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I saw a seal yesterday just off our shore.
I spied it
there lounging on the
surface,
to my delight.
Unrestricted, except by the tide,
it was unaware of
Covid.
And then with easy grace
it breeched and dove
out of sight,
leaving me wanting
more.
When I was a child, I was taught that the seasonal changes happened on the 21st of a month. I now know that the lunar calendar is fluid, although with a certain rhythm to it. So, I know that spring arrived officially in the morning of the 20th this year, and not today, the 21st.
I enjoyed a leisurely 2-hour walk myself. And when I got back home, I doffed my coat and then my heavy shirt, socks and trousers and donned a pair of shorts and a light shirt. My feet were bare. Then, I went out and sat comfortably on our deck basking in the sunshine, and feeling it energize me.
The wind only picked up as 3:00 o'clock in the afternoon approached. Reluctantly, I retreated inside behind glass walls. The waves have grown on the river. There are whitecaps and the tide is coming in.
But I can still see the bright sunshine!
Ours is a riparian existence. But this is our first full
winter here. Our usual “escape” to Cuba has not taken place this year. But we
are enjoying our time, which seems to be passing quickly. We’ve had grey days
for sure; but when the sun comes out it is truly glorious.
And we have enjoyed watching the water life, as we do all
year round. We do not see the seals, nor have we seen the dolphins that
occasionally entertain us in the summer and autumn. And we have not witnessed
any of the very large fish jumping high out of the water. But the birds have
provided great entertainment.
Several weeks ago, we noticed two loons, then four, then eight swimming close to our shore. They are bearing their nondescript winter coats. We have seen them before in the late fall and early spring, when their coat is more appealing. They will fly to the abundant fresh water lakes in the late spring, once the ice is out.
What has amused us most, however, are the gulls and, in
particular, their reaction to this infestation of ducks. The gulls seem incensed
that these birds are feeding here. They land among them, harass them and even
fly up briefly into the air and swoop down on them. But their targets easily dive
out of reach, as a large hawk watches from a tree top at the shore.
We are not entirely sure that this act of the gulls is aggression. It is possible they are simply trying to get the scraps of the fish these intruders are feasting on. Regardless, it is great amusement to idle minds on a lazy, sun-drenched winter afternoon.
Now had he been Scottish, instead of French, he might actually have created a feast with whisky and haggis, rather than wine, fish and fowl. Had he been a poet instead of an architect we might have had cause to celebrate his birthday.
Now the Scots did come here. But they did not stay long, although their presence has given our Province it's name, albeit in Latin.
Then, more than a hundred years later, we had a whisky loving Scot who wrote poetry and has become a Scottish icon. He never visited Nova Scotia that we know of. But his celebration on January 25 every year is very much in the genre of that "Order of Good Cheer". And being in January, it is a convenient excuse to chase away the winter blues.
This year, however, like most sensible folk, we do not travel. So we have stayed home for a Nova Scotia winter and been able to do both Robbie Burns and Monsieur de Champlain proud with our festivities on January 25, 2021.
Travel does not appeal to us in these uncertain days. And I have
to say, we are enjoying our first “winter” here in Nova Scotia. Seventeen
degrees Celsius on Christmas day was not hard to take. It was the first time we
have ventured out in our convertible with the roof down in late December. And
wine on our riparian deck on New Year’s Day was a pleasure too.
Yes, we’ve had snow. But not much. Yes, it’s been grey and
chilly. But not always and certainly not like the minus 30 Celsius we
frequently experienced at our former home in Ontario. Minus 7 we can take, even
minus 20 will seem like a salve.
It is now mid-January. Our lawn is green. Our decks are
clear. The wood pile is disappearing very slowly. We’ve enjoyed several pleasant
walks in parks and on trails or just around our little village here in
Granville Ferry.
But, I can assure you, we are not lulled into a false expectation of an easy winter.
Cold will come. Snow will come. But the daylight is already growing longer and
stronger. Stew bubbles on the stove. The fire burns warmly in our livingroom. The
house is snug. And the view is always engaging and often invigorating.
Despite Covid, I stand looking out at walkers-by as I
practice the fiddle. John finds comfort in his little art studio nestled at the
back of the house. The telephone rings: an invitation to a socially distanced
dinner. A call from old and dear friends comes from Germany on WhatsApp, and
from friends in Cuba who are missing us. A letter arrives from England six weeks late. There
are cocktails on Zoom with former colleagues. And regular emails from friends
near and far reaching out to us and we to them on our computer monitors each
morning.
We acknowledge our good fortune every day.
Although we tend to romanticize the sea, in stories and song, it can so well often be terrifying and unpredictable. The boats are small in comparison to the huge swells that can appear from no where. The work is hard and always dangerous. The risk is great and known by the men and women who live and work tirelessly on these shores.
Yet our fragile economy here in the Atlantic Provinces depends on the harvest of fish, lobster and scallops and other sea creatures. Most of us enjoy the results at our dinner tables.
But today and at this festive season, our hearts go out to the families and friends and co-workers of the six men from Yarmouth, all of whom are now presumed dead in the frigid waters of the Bay of Fundy.
