Prince-Edward Island was a spur of the moment idea, a plan that emerged while discussing vacation possibilities on a drive back from Maricourt on a late Sunday afternoon. A few days later we had already booked a summer house, one of five cottages nestled at the very edge of the island's shores, overlooking the Northumberland Strait. The wheels were in motion.
During spring, Cynthia dusted off her old copies of Anne of Green Gables and this became our daily bedtime reading with the girls, their eyes wide as they listened to the boundless adventures of a young centennial girl, mad with imagination and freckles and red hair. For months, these stories became part of our lives: Gilbert Blythe, the Haunted Forest, the currant wine incident... Even Jacob took it upon himself to read the first two books in the series. Sadly, this would also be the last book I'd ever read to Anaïs—another inevitable notch on the rite of passage belt.
It's a summer of storms in line with this year's cold and dark spring. I don't think I've ever seen layers of clouds like these, day after day, some so low you can almost touch them. Rain comes in heavy squalls, sheets of pouring water barely a few miles deep; you see them coming at you down the road and it's like smashing through a thick, impenetrable wall—with everything dry on either side. The skies writhe incessantly; I'm driving on bloody Jupiter.
We've booked a small familiar motel in St-Simeon with the girls. Tomorrow we'll pick up Jacob at summer camp and wait for the ferry. We'll wait for hours, we'll cross the St-Lawrence and drive to Woodstock, New Brunswick, first leg of our trip. It'll be cold and damp and feel like a hurricane most of the time but it'll be memories in the making, good or bad. And I'll always remember the rainbows: the brightest, most intense rainbows I've ever, ever seen.