detail. We began to retrace our steps, and saw the city in a whole new way. We noticed the pace of life beyond the automobiles. Dusk was falling, and we stopped to buy some provisions. Parisian staples of bread, cheese, meat and wine filled our arms, as we crossed over the river, to sit at the very tip of the Isle of Cite, Notre Dame and Charlemagne staring down at us over our shoulders. We watched the sun hover above the apartment blocks as we ate and drank. People from all over the city appeared, finding their own quiet spots along the river, also laden with food and drink. Friends clasped hands, lovers embraced. Time seemed to slow with the descent of the sun. People picnicked, enjoying the gloaming in the company of those they loved. On a foot bridge, we watched a group of Africans start a drum circle, taking turns to dance. Further down the bank, a young man serenaded his girl with a guitar.

                Our meal finished we walked on, hugging the Left Bank. We found our way back to the Eiffel Tower, which we had viewed so cynically earlier in the day. It was lit up in the falling dark. Just as along the Seine, people congregated here as well, to watch the sunset, and enjoy the comforts of wine and friendship. A whole city slowing at days end to enjoy life. It was more than an impression; it was a vibe that we could feel tangibly hanging in the air. As it was an unremarkable weekday evening, we knew that this must be a daily occurrence, this time taking exercise to squeeze the joy from life. How very remarkable it was, how very French, this priority paid to friends and wine, and the combination of the two.

                I like to sit on my own deck as the gloaming falls, and reflect with some vin du pays. I think of Paris, that slowing of modern bustle, and the awakening of Old World values. Whenever I hear the name, my mind whirls away across an ocean, placing me in the midst of a cluttered dusty bookshop, where kindness to strangers is the order of the day. I see old men in a park, laughing and cursing in equal measure as metal bocce balls clank like artillery rounds. I see a radio tower once slated for demolition, now lit up in the night as lovers embrace at its feet, the symbol of a city famed for love. I hear African rhythms and the flashing of smiles as men dance away the frustrations of a day selling knickknacks to tourists. I taste cheap wine, and value good friends. That is what Paris calls to my mind. But that is not at all important. What is important is what Paris calls to your own.

To Conquer the Mountain

“Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the Pit from pole to pole,”

 

                Whenever I hear that opening line from William Henley’s “Invictus”, I think about Cader Idris. Not because I came across the fabled Welsh mountain in the dead of night, nor even that it was once believed to be the gateway to the Underworld. It is the very stone of the place; black, jagged, sombre. The stone has the effect to appear night made solid, a darkness of the earth. It was easy for Brad and I to see why it was thought to be a place of dark magic and sombre dead souls.

                It was a bit of a long shot that we had made it to the mountain at all. The day before, we had slept in a farmer’s field just outside of Hereford, and had intended to go on to Shrewsbury, skirting Wales along the Welsh Marches. But as our train rolled into the Shrewsbury station, we looked out over a grim city, all unwashed stone, and soot filled air. It was a dirty, hard place. We decided to keep moving. As a descendent of a Welsh bloodline, I had a hankering to see the land of my forebears. It had been a bastion of Celtic civilization, and a thorn in the side of the English for centuries. As such it was a place that really leant itself to the imagination. Knowing something of the mountain from doing a lot of reading on the Celts, and also from books as fanciful as the Prydain Chronicles and Susan Cooper’s “The Dark is Rising” series, it seemed to be a natural destination for a young man in search of a little known heritage.

                The desire to reach the mountain, and the reality of getting to it were not exactly conducive to one another, however. In Aberystwyth, the resort town on the seaside, we took a bus into the mountains. There was some confusion on the part of the driver as to where exactly this particular mountain was. In modern times, when it was discovered that Snowdon was actually the taller peak in Wales, Cader Idris seemed to lose some of its mojo. He made inquiries on our behalf, and informed us that we needed to depart the bus in the tiny village of Mynffordd, which sat at the foot of the (not as famous as we thought) mountain. It was evening, with a rain threatened sky. And there, cloud-shouldered, black as the sins of man, was the mountain. The bus rumbled on, the driver waving as he went. Brad and I hoisted our packs, and set off into Mynffordd looking for a bed. Silence seemed to be a part of the place, a certain indescribable eeriness hanging on the branches of the trees.  The local inn and the B&B proved insufficient to our needs, in so far as they were priced well beyond our meagre daily budget. We wandered back towards the main road and the mountain. There, at the foot, lay a farmer’s sheep paddock, with a sign advertising camping. We looked to the sky and the promise of rain, and then to our wallets. Our wallets won. Amongst the sheep, we found a sheltered spot under a tree, which kept some of the now falling rain off of us as we cooked our dinner of spaghetti and canned minced beef.

