In the evening we hear the peeping of the frogs; a charming orchestra. There is the lapping of the water against the boat at the dock. When we have settled into bed for the night we hear the waves gently curling under the boathouse floor, more soothing than a bedtime lullaby.
Unfortunately there are sounds we could do without, such as the buzz of the mosquito. You have just extinguished the lamp and snuggled into the down comforter, eyes fluttering shut, drifting off so peacefully — when you hear the faint buzz. It is at a distance, but gaining in volume. Your eyes open wide, the mosquito hovers just off your ear. You wave a hand at it. It is silent and you know it has landed, so you shake like a dog. Your wife wakes to find you with a flashlight on, jumping up and down on the mattress grabbing at the air in some ridiculous demonstration of disco Tai Chi.
In the early hours of dawn, you hear the dogs frolicking and running, and the chitter of the squirrel reprimanding their intrusion. The songbirds welcome a new day. A song sparrow sings a beautiful melody from a tree outside the boathouse bunkie. How long do song sparrows live? My mother remembers the sparrow offering his sweet music from the same tree back in 1974. Perhaps it is the offspring of the original singer, in a tree grown much higher now.
There is the sound of the bacon frying on the morning fire and the hushed speaking tones of early risers with their coffee on the dock. There is the splash from an early morning dip, the sound of the motorboat belching to life, and then the slice of the water ski through the calm lake. There is always the joyful sound of children’s laughter while swimming, running in the forest, or playing in the cabin.
In mid-morning there comes the sound of the wind, the waves crashing on the shore, and then the rain pelting off the cabin roof. The flag flaps, thunder roars, and lightning lights the sky.
There are so many sounds that make up the cottage experience; beautiful, relaxing, bewitching noise. Sounds we have learned to love, amongst the peace and the quiet.
Cottage Top Ten
As top-ten lists seem to be in fashion, and since I long to be a fashionable guy, I decided to put together my own top ten of what the summer cottage means to me. In the end, however, so unoriginal and uninspired was my list, I decided to approach the experts, my children, to get their perspective on our summer place on the lake.
So what began as a ten-point list by me transformed itself into a family exercise, as I implored my wife and our four kids to write down the ten things they love most about the cottage. It was a great time of the year to ask, with just a month of school remaining and the youngsters pining for summer, longing to spend those long weeks at the cottage without a care in the world.
My own favourite touchstones for cottage living reads more like a series of mood-driven advertisements in Cottage Life magazine: coffee or tea on the dock in the early morning while watching the mist rise from the lake; sitting in the Muskoka chair in the dark of night looking up at the stars, sometimes being fortunate enough to see a display of the northern lights; watching a thunderstorm come across the lake; sitting, reading in the cabin in the evening under the warm glow of the oil lanterns; cocktail hour lakeside; and watching the dogs run all day before crashing into a deep sleep, curled up on the porch.
My wife’s list was also made up of relaxing moments, the cottage for her being a place to escape the stress of work, to recharge, and to distance herself from responsibilities. She mentions sitting out at the point surrounded by the fall colours, or in the antique bathtub filled with water heated on the cookstove, soaking, looking over the lake, with a glass of wine in hand. The hardest decisions while at the cottage are whether to partake of a beer or cider with lunch, what book to read, and whether to lie and sunbathe on one’s back or front.
There is much more energy involved with the children’s lists. They mention water-skiing, knee-boarding and tubing, snorkelling and swimming, and fishing and canoeing. They cherish the time spent with their siblings, friends, and cousins, running through the forest, playing tag, hide-and-seek, or manhunt.
Also, interestingly enough, there is a common thread that weaves its way through the lists of parents and children alike, and it is rated highly in the top ten of all. That is, the love of shared family time. Now, as a parent I understand our desire to get the children and ourselves away from televisions, telephones, Playstations, computers, and MP3s, but the same sentiment topped the lists of my kids.
Each of our four children mentioned family time: games, bonfires, marshmallow roasts, singalongs, treasure hunts, and ghost stories before bed. Sitting down in the evening after supper and playing a board game with Mom and Dad was their biggest thrill.
