The sea breezes are exquisite. The biking, tremendous. The little farmhouse, with its scuffed wood floors, narrow staircase, wee rooms, clawfoot tub, and view of the bay: delightful. The air, the sun, the late, light, evenings with their gold-soaked clouds? Breathtaking. And the beaches are a brilliantly-kept secret.
But possibly the greatest part of vacation in Nova Scotia? The extra sleep.
It goes like this: MJ wakes up at her usual absurdly early hour. I take her downstairs, stumbling with fatigue. There I find Mom waiting expectantly. She gives MJ a greeting that can only be described as royal. MJ reciprocates. Hugs, gentle tones, singsong responses. “Are you hungry? “Yes, I am!” When the lovefest has run its first, ebullient course, Mom remembers me. I am bleary and agape, leaning in the doorway. “Morning,” I mumble hoarsely. Singsong is beyond me. Mom, all sympathy, says “do you want to go back to sleep?” I make a show of waving her off: “no, no, I couldn’t,” but, when she insists, I do go, and gratefully.
The feeling I experience when crawling back into bed is magnificent. It is akin to the joy I felt as a child when we had a snow day at school. Total and complete, unexpected reprieve. Thank you, providence!! Or, in this case, thank you Nana Bonnie. Then I sleep fast, hard, and only a little guiltily. When I awake, no one has missed me. And I don’t mind it one bit. The rest of the day feels like a holiday. And this repeats, pretty much every day we are here.
Fancy is nice. But these gifts of morning hours are, to me, the greatest luxury in the world.