                The following day dawned glumly. The sky was low, a ceiling of dark cloud which spilled rain down on us heavily. It made no matter, today was the day we were to conquer the mountain. Rain gear keeping the worst of the wet off our skin, we reached the trailhead, and began our ascent. The trail wended its way through forest and blasted dark stone, the air heavy with the smell of rain and wet loamy earth. Sheep bleated all around us, and some brave few skittered before us on the trail. Brad and I began to think that rain and sheep were omnipresent in this land. Coming up out of the trees, we found ourselves in a long hanging valley. The peak of Idris entered the cloud above us, its dark face hidden from view. Ahead lay a lake, shockingly clear, deep and still. Llyn Cau, full of brooding watchfulness, disturbed only by the falling rain. The trail came to the shoreline, and then petered out. A lone brazen lamb ran towards and then away from us. It seemed to be following a path of sorts, and so we followed, skirting the lake, looking for a way upwards. At the far end of the water, we stood puzzled, not seeing a route forward. The sky was lowering, and the mist was thick. I looked up from where we were, knowing that if we just went that way, we would reach the summit we were longing for. I made a suggestion, to which Brad agreed. We began to climb. It was not a sheer cliff face, but it was steep, steeper than we had anticipated. We made our way doggedly, on hands and feet, clinging to grassy hummocks to keep from toppling over backwards. Brad cursed me roundly the higher we got. The Llyn Cau lay below, looking cold and clear, reflecting the low clouds. Soon it and its valley were lost to view as we entered the shroud. Stumbling on, we sensed the lessening of the slope. The summit was near. Our route intersected the trail, and we followed it, safe now on level ground. Nothing could be seen beyond the deathly black rock immediately to hand. Finally, wet and tired, we saw a cairn ahead which marked the summit of the mountain. Placing our own stones, we yelled our triumph into the wind. The mountain responded. The rain increased on the instant, and the wind howled with a thousand angry voices. The mist became thicker, and as we went forward, we soon lost the trail yet again. We stuck to the ridge line, knowing that it would descend eventually. Despite our gear, which was of good quality, we were soon sodden to our bones. We experienced fear that, if we didn’t get down soon, we could be in danger.

                Eventually, the ridge line dipped noticeably, and we knew that we were heading down. We made it, about five miles away from where we had begun our ascent, but safely, if wet. Bedraggled, we hung our clothes under the tree beside our tent, not really very hopeful that they would dry in any way. A voice called to us, and we turned. While we had been out playing mountaineers, a caravan had pulled into the camp, and a kindly looking elderly couple beckoned us over. They offered to hang our clothes in their camper, and gave us hot tea to drink. The Pipers were the best sort of people, offering kindness to a couple of drowned rats as we were. Mrs. Piper laced our tea with healthy tots of whiskey, which warmed our bones.

                Dry, warm, and fortified, we decided to treat ourselves to a meal at the inn. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still full of the threat of a further deluge. Without the sun, which had set, and with the absence of moon or stars, the night was dark, made greater by the hulking presence of menace that was the mountain. Not a religious man by nature, I sensed that this was a font of spirituality, older and sterner by far than Father Christmas and the Easter Bunny. Damp silence pervaded. It would not have shocked me had some manner of Fey creature bounded into our path. Perhaps it had been our experience with nature’s fickle whims on the climb, or the physical dark of the rock that played on my mind, but I felt an other-worldliness in the night. It was the first such quasi-religious experience I had ever had. Something deep in the fabric of that sombre Welsh landscape struck a chord within me. And although buses and trains soon carried us away to other places and other experiences, that sense of being humbled by some unknown thing has stayed with me. It may be a resonance of old bloodlines. That or an over-active imagination.

                Needless to say, I “thank[ed] whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul.”

