Miramichi Pumped Up

A four way stop led me 50 ft. to Barry simply to ask for 2 locals. He was a recovering drug and alcoholic, and he laid it on. I got his life story in 11 minutes, then the history of the town in about 9.  I turned on the gas to give a hint, but I felt God saying, hold up, he’s got some yarn to tell you. God was in his 12 step plan along with his yearning for intelligence. “This is what crack addicts crave once they recover, knowledge, intellect and maybe a relationship. I am working with young men now that need my direction. Guidance I get from God." I was pumped up. Don't we do the same thing everyday at work.

The Canadian Country books found on coffee table are made in New Brunswick. I thought Quebec had beauty until I got lost on purpose and went inland away from the blue ocean, farmed oysters and cemeteries overlooking the inlets, dotted with cottages, vineyard, long grasses shading sand dunes,  blueberry farms and grey herrings.

No photos can do justice, to hues of mauve, pink and pumpkin cotton candy clouds softening the early evening sunlight. Undulating roads rising and falling 200 meters with barley, wheat and grass rolling down in  perfectly kept maintained farms to the shores of the river inlet coming from Bouctouche or heading upwards to the highlands in shades of iridescent lime. The cerulean waters rippling gently pulling the landscape to completion. I couldn't pull over there were no stores, no gas stations, my mind couldn't absorb the splendor. I was awestruck, spellbound and know Alice didn’t have it that good, in Wonderland.

Ever met a sucker, your reading her palms right now. A photo and a write up in N.B. magazine got me to Miramichi, the locals and back roads kept me there. Numerous small communities make up this wonder. I drove into Chathem this morning full of anticipation. The BMO was broken and the market I’d so anticipated with bountiful cornucopia of vegetables was 5 stalls strong and a young guitarist, still warming up at 11:00. I walked up and down the river looking for something, anything to hang onto because the 7 shops in town weren't rocking my boat. I crossed the river to Newcastle and met Jenny, a local walking home, who told me her history of the town in 25 minutes.

With a Timmy’s in hand she spoke of her childhood days when 5 mills worked the river, pointing 50 ft. from where we stood to the bridge that used to raise to allow the large ships to travel upstream 5 kilometers for lumber. The Finnish company that bought all the mills had no tolerance for disputes, when the workers went on strike in the 1990's, they dismantled all five mills within one year. Lumber and fisheries are infamous world over here for their progressive techniques of the time. We covered politics, education, economics, and problems with what we are doing with the Natives. We should have been in Charlottetown this week-end assisting the premiers. I ambled down to the historic park, made up of plaques and four shops, all veering on closure for the season. I returned to the Basilica twice, it was that magnificent and then visited all four Cathedral in all four quadrants. Sitting in each I felt the absolute power of God or the caffeine from my first coffee in a week. I couldn’t leave, there was something pulling me to climb another street.

There was Kate and Larry, almost waiting for my arrival, a couple married at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Nelson, one of the four towns, that made up Miramichu. He a nurse, she a teacher and their home, which overlooked 2 acres of cemetery leading down to the church. What the heck was I doing living in Calgary. How long would it be for me to realize, small town is my gig and the more French the better. They took me on an allegorical tour of their town, both growing up in different sectors. I felt so blessed to be listening to their narratives, this trip that began so poorly was turning into a historical rich venture, not even google could match this.

I left them and ventured to Douglastown and then to Nelson where I learned the local history.
Long prior to European settlement, the Miramichi region was home to members of the Mi'kmaq first nation. For the Mi'kmaq, Beaubears Island, at the junction of the Northwest and Main Southwest branches of the Miramichi River was a natural meeting point. The Miramichi became part of the French colony of Acadia, about 1648, Nicolas Deny, Sieur de Fronsac, established a fort and trading post, Fort Fronsac. In 1757 French general, Charles, Deschamps de Boishébert et de Raffetot brought hundreds of French refugees to establish a camp, on Beaubears Island and Wilson Point. The Expulsion of the Acadians. You can visit the island to view the history of the rich ship building that existed for centuries in the area. Perhaps this explains the Acadians fervency to preserve their heritage.

My mind was reaching its threshold, with enough energy to visit a winery en route home. 25 years ago I cycled through France picking grapes in Bordeaux for 2 season and meeting Francoise etc. Here was Serge, a duplicate, and his wife Denise Maury, a Frenchman and a local Acadian who met in Greece and lived part time in Bouctouche, N.B. and part time in France, and made wine from grapes, blueberries, strawberries and elderberries. It was like meeting an old friends, they poured, I drank, with conversations flowing from family affairs, to local life, their journey, the Acadian community, to living in the poorest province? If this was poor, they needed a reality check, most roads were smoother than a babies bottom and homes far larger than in Quebec, but that was earned under the table Serge said on the sly. This was feeling all to familiar to B.C. 

