26~Nova Scotian Gold: A Happy Homestead

'...people don't take trips-trips take people.' ~ John Steinbeck

Having put down tiny soul roots across Novia Scotia, I found myself uprooted once more. Transplanted to the farm lands of Annapolis Valley, I came across these boxes labelled 'Scotian Gold'. Their actual contents unknown to me, but I believe this land to be rife with treasures- spiritual and physical. So the label swam in my head as I bathed in the pleasures and wonder of the Valley, rooting a little down in the Scotian Gold soil of Woodville.

Aside from sweet potato fries, a great view (which I keep referring to as the 'Look Out' having been corrected numerous times, I can inform you it is called the  'Look Off') and hearing that Woodville is cute University town, I had not really thought about my next stop too much. In fact, I had gone against my own travelling advice and only booked one night at an airbnb (the only one in the area, no hostels either in this neck of the woods). 

It had all felt like a whirlwind: the final jam-packed events of Yarmouth, the whirlwind wedding in Lunenberg, the dash back across Nova Scotia to hit Wolfville before heading up to PEI. Bish, bash, bosh. It just isn’t for me. I realised as well that I was beginning to tire. Rae-Ann and I discussed this. She is a solo traveller that has hit all sorts of far flung places. Her friends always tell her she is lucky and that they are jealous. Which they of course they mean in the nicest possible way. She works ever so hard and makes these longer extended breaks and more exotic/adventurous locations her choices. Telling people you are tired out from having a great time and seeing the world does not really go down too well, from her experience and now from mine. They want to tell you just to jog on. I kept my fatigue under wraps but it was creeping over my body. So after the SatNav took me to a location that was not my airbnb address, I pulled over. I took a moment. The air was sweet with the breath of the surrounding apple orchards in the late afternoon breeze; these farm lands with rows of perfectly planted trees, quite a new Novia Scotian treat for my senses. These are the grape growing lands of Nova Scotia; Annapolis Valley where provincial wine (like the tipple I enjoyed so much on my birthday) comes from. Standing outside the car, my trusted beast, I surveyed the land. Then, I turned off the navigational system, went with my gut and found my way. Meanwhile, shaking off the tired feeling that threatened to consume me in a cloak of dullness. I had to vanquish my desire to hit the sack. Like LM back at the lakeside sung out each time I left, 'Be safe, honey, and don't miss a minute!' 

The stars were in my favour. An auspicious booking drew me from my inertia. Like shafts of sunlight breaking through a cloudy day, Kristin and Henry, who had a Lucy dog scrabbling in his arms, bounded up to me from the farm land. It was so strange. I knew them. I felt like I knew them. They were friends. Old friends. Resurrected somewhat from my sluggishness; rejuvenated by this new setting of an Annapolis Valley wonderland, more prepossessing and propitious people (and another comfy princess bed). 

The next day it came to me that Kristin has the unique spirit and look of Sal who is back in Morocco. Henry is a Londoner and lived in Bristol and has a certain lovely way about him, like the loveliest of the blokes I meet back home. They both felt my collapse into their cheery welcome. Pictures of health, sunkissed and earthy hands from working the land, Henry raises his eyebrows: Has Nova Scotia been running you ragged? They ask. Party time, eh? Not exactly, well sort of, see there was this wedding and I was lakeside and…

They usher me and my blathering with good humour, kindness and hospitality, into their kitchen. Kristin has made courgette muffins and we have a sit down and a chat like old friends. I surprise myself and say, rather candidly and somewhat blunt, ‘Have you got any one staying tomorrow? I already know I would love to stay another night.’ Of course, Kristin says, we would love to have you. Phew, I am glad I had not booked anything else because it would be a shame to fly this nest too soon and the big drive to PEI, even in my favourite wheels, just was not something I could face the following day. I feel invigorated to hear about their set up here. They want to live off the land they have managed to buy and have spent the winter months alone, renovating their house. It is something else. Already lovely as it is but soooo much potential too. I enjoy flicking through her farmhouse decor book. Losing myself in the homes photographed. They say the views, sunrises, landscapes have been spectacular; Henry has loved watching the season and land change over the months. 

