No Trespassing

Is anybody out there?

This morning, the CBC told me the beautiful weather would continue for only a few more hours. I left the house full of dirty dishes and unmade beds and got on my bike. I took a different route from my usual one, and when the stark trees on either side of Middletown Road curled around me I stopped for a breather. I straddled my bike, leaned on the handlebars and listened to a few confused spring peepers. Somewhere in the swamp a woodpecker was hunting for breakfast. When he took to the air I recognised the lazy, loping flight of the Pileated Woodpecker.

It was a moment of perfection. It was the kind of moment that makes you nostalgic for something which, if you're honest, you probably never had in the first place. But who cares?

Then I saw the sign nailed to the tree in front of me. It was a red dot with the words 'private' emblazoned on it. Then I saw the fence strung through the waters of the Spenser Creek. But the road was empty, the woods were still, and whoever wanted to protect this bit of Beverly Swamp was nowhere to be seen.

'Private' signs have been cropping up around here a lot recently, as new neighbours move in and the community shuffles its feet. I understand the feeling; I, too, have worried when a car parks in front of my house and idles there for minutes. But for the most part, I find the 'private' signs amusing. Out here, the closest neighbour is half a kilometre away. There is a surfeit of privacy, and the winter can feel very long, indeed.

So the next time you're lost on a rural road, and have to stop to look at the map, don't be surprised if a woman looking very much like me taps on your window and asks you if you'd like a cup of coffee. And please say 'yes'.

I haven't spoken to a real person in weeks.