New Brunswick the Summervale Ranch by Eden Monroe
cloud in sight as I made my way through the old shire town of Hampton, New
Brunswick, and passed over the steel bridge dutifully spanning the Kennebecasis
at its narrowest point. A river of many
moods, the name Kennebecasis is believed to be from the Mi’kmaq word
Kenepekachiachk meaning little long bay place. The Mi’kmaq are among the
original inhabitants in the Atlantic Provinces on the east coast of Canada.
These indigenous peoples navigated the Kennebecasis in their birch bark canoes
for thousands of years, and I think of that today as I glance at its pristine
waters passing quietly under the bridge.
leisurely pace that day onto Route 121 a scenic drive with the river stretching
southward to my left, a glimmering silver ribbon meandering through the valley
on a lazy summer afternoon.
the rural community of Bloomfield whose first settlers began to arrive more
than two hundred years ago, determined to carve out a new homeland in the rich
dark soil. Time has altered that landscape considerably since those early days,
now with its neatly manicured lawns as green as an Irish morning, hand in hand
with fertile farmlands and untamed fields dotted with colourful wildflowers. It
is a wind-tossed vibrant dance of beauty gently sweeping downward toward the
river.
I’d come with a special purpose in mind. I wasn’t just a Sunday sightseer, I
was there to find a setting in this idyllic countryside for my romantic suspense
novel, Barlowe Pride, and I well remember the moment I spied the perfect spot;
the moment I visualized Summer Vale Ranch where most of the novel would take
place.
my mind’s eye. It would be a sizeable family spread, land fought for and won, still
holding its own under the enduring stewardship of stalwart men and women who stood
strong in the face of adversity. As the ranch slowly materialized in my
imagination the storyline also began to flow as seamlessly as the sparkling
Kennebecasis. It is an experience like no other when the characters step forward
one by one to announce themselves. Not all would play a happy role, but each
one would stand in their own truth as they breathed life into Barlowe Pride and
the Summervale Ranch.
Finding a safe
spot to pull over onto the shoulder of the road I reveled in what continued to
come into sharper focus. Casual observers who raced past could not see what I
saw of course … the ranch house with its wide veranda perfect for relaxing with
a glass of frosty cold lemonade on a sultry August evening, or catching a
breeze with the easy to and fro sway on the old wooden glider. Generations of
Barlowes have known the pleasure of this veranda I thought, shaded on one
corner by an enormous lilac bush, a friend to hummingbirds and butterflies
alike. It would also be home to a robin’s nest, the bright turquoise eggs having
hatched into hungry nestlings in the second brood of the season.
Yes this was Summer
Vale Ranch and I cast my gaze on verdant pastures where herds of prime beef
cattle grazed contentedly in warm sunshine, or cooled themselves under the wide
canopy of a leafy shade tree. And of course the gnarled trunk of the massive
oak was encircled by a typical pasture rock pile, a reminder of the
backbreaking work of rock picking done by those who not only had the necessary
fortitude to tame this land, but also understand its purpose. After all, every rock
left to lie in a pasture covers a mouthful of nourishing grass.
I watched as a few
gossamer clouds began to float through an ocean of cerulean blue, offering
intermittent respite from a dazzling sun. Perfect! I smelled fresh cut hay curing
in the heat, waiting to be raked and baled, the hum of a tractor already at
work harvesting this natural bounty. Songbirds sitting atop fence posts or
perched in the old apple tree at the bottom of the lane, sang with authentic
abandon. No choirmaster here, as I sat roadside in paradise. I smiled as Summer
Vale Ranch fully emerged amid this beautiful imagery, the natural backdrop for
the story that was about to be captured forever within the pages of a book. I thought
about those people, those characters, so eager to tell their story, gently
urging me to be on my way to begin that work. It was a beautiful summer day in Bloomfield,
Kings County, New Brunswick, properly celebrated only if I succeeded at my task,
because thought alone is of very little use if not followed by action.
I remember that
day so well as glancing around I drew more of that delectable countryside into
my mind, grist for the mill, fodder for the power of creativity and certainly
the inspiration for Barlowe Pride, book two of The Martel Sisters trilogy.
And then I was off
to do the bidding of my imagination which I knew would give me no peace until
it came to fruition. But like any author, there was no greater burden I could have
hoped to enjoy.