This story starts way back in Crete, Greece, last August. In
a hostel amongst the olive groves in a small town called Plakias, I met Scott
and Nikki. We got along so well that I said I would come visit them in their homeland
sometime on my journey - a thing I’ve told many people and rarely followed up
on.
The arrangement was for me to help out on Nikki’s parent’s
farm in exchange for food and board. A good option because I’m running out of
money and Canada is pricey, and because I thought it would be a good experience
and a unique chapter of the trip.
So there I found myself, in the duty of Marsh – an old hippy who made me feel at home immediately, and Kevin – who proved that the combination of coming from a) a farm, and b) from Canada, means that he might just be the friendliest man alive. His accent was a novelty to me; think ‘out and about’ as ‘ooot and abooot.’
They had a farm of 200+ acres and ran cattle, sheep and
chickens. I stayed up in the attic of their humble farmhouse, which dates back
to the late 1800’s, and has Kev’s big chevy ‘truck’ parked out front. Around us
was farmland and forest. It was nice to be out in the open country and away
from the cities. Now I was amongst the big green fields and the woods of pine
trees, maples and beeches and birches. 
My first official duty was to dispose of a dead cat, which I
tossed unceremoniously into some scrub, its limb body smashing into a tree. I
learned that living on a farm means you’re exposed to death a bit. The next day
we had to go to a neighbouring property in a backhoe and bury a dead cow, then
a few days later I had to kill and bury six kittens.
I spent the remainder of the time feeding and watering the livestock (something I found somewhat therapeutic), shovelling shit for five hours at a time (not quite as therapeutic but no doubt good for me), helping build chicken tractors (coups that are moved along to fresh grass each day), catching and moving chickens (fun), moving hay bales, and planting their enormous vegetable garden (to last them right through winter).
At night me and Kev would come in covered in shit and sweat
and Marsh would feed us up these big homemade meals, the sort I’d been craving
for a while now. I just couldn’t believe all the food I was eating for free!
I would have gotten into a routine if not for the countless
excursions from the farm.
A couple of times we went up to their cottage, in the
Kawartha Lakes Provincial Park. Their little cottage, a cabin really, was
located on a small island in a narrow lake that looked like a river. It was
absolutely idyllic. While out at the cottage we drank homemade wine around a
fire, went swimming in the numbingly cold waters, canoed, and played card games
into the night. I also got to go and stay up at Scott’s family’s cottage for a
couple of nights, which was right in the middle of the woods, and short walk
down to a bigger lake. (Thousands of small and medium lakes in this region,
unlike any landscape I’ve ever seen).
The Canadians really have this cottage culture thing
mastered. It’s a good way to live.
One morning at the cottage we nearly flipped the pontoon
boat by loading too much lumber up front to the point that we began to take on
water over the bow. Having narrowly escaped that disaster, later that day the
boat decided not to go into reverse, so as we came in already too fast into the
dock it plunged forward unexpectedly and beached us up on a partially submerged
wharf. 
I also spent a few nights in Peterborough, the small town
half hour away from the farm where Nikki and Scott lived. I stayed at Nikki’s grandparents’
house while they were away in Vancouver, and also spent my last couple of
nights at Scott and Nikki’s house. The town itself has a nice little downtown
or ‘main drag.’ We went out drinking at their favourite dive bar, the Pigs Ear.
Here, the doorman noticed my NSW drivers license and told me he grew up in
Wyong. We were both pretty shocked – Peterborough feels like a long way away
Wyong; he hadn’t seen an aussie is these parts maybe ever, yet alone one that
grew up where he did, and he was so excited by it that he got me to have a
photo with him to send to his wife. 
It was in Peterborough that I had Poutine – the culinary
pride of Canada. It’s made up of french fries covered in cheese curds covered
in gravy. That’s it. But it’s a national icon; they have Poutine Week annually
and there are shops dedicated to nothing but Poutine. I love trying these local
specialties, and despite not looking or sounding like something to make such a
fuss about the few times I had it were pretty good. 
The last few days on the farm I was accompanied by two
German guys who had previously stayed with Marsh and Kev and had come back to
help out with the summer chores. They were great guys to meet and shovel shit
next to.
On my last night on the farm Nikki took me on a big quad
ride around the property, to a place where she intends to build a cabin of her
own, and over to the woods where Kev collects the sap to make maple syrup.
As my stay drew to a close I was sadden to have to leave so
soon. I felt like I had just arrived, but three weeks had passed and I had a
plane ticket to the other side of the world. This part of my trip was as much about the people I was with than the place I was within, and the hard goodbyes were upon me. As I said farewell to Kev and Marsh and their farm it felt like I was leaving home again. I haven’t wanted to stay put this much since… 2008.
As for Scott and Nikki, they are among the best friends I
have made on my trip, and we swore we would meet again someday. I am just thankful that I happened to meet
them in Greece. It led to me to getting to see the fields and forests and lakes
of Ontario, its cottages and cabins, and the culture of its small towns. It led
me to free food and board. But most importantly, it led me back to them and
their families and friends, all of them among the kindest and most interesting
people I have been lucky enough to meet on my travels.
