Our cottage has become so Elaine and me that I can hardly get up the energy to go without her. She was out of town this past weekend so there was none of the synergy that creates the momentum during our preparation: “we need the lawn mower this week”; “I’m picking some vegetables from the garden”; “I’ve got the tools for working on that shed”; “I’ve got the laundry…” So it goes on and before we know it we’ve propelled ourselves out the door, into the car and down the road, dog and all. All with the excitement of an annual camping trip. Listening to us on the way there, you’d think it was our first trip to the cottage.

Once there we fly into a well-rehearsed unfolding as the car is unloaded, things are unpacked, chairs set out on the porch, the dog taken for her first cruise of the ‘hood to check her pee-mail. Within a half hour we’re sitting on the porch with cold drinks on the coffee table between us, looking out at the water, happy to be together, discussing what we hope from the weekend. But what is there to discuss when you’re alone?

Phoning home
On Friday night I phoned my dad. I’ve been calling home a more often since my mom died last month. Conversations with my dad have always been lively because he’s so good natured and filled with life but lately there is the added richness that sadness adds to the soul. Conversations get taken to deeper levels. He worries that I’ve lost my mother. I worry that he’s lost his sweetheart, friend and wife. I’ve been at the cottage without the Elaine before but this is the first time since my mother passed away which might explain why I felt like some kind of amputee. This weekend I understand a little better what my dad is going through.

Without Elaine there on the weekend, the cottage isn’t the cottage. It’s a half-empty little house with a half empty bed, an extra toothbrush and one lawn chair too many. I’m often alone at the house in Moncton but there has always been so much coming and going there that alone is a relief. There always seems to be something needing doing and I do it on my time. Get up at the time I want without worrying who gets woken up at 4 a.m. We have shifts, appointments, engagements, obligations all over town, all around the clock. Our schedules rarely synchronized.

But the cottage is us. It’s us being us together. We plan together, drive together, are entertained together. We go to bed together, we get up together. I feel slightly lonely when we do anything that’s not together, even if we’re in the same room. That’s what the cottage is to us. So this past weekend not having Elaine there was like not being at the cottage, at all, but like drifting. I slept too much, movied too much, drank too much. I brought way too much stuff that I didn’t touch.

If I ever need to be alone, the cottage would be the best place, because without Elaine there, it’s the most alone place in the world I know.

We returned to the island on Sunday, Cocagne Island, that is, not PEI. This time after rowing the 1.5 or so kilometers across from where our cottage is we were not chased off by a hoard of mosquitoes because a breeze had come up on the trip across, the same breeze that grew stiffer and, along with some nasty looking clouds, worried us before the excursion was over, as well as the whole way back.

This was our second trip with the little 14 foot car top Elaine bought from a neighbor so we didn’t consider ourselves seafarers yet, but once we had weaved our way through the maze of oyster cage clusters and landed, it did feel like true exploring as we walked the shore.

We followed the shore for about a kilometer until we got to the marsh at the southeast tip. We might have gone further after a break, but the calm, sunny day we had when we got up that morning had turned gray and windy quicker than you can say “you’re such a landlubber” or “next time check the marine weather forecast”. We were blissfully happy for a while, though.

Islands are just different

Despite the island being in our front porch view for almost ten years, the shore felt so strange like only an island can. Everything was vivid, the rocks, the sand, the driftwood, the flotsam washed ashore. We saw deer tracks. And all the time we were aware that we could not just walk home, that there was a large body of water between us and the mainland. But it was beautiful.

There were wonderful places to camp, up on ledges eight feet above the sand in small clearings in the birch and oak woods. Hoping to cut cross country on some later trip we were discouraged to see just how much underbrush there was, but maybe there are more accessible patches elsewhere. The aerial photos from Google don’t have the resolution to answer that question definitively, but it doesn’t look encouraging.
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What we do know is that the island is, sadly, not remote. There were empty coffee cups, spent fireworks tubes, the odd lost shoe and other evidence of a nearby civilization that doesn’t value wild spaces as it should. But we were happy with the little corner that we had “discovered” and explored and we’ll devise ways of exploring the whole island. We were left wanting more.

