Loving the land

One of the things that has surprised me about our move is the intensity of my feeling towards our 2.5 acres of land.

I am awed that we have shoreline, Shield rock, woodland, wetland and meadow, all in this small space!

I had not anticipated the strong sense not so much of ownership but of stewardship that I feel. I want to do right by the land and the creatures that share it with us.

As winter approaches, we are working hard to get the external jobs done. Putting away kayaks and garden furniture, blowing and gathering up some but not all the leaves for compost (the layer on the grass would be just too deep otherwise and the compost will be so useful), cutting wood, replenishing paths . . .

Timber . . . !

We had something like seven trees felled last weekend, which sounds more drastic than it was.

A Basswood (Linden) was partly uprooted in our wood and had to come down for safety, taking at least one other tree (cherry) with it. Then there was a dead Elm in the wetland.

Otherwise it was what the locals consider a ‘weed tree’, four Manitoba Maples (Box Elder, Ashleaf Maple). They shoot up everywhere, are very brittle, don’t burn particularly hot and are perceived as a nuisance. We had one threatening our garage, septic system and the neighbours’ power lines and another that would have also grown through the power lines.

We now have a lot of logs to split (the start of our firewood for the winter of 2017/18) and smaller branches to feed through a wood chipper. The resulting chips are awesome for replenishing our path down to the shore and for creating our way through the woods.

On the plus side, the weather has been largely sunny and mild and doing physical work outside appeals to both of us so much more than going to a gym.

It could take a while though!

Brass Point Bridge - View at Dusk

The next chapter: moving rural (3)

That sense of homecoming finds constant affirming echoes. Seeley’s Bay is a little smaller than Tisbury[1] and Kingston rather bigger than Salisbury[2] but there is a comfortable resonance. The Bath Stone I grew up with is oolitic limestone; Kingston is known as the ‘Limestone City’. As the original capital of Upper Canada, Kingston has older buildings (if not ‘old’ by European standards) than much of Canada, from elegant mansions to more humble cottages, as does the surrounding area. Kingston’s Springer Market Square evokes memories of Salisbury’s market and especially of trips to the fair. There will always be an inward smile when we go to a play Thousand Island’s Playhouse; Salisbury Playhouse was one of the treasures of my early life (so awesome to find a really rich theatrical culture around us here).

Kingston 2016 (8 of 8) Kingston 2016 (3 of 8) Kingston 2016 (4 of 8)

A long time British immigrant mentioned to me the other day that one thing she does miss about the UK is the diversity of the scenery within a relatively small area. Canada is a country known for its vast panoramic landscapes and, sometimes, they can go on for just a bit too long. Here we wend our winding way along roads that transition between bucolic agricultural vistas, craggy outcrops of shield rock that belong much further north, typical Ontario marsh, woodland, and jaw-dropping water views.

Rideau (5 of 11) Lower Brewers Lock Rideau (10 of 11) Woodland ascent to Rock Dunder Rideau (11 of 11) View from Rock Dunder, the highest point between Kingston and Ottawa

I do not, honestly, miss England. But it seems that I have sought out a place that brings past and present together, integrating those things that I loved and valued in my childhood with the choice I have made to be Canadian. That feels like a pretty good opening for the next chapter!

[1] Tisbury was my nearest village growing up, about 3 miles from the hamlet where we lived.
[2] Likewise, Salisbury, at 12 miles away, was our nearest city.

Carrying-Place-2016-1-of-1

The next chapter: moving rural (2)

Community in Carrying Place

We have stepped into the pages of a novel filled with richly drawn characters – more than a hint of Stephen Leacock, but giving life too to my reading of Mary Lawson (writing about a more northerly Ontario rural community), Robertson Davies’ Salterton Trilogy, Monique Proulx’s Laurentian forest folk. I think perhaps it is easier to live in an unconstrainedly authentic way outside a city. Whether this is because of the people this life attracts, the grounding effect of an ever-present awareness of the natural world, less pressure from the tyranny of ‘nomal’ or something I do not yet understand I am not sure.

