From Arundel to Pine Hill, August 26, 2020

Along the road that comes down from the Pays d’en haut, mountains of leafy hardwoods purge their last greens. Soon autumn will spread its strong reds.

Astride the chromed Honda Shadow, I lean into the curves that mould themselves to the lakes, I swallow the landscapes and their summer luxury.

The road rolls into hills between the rich ranches: sleek horses set on the meadows, cows like rocks – statues in the fields –, Highland cattle with long russet robes, herds of red deer with velvet antlers.

Squared-log houses of hewn pine, tender-green golf courses, fields of mustard flowers, rich earth of the cemeteries. Even the old barns – their grey planks, their sagging roofs, their walls that depend on buttressed props –, even the old barns have something opulent about them.

But the countryside has drunk the blood of the villages, and in Arundel, in Lost River, the old hotels are dead, the pubs closed – faded signs, shut façades. Life withdraws into the dépanneurs, Arundel Provisions, Magasin Général Lost River: canned goods, Mars bars, fridges of drinks and of beers, and no memory anymore of what a general store was in the time of the curé Labelle and the train du Nord.

At Pine Hill I put up at the Hôtel du Chasseur, formerly Pine Hill Inn – the old English sign still hangs in the dining room. Bear sculptures, moose racks, decoy ducks, hunting scenes, counter of wood coated with resin – I sit down at it, I order a pint of white malt. It’s spaghetti night, the room fills fast – with well-dressed women and men, white or salt-and-pepper hair, come to eat pasta with bolognese sauce at four dollars.

I am out of step here, in passage as everywhere else. The lofty pines float above the roads and the houses – above the people.