The voyage home

However, when we reached the southeast corner where there is a large marsh that marks the edge of the woods, we turned back because of how gray the sky had suddenly become, and because the increasing wind couldn’t be attributed to coming round the other side of the island anymore. The weather was changing drastically and we were not at all convinced we knew how to deal with whitecaps in a little aluminum boat on only our second trip “at sea”. So, with Elaine at the helm and me at the oars we headed home.

The seas turned out to be manageable, even for us novices. The tide had gone out which added a few yards to hauling the boat ashore, but the trip was otherwise a success. With a little Internet research on how to row in rough water as well as finding out the frequency of the marine report and we’ll be ready for our next big sea adventure.

by Elaine Mandrona

There is a lobster processing plant here and this time of year the activity of canning lobster is in full swing. All of the workers have arrived, their cars cramming the parking lot. We drive past the red buildings, as red ad boiled lobster, and park near some sheds away from the activity .

A little gray weathered footbridge is the magical passage way to Chockpish beach. It’s open water, big waves, especially since it’s windy, and you can see the windmills on the PEI coast off in the distance. I imagine them spinning like crazy.

On our side there are upscale, widely spaced cottages perched on the shore. Windows facing the sea, like eyes looking out toward the pencil line blue horizon and cottony white clouds. Actually, our favorite cottage of all time is here, and I’ll tell you, we’ve done a lot of exploring and looking at cottages as we travel the Acadian Coast. We’ve been lusting for it for the past ten years. It’s gray shingle with a stone chimney, two stories, a filigree screen door lets in the sea breeze. Roses are climbing up the side. Some folks from Ontario own it, we think. Someday, we fantasize, it may have a “For Sale” sign on it. And we’ll have truckloads of cash after we win the Lotto to buy it.

Chockpish—what does it mean? Sounds native, but we’ve never been able to find any information about it. Chock full of fish is what I think about.

The sand on Chockpish beach is fine and warm this day, even though a stiff cool breeze is blowing, ruffling the grass and churning up whitecaps.

A formidable stone breakwater says “Danger No Trespassing on Rubble Mound Structure”. I wouldn’t dream of it.

Closer up the waves are ink blue with undertones of root beer brown—sand stirred up as the waves break on the shore. I study some subtle patterns in the sand close up. They’re fine line drawings made by hidden hands in the waves as they advance and recede.

A seagull hangs in the air. Three cormorants dart from the other side of the rubble breakwater and skim the water, flying low. The gulls like the wind, they play with it, hovering and diving, letting it lift and drop them.The more agile terns use it to change direction like acrobats. One seagull perches on top of a pole, watching for a long time, like he owns the place.

The sea grass twitches like a horse’s flank. Like a horse that has been spooked.
I am praying that the Louisiana oil spill doesn’t make it up here. Chockpish is pristine, virginal and pure, up to this point, anyway. It’s a treasure. One of the nicest beaches around, it seems like not many people know about it. Even at the height of the summer, we never see many visitors here.Today it’s just us.

We walk back over the footbridge to the dock. There are interesting, colorful boats bobbing next to the wharf. A metal bridge spans the Chockpish river that widens here and empties into the ocean. The cars going over it make a muffled thunk thunk sound.

Today, Chockpish is all about motion. Motion and clarity, everything is in sharp focus.

by Archie Nadon

Chockpish. I keep coming back to the photo of the wooden walkway to the beach at Chockpish and I know it’s not the adult in me that’s is drawn to it.

The walkway goes up and over the dune before the breakwater and down to a short path through the grass leading to the beach proper. You can’t see the beach from the wharf side but you can from the platform at the top. You can turn around and see the beach on both sides of the wharf going north and south.

Of course, we love beach access. That’s what we’re about. So many times we ‘re disheartened to see signs reading, “Private rode”, or there are obstacles that make it impossible to get to the beach or you feel like you’re trespassing once you’re there. This walkway says, “Here’s the beach. It’s yours to enjoy.” Mind you, there are no toilet facilities and not many places to hide if the needs arises which means to truly Enjoy you should do your business at home first, but I like what that walkway says.