How important is that, and how gratifying to know?
I put the top-ten question to Grandpa and Grandma. They also listed the quality time at the cottage with family and grandchildren, and the joy and quiet when everyone leaves and they can enjoy the place alone.
The Bookshelf
I love to read. My day just doesn’t seem complete if I haven’t read at least a couple of chapters of a book. Our cottage comes without electricity, so no television or Internet. This leaves plenty of time to get lost in a good yarn.
I was reading with my son the other night, and it is nice that he is at the age where he enjoys doing most of the reading himself, only letting me take over when his eyes are getting heavy. It was a Hardy Boys book, but not the Hardy Boys as I remember them. When I was a kid I used to sit in the big comfortable armchair on the front porch of the cottage and read the entire series, stories of mystery and adventure. My sister sat in the log rocking chair and read Nancy Drew stories, and then we would argue whether boy detectives or girl sleuths were best.
Now the “All New” Hardy Boys, Frank and Joe, use cellphones and the Internet. They battle gang leaders instead of thugs, and their best buddy, chubby Chet Morton, doesn’t seem to be around, at least in this adventure. Perhaps it is politically incorrect to have a plump, nearsighted friend who loves to eat. Where they used to drive around in jalopies, now they scoot around on sleek motorcycles. The writing has changed as well; it is more upbeat and funky. Frank and Joe themselves are more obnoxious, which of course is “in.” They call each other “pumpkin-head” and “doorknob.” I don’t remember them doing that in the original series — in fact, having brothers myself, I found their fine behaviour towards each other a little weird.
We have a neat collection of books that sit on rustic shelves in the back corner of our log cabin, rough wood planks suspended from the loft by logging chains. There are a number of kid’s books: the Hardy Boys both new and old, Nancy Drew, Harry Potter, A Series of Unfortunate Events, and the Spiderwick Chronicles. There are classics like Treasure Island, Black Beauty, Kidnapped, Who Has Seen the Wind, Tom Sawyer, and The Swiss Family Robinson. Some of the books are more recent, and rotate in and out as people finish reading them. Others have been around for decades, classic novels and timeless journals on the outdoors.
There are the usual volumes on nature, of course. Beside the binoculars sit several books on birds. So when my wife says, “Oh isn’t that a pretty bird on that birch branch,” I can reply with certainty, after hurriedly flipping through the Audubon book of North American birds, “I believe that is a white-breasted nuthatch.”
“Whatever,” she replies, seemingly unimpressed with my vast knowledge, and then under her breath, “And you’re a brown-topped nuthead,” something I can find nowhere in any of the volumes. Then my son, flipping through the bird illustrations to help me out, says, “Are you sure it isn’t a common bushtit, Dad?” to great giggles and laughter.
Annie Dillard is one of my favourite authors. I guided her on a horse trip in the Rockies in the mid-eighties, and she gave me a signed copy of her Pulitzer Prize–winning novel Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. Beautifully written and wonderfully observant — I pull it off the bookshelf often. Other volumes that will sit gathering dust for some years, and then get pulled down for a good afternoon read include the books of H.V. Morton, Gavi
n Maxwell, James Herriot, and Henry David Thoreau. When needing something light-hearted, I might turn to Gregory Clark, Stuart McLean, or the travel books of Bill Bryson.
Also on the nature shelf are wildflower books, books on the night sky and constellations, animal tracks, mammals, edible plants, and mushrooms, so my wife knows how to poison me if needed. There are books on cottage country walks, lost canoe routes, Algonquin Park, animal husbandry, and books on how to care for cast-iron cookery, which my wife will set out discreetly from time to time. There are many how-to books, of course, Foxfire books that tell you how to dry fish, tan a hide, or build a sweat house, just those things you might think of doing on a lazy cottage afternoon. There are much-used first aid books, cottage repair books, and books on how to deal with teenaged children.
