Category: Central & East Coast

Fort Needham – a tribute

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski

Bell Tower on the hill

Fort Needham

It sits upon a hill.

Peacefully, pleasantly

offering a nice view

of Bedford Basin to the left,

and the Narrows to the right.

Time is dangerous –

First world war raging somewhere in

mud of France and Belgium.

Canadian boys are gassed

to death as they jump

from their trenches

in an effort to gain

few feet of that foreign soil.

If the gas is not used,

they are cut in half by

Mauser machine guns.

Time is prosperous In Halifax:

The Harbour bustling with

sea and train traffic from

all over North America.

Shops are full of local

and foreign sailors,

merchants and buyers,

fishermen sale their

daily fresh catch straight

from their wooden boats.

Powerful artillery guns

protect the entrance

to Halifax Harbour

from any attempt by

Emperor Wilhelm Imperial Navy

to conquer the entrance

to entire North America.

The Fortress of Halifax

safeguards Boston and

the rest of United States.

It is not a bad day

in the Harbour

on December 6, 1917.

The Norwegian ship ‘Elmo’

filled with fresh relief supplies

for the war-torn Belgians in Europe

slowly begins its voyage

from Bedford Basin, enters

the tight waters of the Narrows.

But the war in Europe needs

more than bread and flower.

It needs also munitions, gun powder,

chemicals to make bombs.

Comes another vessel,

the French war supply ship,

– ‘Mont-Blanc’.  

Like the snow-covered

peak in the French Alps.

It is sailing from Halifax

to Bedford Basin.

People gather on the Richmond Hill,

on the slopes of Fort Needham

to watch the passing foreign ships.

Fathers hold their children

by hand and explain to them

the colours of the flags,

the foreign ensigns.

Boys are particularly exited.

Scared, but excited even more

when the two ships collide.

As boys all over the world do,

when they see an accident happening.

The ‘Mont-Blanc’ burned for half an hour.

Then the world collapsed.

Upon the ships,

upon the boys on hill

and boys playing in their homes,

in their backyards,

seating on their grandmas laps.

It collapsed on the grandmas

 and grandpas, too.

It collapsed on their city.

It is late summer, 2024.

I walk the slope of Port Needham

to it’s flat top.

In the middle seats a large structure

of modern bell tower.

I see the Tower from my window

on the other side of the Narrows.

It’s 2 o’clock.

Time for the Bells to sing,

to cry and to remember.

Every day and every boy,

who perished than.

Every girl and uncle,

and mum an pop.

Even the lonely

older chap, whose name

no one knew and no one will.

All one thousand

nine hundred

forty six.

The largest explosion

Prior to Hiroshima

and Nagasaki.

A poet remembers, too.

(Bogumil Pacak-Gamalski, 09.09. 2024)

Miejsca. Places.

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski-Graham

(in Polish)

Miejsca. Miejsca … to taka specjalna przestrzeń geograficzna i emocjonalna. To tam, gdzie kiedyś ludzie kładli kamienie, budowali kapliczki lub kopce. By odnaleźć potem samemu lub zostawić ślad, drogowskaz dla następnych. Drogowskazy, że tędy droga.

Moje pożegnania z naszym ostatnim domem w Nowej Szkocji od miesięcy wielu do takich miejsc zawsze prowadzą. I zawsze jakiś kamyk tam kładę, jakieś wspomnienie zapisane w notesie, jakiś wiersz. Te literki i słowa to moje kamyki – byliśmy.

Dziś na plaży Conrada, ostatnie chyba moje pożegnanie, ostatnia kąpiel w falach grzywiastych w tej prowincji. Ostatni nasz spacer tam.

Fala

I cóż falo
	ostatnia na tej plaży?
Mojej wizyty
	też po raz ostatni.
Czy zmyłaś
	ze zmarszczek dni klęski
	i dni zwycięstw?
Pocałunki i łzy,
czułe westchnienia
	i przekleństwo bezsilności?

Pieścisz mnie jeszcze
białą pianą pasji
	niespełnionych do końca,
a potem odpływasz
	w swe głębie
znudzona romansem
	nie zaczętym,
nie skończonym.

