He closed the computer, looked at a local map, studied it a little, then grabbed his jacket, went downstairs, and said, “Angelle, Jim, I’ll see you later this afternoon.” He placed his empty coffee cup on the counter and left the house.

After gas up at Fast Mart, he headed out of Chebec. He had decided to follow the Lighthouse Route. He planned to tread the road that zigzagged along the coast, visit small French communities on land points, fragmented pieces of earth encircled by sea, islands that sustained Acadian villages in the mouth of the Tusket River.

He drove by Plymouth and when he arrived at a strip of low brush, he turned on the road toward Tusket village. A few miles along the way, he saw signs that reminded him of what his grandparents told him of the history: French named villages, founded after the torturous Acadian expulsion by the English that started in 1755, and continued for many years. On the Acadians’ return to Nova Scotia (Acadia), they discovered that English Loyalists from the American colonies occupied their villages. The Acadians re-rooted themselves on land points bordering the ocean, and small islands in the Tusket River where it discharged in the Atlantic Ocean.

As he read signs, he didn’t know how to pronounce the names: Amirault’s Hill, Ste. Anne du Ruisseau, Pubnico, Surette’s Island, to name a few. He had no problem with Sluice Point, Glenwood, Morris Island, Lower Argyle, Argyle Sound, and Belleville.

In the village of Ste. Anne du Ruisseau, close to a dominant, one spire, white, wood church, he stopped at a small restaurant named Chez Nous. He sat at two-person table with a fleur-de-lis decorated linoleum cover. A pretty woman, black hair tied in a ponytail, green eyes, maybe in her teens, approached him and in broken English, welcomed him, gave him a menu.

“Thank you,” he said.

“What to drink?”

“Coffee.” He studied the menu and recognized a few items.

She returned with a pot and poured. “You’re not from around here.” She looked out the window. “Central State plates. You’re far from home.”

“Yes, I am.” He liked her accent, a sweet tone, an air of innocence in her voice. Somehow, he felt that he was in another world, a peaceful world, a fable land.

“What brings you here?” she asked.

“Visiting relatives in Chebec.”

“You Acadian?”

“In a way, yes. I don’t speak the language, though.”

“What do you mean, ‘In a way’?”

“My grandparents, on my mother’s side, came from Chebec. My name is Justin Caden.”

“What was their name?”

“Guillaume, Joseph and Madeline. My grandma still lives in Central City.”

“Guillaume, that’s a real Acadian name. My name is Evangeline Aucoin.”

“Evangeline…rings a bell, somehow.” He stirred his coffee.

“Yes, the famous poem by Longfellow.” Her trusting eyes flared.

“Oh, yeah, I remember now. Grandma told me about it. When I was fifteen, she gave me a copy. I read it.”

“Have you decided?” she hinted at the menu.

“Well…”

“May I suggest a local dish, our special today?”

“Sure. What do I smell?”

“Eel Stew.”

“Eel stew!” he looked at her grinning face.

“Yes, fresh, eels caught this morning.”

“What’s in it…other than eels?”

“Potatoes, onions, bits of bacon, local herbs, and of course eel chunks…comes with home made bread. I know you’ll like it.”

“I’ll try it.”

He looked out the window, he didn’t see any traffic. He could see the bend in the road, houses separated from barns, sheds, fenced fields, several cattle grazed, like in an ancient countryside where the modern world hadn’t contaminated the culture yet.

Two men stepped in the restaurant, sat, looked at Justin. They spoke French. Evangeline went to their table. The dialogue flew among the three of them. Whatever they said made her blush. The men laughed. She took their orders and swiveled away, went to the back.

Then she came to Justin’s table, placed a large bowl, steam rose from the mix. “I know you’ll like it.” She went and got the bread.

After a few bites, Justin agreed, the stuff was good—not a recognizable taste.

Evangeline served the two men. She didn’t stay by them long and scooted to Justin’s table. “How do you like it?”

“Very good. How old is this recipe?”

“The Acadians first learned it from the Mi’kmags and our ancestors added their touch to it.”

“Well, they did a great job.” He finished the bowl’s contents and bread. Bade Evangeline good day, she responded in French, which he liked. He continued his journey.

By late afternoon, he had skirted numerous communities, some more like hamlets, viewed hay mounts that dotted marshes, saw canals, water isolated chunks of wooded patch of earth, tiny docks, houses painted in bright colors, from extreme blue to striking yellow. Many homesteads flew the Acadian flag, the French drapeau with a gold star in the blue. One thing stood out, each Acadian community had a church that outsized all other structures. It made him think that each village took extreme pride in their place of worship that highlighted their devotion to God.

When he drove into Chebec, a tired sun sank in the west, behind the Grand Bois, the fog, on slow silent feet, hovered, and had begun to creep among the houses.

Could it mean a foggy day, tomorrow?

While he ate supper with Jim and Angelle, he told them about his visit. “I ate eel stew.”

“You did!” Angelle looked at him. “Did you like it?”

“I’ve got to say, ‘Yes.’”

“Good stuff, isn’t it?” Jim took a bite of food. “Where did you eat?”

“Chez Nous.”

“I know the place.” Jim drank. “They serve good home-made Acadian food. You haven’t tried Rappie Pie, have you?”

“Well…when Grandpa was alive, Grandma made it on special occasions. I tried it. Didn’t like it too much.”

“People, who didn’t grow up with it, usually don’t.” Angelle stood, went to the stove, got another helping of hash made from left over boiled dinner. “Want more, Jim, Justin?” . . .