When the building of the UNESCO-recognized world heritage site, the Rideau Canal was completed and opened in 1832, the thousands of stonemasons, Irish and French-Canadian were out of work. They looked elsewhere for employment while still remaining in their profession, hiring out to build town and country homes and buildings throughout the Ottawa Valley and beyond from the same stone excavated around Kingston, limestone from the Frontenac Axis, construed of rocks formed 1.35 to 1.06 billion years ago (Precambrian: middle to late Proterozoic age) and then deformed and metamorphosed 900 million years ago.

Those heritage homes and buildings stand as beautifully designed and constructed today as they did in the mid-19th Century, with features reminiscent of British classical architecture, some of them incorporating Palladian windows and in the interiors panelling, along with other then-popular details including central staircases leading to a partial upper story with slanted ceilings echoing low roofs and rooms radiating out from the staircase, without a central hall feature such as we know them today. In the more modest of the home's rooms tend to be relatively small, but numerous. The wide pine floorboards feel warm and smooth underfoot.

We had the privilege of being guided through one of those homes on Saturday. We marvelled at the beauty of the deep window sills, a feature of stone buildings. The limestone exterior was beautifully dressed, the rooms, one leading into another without benefit of a connecting hallway, led us into another architectural era entirely, one pleasing to the eye and sensibly envisaged. One entire side of the house is blessed with a covered porch, with a roofline of its very own, beside which was a later addition; a roomy two-car garage.

The first floor is comprised of a small, modernized kitchen, beyond which is a laundryroom and a powder room. From the kitchen there is direct access to a fairly large dining room and leading directly from it, the living room. In fact, entering from the front door the living room is on the right, the dining room on the left, and the kitchen beyond it. Off the living room is a study/office.

Upstairs, there is a large bathroom with all modern appliances suitable for up-to-date plumbing. At the head of the stairs there is a small, roomy area and radiating out from the staircase are three bedrooms, and a sitting room. The original panelling is beautiful, the interior is immaculate with fresh paint and period-appropriate wallpaper. And the rooms are furnished with pieces of furniture of the period that the house itself represents; some given to the couple owning the home by her parents, avid collectors of Canadiana a half-century earlier, and some since acquired.

In the back, beyond the house was a driveshed, where implements such as tractors are kept, necessities in managing an acreage of that size. The owners have been busy in the short time since they bought and moved into their heritage home, cutting walking trails through the nearby bush. Soon after moving in they had a white picket fence built around the front of the property, which sits adjacent a highway, and two minutes' drive from a small town. That the house sits on a large acreage comprised of fifty percent each bush and tillable land for a total of 70 acres, represents another vast bonus. The land, the watershed of the South Nation River is flat, resulting in a vast sky landscape.

Close by the house grow gigantic old honey-locusts, and nearby the house are also beautiful old flowering crab trees. Beyond, in the bush, which is likely of third-growth generation at the very least, poplars predominate, along with native buckthorn, cedars, wild grape vines, a proliferation of dogwood and maples; further off on other acreage of bush are where conifers have regenerated.

And oh yes, besides our daughter and her partner, our granddaughter lives there awaiting resumption of her university year in Toronto. There are also, on the exterior very large enclosures where eleven dogs, most of them now quite elderly, enjoy the out-of-doors when they're not being taken for walks on the acreage, using the newly-cut trails. Two cats live there as well.

It's arrived, the first official day of summer, 2015. Although we have long since enjoyed our post-breakfast ramble in the gardens as a delightful gift to ourselves, the months ahead promise ample opportunity for surprises and much gardening gratification.

It never ceases to surprise, these leisurely garden strolls, for what can be noticed on any given day that wasn't there in quite the same presentation the day before.

My husband is forever marvelling at the incredible restorative powers of nature. Spring regeneration always takes us by surprise in the most positive of ways. Everything looks miserably drab and unproductive once the snow has melted and the garden is exposed. Here and there tiny spears of green begin to appear and early spring-blooming bulbs exercise their options, exciting us to admiration.

It takes a while for the gradual rebirth to begin in earnest, and the yawning, empty space of the gardens looking sad in their bleakness of appearance find their echo in our yearning to see everything fill out and present in robust bloom. That time has come; there isn't a spare inch left in the garden. Everything is thriving, the living architecture of the garden in full sway.

