"East Ship Harbour. Not SheetHarbour. That's another 30 minutes further." It was an almost impossibly foggy day; almost like being underwater.  The mist enveloped everything and the wind was cold and mean. We had driven about an hour and a half out of our way to visit a folk art gallery that was normally closed this time of year. The owners graciously showed up in the unheated space to show us their collection. They told us that Barry Colpitts, a local artist lived another 30 minutes away and it was worth making the trip to see his house that was covered in his art work. "You can't miss it." they said and never was a phrase more true. "He might even invite you in for tea." So began our journey towards one of the pleasantest few of hours of my life. 

As we pulled up we saw a man in a checkered jacket carrying a pile of wood.  "Let me just put this down," he said, when he noticed us, then reemerged from his artifact of a house and shook our hands. He then proceeded to take us on a tour of his property, including the little shed workshop where he created his art works. 30 seconds in it was  the best tour I've ever taken.  He showed us his collection of  "whirlygigs,"devices he sculpted  that were given life by the wind.  One of my favourites was a dance hall scene featuring couples twirling at the end of wooden spokes made from the branches of a tree.  At the base of it was written, "I got a Canada Council Grant for this one...can you believe it?" We got to see the raw wooden materials of his works that started in the ground then merged with his imagination.  Branches in various states of transformation patiently waited their turn to become something else. He was gracious, welcoming and  funny. The best part is the delight he took in showing us his creations that gave a glimpse of how he must have felt when first conceiving them. Another big hit was the flock of birds chair. A painted wooden chair with little birds attached to rods. He let us sit in it and feel what it would be like to fly among the birds, wiggling the chair a little to give the illusion of motion.   Everywhere we looked there were colourful birds and wood carvings of people and faces that were either part of a structure or propped up against a wall before joining his menagerie. Interspersed in the works were lighthearted but clear references to God and  Satan. Faces of angels competed with red-tailed devils  who he told us had tried to fool him in the past. After admiring the carvings decorating the exterior of the house he asked us in for tea.

For the next (how many hours?) we sat with Barry and his wife Betty-Ann sipping tea, munching on biscuits and basking in the company of these two lovely people in their cozy wood stove heated home.  We sat and we looked around and chatted and whenever I looked over at my wife she was smiling ear to ear and I realized I was smiling right back the same way. It's like the two of us had been drugged with hospitality. The walls were practically covered with Barry's artwork. Fish and birds and faces adorned the walls and cupboards and ceilings and photos were stuck to the wood-panelled sitting room. I saw a little figurine that was the spitting image of an old cookie jar we had in our kitchen and I was transported back in time. After a while time ceased to have meaning in their house, which was off all the grids and I felt connected to the moment and my surroundings in a way I had not for a long while.  When I mentioned a photo of Barry on  Instagram, Betty looked up and asked, "what's Instagram?" A few sentences later I realized that that they had likely never been on any internet. Their news came from the TV or newspapers. Connection to other people was through a landline. He mentioned that he had stopped visiting a sister in the States once a Passport was required.

Next to the easy chair in the small sitting room was a piece being carved into something, the wood shavings covering an old newspaper. Next to it was a book about Christianity. When we realized that these nice people would never kick us out we bid our farewells and I shot a photo of Barry with my phone, promising I'd share it with him. "You'll have to mail it," he told me, since he had no mobile phone. As we drove away from his house the place disappeared behind us quickly in the fog like a dream we had both dreamed simultaneously; vivid and unreal.