(Conrad Beach, 01.09.24)

(po angielsku)

Places. Places are special geographical and emotional spaces. It is where people, lovers, parents with children left stones on the hills, build mounds, erected structures or symbols of their gods in their marches through millennia. So others can follow or so they would find their way back.

My goodbyes with our last home in Nova Scotia took me a long time. Time to trace them back, find my way. But I did it. I have found them for the last time. I have left my ‘stones’ on the shores an on the white pages of my notebook. The ‘stones’ are my letters and sentences written down on the white pages of my notebook.

Today was probably the last one. I went to Conrad Beach for last swim in foamy waves of Atlantic. Our last walk there.

Time of snuggle

Come to the crescent of my arm,

I will place my hand on your shoulder

and we will walk on the shore.

On that line separating

land and water,

the sky and the mountains,

the Moon and the stars,

death and life.

Come. It’s time.

The time stolen from us –

I have found it.

Come, it’s time.

(Conrad Beach, 01.09.24)

Summer, summer … it’s time to slowly close the season of fun on the Eastern Coast of Nova Scotia

Summer, summer … it’s time to slowly close the season of fun on the Eastern Coast of Nova Scotia

Bogumil Pacak-Gamalski

Everything good must come to an end. Summer is receding from the trails and beaches of Nova Scotia. So is my presence in that province of Canada. Time to pack my beach chair … and pack my belongings after six years. For a small province that’s a long time to travel to places known and places less travelled. By now, my Dear Reader you probably know much more about this land from where the entire hemisphere sprang to life under new overlord – the Europeans. But people come and go – the land remains. And the old inhabitants from ancien time remain too – the Lnu People, of which novascotian native Mi’kmaq people are part.

My last hot and sunny day playing among the waves of North Atlantic was on Lawrencetown beach. Place I have visited over the years more than I can remember. After that I went for one more quick swim at Canada’s Ocean Playground beach by Gaetz Lake. And lovely walk to a Wildlife Sanctuary that shows tremendous affection to all kind of native creatures, who suffered some serious problems and can’t survived on it’s own. Such a tranquil place.
In a few days time I will be driving through the entire continent, traversing the same route and highways me and my John took six years ago. Back to where we begun that journey – to British Columbia. Although He can’t be with me physically – His love and spirit will. We will have lots of time to reminiscence the almost forty years of an amazing life journey. The most beautiful Journey of my life.

Next pictures from Canada’s Ocean Playground and Wildlife Sanctuary.

Clam Bay Beach (cz.2)

Clam Bay Beach (cz.2)

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski

Około dwa miesiące temu[i] opisywałem tu wspaniałą plażę na wschodnim wybrzeżu Nowej Szkocji. Plaża Zatoki Muszli. Zwłaszcza dwóch charakterystycznych rodzajów: popularnej omułki i rogowca. Omułka to naturalnie małż, a rogowiec to właśnie muszla clam. Omułki są podłużne, wewnątrz perłowo-niebieskie, mieniące się, zaś clam bardziej okrągły, w odcieniach szaro-białych.

Woda wówczas była lodowato zimna i bajecznie piękna, szeroka piaskowa plaża świeciła pustkami.  Prócz mnie żywy duch się na kąpiel nie odważył. Myślałem, że nie tyle temperatura wody (bo dzień był jednak słoneczny i ciepły) ile odległość plaży od większych miast i dość skomplikowany i długi dojazd bocznymi drogami odbijającymi w dół od głównej szosy był tą przyczyną pustki.

Kilka dni temu pojechałem tam ponownie sierpniową porą. A w sierpniu wody Atlantyku przy Nowej Szkocji są cieple przez silne prądy po-huraganowe na Karaibach. I jednak widać ta temperartura wody chyba zadecydowała. No i szkolne wakacje. Na szerokim polu parkingowym ledwie miejsce znaleźć mogłem. A na plaży – ludzi jak mrówków, LOL. Ale plaża kilometrowa, bez końca. Miejsca i na piasku i wodzie nie zabrakło.

