Saturday 9 July 2011 How the Highland Games went awash

Took off early to see the Highland Games Parade in Antigonish. It rains but the parade goes ahead. I should join the Shriners of the Karnak Temple and ride a kid's car around the streets of Antigonish. But am I old enough yet?
The rain thickens and we feel sorry for those pipe bands and dancers who will have to perform indoors. It pours. Anna's house is full and we wonder how many will be with us for dinner. This house was built to be full, constructed for domestic confusion as people come and go. Anna smiles serenely and seems to be delighted with all the action.
To the market then with the crowds to meet the Tracadie butchers, the James River shepherdess who makes the gorgeous blankets and has the dog which lies in wait for innocent coyote coming down for supper,for organic food farmers, jewelry artists, photographers and Valley wine-makers... Then back to the house for, yes it's that time again, lunch and on to watch the French women beat the English women's soccer team in the World Cup and later to watch the Japanese women, incredibly inspired and non-stop in a cloud of yellow cards, beat the great German team in an overtime game. Germany goes into mourning.
Out to look at local art, in the new library where Alan Syliboys, the Mic Mac artist from Truro, has been persuaded to paint a large and rather disappointing piece for a main wall. An interesting collection of small paintings, including a piece of painted or stained silk which Conor has bought, his first Artwork. Do we have the beginnings of a great collector here? Rosemary has two paintings in the show, including one fiery autumn leaves. Then to Lyghtesome to admire an Adam MacDonald monoprint and Group of 7 inspired paintings by a Brennan from NB. Then an excellent chicken supper made by DC and off to the Antigonish Festival play, an English farce with lots of door-banging and angry shouting as a bigamist's children from the two arrangements discover each other on Facebook. i can't say I enjoy being transported to London in the 90s.
Driving home (yes, I am starting to use that word of this beautiful lakeside place) we almost get stuck in a ditch at the Monastery turn onto the highway and then have the pleasure of being stopped by a colored policeman in Port Hawkesbury who tells us that at 66 kph we were speeding and have a good holiday in St Peters. He must have been so relieved that he didn't have to speak French with us!