“Kathryn we have camping for customers that drink too much, they can dine with us and rest the night.” What a grand idea, as I took my sips gingerly knowing my bed was miles away. Cycling in France was magical for me, friends met me throughout Europe and we sought out “Camping a la Ferme” which translates to camping on a small farm. I sought out families that offered this experience, to become part of their appendage for a night or two. Within an hour the three of us had become friend. I sauntered through the vineyard with a glass in hand feeling so absolutely grand. They guaranteed me work on their farm if I ever needed a day of labor. They both have worked at the University agricultural sector and invite people to experience WOOFING - you work 4 hours a day for room and board and get the afternoons off. Okay Hal I think I found the job for the winter.

 

Going It Alone

What is she thinking, perhaps her mind was temporarily suspended in the cloud, no not that one, the other one that truly exist, the one you see, you feel it when it rains. Just came back from town feeling out, in, sideways, upside down, and backwards all at one. Her best pal has flown into chaos at home with a leaking pipe. Her sister’s house flooded yesterday, is there any synchronization out there.  

Seated at the kitchen table listening to the fridge grown, bump, burp, acting like a man, without the farts. She is certain pack racks have moved in and goes outside to check the side of the house.

Books are comfort, so the library is the obvious choice to seek shelter in 28 degree. Cookbooks, of course, none in the house, the colorful creations bring hope. Dvd’s for a girl that might watch 3 movies a year is a big stretch. The oldies and goodies that have long been yanked off the shelves are here – Sideways – Driving Miss Daily and a French favorite, along with 3 novels that are a little deeper than – Eat, Pray, Love she started and finished last night at 4:00 am., when she couldn’t sleep.

Filling wholes like sealing holes on a leaky bottle that only 10 digits can fill before you’re out of luck. Her heart craves knowing, being with someone that knows her every move, mood, living without judgement. A gulf, an abyss the size of China divides them. Her head is just above the water level breathing in rasps, unhinged from its unit.  Yet, she imagines his eyes lighting up when he watches the sun set holding hands, eating lobster with a hammer, jumping into frigid waters, and sipping cream ale stout. That’s what keeps her going, a knowing of a harmonious love that is never changing.

Laundry hung on a line, floors and dishes washed by hand, and buying fresh vegetables at the markets. Feeling so absolutely appreciative for an experience of a lifetime, and the people who made it happen.  Giving up morning coffee, beer and Hal’s favorite’s cheezies, and feeling like a rogue wave has hit her on day one. Meeting local on evening walk that yearn to tell you their story.

Marcel a man of 5’2” was so honoured to tell us about his life and that of his father that when we asked to photograph his old gas pumps, he gave us a tour of a garage that is 40 yrs. old, that has been moved three times on the same property. Every licence plate in N.B. since 1940 is hung on an overhead beam along with all provincial one, in every color imaginable. A rainbow of color illuminates the jukebox – it was in pristine condition exuding crystal sound melodies that only vinyl records can produce. White flower gas signs with 4 original pumps, cream yellow, ranging in age up to 60 years old adorn the corners of the garage. Every inch of each wall is strew with faultless memorabilia from the past. And of course the babes selling premium oil, as Marcel calls her the Guard, stands over all operations, and looking like she has had a few herself. Then he tells us of the history of the town.

Why he asks the government allows Jamaicans to come in, they invited them because they claim the locals were not taking the jobs at the fish factories, and the smoking plants. They do seem unfamiliar in a predominately white town, to think about it she feels out of place too. His arms reach up and show the shores, the multitude of boats that used to graze these waters, and now this wharf is down to 5 boats. “My father and I used to peel muscles from the rock not far from here, then everyone came, out fished them, and the American’s that won’t buy our lobster at $3.50 a lbs., no they won’t go higher than $2.50. Meanwhile her mind is reeling, $2.50, anywhere out west it would be $12.00 to $25.00 and that isn’t in a restaurant. He calms himself down as he sees his wife on the nearby porch listening, she will return with camera in hand.

 

Webbed Feet

We were at odds with one another and I was the cause. I wanted him to go before he had to so I could figure out if this was going to work, while he was here, ask him questions, directions, whether he thought my ideas were crazy. Was this all wrong, walking along the pathway that was named – The Coastal route – in the Bay of Fundy, seeing more wood than anything I had ever experienced out west. Three layers of green canopy engulfed us with moss, grass, leaves, needles, shrubs and evergreens. Whirling through ideas, what to purchase, what to photograph, being slept deprived, holding on to let go, was replacing my immediate joy with sheer, raw, unprocessed fear.