Scorched Lemons

                Sweat ran down my face in torrents. Stinging my eyes, dripping off my nose as I trudged slowly up the steep hill. The moon, near full, lit the night, the air still, heavy, heat merciless and without surcease. The south of France was on fire, in some cases quite literally, as Brad and I discovered when we tried to take the train along the Riviera. A wild fire had closed the track beyond Monaco, forcing us all onto buses as we made our way to Menton, a town famous for its lemons and beaches. The delay of several hours as the tracks burned and our subsequent loading onto the road meant our arrival in Menton was pushed back until midnight. A mercy, in this case. The sun was a hammer blow, the night little better.

                As Brad and I set up camp, the grounds rather inconveniently located atop an expanse of hill, affording a stunning view of the Mediterranean to the south, ancient lemon groves to the north, we decided to forgo the tent, and flopped down on our mats. The air was pregnant with heat, as still as death. Sleep was not easy in coming.

                The sounds of the market woke us. That and the blazing orb of the sun, which was throwing its heat at the earth angrily. The meagre shade of the olive tree we slept under offered little in the way of respite. We did what any young men would do. We bought a handful of local lemons, and a six pack of cheap French beer, before making our way to the beach. France may be famous for wine, but on a day of record heat, its beer is to be much recommended. Squeezing fresh lemons into the small bottles, we came to enjoy the sun, stretched out on the rocks. In the words of Lawrence Durrell, we were lithe bodies of the young, in search of a fellow nakedness. Such a day spent in relaxation seemed to us to be what the hot summer in the Riviera was all about.

                Menton was a quiet town. It lacked the frenzied bustle of its more famous neighbours, which suited us just fine. After our morning of libations and bathing, we backtracked up the coast, daring the still smoking train line to return Monaco. The Principality, one of the smallest nations in the world, made a tremendous impression on us. It spoke of wealth, an opulence reflected by the yachts that rode quietly at anchor in the harbour. We walked the grounds of the Monte Carlo, even braved the entry hall, but were permitted no further. Our board shorts and ragged backpacker appearance told the doormen that we lacked the funds to partake in the games held therein.

                Instead, we sat in the garden outside of that cathedral of wealth, and made sandwiches, content. We then explored the harbour, moving amongst the ships. Some, like Prince Rainier’s yacht, the size of cruise liners, others sleek sailing ships of wood. The breakwater sat at the harbour mouth, a tiered wall of concrete. We lay out in the sun, again enjoying the sweat that poured off of us, cooling ourselves by diving into the aqua marine depths. The water was cool, and deep, crystal made liquid.

                The sun, still angry with heat, began to sink to its westward rest. Brad and I climbed up away from the harbour. An ancient embattlement surrounded a garden of fronds. The moon, still blazing near to its fullness, hung over the old stones. We uncorked a cheap bottle of vin du pays. A night breeze stirred the palms, breaking the heavy stillness of heat. We finished our bottle, and made our way down into the tunnels that held the train station. The tracks were again closed due to fire. A bus trundled us to our camping ground. Again we climbed the steep slope, to lie hot and sweating under the stars. A scent of lemons reached me, mingled with the saltiness of the sea. This was a good place to be, on the seaside in the heat of the French night.

Northern Reflections or Thoughts on Poutine

                A friend of mine takes marketing in school. Recently, a local restaurateur came into their class seeking help with the promotion of his poutinerie, which has its sights set on an expansion into the United States. Oddly enough, “poutine” does not exist south of the border. The name must be too “French” for American sensibilities. Rather, this man will call his product “loaded fries”. A truly lost opportunity. In a culinary world devoid of Canadiana, poutine stands alone, for better or for worse, as distinctly Canadian. The only other offerings we can lay claim to in the way of pemmican and bannock lack a certain modern appeal.

                This recent discussion, combined with an afternoon stroll through a snow-bound cemetery, chaffed by wind, pine boughs drooped and laden with white, caused me to think on Canada, and our cultural treasures. Unlike with food, we have a great many icons to which we can turn to, none more so than the famed artists of the Group of Seven. Landscape painters of great renown, they captured scenes of great beauty, both grand and severe. In a time of sought identity, they painted a nation.

