Stage Eight - a familiar landscape and yet not at all

The next morning we took a proper reconnoitre, starting from the far end. The person who had bought the old mill half, the southern half of the Cove, had not only decided that heritage mills aren't really that necessary, but neither are trees.  The thick wall of green has been entirely cleared, leaving a blank bump of stone between the far side of the hill and the homes in the Cove proper.  but even a city slicker like me knows that the winter winds and wet weather come up from the south-east, which means there is now nothing between harsh winds, icy squalls and Telegraph Cove.  This place was ideal for use as a telegraph stop, then a business and then a 'town' due to its location in a perfectly protected little inlet, entirely screened by its green bluff. Not any more - winter here must be intolerable. 

There were several flat slabs of concrete dotted about with utility pipes roughed in, all ready for someone to come in and build their dream home.  And to be fair, a few people have.  But not many.  Grass and dandelions and nettles and broom were all starting to push their way up through tiny cracks, indicating that these slabs have been sitting here for quite some time.  Years rather than months.  There was also one forlorn camper trailer, with the wet plopping of rain on its metal roof.  And the world is in the middle (I hope we are actually in the middle and not still at the beginning!) of an economic crisis.  The (no doubt) very limited market for living up here in a southern island-like existence is probably under a rock licking its financial wounds.

I wondered if my grandparents were spinning underground with this combination parking lot and quarry. Or maybe not.  Clearcutting the land wasn't quite no-no it is now, and practically all the trees I can see are at least second growth.  Or maybe I'm grumpy with wet, cold feet.  I need a coffee.  Home, James.