I love that there are farming families who have been here for generations, with a deep knowledge of and love for the land. There are those who left but felt the tug of their roots and returned, those who came thirty or twenty years ago, those who drive five hours each way every summer weekend from Pennsylvania or western Ontario, and newcomers like us – a healthy mix that includes at least a little multicultural leavening. It is good to know that about 60% of us are permanent residents.

The community is drawn from all walks of life; as well as the farming families we have so far met a lawyer, a civil servant fresh from a posting as Consul General, the published author of a fantasy novel, a forensic psychologist, a tech entrepreneur, a lawyer, a physiotherapist, a wonderful character with many stories to tell who described starting adult life as a ‘huckster’[1], the Chinese owner of a local fishing lodge and his wife who runs an LED import business, a couple with a tech background who have a smallholding with a straw-bale home, and more.

One eighty-year-old neighbor settled here with her ex-naval husband after travelling the seas on a schooner he built. She is on intimate terms with the raccoons, as well as the ubiquitous chipmunks and squirrels, and has this summer permitted the construction of the Groundhog Hilton in her rockery, though she plans a forced resettlement of the young engineer next Spring.

Carrying Place 2016 (19 of 33) One of our resident chipmunks

The pot of honey and card that arrived on our doorstep between our pre-closing inspection and our return from the lawyer with the ‘keys to the kingdom’ were no one-off. There is a genuine kindness and warmth that seems to characterize our new ‘hood; people take care of each other. There will always be someone willing to share their knowledge or who can help with the things that need doing. And there is something pretty awesome about setting out for an evening paddle and ending up getting to know new neighbours over a beer on their island party deck!

[1] Dictionary definition of huckster: retailer of small articles, especially a peddler of fruits and vegetables; hawker.

carrying-place-2016-9-of-33

The next chapter: moving rural (1)

A good friend asked for my first impressions of this new stage of our lives. If I had to choose one word, it would be ‘blessed’.

Homecoming

For me there is a real sense of coming full circle, of ‘home’, of ‘returning to the land of my soul’[1]. Although I have tried throughout my life to live authentically, have enjoyed each new stage and adventure, all the riches of experiences and connections, in returning to rural life there is a feeling of re-accessing a true, deep part of me that I associate with my childhood and teens. I was a child of nature, integrally connected with the rhythm of the seasons, with a strong link between external and internal realities. I have at times struggled to find that link amid urban overload. Here it is a sweet, familiar melody running through my living.

Always the lake . . .

As each day dawns, I am excited to experience anew the beauty of ‘most this amazing day’[2].

Carrying Place 2016 (3 of 33) Our dock Carrying Place 2016 (10 of 33) A house with a view . . . Carrying Place 2016 (11 of 33) A house with a view . . .

 

Cranberry Lake, a cranberry bog flooded during the construction of the Rideau Canal, is what I see when I open my bedroom curtains; it takes my breath away every time I glimpse it. In a house with more windows than walls, it is a constant presence, the backdrop to our lives.

Some days, the water has been sprinkled with diamonds or fine, powdery glitter. Then there are the times of mirror calm, when every island become a Rorschach inkblot, or of grey shot with silver, of rising mist heralding the mellow mornings of Fall; and, to start and end the day the sun (and sometimes the moon) throw fire into the lake, painting it in reds and golds or soft pinks and purples.

 

Carrying Place 2016 (25 of 33) Rorschach shadows Carrying Place 2016 (30 of 33) Fire on Alice Island (Harvest moon) Carrying Place 2016 (29 of 33) On the water at sundown

I have always loved the wind, but until now I had not begun to understand its subtleties; the lake shows me how its tendrils touch and change things, shows me the quiet spaces where the wind is not. I notice which way the wind is blowing – usually from the south east; even through this hot August, colder when from the north.

Carrying Place 2016 (14 of 33) Early morning on the water Carrying Place 2016 (18 of 33) Water lily Carrying Place 2016 (16 of 33) Early morning on the water

 

The lake roots us in change, it is never quite the same as it was. Out paddling in the flat calm of early morning, I understood both that that calm is always present beneath the water’s every mood and that in those moments of absolute calm it is can most fully reflect back the light – it is truly magical to watch it ripple on a leafy overhang.

[1] A reference to a lovely song I know through Neshama Carlbach, ‘Return Again’ 

[2] e.e. cummingsI thank You God for most this amazing’