I jedno jeszcze spostrzeżenie bardzo miłe: naturalnie jestem teraz sam i moje wycieczki od dwóch lat są też wycieczkami samotnymi. Zabieram zawsze plecak, składane krzesło plażowe i drogą kamerę z dużym stojakiem. Jedyne co zostawiam w samochodzie to dokumenty. Nie wiem czemu z przyzwyczajenia biorę ze sobą też swój Iphone. Pływać z plecakiem i kamerą trudno (z telephonem też). Więc wszystko tak zostaje na tym krześle, a oparte o nie stoi ta kamera na trójnogu. Czasem te pływanie jest długie, bo uwielbiam targać się z tymi grzywaczami wodnymi.  Nie wiem, czasu nie liczę, ale też nigdy się nie śpieszę. I nigdy się mi nie zdarzyło ani na plaży zapełnionej ani pustawej, by mi cokolwiek zginęło. Nie tylko tej, na wszystkich plażach. Ot, taka sympatyczna ciekawostka tutejszych plaż.

A teraz kilka zdjęć z tej właśnie Clam Bay Beach późnym latem. Już nie pustej.

[i] Clam Bay Beach – north of Jedorre – na Wschodnim Wybrzeżu Nowej Szkocji – Pogwarki (kanadyjskimonitor.blog)

Natural Gardens in Truro’s Bible Hill, Nova Scotia – Dalhousie University

Natural Gardens in Truro’s Bible Hill, Nova Scotia – Dalhousie University

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski

Some time, on this pages, I have published a piece about the history of the oldest University in North America, Kings College in Halifax. Kings College eventually become part of one of the largest university in Canada, the grandiose Dalhousie University of Nova Scotia. I have eventually, on this blog, published a photo series of the university.

The massive complex of Dalhousie stretches through many blocks of the city. It brings life and vibrancy to the city’s core and creates many mini-communities of students and faculty. Encompasses the past and the future. Is integral part of it’s life, atmosphere and pulse. Gave me many pleasurable strolls, moments of reading an interesting book of poetry or novel, writing in my own notebooks my poems or musings on many subjects. University campuses do that to you, LOL. And I love it.

But I have always heard of a special, far away campus of Dalhousie. The entire Faculty of Agriculture. It sits somewhere in a community called Bible Hill, part of larger city of Truro. I have past Truro countless amount of times. It sits right on both sides of meeting of two major highways connecting Nova Scotia to the West of Canada and to the South on Nova Scotia. But what you see, when you are passing the city on highways is hardly and appealing site. The ugly big magazines, some big malls. Sort of ugly site of North America with ever sprawling ugly malls without any character or architectural originality.

Yet, I have heard many times of that Bible Hill campus. As I will be soon leaving this province, I had to visit it. Additional emotional reason was also the fact, that a dear friend of my husband and through him mine – was borne in that city, went to school there. But left it many years ago moving to the West (Calgary and Vancouver) and never seen the campus that was built little way out of the main city. So I did and hope that she will appreciate it.

It is a site to behold. Many red brick old university buildings, spread through a large swath of land. No wonder – it’s laboratories are in the fields, in the valley. We are talking of agriculture and botany. Living university. I am so glad that I did.

In no particular order here is the view of this wonderful campus.

Link to a post abut the Dalhousie University main campus in Halifax, click below on it: https://kanadyjskimonitor.blog/2023/10/13/a-history-and-future-youth-and-tradition-dalhousie-university-in-halifax/

Crystal Crescent Provincial Park in Nova Scotia

Crystal Crescent Provincial Park in Nova Scotia

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski

Children are amazing people! Throngs of beachgoers are squeezed next to ech other on the sandy beach – but a child knows better: what could be more magic than playing in a mud in little stream rushing toward the ocean? Child imagination dwarfs imagination of an adult.

Dzieci są niesamowite! Tłumy plażowiczów ściśnięte na słonecznej plaży niby złote sardynki w puszce z olejem. Ale wyobraźnia dziecka pracuje inaczej – cóż może być wspanialszego niż położyć się w ciepłym błotku strumienia spływającego wartkim nurtem do oceanu? Tam dopiero cuda można sobie wyobrażać.