Beauty had long since left my eyes, the wondrous windy road to Fundy is filled with magic. Quaint town hosting historical trains, planes and automobiles, even a St. Hubert which had eluded us thus far, and tourist’s shops hosting Acadian flags, and everything red, white, and blue of the region. Cinnamon Soul Café captured my heart, in all the angst I was feeling the word soul, soothed out what Bridget Jones called the bubbly bits we all hang onto. Besides cinnamon spice conjures - steaming rolls in the morning, dashes in Indian meals to sweeten them, sprinkles on your cocoa,  muesli, and of course on a latte.

Scents of ocean salt we had become accustomed to were now acerbic on my nose. Hal bounced along the trails admiring the long grasses, like mermaids hair wrapped around rocks submerged in the water. Red wet soil coated our feet as we waded out for a kilometers into a low tidal pool towards the opening of the ocean. Hal walked barefoot, a $200.00 massage for free. Webbed feet would have enticed me any other day, today I needed the reassurance of dry, stability, a pillar to lean on. These red waters travels for hundreds of kilometers up into Moncton tidal pools, famous for the height differences that occur daily. Words fight in my head and I pressed to remain quiet.

 

 

Cap Pele - Mere Observations

You might think The French (Acadians) and English mix like oil and vinegar, yet here, life is truly serene. We were minutes late for church this morning when I couldn’t help but notice the men at the back, making small talk, not listening to a word of the Lord, nor the priest and dictating a spot for us to sit in. I felt like inviting them to sit with their wives at the front of the church, but I digress. The priest’s message read in French was vibrant, yet looking around, there were no kids, no laughter, no life, 60 was the mean age, and they looked it too. The priest spoke of his journey, like that of Paul, and all of us, the roads both rocky and smooth that we venture in life. I felt an immediate connection to him. We were in and out in 47 minutes, the parking lot was empty in 6, we timed it while swatting mosquitos that had entered the car and got our blood. They must have been waiting for church to get out to attack, like the unwed women to the bridal bouquet.

The eight building in town made up the village of Cap Pele. The library is my only connection to books, and the outside world, other than the fact the internet doesn’t really work, I feel like I am on the scene of the Beverly Hill Billie’s. What does work is CBC radio at the cabin, and I am hooked on. The Best of (As This Happens) was on and we were riveted with yesterday's story.  A Canadian man in his mid-twenties, proceeds to explain how he was stung on his scrotum by a bee, and from this experience he decided to research which body part actually hurts most when stung by a bee for a 1 min. period. You know where this is going. Yes, the commentator couldn’t seem to get off his penis, asking why and how, and where exactly on the penis he choose to insert the bee’s proboscis. She even asked him if he was circumcised and would the foreskin have to be pulled back or not? She was incessant, or perhaps incestuous.  Hal and I were in stiches laughing as the man patiently moved through all organs of the skin giving detailed accounts of the pain in each area. It is actually the thin layer of skin between our nostrils that is most painful, for most of you that are still visualizing the male genitals. 

The local entertainment was going strong at the municipal park last night as Hal and I got out of our car and sat on the benches alone. Rock, country, country and more French and English country was sang, never knew the Acadians were country folk. The dumbfounding part was 90% of the people sat in their car as if at a drive in theater and listened from the comforts of their car. We couldn’t believe it, for over an hour they sat cramped in backseats and front seats with windows rolled down, cranking their heads instead of walking a mere 15 feet to front row seats. These were people between 20- 60 yrs. old, those 80 and up were seated on park benches singing and clapping with us. My heart went out to the couple on stage and Hal clapped extra loud for those too lazy to do so. Although our legs were moving to the music, I wasn’t brave enough to dance in front of the crowd, as Hal might have been. I looked over at this wondrous man and tears welled up knowing I wouldn’t be holding his hand at events like these and the thought of going it alone was making less sense by the moment. It is truly amazing the depth of appreciation one has for another when separated. Blessing the time together has never been so poignant to me.

Saying goodbuy to the Gaspe

Hal sipped on a cream ale, savoring the last microbrewery of the Gaspe Peninsula. Heaviness set in as we began to realize his time was winding down. The mind plays tricks trying to appreciate the moment, breathing in the pungent scents as the ocean floor ebbs outward leaving raw remnants that didn’t escape out to sea. Our hands are held tight as my stomach clenches under the anticipation of a great adventure ahead and the reality that not all is aligned with the moon.

