I decided to go to the cottage for the weekend because I needed to “get away from it all.”
You know. Relax. Recharge. Reconnect with nature. Nature, as it turns out, had not been consulted about this arrangement.
I packed Friday morning with the confidence of someone preparing for a casual two-day getaway and the luggage of someone fleeing the country permanently. Clothes, food, snacks, more snacks in case something happened to the first snacks, bug spray, sunscreen, books I absolutely wasn’t going to read, three different jackets because Canada, and enough coffee to maintain consciousness through a minor apocalypse.
The drive was supposed to be peaceful.
It was not.
Apparently every person in Ontario had also decided that THIS was the weekend they desperately needed to reconnect with nature. Traffic crawled along while I watched the estimated arrival time on the GPS slowly change from 3:42 p.m. to 4:07, then 4:39, then basically “you live here now.”
Eventually, I arrived.
The cottage was beautiful. The lake was sparkling. The trees were swaying gently in the breeze. Birds were singing.
I stood there taking it all in.
“This,” I thought, “is exactly what I needed.”
A mosquito immediately bit me on the forehead.
Welcome to nature.
I unpacked the car and discovered an important law of cottage physics: everything you put into the car weighs approximately four times more when you have to carry it from the car to the cottage.
By trip number seven, I was no longer reconnecting with nature.
I was swearing at it.
But finally, everything was inside. I poured myself a drink, walked down to the dock and sat in a chair overlooking the lake.
Peace.
Absolute glorious peace.
For approximately forty-three seconds.
Then something enormous splashed beside the dock.
I don’t know what it was.
Fish?
Beaver?
Lake monster?
The bloated corpse of my remaining serenity?
I decided not to investigate.
That evening, I had visions of sitting around a crackling campfire beneath the stars.
Very wholesome.
Very Canadian.
Very Instagram.
Instead, I spent twenty minutes trying to light damp firewood while mosquitoes carried away approximately three pints of my blood.
When the fire finally caught, I sat triumphantly beside it.
Then the smoke changed direction.
So I moved my chair.
The smoke followed me.
I moved again.
It followed me again.
Apparently I had offended a woodland deity.
By 10:00 p.m., I smelled like smoke, bug spray and poor decisions.
Perfect cottage fragrance.
Saturday morning began at 5:47 a.m. when a bird approximately six inches from the bedroom window announced the arrival of dawn like it had been personally appointed by the sun.
CHEEP.
CHEEP.
CHEEP.
Good morning, you little bastard.
I made coffee and headed outside, determined to appreciate the peaceful morning.
And I did.
The lake was perfectly still. Mist floated across the water. The forest was quiet.
It was genuinely beautiful.
Then I walked through a spiderweb.
Nothing awakens the human spirit quite like unexpectedly wearing a spiderweb across your entire face.
There was flailing.
There was screaming.
There may have been an interpretive dance.
Somewhere in the forest, a spider watched me and thought, “Drama queen.”
The rest of Saturday was spent doing traditional cottage activities.
Sitting.
Eating.
Moving from one chair to another chair.
Looking at the lake.
Eating again.
Opening the fridge despite knowing exactly what was inside because apparently cottage calories operate under a different legal system.
At one point, I considered going for a swim.
I walked into the water up to my ankles.
It was approximately three degrees above glacier.
I immediately reconsidered.
Swimming is overrated.
Looking at water while holding a beverage is basically the same thing.
That afternoon, dark clouds rolled in.
Five minutes later, the peaceful cottage weekend turned into a biblical weather event.
Rain hammered the roof. Thunder shook the windows. The wind sent patio cushions flying across the yard like upholstered tumbleweeds.
I ran outside trying to rescue everything.
One cushion landed in a bush.
Another was halfway to Quebec.
I came back inside soaking wet, carrying three cushions, one flip-flop and absolutely no dignity.
And then, because nature enjoys comedic timing, the rain stopped.
The sun came out.
Birds started singing.
Oh, screw all of you.
Saturday night was quieter.
I sat by the lake watching the sunset, wrapped in a blanket, listening to the loons calling across the water.
And for once, nothing attacked me.
Nothing bit me.
Nothing flew into my face.
Nothing required rescuing from a bush.
It was perfect.
I finally understood why people love cottages.
Then something rustled behind me.
I froze.
The rustling got louder.
This was it.
Bear.
Wolf.
Murderer.
Sasquatch.
I slowly turned around.
A raccoon was staring at me while holding a hamburger bun.
We stared at each other.
He ate the bun.
I respected his confidence.
Sunday morning arrived far too quickly.
Suddenly I had to pack everything back into the car, which was confusing because I was absolutely certain I’d eaten half of what I’d brought.
Yet somehow there was MORE STUFF.
I loaded the car, checked the cottage seventeen times to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything, locked the door and stood for a moment looking at the lake.
Despite the mosquitoes, the spiderweb assault, the monsoon, the smoke that had personally targeted me and the raccoon who had apparently been living his best life…
I didn’t want to leave.
Because that’s the thing about cottage weekends.
You arrive exhausted because you need a break from your life.
You spend two days hauling things, fighting insects, chasing patio furniture, burning food over an open flame and wondering what just made that noise in the woods.
Then you drive home exhausted from your relaxing weekend.
And somewhere around Tuesday, you’ll catch yourself thinking:
You know what would be nice?
A weekend at the cottage.
💜 Enjoying the chaos that is my life? Subscribe to The Cool Beans! It’s cheaper than therapy and slightly more organized 🤣
The Cool Beans 
Leave a comment