The Rock!

June 22 – 25, 2006
The ferry siren and the revving of the big semi-trailer tractors aroused us just before 6am. They were loading the boat for Argentia, which is on the eastern coast of Newfoundland. That ferry is a sixteen hour run as opposed to our five to 6 hour one to Port aux Basque on the west coast; hence our choice. We couldn’t imagine leaving Caesar down in the dungeon alone for sixteen hours.

Our boat, the Caribou – the flagship – was scheduled to sail at 8am but announcements advised a two-hour delay. At least it’s comfortable waiting in Maggie and the wifi signal was still available so I cleared up some of my forum email. We boarded at 9:30 and the ship sailed at 10:15. There was no fog just bright warm sunshine and after a Newfie breakfast aboard our ‘cruise ship’ we spent most of the 5 ½ hour journey up on deck.

The sky clear blue horizon to horizon, the deep royal blue of the ocean, the gentle warm breezes – all that was missing was a lounge chair and a cocktail. We read and snoozed and I wrote a bit. We watched the people and talked about them. The truckers in jeans and black t-shirts over their big bellies; the RVers who tend to congregate with other RVers and talk about their units (I guess we’re a bit different); the school field trip groups with lenient teachers and unruly kids (I told off a group of them for throwing food off the top deck at an elderly man below); the foreign tourists (Swiss and German I noticed) taking lots of photos; the elderly ladies (walk-ons) dressed in their best blouses, cardigans and slacks with snappy little sun hats and their purses across their chests to avert pickpocketers; the sun worshippers – doesn’t matter the shape of their bodies, they bare it all and stretch out across the long benches so no-one else can sit there; the smokers – there are very few spots outside where one can smoke but there you’ll see a circle puffing away.

Part way through the voyage, we were allowed to go to the car deck, escorted to see to Caesar and take him out on deck to do his duty. We should have just left him alone; he was fast asleep and without a tree or a pole, he didn’t have a clue what to do on deck. At the Purser’s Office, I noticed with amusement that there were two clocks – one on Atlantic Time and the other on Newfoundland time…..where else in the world has a half an hour time difference?

Gazing across the sea, I suddenly noticed a waterspout and Fernie grabbed his binoculars (what I call ‘spyglasses’ to his amusement), and with that the whale breeched. What a sight. The further north we travelled, the cooler it got. The Newfoundland shore appeared in the distance with a light band of mist separating it from the water. About a half hour before we docked, we were enfolded in the thick damp, cold fog and made a hasty retreat inside. But it was clear as a bell when we pulled in to Port aux Basques, a rocky fishing town. We had an easy exit from the ferry as we were placed in the centre lane and they cleared the side lanes first. The Trans Canada Highway smoothly funnels the traffic out of town. A mile up the hill, we stopped at the Newfoundland Welcome Centre for a tour book and map.

Newfoundland was new territory for me and it gave me a thrill venturing on to new land ready to explore every corner. The beautiful road rose through the green hills. The land was mostly tundra with occasional clusters of small and scrubby trees. Stephenville, one hundred miles north of the ferry was our home for the first night. I asked at the Walmart and the greeter said, “Well everyone does it dear and you’re surely welcome”.

I was whipping up an omelette for dinner, when I heard Fernie talking to someone outside. The conversation continued on for a while, so I shut off the stove and wandered out, nosy about who he was talking to.
“Ahhh, here’s yer better ‘alf” said a grinning gap-toothed woman with loose shoulder length grey hair.
Fernie was talking to George and Madeleine White (they changed it from LeBlanc for some reason), a sixtyish couple who lived on the main street across from the Walmart and went out walking every evening. It seemed the whole town was out walking; what a healthy bunch of folks.

George was almost unintelligible as he quipped and laughed in his strong Newfoundlander accent but we managed to understand enough. He’s a carpenter, who was born and bred in Stephenville. He remembers when the Americans built an air force base there and when they left in 1966. They were interested in us and where we were from and they told us about their life in Newfoundland.