Green dots indicate scenic route. Quebec has won our award for best roads, picnic spots, clean toilets, hiking trails with appropriate signage, food choice prices (except for gas) friendly people, historic sights, diversity, romantic accents and ocean front campsites with wifi and gazebo’s that shelters us from the rain. It’s the simple things that become our beckons, the lighthouses all 11 of them on route, kept the car dodging onto back roads, our camera zooming, our feet plodding through red mud, sweeping through tall reeds, and taking on the Atlantic wind, simply to view buildings that has long been vacated yet holds such a allure, to those that love the sea.

Martin Sullivan was waiting for us with drinks in hand. Before our feet hit the ground he was up to his antics giving us the wrong address and having to redirect us past Frank McKenna home, 3 doors down, who wasn’t going to be hosting us. He was attending to heavy hitters putting out $500.00 a plate for some political dinner. Marty toured us down to his swimming hole, up onto red sandstone bluffs, along numerous paths through forests to watch blue herons at his father in laws home. Introductions to all neighbors and local dogs on right a ways, as he called them, which led us back to another ocean spot to watch the sun glide into the ocean. In silence we stood for a long moment realizing his heart was sinking at the thought of leaving too.

A Mixing of Cultures

They came in, like a wave of noise, chatting, yakking, nattering and their numbers were strong. I immediately closed it feeling my heart rate increase. Then another family came in to our space speaking English of all things, a Caucasian gaggle. After finally converting to French, how could they. Hal and I sat down and prayed and the cacophony grew. The tension was palatable forcing ourselves to enjoy the bounty of the ocean. Eyes were darting from table to table. One of the men was furious about something, the son about 20, was trying to draw his attention to lower his voice. Two Asian women cooked dinner for the mass, silently plunging greens and thinly cut meat into a single brassier within half an hour a wondrous smell filled the large hut where we were huddled in to avoid the deluge. One of the fathers prayed and the silence that followed was glorious. We prayed too and smiled at the faces of the children who looked on for approval. It just proves what a smile can do.

Riverie aux Renard had the café, to close all others. Tucked behind a corner grocer a multi texture, orange colored room invited you to sit on any of the cushioned chairs not one matching, a mixture from her travels abroad for 3 years. Tens of painting, pictures and drawing uniquely framed led down a corridor and blocks of wood hanging about 3 inches square with faded photos of animals hung in a mosaic below several goat antlers. Then Madeline appeared, her smile warmed your heart prior to her hands welcoming us into her café. We gingerly stepped in asking if it was okay that we drank only a café. “Qui, bein qui, vein, prend us chase. Her youthful bounce into the kitchen gave us time settle in and look at the coffee menu. She was the perfect waiter, prying only enough to make sure your experience is what you expected and more. Her eyes light up a conversation asking how to pronounce English words and how to say certain words. Delighted to assist her, we found out she had resided in Banff and travelled much of the world in 3 years. The clothe hanging from the ceiling lamps was from Nepal, and India. The snail shells in the canning jars were local, yet the spices she used in the coffee, only with requests were from Asian and even the Orient. Then she spoke of University and her years there, she looked about 22. Satiated is not the word to describe how we left, having reached the end and yearning no more is.

The gently warn trail we followed along the coastal route to the Cape Gaspe Lighthouse and Lands Ends exceeded my expectations. Ocean waves crashing onto the shore below eroding the sedimentary rock that lay sideways my heart could be nowhere else. I have rarely thought to ask if he feels the same when we hike, but there is a sensations, like drugs that moves one foot in front of the other. A history engulfs us passing heritage home of families that have staked out terrain in any of the bays, it is called “Les Graves.” The last 100 straight up meets our eyes with a little amazement, we push onto to the oldest lighthouse and reach the end of the Gaspésie. 

 

 

The Scent of an Ocean on sensitive lips.

Our nostrils flared, our lips curled, all the while tears welling up in our eyes, inadvertently. Few things in the world are as nasty as the ocean bottom when more life has been beaten against the rocks and innards spewed as far as the eyes could see. Hal and I ran back to the car and locked the doors, blocking all smells from entering right, It took another 15 minutes to rid the smell from our old factory nerve yet in our minds it lingers today. Days later in N.B. standing in line at the bank several fish factory workers came in and that same smell rushed back into my mind like tossed salad. I fled the line and ran outside until they vacated the bank, image, 12 hours of that every day, never complain about your co-words bio.

If they won't have beach let them drink wine. Tucked away into the hills secluded from view was an Italian winery. 440 years old, this family has lived in these areas, the last Italian of the original families that came over in the 1700 century, and you think you look old. This winery couldn't boast of wine, since the Quebec government confiscated all their bottles from last year. They were over the limit of importing grapes from outside the region. Protecting or Prospering? Hard to know, as there are no grapes to be exchanged in the region so what do vineyards like this do, that can't grow enough. We were the first to arrive so the curator snuck us samples, then a full glass, it was divine, I would have bought a case. Instead  of wine an Italian grocery market was set up in the seller, where they were sampling, 4 types of extra virgins that olive oil must be hard to find now a days,  8 selections of balsamic vinegar mixed with essence of lemons, pimentos, almonds, and aged from 8-20 years. Olives, bright green rounds to soft black ones that melted on your tongue. An olive paste of tapenade that Hal was devouring one slice banquette smeared with a heaping helping, it was intended to be eaten delicately, slowly and savored, what to do with the uncivilized, laugh and run away. We came on empty stomachs and left laughing in the heavy rain.

