Musings on 104 Seal Point Road

We have written all sorts about our stay in 104 - here are a few excerpts from our 'musings'

Here are extracts of a letter home about four weeks after arrival in spring.

Our house is about half a mile off the main road but on a tar road, there are about six houses between us and the main road... There's an amazing amount of apple blossom about, even where there are no houses. The signs of man can disappear so quickly leaving only a trace of their being there in nature. There are pots of old houses here, all in various states of repair but they still look lovely. Oh, and lupins by the hundred adorn the roadside – wonderful...

Our local shops are about 30 minutes drive away so nothing new here. It’s just a small place but the shops are excellent since it is very self sufficient and you can get almost anything in just a couple of stores... (this is in Barrington Passage)

The main industry in this neck of the woods in lobster fishing (and a bit of herring). The lobster season has just finished. It felt like last day at school just before the summer holidays.  All the lobster traps had to be in by midnight on the last day of May so there was much scuttling around with boats dashing in and out of the tiny quay here in front of the house – they arrive absolutely laden with empty pots, off-load them and then off out for more Charles and Angus went out on the penultimate day with a friend, Wayne, while they collected almost the last of their pots. They had a fine day and I regretted not going when I saw what a nice day it turned out to be – I didn’t want to spoil the day for them by being seasick! They saw some whales and apparently the next day missed porpoise at close quarters. Never mind; next time...

(There is a lobster holding station across the road from us where lobsters are stored in tanks till needed. One isn't aware of anything happening there since I don't suppose they need much attention. Next to that in a building which sits over the water on wooden stilts is where I think fish is packed. On two occasions we saw large plastic containers which were having ice put into them containing large amount of fish which attracted a Lot of seagulls. Fascinating. There's generally someone around and the guys and gals often sit outside for their coffee. I had wondered about inviting them in for tea but didn't want to instigate a routine which might prove arduous after a while! It is rather nice since although we are in the country we are not totally alone and this gives us a feeling of security and the whole thing is rather jolly; fishermen wandering up and down the wharf with interesting implements, stopping for a chat then tinkering with their boats. It looks like such a nice life but I suppose a distant view of anyone else's life always looks that way!)

The house sits about 20’ from the sea. The forest comes almost right down to the waters edge by the rocks...

The wooden jetty starts right outside our front gate and goes quite a way into the sea and almost meets up with a concrete quay which joins it at an L shaped angle. There are generally about 15 boats harboured inside at a time. The boats leave around 5am but we never hear them. One of the fishermen, Capt..., is amazed we don’t hear them and says we sleep too well – I too am amazed since I am often awake around that time – so maybe I do hear them! They all return around 4pm but of course now the lobstering has finished there is not so much happening and we quite miss them...

On the seaward side of our garden next to the wooden quay is their dry-harbour in that when the sea goes out someone will have left their boat to become stranded high and dry so they can work on it. When the tide returns they take the boat out and someone else takes their place. We have ‘coffee break’ sitting at our respective chairs in front of a large picture window watching the coming and going of the boats and the tide; men trundling up and the down the quay, seagulls pushing each other off poles and jostling for fish just snapped from the sea, they are like large bits of paper wafting around in the wind...

Most days it is incredibly bright and we are all going to come home with wrinkly screwed up eyes – even when it’s not sunny it is bright, the only time it's not bright is when it is foggy; fog is peculiar to this area and caused many ship wrecks in the times past. It sort of drifts in and next time you look round it has gone. There are times when you know something is afoot when all the boats come in early and more or less together, this probably means there is fog on its way or a storm. There was a storm about three weeks ago but wasn’t bad right here since we are fairly protected from the sea. Some boats got caught out and had to make a dash for home. You can’t always tell how bad it is from our house. Thanks was given next day in church for the safe return of fishermen, some of them sitting in the pews in front of us. When they pray like that it really brings it home to one how very dependent we are on the Lord and what a dangerous life a fisherman have...

There was a moose in the village...there are porcupines... had deer in the garden... says kayotie were in the garden the other night!!