It was probably built by the Chockpish Harbour Authority that is made up, like all the other 550 some harbour authorities across Canada, of interested local parties, like commercial fishermen and business people. All of them volunteers. They made it for their own kids and anybody else that visits this little corner of Côte-Sainte-Anne, about 20 minutes north of Bouctouche.

I always forget about the walkway, though, probably because you can’t see it until you drive through the one lane bridge (if you’re northbound), turn right off the road and go between the red buildings of the lobster processing plant. You drive between the buildings and go to the end of the long storage shed to where the breakwater begins and you’ll find it. There are other paths to the beach, but we always use the walkway. It’s just more fun. A little more magic.

And it’s all there. The wonderful sand, the beach grass, the weathered snow fences, the driftwood, the shells, the diving terns, the cormorants and ducks as well as the seagull perched on top of the light on the pole at the end of the breakwater, facing into the wind. It would all be cliché if it weren’t so authentic.

I’m sure Parlee Beach by Shediac is authentic, but it’s crowded. When I was young beach wasn’t beach unless it was standing room only, and mostly girls. Now, the only girl I want with me is Elaine and finding a beautiful beach we can have to ourselves is better than any resort.

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We’d like to make a living from the sea. Not by fishing, of course. There are no fish left. We found that out when we decided that this year we would try every type of local fish, freshly caught and bought from those little markets you see along the coast. However, that project’s death knell was sounded by the door chime of the first market we tried. The only fish they had were some trout and salmon. From Halifax. No, we won’t be making a living fishing any time soon.

What we want to do is write about our explorations. We live 20 minutes from the coast, have a cottage within view of it. We’ve driven from Miscou to Florida, at one time or other. The Florida trip was a one-off deal and was made when Elaine and I were still just friends, but we know most of our Acadian Coast pretty damn well, at least that’s what we thought.

Time to start stopping

We’ve put a lot coastal miles on our various vehicles but we’ve just realized that we haven’t done much stopping. We joke that we almost never talk to anyone, but how do you talk to anyone when you’re cruising along at 80 to 100 KMH? So, now we’re stopping. No fisherman ever caught fish zooming out and then back from the fishing grounds and so we’ve make that every weekend we park the wheels and walk or just sit at mini-destinations, enjoying the air, taking pictures, or writing. We still haven’t talked to anyone, but that will come.

This weekend we dropped anchor (That’s the last fishing metaphor, I promise.) at Saint Thomas and we discovered the ruins of an old wharf. The wooden cribwork, looking like sets of rotten and broken teeth, is most easily seen at low tide, naturally, and makes for an interesting photograph or two.

Just an average wharf

We want to know more about it, though. Sure, we know no famous ship moored here. None of the survivors of the Titanic swam ashore and I doubt even one U-Boat snuck in under cover of dark to lay mines during WWII. I’m sure it was the average wharf where the local fishermen moored their boats at day’s end, unloaded their catch and went back out the next day. That’s the magic of it, though. People lived their lives around this wharf and much more so than of the wharves of today and that’s what gives these old centers their depth.

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Driving up and down the coast you see only the “today” of whatever you come by and that is two dimensional, there is almost no context. There is only foreground, no background. Stopping to delve into the local history provides depth the way shadows make a drawing look “real”. Stories, happy and sad, are the details that bring a place to life.

We don’t know any of the stories, yet. We know only that there was once a wharf at Saint Thomas, that it was abandoned and replaced by a solid around the bend to the north of it. The ruins are the only hint of this chapter of the community’s history, but we intend to find out about it and paint a better picture of it.

by ELAINE MANDRONA

Intuitively, feel yourself drawn to a particular spot—a place in the woods, a corner on a city street, a sandy inlet on the shore. Stop, look closely, look all around, 360 degrees.  Write down your experience in 100 words or less.  This is micro-tourism—appreciating an environment on a smaller scale, being in the moment, really looking at what is right before you, and seeing what is  special, unusual or beautiful about it, and then sharing that experience. Everything changes all the time, so no two micro-tourism events are the same. Time of day, time of year, weather, light, the presence or absence of people, sounds, smells, colors, textures, make each experience unique.