Later on in the day Hal was now accustomed to having a second café, and his delicate lips couldn't fathom the lids many of the cafe's offered. He began decreasing his expectation of the coffee if the lids didn't match his expectation. I looked at his lips as we drove away wondered how truly hard life must be for him.

Glutony en mass

Walking along the cool shores this morning a seagull was picking up sea urchins flying about 5 meters above and then dropping them on driftwood to open them. A hammer man, a hammer. I was excited beyond words when we came upon a shop with live lobster stirring in their tanks. The owner was attending to several ladies when I spotted my victim. She began telling me how to cook him, "Salt the water heavily, then cook for 30 minutes, but not more or it will be overdone. Make sure he is alive when you cook him." I knew we had another 35 minutes to reach the campsite, and then we wanted to go hiking, our priorities could be mixed? Once at our site we filled a bucket and plunged Jean Claude Homard into the pale and took off. We hadn't expected to hike for three hours prior to returning. Jean Claude Homard, Hal's nickname for him, looked a little green. His eyes weren't meeting mine for a duel as they had when I bought him.
We thought about what tomorrow might bring, doubled over on the grass puking Jean Claude out. We couldn't resist, boiled him up real  good. I couldn't recall how my father had cut them up when we were kids, so out came the hammer, just for the front claws, we aren't completely barbaric. Those suckers are tough, down on the grass so as not to disturb the neighbors. Giggling ourselves and passing the hammer from one to the other while Jean Claude jumped around from the shock of it all.
Heating up buttery margarine never tasted so damn good, every morsel was savored, slowly, not so much, we even licked our fingers. If the seagulls can eat, tiny crabs, muscles, sea urchins and fish why not us.

A breath...

It felt breathtaking to reach Mt. St. Alban yesterday even if our photos are all in the clouds. Sensing my heart pounding and sweating in the late afternoon humidity brought some forgotten mountain soul back into our legs and minds. We did a tour of a small mountain that brought us down to the sea on the far side, where we met a hilarious France man. After some pleasantries, matters got underway. "Are you going to visit other provinces in Canada with your family."
"Mon dieu, non, je peur."
Hard to imagine a grey haired man 6'5" looking like Jonah Lomu feeling intimidated.
He was too scared to visit the rest of Canada with his family because they didn't speak English...Hal laughed and they commiserated together before we climbed the back of the ridge and home.

The nightly amphitheatre was humours to say the least. The focus is for the kids, and last nights the topics was bears. The guide's slide show was a dialogue between he and a bear. I did learn something new about black bears, they will sometimes eat bull calves in the spring that are one months old for nourishment, after that time the calves are too fast. So watch your young. Their sensory organs are good, so much so I brought the bear spray into the tent that night because our clothes smelled like lobster. Hal truly enjoyed the presentation in French, translated by me, not to be repeated day 2.

Clouds to Die For

Just lost my first entry, saved it as itself, a blank slate.

Driving through thick fog the villages are nestled tightly into the changing terrain from farm land to rolling hills, our foothills, yet very heavily treed. A rainbow of color homes speckle the shore line of each town, with Pecher – Poisonerrie – being the main trade – fishing. Large crab and lobster crates line the docks along with men fixing their boat lines and oiling parts for their next voyage.

If this trip has done nothing else it has allowed us to see how easy we have it. Yes, driving in traffic, getting to the best Starbucks with our favorite barista are truly new era problems. Image landing on their shores with no way out, no roads to neighboring towns until the 1920’s. Think you feel sheltered man these folks ate a diet of primarily fish. I’m in heaven yet most of you beef loving trolls out there would die a slow and slim.

Having taught grade 5/6 History recounted how the French populated New France. The mode of seigniorial land tenure was semi -feudal of land distribution used. Landowners would be brought over with bright expectations of a great life. They would be obliged to build a church, school and a mill and pay a percentage of their profits back to their seignior. All land had to reach the water for transport of goods to other regions, therefore all land,even today is bought and sold in large rectangular strips. When grandsons inherit land they often don't build on it they try and sell it or cultivate it, because they have to pay tax on it. Them French.

