Finaliste : Elizabeth Chandler, Fortress Louisbourg

Faites défiler la liste vers le bas pour voir le diaporama des images de notre gagnante et des finalistes en plus de celles de quelques participants au concours.

“Arrêtez!” The French guards challenge all who approach the pedestrian gate to the Fortress.

“Je suis une amie; j’aime beaucoup toutes les choses française.” I respond in fractured high school French, and so am permitted into the grounds.

Bypassing a number of exhibits, I head straight to the bakery on a mission — BREAD! After an excellent reenactment by a wiry fellow explaining the rationing rules for bread and cheese, I reserve a yet unbaked hearty loaf, to be picked up later in the day.

I then use my best tourist methodology to plot my day. First, to the blacksmith’s shop, then, to the merchant wives’ houses, then, to the traders’ cottages. Don’t miss the military drill. Run here for a demonstration. Go there to see the heritage breeds of fowl and sheep and oxen. Lunchtime finds me in the tavern with only a spoon for a utensil, sitting at a trestle table on a hand-hewn bench.

Look outside. A troop of school children garbed in period cloaks and hats is scurrying after a costumed interpreter. Nearby, from the open window of the Governor’s mansion the faint strains of a harpsichord draw me in. I climb a broad staircase to the parlour level. The windows overlook the water gate. From here the Governor could see all the comings and goings of the port. I can imagine a flotilla of sailing ships at anchor in the harbour (where, in fact, many were sunk by the British).

A short walk brings me to the edge of the settlement where archaeologists are working excavating the foundations of a hospital. I hear that death from injury and disease was an all too frequent occurrence and many French may lie buried in the fields stretching to the headlands. In fact, wave erosion is now revealing such burials. Large areas have never been excavated; other foundations still lie hidden in the hummocks of sea grass. As original plans for the Fortress still exist in Paris archives, what was built in 1967 closely mirrors the 1750’s settlement — amazing authenticity that you feel at every turn.

Making my way back to the beautiful Catholic chapel, I sit for a time, bathed in the rays of late afternoon sun. Hearing a commotion outside, I emerge to find a “prisoner” receiving punishment for theft while soldiers and townsfolk make a racket (probably relieved that they aren’t on the receiving end).

Nearing 5 o’clock, I trek back to the bakery where one solitary brown bag sits on a high shelf.

“I’ve come for my bread,” I point to the shelf.

"We thought that it had been forgotten.”

That could never be the case. The bread is too special, but so, too, is the entire experience and I want to extend my day to the last possible minute.

Tired and happy, bread in hand, I head out of the gates, turning for a last wave of farewell and gratitude for the existence of living history — the Fortress Louisbourg.