                The sweep of shoreline along the Superior coast called to them, and the artists returned several times, taking the train north in a series of trips now referred to as the “Algoma Train Trips”. Having taken myself a lonesome January drive along highway 17 to Thunder Bay, I can see why they were so drawn to these rugged scenes.

                Ancient, wind-tormented pines cling like spindled gargoyles to jagged bare rock; pale stands of birch shiver nakedly in ever deepening piles of snow. Frozen granite lit by a half moon falls away from the highway to kiss the cold-darkened waters of the lake below. It is a harsh and unforgiving landscape, as severe as it is beautiful.  Land of hard lines well suited to a painters brush.

                Even today, that north shore drive is remote, steeped in isolation. Once the road veers north in the Sault, you drive alone through cold wilderness. Towns may dot the highway, but not with any regularity. Each conclave is unique, a testament to the hard men and women who opened this nation. Wawa with its goose and mills, Schreiber and its rail yards, Rossport lonely by the water, and Terrace Bay crowning its hill.

                My drive through these places was brief. Thunder Bay was calling. It was also sad. Shuttered mills and derelict mines greet you, rail yards with three trains, but space for twenty, sit cold and unused. Even Thunder Bay itself, the urban centre of the North West, suffers, with 90% of its mills closed down, and the grain freight now heading for the open waters of Churchill and the North-East passage. The people in these (what have become hard-luck) towns persist, however. Hard places have bred hard and unyielding people.

                The drive itself is long, 17 hours from the steel mills of the Hammer to the rocks of the Sleeping Giant. To put that time frame into proper perspective, it once took me 16 hours to drive from home to the Floridian border. A combination of ice, snow, and mad truckers makes the drive treacherous. Jeremy, as is so often the case, was my co-pilot for this particular northern jaunt. Sadly, flu, or possibly a tainted hot ham sandwich in Wawa laid him low. He was out of commission, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the sweep of coastline.

                Night lashed out suddenly, all darkness and snow. The vista shrinks too little beyond what my headlights can reveal. I found myself worrying about moose, and wondering how the big rigs can keep their breakneck pace around icy bends without fear of fauna or road conditions.

                At a pull off, I stopped the car. My eyes were tired from the strain of looking to the shoulder for the glimmer of feral retina. My legs ache from riding hard on the pedals. Jer was fast asleep, bundled in what appeared to be all of his clothes. The snow was so cold that it cracked audibly underfoot. A transport whizzed by, and then there was nothing. The silence was heavy, laden, the air so crisp it iced my nostrils, and sent icy fingers seeking down into my lungs. Naked granite loomed above and below, crackling in the chill. Superior lay vast into the distance. Green fire flared briefly in the sky. A momentary shimmer of the Borealis, dreamlike and fey. I could almost have wished for some wolf-song, but that wish was never to be realised that night. My fingers become numb. Despite the dreamy beauty of this remote place, it is a harsh night. The cold has death in it. Despite the harshness of the night, there was beauty there too.

                As I walk the snow-laden Haldimand cemetery, I think long on that north shore drive. I think on a painting seen and loved. I think on beauty and severity, the marriage that exists between the two in this northern land. I think on our icons and our artists who could capture Canada with a stroke of paint. I think on cold and a snow weighed Jack pine that lets fall its burden in a gust of wind. And of course, I think on poutine.

A Note of Home

                A very good and dear friend told me recently that the West Coast Island she had emigrated to was beginning to feel like home. She was settling in, and becoming comfortable with her life in this new place. Our conversation has stayed with me, and stirred up a whirlwind of emotions within myself. Mostly, it has caused me to reflect on this notion of “home”.

                One cannot travel abroad without thoughts of home, a place of origin, a place where we can centre ourselves. It is a rather vague notion. It can describe a nation, a province, a city, or a building. It can transcend the physical and exist meta-physically as an ideal. It can refer to companionship. And it can be all of these things at one time. It is, in short, not an easily definable concept, and yet this notion of home resides within us all.

                Constantine Cavafy, the Alexandrian poet, stated in his poem “Ithaca”, that home was the place where all our voyages begin, and the place where we will return to after many years away. It is the one place that gives us everything we are, asking only that we return at the end of our travels. It “gives us the beautiful journey.”

