News from the East...
Oct. 13th, 2002 04:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mousmeEastern Townships, that is.
I'm here with Poms and his Parental Units for part of Thanksgiving weekend, although I will be returning tonight (hopefully in time to see![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fearsclave and wish him an early happy birthday and then strangle him for leaving me with no clue as to what's happening to my Mage character).
Knowing him and April and the rest of that gang, they may well still be at the restaurant by the time I get back tonight, or they may have repaired to Nico's place for their own Mage game.
There's something wonderfully reassuring and restful about being in the country, even if it is in a small town instead of a remote and rather isolated cottage as I'm accustomed to (my godparents and erstwhile best friend's family both have rather extensive private properties in the Laurentians). I tend to sleep like a baby when in the country, and I'm convinced there's something in the air out here that cleanses the soul in a way you just can't find anywhere else in the world.
There's nothing like fall in this part of Canada: no colours as crisp or vibrant anywhere else. Other places may be lush, like the rainforest, or soft and luminescent, like the valley of the Loire in France, or airbrushed and hazy, like England, but there is nothing to match the raw power and precision of the Canadian landscape's colours at this (or any) time of year. You have not truly experienced fall until you have see red, orange and yellow maples and birches and oak and deep green firs and spruces outlined starkly against an almost painfully blue and cloudless sky, illuminated invisibly by a bright and yet unobtrusive sun. It is quite inexplicable to one who has never seen it, completely useless to try to convey the sensation through photography (though my godmother has come close to conveying the sensation through her painting on occasion), and yet without saying a word two people who have witnessed this incomparable beauty will know and understand each other, at least in that respect.
I have stood and watched a maple sapling in autumn, its leaves changing for the first time, growing scarlet before my eyes, and I have marvelled that after so many years, after so much devastation caused by humans, there is a force that we cannot ever hope to reckon with, and for that I am glad.
Back to more mundane topics:
Had breakfast with Poms yesterday morning at Chez John, a greasy spoon near his place in St. Henri, and after a few wrong turns trying to find the restaurant with my car, we ate and departed for North Hatley.
Along the way Poms made a change of plans and we stopped in Sherbrooke for a few hours. Poms gave me a tour of downtown Sherbrooke, pointing out his former haunts as well as the University of Sherbrooke. The highlight, of course, was walking along the rerouted Magog river. Rerouted in the interests of industry and hydro-electric power, naturally. The city of Sherbrooke has, happily enough, put informative little panels along the walkways pointing out interesting geological and historical features of the site, and when details were missing I simply questioned Poms about various aspects (most of them engineering-related questions which he was able to answer having apparently done quite well in that area when studying engineering).
I thus learned a great deal more than I ever expected about hydro-electric dams. My one gripe is that the city of Sherbrooke could at least have done everyone a favour and made the entire walkway out of wood. There is nothing quite so disconcerting (when one suffers from vertigo, anyway), as to stand on metallic grating with water rushing about ten or so meters below one's feet. I kept feeling as though I were falling, when in fact I wasn't, and it marred what would otherwise have been a thoroughly pleasant jaunt.
I'm afraid my reaction to Louis' maxi-louis hamburger must have disappointed Poms. In my defense, I think I was underwhelmed mostly because I really wasn't hungry. See, not knowing the plans he had in store, I had partaken of a rather hearty breakfast not two and a half hours before.
Afterward we sped through Lennoxville and arrived in North Hatley towards 2pm, where we made an inventory of what was needed to make apple crisp (we were, after all, responsible for dessert that evening) and headed to LeBaron's store to buy provisions.
At around 4pm (yes, I'm leaving two hours out of this entry, because we were occupied with far more pleasant pursuits, to which I will not go into detail, and there's no use asking Poms, for gentlemen do not kiss and tell ^_-) I cajoled Poms into watching a murder mystery that I happened to see lying on the entrance table.
