September 12, 2016
Our New Brunswick experience the previous day at Kouchibouguac National Park had been stellar, so a hurry-up driving day was OK. We were excited to get on to Cape Breton.
To find camping spots we use an app called All Stays. You type in the general area you're planning to stay that night, and along the way, it points out the sorts of camping opportunities you've chosen from a list of "filters." Our requirement for this night: we had to be in Nova Scotia and we wanted a shower.
We had not, however, requested a deserted residential RV Park practically closed up for the season. And certainly not one with a cemetery gleaming in the late-day sun just across a ravine. But the cemetery was the unexpected bonus that made the RV park stay a travel moment, not necessarily a highlight of the trip but one that provided insight into the place and inspired thoughts about mortality.
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| Rust-colored waves lapped at rust-colored sand along a short beach in front of the RV Park as we took a stroll, wondering why earlier inhabitants had chosen prime real estate for a cemetery. We decided to climb the rocky rim guarding it to have a look. We discovered later that historic graveyards often occupy the most desirable places, perhaps a way to honor the dead. The grave stones were arrayed on a bluff overlooking the ocean. And also overlooking, the RV park. We were soon immersed in Scottish history. A mass migration from a troubled Scotland occurred in the early to mid 1880s. About a third of the country's current residents are their descendants, according to Wikipedia. |
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There were are hunkered down at the far left end in our little van dwarfed by giant trailers.This is not a campground, but an RV park. Most of the 150+ sites were occupied with travel trailers in winter mode. The owners had vacated, trailers were winterized, and we had our choice of maybe 20 campsites reserved for actual travelers. Although the park was deserted, remnants of summer days were evident; a list of park activities posted in the washrooms and community hall, a huge empty playground next to a slanted soccer field, and a ground-down path to the beach where rust-colored waves lapped at red sand. You could almost hear the shouts of children playing and summer neighbors chattering and clinking their glasses of local brews over their sizzling BBQs.
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If the ghosts of the Scots buried in this place could see it now, what would they think? The idea of metal homes on wheels? The notion that people could have a permanent home AND one they could move from place to place? Incomprehensible. And our understanding of their hardships and sorrows, and perhaps their joys? Equally inconceivable.
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Family groupings with names such as McDonald, McAllister, McDaniel, McClellan and so on, most of whom died in the mid-to-late 1800s, populate this burial ground overlooking the sea.
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| PK and I are old enough to face that we'll die sooner rather than later. Like in maybe 20-25 years. Could be sooner. We'll likely be cremated and perhaps ask that our ashes be strewn near the Rogue River in Oregon, where we've lived for 45 years. But then in another century, how will random people happen upon proof that we existed and wonder about who we were and how and why we died and what our everyday lives were like? As we did that evening when we crossed the rust-colored beach and communed with Scottish spirits. |
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