Vernacular Vacation

 

Dana, my niece who is dying to design and build a house, reads Dwell, a pretty cool magazine I have noticed when rifling through bookstore magazine stands.
I uncovered this quirk about Dana after we spent time together in a car with my immediate family on a two plus-day drive from Michigan to Nova Scotia, culminating at the Inn on the Intervale near Judique on Cape Breton Island. The Inn is the summer hostel, or more correctly resort, of my father-in-law Duncan and companion Carol whose "Rest By the River" they are anxious to share with any and everyone, but most especially their children and their progeny. My discovery occurred while unloading the car. As I stood in the foyer, I flipped through the magazine and the Editor's letter caught my eye.

There in a highlight was the word locavore, a term with which I am intimately familiar given my status as a farmer's market denizen, not to mention the fact that my daughter Melanie was reading Michael Pollen's Omnivore's Dilemma and the companion book to the new documentary film Food, Inc. during the road trip. So what does eating local have to do with houses, which obviously is the topic of Dwell? It turns out that the main feature of the July/August issue is vernacular buildings; the Editor deftly traced a connection between the trends for eating closer to home to the local flavors appearing more and more often in the designs and building materials of homes themselves.

At that moment I had an epiphany—I was standing in a vernacular building that was perhaps an even finer example of the concept than those featured in the pages of the periodical in my hand. And just like the last visit we made to the Inn this idea of site-specific-ness infected nearly everything we did. Only now we had a name for it-a Vernacular Vacation!
All about this place speaks to one thing, the place itself. The more obvious unique qualities are plainly advertised in the fact that this Island housed the cast off highlander victims of the Scottish clearances of the late 1700 and early 1800s. The remoteness served as something of an incubator for the Gaelic language and the musical traditions of the fiddle, piano and step dancing whose pure preservation has only been disrupted in the last couple of generations by the insinuation of modern conveniences and mechanical connections to the mainland. But in the locality of the Intervale, the modern world is left behind by the acts of a couple of people that unwittingly conspired to enable an immersion in all those things that are truly Cape Breton because of Cape Breton.

The Inn, (http://www.innontheintervale.com) the brainchild of Duncan MacEachern, started out to be a home that would accommodate all 8 of his stateside sons at one time. Enter Carole Levens, the Minnesota Swede with an energy quotient that would have inspired the white tornado. She immediately saw the potential for making Duncan's dream pay him back, in a way. (Also, being the practical one, she realized that getting the 8 boys and their families, who are spread out from coast to coast, coordinated for a simultaneous romp to this remote location- literally at the edge of the world-for any length of time would be a rare feat, if indeed it ever could come to fruition, so they simply had to find a use for all those bedrooms.)


Boasting 13 sleeping rooms each with its own bathroom, plus common sitting rooms, decks and balconies, the Inn itself represents all that is the best of Cape Breton. [fn1]Using Juniper timber { from the property, the three story lodge has a rustic yet refined sense that is reflected in the hand hewn wood paneling and literally in the hand-glossed shiny wood floors. And for those with longer term intentions, across the drive is the 3 story apartment building with 3 self -contained 1- bedroom units complete with kitchens.

Rounding out the buildings on site is the newest which ironically looks the oldest. The "barn" complete with red siding provides workshop space for maintenance projects, furniture restoration and crafts. Upstairs the loft boasts a wide open space for lolling in a hammock, having a party or just standing in front of the hay door to take in the view of the brook. While we were there a newly assembled bonfire pit situated just to the east of the barn appeared to be yearning to roast marshmallows for S'mores. Although we never got around to making S'mores, we did take advantage of the crafting opportunities and came away with vernacular souvenirs.

Virtually everything in each building is from local materials. The ambiance they create is merely an extension of the beauty that makes up the landscape, which is lush and moist, woody and piney, with wild flowers dotting the deep browns, blues and greens.

The brook, known as the Intervale, is actually a river that meanders just below the spanning decks that drape across the south side of the lodge (there are constant debates about whether this is the front or the back as one can enter from the south or north but the parking is off the north and so too is the foyer-perhaps there simply is no back). Notwithstanding the opinions of the local EPA, Duncan's vision let him to see the crook in the brook as it turns on its way to the ocean as not just a sink but a pool for swimming and a pond for fishing.