We met Helene today, a hyper excited guide of Appalachian trail that we are trying to figure out whether to march up or not. The photos look like hiking up Moose Mountain, it is the one region of the large reserve that isn't forested and figures that where we are. With no choice to enter elsewhere as it exists miles back.

What saves us everyday is the glorious hospitality of the locals. Friendly and generous with their time, energy and historical tales. Today the mist and fog has rolled in and out giving  the lighthouses
a timeless age. Living inland my appreciation has grown immensely for those who fish. I for one don't have sea legs but they will be put to the test soon enough. The lobster season ended a week ago and as I told one fisherman, "We came all the way from Alberta to taste it." He gave us hope to search in the nearby towns.  

 

 

 

Corruption on the High Seas

Seating in a Timmy's at 7:30, yes in the blinking morning, why you ask, our neighbour at the campsite decided to stroll past our site about 2:30 this morning waking up Hal and then me at 4:30. So by 6:30 sleep had evaded us.

Strolling further down the 132 highway into the hinterland of the Gaspe Peninsula Hal is losing weight at an alarming rate. His belt buckle has had to be cinched to last hole, we are going to visit a tanner today instead of visiting a 3000 flowered garden to make another hole. Meanwhile his wife is gaining weight at an alarming rate having to loosen the stitching on her clothes, where is the justice? He has corrupted me to coffee, even if I only drink about 1/3 of a cup a day and a sip of beer, of all things, I have truly hit a low, in that regard, even if he only likes artisan beer. The implication of beer reeks of men with bulbous noses coming home too late to assist with chores, and never ...

Historic homes, schools, and general stores much like Heritage Park are numerous with original furniture from the 1700 onward. Hal keeps trying to lie on their couches, I can't believe the mere one inch thermarest's we are delighted to sleep on each night are not enough. Silver spires capture our eyes of the Catholic churches through trees, over mountains and along shoreline towns.

History lesson 101 we have it good. No more said, the Navigator Route we are on explains in great  pains our ancestors experienced trying to clear the land, and stake out a mere life. The seigniorial system brought in by the French for land distribution, made land owners establish a church, school and mill for workers. All farming land here exists in large strips of land that extend down to the water, which was mandatory for everyone to have access to sell their goods along river or ocean route. The French took their feudal system and brought it to Quebec, land owners, which had to rent land from their seigneur also had to give a portion of their produce to them and if they wanted to do anything on their land it had to go through their owner. Ah...

Just when things look grim Hal swerved the car into Tete Allumette - Head of the Match - an architectural modern country artisan brewery. Yellow/red/green paint decorated the indoor of one section of the brewery while soft oak wood stools surrounded a circular bar displaying their meek yet growing beers on tap. My camera wasn't still for long. Outside old bus benches stretched along the outside perimeter coveting the red/green/ and yellow chairs and tables overlooking a crop of greens just before the ocean. Lest to say Hal was in Valhalla sipping  his sour beer, nectar of Thor and Odin.

The deluge wasn't going to let us off, we ran from boutiques to art and café passing up on many ice  cream creameries and cheese farm until the pecherie - fish shops - come about. Our palates have feasted on savoury fish three nights in a row, and we are now hooked.

 

Ile D'Orleans - Gaspe covered Bridges

If the language and culture wasn't enough for the Quebecers to separate then the picturesque homes of Ile D'Orleans and the Gaspe covered bridges should put the doubting Thomas' to rest. Image yellow painted gabbles on a ancient stone with mauve pansies on the front veranda, each home a flurry of colors, textures and design all of its own.  Along with the Cheese Factories, wineries and ciders hosting raspberry, blueberry, gooseberry, apple and pear to tantalize the palate, no wonder they are embarrassed by the rest of Canada. Our perfectly brewed café au lait in St. Jean at Ma Petite Folie - was enjoyed in the company of a local artists who paints on conks.

We toured the Island in the mist of the morning dew scenting lavender farms, bakeries and microbreweries our noses guiding our route from village to village with beautifully painted welcome signs of pastoral and oceanic views. By noon the rain had made it's point and we ventured off one island and onto the Gaspe Peninsula in a full deluge.

Eating lunch in the car whilst gazing at a church constructed in the 19th century brought perspective to the history of this part of land the Native referred to as the end of the land. Now in a very appealing McDonald's after erecting the tent at warp speed to avoid an entire wet night. We walked around Montmagny visiting their historical sights and Catholic church.

The roof lines here are unique - an A frame slopping up just as they reach their ends, reminding me of Hansel and Gretel gingerbread house. The locals are truly generous always reaching out to assist us. Yet let it be known there is little to no English spoken outside of Quebec City. They are proud of their French heritage and yearn to expand those of us to their ways. My hope is that they don't change with modern culture.

