Take the boat and live a little
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.
Even on the boat (the real one, not the transplanted Fuddle or Duddle) there was no rush for a sausage plate, or a seat up by the guitar pair. Instead, a good book and a window seat. Remove the rumble and vibrations (and the shifting horizone line) and we could have been in any large waiting room. I’m always curious about the seating arrangements in various modes of transport; do they figure that randomly placed pods of chairs where there is always someone just in front of you will inspire conversation among strangers? I think not. It’s more fun to bet on which kid will be trapped by a rapidly closing heavy door.
I didn’t get lost in the rotary, and before the afternnoon ended we’d already made two visits to friends of the family. My tour of a mid-eighteenth century house was really cool, especially since I’d missed any occasion to do so when I lived in the community of New Glasgow a scant four decades earlier. Even the public library was completely rearranged, although I could have found a book with my borrower number if I’d had the time to search things out.
Tonight we’re deep in the country, with a very muscular dog to entertain us and keep our hands moist. Tomorrow; let’s keep that as a surprise.
