A few of my readers have asked me the reasons I moved here from a large metropolis which holds some of my family, my friends, my interests (opera,symphony, theatre, art galleries, museums, etc.), my clients and writing colleagues.
There came a time when I'd seen all the operas I wanted to see - some five times - different productions of course. I'd been fortunate enough to attend all of Beethoven's symphonies one year for instance. I'd seen extraordinary curated exhibitions at the Royal Ontario Museum and saw and heard Handel's Water Music on a barge on the Avon River in Stratford, Ontario and the 1812 Overture and the Everly Brothers at Ontario Place.
I didn't plan to come and live here. The place found me. When I first toured the Irish Loop with my granddaughter seven years ago now, I had this visceral feeling of certainty way down deep inside.
"This is where I must be."
I'm analytical by nature so I've attempted to get to the root of this.
There was the landscape of course. Very similar to my beloved West Cork. There was the ocean. There were the houses, all wood as if risen up from the ground beneath, much the way the deserted dwellings find their way back into the soil once again, leaving no trace. There were the bright painted surfaces in all the colours of the rainbow. There were the names of the places: Heart's Content, Heart's Delight, Come By Chance, Heart's Ease, Harbour Grace.
There were the faces of the people.
"I'm among my own," I thought.
Ah, the people. Even in my own beloved native land I've never known such people. It is as if they came here from there four hundred years ago and kept all that was good and strong, kind and caring, the music and the story-telling and community spirit. And threw away the rest.
Some would call it regressive not to care about what you do and what you have.
But out here on the edge of the Atlantic it brings me right back down to basics. The solid basics of my grandparents and their tiny community on the far other edge of the Atlantic.