It’s latish now. Gets dark around 9.30pm. It’s never really dark here since the lights come on at intervals on the wooden quay lighting up the boats so even in the dark we have a view. The lights from the houses cross the bay also show up. Tonight a fog has just crept in so the boats look all hazy. It has created an odd sort of silence. Our house used to be the lighthouse keeper’s house about 5 miles away at a spot called Baccaro. It was moved, our house that is, by road about 25 years ago and put on the spot where it is now. When it is extra quiet we can hear the Baccaro lighthouse horn in the distance. Haunting. When the weather gets stormy Baccaro Point is the place to be to see fantastic waves I’m told...

We do lose track of the days since each day is much the same as the last and we have no TV or radio to remind us (were given a TV months later). Last week we lost Thursday altogether and went from Wednesday to Friday. We had a discussion today as to what day it was and decided that it is Wednesday – if it isn’t then we will either be late or early for the potluck supper at the local church on Saturday!  Could be worse, we got there a week early last Saturday since I hadn’t realised that we were a week behind.

Church & friendliness: In the morning we attended the Baptist United Church service in Barrington Passage. “The Sanctuary’s upstairs!” we were told, going astray in the large vestibule as we entered. I wondered what our restrained and formal minister of the Church of Scotland would have made of the upbeat and extrovert form of worship we experience here! We entered the Sanctuary to the happy and melodious, heart-pulling melody of the choir that was singing with gusto – all those wonderful, happy, familiar songs of praise and salvation, that strike unflinchingly at one’s heartstrings. It just felt like coming home. Then there was the service itself, interrupted repeatedly by the congregation talking back to the minister (the “Pastor”) with peals of appreciative laughter from the congregation. The Pastor will repeat a question to the congregation until he receives a reply sufficiently voluble to satisfy him. “I said Good Morning!” he’d say, if he felt the first response was insufficiently enthusiastic ...

Another day: Wayne, from the podium, praised the Lord for bringing them all in safely during the foregoing week, when the sea was rough with alarming waves and storm force winds. “But we all got in,” Wayne said, and then one by one the other men stood up to offer praise to God for bringing their boats safely into harbour at the close of the previous day’s expedition. This, I thought, was a very biblical community, where the men were fishermen in the winter and spring, and carpenters in the summer. It felt good to be amongst them, with their unashamed dependence on God and sincerity of hearts.

An evening in church: The service we attended this evening was at the Port Clyde United Church just up the road....It was a full church bursting at the seams, as borne out by the clutter of big cars in front and along the street. (Like everything in this country, everything is big – the cars, the appliances like the washers and dryers, and the hearts of the people.) The Pastor is a woman who rejoices under the name of Cindy, and again we were warmly welcomed – by Cindy (who drew attention to us from the pulpit) and everyone there with firm handshakes and loud voices. The four ladies who made up the Freedom Singers were elderly to middle-aged with surprisingly strong, voluble voices and radiant smiles. They sang fast-paced hymns in country western style that had you swaying in your seat and tapping your feet. Jo thought the Perry Boys would turn out to be a band she had heard on TV who sang in Southern Country style – but they turned out to be three boys, literally, aged between six and twelve, who sang powerfully, harmonising with surprising professionalism to the accompaniment of their bearded dad who played the keyboard. Even Simon Cowel would have been impressed

Port la Tour Church: Last Sunday, for the first time, we attended the morning service at the Port La Tour Baptist Church, which is our nearest church, more or less just down the road. Like all the churches, this one was built of wood, even the steps and the wheelchair ramp that leads up to the front door. One entered to the sound of recorded bells and music. The high vaulted ceiling inside was impressive. The church was not very full – but the welcome took us by surprise. We were asked that one of us stand up to introduce ourselves – and Jo tugged at my sleeve as if to say, “You do it!” Folk at these churches have no reservations about standing up and speaking, and there’s no way of hiding in the congregation. Shyness apparently doesn’t exist. The Pastor used to be a Chaplain in the US Army and gave an excellent sermon on Mary’s breaking the box of ointment – giving our all and not holding back in our love of and service to Jesus. Maybe it’s because of my age – 65 – that I find it difficult staying awake during sermons, my mind showing an inclination to wander with eyelids tending to droop – a tendency, I am happy to report, that afflicts me less since coming to Nova Scotia. Would that be because of the quality of the air, or the sermons?
What surprised us most, I guess, is that absolutely everyone had to come up to us, afterwards, and shake our hands, and introduce themselves. Jo said herself that folk here, whether in the Post Office, the churches, or the supermarket, or waving from a passing car, are jolly friendly.