It is all a learning curve for them. They set out on this venture, bought this homestead after driving around the area and waiting for it to come down in price. They may sell produce at markets- the organic tomatoes are going well and they just have a sign out on the roadside. Henry is a former teacher. This boy was immersed in the real London rat race; biking morning and night to and from school to work his butt off. It is his 'insurance policy' and something to fall back on should their farm dream fail. Every morsel of happiness and success they deserve, so I believe their aspirations will come to fruition. They tell me that potentially they will run workshops and farming classes, not just depend on the land. Everyone loves Henry, everyone loves Kristen. I can see them running something like this. 

They both are assimilating themselves into life here. Kristin is part of a group of women that have crafting sessions. They take it in turns to host the girls at their homesteads and bake, no doubt with goodies fresh from their land. While Kristin and I cook, a lady from the group swings by and they discuss the chickens and the veggies, life in general, and the next ‘Bitch and Stitch’. Doors are always left open, I do not need a key and neighbours just swing by; everyone is always welcome and people here ready to receive guests. 

Henry does not attend the 'Bitch and Stitch' events; his badge of belonging comes in the form of extra-curricular volunteer sessions at the Woodville Fire Fighting Service just down the road. I liken it to a grown up version of Cubs but this is actually serious and a necessity in these areas. Does he wear a firefighters uniform and everything? I ask. Yes, he was called out to something last night too but it was not that serious, Kristin reveals. That is pretty hot, isn’t Kristin? (I have always had a little thing for firemen). Not really, she says, because it is Henry I just find it funny! Kristin says that she has grown up around Canadian men. Archetyply chaps that know about cars, have tool sheds- you know, manly men. Henry reckons he is on the way to becoming a Canadian burly type. He does have an increasing list of good credentials and his truck is huge. My SUV looks positively demure alongside his truck in the drive.

View from my room

The little sparkle that I had left, has refused to be squelched out. Pulling energy from those last reserves,  I find my feet. I hike the trails nearby and manage two glorious runs. Immediately enamoured by the farm family here, my roots are well established. Lucy dog captures my heart. 

Lucy plops herself right on my yoga mat

They call her a little wombat; to me she is a baby piglet, a wriggler with extreme agility, lavishing love and licks (particularly predilection for licking hair!), charming everyone where ever she scampers. Henry arrives at the homestead, rescued by a local (knowledgeable in the field of soil, reveals Henry)- he has been locked out of his truck at the gas station by an excitable, inquisitive Lucy. Her skittish and zealous movements had forced the lock, leaving poor Henry stranded, but not for long in these friendly parts. Lucy loves everyone and everything; she gets all that love right back. A clear message for what you put in, you get back if I ever saw one.

Kristin is the kind of girl I could spend my days with. Natural, fresh, full of smiles and warmth. An avant-garde farmer gal, with grace. I watch her from my window, heading across the land in her red hunter wellies. Her home made bread and pastry skills are to be marvelled. She tells me she was wwoofing on a farm back on the West Coast of Canada. The farmer woman taught them all how to bake bread and she has done it ever since. They need the sustenance and carbs for the daily farming activities and they have two ravenous young German boys who currently reside on the farm. They are big lads with appetites that are never satisfied. Reminds me of Adam. Whole halves of melons with the spoon left in and monstrous bowls of Weetos, the chocolately milk residue sticky in the bowl. Ewwwwww. I remember the day Steph went into his bedroom looking for the dog. It was mid afternoon, a hot sticky day and Adam lifted the duvet to reveal a snoozing Jasper, in the boy pit and a whole lot of food wrappers. Quite gross. A big snacking boy, endlessly gorging. Where do these big lads put the calories they consume? The German boys are not teenagers and certainly not slobs (sorry Adam Wolff, at the Weeto and melon point in your life, you were a bit of a sloth), they are polite, sweet, hard working and trained well. Their mothers would be proud.  

They also don’t have a penchant for candy, meat is their bag. Kristin and Henry do eat meat (not necessarily daily) but are not carnivorous in the way the German lads are. There is a big event here in Woodville coming up at the weekend; a chicken BBQ at the community hall and the boys are hopeful to get their fill. It is also an exciting event because most nights are early ones, spent around the dinner table, then by the fire, fatigued bodies from working the land and the fresh air sending them to their beds. The boys all head out one night to help dig the fire pits for the BBQ chicken event. The girls stay home. Lucy hangs in the kitchen as Kristin rolls out her pastry, she is gorgeous- this fresh faced modern farm wife look is enviable. I dreamily imagine myself one day, living off the land, replicating her pastry skills. Her look is complete with a gorgeous rolling pin her mother gave her. I would definitely need to get one of those bad boys in my role as a newfangled farm gal. Quite possibly I should start farming and working land asap too; I don't think the perfectly cute rolling pin accessory a successful farmer makes. 

