As a young boy, I once admired the view from my neighbour’s property, a farm that stood at the second highest point in Southern Ontario. From my perch in his haymow, I could see all the way to Alliston and beyond to the hills on the other side of Lake Simcoe 40 miles away.
“Yes, great view,” he remarked, swinging yet another bale into the stack. “It always reminds me of all the work I have to do.”
That man’s view of the world went as far as his own fields and fences and stopped dead at the sideroad. I have now lived long enough to come to much the same way of looking at the landscape. This is what land ownership can do to a person over time. When visitors come by, they tell me right away that they can see the lake from my verandah. I suppose they can, but I haven’t looked at it since the last visitor mentioned it. I’m much too busy looking at the broken rails andtilting fence posts along the orchard by the road, gates that don’t swing anymore, leaking taps, a loose flap of steel on the roof. The list is endless.
With my surgery last year came a forced period of isolation because I had a series of little strokes and they yanked my driver’s licence, leaving me unhorsed for six months. I had no symptoms that I noticed after I left the hospital, but it took ages to get in to see the stroke doctors who could confirm I was fine. The very last one, an eminent neurologist, ophthalmologist and stroke specialist was the most difficult one to track down, because he wasn’t well at all. When I finally got in to see him, he glanced for a moment at my chart and said he didn’t really know why I was there. He said, “You’re eyes are fine.” We ended up talking about his bad back.
When the Ministry computer finally reinstated my licence, my wife stood on the verandah and remarked how busy I had been over the winter and spring and how many little things had been attended to during my enforced isolation. This is what happens when there is absolutely no choice but to look at the view.
The roadside rail fence has been entirely restored over 300 feet, sparking compliments from the neighbours. Four gateposts have been replaced and the ancient hinges torched loose and wire brushed until they gleam in the sunlight. The place looks great. There are many invisible improvements that only I know about: a short in the Massey 135 electrical system finally tracked down and fixed, a new back bumper on the farm truck, the shop cleaner than ever and I have just completed a sweeping victory against rats in the henhouse. With nothing to do but feed stuff, I finally achieved a 1.5 lambing average which is a very modest target for any shepherd, but the first time I have met any sheep industry standard in 40 years.
The lesson here is that to get things organized properly you really do have to stay put. In fact, many people with small farms find they lose their interest in travel altogether. We’ve been many places over the years but, strangely, nowhere at all for nearly a decade now. That’s because every time we start thinking of someplace we might like to go…you know, for a change of scenery… we realize we would probably choose to come here. For one thing, it’s so beautiful. And the scenery changes here by the minute. Hard to keep track of all the changes.
There’s nothing like sheep and cattle to change scenery. After all, the main reason why gates don’t swing and fences tilt is because cows lean against them, hard. Pigs chew on water bowls until they blow up. Sheep eat alfalfa till they blow up. Tempests blow in off the lake and blow roofing steel away to the neighbours. If the wind ever stops blowing, all the animals fall over.
But it is still such a beautiful place and so endlessly diverting that the idea of a cruise to look at fjords feels like something that should be left to people who suffer more from monotony than we do. Besides, we don’t wish to disappoint all the people who like to get away from it all by coming here.
Apparently, the food is good and they just love the view.