And yet, it seems, that just this portion of Nova Scotia around us is full of churches, where the name of Jesus is acclaimed and praised regularly with fervour and joy. I would go so far as to say that if you have been in a spiritual desert, come here to be refreshed and have your battery recharged! For a Christian, coming here is like coming home. “We are all members of the family of Christ,” Wayne said last Sunday, “and we are going to live forever together – so we might as well get used to one another!”

Seriously, though, these folk have sweetness as part of their DNA!

By sweetness, I mean friendliness. When we went to the “Pot Luck” supper at our local, Baptist Church last Thursday, the welcome, once again, was overwhelming. (Sweetness was evident in the food people had laid out on the table – there was, for instance, a salad made up of strawberries and lettuce!) We took a seat with our plates of food near the back of the hall, thinking we would not be too obtrusive there – for essentially we are shy people. We found ourselves next to a man called Greg, a man who the Lord cured of cancer, who was given only two weeks to live some time ago – he told us how God always keeps his promises to us, and that if we are in the Lord we can all claim his promises. Before long the stentorian voice of Janette, a deacon, assailed us from what we thought was the back of the hall – and everyone swung around. Oh dear! We thought we were near the back, and here we were, in fact, near the front “in the chief seats of the synagogue”! “Charles and Joanne, and Angus come up here please!” she commanded in a voice that demanded obedience. “Me?” I mouthed, pointing to myself in confusion. “Yes – come along!” she insisted. So we all trooped to the podium in embarrassment. (Why hadn’t I noticed the podium was at the back!)

Janette welcomed us and presented us with a framed photograph – artistically treated to look like a painting – of the waves crashing at Baccaro Point (where our house once stood adjacent to the Lighthouse). I was delighted – and they had no way of knowing we would be there! “But,” I said, “we haven’t done anything to deserve this!” She laughed and boomed in that resonant voice of hers: “You don’t have to deserve it – you just have to be neighbours!”
Well, that was sweetness for you. The picture, of course, now takes pride of place on the wall in our sitting room, right next to our view of the sea

We could go on and on about the friendly church people - if you want more of the above you will have to ask since not everyone wants to know!

Kayaking - the first time here: The day before yesterday – Saturday – was superb, with bright wall-to-wall sunshine. When I looked out of our sitting room window in the morning, the sea was as smooth as a millpond. Bruce and I were the first to launch – the tide being low and beginning to come in. The launch location right in front of the house, next to the wharf ...and we had to wade into the water (surprisingly cold in spite of the hot sunny day) in order to enable Jo and Angus to push us off. (My weight has a tendency to make the kayak sit stubbornly on the bottom!) We realised later that it was better to leave from the grassy bit in front of the house.

But it was great going off into the smooth water, seeing the bottom all the time, getting deeper, rocks and waving seaweed just below us. As we got deeper there were small craters in the bottom – swirls of sand with some kind of shellfish in the middle – clams or scallops? We avoided the patches of seaweed since they indicated areas of rock on which the seaweed was rooted, and it felt a bit scary drifting over rocks that looked hard and jagged! But we never touched them – the kayaks have a really shallow draft in spite of my weight. I circled back to call up to Jo (now on the wharf taking pictures), and said, "There is only one word to describe this – sublime!" It was – it felt so smooth and relaxing, and the gentlest movement of the paddles placed the kayak anywhere, just where you wanted it. You could sit back and let it drift in one direction.

