I spent the last weekend in Sackville, NB attending Sappyfest, a music festival that’s been held in the town for the past five years; I’ve gone for the last three. The first time was totally on impulse and wasn’t particularly well thought out, but there’s something to be said about having to take shelter from the pouring rain in ATM booths and a covered bridge in the waterfowl park in the early morning while listening to Joni Mitchell’s “Hissing Of Summer Lawns” on my iPod. The second and third year were more adequately planned. Ostensibly I come for the music but it’s also a chance to see familiar souls from my days at Mount Allison University as well as to wander off and just drink in the stillness at the edge of town.
This railway bridge is right besides the crumbling remains of another bridge that used to cross the water. I’ve heard a few different nicknames for the former bridge (“The Bridge At The End Of The World” seems pretty apt considering the phenomenon of the “Sackville Bubble”) but whatever it was called it was a choice spot for people to take certain substances and gaze out across the expanse at the Trans-Canada Highway and the radio towers. It’s one of those places that no Sackville experience is complete without.
On that subject, I will be writing a piece for my other blog, Huckleberry Masks, about the weekend. It’s not going to be a strictly journalistic/narrative entry; mainly dreamlike fragments and feelings. Part fact, part fiction, part realistic, part dream. To just report the facts would not do a place like Sackville justice; it is a town of tangents and detours, of impulse and impression.