The top shelf is more of a rotating collection of spy, adventure, horror, and mystery novels — Wilbur Smith, Robert Ludlum, John LeCarre, Ken Follet, Stephen King, Jack Higgins, and Peter Robinson. They come and go. Of course there are a few Danielle Steele and Sydney Sheldon romances, the Fifty Shades Trilogy, and several Oprah recommendations — don’t know where they came from. Likely from the same person who thought a girl could solve a mystery as well as those brilliant brothers. What an absurd notion!
The Perfect Day
It was the perfect day at the lake. Sometimes, unexpectedly, those perfect days just arrive. Sometimes you just have to allow yourself to relax to let them happen.
It was to be our last day of a two-week stay. We had enjoyed some sunny days and some rainy days. We had enjoyed some laughs and fun, and done our fair share of hard work along the way. We had completed a number of projects — some that we had been intending to tackle for some time. I crossed them off the lengthy to-do list.
On that, the final day of our vacation, we had pledged to store away the tools, to relax, and to enjoy our time with the kids. My parents had always followed the policy of only working until noon during their cottage days, before forcing themselves to slip into a lazy routine of reading and swimming for the remainder of the day. It was a well-thought strategy.
I woke early in the morning to mist rising off the lake. It swirled and drifted. The rock outcrop to the north looked cut off from shore. My dog stood on the stone island looking out over the peaceful water. Her head tilted as the sound of a loon echoed from the fog. She lifted her nose and let out a brief howl in response.
As the mist lifted, the lake was as calm and still as glass, reflecting the vivid blue sky and the few fluffy clouds like a mirror. The children rose early (well, early for them), with the promise of some excellent water-skiing. We took each of them around in turn, watching as their skis sliced through the flat water sending a plume of spray behind.
My eldest daughter dropped a ski for the first time. She wobbled and fell, but tried again, and proudly skied around the bay. By the end of her turn she was confidently carving in and out of the wake. When the youngsters were finished, the adults all gave it a go, for a brief time becoming children again. Some of the kids went tubing, and then Grandma and Grandpa took a turn. We all laughed as they bounced over the wake and skidded wide-eyed to a stop beside the dock.
We had set up our annual treasure hunt for everyone after lunch, so the adults could relax dockside and watch the children solving puzzles, deciphering riddles, and following clues in their search for hidden treasure.
My wife, her mother, and my sister swam the mile distance from island to shore, a goal they had set for themselves when arriving at the cottage. They had trained by swimming around the island almost daily. My brother-in-law followed them in the boat for safety (I would have never heard the end of it had my mother-in-law sank), and then we brought them back in spite of the relative quiet we had enjoyed for a time. We toasted their success. My sister and I shared memories of the last time we had done this swim, as fit teenagers thirty-some years ago. I would say that this was a much more impressive accomplishment for the ladies on this day. My shoulder was hurting, if you were wondering.
After dinner I got a bonfire burning at the point, and we sang some songs, told some stories, and shared some jokes and riddles. Sometime during the fun, the sun had disappeared in the west. The lake was dark. Only a few cottage lights could be seen on the distant mainland. With no lights, clouds, or moon, the display of stars was amazing.
Like tumbled bowling pins, we lay out on our backs on the rocky knoll, helter-skelter, staring up at the brilliant canopy of stars. My son used me for a pillow, my daughters snuggled in by my side. My eldest showed off her knowledge of the constellations, saying that she had learned them in school that past year — it made me happy to know she had learned something.
We watched falling stars and satellites drifting past, and lost ourselves in the Milky Way. I asked my kids if, after they had become professional hockey stars, glamorous celebrities, or skilled physicians, they would still lie out on this rock with their old dad looking up at the stars. They all said they would — this was their favourite place. No matter where their life might take them, they vowed always to return. I believed them.
And so ended my perfect cottage day.
A Taste of the Highlands
We have the wood fire roaring in the stove, taking the chill out of the cottage. My wife sits in a rocker reading, while the kids play a game on the pine table. Outside, horizontal rain pellets buffet the cabin. I sit comfortably in my favourite wooden armchair on the sheltered porch, just far enough back to stay dry, a pre-dinner dram of single malt in hand. Low clouds hang over the lake and a misty fog twirls over the turbulent surface.