And garden succession is well underway. The first bloomers have faded, giving way to those impatient to take their place. No more lilies of the valley in bloom, no bleeding hearts, the irises have finished, the rhododendrons as well as the magnolias and the mountain bluet, to name a few.

Succeeding them have been the poppies, the lilies, clematis, peonies, bellflowers and roses. The Ladies Mantle has its own peculiar blooms, as did the Japanese spurge.

Everything presents as a treat for our eyes. In the morning foliage is often jewelled with radiant dew drops from the overnight temperature inversion if not from overnight rain, catching the sun and sparkling with colour.

Jack and Jill enjoy accompanying us; they know the difference between the backyard and the front gardens; both experientially and verbally. When we invite them to come along they rush to join us, and agreeably return with the reverse invitation.

They too are ardent gardeners, having cleverly learned to dig up violets, exposing the roots which seem to appeal to them as especial delicacies.

They're no less mischievous than they always have been. Just as impulsive, compulsively drawn to driving us up the wall, and invariably rescuing the situation by their visages of absolute innocence, wondering, as their large eyes view us gravely and with puzzlement, what all the fuss is about.

On the positive side of the ledger, however, they're infinitely more responsive to what we say, so that if they are doing something we find disturbing, alarming, wreaking havoc somewhere and we tell them firmly to cease and desist, they do. At the very least, they pause, trying to gauge what our reaction to whatever they're doing is all about.

There are some things they do so often and are rebuked for, that they understand quite well that they shouldn't be doing whatever it is -- like, for example, grabbing a ballpoint pen and deconstructing it with gusto -- but they indulge nevertheless, for they are, after all, puppies. Puppies driven to disport themselves, amuse themselves, discover their place in the world that so intrigues them.

We're not averse any longer to welcoming them to sniff about with their usual curiosity in the front of the house, fearful they may dash onto the road if anything happens to arouse their curiosity. When we speak to them, they respond; a 'wait' command, or 'stay here' does the trick. As does 'this way' when they stray beyond our property, bringing them back to where they belong.

And when we decide they've had enough of the freedom they have earned around the front garden, we will invite them back to the backyard by saying 'let's go' or 'let's go to the backyard' and they immediately dog our footsteps back around to the back of the house. When we invite them to 'go back into the house', they're agreeable and move with alacrity to achieve that, as well.

Their habit of finding vegetation irresistible persists, however. Doesn't matter where we are with them, in the backyard or out on the trail somewhere there will be growing things that excite the herbivore in them and they swiftly pick up fallen flora bits to devour from the trail. If it's something like a twig we remove it, if it's say, a haw fallen from a hawthorn, we allow them to indulge usually. Jilly in particular has grown adept at digging up violets, enjoying their roots in particular.

If Jilly finds a treat Jackie is certain to join her and a friendly tug ensues, each challenging the other for ownership, just as when each is given a rawhide strip in the house so that one of the strips is dropped and the strip remaining in one of their mouths becomes the desired one, with a competition ensuing as to who will take final possession of it. Of the two Jillie is the more avaricious and aware whenever opportunity arises, with Jackie coming in a close second.

Some of these traits, we hope, will diminish with time, as they mature. My slippers are of particular interest to them and they would make quick work of destroying them given the opportunity. The usual puppy stuff on steroids since there are two of those cunning little monsters conspiring collegially to pull off their daily, moment-by-moment conquests.

All-night rain led to a dusk-dark morning with rain persisting when we awoke from a placid sleep on Tuesday, June 9th. The rain was by turns heavy and lighter at times with the forecast for the rain to stop around noon. And then, once again, another weather system to take over, with a series of thunderstorms likely throughout the afternoon. Typical mountain-area weather, in other words; not particularly well chosen for ascending steep heights in prolonged climbs, but we weren't planning on any, not any more, unlike our much earlier years in the area when the summits beckoned and would not be refused.

Given the weather we took our time with our morning routine, lingering long over breakfast, the puppies relieved that we weren't taking them out, forcing raincoats on them, dragging them as it were, through the wet grass to perform their duties. They made quick work of these outings, anxious to return to the dry atmosphere of the indoors, less amenable to playing about outdoors; rain does that to them, just as it does to us.

Finally, we prepared to leave the cottage after eleven; kitchen and bathroom cleanup tended to, beds made up, along with a bit of vacuuming. Just as well we never eat lunch; a time-wasting, unnecessary habit we've long dispensed with. We assembled our rain gear, water, doggy treats, and set off, the sky deep in dark clouds, still weeping steadily.