They told us how the Abitibi mill closed a few months ago and how folks are leaving town now.
They told us how to pronounce Newfoundland
“It’s Nu-fun-lan,” said George (with the accent on the ‘Nu’) and he made Fernie say it after him.
They told us about Screech, the local alcoholic beverage.
“I dunna like it” said Madeleine “but I’m a tee-totaller”
They told us about Newfie steak “Bologna - - - fried Bologna” and they don’t pronounce it baloney.
We discovered that what we call lakes, they call ponds; what we call rivers, they call brooks.

“Come with us walkin’ all round town” said George
“Theys not had dinnr yet,” said Madeleine
“We’ll be back in ‘alf an hour for youse” said George chuckling while he lifted his ballcap and scratched his balding head.
They didn’t give us any choice so we had our omelettes quickly and were ready to go walkin’ when they returned.

We walked down the main street, through the fields, across the rickety bridge, beside the merging of Cold Brook and Warm Brook, alongside the airport, and down to the bay. They walked so fast we could hardly keep up to them. There was an abandoned section at the end of the airport, a large cement slab overlooking the ocean.
“You could park your motorhome here – lots of folks do,” said George and he took us up to show us where the dump station was only a 100 metres away.
They showed us the houses that were swept off their foundations last year in the floods.
“Them folks shoulda known not to build there,” said Madeleine unsympathetically.

Eventually, we arrived back on the main street and we were ushered into an elaborate yard. Carved wooden birds of all kinds decorated the trees. There were woodpeckers, ducks, geese, owls…….there were bird-feeders hanging from every branch or post. There was a large wishing well; an old 1940’s car with plants growing out of it, quite attractively; an 8 foot reindeer made of tinsel and strung with lights stood against the garden shed. “That goes out up front – at Xmas,” they said proudly. He had vegetables growing, strawberries, fruit trees, and a greenhouse that he built himself.
“He makes me anythin’ I want” smiled Madeleine “He even makes me omelettes”

“Now, you get the Royal Tour,” said George holding open the doors of the car for us.
“You go up front” he said to Fernie and Madeleine slid in beside me.
“I’ll take you up to the richy ‘ouses in section 13”
“Then I’ll show you the Mayor’s ‘ouse”
“Un, then we’ll go on down to lil’ Port Harmon”
“Un then I’ll take you all the way up to ‘Hooterville’ – you know it?” Guffawing by now. He was referring to an old TV show - “Green Acres”

There was an awful squeal from the rear end of his car as we pulled away. I asked them if they had a mouse in the trunk. “Nah, he just washed it today” said Madeleine. I’m not sure how that was supposed to cause such an awful squeal but I didn’t pursue it. We arrived up at Section 13 (sounds like a concentration camp) “Ain’t they beauts?” George said, pointing to the street of ordinary houses by Vancouver standards.

“Un that’s the new mayor’s ‘ouse – Tom O’Brien” It was pretty palatial and there was a quarter size replica of it in the back. “That’s fur his lil girl – it’s ‘er playhouse”. We asked how he made his money and he said “He owns the trucking company – O’Brien’s but he’s a nice fella”

Back down the hill, through the town, past the airport and the flat-as-a-board golf course, below the white cliffs that we’d seen from a distance, we veered in over a rough road in the midst of being torn up, past about 20 dumpy little cottages “Thas where the richy’s go on weekends” said George “See, they dredged that there pond out – and look they can see the mill from ‘ere”. The huge silent mill loomed quietly the other side of the pond – not exactly what I’d call a nice view. About a 100 metres further on, George pointed to a little harbour in the corner of the dredged out pond, with about a half a dozen little fishing boats “Thas lil Port Harmon” he said proudly “Ain’t it cute?”

The sun was down by now but George insisted that we had to up to Hooterville. About eight miles north of Stephenville, in the forested hills was Cold Brook and in the furthest corner was where his grandfather had been born. It was an isolated area at the end of a gravel road where people built their houses to escape, I guess. “Thas Hooterville” George repeated, just loving his analogy.