Kristin and I head out with her neighbour to have a look at the chicken coop the German boys are constructing and also to collect asparagus for the quiche.

A Stephanie Wilson inspired salad of grated beets, carrots, apples in a lime, honey and ginger dressing, topped with chopped nuts is underway. I chop and Kristin rolls. The boys are back and our little farm family gathers. Needless to say Dominic does not go in for seconds; the scoop he does take is noticeably heavier on the nut front than the veggies. He jokes whether both quiches are vegetarian- as the bacon that is non-vegi does not count, really, as a meat portion.

Woodville mesmerises me. Blossom in the twilight, breathtaking. Sweet fragrances drifting by and around. Skies, hell yes. They have those in abundance. The homestead is bathed in light, the sun sets and the landscape is still clear in the gentle after light. Kristin and Henry, what they are doing here. It is like a spiritual retreat, being in this nest. Sheltered by the valley. 

I head out to Wolfville to check out the town, a 20 minute drive away. There are some cool cafes and I sit and blog. Most students are away now, so things are a little quiet but this is just perfect. I leave the farmers back home preparing a plot for the asparagus they have to get in the ground. After a day of coffee and lovely local, organic snacking and veggie food at Oats, I drive to the homestead. I sit by the fire with the farm family. I need to stay longer. I could stay for A LOT longer. Especially for the shindig at the weekend (I would love to see the German boys attack the BBQ chicken and meet the people from around these Scotian Gold parts), but I can not afford to keep extending the time on the car and I really want to see PEI and Cape Breton…

I have one last day and do the hikes just up the way from the homestead. 

Whimsically immersed in the trees, and woodsy expanses that differ so greatly, I realise that I cover a hell of a lot of territory. 

I trek along each colour, more or less

I have a snack of an apple and some almond butter in my bag. Thank god for that, I am starving and stupidly set off on an empty stomach. I kind of get lost at one point. The markers have disappeared and the trail ambiguous, if even there. Admitting defeat, I decide to head down to the road, because I am pretty certain the direction of that. I see the farm selling Nova Scotian honey which is good- at least I recognise something and decide to run from there back to the car. It is a lot longer on foot, I have only driven this way before. I am relieved to get back and proceed to eat the biggest bowls of cereal I can. (Adam, I could rival your bowls that brimmed with those Weetos.)

Better than a trail of crumbs, relieved to have registered this
landmark...

I have to go find the sweet potato fries and go to the Look Off. They weather is great and I enjoy the little outing. 

View from the Lookoff

But most of all, I enjoy going back to the homestead. One last night with my farm family. We all sit in the living room. The German boys show us some German pop on youtube and also some rap, much to the hilarity of us all. Early night is had by all- I manage to get up to banners of sunrise. I never close my curtains, my window faces east and I swear I feel the beauty of the morning whispering to me. I run around the valley that is bathed in the radiance of a rose hued sunrise. There is an early morning frost- Kristin and her farmer pal had said this was forecast. The morning sun creates and alchemy of mist, pale and translucent, rising from the frosted ground and hovering amongst the plants. 

The view from my bedroom window when
I returned from the magical mists of the morning

Kristin and I have coffee together before she heads out to be trained for a job she has just landed. It is perfect for her, allowing summer months to be spent working the land and winter months working from home. I say good bye, I cannot thank her enough. She was quite happy for me to stay longer, expecting no money- her and Henry had discussed it. It feels like I am supposed to be here and you are no trouble (you proud, Mama Wolff?) and I have inspired them. Me? Inspired you?? You guys have inspired me!! I have a lovely hug with the German boys. Their visas run out soon and they will be back to Germany to study. Frank knows what he wants to do- this year of farm work has inspired and led him down a path that he is very clear and excited about. I am really happy for him. 

Henry and Lucy say good bye last, seeing me off down the drive. I see them head back onto the sun drenched land for a day of work. Henry is right. It is a perfect day for a drive. And the old road number 14 he told me to go on is just fabulous. The skies are more generous than one could hope, an assortment of clouds that tell stories and scenery to soak up. More fabulous though, my time in the nest of a little farm family; a latter-day (happiest of) homesteads in Annapolis Valley, Woodville. A homestead cloaked in the aura of both promise and possibility: pure Nova Scotian gold.