Everywhere West

Coming home is defined by rounding this hill. Even though I'm still an hour out from my driveway here, it's a gateway to where I've belonged all my life. Annapolis Valley is a shallow glacial trough, carved eternities ago, sheltered from open ocean and more fertile than most surrounding land. Easy to see what entreated all those early settlers to stay. Avonport marks the eastern terminus of South Mountain, and in the hazy distance stands Cape Blomidon, where North Mountain tumbles to the sea. Everywhere west lies between those two over-achieving would-be hills, sentinels staring down on your straight shot to Digby. Around about 150km, all told. Two rivers run up the centre from either end, the Annapolis and Cornwallis, but never manage to meet. As a road, West Brooklyn was sleepy enough to only just require an overpass when Highway 101 was built. Many others were severed in two. I stand on this bridge as one or two cars cross for every fifty below, wondering if I should start waving. Maybe keep it up a few decades, like old Freddie Wilson did a couple roads over. There are times when life seems tough to grasp that I start thinking on a different kind of living. There are worst things to be than a friendly stranger.

June 26, 2025
Avonport, Nova Scotia

Year 18, Day 6437 of my daily journal.