It was 11 o’clock when they dropped us off at our motorhome and we stifled our giggles until we got inside and then laughed about our four-hour introduction to Newfie hospitality.

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The weather report made us reconfigure our plans for our two-week exploration of The Rock. The west coast was supposed to be sunny for the next few days while the east was raining. So we elected to explore the Northern Peninsula on the west coast first.

Up through Corner Brook, picturesquely built on the hillsides, the second largest city on the island, we left the Trans Canada for highway 430, AKA The Viking Trail. We figured we’d start from the top and work our way down, seeing we’d have to retrace our steps anyway.

We entered the south end of Gros Morne National Park at one of its stunning fjords. The scenery was spectacular, somewhat reminiscent of British Columbia in the mountains. Early summer must be the best time to visit here, with the profusion of wildflowers blooming. Out of the mountains and down to the sea, the terrain changed to tundra with occasional patches of low wind-swept trees. It reminded me of the southern coasts of Chile and Argentina, and I almost expected to see a penguin colony. The beaches are most often rocky; sand is rare.

As we’d seen all across the country, a sign warned of ‘Moose’. A bit further, another sign announced that there’d been 15 moose / car accidents so far this year, so watch out. We just sneered after the dire warnings in northern Ontario that never turned into a single sighting. But Newfoundland is different. The Northern Peninsula is known as the “Moose Capital of the World” and moose are not even native; they were introduced in the early part of last century. Less than half an hour later, right beside the highway, contentedly chewing away a beautiful cow moose raised her cumbersome head in interest as we slowed down to get a better look. Driving Maggie, we were unable to pull in or get a photo but we were delighted.

We decided to stay in the historic town of Port au Choix, half way up the peninsula for a couple of days and take the Honda the rest of the way north for sightseeing. A little motel in the middle of town had 5 RV sites at the back overlooking a beautiful little bay. Electricity and water and free wifi made the $15/night tax inclusive price very cheap and we loved the beautiful view from our front windows of the waves crashing on the rocks.

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We were on the road by 8am; we knew it was going to be a long day. Our primary target was L’Anse aux Meadows – the site where Vikings made a settlement over 1000 years ago, the first Europeans to North America, but the journey through the tiny fishing villages and the highway hugging the shore was such a delight.

We fuelled up before leaving Port Aux Choix and a young man coming out as I was going in held the door for me, gave me a goofy smile and said
“G’ morning – it’s a noice un. Any day it’s not rainin’, it’s a noice un.”

Wherever we went, beside the roads far out in the country as well as near the towns were piles of firewood neatly cut and stacked and we wondered about a society where one could trust their fellow citizens enough to store it where it was cut. Interspersed were vegetable gardens fenced against moose – apparently the most fertile soil is beside the highways. They plant potatoes mostly but other veg too and nobody steals or vandalizes them. Isn’t that absolutely amazing in our current society. It made me feel sad that most of us live where this wouldn’t be possible.

We stopped at a sign that announced “Marjorie’s Bridge, boardwalk trail and thrombolites.” We had to find out what a thrombolite was – or were they pulling our leg? The sign said they were ‘primitive life forms weathering out of flat-lying dolostones’. Now what does that mean? We went looking anyway. I kept telling Fernie to watch for anything that was ‘bun-shaped’ but of course we didn’t find any.

The Vikings settled on the Northern Peninsula about 1,000 AD in L’Anse Aux Meadows (Cove of Meadows). It is thought that the ‘Vinland Tales’ written by Eric the Red or his son Leif Ericcson (not really sure who wrote them) of a far-flung land where wild grapes grew is about that very site. It’s now a national historic site and they’ve recreated the village exactly as the archaeologists found the traces of their existence. The sod covered huts are inhabited by actors in period costume and they demonstrated their methods of sewing, cooking, wielding and axe and so on while spinning tales of their lives. It’s a lovely setting protected by islands and bluffs, the meadows offering herbs and berries in profusion.

