Down the stairs and in the car, we point our toes west. It is Michael’s week to entertain and feed us, so we are on our way to Lunenburg, a World Heritage site.  The Bluenose II, whose summer berth is in Lunenburg’s harbor, has captured Michael’s fancy, and we are off to see just what it is all about. 

The Bluenose II in Lunenburg Harbor

Seeing the Bluenose II, a replica of the original Bluenose sunk in 1946, when she struck a reef off Haiti — sitting majestically at her dock — makes me realize that I am in desperate need of a wide-angle lens. Looking at her, she goes on seemingly forever; over 160 feet in length; over 11,000 square feet of sails; her tallest mast over 125 feet in height. I’m impressed. Michael is thinking about working on another intricate ship model, and the Bluenose is a major contender.  I see sawdust and wood shavings in our media rooms future — for a long long time.

Lunch

Lunch, because of course, we must, is at the Rumrunner Inn adjacent to Lunenburg’s harbor.  Seated on the deck overlooking the water, Michael and I both order scallops.  His dipped in beer batter and fried; mine seared and caramelized served atop a swirl of creamy linguini.  The sun shines.  The harbor view, charming.  And, unfortunately, the food is good.  I eat the whole thing.  Almost.  I try to practice restraint. I probably need to try harder.

Exploring Lunenburg

The colorful town of Lunenburg cries for exploration.  I am drawn to a bright green building with a large sign telling me to shop online at www.cilantrocooks.com.  Michael does not feel the same pull in that direction as I do.  We part ways. 

After climbing the steps, I read a sign listing their hours of operation.  According to what I read, they should be open.  But according to what I see while looking in the glass door — well, that is another tale.  No lights.  No customers — No shopkeeper.  Here, I don’t even have to practice restraint.

Turning from my failed adventure, I look for Michael, but seemingly he has totally disappeared; I’ve lost him.

Back at street level, I prepare to invade the space of a gentleman sitting with his dog on a lone bench in front of the store with an explanation half out of my mouth about an errant husband, when I look up and spy said husband across the street, carefree as can be.

Joining forces, we head up the hill to a Sunday concert in the park.  We see people, we see instruments, but they don’t look like they are getting ready for a concert; there is a gathering of men and women in uniform and an assembly of deacons and acolytes from the local church.  When questioned, they tell us they are here to honor the fishermen who have lost their lives to the sea. The solemn parade begins at 2 pm, to the rhythmic dirge of beating drums as the cortege marches down the hill to the harbor’s edge.

A Small Fishing Village

Leaving Lunenburg, sitting in the car once again, we travel on in search of more inlets and more coves. More lighthouses. We find a tiny tiny fishing village at Blue Rock.  I feel we intrude with our cameras and continuous clicking, but we are not deterred. Others intrude alongside us.

In Search of Lighthouses

Still in search of lighthouses, we see one on the narrow street that leads us back through the town.

Reaching our destination, I tell Michael, “That is not a real lighthouse.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, see there is no light, and look, it says it was built in 2002.  It’s not a real lighthouse.”

A Lighthouse in Liverpool

Google maps tell us that there is one an hour down the road.  We find it in Liverpool, at the edge of a park.

We take the tour.  The best part is a film — on the second floor at the top of some very steep steps — about the last lighthouse keeper’s son telling stories of what it was like to live there for fourteen years when he was a kid. 

The stories are great — living through a hurricane; being a teenager helping a  schooner come to a safe harbor during a dense fog; WWII German subs letting your dad know you were sloughing off doing your job when they send a message that the light at Fort Point is 30 minutes late being lit one night.

One day in 1950, the father of the teenaged boy received a letter telling him that the lighthouse was going electric and his services were no longer needed.  He was out of a job.  Out of a home.

Great stories. Sad ending.

We take the long road back to Mahone Bay.

9/8/2014 6:47:26 PM