Singing at the edge

Atop a cliff at the easternmost point of North America there is a set of old army bunkers, with tunnels cut through rock to chambers that once housed soldiers on lookout and defence during World War Two.
The acoustics in the hewn rock chambers are otherworldly.
If you've ever enjoyed singing in a stairwell, or an empty church, then you've only had a taste of how it feels to sing in the bunkers.
For a time, I was fortunate enough to have some good friends who were talented singers. One of the real joys of that time was getting together to make music.

Singing in the kitchen was fun. We took it out and sang at some pubs, more fun. Even better, it was food for heart and soul.

At the end of that period things in our lives began to change. My best friend was moving away. Another was starting a new job and couldn't get together with us anymore. Without these friends, our singing would not be the same. It was the end of something very special.

We decided to go to the edge of the continent to sing in the bunkers, knowing our opportunity might not come again for a very long time. We chose an a capella song recorded by Sinead O'Connor called "In This Heart." and a gaelic song called Mo Run Geal Dileas.

It was a bittersweet day as we walked the boardwalk to the cliffs overlooking Cape Spear, but it was auspicious in more ways than one. On the way we had seen the fleet-footed Cape Spear foxes, a rare sight, and the first and only time I've seen them in all my visits. It seemed like a marker of sorts, an exclamation point at the beginning of a sentence.

We filed into the bunker, feeling a little nervous,  and laughing at ourselves. There were a few people about, but they were climbing the rocky trails, looking for whales and icebergs (I believe both were out of season).

We stood in the largest bunker, with dank and dripping walls. Beer glass was strewn about the floor, a testament to someone's party the night before. We turned to face the ocean, looking down the barrel of a long cannon pointed towards Britain. The cerulean sky was framed by rough hewn stone, with rivulets of calcium and rust etched against the sides. The dank stone chamber was graced with an ocean breeze. We could feel the presence of ghosts, the spirits of the hill and the nameless pagan gods and godesses that must inhabit such a magical place. The edge of the island, the edge of the continent, the edge of the land and the edge of the sky. And all of us on the cusp of change.

We sang, and as the sound swelled to fill the tunnels, I could feel every hair on my body standing straight up. I felt the spirits stop to listen. In the back of my mind I wondered what people climbing the hills would think, with this haunting harmony issuing from the hills, echoing across the cliffs only to be washed away by the roaring waves.

As we sang, a new harmony came echoing through the tunnel, a male voice, anchoring the female chorus. We didn't stop singing until the song was over. As the last notes died away, we heard footsteps coming down the tunnel. Our guest singer was involved in the Nova Scotia folk festival. He invited us to come sing there and to record our songs on the spot in a mobile recording studio he had parked in a nearby lot. Although we could not due to other committments, it was a lovely end to our bunker excursion.

We left the hill that day happy that we'd made the trip, and sad because things would never be the same. But the memory of those breathtaking, hair-raising, exquisite moments is a treasure that warms me and still brings a tear when I think of it.

"In this heart lies for you
A lark born only for you
Who sings only to you"