Micro-tourism destination Moncton, NB, Walking trail near Ida St.

We go down to the Petitcodiac River on a face-stinging, windy Spring morning right near the new bridge to Riverview and walk under it where a few graffiti artists have made their marks.  The sky is a bright, fresh spring blue, cyan.  We walk down to a rusty orange  footbridge that goes across a muddy brown tributary in an arc.  A study in shades of brown. Ric-rac rails. The ends are under construction–the boardwalk will connect here. We can`t go across. Tide’s in, gentle ripples in the water.  Some tentative bird calls. Sparkles in the distance.  Bent grasses in patterns with the last of the snow.  Footprint and  vehicle patterns in the frozen mud underfoot.  Birds making their songs heard above low pitched traffic noise.  Any day now the  sun’s heat will come.

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If I had a pressure gauge you’d see the needle dropping almost immediately upon arrival at the cottage. Being there is like a really good drug. When I had kidney stones a few years ago they gave me Demerol and within seconds the pain was easing. That’s what being at the cottage is like. We leave Moncton wound up and not knowing it and then we sit on the porch of the cottage and decompress. I’m surprised our eardrums don’t pop. We almost always say, with some surprise, “Wow, was I stressed.” Pressure tends to creep up.

Briefly we thought about moving there permanently but I think the real value of the cottage is about being somewhere else. A place isn’t somewhere else if you’re there all the time. Perspective is gained from seeing things from two slightly different directions. Slipping out to the coast always provides that perspective and when we come back to the world we see things as they are again. If we moved there, we’d just have to find another place to help us maintain our sanity. We need some other refuge.

Besides this year we have a bonus because the place will be paid off and then even the loan payments won’t be an added stressor.

An even bigger bonus this year is that the long haul of doing an internship at CFB Gagetown is over. I loved it, but it’s over and I’m home again and we can whip out to the cottage during the week and commute to Moncton, it’s so close. Eighteen months of seeing each other only on weekends is plenty. School’s over. Time to get on with life.

by ELAINE MANDRONA

The village of Memramcook, NB, may be known as Le Berceau de L’Acadie—the Cradle of Acadie—but I came for a massage. I’m at the Memramcook Institute, formerly the Collège Saint-Joseph, the first successful Acadian institution of higher education. That college laid the groundwork for the modern day Université de Moncton. Times changed and the college morphed into a resort, the resort has a spa and here I am.

For a really good massage that can transform stress and body blockages, a lot of elements have to come together. The physical environment, the ambiance and the therapist—you need to get a sense that all of these things are right for you.  Every massage is different, but if any of the basic elements are out of whack, the experience can be more frustrating than healing. I know all of this from both on and above the massage table because I’ve been a massage therapist for 18 years.  I work my body hard and it gets sore and distorted and tight and I need someone who really understands my body to get it all to release.

The Memramcook Spa is on the third floor of the Memramcook Institute. The lovely old building with high ceilings, old woodwork and large windows has an ambiance that lends itself to relaxation and introspection. I like the fact that both learning and worship—two of the more evolved human activities—once took place here. The atmosphere is quiet, soothing, contemplative.

I first came here with my daughter for a going-back-to-school treat last August. I booked a massage with the therapist available that day, Andrée Poirier. It turned out well. Better than well, it was the best massage that I have had for a long, long time. So I booked with her again. I never asked her if she was related to Pascal Poirier, the first Acadian chosen to serve as a senator by John A. MacDonald and educated at the Collège Saint-Joseph, now the Memramcook Institute.  Next time I will ask about her connection to the place.