He had a screen building of weathered wood erected on the edge at a prime location for fishing, sunning or just sitting and taking it all in. My sister-in-law and I found it amenable to a discussion of our life challenges and paths to better understanding (in other words it was a nice place for a bitch fest-not that we have anything to complain about).

Speaking of screen buildings, Carole has a seaside lot not far down the Shore Road just a couple of miles from the Inn. Although the road is more like a path, given the harsh winters and proximity to the raging ocean, the challenging trek is more than worthwhile. The property overlooks a rocky beach scattered with the most interesting seaweed that when bleached in the sun is a dead ringer for shredded paper, but is otherwise brown and ubiquitous amongst a large variety of ocean-ground rocks and formations.
Investigating the geology and the tide pools offers a near career. A larger version screen house is perched above the St. Lawrence Bay whose enormity gives one the impression that it is indeed the North Atlantic. Although so far she can't find anyone will to give up their cushy lodge beds, Carole dreams of spending a whole night there under the Plexiglas roof section thoughtfully installed for optimizing star gazing, which in this remote area is a phenomenon in today's light polluted world.

Almost as proof our evening sky scan in anticipation of Hurricane Bill revealed an enormous big dipper just above the horizon punctuated by a falling star that seemed to appear on cue. We heard tales of views of the aurora borealis but apparently our timing was not quite right, though Mars was closer than it will be for a few centuries and its intense glinting assured it was not missed.

All of this made it very difficult to leave the property of course. We had lots to do and our own slice of heaven without ever going to the main road. But the famous Cabot Trail[fn2] called out to the newcomers who joined our adventure and we took a day to drive the entire circumference. In the French territory, an oddly treeless area, in sight of the big water, a woman named Ethel has established a village of scarecrows that cannot be missed. Further up the trail the landscape becomes at once much more harsh and beautiful. The rugged rock formations suggest a major formation upheaval as the road passes through the National Park offering challenging inclines. There are numerous hiking opportunities along the way to visit falls or scale to heightened vistas or just to walk among 350 year old maple and other enormous tree varieties. In fact this diversion caused us to literally miss the boat for whale watching off the northern tip of the Island. We have managed to make this a couple of times before and were never disappointed. Oh well, our charges have something to come back for.

Our trip was not without wildlife highlights however, as we noticed a clump of cars pulled off the road. There, casually grazing away with her calf was a mother moose, looking a bit worse for the wear in that she was very skinning, we surmised from the rigors of nursing. Her spawn looked like he was about ready to make it on his own, however.
 

The Trail circles through some amazing landscape and offers a stop at one of the most inviting and beautiful beaches you would ever want to partake of. The Black Brook Beach features large dark rock formations, smooth gorgeous sand, manageable waves and a grassy picnic area overlooking the relatively secluded spot. We could have stayed all day, but we just had to show off the gorgeous Keltic Lodge, which is owned by Canada and run as a resort. It has its own beach, spectacular golf course and wonderfully wooded 2.5 mile hike out to the point in the water called Middle head which I have done in the past.

Our last stop as we came around the Cabot Trail was the Gaelic College, St. Ann's. This is the heart of the preservation of Gaelic culture. Complete with its own museum of the history of the clans which features an exhibit on the giant McCaskill, a local celeb of enormous size whose tragically short life consisted of exhibiting the strength he mastered based on his [un]natural condition, the College is the premier world location for Gaelic language and customs. The curriculum includes music and crafts. As noted, the isolation afforded the Gaelic people who unwittingly found themselves here has served to ensure that the purity of the Gaelic spirit has seen less evolution than elsewhere. Fortunately, the founders of St. Ann's had the foresight to recognize that education is the key to maintaining that piece of history.

The final leg of the Cabot Trail takes you past Baddeck, the most picturesque of places situated on the Bras D'or Lakes. This is where Alexander Graham Bell summered in a gorgeous home overlooking the lake where he tested the first hydroplanes. Unfortunately by this time we were out of time and had to pass on the Bell Museum and a stroll along the lake to look at the boats.