Stopped on the way for a copy of the Boston Globe and drove on to the Mad River forest of the Waterville Valley to revisit Smarts Brook, though we had really meant to go on to the Franconia Notch to visit the Basin; the weather persuading us otherwise. Knowing it would be raining heavily there, choosing the alternative. Mist hung off the mountains, rising from the valleys and obscuring clear views of the trail sight lines. It was cooler there than at the cottage and just as well, since that made wearing our rain jackets more comfortable.

The sound of the brook rushing down the slopes encountering the boulders strewn on the floor of the water raceway was as close to thunderous as the sound of fury belting down from a stormy sky, albeit more melodious as we ventured deeper into the forest. No one other than ourselves willing to hike in the light rain under the protective canopy of the woods.

Once we completed our fairly short trek, and back in the truck, the skies opened again with a vengeance, one violet-charcoal cloud burst after another, and we marvelled at the good fortune of our timing, beautifully serendipitous. On we drove, the mountains looming before and beside us, their summits hidden in dense fog and mist, as one rain event after another drenched the landscape, drumming on the truck roof as we headed back to the group shop at Laconia to mosey about in there a little more.

The only other vehicle in the rain-empty parking lot for the Rocky Gorge on Monday, June 8th, belonged to a man who lives on the border of Massachusetts, not all that far from where we were. He was with his sister, a mother of two children, 21 and 13, who lives with their father in the very area where we discovered one another. Their family, originally from Massachusetts, had moved to New Hampshire some while ago.

They carried with them their father's ashes and they were there for a purpose. Their father loved the mountains, as did their mother. The mother was in grave ill health and would likely soon follow their father in death. They meant to scatter her ashes as well, in the manner that they planned for their father. Two other siblings don't live nearby. They asked if it offended us, the prospect of their taking this opportunity, in the rain, with no others about, to return their parent's ashes to a natural setting, and we assured them otherwise.

They meant to scatter the ashes in the lake that lay placidly unperturbed beyond the Rocky Gorge, surrounded by mountains and forests, in tribute to their father's exaltation of unspoiled and tranquil natural surroundings. We informed them of the trail that lay beyond, that could give them pleasure in contemplating those same surroundings, while they were there. They hadn't been aware of its existence. Nor were they aware that a short drive away Sabbaday Falls, an exquisite natural resource whose beauty trumped even this one we were at, they should not miss. Intrigued, they said they would drive over and have a look for themselves.

They set out on the trail before leaving for Sabbaday Falls, taking the opposite direction to the one we were taking, and we met half-way through the circuit, stopping once again to pass pleasantries. When we had ourselves completed the trail, no doubt taking far more time than they, far younger than us, had done, we drove over to Sabbaday Falls. There, again, scant few vehicles in the parking lot, though the rain had eased nicely.

We set off on the trail leading to the falls, enjoying the atmosphere and the views and when we reached the falls, took photographs, marvelled repeatedly at nature's endless repertoire of natural beauty, and ascended the first of the scaffolding-stairs leading to the top. Halfway up, down came our two friends, brother and sister, beaming happily. "I didn't even cry", she called out to us, soon informing us that they had released their father's ashes up at the top of the waterfall. "The water turned grey", she said, laughing, no doubt relieved that their bitter-sweet mission had been accomplished, the anguish of the final farewell done with.

"That was a moment's worth of grey", I assured her; the immense rush of the water tumbling over the grey granite speedily washing the ashes before it, turning everything back once again to its crystal clarity. We lingered awhile, talking; they were eager to exchange their version of life's happenstance with us. Affection flowed freely between us, and finally we bid one another adieu.

We went on to continue our slow and brief peregrination of the area so far from our own home, yet now so familiar to us, to appreciate its unique presentation and environmental flavour. Jack and Jill, still wearing their little raincoats ran before us in all directions, intrigued by all that presented as so new to them. Soon we came across other people, making their way up the trail toward the falls, as we proceeded to descend, the day's commune with nature coming to a close.

After the sunny warmth of the day before, on Monday June 8 we awoke to a dark morning that soon got even darker. Little Jack and Jill had to wear raincoats for their outdoor excursions to relieve themselves. We walked them along on their harnesses and leashes in the pouring rain, ourselves in raingear too, of course, and mourned the absence of the bright  light and warm sun that we had enjoyed the day before. Jack and Jill aren't too thrilled about having to be out in the rain at any time; this was no exception.