To those of you who enjoy murder mysteries, as well as the Middle Ages (but it's not a prerequisite in this case) and who do not know Brother Cadfael, I encourage you to read these very readable stories.
Here is a link to a fairly informative site about Ellis Peters, the author, as well as the books themselves.
Cadfael has also been made into a tv series by the BBC which was then broadcast on PBS, which is how I came to know of it. Well worth the two hours it takes to read each book. In fact, as is my wont, I have come to like the books a lot more than the tv series, as the main character seems far more amiable in the books than on television.
Poms' parents called shortly thereafter to inform us that they were at the foot of the mountain they'd been climbing all day and would be home in two hours or so.
So, in a touchingly domestic scene, Poms and I set about making the apple crisp as well as setting up (no, not the bomb) the potatoes for dinner, and debated whether or not setting the table and starting the guacamole would be in order.
The debate was settled by a call from Poms' middle brother Phil, whose bad back was acting up again (poor fellow has a herniated disc), and who requested that we come pick him up at the hospital. For more details on that, I will point to Poms' LiveJournal, which you may find here or in the box on the left of your screen if you happen to be viewing my page directly and not your friends page.
Dinner was extremely pleasant (not to mention tasty), as I get along famously with Poms' parental units. I then slept like a log until it was time to get up and go to church, and today has been spent extraordinarily pleasantly either curled up in a chair near the wood stove with a new Brother Cadfael mystery to read (well, not new since poor Ellis Peters died in 1995, but at least one I hadn't read yet), or else tramping about North Hatley, visiting Phil in his new house and getting supplies at LeBaron's for tonight's Thanksgiving dinner, to be held around 7pm.
I think that concludes this latest chapter of the Phnee Chronicles, although doubtless there will be more updating as events warrant and access to computers allows.
I'm here with Poms and his Parental Units for part of Thanksgiving weekend, although I will be returning tonight (hopefully in time to see
fearsclave and wish him an early happy birthday and then strangle him for leaving me with no clue as to what's happening to my Mage character).Knowing him and April and the rest of that gang, they may well still be at the restaurant by the time I get back tonight, or they may have repaired to Nico's place for their own Mage game.
There's something wonderfully reassuring and restful about being in the country, even if it is in a small town instead of a remote and rather isolated cottage as I'm accustomed to (my godparents and erstwhile best friend's family both have rather extensive private properties in the Laurentians). I tend to sleep like a baby when in the country, and I'm convinced there's something in the air out here that cleanses the soul in a way you just can't find anywhere else in the world.
There's nothing like fall in this part of Canada: no colours as crisp or vibrant anywhere else. Other places may be lush, like the rainforest, or soft and luminescent, like the valley of the Loire in France, or airbrushed and hazy, like England, but there is nothing to match the raw power and precision of the Canadian landscape's colours at this (or any) time of year. You have not truly experienced fall until you have see red, orange and yellow maples and birches and oak and deep green firs and spruces outlined starkly against an almost painfully blue and cloudless sky, illuminated invisibly by a bright and yet unobtrusive sun. It is quite inexplicable to one who has never seen it, completely useless to try to convey the sensation through photography (though my godmother has come close to conveying the sensation through her painting on occasion), and yet without saying a word two people who have witnessed this incomparable beauty will know and understand each other, at least in that respect.
I have stood and watched a maple sapling in autumn, its leaves changing for the first time, growing scarlet before my eyes, and I have marvelled that after so many years, after so much devastation caused by humans, there is a force that we cannot ever hope to reckon with, and for that I am glad.
Back to more mundane topics:
Had breakfast with Poms yesterday morning at Chez John, a greasy spoon near his place in St. Henri, and after a few wrong turns trying to find the restaurant with my car, we ate and departed for North Hatley.