Kolejny przystanek mojej podróży pożegnań z Nową Szkocją. Tym razem do miejsca wyjątkowego. Ostatni raz byłem tu chyba około trzy lata temu. A jeździłem często i John ze mną jeździł póki zaczął unikać i szukać wymówek lub namawiać mnie bym pojechał w taki dzień, gdy on pracował. Wtedy jeszcze nie wiedziałem, że większe wędrówki zaczynają mu już sprawiać bariery niemożliwe do pokonania.

Na szlaku od plaż ku skałom miałem takie ‘prywatne małe poletko skalne zawieszone ponad ścieżką. Na tym poletku, o odpowiedniej porze roku, rosły poziomki i jagody. I znosiłem mu cierpliwie czekającemu pełne garstki tych cudowności. Oponował naturalnie niby oburzony, gdy mu kazałem otworzyć usta i sypałem do nich z mojej dłoni słodkości. Oponował – ale zjadał, LOL. Wiedział, że robi mi tym przyjemność. Takie nasze idiosyncrasies urocze. Tylko pilnował by nikt, broń Boże, akurat nie przechodził i nie było świadka, że je świeże, niemyte owoce i to prosto z mojej ręki! Potem dochodziliśmy do małej plaży nudystów (tu już nawet nie sugerowałem by się rozłożyć i popływać przed skalna wspinaczką. Ostatecznie zbyt dobrze się znaliśmy – to by był koniec wycieczki i basta, LOL). Tyle lat w Vancouverze i plaże tam (w tym dwie nudystów, jedna popularna koło Uniwersytetu) – ale mowy nie było by nago w biały dzień się pokazał. Wracając do Nowej Szkocji – za tą plażą zaczynała się wspinaczka przez wąskie ścieżki kosodrzewiny i przez potężne, zawieszone nad szalejącym Atlantykiem skały i głazy. Nigdy nie szliśmy razem aż tak daleko, jak ja samotnie. Ale nie potrzebowaliśmy. Piękno widoków i krajobrazu mógł docenić i zachwycić się nim na tym odcinku, jaki robiliśmy. Chodziło o to, by to była dla nas radość i satysfakcja, a nie coś wymuszonego. I tak szliśmy daleko, dalej niż większość turystów i miejsc kompletnej prywatności nie brakowało bym i ja mógł smakować te jagody i poziomki z jego ust …

My next stop on the journey of saying ‘goodbye’ to Nova Scotia, our Nova Scotia. Mine and John’s. The last time I was here, I think, was about three years ago. I love that spot. The only beach and long hiking trail on western side of Halifax. We used to go there together, whenever it was possible and when it was possible. Our hike was usually shorter than my solitary were – but long enough to fully appreciate the wild beauty and majesty of massive rocks and boulders and the unrelenting power of the ocean below.

On the way to the rocky trail, pass the beaches and people I had a small secret meadow full of wild strawberries and blueberries. If it was in season I would go there and John would wait on the trail till I come back with both fists full the sweetness of the berries and empty them into his mouth. He pretended to be offended by it … but ate them, LOL. We had to make sure that there was no one approaching on the trail. Heaven’s forbid someone would see him eating fresh fruits and from someone’s hands! He like it, though. Maybe not as much the fruits (John wasn’t really an aficionado of fresh fruits) as the fact that he can make me smile and be happy. Our little idiosyncrasies. Next on the trail was a tiny nudist beach. No, I knew better – didn’t even ask him to stop and go for swim before the hike. Naked in public, beach or no beach?! That would be the end of the walk and the trail, no question asked. I knew what I can ask him of, and what I should not. Idiosyncrasies is one thing and disrespect is another. The true trail started right past that beach. Narrow and easily lost, covered with rocks and roots, often very wet and muddy from numerous tiny creeks rushing toward the ocean. Eventually you got to walkable huge slabs of rock and the amazing view of the majesty and power of the Atlantic. It truly is something to behold. We never went that far, as I venture sometimes, but far enough to absorb the atmosphere, the enormity of nature. And there, on these rocks, far enough from typical tourist or beachgoer, I would find a spot invisible to anyone, secluded … and have my way with the wild strawberries and blueberries off his lips!

