I know what I was doing 50 years ago today. I know what I was doing and I know where I was. It was 29th August 1975 and my best friend Nick and I were with my dad, who was driving us across Nova Scotia, on this day from Wycocomagh on Cape Breton island to Hubbards, just west of Halifax. We had completed the Cabot Trail and were heading to a wooden riverside cottage on the Hubbards river where we were to stay for one night.
The cottage belonged to my dad’s friend Bob, on first appearances an amiable hippy but also, it turned out, a successful businessman. We arrived at his home before he did, using his canoe to tack wildly across the river and to use his outside toilet. On a bright and very warm evening, we settled down to an evening of steak and blueberry wine, after which we watched TV with shows like All In The Family, M*A*S*H, The Invisible Man and Kojak before the owner of the cottage arrived home himself. I recall he was not remotely by surprised by our presence.
This particular day is one I remember vividly, as are the 20 odd days surrounding it because I kept a detailed diary on what was mine and Nick’s holiday, a three week tour around Canada from Nova Scotia to the east and as far as the Niagara falls to the west.
I never kept a diary before this trip and I never kept one after and that is a source of deep regret. The diary, and the photograph album I put together, have preserved the memories to this day, leaving them sharp and in focus. It reminds me of a very special time.
My father and mother had split up when I was very young and whilst he made efforts to stay in touch when he lived in different parts of the world and from the late 1960s, I did not always reciprocate. That aspect is for another day but in 1975, best pal Nick and I went on a big adventure.
Earlier this year, Nick – full name Nicholas Lane (I called him Nick) – died at his home in Moncton in New Brunswick. We had remained close, despite him emigrating first to Montreal where he married and then to Moncton. Our visit, I know, was the main driver for his migration to Canada. He always wanted to live there and later in life he did. I missed him terribly, if the truth be known, because I knew that once he left I would never see him again and I never would. But those memories, enhanced by my diary and photos, as well as his photographic memory for times and places, always remained.
Nick had been building to the 50th anniversary of our visit for a few years and tonight would be a dinner of steak with blueberry wine. I would probably done the same thing here, too, had Nick and indeed my father, still been with us. This evening, I shall remember and raise a glass of a more conventional wine.
Bob had already sold his riverside cottage when we stayed and two days later, he moved out. I never saw him or heard from or about him ever again, but thanks to my diary, I still think about that night. I know I always shall.
That’s a diary, that’s a photo album for you. I always say I have a terrible memory but how much of that was down to me not keeping a diary and not taking enough photos along the way? In pre internet 1975, you did not take scores, sometimes hundreds, of photos of a holiday or whatever and buy umpteen albums in which to attach them. No pointless photo dumps back then. As my album proves, at least to me, less is more. And the diary, while being childlike and immature (so no change there, then), is extremely detailed and I am convinced that is how my memories have remained.
I miss that one night in Hubbards, Nova Scotia, but I can see everything in my mind’s eye, including all the people we met along the way in Canada. But more than that, I miss Nick, my best friend; a loss equivalent to any parental death, irreplaceable and a constant reminder to do everything you want and need to because this life doesn’t last forever.
Memories are made of this, courtesy of a diary and a photo album
PS. The image used for this blog is not the place we stayed at. Nice though, isn’t it?