Along the way Poms made a change of plans and we stopped in Sherbrooke for a few hours. Poms gave me a tour of downtown Sherbrooke, pointing out his former haunts as well as the University of Sherbrooke. The highlight, of course, was walking along the rerouted Magog river. Rerouted in the interests of industry and hydro-electric power, naturally. The city of Sherbrooke has, happily enough, put informative little panels along the walkways pointing out interesting geological and historical features of the site, and when details were missing I simply questioned Poms about various aspects (most of them engineering-related questions which he was able to answer having apparently done quite well in that area when studying engineering).
I thus learned a great deal more than I ever expected about hydro-electric dams. My one gripe is that the city of Sherbrooke could at least have done everyone a favour and made the entire walkway out of wood. There is nothing quite so disconcerting (when one suffers from vertigo, anyway), as to stand on metallic grating with water rushing about ten or so meters below one's feet. I kept feeling as though I were falling, when in fact I wasn't, and it marred what would otherwise have been a thoroughly pleasant jaunt.
I'm afraid my reaction to Louis' maxi-louis hamburger must have disappointed Poms. In my defense, I think I was underwhelmed mostly because I really wasn't hungry. See, not knowing the plans he had in store, I had partaken of a rather hearty breakfast not two and a half hours before.
Afterward we sped through Lennoxville and arrived in North Hatley towards 2pm, where we made an inventory of what was needed to make apple crisp (we were, after all, responsible for dessert that evening) and headed to LeBaron's store to buy provisions.
At around 4pm (yes, I'm leaving two hours out of this entry, because we were occupied with far more pleasant pursuits, to which I will not go into detail, and there's no use asking Poms, for gentlemen do not kiss and tell ^_-) I cajoled Poms into watching a murder mystery that I happened to see lying on the entrance table.
To those of you who enjoy murder mysteries, as well as the Middle Ages (but it's not a prerequisite in this case) and who do not know Brother Cadfael, I encourage you to read these very readable stories.
Here is a link to a fairly informative site about Ellis Peters, the author, as well as the books themselves.
Cadfael has also been made into a tv series by the BBC which was then broadcast on PBS, which is how I came to know of it. Well worth the two hours it takes to read each book. In fact, as is my wont, I have come to like the books a lot more than the tv series, as the main character seems far more amiable in the books than on television.
Poms' parents called shortly thereafter to inform us that they were at the foot of the mountain they'd been climbing all day and would be home in two hours or so.
So, in a touchingly domestic scene, Poms and I set about making the apple crisp as well as setting up (no, not the bomb) the potatoes for dinner, and debated whether or not setting the table and starting the guacamole would be in order.
The debate was settled by a call from Poms' middle brother Phil, whose bad back was acting up again (poor fellow has a herniated disc), and who requested that we come pick him up at the hospital. For more details on that, I will point to Poms' LiveJournal, which you may find here or in the box on the left of your screen if you happen to be viewing my page directly and not your friends page.
Dinner was extremely pleasant (not to mention tasty), as I get along famously with Poms' parental units. I then slept like a log until it was time to get up and go to church, and today has been spent extraordinarily pleasantly either curled up in a chair near the wood stove with a new Brother Cadfael mystery to read (well, not new since poor Ellis Peters died in 1995, but at least one I hadn't read yet), or else tramping about North Hatley, visiting Phil in his new house and getting supplies at LeBaron's for tonight's Thanksgiving dinner, to be held around 7pm.
I think that concludes this latest chapter of the Phnee Chronicles, although doubtless there will be more updating as events warrant and access to computers allows.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Believe me...
Date: 2002-10-13 02:58 pm (UTC)...repression of traumatic memories is a psychological defence mechanism that has evolved for a reason :).
Whyever would you *want* to know what happened to Blythe?
Re: Believe me...
Date: 2002-10-14 11:56 am (UTC)She's too curious for her own good. Phnee of course, not Blythe.
No way Blythe wants to remember this...
*cackles evilly*
Re: Believe me...
Date: 2002-10-15 08:16 am (UTC)*jumps up and down in frustrated anticipation*