Below, pictures from yesterday – poniżej zdjęcia z wczorajszej wędrówki

Widoczna na zdjęciu latarnia morska na wyspie Sambro, która jest ‘bramą’ to wejścia do portu Halifax jest najstarsza latarnią morską w Północnej Ameryce i do dziś operującą.

Pictures of the Sambro Island and the lighthouse remind us that it is the first lighthouse built in North Americas and it is still operational.

My Fort of Love, our Fort

My Fort of Love, our Fort

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski-Graham

August 07, 24

I went there again. Maybe the last time? My time here is shrinking, time on this land perched over Atlantic, our land. Maybe in a month or so I won’t be here? Hence, I came today. To our Fort of Love, our love, our castle built on sand with solid rocks, boulders.

Yes, it still is here on this wild beach, far away from any venturing tourists. My hidden sanctuary of talking pebbles, tubal music of waves, clouds of black and white sandpipers flying in unison formations as a single body; ever present individual seagulls, pretending to be busy looking for crabs and dead clams, but observing you all the time. When I am there, I am part of that all, not a visitor but rather a feature belonging there. The flora there is very sparce and in constant struggle to survive. The dead ones are giving all their content as nourishment to the new ones. The sea and sand don’t offer much to land creatures. Occasional dead tree from far away bay or island. Not much but nothing is wasted in that austere environment. Meadows and patches of short forest on the land are separated from that spot by a big and deep saltwater lake. Sometimes, when I am tired of playing with the ocean waves, I go for a longer swim in that lake, its surface is always still like a glass. It must be incredibly deep. There is maybe three or five meters of very easy shallow water and than suddenly it just drops like from windows ledge to a dark deep water. I’m always surprised how dark and impregnable to light that water is.

The shore, where the local road ends, has a small, rocky beach. Almost always, if the weather is OK, there is a small group of locals. Three, sometimes a ‘crowd’ of ten even. They don’t come as far as where I am with my Fort. I have seen once or twice one person or a couple venturing there. You need to cross a fast-moving sea ‘river’ (natural canal connecting the lake and the open ocean) to get to my monastic desert.

But they – the locals – know that the Fort is there. It is the only man-made structure. By now they must also know me, recognize me, when I come with the same red folding chair, a stick in hand and a backpack, as I traverse the water like a hermit coming back to his cell. They see me from far away, sometimes wave to me while I gather more rocks to fix the Fort. It did survive fall, winter and spring. Many storms and big waves. But a good monk always fixes his dwelling for the glory of god – and my god is Love.

Do the locals call it a sanctuary? Maybe. Sanctuary of Love. I like it. Our love, anyone’s love. I am not at all jealous of that love. Love doesn’t belong to me. I just tend to it. She is sacred.

Maybe Venus comes here by sunrise and dances naked by the Fort? Maybe all of them, these crazy Greek gods, come: Venus, Apollo, Narcissus, Orpheus. Maybe even Helen of Troi dances with them? With whom Helen would dance? With handsome Prince of Troi or with Menelaus, her husband?  Sappho of Lesbos later explained that choice in her poem, when she argued:

Some say a host of horsemen, others of infantry and others

   of ships, is the most beautiful thing on the dark earth

   but I say, it is what you love

and few thousand years later, I agree with her wholeheartedly. But it doesn’t matter with whom they dance. Let them dance with whom they want. Let them lit the mighty sky with pyres hot of flames of passion.

August 08, 24

Hey! Yes, you Narcissus. Come here and sit by me. Don’t cry, don’t drown in unanswered selflove. Go to disco tonight. They have one in the club called Elysium. Go there, dance and let go off sorrows. Kiss someone, make love to someone, anyone for Heaven’s sake! They will appreciate you youth, vigor and looks. Me?  No, my dear boy. I have loved hundreds of times, thousands perhaps, for a day, for an hour.  Until I was confiscated, possessed, taken by Love itself. By that one special Boy. One, who become the air I breath, my blood, my waking up and falling asleep. My song and my poem.

But be aware – Love is immortal, but you are not. When The Boy (or Girl) will go (as everything temporal does) you will be broken in half. Shattered like pebbles on the beach, that are constantly thrown by huge waves until only scream remains, only cry to Heaven. But Heaven will have its gates locked by Death.