Just as we exited the bridge our car became lost. Hal was behind the wheel and pulled over to ask someone. Within seconds their iPhone appear with fingers moving at light speed, never thinking to look at our map. No  eye contact is made, they move the phone into the car and point to the map on it, then smile, nod their heads and say, Sa va?

 

 

Old Port - La Platz - Walking Ghosts

Eating dinner across from my husband enjoying a fresh water trout, yellow beans, sliced potatoes and fried noodles was pretty delectable. La Platz Restaurant is a must on rue Post. Nestled on a side street with kids running about, many locals having a cigarette and glass of wine on their porches, three stories high. The terrace sat four couples which respected one another privacy and the soft music wafting from the inside was delightful. What made the moments so special were the servers, so delightful. They took the time to explain each dish to Hal, including any concerns we might have. For three standstill hours we enjoyed great conversations, fine food, that I could only hope to reproduce  once I'd taken a lesson or two from Julie and/or Julia.

Walking down a colorful tourists street with restaurants serving of course - pomme frites, patisserie shops, ice cream parlors, and kitchen shops with every gadget to make your cooking oh...so enticing.  The Citadel was our first stop and we walking the perimeter recounting the wars of so long ago, being absolutely in awe of the construction of the fortification.

Our afternoon was topped off with a visit to a local brewery - La Barberie Brewery.  A lively gaggle of people gathered on the back deck ranging from 20 - 90 eating their own food and playing chess, backgammon, while mingling with one another. We met another couple from Seattle that were sampling a myriad of small beers. The server again was superlative, giving me the non-beer person a range of tasters, along with a full description of their composition. Amongst trees hanging over the terrace and chalk board lists of beers on tap, Hal was in heaven.

The day began with a swim in our hot tub and a dunk in our cold fountain pool. Strange to mix the two when the temperatures are reaching 29 degrees with humidity reaching 80%. Taking a breather for the morning was the first time in 2 weeks, that we haven't been on the run 8 hours a day. We didn't get in until 10:00 pm. yet the evening walking around the Old Town was magical under electric lights. The ghosts of the past are amongst us  and they turn up to remind us to enjoy ourselves.

Anthony Bourdain - Dr. Oz - or You, you Pick.

Okay here are the facts, Quebecer's are one of the few living species on earth that truly have a good relationship with food.

Sitting at a café at 7:30 in the morning in the warmth, and humidity of Montreal it all came to me. We, women that is, have this love hate relationship with food, why because we were not brought up in La Belle Province. Alright I began here but left too early. After much observation in the last several decades I have boiled it down to this.

When was the last time you truly sat down and enjoyed a meal, didn't think about driving the kids to dance, skating, soccer, didn't think about the myriad amount of work to be done after dinner, or what your doing on the week-end or your next great trip out of town.

The French live in the moment, they spend 50% of their finances on food. Most of us think of rich decadent desserts, cheeses and fine wine, are their lives, it's time, they savor the flavor, do you?

The truth is they spend it on time, they sit with friends, family and enjoy un café, a beer and dinner and yes desserts. Yes, their lives are just as busy as ours and their kids are off to sailing lessons, but along the way they have learned what is important and what constitutes a wonderful life. And that is relationships. So when I hear the new age Christians bashing the Catholics of Quebec saying, they are not true Christians, or that they are drawn away from Christ, I questions where their motives are coming from. Do they simply need yet another country, city or town to prophesize themselves, are they as equally lost? I digress, the point here is as Christians we brought onto this earth for relationship, to host it have, have it and enjoy it, and I believe there is no better example than in Quebec.

All the foodies in the world can expound their knowledge on what is chic today and gone tomorrow. How many diet plans are their out there? You want to live your life bouncing on a jojo, go for it, yet for most of us that have been blessed with wonderful experiences with food, family and friends, we prefer to savor them.

The first thing to a good relationship with food is to taste it. Laugh as you may, most of us don't stop long enough to chew let alone swallow. The next time you eat sit down, no T.V., no computer allowed, friends and family would be best, take a bite and relish the flavors. Think about what a strawberry tastes like, it's succulent juices, wondrous freshness. Fresh food markets are on every corner in Quebec, they out number Starbucks, 15 -1, and they buy food daily from local farms. That is the key, fresh food that has flavor not our plastic congealed pre-frozen fruit that is picked raw sits in warehouses for a year until managers feel it is our privilege to be served. We stuff ourselves with polymer tasting food that never satiates us. Spend a dime on good quality food and your might actually enjoy life in a new way. Your health, well being will and body will thank-you for it. Sante.

Race car drivers to horse drawn carts

Jacques and Gilles Villeneuve are in the hearts of all Quebecers on the freeways and like the track they don't signal, they cut you off, drive erratically and occasional shout gestures from their cars. Those are the good qualities of their driving.

