Chapter 2: A visit to Green Gables and settling in on the farm

On, on and on we journeyed, me chattering all the way. I thought we may never get there but finally we entered the mysterious Haunted wood and emerged at Green Gables.

I was on my own now, twisting my pig tails into a tight knot as I crossed the threshold. "Who are you?" asked a stern person standing inside. "I'm Dan," I stuttered, "of Green Gables." "Ha, Ha and I'm Sydney Poitier," she replied. I nodded sagely but didn't have a clue what she was talking about. "Six degrees of separation you know, oh never mind, so what can I do for you, Dan of Green Gables?" "I do believe that this is my home," I stuttered. "Why of course it is. Unfortunately, it is also a National Historic site and you'll have to go to the front office and pay to come in like everybody else." This was not a good start to my adventure. If I couldn't stay at Green Gables where would I lay my poor, orphaned head? Just then a bicycle magically appeared. It came from the excellent McQueens bike hire in a place called Charlottetown, which sounds suspiciously like Charlotte Bay, Oztraya, where I come from. I got on the bike and rode, with my pig tails flapping like party streamers in the blustery gale and threatening to throttle me. I rode so hard it brought tears to my eyes, out of Cavendish past North Rustico, past South Rustico, flying past inlets and lakes and hay bales and horses, past cottages just as quaint as Green Gables and rode on through the misspelt Cymbria. Finally, for the first time in a life of travelling but never arriving, I had er, arrived. At Shaws Hotel, behind Brackley Beach, just the prettiest and most historic family-run property in the entirety of Canada. And guess what? They were expecting me. "Come right this way, Dan of Green Gables," said the kindly lady behind the desk, "we have you in Cottage one and we are so pleased to have you here." As we approached MY cottage, I could scarce believe my eyes. It was wooden, it was cute and it had a washing line for hanging my smalls on. Inside, another kindly lady had set a roaring log fire for my arrival. I sank down beside it, feeling more at home than even that time at Legoland. Thank you PIE, thank you Isabel and Tasha, my foster parents. Thank you the venerable Shaws, which they do say is the oldest continually running hotel in Canada, I shall try hard to be a good boy.