Whenever I ventured north from Keswick, past Craigmawr Beach, I felt the cool breeze from Cook’s Bay urge me onward. The ethereal quality of Lake Simcoe seemed to wash over me and soften the edges of my memories. Near the boundary of Georgina Island, I always found myself drawn to a solitary grave. As I recalled from my younger days, the grave had sat in a meadow facing the lake’s southern expanse for centuries, nameless and unmarked. As I recalled from my younger days, the grave had sat in a meadow facing the lake’s southern expanse for centuries. Its headstone bore faint carvings, with only a few letters still visible – an “E” in the first name and a “W” and “T” in the last. The snow and rain had worn away most of the inscription, leaving the rest of the name lost to time, and no colour remained to bring clarity to the weathered stone.
Moss had formed a green path leading eastward from the grave, inviting the curious to explore. About thirty years ago, another grave appeared beside it—a woman was laid to rest there, yet she remained as nameless as her eternal neighbour.
Without a sense of foreboding, the neighbours had always viewed her behaviour as rather sullen. Each evening, she would stand overlooking the bay, beyond the picket fence that separated the hill from where the sky met the sea. Her lips moved in a murmur, sounding more like a prayer than anything else. Her expression—somewhere between devotion and eagerness—was enigmatic as she held a weathered stone between her fingers, chanting words that hinted at Gaelic origins.
This puzzled the neighbours, for as far as they knew, her ancestry lay not in the Highlands but along the southern English coastline—Brighton, to be precise. Recounting a story she had once shared, the neighbour nostalgically remembered the woman speaking of summer nights bathing in the English Channel and then venturing inland to pick berries in the Sussex countryside. The neighbour reminisced on how she had told him that she was a happy child. Yet what intrigued him most was the undercurrent of sadness when she spoke of her journey from England to Upper Canada. She chronicled her family listing in the heavy ship manifest, her bouts of motion sickness during her travels from Buffalo, New York, and her trek through Peterborough in present-day Ontario. She even mentioned a hike to Cobourg, passing through the mining district of Port Hope.
The family eventually settled in Cobourg in 1917, in a charming stone-cut house near the main street where several new shops were taking shape. These local establishments were a far cry from the elegant British stores she fondly recalled from her youthful visits to London. Dust swirled through the streets, especially as ships sailed into the southern port, and each carried a fresh wave of immigrants—many journeyed from Rochester to Cobourg. In the languid afternoons, Lake Ontario loomed impossibly large. The fleeting half-hour when the shore was out of sight served as a sobering reminder of the ocean’s vastness—an experience that held more dread than delight. For many immigrants, the ocean was a cruel and tumultuous expanse and triggered memories of motion sickness, fevers, and fears of a plague that haunted earlier generations. Yet amid the challenges of both Cobourg and the high seas, there existed moments of solace. On quiet nights, whether on land or mid-Atlantic, a ring of stars appeared, which cast a hopeful light and nudged dreamers toward a sense of promise, all under the auspices of a brighter tomorrow, within the night skies of Ontario.
Not long after they arrived in Cobourg, her father felt an unspoken call to explore the lands beyond the immediate familiarity of the town, towards Rice Lake. With a sense of both trepidation and wonder, as much as the hills shaped the terrain, they embarked on a series of journeys further inland. Each journey took them a bit further up the hill, where they often gathered firewood in the rich and deep forest that curtailed the unpaved road. Occasionally, they met some Dutch immigrants along the way, and figures could be seen farther inland among the trees.
During one of these expeditions, they encountered members of a new and unfamiliar community. Their skin was of a deeper hue than the settlers had experienced in their travels, and yet, their expressions seemed to carry a lightness—an openness. Their eyes were dark and profoundly deep, akin to the enigmatic winter nights the family had known in their new home. As a group of children approached, it became noticeable that they bore tender, curious expressions, as if the world was a storybook waiting to be read. No men were present, and the women stood with an unmistakable air of dignity, their postures a silent but potent declaration of their roles as keepers of tradition and the lifeblood of their families. The women’s clothing was artistry, meticulously crafted from materials harmonizing with the earth—deer hide, birch bark, and woven plant fibres. They wore dresses adorned with intricate beadwork, a kaleidoscope of colours that told stories and represented clan affiliations. Their footwear—moccasins stitched with similar skill—seemed to whisper of the countless miles they had walked, and the experiences they had collected with each step.
The children were adorned in garments that blended functionality and beauty. Soft hides were tailored into tunics and leggings, which allowed them to explore, climb trees, or wade in the shallows. Their clothing was often embellished with smaller but equally meaningful patterns, perhaps an early initiation into the cultural significance of their attire.
And so, amid the dizzying swirl of adapting to a new land, the family found themselves deeply moved by their encounter with the Ojibwe—a community whose existence was a living tapestry of tradition, ingenuity, and a memorable connection to the Earth and skies. For the settlers, the Ojibwe became living emblems of an unimaginable world they were now keen to understand.
To the young girl, their clothing was more than mere fabric and thread; it was a complex weaving of history, identity, and philosophy, manifest in every seam and embroidered pattern. For a brief, poignant moment, as their worlds converged, she felt as if she had peered through a window into another universe, teeming with its unique curiosities and complexities. This experience left an indelible imprint on her young memory, marking a profound glimpse into a realm she had never contemplated.