Heavy rain was forecast for the rest of the morning, but it would lift and become lighter toward early afternoon, evidently. Even as it became lighter the chance of thunderstorms would increase, we were also warned. So what to do in the rain? Submerge ourselves in books and stay comfortably ensconced indoors? Not likely.

We decided to go off on the Kancamangus Highway to visit Sabbaday Falls and the Rocky Gorge site beyond the falls. Both spectacularly beautiful destinations and each not far from the other. We drove in the rain encountering massive opaque mists rising from the mountain slopes. And when we were driving through the mountains we also drove into those opaque mists which cut visibility to the core. Still, what we could see from time to time in a break in the atmosphere was lovely to behold, dark overcast and rain notwithstanding.

It's a long enough drive, and we were uncertain what to expect at our destination but thought we saw in the distance some light areas in the sky signifying, we hoped, a lifting of the rain. We decided to drive past Sabbaday Falls and go along to the Swift River where the Rocky Gorge is located, and beyond a mountain lake with a trail that rounds its circumference. We'd done it before in the rain, there's a protective forest canopy; we could only get wet, after all.

Previous visits to the Rocky Gorge were nothing like this. There was only one vehicle in the parking lot besides ours, where usually there are buses loaded with tourists; all was deserted in the rain. We dressed our two little poodles in heavier raincoats and set off with them to view the beautiful landscape that the river presents tumbled with immense boulders, the river rumbling, thundering and splashing in a series of waterfalls over the boulders. A bridge over the river takes one to the opposite side beyond which is the lake, and of course trails into the now-sodden forest.

And that is precisely where we headed, the rain now more of an inconvenience than a misery, since it was no longer heavy and once into the forest it seemed fairly negligible. Jack and Jill, interested in the new scents encountered everywhere didn't seem to mind the wetness at all. The colours of the orange pine needles sifted on the forest floor were magnified in brightness as were the greens of the conifers and the deciduous trees. Despite the overcast gloom of the forest, some light from above seems to pierce the canopy, and shine down into the lake which we glimpsed through the trees from time to time, as we proceeded. It seems to us, at times like this, like a magical place.

Between us, our shared passion for art and antiques of the past half-century is eclipsed only by our psychical need to remain involved in the natural scenes around us. It is a daily investment in time and emotional need fulfilled to get out into a natural setting, removed from the structure of 'civilization', to restore an equilibrium in recognition of some deep-seated need of contact, observational, tactile, aesthetic let alone the benefits we derive from the physical act of being within a natural setting.

We found ourselves as we always do, acutely aware that we were in a setting apart from the norm, in our week away in New Hampshire. The cottage was surrounded by mature trees and nature's wild array of growing things could be seen from the windows of the cottage, backing onto a fairly steep ridge mounting above carrying with it a bounty of conifers and deciduous trees thick with new foliage.

Because it's in a mountainous region, the sun sets and rises differently, and the nights tend to cool to the point of frost, even though daytime temperatures can soar at this time of year if the cloud cover is minimized and the sun has the opportunity to warm the landscape. The quality of the air we breathe there is uncompromised and bracing and we always feel challenged to exert our physical capacities to their limit.

On Sunday, June 7 we drove once again to Smarts Brook for a shorter hike than the previous one, because we had decided we'd drive the distance to Antique Alley that day to mosey about some of the plenitude of antique and collectibles shops that proliferate there. Usually we reserve that trip for a rainy day when the downpour is so copious we're shut out of anything but a short, raincoat-clad venture.

We had a short walk, only to the Pine Flats, then set off on the trip, venturing into one group shop after another. And seeing very little to arouse our acquisitive interests, though my husband did pick up some old copies of the Magazine Antiques which he had once subscribed to. We greeted an old friend at Austin's, then went on to Parker-French where we've often picked up treasures over the years. There we discovered a Japanese sculpture, an Imari plate, a signed Chinese bowl and an outstanding mantle clock. Invariably, the people there are chatty and warm and many of them known to us from previous visits.

Jack and Jill were patient and well behaved; a hit with everyone oohhing and awwing after them. We went on to a large refurbished barn with outstanding American furniture and often superb paintings where in the past we'd bought a few items. In total, feeling the day had been well spent, servicing our interests and providing us with entertainment sufficient unto the day.