From the end of August for almost a month, I was the writer in residence at The Al Purdy A-Frame in Ameliasburg Ontario. Al Purdy was a poet, a big force in Canadian poetry, dubbed Voice of the Land. A tall, cigar-smoking, story-telling poet, blunt and tender, full of bluster and filibuster. I heard him read once and was blown away by his freedom.

Now I had a month in the house that he and his wife Eurithe built in 1957 on Roblin Lake, Prince Edward County. The house that with the support of many, and the devotion of those who run The Al Purdy A-Frame Association, is a residency programme, giving writers like me time and space. Alone to write, read, wander, and write more.

 When I get there after a hard spring/summer, I'm just crushingly overjoyed to have arrived, lugging my stuff down the hill to the house on the lake.

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Day one: there's a bit more Al in the house than I expect. His long leather coat hangs on a hook in the second bedroom, a sweater in a dry clean bag. A brown stubby beer bottle on the window sill. Had Al put it down before he died in 2000?

The books are old, hardcover, sticky. The record player needle is festooned with dust. I adjust. It is not what I expect and I don’t love it, but some driving creative force of energy is going full gong and screaming: ‘marvelous, wonderful!'

Day two: rotten egg smell in the water. Ken, wonderful neighbour from next door, puts bleach in the well. This is the usual thing in these parts. I drink water from a big water jug on the counter that is refreshed with new water every week. That night there's a fabulous thunderstorm. Wild lightning.

Day three: I'm eating breakfast and there are things that are flying and crawling on the table. The living room is alive with carpenter ants! The table, sofa, chairs... The A-Frame has no basement and is built of a million kinds of wood. I constantly admire the construction. The red ceiling in the hall. The perfect triangle lit up at night. But it needs lifting up out of the earth and after the rain, all the creatures are coming in. Ken arrives with a big can of Raid and an industrial vacuum cleaner.

My morning ritual: vacuum the ants, stretch on the deck, make coffee. My body isn't sure it can handle this. My writer doesn't give a shit: "look at the lake, look at the trees, look at the writer's shed!' The writer's shed is simple and clean. it is the best place to work. It has been lifted up out of the mud and it smells like cedar. I love it there.

Day four: step out on the back deck and onto a dead brown bird. Will the chaos end? Everybody has a weak spot and mine are in an uproar. Sleep? Forget about it.

After that there are no more house plagues. It gets calm. I feel as though I've been through a hazing. I walk the quiet dirt road. There are cows. In the village is the Ameliasburg library and the heritage museum. Al's gravestone down Purdy Lane is a granite book.

My struggle with Al's presence shifts. Rather than looking away, I look towards. A book of his collected poems, Beyond Remembering gets me unstuck. I write poems to him, making friends with him, fighting with him. Then we leave, each quietly to do our own thing.

I finish a full manuscript in the first two weeks. Now, understand this manuscript has been under construction for two years. But it's done! I do a community project writing poems for people at The Spontaneous Poetry Booth in front of the Picton library. Some days, I get in the car and turn left or right as it goes. It rains but I have great rubber boots. Every time I go to the town of Wellington, I eat a fabulous cherry danish. There are vegetable stands in front of people's houses with zucchini for $.50. I pass farms and wineries. It is early September, I get the news the queen has died while driving on Loyalist Highway. There is so much corn. In mid-September, I am working on other poems and then it's late September and there are pumpkins. The crows are in the field.

The neighbour at the end of the road shooed me away when I trespassed on his land the very first day of my residency.. On the last day, it was he who came to clean the septic tank. He turned completely friendly. He and his son had a long hose down in the ground making great sucking noises. The smell was rich and human. How does it work? I asked. Well, he said, at this point we usually ask for volunteers. Glad you're here! We laughed. I felt welcomed in the county.

It was quiet: peaceful, provocative and productive. I was ready to leave, and I did not want to leave. But I did my work.