There’s a cabin in rural Ontario, where the trees are bare and the rain falls in sheets. It sits on the edge of a black lake. Out of the flat black water rise sun baked wrecks of trees. There’s no guarantee that a slithering quiet creature hasn’t grabbed hold to that driftwood and in the silence lifted its hand to grip the edge of your boat.
The stuff of nightmares for many children or perhaps forgotten after hours of sunbathing, but for author Val Tobin, the family cabin she returned to each Spring was the stuff stories are made of. It has stuck with her through the years.
Read the full interview in our magazine