Every Visitor’s First Time

by Angela Sanford

In 2009, I travelled to Scotland to explore an opportunity that our local drama club would experience a year later. One stop on that trip was Rosslyn Chapel. I had first learned about the chapel after watching the 2006 release of The Da Vinci Code.

   A friend and I arrived to find the chapel and grounds open for full exploration, and it was an incredible sight — worthy of hours spent wandering the main floor, the tunnels beneath, and the gardens below. Exactly a year later, I was excited to return with a group of students and chaperones, only to discover barriers obscuring much of the chapel because of restoration work, along with no access to the lower grounds. Suffice it to say, I was disappointed, though we still enjoyed the areas that remained open.

   Another noticeable difference was the number of visitors. In 2009, there may have been only a dozen people there. A year later, that number had easily tripled. Ironically, I was part of that change myself — Terri and I visited alone the first time, but then fifteen of us returned in 2010.

   When I came back again in 2014 with another group of students, I was even more surprised. A wall now obscured the full view of the chapel, a visitor centre and exhibition hall had become the entry point, and the medieval structure featured modern lighting and heating installations. For me, some of the original ambience felt lost. The lineup stretched far beyond the entrance, and admission was no longer based on donation.

   At first, I remember feeling heartbroken that this new group of students would never experience the chapel the way I had. But then I realized something important: they did not know what they were “missing” — only I did. Their experience was still real, meaningful, and uniquely their own.

   That, perhaps, is one of the defining realities of tourism and change. We remember places through the lens of our own experiences and perspectives. We want to preserve heritage sites, restore attractions, and support local economies partly because we love them, but also because we want to hold onto the memories attached to them.

I think about Burntcoat Head Park before the current lighthouse was built. I remember walking near the park when it was quiet and only the occasional tourist stopped by. Today, tens of thousands of visitors pass through every year, and it is rare to visit without meeting people from around the world. The park in its earlier form likely would not have survived, nor would it have drawn the attention it receives today.

   Do we want others to have the opportunity to experience what we have in our own backyard? I think we do. While nostalgia may make us wish things could remain exactly as we first remember them, we also have to recognize that every first-time visitor is creating memories of their own. They are not comparing the experience to the past the way locals often do; they are simply experiencing the place as it exists in that moment.

   Similarly, Peggy's Cove has undergone enormous change over the years to accommodate visitors, improve accessibility, preserve infrastructure, and support the provincial economy. For locals, change can sometimes feel difficult or even disappointing. Yet evolution is often necessary — whether for preservation, safety, accessibility, or financial sustainability.

   As much as we may want to preserve places exactly as we remember them, we have to recognize that our nostalgia belongs to our own personal experiences. Others

deserve the chance to form memories of their own, even if those experiences differ from ours.

Perhaps the key is finding thoughtful and creative ways to help visitors experience the uniqueness of our communities while still respecting their history and character. We want people to leave with meaningful memories, just as we once did ourselves — even if those memories are not identical to our own.