She was very present while doing her work on me—she paid attention. She combined basic Swedish massage with myofascial release and energy work. In layman’s terms, she did some basic stroking and kneading, some deeper work on my stuck spots by stretching the fascia (connective tissue that surrounds muscles and bones) and by frictions.  But best of all, I could feel her attention and soothing, focused, healing energy. She was also trained in Reiki. We were both in a meditative state as she worked slowly, deliberately and with great compassion. I felt great afterward, like a new woman.

It’s curious the path things take sometimes, how everything can come together to structure a memorable experience.  This place of learning and spirituality for the Acadian people reinvented itself—metamorphosed into a place of healing and recreation.  My Acadian therapist is part of a new generation that has moved forward, competent, confident and generous. The cradle still rocks, although now to a different tempo.

by ARCHIE NADON

Should the Canadian Government have replaced the Cape Tormentine ferry service with some other, viable business when it built Confederation Bridge? I think the bridge was a good idea, faster, cheaper, safer, more reliable than a ferry. It was good for Prince Edward Island and good for New Brunswick. My problem is what it did to Cape Tormentine.

I get anxious when communities get abandoned. It’s bad enough when the economy thumps an industry and mills go under, but when there is a conscious decision to eliminate a community’s sole support it seems there should be some compensation. The tourist stop at Cape Jourimain doesn’t qualify as adequate compensation because it can only support a few students and mainly in the summer.

So what can replace a money maker like the ferry? If government knew the answer to this no community would ever hit hard times. However, too many times artificially supported businesses collapses once the support is withdrawn. Industries, it seems, do best when they’re in a community for organic reasons, like where natural resources are abundant or it’s strategically placed, like Moncton is now. That was once the case with Cape Tormentine.

For a little over a century Cape Tormentine was ideally placed to connect PEI with the mainland. The cape stuck out far enough into the Northumberland Strait to make it a quick ferry ride over. Cape Tormentine thrived because those going over to the island had to stop and wait, sometimes for a couple of hours, depending on the season. With the bridge there is no wait, it’s just part of the highway, there is no need to stop and hang out for a couple of hours and spend money.

Things change, I guess. It seems a lame conclusion, but it’s all I’ve got. The new Trans-Canada did similar things to many communities in the province. Many communities that were in the center of things before are in the backwaters now. Motels closed, restaurants are boarded up. I love the new highway, but I always feel a little guilty using it. The next generation won’t feel that, but I always will. Still, I would like to see something new in Cape Tormentine.

More about Cape Tormentine and yet more…Terminal Tormentine

by ARCHIE NADON

“Why here? Of all the places returning Acadians could have chosen to begin again, why Memramcook?” Like most contemporary travelers, I stood in a historically significant spot and wondered why this community, built on either side of the Memramcook River, became significant. It certainly wasn’t obvious to someone driving in from Moncton on the new Trans-Canada Highway.

What I should have done, and who knows, maybe I’ll try it someday, was pack up my family —and Elaine’s—and make my way up the American Atlantic coast until I got near the original Acadie and head inland far enough not to be noticed and start looking for something familiar, like marshes, that could be turned into farms. Looked at from this perspective, Memramcook looks like an obvious choice to begin to recreate Acadie. In fact, it’s so obvious, one wonders how they got away with it and were not chased out by troops.

A quick look at the map reminds one of how close to the ocean Memramcook is, a mere 15 km, as the crow flies. But the returnees wouldn’t have been flying. They may have been sailing or rowing up or trudging alongside the Memramcook River, a meandering, tidal river that eventually empties into Chignecto Bay, the bay that borders the original Acadie.

They did get away with it, though. The first post-deportation Acadian village, Village des LePlatte dates from 1766, 11 years after the deportation began. I say began, because it was a huge undertaking and took several years, some dating it from 1755-63. Given that the first new village dates from 1766, one can see that if the goal was to completely expel the Acadians, then it had failed before it was even over.

Of course, that’s my view, the view of someone sitting comfortably in a Canadian home in 2009 basking in the safety of a modern democracy where governments apologize for past wrongheadedness like the deportation. Still, it’s hard not to think that Acadie has succeeded after all.  The original Acadians were a people, not a country, distinct from their motherland and from the conquerors. They still are distinct. And they’re millions strong now.