Living with the Landscape

My first real day off in Nova Scotia began with a phone call.

I had called my friend Jan earlier that morning, and he rang me back with a simple question.

"We're going swimming with Munju. Would you like to join us?"

Although swimming has never really been my favourite activity, I didn't hesitate.

At ten o'clock they arrived. It had been three years since I had last seen Munju. Jan received a firm handshake, while Munju was welcomed with a warm hug. Some friendships don't need many words.

We climbed into Jan's Subaru and headed towards Long Pond in nearby Herring Cove.

Hidden just inland from Nova Scotia's rugged Atlantic coastline lies Long Pond, a peaceful freshwater lake surrounded by forest. Long before European settlers arrived, this area belonged to the Mi'kmaq people, who knew nearby Herring Cove as Moolipchugechk. Today, the lake offers a calm contrast to the crashing waves of the Atlantic Ocean.

The water was wonderfully refreshing.

We swam a little, but spent most of our time standing waist-deep in the water, talking about life. There was no hurry, no schedule and nowhere else we needed to be. It was one of those conversations that simply unfolds naturally.

On our way back we stopped at Pavia Gallery Espresso Bar & Café, a cosy roadside café buzzing with conversation.

One of the things I've come to appreciate in Canada is how naturally conversations begin with complete strangers. While ordering coffee we started talking to a young man enjoying the final day of his holiday before returning to work. Originally from Ghana, he soon became completely confused as we explained who we all were.

Jan was born in Canada to Dutch parents.

I was born in the Netherlands and was now visiting Canada.

Munju has Indian roots, lives in Canada and is currently spending time in Italy.

Watching him try to untangle our international identities made us all laugh.

It was one of those wonderfully spontaneous travel moments that simply can't be planned.

After our coffee, Jan drove us to one of his favourite hidden spots overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. It wasn't mentioned in any guidebook. Just a simple place where he likes to sit in the early morning with a cup of coffee while watching the world wake up.

I quietly saved the location in my GPS.

Some places deserve to be visited more than once.

Later that afternoon Jan had to accompany his mother to a medical appointment. Before leaving, he mentioned something that stayed with me.

He wanted to simplify his life.

Although he still rents an apartment in Toronto, he had decided to move back in with his mother for a while. Fewer responsibilities. Less maintenance. More freedom.

His words resonated with me.

Back home I live in a small cabin surrounded by forest. Over the years I've deliberately reduced the number of possessions I own. Not because I dislike beautiful things, but because I value freedom even more.

I've come to believe that the fewer possessions I have, the more valuable the ones that remain become.

Perhaps that's why Purcell's Cove immediately felt familiar.

One of the first things that caught my attention was the architecture.

The houses don't seem to dominate the landscape.

They belong to it.

Back home in the Netherlands we admire precision. Streets are level. Gardens are carefully maintained. Houses are perfectly aligned.

Purcell's Cove feels completely different.

Here, the land decides where a house belongs. Granite outcrops rise naturally through the soil, steep hillsides dictate the layout, and the homes simply adapt. Many stand high on wooden posts, their decks floating among the treetops as if they had grown there alongside the forest.

What fascinates me most is the philosophy behind it.

People here don't seem to conquer nature.

They become part of it.

Standing in Purcell's Cove, I often had the feeling that the houses weren't built on the land but had somehow grown with it. As if the forest had quietly welcomed them into its family. The trees, the rocks and the homes exist side by side—not as rivals, but as companions.

Perhaps that's why this place feels so peaceful.

It reminds us that we are guests in nature, not its owners.

Later that evening I walked over to Jan's house.

Like so many homes here, it was built around the contours of the land. Small staircases led to wooden decks overlooking the bay. Through the trees I could just make out his sailboat resting quietly below.

The weather performed one of Nova Scotia's familiar tricks. Bright sunshine suddenly gave way to drifting fog, and within minutes the temperature dropped.

Jan's mother invited me to stay for dinner.

Inside, maritime paintings decorated the walls, while a beautifully crafted model ship told the story of her late husband, whose love for the sea still lived on inside the house.

We spent the evening talking on the deck as daylight slowly faded over the bay.

Driving home later that evening, I realised I hadn't really discovered another tourist attraction that day.

Instead, I had discovered something far more valuable.

A different way of living.