We bucked up our courage and left the cozy B&B after one last tasty breakfast, and since the weather is still too fuzzy for flying we took another long drive across the island. This time picking up near where we left off at the Green Gables (every time I type that it gets the old TV show tune for Green Acres playing in my head somehow) house in Cavendish. Turns out there are at least three L.M.M. houses and all seem to boast green trim of some kind. Our first today was her birth house, where we met a couple celebrating their anniversary. “Nice way to celebrate,” said Anne. “For her,” said I.
You may already know I’m a sucker for such stuff, and I confess to having misted up a bit watching the brief intro movie at the official Canadian Government approved Gables house we visited a few days ago. So though I offered the snide quip that Anne and the woman laughed at (the man wisely remained stoically silent), it was I who had brought us here on the drive. Nice that it also earned me major brownie points with the missus. 🙂
Across the street was this well-used little boat that has put food on the table when the tourists are scarce in Winter. Driving further West along the North coast, we paused to admire the ground fog that gave everything such a mystical quality as it silently wafted up from the plowed fields trying to rejoin the mists hanging a few hundred feet above.
A little further along we came to Silver Bush, a home much loved by the Gables gal.
The elderly man mowing the massive lawn on his trusty ride mower motioned us toward the house as if he thought didn’t know it was public (small fee), and his elderly dog grumbled and shared his singing bark as if he yearned for the tourist-free Winter months and lamented coming Summer crowds. Both they and the grandmotherly woman at the counter inside were friendly though, and we enjoyed browsing the gift shop for a few minutes. We then drove along the eastern shores of the massive Malpeque Bay, pausing occasionally to admire the views.
Now I don’t want to say it gets too windy on PEI, but this sight on a grassy knoll facing the bay seems to tell a story in how far it is from the spiffy foundation.
There were plenty of beautiful old homes too, weathered and silent, holding generations of memories.
Who stood in that window? What were they looking at, and who was in their thoughts and feelings?
Anne caught this snap I like, of a colorful little fishing village on one of the inlets in the quiet bay. The lives and stories are still thriving there, spilling warm laughter and music into the chilly edges of the ancient silence.
She also got this snap of me with the very helpful Donna in a hardware store. She’d helped us find and affix some double-sided tape to hold the gel insole of Anne’s shoe that had been rolling up beneath her heel.
Such a delightful woman, you know that Winters here are fun for everyone in the little communities as they gather in the dark snowy nights. We had already paused in nearby Indian River passing the striking St. Mary’s Church, to snap some pix for you.
I wonder what the stories are behind the ring of old guys whose likenesses are carved on the statues decorating the tall spire.
As we checked in, at the near edge of a large open field outside our new motel in Summerside we spotted a pair of foxes playing tag around a small tree.
They were so full of life and fun we watched for several minutes until they finally bounded off toward their den near the bay where they dig for oysters.
Thanks to gMaps on our phone we found a fun little local fish & chips place on a side road at the edge of town that’s popular with locals but we saw nary another tourist. The owner’s daughter has a guitar sitting on a stand, so I asked if there would be music. “No, someone was trying to teach me to play,” she replied. This was all the encouragement needed to get me playing and singing with Anne and the guy at the left and teaching her the three chords of G major. If we ever come back, I hope to hear her doing rousing renditions of Johnny Cash songs mixed with her creations.
Back at the motel Anne begged until I agreed to walk out in the cold dusk where the foxes had gone. I confess it was fun, and I’m glad she wanted to turn back when we ensured there was no dry trail through the tall wet grass.
In addition to Anne’s happiness and the bracing air, I was treated to a photo op using my flash to accent the young trees reaching for warmth so they can finally explode with leaves. Their bare limbs lit against the distant nightfall somehow evoke the tantalizing nearness of the Spring we had hoped for during our time here.
There’s a fair chance we’ll finally be able to fly tomorrow. Maybe to Newfoundland, probably at least to Nova Scotia, and maybe just a retreat back to Maine or Vermont.
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