The Island, Part I

I don’t know how many islands there are in the world, but without having seen them all, I can say with confidence there’s not another one like this. After climbing 188 near-vertical steps to the top of Long Island, my travel partner Amy and I intuitively found our way down the main path to the house. Amongst the trees and ferns that waved to us with the help of the ocean breeze, we restrained ourselves from squealing like children, but only just. As the main house came into view, we met Paul, the on-island custodian who was presently hoisting our luggage up the side of the 180-foot cliff by means of a winch and hydraulic a-frame, an engineering marvel conceived and built by the village of Five Islands’ own, Dennis Ross. It was Dennis that had dropped us off here, a five-minute trip from the mainland by boat. We introduced ourselves to Paul, and he gave us the rundown of the island. “Go anywhere you want, and sleep anywhere you want. There are three bedrooms in the main house, and it’s the only place with electricity,” he commented. “So if you feel like roughing-it, you’re welcome to use any of the other cottages on the island.” For someone like myself, who more frequently finds himself within the confines of a nylon tent than within four walls, the prospect of sleeping in a queen-sized bed with a roof over one’s head was the antithesis of roughing-it. We anxiously waited as the litter, full of our groceries and clothing for the weekend was hoisted over the edge of the foreboding cliff and landed gently onto the wooden platform, along with some water piping and insulation that was to be what Dennis and his cohorts hoped to install in the next couple of days. Like children in a candy store with $100.00 in their pocket, the rush of excitement was palpable. We grabbed our cooler and overnight bags and beat a hasty retreat to the main house, not sure where to let our adventure begin.

Despite being on an island, the main home is equipped with every amenity, and then accented with stainless steel appliances and marble countertops. Despite being in the middle of the New Minas Basin (one arm of the Bay of Fundy), the house has electricity via the solar array on the roof, which is supplemented in times of need with the gas generator. The energy is responsible not only for the lights and the hot water, but the wireless internet and satellite television. Given the unique beauty of the surroundings I can’t think the TV gets a lot of use. In fact, the scale of luxury here, on Long Island, so far exceeds my present living accommodations as to give pause to whether I shouldn’t take up full time residence here. Luring people to the island is the easy part—making them leave would likely prove far more difficult.

Having dropped our bags unceremoniously in the living room, Amy and I were eager to explore. There were three paths that spider webbed from the main house, and retracing our steps to the ladder that we arrived from, we eventually found ourselves on the Western side of the island, at a small cottage known as the Lovers’ Cabin. The Lovers’ Cabin’s walls are almost entirely made from windows, giving its inhabitants unparalleled views from its 200 foot perch, and providing the ideal vantage point for what would quickly become my obsession for this trip: Egg and Pinnacle Islands. Dumbfounded by our good fortune of having a friend like the island’s owner Dick Lemon, Amy and I made our way back to the main house. We felt that any vista like this necessitated a food and beverage accompaniment. One item that we did not think to bring was a thesaurus. There are only so many synonyms for the words “beautiful,” and “amazing,” and I think we had exhausted them all within the first hour. I had seen Dick earlier in the week and remembered his wry smile as he said; “I think you’ll really enjoy it.” In retrospect, it was a rhetorical comment; Dick knew full well that we’d instantly fall in love with his island home.

Amy and I had come prepared. Acknowledging that this may be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, we weren’t about to squander it by eating macaroni & cheese and hotdogs for sustenance. Our trip to the market earlier that morning had furnished us with most of the necessary wares: pepperoni, honey colbasa, smoked back bacon, a loaf of whole grain bread, baguette, a divine black-olive and rosemary bread; fresh, garden tomatoes, smoked gouda, basil, blueberries and a bag of mesclun greens. Amy had also spotted a bag of chanterelles, and without explanation, added it to our expanding grocery bag. We stopped at a grocery store to pick up a few over-looked items: eggs, onions, garlic, chevre and pasta. I pillaged the fruit bowl at home and brought a bunch of beautiful yellow plums, which are like sugar bombs in your mouth when your teeth penetrate its slightly bitter flesh. What couldn’t be supplied from the farmer’s market or the grocery store, we got at the liquor store; a bottle of Prosecco, a bottle of Vinho Verde, and a couple of cans of Boddingtons, because man (nor woman) can live on bread alone. Amy, as astute in the kitchen as she is in the ways of life, chopped garlic, and melted butter while I toasted the baguette on the barbeque. In moments we were snacking on the most divine garlic bread. It’s just as well that we were the only two visitors to the island. Had anyone smelled our garlic-permeated bodies, they may have decided to risk the eroding cliffs, the perilous tides and swim back to the mainland. With our garlic bread and chevre, and dollar sized pieces of pepperoni and honey-colbasa at our finger tips, we absorbed the light of the early evening while overlooking Egg and Pinnacle islands, content, albeit overwhelmed by our surroundings. And then came the drink.

The problem with Vinho Verde is that in nice weather, it tends to be consumed as easily as water, a side effect of which is the clever blurring of the space-time continuum. Engrossed in conversation, Amy and I eventually made it back to the main house to refill our platter with snackable items. We returned to the cabin, twilight descending on us, and chains of lightning came into view. As the percussive roll of thunder pushed overhead, we took shelter in the Lovers’ Cabin, content to eat, and watch nature’s fireworks; a private viewing that we were convinced had been created just for us. Summer storms it seems have a similar effect as the wine we were drinking, and though it felt like minutes, it was in fact four hours before the storm ended. We left the confines of the cabin to return to the house to make a late dinner before bed. Clearly I’m motivated by food, and I will jump at the opportunity to cook. We had all the ingredients so I set forth making one of my all-time favourite pasta dishes: spaghetti carbonara.

* * *

CARBONARA SAUCE (from All The Best Pasta Sauces by Joie Warner)



2 large eggs, ¾ pound bacon (cut into ½ inch pieces), 1/3 cup heavy cream, ¼ tsp. freshly grated nutmeg, 2 large garlic cloves (minced), 1 large ripe tomato (chopped) ¼ tsp. salt, ¼ cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese, 1 cooking onion (minced), Lots of freshly ground black pepper


In a large, wide serving bowl, whisk eggs, cream, nutmeg, salt, and pepper until blended. Set aside.

In a small skillet, cook bacon until crisp. Transfer to a paper towel-lined plate to drain, reserving 1 tsp. bacon fat.

In same skillet with reserved bacon fat, cook garlic and onion over medium heat for 3 minutes. Add tomato; cook for 5 minutes or until soft. Set aside.

Drain cooked pasta (approx. ¾ pound) and immediately place on top of egg mixture. Toss gently until pasta is coated with sauce. Add cooked tomato; toss. Garnish with cooked bacon and Parmesan cheese.

Pass extra grated cheese.

* * *

We ate our hearty, rustic meal. Exhausted from a day of excitement and anticipation, crawled into bed, sleepy and happy, dreams of the next day filtering through our foggy minds.