When I was a kid, I would’ve snatched up a book with that title. Oh, the romance of it all!
As it turns out, I’ve lived three doors down from a lost cabin for the last twenty-five years. I always knew it was there – I just never gave it much thought. Certainly not a romantic thought.
I first saw the cabin almost forty years ago when it was relocated here. Our neighbours – there were only summer camps (cottages, you non-Northerners call them) on this road at the time – bought the old building from some decommissioned bush camp and moved it here. They cut a huge swathe of trees on their property to create a trail from the road to its final location.
The neighbours used the camp in those days. We attended their parties, they attended ours. Our kids hung out with their kids. The kids grew up and moved away. The parents transferred to jobs far away. The cabin sat abandoned.
A new owner took over. I can probably count the number of times I remember seeing the man and wife there, enjoying their new recreational property. They weren’t camp people. I don’t remember their kids ever being there – they were away at boarding school or something.
Eventually the couple stopped coming. And the camp sat. And sat. And the camp died. From the inside out. And the bush reclaimed it.
(To be continued)