As I grow older, my memories blur. However, the community still talks occasionally about the young girl who became a refined Englishwoman—many years had passed since her transformative encounter with the Ojibwe near Rice Lake. In her old age, she must have been well into her eighties, she would recount the story with a blend of grace and a sparkle in her eyes. From her youthful days in Brighton to her migration to what she called “Upper Canada,” and then on to the fledgling community of Cobourg, where her mother eventually settled (her father had passed away from an infection in his right toe), she held steadfast in her resolve. Even as her siblings returned to England, she intended to journey further north, beyond Cobourg. It was as if she was compelled to explore the hills that had once offered her a window to another world, to another life.
As life unfolds, it’s often uncanny how our most unadorned memories guide us toward unknown worlds and unforeseen decisions. She and her late husband purchased a plot of land and lived there for decades. Her husband’s family also came to Cobourg, but they had journeyed by land—from Wisconsin, more specifically, from Stevens Point.
To him, her ocean voyage seemed relatively easy—what’s a few days on a boat with books to read and peaceful sleep compared to the dangers of wild boars and wolves at night? He would mockingly howl like a wolf to tease her. She would shoot back, arguing that the perils of the ocean were far more frightening. What’s a wolf compared to the unknown creatures lurking deep beneath the sea—beasts with scales and razor-sharp teeth, ready to devour entire boats? She would then hiss like a snake to emphasize her point.
While tales of wolves and sea monsters often featured in their stories, the couple spent their summers travelling through the Great Lakes. Initially, they explored on foot, but by the early 1950s, they had purchased bicycles from a shop on Main Street. As time took its toll, biking became too challenging. Their afternoons turned to quieter pursuits: reading books and sipping tea. Her thoughts would often drift beyond the window, beyond the lake, and across the ocean to the sunny port of Brighton. Meanwhile, his memories would drift westward—past the lake, to the riverbanks, and onto the plains of Wisconsin.
The couple gracefully accepted aging. Their youthful fears—of sea monsters, boars, and wolves—and their laughter in sunlit corridors were gradually replaced by the solemnity of winter. The chill began to penetrate a little deeper, and moisture on the windowpanes seemed to seep into their aging bones, exacerbating their osteoarthritis.
Village gossip often speculated that she would never fully acclimate to the harsh Canadian climate, given her origins in the milder bays of southern England. Yet, for many years, she adapted to the Canadian sunlight better than anyone could have thought, allowing love to guide her along the uncertain path she had chosen with her husband. That evening, the radio softly played “April, Come She Will,” its pitch slightly out of tune due to the difficulty of finding a precise frequency near the lake. She looked over her shoulder and glimpsed what appeared to be a man lying on the ground. In the next instant, the reality came crashing in. It was her husband. His teacup lay shattered beside him, his eyes open yet devoid of life, his mouth slightly contoured but expressionless, and his lower lip rotated as if pushed to the right corner. As the radio continued, “July, she will fly,” her teacup plummeted to the kitchen floor with a shattering clang. The song on the radio became imperceptible, her expression mirrored the terror one might feel at seeing a sea monster’s razor-sharp teeth. She howled.
The winters turned out to be as unforgiving as ever. She would spend what felt like endless months wrapped in layers of blankets, each day punctuated by a solitary cup of tea at five o’clock. Her late husband’s memories are reconstructed as if in her journey through a labyrinth of her loneliness, a maze filled with yearning for her distant home and absent friends.
After several weeks of not seeing her, the neighbours grew concerned and contacted the authorities. Alongside the local police, the constable, and the elderly neighbour, they entered her home through the unlocked door. They found her lying on the couch, her body pallid and seemingly hollow.
In the end, she passed away during one of her memory southwards. It certainly couldn’t have been in another season and another time of the depth of winter. She left the world as she had spent those long, lonely seasons: with a heart as cold and empty as the mournful winds that howled against the windowpanes much needed for repair, allowing nothing in except their haunting sound.
The neighbour took it upon himself to arrange her burial, securing a plot of land by the lake. Despite the bureaucratic hurdles, he persevered, even though his wife was hesitant about the time and expense involved. In the end, she agreed. The neighbour later told me that he made it a point to clean her tombstone occasionally. As he shared this with me, a dim sunlight shone beside us. He confided that each year, he would place a rose on her tombstone, a humble offering to make up for the memories she never had, a final tribute to a lonely soul who had spent decades in solitude. Having been graced with never feeling alone, this spurred a sense of discovery in me. Intrigued by these acts of kindness and the whispers of her solitary life, I sought out her neighbours to uncover her story, driven by the desire to understand the woman who had lived so quietly among them. In doing so, I hoped to discover if I should ever find myself in solitude, for one must, after all, journey through life prepared.
My story began when I purchased a canoe to better explore Rice Lake’s shores. I developed an odd habit of tossing pebbles into the water and, at other times, gathering these tiny stones. Since her tombstone was near my cottage, I would often place a pebble on it as a modest tribute to her memory. Recently, while watching a documentary, I heard the Ojibway language and realized that she hadn’t been speaking Gaelic as I had once thought. She had been muttering in Ojibway all those years ago, a subtle clue to her complex relationship with the land and its Indigenous people. You see, most graves bear names, dates, stories, and the fond recollections of loved ones. Those memories may fade, but they are kept alive, perhaps by children, grandchildren, friends, and even enemies. But her grave stands apart—bearing the silent testament of an English lady far from home and friends, marked only by a pebble pointing further north.