Bruce and I followed the coastline, swinging out to avoid the rocks, then ventured deeper into the bay and made for an island covered in tall firs in the middle of the bay. It was a bigger island than we realised and the tide was out, so it was weird going through the shallow channel, with seaweed like drifting green hair in lazy swirls around us. The oars kept dipping into the seaweed and lifting bits out in wet strands. The bottom looked very close and I was scared we would beach, but we kept going until we rounded the island and made for deeper water on the opposite side of the bay. This was great – for Jo said no way would she venture across the bay! We followed the other side, at last getting a closer look at the gardens of the houses we could only see, before, from a distance, from our window. Then we swung back towards the wharf, which looked small with the coloured lobster boats alongside it, and our house, looking a lot smaller than I had ever seen it before! The water began to ripple so the kayaks nudged pleasantly through the wavelets. Ahead of us, towards the open ocean, the water looked placed again, and sure enough, when we reached it, it was like crossing a line from slight turbulence to total smoothness. Was that because the water suddenly got deeper – or because of some strange movements of the cold Labrador current? Anyway, we had no trouble making our way back to the wharf and the house, where we beached smoothly onto the muddy shelf. ... so we went off again, together, after lunch – this time right to the end of the bay, miles away. It was an adventure discovering creeks, and we enjoyed the stronger lumpy surface of the water with waves that now almost broke before we hit them. It was more challenging, now, and the sense of movement was fun. It took a long time to reach the end of the bay, where the water was running loudly in a strong current through the culverts under the road where it joined the wide expansive waters of a river. We were told that it was possible to navigate the culvers into the river, but I thought we would leave that for another occasion. It was scary enough watching the water move with determination into the culverts and you could hear the rush of water the other side. (Shouldn't the water be flowing in the opposite direction, I thought, from the river into the sea? There was a mystery here.)

Nevertheless, I needed to consolidate my courage and launched out on my own. Courage was hardly necessary since it was sublime, again, drifting smoothly across the placid water. This time I went diagonally across to the other side of the bay, going around the island in a clockwise direction. The tide was low and the stationery swirls of seaweed lay matted on the flat surface of the water, the kayak making a hissing sound as it slid through the seaweed. A sense of peace descended as one became aware of the silence broken by the repeated calls of birds, plovers and seagulls, that circled smoothly overhead, or of distant ducks that fished the shallows, their necks protruding from the water, silhouetted against the light like miniature Loch Ness monsters, before disappearing below the surface.

It was a restful outing and before long the kayak beached smoothly on the muddy shore below the house. I was ready, now, for a more extensive adventure.

If you want to read about more adventure then you'll have to ask!
 

Lobstering: Our phone rang at six in the evening. It was Jeanette, Wilford’s wife, to say Wilford would pick us up shortly at our wharf—his boat was on the way. Wilford and Janetta are part of our church group and have helped to make us feel so much at home.

We—Jo and I, and our two sons—went down to the end of the wooden wharf and, before long, saw the prow of Wilford’s boat ploughing through the water

Wilford is a large fellow with rugged good looks, windswept greying hair and white beard that hugs his chin, very imposing with his height not far off seven feet.

It was a clear evening—the fog had lifted to reveal a strong setting sun in the east, which threw a clean, bright light over the rippled water and burnished the boat and the fishermen’s clothing in bright hues. Adapting to the swaying movement of the boat and its sharp swings to dump the buoys and the lobster traps was not difficult, as long as there was a place somewhere—the side of the boat, or a stack of lobster traps—to grab a hold of to help anchor one’s body. We approached a bare rocky island on which cormorants were silhouetted, like a row of soldiers, while cream-coloured seals, alarmed by the boat’s diesel roar, slid down the rock and slipped into the water, revealing round heads now and again as they ventured a look above the corrugated surface of the water.

Slipping the lobster traps into the sea became a mechanical routine. Wilford and his son had been doing this for ages, and they knew their jobs well. The stack of lobster traps grew smaller as each was grabbed by Wilford’s large trained hands, the elastic catches loosened, the panels opened, and two big chunks of bait—fish heads—slipped over each metal peg, impaling the eyes, the only fleshy parts of the heads, and held in place by another thick rubber band. The trap was closed, rubber catches slipped in place, then lowered with buoy and trailing rope into the sea, disappearing from view in the dark turquoise water.

