L.M. Montgomery's
Prince Edward Island

After flying to Halifax , Nova Scotia , we picked up our rental car, a sporty 2006 Monte Carlo . The next morning, we headed north towards New Brunswick and the Confederation Bridge , a 12.9 kilometer (8.1 mile) expanse joining the mainland to P.E.I. At last, we descended from the bridge and into the long-dreamed-of landscape of Prince Edward Island . Lupin flowers in varying shades of lavender and pink, and countless small communities dotted the roadside. Like Anne, I was captivated by the deep red soil, as well as the brilliantly green fields and tree-covered hills as we wound north towards Cavendish, Montgomery's home town.

That first evening, we drove east from Cavendish to explore, glimpsing the sea and the red shore from a brief distance through the rain that had begun to fall. Once the rain had subsided, I convinced P.J to go on a short walk with me to the nearby post office, a building which would have been much like the house and post office where L.M. Montgomery was raised by her grandparents. From there, we followed our noses to a red dirt path that wound in under the trees and back to the site of that very home. Nothing was left but the foundation, but numerous placards along the way quoted the author's journals and indicated the sites to which she referred as she wrote of her home. One path ran under the trees to the church she attended and where she served as organist, and another led to a garden area where she must certainly have passed many a happy hour. The rain had washed everything fresh and painted the grass, flowers, leaves and mossy trunks in vibrant, reborn colors. All around, a sense of magic and imagination cloaked this place that had been truly beautiful to the author, even if it had not always been an easy home to inhabit. She called it hallowed ground and in the slight chill of the evening and the silence among the trees, it was easy to imagine Montgomery into that setting, along with the beautiful child of her imagination, Anne.

From there, we followed the boardwalk back to the crossroads and the cemetery where Montgomery rests. How fitting, I thought, to be here among the trees and fields, the flowers and the sea about which she wrote and so many dreamers world-wide still imagine. From that quiet spot, we continued down through the sand dunes and to the beach where the waves were rolling and crashing against stalwart, red sandstone shores. A glimpse of sunset could be seen far out on the horizon, mingling with the remaining clouds and casting its last rays into the sea. Later that week, we would return so I could collect seashells which are rather weighty when carried in bulk in one's jacket pocket, P.J assures me but for that evening, we took pleasure in merely watching the colors ripple across the water as a gentle breeze across the plains.

The next day, Tuesday, dawned clear and sunny and we set out for Green Gables afoot. It was a short walk beneath bright, blue skies and my anticipation grew with every step. After a brief film and tour of the barn, we went directly to the house that had inspired the setting for Montgomery's novel. The rooms were redone to period and to someone's interpretation of the descriptions in the book, though not exactly according to my own imagination. That, alas, is the deception of seeing sites that strive to incarnate the visions of an author: they are never quite as we ourselves have imagined them, and as a result, they seem somewhat less real. The outside of the house, however, did not disappoint. It was such as I had always envisioned it: white with the characteristic green gables, shutters and shingles.

The grounds of Green Gables were just as they should be, too literally bedecked with flowers: lilacs, iris, pansies, and delightfully enormous wild roses. The path led from the front door and down to a gate and a set of steps to the Haunted Wood trail. Something within me recognized the shadowy, winding path that must certainly have been much like it was when Montgomery walked there herself and when Anne walked it in the author's imagination. Moss grew in abundance; limbs, leaves, fallen trees, and a myriad of plants carpeted the ground, and everywhere stillness, sunshine and shadow mixed with the earthy perfume of the woods. Similarly, Lover's Lane wound behind the house to another trail, crossing a crystal-clear, laughing brook and snaking among trees and enormous ferns. Birds twittered above us and at one point a curious chipmunk poked his nose out from under a rock to inquire as to our presence in his forest as we traversed it hand in hand. Everything was peace and beauty, and without a doubt there was much scope for imagination.

On our last evening in Cavendish, I left P.J reading in the hotel while I walked back to Green Gables. The site was officially closed, but I could easily see the home. Leaning on the top rail of the surrounding white fence that calm, bright evening, I felt that our incredible honeymoon trip had been a multi-layered stretch of road along my own life journey. In Montgomery's woods and in her world, I sensed keenly that if I would only be as persistent to my dreams and goals, as deaf to the naysayers and as willing to see with Anne-like optimism, I too, might be able to produce something as endearing and as enduring as Anne. My own scope for imagination, which had sadly shrunk over the years, seemed to broaden and open anew. I felt a renewed desire and determination to dream and to write.