TubaOrNotTuba

An empty fridge is a great incentive to go out, in the middle of a thunderstorm, and purchase stuff that isn’t exactly necessary for good nutrition. Things like more dishwasher soap and assorted chocolate chip cookies. And don’t forget the cheese. We discovered that milk products are somewhat difficult to store in the context of camping, so good cheddar (or bad cheddar) was soon stricken from the list of essentials during our long time away from humdrum house.

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As we waited for someone to clear our parking spot, the realization that our trek of over 6600 km in 26 days had ended set in. Home, where the grass grows green and tall, and the warnings about the danger of dogbite mark her territory. Home, where we now have to unpack the van and repack the house. The savoury odour of home. Too late/lazy to unpack things tonight, I’ll just put the last of the food in the kitchen and then try to convince my back that life on a real mattress is good.

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I remember one particular toy with great fondness: the punching bag clown. You lashed out, he went down and then came right back up, without hesitation. This year, our vacation has that aspect. We should have been homeward bound early today, but I’m currently in downtown Halifax. The vacation continues!

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Forget the apologists for the bridge, because there are still opportunities to sit in the compound, waiting for the next crossing. We were on the wrong side of the triage and had to spend an hour waiting for the boat to arrive. The Island, as it was and always should be. We didn’t even bother roaming around in the souvenir shop trying to decide if we should mash a loonie into a name tag. Enough stuff in the van for this year.

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Two word, printed in black on a yellow background. Insignificant in most contexts, but for those who have to travel the Island byways, they are a phrase that actually means relief: Construction ends. This year
we’ve been roving to and fro between Eastern Kings and Charlottetown, so there’s been ample
opportunity to experience the sites near Mount Stewart and St. Peter’s. As vacation ends, I can bid them
farewell, adieu.

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We awoke to the smell of burning wood this morning. Outside the tent, we could see our breath, just like a morning in March, but the effect was due less to cold than humidity. A windswept ocean creates waves and mist, and we were in a bank of moisture, with sunlight providing an interesting cross illumination. Yes, I took pictures. Our mattress is now a regular rug by morning, so we’ll have to replace that in time for next year.

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The sound of gentle surf from just over the cliff edge is soothing; we’ve had great sleep for the last few weeks. However, surf from high winds can take on a whole other tone, closer to that of a passing express train in volume. Last night and this morning had the best white water conditions since the start of our stay at the Cove. Our tents did not set sail, but morning found us less than well-rested.

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The rain has arrived. From yesterday onward we’ve been treading water, figuratively. Helping to push some young lad who had a broken heart and a broken car off the road just before getting to camp was an exercise in blinking, to keep the vision clear. No tears on our part, just victims of the incipient precipitation. In fact, my plan to liberate trees from the ditches might be sidetracked, as I am unwilling to water-test my sandals to the degree required.

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We did our part to be community members this morning, and, by gum, it might actually be possible here. Simply recognizing people isn’t enough. You have to go and actually talk to them (not something big city dwellers are encouraged to do). Today I found that I knew more people around me than I had originally calculated.

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A bundle of grapes, some fresh cheese, a gentle breeze and a washing machine. The life of the longterm camper must, inevitably, fall into the domestic. No laundry, no clean clothes; a life of drive-thru for you. Actually, a quiet day also gives us a chance to do the campground cha-cha-cha, where we move our tents to another site. Reservations are respected, even in a camping reserve. Others have longed for our view, for months, and the promise was that we would move when the time came. Pick up your dome and shuffle.

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