The side roads in the Laurentian's are dotted with quaint towns strews with cafe's, churches, boutiques, and wineries and old men always wanting to tell you yet another story. Today began with a dip in the lake alone in the serene quiet of the mountains. Hal waited patiently on the shores with towel in hand truly wishing he was part of the polar bear club. We strolled onto the 138 highway below St. Donat and watched the morning come alive. Undulating hills rolled by on a motorcyclist dream road, curves banked bends and corners that begged you to lean into them with immaculate surface features were incomparable. Town after town we searched for the perfect Press Café shop, by the time we found one the coffee was mediocre leaving Hal yearning another one 1/2 later.

The heavy forested land gave way to farming of soya, I know soya bean plants, corn, wheat, barley, and geometrically stationed vineyards, hosting patrons in farmhouse styles that dated back 200 years. Wine didn't touch our pallets today but Hal is always in search of a grand new brewery to try out and Quebec has a myriad of microbreweries.

We owe the boys a hat off for finding our route into Quebec City. Within minutes of taking the wrong route they were texting us how to redirect ourselves and the Jackie Stewarts of the road where at the hotel, showered, and for Hal shaved and en route to explore the magnificence of its history in less than half an hour.
Hal having taught Gr. 5 and 6 social - Canadian History was like having a personal historian along. The battlefields, the fortifications, the St. Laurence had Hal in awe for more than 6 hours as the evening wore on. We ducked into a well served brewery that served 24 beers on tap. With a glass in hand and our second attempt at poutine with BBQ sauce, wouldn't recommend it, stick to the original, we scouted out into the touristic streets near the Chateau Frontenac and squeezed ourselves between the tiny roads, hordes of tourists, and truly talented street musicians, hurling fire, swords, balls, wagons, and one another into the air, whilst singing, dancing, doing acrobatics on unicycles. Horse drawn carts moseyed amongst the throngs in the heat, humidity and our hearts went out to them, it barely cooled down to the low 20's at night.

The soft pillows of our upgraded suite beckoned me, no amount of wine, good food could keep my eyes open, not even the terrible news of Robin Williams death. How is it that those that bring such joy to our lives, are often so troubled themselves.

Laurentians - route to roots

Seated in an oh so chic Tim Horton's with a fake fire place, a French show on he television as we listen to catchy French music, makes this all that more Quebecoise. Wow... Travelling to St. Donat singing my father's old favorite song "St. Donat" with Hal trying to figure out the connection between a barber, a five cent coin with a hole in the middle and donuts was enough in 29 degree heat to sent anyone reeling. La touristic information was so helpful to she gave us her only map to assist us in the hunt for our family cabin at Lac De La Montagne Noire. Easy you think, there are numerous lakes with very similar names and several detours to Montagne Noire en route. Meeting a fellow Albertan on a small chemin, road, was our luck, he had two possibilities of which the first was successful.

With heart pounding in my mouth, I gingerly walked down the familiar steps from the car port to the house hoping someone would be home and be generous enough to invite us in. Yes, the Stephen's were there and equally excited to meet the daughter of the builder. We toured the home which had been kept in it's original state. I was gleeful recalling all the fond memories of Christmas' carrying water from the lake with my father because the pipes had frozen. The deck were a myriad of parties had been held by my parents and friends down the road, of which they knew. Dad they knew the Gurvin's. We toured the waterfront and although the daughter had cleared a few more trees and build a basement everything has remained the same. Large Frank Lloyd Wright windows overlooking the forest onto the lake, warm light fronted the deck and windows in the bedroom. The rock house had been taken down to my dismay, yet the jetting rocks off the shoreline were there. We were not invited to swim which would have truly made my day, yet a fine drink in hand and taking pictures and exchanging email addresses with the Stephens made the day.

We began our day waking up to loon calls echoing across Lac a la Truite nestled in the deep woods of the Laurentian's just north of St. Agathe des Monts, another childhood favorite town we used to pass en route to the cabin, where banana flavored popsicles savored our tongues along with lollipops with stripped colors. St. Agathe des Monts has grown considerably since we were young. The town is touristic, yet still unique, with quaint boutiques, boulangerie, patteserie, and charcuterie's all done in a traditional mode.

Mont Tremblant was hosting a running race upon our arrival and the announcer was hamming up names, times and making up stories about each contestant that crossed the finish line. We attended the Catholic church in town that was packed with grey hair nannies, and Hal who I was impressed followed easily the mass in French. We took the mountain route to St. Donat which buttresses Mont Tremblant National Park. With time pressing on, our hike had to be postponed, yet not the tasty bread in St. Donat.