This province always deceives. We drive and drive, the hours pass and the odometer spins but we are in a time warp on the northern route above Lake Superior. We call the number from Nipigon, as we’re advised to do, and arrive at the cottage as dark closes in. Half the occupants are abed and we won’t meet them until tomorrow. We apologize for the late hour and offer a bottle of wine that will also wait until tomorrow (or another tomorrow) to be consumed.
We’re welcomed in with bustling affection and great efficiency and a fire is lit in the fieldstone fireplace that rises up through the sleeping loft. It is an old-style cottage, in the best possible way, made of hewn logs and beadboard and plank floors possessing a charming wonkiness. The walls are burnished by the flames and two small arm chairs, original to the place, are snugged up near the hearth in perfect intimacy. Children, who are not our own, appear in nightgowns to put faces to the strange, discombobulated voices seeping through the walls and disappear equally quickly to their own sanctified niches.
The wood-fired sauna is lit and we are left to our own devices. Our kids are asleep in the loft and Joy keeps watch as we slip into the darkness. We strip down and feel the blast from the 100 degree celsius heat as we open the sauna door. I don’t make it all the way into the lake on the first go. Thigh high and a few splashes and I’m back into the heat. But we’re eventually fully immersed under a waxing moon with the expansive constellations and a single loon’s call for company.
Pajama-clad, we uncork our half-drunk bottle of wine and whisper by the fire. A singular unsleeping child appears for a midnight cuddle and reassurance. It doesn’t matter that I don’t know her nor she me, it’s the warmth of welcome arms that matter. After awhile I lead her to her mother’s sleeping arms and she, too, drifts off. Husband and I soon join the rest of the household.
The sun is low in the sky but the kids are already in the water, swimming, kayaking, and taking turns jumping off the dock. The adults eventually emerge from all points and we jump into conversation with those we hadn’t met the previous night. We form and reform, migrating around the generous property, and it seems perfectly normal to be with people we’ve never laid eyes on before. It’s like the proverbial box of chocolates and we savour our picks.
We face one more full day of driving but we’re slow to pick up and leave. We make plans to get the kids together when we return home and conduct final checks to ensure all critical equipment and bodies are accounted for.
How beautiful it was in all its brevity! I feel nostalgic for an experience I didn’t grow up with, even though I know that it’s never as simple as it all looks. We’ve added to the history of the Martins’ cottage (and its narrative) in the smallest of ways. We’ve also taken a tiny piece away to add to our own collective memories.
For this snapshot in time – and the promise of what may come – we are grateful. (Thanks Annie.)