Here I sit on the upper floor of an old, remodeled barn in a place called Digby Neck, Nova Scotia, looking out over the Bay of Fundy. It’s raining, as it has been since I arrived recently, and the bay is once again shrouded in mist, its choppy waters a doleful pewter gray broken only by white caps that form and dissipate almost instantly. The air has shifted from south to northwest, so it is much cooler and less humid today than when we arrived.
Gulls glow bright white against the metallic choppiness, braving the wind, gliding low across the restless surface, ever in search of something to eat. They fly in pairs, and look almost sad against that vastness, lost against an enormous backdrop that seems daunting to me from where I’m sitting.
A friend invited me to accompany her here to this place, this 240 acres that form part of the western shore of the bay along a road called Culloden. It climbs steadily from the little town of Digby, accessible by ferry from St. John, New Brunswick, where fishing is a way of life and boats in all colors of the spectrum line the pier jutting into Annapolis Basin. By midday, most are gone, in search of lobsters or scallops or other sorts of bounty that the sea provides. So it’s not at all surprising that most of the restaurants that line the quaint and picturesque main drag offer some type of seafood as their main attractions.
My first night here was strange and disconcerting, as all first nights tend to be to one who doesn’t travel much. But as the days passed, I slowly fell in love with the views that greeted me both from my own room and from the aerie that is my friend’s living room, and I came to appreciate the unique beauty of a marine sunset, and the speed at which the sea changes its mind and its mood.
A walk across the grassy lawns one day last week took me to all that remains of what was once the Bay of Fundy House, a bed and breakfast inn whose top floors provided clear views of the bay and the lush woods on all sides. One concrete wall and three stone walls are all that remain of what I’m told was a popular getaway up until the mid-1940s when it closed. Now, a small guest cottage sits nestled a short way from the main house, with an artist’s studio midway between the two. An old barn draped in grape vines and strung with old lobster buoys rounds out the eclectic collection of buildings and reaffirms the area’s basic spirit.
We will be here for a few more days, during which I hope to do more exploring. And as for that early, wind-driven rain lashing the glass of the deck doors and pounding the roof upon my arrival, words took shape in my mind much as the waves swelling and waning just a few hundred feet away:
Gray clouds complete the scene this day
across a channel known as Fundy Bay.
Half sky, half sea from this high spot,
the farther shore an elongated blot.
Metallic best describes the ceaseless drift,
the ebb and flow, the daily tidal shift.
A lush of trees provides a scalloped edge
while froth delineates a ragged stony ledge.
Then suddenly the sea and sky are one
erasing any memory of sun.
— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Lyman, who enjoys exploring the woods of southern Maine, can be reached via email at rlovejoy84253@roadrunner.com.
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