Love, dear boy, is not for timid souls. Love is only for brave or insane souls. It is Love that holds the saved obol in your outstretched hand, while pounding with your other fist at this gate. The Gates of time, of mourning, of grief. Demanding, pleading for them to be opened. With that obol as a magic key. Hoping but not knowing what is on the other side: reunion or emptiness, nothingness. Yet knowing now, when you are at these Gates, that even nothingness is better than half-living.

Love is for brave or insane souls.    

Bridgewater – the city and the river

Bridgewater – the city and the river

Bogumil Pacak-Gamalski

But before the British settled there, and before it become known by the name ‘Bridgewater’ it was an ancient large settlement of Mi’kmaq tribe for thousands of years. There is a rich collection of archeological artefacts attesting to their settlement at  the mouth of the large LaHav River.

In 1604 the French Governor of New France Pierre Dugua de Mons visited these lands and by the mid-1600 there was first small French settlement there.  In 1825 the first bridge was built and by 1850 the population grew to 300. At the end of XIX century the town had two railway connections – across the valley to Middletown and trains to Halifax. Easy access through the large and navigable river gave beginning of many industries, among which shipbuilding was a major force. It is probably a surprise to many, but the very first ship’s two-stroke engines were manufactured here and exported worldwide. It closed its operations in 1970.

Since the origins of the town, the western bank of the river was the heart and center of the city and so it remains. Most modern developments, shopping malls, concentrate on the east or left part of the city.

The historic town, its calling card, is the main King Street right along the banks of it’s beautiful river. It is connected by two bridges to the other side. Especially the old iron bridge is such a gem.

A walk on that long street is such a pleasure. It is like you are traveling back in time to a space where that time doesn’t travel so fast, doesn’t run in a hurry. Neither should you, if you ever visit.  

As an interesting tidbit – did you know that famous Hollywood and Canadian actor Donald Sutherland spent his formative teenage years and graduated from High School in Bridgewater?  

If I was going to stay permanently in Nova Scotia – I would love to move there. But I do suggest to Dear Reader – if you are visiting Nova Scotia, you absolutely must visit Bridgewater. You won’t regret it.

Odjazdy i powroty są trudne. Może nie są możliwe …

Odjazdy i powroty są trudne. Może nie są możliwe …

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski

Nie wyjeżdżamy w pełni, w całości – coś zostawiamy, czegoś nam ubywa. Potem lepimy przez lata siebie na nowo. Rodzi się nowa całość. Nie inna, zlepek wczoraj i dziś. Czasem żal nam po latach tamtego siebie, chcielibyśmy może do niego wrócić. To bywa jeszcze trudniejsze. Bo to teraz i tutaj jest jednak bliższe, jest swojsze. Ja – jestem ja. Szczególnie wtedy, gdy ‘ja’ zamieniło się w ‘my’. Zostają tu i tam zlepy form, jakieś może hieroglify dziś już nieodczytywalne, jakieś drzewo zawieszone nad przepaścią.

I dzika fala wyszarpująca ląd spod stóp …

Cień

Chciałbym już być, gdzie jeszcze mnie nie ma,

bo być gdzieś powinienem już przecież.

Lecz gdy tam przybędę – to czy będę,

jeśli nie ma mnie teraz, gdzie jestem?

Czy znajdę dom, który już spłonął raz?

Czy wiatr rozwiał zgliszcza i wspomnienia

i jestem tylko na fotografiach,

jak w ruinie, której fundamenty

tylko pozostały, okna bez szyb?

Stare pałace arystokratów,

które rewolucja zamieniła

w kurniki, chlewy i magazyny.

Ich właścicieli wyprowadzono

w zakrwawionych kalesonach, boso,

do zarośniętych ogrodów, nad staw,

gdzie jeden strzał w potylicę tworzył

nową historię, zamykał starą.

Widziałem takie puste pałace

w dzieciństwie, widziałem cienie ludzi,

którzy kiedyś w nich żyli, tańczyli.

Gdy tam pojadę, gdy wrócę do

tych miejsc – czy będę takim cieniem

w pustej ramie okna patrzącego

na zarośnięty ogród ze stawem?  

/B. Pacak-Gamalski, 07.2024/