                Robert Frost was far more pragmatic, when he hypothesized in his own epic work “Death of the Hired Man”, that home is a place where they have to take you in, as you have nowhere else to go. Silas, the aged hired man, came home, not to the place of his birth, but to the place where he knew they would take him, ragged and worn out as he was.

                Both of these notions of home have merit of their own, strike a chord deep within me, and yet both remain incomplete as a definition. The aborigines of Australia have a belief that our lives are songs, and we live out the lines of our song as we go through our days. When my own song had struck a discordant note in the North of Ontario, I was forced back south to the home of my youth. My family took me in, Silas-like. I had nowhere else to go, so they had to take me, or so I thought. When I voiced this thought to my Father, he was surprised. “No, we didn’t have to take you. We chose to.” There was comfort in that, a weary confidence that I was no Silas, that my life was not a worn tapestry yet. There was hope. Something closer to Cavafy’s Ithaca.

                Ultimately, I suppose that “home” is something both broadly defined, and yet deeply personal. An old folk-ism states that “home is where the heart is”, but that is not entirely true. To me, it is many things. It is an iron sky at gloaming, stretching away from the escarpment, to meet seamlessly with a cold steel lake out beyond the steel mills. The plumes of industry belching into the sky, the night fires blazing at the mouths of the stacks. Seeing the beauty of Hamilton in that scene. It is the smell of river mud after the spring floods have spilled the Grand over her banks. It is the roar of a black and gold crowd watching as Ozzy splits the uprights from 54 yards. It is beer with friends, and good conversation filled with laughter. It is knowing that here, be it Ithaca, a New England farm, Steel Town, or a lazy Haldimand twilight, here you have a place. That here your life resonates with song as you sing out your lines and days.

                I often long to be abroad, to live from my backpack, on the road, a traveller. But when I am away, it is this notion of home that keeps me moving into the wind, allowing my feet to search out fresh lines of song.

Five Days in September - A Grand Manan Adventure

                September 18

The rock falls away silently under my outstretched hand. We had scurried up the cliff face ahead of the rising tide, like so many lost goats. The boulder, a big hulking monster that was sure to be stable due to its sheer size, only it wasn’t. It dislodged, and careened down past me, inches from disaster. Death, the thought occurs to me as the boulder smashes into oblivion on an even larger anvil of stone far below.

                Me: holy fuck.

                Tyson’s head appears above, having already reached the summit. Jeremy is there, right beside him. The fear in their eyes is sure to be reflected back at them in my own. Hands extend. I find my legs are a bit weak in the fear that the ledge I am standing on will follow the boulder that had crashed into it.

                Brad: Everyone ok? What was that?

                He had been scaling a dozen metres over. Luckily not behind me. He didn’t see the fall. Tyson did. He said as much, told me he knew the rock would miss me, but it was close. He indicates my pants, the stain of dirt left behind by the falling stone.  It was a close call.

                Following the trail now, forgoing the adrenalin rush of scampering far below just ahead of the rising waves, we come to a sign. Danger: High Cliffs, it reads. Indeed.

 

                September 19

                Dad had suggested we rent bikes. There is a place on the island for that, 22 bucks a day. Money well spent if you have the ambition to pedal. Crossing over the bay to Whitehead makes for interesting viewing. The men working the boat are going about their routines methodically, the same motions they perform 12 times a day. Must be achingly monotonous. I say as much to the man coiling a hawser near me. He grins, showing a ruined cavern of a mouth.

                Man: Nah, you get used to it. This here is a great job. Hard to land a plum like this one.

                The sea does not exactly race by the small ferry. Its blunt prow surges through the waves as gracefully as a bull battering its way through a tea shop. It is new, all fresh paint and greased gears. The islanders from little Whitehead are proud of her. They should be; she is after all their connection to the outside world; the only way the 150 or so souls have of gaining access to the larger world: a 15 car ferry. That is isolation.

                The going is hard. There are not an abundance of roads on Whitehead. About 5 miles worth. But there are untold ATV trails, and it is down these we race away on under our own steam. Bogs slow us, as do fallen trees, and wayward stumps. We push on, ever deeper. It is an Island after all, and a small one to boot. Can’t be that much coast till we find the road on the other side.

