Last weekend, I took a walk down memory lane with Isa, my friend with a Provençal accent from Frelighsburg: asparagus while passing in front of Foglia, then strawberries from Bernier after picking up two bottles of “pet nat” at Domaine du Ridge (the “Berthelot-Paradis” pink bubbles were much better than this natural fart).
A stop at Chouquette in Bedford for an honest loaf, a quibble with “Le pied de celeri” by Dunham, eggs at Hubert and his colorful chihuahua, enough to make a country meal. I didn’t feel any pang of nostalgia, having left the region last fall. Just happy to find my bucolic landmarks, without the mental and financial burden that accompanied the exercise.
Like many people, I tried to migrate to the countryside in 2021 (and not “in” the countryside “in” 2021) in Saint-Armand. Most charming mistake of my life. I fell in love with a house in 24 hours, negotiated in a bidding war, furnished, renovated, decorated, invested with the energy of pandemic despair. I saw myself ending my days there, but the stewardship did not follow. Mortgage rates, yes.
My B left the nest the following year, lived in Armandie for three weeks, while he learned to drive “manually”. The very urban ex-boyfriend never put down roots there. In short, a year later, I found myself making conversation with mourning doves with a view of the Pinnacle, a swimming pool to chlorinate and solitude in a cul-de-sac to tame during the multiple power outages. I lasted one winter. I’m not enough badass or a misanthrope for the rigors of rural life despite the precious help of my neighbors Sabine and Yves.
Still, I felt more isolated there than in the city. The countryside in June is Colette, in March it’s the rasputitsa of a Russian novel. “The countryside, when you’re not like everyone else, is even worse than indifference. » It’s from Anna Gavalda, and I second.
Rate of cities or rates of fields
Fortunately, I hadn’t put all my eggs in this experimental basket; I had kept my apartment rental in the suburbs as an office, installed Maria in my B’s room and rented my bed to Tania — two strangers I met on Facebook. The idea was not to keep two roofs (an energy-consuming choice, too XXe century), but to choose just one.
By transforming my life into a Spanish inn, I managed to plug the leaks. The adventure lasted two years, like some flamboyant loves. Time to plant three fir trees, build an eagle’s nest on the roof to admire the stars and the dream flew by. Hello Saint-Charmant. Come, videobut I don’t have here.
— Did you flip? I was asked two years later when I put up the “For Sale” sign.
— No, I was a flop.
You don’t want to become neo-rural, even if I already had a few chalets under my belt. Sociologists have looked into this question of regional migration. The Institute of Statistics of Quebec (ISQ) estimates at 206,700 the number of people who changed administrative region between 1er July 2021 and 1er July 2022. I was there, carried by the fever of COVID and the hope of better horizons.
In the book The little guide to the big move (taken from the show in Noovo produced by Mariloup Wolfe), among the tips for successfully transplanting to the region, she advises taking the leap 100%. No plan B.
Despite teleworking, there are many irritants: limited cultural offerings, reduced workforce, shopping by car and long distances for everything. The dangers are different, the noises too, and the famous community is divided between locals, neo-rurals (a label that follows you for the first 20 years according to researchers), vacationers (chalets) and tourists (hello motorcycles !).
Nevertheless, according to these same researchers (Myriam Simard, Laurie Guimond, INRS 2020), urban residents make a favorable contribution “by stimulating a renewal of the population and, consequently, a maintenance of public and local services”, schools, post office, shops . But before being considered a local girl, you have to move the Pinnacle.
No matter where you go, you are there
In fact, what sociologist Myriam Simard, herself retired from the National Institute of Scientific Research (INRS) in Estrie, is that there is no definitive break with the city for neo-rural residents (https://bit.ly/4cp3jJG). The comings and goings continue on two spatiotemporal scales, that of daily life (shows, shopping, health care, etc.) and that of life stages punctuated by births, divorces, higher education, retirements , illnesses, pandemics…
My Armandian impulse participated, more broadly, in a survivalist instinct of climate crisis, of a “Courage, let’s flee!” » fantasizing about a small commune, chickens, a vegetable garden and a cellar while chewing wintergreen on my porch and playing Uno with Cath and Gab, the young neo-rural neighbors roots during power outages. Uno united us. We remained friends.
In his excellent essay on noise and silence The choice to remain silent, host Stéphane Garneau talks about his own pandemic country adventure which ended in unparalleled noise pollution because of a neighbor’s ideas of grandeur, added to the visual pollution, a machinery warehouse built for months in his backyard. A nightmare for a delicate leaf.
The journalist notes that on a global scale, the trend is more from the countryside to the cities and that “migration to the countryside mainly concerns populations from the middle and wealthy classes of rich countries”.
The campaign cultivates a poetic image that does not always stand the test of modernity. “The countryside is given a slightly overrated status as an oasis of peace,” writes Stéphane. “A place where sound purity has taken refuge along a stream, sheltered from urban hustle and bustle, to rediscover its lost innocence. If only life were so simple. »
And if it were simple, it would be known.
Instagram: josee.blanchette
Quotes
“I have difficulty leaving the city, because I have to separate from my friends; and it’s hard to leave the countryside because then you have to separate from me. »
Joseph Joubert
“it’s a hard life on the hands
gentle on the head
a simple life »
Brigitte Léveillé, If we remain stubborn
“The city has a face. The countryside has a soul.”
Jacques de Lacretelle