After about two hours the boat returned, where the low tide necessitated a bit of clambering up the rungs to reach the top of the wharf. “Coming with us again tomorrow morning?” Wilford asked. “Great!” I shouted back as the boat swung away and ploughed back across the bay. “Be ready at seven!” Wilford called back, standing on the deck with his hands in his pocket, for all the world like the captain of an ocean liner! I might have called back, “Aye aye, captain!”—but the boat was already beyond hailing distance.

We learnt a lot from Wilford. If you  would like to read more of our trip then ask.

Aside: Jo was saying, afterwards, how everyone seems very casual and incredibly friendly, whether one finds them in shops, banks, or vehicle registration offices. Even the telephone employees. When I phoned the Halifax office to order my satellite system while still in Clashnessie, I was kept on the line for over an hour since the young man I spoke to was eager to tell me all about his holiday in Scotland. He was intrigued by seeing rills or streams of water running off mountains or hills (here in Nova Scotia the countryside is flat with a wide open sky, faraway horizons), and by the challenge of driving on what was for him the wrong side of the road. “Did you hire an automatic, at least?” I asked, and he replied proudly: “No, I went full bore!”

The End! It’s a strange sensation, sitting in my house at Upper Port La Tour with the view changed to grey outside the window, just one week to our departure from Nova Scotia. Will we be back. We truly hope so.

Until now, 1984 had reigned supreme as the happiest year in my life—and that was true for Jo, too. That was my sabbatical year...when for the entire year we rented a cottage in a remote Scottish glen south of Oban. After the heavy snows of January and February, there was a ‘drought’, bringing glorious days of sunshine day after day, as we explored and fell in love with the Highlands of Scotland. ...  But as I said to the Baptist church folk at “our” party on Friday evening, 2008 in Nova Scotia knocks socks off 1984—and how! Wall-to-wall sunshine nearly every day, the deep blue of the ocean mirroring the clear blue of the sky, the colourful array of lobster boats by the wharf mirrored and inverted in the still waters, like peace. When it was not peaceful, it was dramatic, like the time hurricane Kyle made its landfall right on top of our house! It was like listening to a steam train rushing by, seeing the waves foaming and lashing the coast, the water high up, the boats breaking loose and being pulled back by their fishermen owners whose trucks were rumbling back and forth along the wharf while the hurricane persisted.

The hurricane was a surprise, but a greater surprise was the unexpected warmth and embrace of the people here, most dramatically manifested at the “Church party” last Friday evening. At least, we were told it was a party—a get-together—just for the members of the Port La Tour Baptist Church, basically a thanksgiving event, and I suspected that it was moved ahead a few days to enable us to attend too—which was wonderful, since it was a final opportunity to enjoy fellowship with these warm-hearted folk who had all become firm friends in less than six months. Jo asked if there would be any eats, and if she should bring something along, since “Pot Luck” suppers here are a popular event. Jeanetta, the wife of our loveable councillor, fisherman and boat-builder who is the size of two mountains, said no—arrangements were already in hand. That left us somewhat in the dark for we didn’t know whether or not to have supper beforehand; but to play it safe, I limited my supper to a drink of coke and packet of Sobeys crisps.

We had to rush, in the end, because I was finishing an email to my Christian brother in Glenrothes. I guess the Church banked on us being late, for we usually arrived just in time for bible classes, prayer groups and services. I was surprised by the number of cars parked in the church’s car park—more than usual. I might have suspected something was different when I saw someone peering out of the side door of the hall, as if to keep surveillance and report on our arrival. I had not dressed up in any way, wearing my “painting” trousers (paint-stained from painting the two decks, but the most comfortable due to the mid-rif spread that I share with many Nova Scotians), and so, with Jo and Angus, we rushed in—I suppose you could say where angels fear to tread! It was a crowd—everyone was there, on their feet with broad smiles, and shouted: “SURPRISE

