The long Mile

THE LONG MILE

Mon pays ce n'est pas un pays, c'est l'hiver
Mon jardin ce n'est pas un jardin, c'est la plaine
Mon chemin ce n'est pas un chemin, c'est la neige
Mon pays ce n'est pas un pays, c'est l'hiver
Dans la blanche cérémonie
Où la neige au vent se marie
Dans ce pays de poudrerie
Mon père a fait bâtir maison
Et je m'en vais être fidèle
A sa manière, à son modèle
La chambre d'amis sera telle
Qu'on viendra des autres saisons
Pour se bâtir à côté d'elle
Th e p oe m "Mon pa ys" w as com pose d in 19 6 4 b y G ille s Vi gne au lt.
Vig ne au lt is a Gr a nd Officer of th e N atio na l Or de r of Qu eb ec,
Kni gh t o f the Le gio n o f Ho no ur , Office r o f th e O rd r e de s Arts et
de s Le ttr e s.
H e w as b or n o n Octo be r 1 7, 1 92 8 in Na tash qu an .

Introduction
Im August 2014 legte die „Bella Desgagnes“ an einem sonnigen Morgen am Quai des
kleinen Fischerdorfes La Tabatiere an Kanadas Ostküste an.
Ein alter Mann kam gemeinsam mit einer wesentlich jüngeren Frau die Gangway
herunter.
Er war weder ein Einheimischer, der das Schiff hier verliess, noch ein Passagier, der den
sich bereits zu einem Landgang formierenden Touristen zugerechnet werden konnte.
Er wechselte ein paar Worte der Begrüssung mit Paul, dem Hafenmeister und wartete,
bis der Schiffskran den Gepäckcontainer mit seiner Reisetasche und eine in einem
gediegenen Futteral steckende Fliegenrute vom Schiff herunterhievte.
Beide standen immer noch herum, als sich alle Passagiere bereits zerstreut hatten.
Lennix, einer der dockman, sagte einer dunklen Erinnerung folgend, fragend zu Paul :
“Who is the guay with the lady beside, I know him, but I cannot remember his name?
“Henry” , sagte Paul.
“Er ist hier für ein Woche mit seiner Frau zum Lachsfischen am Mecatina.
Eldon kommt von Mutton Bay und holt beide ab.”
Während seine Frau dem Ent- und Beladen des Schiffwes zusah, war Henry bereits
mental am Fischen. Er versuchte sich gerade, an Unterschiede beim Anbiss und Drill
von Forellen und Lachsen zu erinnern, denn am Mecatina gab es nicht nur Lachse,
sondern auch gelegentlich schöne Meerforellen.
Nicht so gross wie die Fische, die er als junger Mann in Croatien an der Gacka gefangen
hatte, aber immerhin.

He was on vacation, and quietly got out of Rijeka to drive along the Adriatic Coast towards the
South. After a few kilometres, he arrived to the top of the Bakar Bay and saw a Snack Restaurant.
He stopped, had a beer and a portion of cevapcici, then he enjoyed a Slivovic and the view he was
embracing from this belvedere; way below where he stood, he could see way down the village of
Bakar, the quiet blue water in the bay, and in the horizon, the last minutes of the sunset.
It was in 1965. In these years, having a small glass of beer was no problem, especially in good old
Yugoslavia. In those days, you had to have much more to drink before the local police from Tito
would stop you on the street, just to check the percentage of alcohol in the system from a few local
people and a rare tourist.
All the more so, as it was no secret that the policemen themselves did not know precisely how
much beer and Slivovic they were consuming.
He then drove down towards the end of the bay to reach Bakarac and the old tuna observation
station, this formidable wood construction that was reaching high in the sky and towards the sea.
He then drove through the fields and friendly landscape of the small coastal villages of Crikvenica
and Novo Vinodolski, towards Kraljevica and its rich tradition shipyard, founded in 1729 by King
Karl VI.
He had a quick look at the shipyard, having no idea that some 50 years later, a boat with the
number 555 would be built there, and that this same boat would bring him to his favourite salmon
fishing place in Canada.
If he would have imagined so, he would suddenly have been gone back fifty years in time, and been
terribly impressed by his clairvoyant capabilities. So, he continued lightheartedly his trip as
leasurely as before, until he reached Senje, the old city of the kings.

There, he left the Küstenstrasse and engaged his small Fiat uphill in a series of abruptly winding
turns. Indeed, he wanted absolutely to reach the famous lakes in Plitvice; first, to show his
companion the magnificence of the site, and second, to go trout fishing in these crystal clear
waters.
While his little Fiat was painfully winding up these serpentine turns to the Velebit Pass, he already
regretted his decision, as he was really concerned about his car making it to the top of this terrible
mountain road, and also about what would then happen to him.
On top of it, he could not imagine that – in addition to the shipyard in Kraljevica – he would find
right in front of him something of a different nature that would influence his whole life.
He finally reached, in this deep black night, the pass he was desperately longing for, and turned
into the small street without sign, which he thought could lead to Plitvice.
Henry took a right turn spontaneously at the junction and drove for a good hour through the
deserted village of Otocac, still hoping to reach Plitvice at one point.
In the next village, a pair of teenagers was sitting around a fire on the side of the street, and waving
their hands in a friendly manner to the late visitor. “Ask them if there is a hotel here”, suggested his
girlfriend. He put the brakes and asked hesitantly, “Hotel?”
The answer came instantly:
“Ribarski Hotel”, said one of the teens, with a gesture from the hand showing the direction to go.
Henry, our late driver, was immediately wide awake, as “Riba” means fish in Serbo-Croatian
language.
He then turned around and drove past an unnoticed sign.
Henry was now standing so close as a few metres in front of a dark staircase leading to a two-story
building, in which absolutely no soul seemed to move. The total quietness was only disturbed by
the sound of running water in the distance, making the scene even scarier.
What should he do? “Sound the horn”, replied without hesitation his practical companion after
having assessed the situation.
After a few assertive honk-honk, a window opened on the first floor directly over the entrance,
and somebody asked us in a sleepy voice what was the matter.
“No, this is not a hotel, it is a fishermen’s home”, was the detached answer.