In fact we were headed home for another great dinner brought to us from the sea and the shore of Cape Breton Island. For the bulk of the visit we did the term locavore proud. Duncan's giant vegetable garden was just on the verge of maturity when we arrived. His crop of asparagus, in its newly designed wood container that replaced the old ratty one that so reminded Carole of a casket because of its ominous shape, was waning but in its place were wonderful yellow beans that tasted at once like the sea and the sun. Their crunchy sweetness argued against cooking them, but we did have them both ways. The lettuces, green leaf, green head and romaine, were in their prime. Snow peas were busting out all over and zucchini offered blossoms as well as tender tubes of delight. Leeks were gaining in size and the potato plants survived an attempted onslaught by the potato beetle which Duncan make short work of. The only disappointment was the lag from the raspberry bushes.


But not to worry, there were yards of rhubarb and best of all it was the height of blueberry season! Our first morning we took a team ranging in age from 10 to 83 to the blueberry field and in about an hour had more blueberries than the 14 of us could eat in a week. Because of the volume the task never reached the point of tedium. As Sylvia, the groundskeeper's wife pointed out when she advised us of the plethora of fruit still remaining down the road at Dixie Walker's place, you merely had to comb your hand through the bushes like you would run your fingers through your hair, to come up with an entire handful. And that we did-which led to glorious mornings for everyone but my hubby Doug who was constantly in demand as a semiprofessional pancake maker to work his magic one more time. He got so good at it that he expanded his repertoire to waffles one day. Topped with real butter that Doug melts in as the cake sizzles on side b after the flip and drizzled with local maple syrup, each bite offered a sparkling freshness and purity that stayed on everyone's mind all morning long (and apparently in their dreams as well).
Imagine a whole week of dinners consisting of just caught lobster, snow crab, halibut, brook trout with flaky pink flesh the color of salmon, alongside a pile of just picked veggies and salads. Of course bread is big up there and Melanie
made a loaf of beer bread with the local India Pale Ale branded Alexander Keith's (pronounced Keats in the vernacular accent) and a cranberry, nut wheat bread besides. One the night of the Storyteller's Ceilidh (gaelic for party) a quick dinner of Grilled Chicken Caesar Salad with fresh made dressing using the local mustard pickles and white wine rather than Dijon met rave reviews.

And during Hurricane Bill's last gasp which kept us indoors for an entire day due to rain, we braved the weather to purloin a leek for a frittata with zucchini that featured cheese handmade in the monastery just across the causeway that was delivered to us by Sister Anne. Together with homemade hash browns as well as a yeasty fresh baked wheat bread, the baby bowls of blueberries splashed with cream perfectly rounded out of this summer storm meal.

Great use was also made of the herb garden that nestled in the myriad potted flowers that adorned all the porches and their railings. No wonder a bunch of bees was attempting to set up house on the log right outside the entry doors; they were next to a virtual pollen warehouse! We got our exercise moving the massive pots back and forth to protect them from the potential hurricane force winds that thankfully never quite materialized.
As abundant as the veggies were we did supplement with some fresh purchased produce as the tomatoes were not even close to being ripe. And we made cauliflower grits and julienne d parsnips roasted in olive oil and a dusting of cinnamon.
The best eating came on the last night. Earlier, under the tutelage of his father, Doug unearthed the bountiful potatoes that lay just beneath the soil. Once cleaned and scrubbed, tossed with olive oil and coarse salt, they roasted in the oven to al dente perfection. These orbs of gold actually had a discernible flavor all their own that seemed to enhance that of the seafood that served as their table companions. Duncan did not oversell these little gems when he exclaimed that they would be unlike anything potato you have ever had before.
Lots of stories can be told of this unique place that once came in second to the fjords of Norway as a National Geographic best vacation location. In fact we have a much earlier issue of that magazine in which Doug's grandparents are featured in a photo illustrating a story investigation the Gaelic life style of Cape Breton. We also were lucky enough to learn of a project that had recorded those folks signing the traditional songs that have been made available on the internet. Doug got chills listening to his grandfather Duncan Gillis' voice come over the computer speakers.
The storytelling tradition is being maintained in the town of Judique through its gallery that features old black and white photos of local families, maps of land ownership from the 1940's and an outhouse photo exhibit that enlivens the walls of the restroom. Once a month the gallery is host to a Ceilidh (after all it is situated on the Ceilidh Trail as designated by the Doers and Dreamers guide – see footnote). The Ceilidh we attended was nothing if not a talent show to rival America's got talent. It featured an 85 year old fiddle player, an Irish orator, an aging step dancer, a refined fiddler/emcee and the piece de resistance, Sadie. As she was celebrating her 68^th wedding anniversary that weekend (to a Frenchman from Cheticamp, the French community about an hour north, who says he has never been accepted in the Scottish community but has managed to hang out there for nearly 3 quarters of a century despite his awful toupee), she was not as prepared as she might have been, or so she said. Nevertheless she calmly took the stage, notes and magnifying glass in hand and proceeded to regale us with tales of outhouse mishaps from her past. She also described an uncanny incident involving horses and buggies and mistaken identities. Sadie was dead pan of course and for a large part of her presentation had the audience reeling, although it was never quite clear if humor or history were her intended topics. In grand Nova Scotian fashion and despite it being 9:30 at night, the gala was followed by a lunch complete with tea and coffee and quite lovely at that. We dallied so long at the lunch that we lost steam for heading up to Mabou for the dance.