                Brad: I am glad we did it this way. Look at this.

                He indicates the sweep of coast with a wave of his arm. The salt smell is heavy. A lone gull wheels in the distance. The Long Point Lighthouse sits solitary on its prominence, we the only people within sight above it. Pell mell we ride across the wet sand. The legs scream, but in a good way. It is good to feel them work, feel alive. Tyson tries to convince Brad to take a dip. Fundy water is notoriously cold. Brad thinks on it, and then declines. Afraid of chaffing on the ride back is the official version. We know that is hogs wallop, and he knows we know. His grin becomes sheepish.

                We find the road. We knew we would. But find, as we pull into the small village pier, that the ferry has made its final run. Missed her by 10 minutes. There is a 7:30 run, isn’t there, we press. The girl at the counter, good looking, open, pure Down Easter, nods, but informs us we need to call ahead for that. We are cell phoneless. She nods again, then picks up the phone.

Kristy: Mel? This is Kristy. I have 4 guys here on bikes. They missed the 4:30. Ok, Thanks.

The crossing back is even more interesting. It is us, and one car, on the whole boat. Enough to make me feel almost special.

September 20

Tyson: Who is this?

He has picked up my CD case, Jack Johnson live. He seems to like it. I am surprised. Not what I would have thought. He always seemed more of a classic rock guy. Even more shocking, Jeremy chimes in, saying he doesn’t mind it. He hates Jack. What is going on? It must be the East Coast vibe, that laid back, Laissez Faire attitude that has overtaken us. Going back to the grind of Ontario will be harder as a result. The Maritimes grow on the soul, gentle moss on the rock of a life, smoothing the harder edges.

Flipping through the album cover, Tyson comes to the picture of Paula Fuga, the Hawaiian singer. Her voice comes in over the speakers in the corner: angelic. Tyson laughs, looking again at the picture in his hands. He is having trouble with the voice juxtaposed by the image.

Tyson: Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly cuts you right to the bone.

Brad laughs so hard, beer threatens to come out his nose. He doubles over, knocking a few of the beer cans down, ruining the aluminum palace we have been constructing on the table since the early afternoon. A day spent in drink amongst friends is a day well spent, Jeremy murmurs. It is hard for anyone to disagree. We go back to listening to Jack, the only sound the ukulele in Paula’s hands, and the fizzing crack of a fresh beer.

September 21

Jeremy makes a face of disgust. His pinched cheeks become even more pronounced. The Fish chowder he has been looking forward to does not meet his expectations.

Jeremy: Too many potatoes, not nearly enough fish. For 11 bucks a bowl, I want some fish.

I hope the waitress/owner of the Fundy House doesn’t hear him, even if he isn’t lying. My food has yet to appear on the table, and it wouldn’t do for the kitchen staff to punish me for his outburst. Saliva and boogers make a shitty side to any meal. It is hard to imagine the sweet old lady stooping to that, but having worked in my fair share of kitchens, I know the drill. Never, ever piss off the people who handle your food. That is common sense.

Luckily the haddock is delicious, and seemingly fluid free.

September 22.

Dark Harbour is remote. The most remote place on the Island of Grand Manan. A small fishing outpost known for its dried seaweed, Dulse, and more recently, farmed salmon. To get to it, you drive along the only road that cuts through the interior of the isle. Deep bush surrounds the vehicle. One can imagine the wealth of deer. Getting a freezer full of winter meat would not be a challenge here. The creek that wells up in some woodland spring then wends its way to the coast has cut a gorge over the millennia it has been flowing. The road hugs the precipice without guardrails. Disturbingly, the gorge is a repository of debris; old refrigerators, stoves, mattresses. The dump will take all of it for free, yet here it sits, staining the otherwise pristine. It is the first time the Island and its people have let me down. I don’t like that.

The sun is setting. Red is beginning to stain the horizon. The chasm runs due west, into the burn. The view is without equal. About us, the rocks are stained red, the graffiti proclaiming teenage love and lust glows even brighter. Peaceful, serene. Except for the Bay down below we could be in the north of Ontario. Somehow I like that. It is a connection to home, a sense of the familiar. Not many days left to us now on the Island, as the sun sets I realize it is almost time to come home. I am not sure how I feel about that.