Absence
makes the heart grow fonder. We were away from our new home in Nova Scotia for
most of the summer. We have now been home again for several weeks. “Home”. What
a word. What a feeling. Comfort, sanctuary, haven.
Earlier
this week we needed seafood for a special event that we would be hosting. We
had bought much of it already, but we needed some smoked fish to add to the
medley. We drove over the North Mountain to the Bay of Fundy just a short
distance from our house on the Annapolis River. There is a harbour there for
fishing boats and across the road, a fish store. As we crested the mountain we
could clearly see New Brunswick, its hills and even its buildings in Saint
John. Although it is a two and one half hour boat trip away, it appeared as if
an easy swim would reach the other shore. However, when we descended, all that
was visible was the very tops of those distant hills, confirming that the world
really is round.
The tide
was out; so the fishing boats in the harbour were all on dry land. The abundant
huts there are all brightly painted in a rainbow of colours. It is magical.
Unfortunately,
there was no smoked fish at the store across the road. I desperately wanted
some for the chowder I was preparing. It gives the hint of a rich smoky
flavour. The woman who tends the store said she thought there was a smoke house
just down the road a few minutes away. She went to inquire and came back with
instructions on how to find the place.
Off we went
around corners and up and down hills along the coast. A gravel road down toward
the sea indicated the destination. The plant looked abandoned, but there were a
couple of vehicles there. That delightful smoky scent was in the air. But we
could see no one. There were three buildings very much time worn in appearance.
There was the almost eerie feeling of better days gone by.
Then, as if
by enchantment, a ghostly, silent, tall and lean figure appeared by the most
distant building. He did not look up. He did not make a sound. Was he real? Was
he a phantom from another age? He was wearing a white coat. His head hair bore
a blue covering. And there was even a covering over what we later discovered
was a long beard. He was loading fish into barrels and shoveling great loads of
salt on top. One other similarly clad individual appeared next. He was short
and heavy and looked like Disney’s Grumpy. He seemed shy. He spoke, but it was an
incomprehensible collection of vowels.
We went
closer. My partner is more forward than I at such times. He inquired of the
person if they had smoked fish. He pointed into the building. A jolly fellow then
appeared on a fork lift attired in much the same way. He was delightfully elfin.
And he was in no hurry to answer our inquiry. Once he had done what he was up
to, however, he did. We stood there and listened. Then he moved away. “Were we
to follow”, we called out. “Yes”, he replied. “Come along”, and so we scurried
along behind him. He asked us inquisitively about ourselves. He sauntered over
to the building closest to where we had left our car, chattering in a musical
dialect all the time. Some of it we understood, much of it we did not. He did
not know if he had any smoked fish to give up. He had to complete the year’s
work in a few weeks. He was a busy lad.
The
building we then entered had counters along the edges and down the middle of
the room a long trough sat. This was obviously where the fish were cleaned. The
trough was empty and so also the room. Eventually, after washing his hands, the
fellow went over to a counter where he pulled out a box. He opened it, all the
while indicating he did not know what he if anything he might find there. Then
he pulled out one large frozen smoked haddock fillet. I eyed it. That would do.
A pause. Then he pulled out another, and another, and another and finally a
fifth fillet, which he plopped down with a grin on his face. There. “Would that
do?” “Yes”, I said. For who knows when one would come across such wonderful
smoked fish. Was twenty dollars too much, he asked. I quickly pulled out the
money and assured him that it was fine.
Then he
asked us if we wanted to see the smoke house. Of course. This was a once in a
lifetime experience. When would the illusion end. The illusion of being in some
mystical realm was aided by the mist hanging over venue. We walked with him to
the middle building. He opened a creaking door. Were we about to be murdered
and disposed of? A fleeting thought.
Inside the
large building were nineteen bays behind large closed doors. The sweet smell of
smoke hung in the air. Chattering all the time, our guide opened one of these
doors. There, hung on racks, were hundreds of smoked fish, richly golden and
oily in colour. Beneath was a deep pit where the fires were lit during the
smoking. Each bay held five thousand pounds of fish that would, when ready, be
barreled, salted and shipped to distant lands.
All the
while it seemed that we were living a dream. Would we wake up? No, this was wonderfully
real. And the fish was just what I needed to create a sumptuous feast.
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