I guess my smile froze—as the rest of me did. I usually try to be inconspicuous and melt into the crowd at most functions—and here we were, suddenly, unexpectedly, in the centre of attention, the focus of everyone there. I looked at all the smiling faces, faces I knew, from the Port La Tour Baptist Church, and there was Wayne, too, fisherman and councillor, with his dad Trail, from the Stony Island Baptist Church, smiling their welcome. It took some time for the stunned feeling to wear off, after giving some of the people a hug, or a handshake. It would be the minister, Robie’s, birthday on Monday (today!) and I gave him a Steward tartan tie, and I noticed he was wearing it as he conducted the church service yesterday. I told him later the red in the tartan and the red in the Canadian flag would be a link between us—red being the colour, too, of the blood of Jesus, by which our sins have been forgiven and our salvation secured in God’s eternal kingdom. The tears welled up in his eyes and he said with an unsteady voice that he knew he would cry when the time came, soon, to say goodbye. I think it will be a mutual problem

We were shown to our seats and a full program of entertainment began. Chris Perry played the piano whole his trio of boys (“The Perry Boys”), not yet in their teens, harmonised in a number of hymns—always a great hit! (The Perry Boys are well-known in the area, singing in may churches, and they have just heard they have won a recording contract from the show “Canadian Idol”.) Chris himself sang a song (“Two Shoes”) followed by Sheila and Howard Perry with Howard strumming his guitar (“Music is good for the soul!” he had said the other night at a dinner at his house). Then Robie, our minister, played his piano accordion and was accompanied by Jim and Howard with their guitars, their rich baritone voices harmonizing in southern Gospel style. After that Robie read an entire chapter from my book, Touched by God, a collection of Christian testimonies—he selected Le Roche Furstenburg’s account of how the Lord had miraculously healed him and saved him from a serious accident while driving home from Durban. (Le Roche, who was a member of the Tzaneen Baptist Church in South Africa, has surely been called to rest, by now—but how he would have loved to know that, thirty-three years after he gave me his testimony, his words would be read out to people in maritime Canada! Such is the value of recording and publishing your testimony, which, like the writings of the Apostle Paul, can be retold for generation after generation, and throughout the world.)

Then came the presentation—all three of us called to the podium and presented with mementoes by Jeanetta and Councillor Wilford, a collage of pictures, of our house in its earlier location next t the lighthouse, a view of it seen from across the bay, from Jeanetta and Wilford’s house, a picture of Wilford’s boat on which we spent a day with the scientist testing lobsters, a picture of the church, the memorial at Port La Tour, and, of course, a dominant one of the Baccaro lighthouse. We were shown a scrapbook, a project in the making, which will be filled with photographs of us and our friends here in Upper Port La Tour, and then various cards and postcards all signed by members of the church. Unbelievable that they had all gone to so much trouble—and of course, before us, on the central tables, was the spread of various dishes, to be attacked

This is the crazy thing about living with and trusting God. He says he will give you the desires of your heart. Great—big deal. But then, you know what he does when you ask him that? He replaces the desire in your heart with the desire that He wants you to have! And believe me, it’s the only way to have peace, and to know the joy of fellowship with God, and the joy of being where he wants you to be. But why did I decide to place my ocean front house in Nova Scotia on the market in the first place? I am not sure. We love it and the people so much but I suppose we must be sensible and get our bones back to the UK where we have family who need us. (We are only allowed 6 months at a time in NS and my having recently had cancer makes the health insurance in the UK exorbitant if I am out of the country and carrying on a business in two countries has also proved trying - we have become far too attached to this country and the people here - we didn't expect this to happen and have been seriously caught out. Still, we can come back but for 'normal' holidays!)

And now, six months later, here we are packing our suitcases once again, laid out on the beds in the spare bedrooms. We have been so blessed in Nova Scotia.  But whatever happens, I shall be forever grateful to have breathed the free, refreshing sea breezes of Nova Scotia, even for only six months.

© 104 Seal Poin