My ears suddenly perk up. Over the sound of the squall, I hear a distant bagpipe from the mainland echoing over the water. In this weather, it is an appropriate and beautiful sound. I don’t know if it is the sound of the pipes, the inclement weather, or the dulling warmth of the Lagavulin, but I find myself staring out over the lake and imagining myself in Scotland again.
My last visit had taken me to a cottage of a different sort, a distant seaside guest house on the rugged shores of the Shetland Islands. Like our Muskoka, the Shetlands are a wild and wonderful escape — vast, pristine, remote, and mysterious, full of history and nature. Though, where Muskoka is lush, treed and green, the Shetlands are barren. The country there is uncluttered by houses and trees. At first I missed the forest that I love so much back home, but soon the stark barrenness of the Shetland landscape exerts its own fascination. Roads curl through the valleys and follow the rugged shores, past rock homes, stone walls, and neat paddocks.
The cottage where I based myself was called Burrastow House on the West Mainland. After dining on lobster caught in the Sound and served up fresh, I wanted the exercise of a short walk along the rugged, rocky shoreline. I set off on a sheep track that wound its way over the moor and along the ragged coastal cliff-tops. It was sheer beauty, and peaceful, a silence broken only by the stirring of wind, the crash of waves, and the cry of the kittiwakes. Each new bay and craggy outcrop drew me onward, and the late summer light had me walking well into the night.
Like the feelings that are constantly stirred by my island cottage back home, from this barren Shetland landscape one never ceases to pluck strangely rewarding experiences. It sharpens the senses. Peat bog and mist, the smell of the sea and decay, the sounds of the water flowing down the hillsides, rain, wind, and the distant bleating of sheep. Spring quill covered the rocky knolls and thrift grew like lichen on the black rock, colouring it pink. Marsh marigold sprang from the moist soils — yellow flowers following the damp draws. Purplish-black heath spotted orchids grew in the boggy areas. Floating in the white peat water were the white heads of water lilies. The grass, short and tough, was of a greyish-green colour, interspersed with clumps of heather. Puffins, gannets, guillemots, and kittiwakes roosted on the sheer cliffs that rose from the Atlantic in steep-sided splendour. Out to sea I saw whales breeching, and in the bays and inlets otters and grey seals frolicking.
I love wild and rugged co
untry. Though I can’t say I would complain about a hot, sandy beach during the doldrums of our long Muskoka winters, I am not as much a tropical island kind of guy. I prefer being at our cottage on this island, a balsam-scented, three-acre mound of rock, cedar, and pine situated in the middle of a lake in the northern woods. And I love looking out over a lake thrown into chaos by a driving summer storm.
When our whole clan is up to the cottage we fly the Lion Rampant under the Canadian Maple Leaf on the flagpole. Two carved wood Gaelic signs greet visitors to our cottage. Above the front door is Ciad Mile Failte, meaning “A Hundred Thousand Welcomes.” On the central log beam inside is the sign Croich Na Rosach, “Refuge of the Rosses.” We have a certain pride in our Scottish heritage, but a far greater pride in being Canadian and in owning this wonderful bit of Canadiana that is our cottage.
It is surprising what thoughts are stirred up by a summer storm, mist on the water, the distant wail of a bagpipe, and a dram of highland whisky — especially by the malt.
The Ants Go Marching
There is a trail of ants that wander across the walking path that leads to swim rock. They march along with a purpose, organized and in single file. They skirt small stones and tree roots that must seem like mountains and canyons to them. One meandering line treks westward, while a returning column heads east. They pass each other on the right.
Their destination is a big old pine tree, twisted and gnarled and oozing sap. The ants climb the tree, gather some of the sweet sap, and then diligently march off homeward to their anthill constructed out back of the tool shed.
Each and every day, once the sun has sufficiently warmed the earth, the queue of ants begins its daily routine: marching, climbing, mining, and then returning with their booty. Then, presumably, they are off again. I do not know how many trips they make in a day since I don’t know how to tell them apart, how to paint a number on their back, tie a ribbon around an antennae, fix them with a radio collar, or tag an ear.
Still in a Daze at the Cottage Page 12