Acadian Driftwood

Points ya where you're goin'
Set my compass north
I got winter in my blood

Acadian driftwood
Gypsy tail wind
They call my home the land of snow
Canadian cold front movin' in
What a way to ride
Ah, what a way to go (Robbie Robertson, Acadian Driftwood)

Funny how a place defines you. I heard someone say recently how happy he was to be British. Now I would love to visit, but I could never live there. My brother has to go to London all the time, since he owns a store there.

But I need to be in a place where the forests are never far, where the snow glimmers blue under the full moon while the pines sway overhead, or where the lake ripples underneath that same moon while the loons sing into the night. I feel no longing and drawing pull for stonehenge, though I may well have ancestors who knew the place (Welsh blood.)

But I do long for a tent, an island, a boatload of supplies, and a campfire, and a night full of shooting stars. If it ever came to it, you can take me out of the place, but you cannot take the place out of me. I can always visit it in my heart.