How, you may ask, could it have gotten much more vernacular than this? I haven't even gotten to the vernacular souvenir yet. You may recall mention of the barn including a reference to crafts. DIY, after all is all the rage. And Carole is in the perfect target market for Martha Stewart-esque living. In fact, I recalled my first MS exposure upon setting foot in the Intervale barn. It was that early PBS show where she was planning the perfect thanksgiving and going through all of the options, which of course included the meal location, which of course led her outside and to the concept of building a barn like structure to house and authenticate the ultimate American holiday experience, inspired no doubt by the relative proximity of her Connecticut property to Jamestown. The upshot was her husband acquiesced and built the damn thing, divorcing her just minutes later.
Carole and I had cooked up a craft gift suitable for my Spa Maiden crowd who will be making the Palm Springs Labor Day pilgrimage shortly after my return. We surveyed the barn for the proper working conditions and in appropriate Martha fashion immediately summoned Skippy, the groundskeeper to begin the preparations. Skippy made on the diagonal slices of birch wood with its elegant bark and soothing white interior and sanded them down and dipped them in polyurethane. He then cut a bunch of young alder branches and stripped the leaves. This was our cue to haul out the glue gun. We attached 2 inch sections of alder in a parallel pattern across the top of the birch and re-dipped them in polyurethane. Then we gathered up all the hand made soaps that Carole purchases from their creator who lives in Whycocogamaugh (about 40 km away) and cut pieces to fit atop the newly made soap dishes. We wrapped a slice of parchment and secured them with twine. Voila! A vernacular souvenir especially made for my spa peeps. What could be cooler? Needless to say, Carole was in hog heaven.

Being no stranger to the glue gun she has implemented many projects of this type over the years. Each of the boys were the lucky recipients of a slice of the juniper that house was built with festooned with a twig tattoo of the family name, not unlike the twig grate for our soap dishes. Carole took this and writ it large by doing a huge one that hangs above the entry door at the Inn proudly proclaiming its name. Here she is posing with Duncan and her son Michael's family beneath her work.


What could be better for a vernacular home than vernacular signage? About all I can think of is a vernacular vacation. I think you might agree? Thank you, thank you Duncan and Carole.

[fn1] As Duncan described one morning over blueberry pancakes, it took some research. Juniper was plentiful at the property and a likely candidate. What he learned was that because it does not lose its sap as it dries, like most wood, it can be used while in a relatively green state because it will not shrink when it dries. So building could commence once the logs were cut and trimmed. The catch is that this same attribute is a detriment in that it causes the log to twist into crazy shapes. To overcome this requires a series of heavy duty bolts to retard this tendency and tame the wood into staying put.

[fn2] The Nova Scotians have done a masterful job of organizing the tourism aspects of their province. Because of the distances between villages are pretty great mass transit is nonexistent so any tour is vehicle dependent. The entirety of the area is divided into “trails” with various themes, such as the Fleur de Lis Trail, Marine Trail, and Cabot Trail. These are laid out in the annually updated guide book entitled Doers and Dreamers where for each trail there are maps and listings of points of interest, entertainment, lodging, camping sites and anything else a tourist would need to know. This guide is quite efficient and compact and very cleverly done.https://novascotia.com/en/home/planatrip/travel_guides/default.aspx