We stopped for lunch at a little family café on the waterfront in St. Lunaire, near L’Anse Aux Meadows. I’ve always been fairly experimental with food. I’ve eaten curries in little local restaurants in India, noodles with who knows what’s in them in China, sushi in Japan, goat in Kenya, Thai fish soup in Bankok, guinea pig in Peru – whatever the locals eat, we sample. So when we saw a typical Newfoundlander meal offered, we chose it – and it was the most horrible thing I’ve ever had to put in my mouth. Fernie had an emotional reaction to the meal and after one little forkful, he said he was ill and left the restaurant. I struggled to get part of it down because I didn’t want to offend them. The waitress told us it was delicious especially with the little bits of pork scrunchions on the top. YUCK and Double YUCK! Let me try to describe the meal – hard tack bread soaked in something really salty, mixed with salt cod and then topped with an awful concoction of fat pork in liquid slimy fat. It was white and white and then oily yellow on top. Not even nice to look at. It was even more disgusting than the guinea pig in Peru.

By the end of the day, we had driven 535 kilometres and had more than twenty moose sightings. Ohmygawd – moose! They’re everywhere. On a lonely stretch of the highway, we rounded a corner and started up a hill. At the crest of the hill stood the most majestic sight – a huge bull moose with his staggering rack of antlers standing on the road, silhouetted against the sky. As we approached, he slowly ambled off across the road as if to say “I’m not rushing for you”.

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The next day from our spot in Port aux Choix, we explored the many archaeological sites in the area. My head is reeling from the historical data we’ve gleaned about the Archaic Maritime Indians, the Palaeo Eskimos, the modern Indians, the Vikings, the French, the British……as we learn about their lives, easily imagined as we walk on their turf, we feel we’re back there.


Philip’s Garden in Port Aux Choix was home for many of the above civilizations – digs have uncovered relics from as far back as 5,000 years. It is on a wild peninsula and is one of the most beautiful walks I’ve ever taken. The fragrance and beauty of the myriad of wildflowers – purple, yellow, red, white in such profusion; the scent of the crashing ocean deep blue with white crested waves; herbs and berries and sheltered nooks; the scurrying of little animals; the varied birdsong; the wind through the grasses. This or a place much like it must be where the author Linda Auel got her inspiration for her series of books on ancient humans. We walked for so many miles unable to stop exploring, ourselves inspired and uplifted. We didn’t see another human during the hours we spent there.

I’m not sure if Newfoundland is the most thrilling place in Canada because it’s new territory to me…….but I am in love with this province. It is so changeable – from mountains to seashore to tundra; from thick fog to bright warm sunshine. But one thing remains the same, the charming people – their love of life, friendliness and the welcome they offer.

The fishing villages are just plunked down in their coves. The houses are higgledy-piggledy with no alignment to any other. The roads just weave through wherever there’s room. Doors open onto the streets. Fences don’t exist. People walk in and out of each other’s homes at whim.

Newfoundland place names are lyrical – brooks and ponds and coves of all kinds. Some of my favourites are: Noddy Harbour, Birchy Head, Toogood Arm, Tickle Harbour, Tickle Cove, Heart’s Delight, Heart’s Desire, Little Heart’s Ease, Heart’s Content, Dildo, Farewell, Blow Me Down, Tizzards, Come By Chance, Witless Point, Petty Harbour.

We decided to try a National Park campground instead of a private one, as there were no boondocking possibilities in Gros Morne National Park. Lomond campground is the nicest campsite we’ve ever had. A level gravel pad for Maggie beside which was a huge private mowed grassy space ringed with spruce, a fire pit and table and a view of the magnificent fjord below. We lay in our lounge chairs and after a vodka, a glass of wine and a beer and we watched the clouds as they started to appear across the clear blue sky. Just like we did when we were children, we watched the shapes unfold – there was Caesar with his pointy little ears; Caesar on his back with legs in the air; Caesar’s little carrot tail; I think we’re totally obsessed with Caesar.

There was no noise other than the natural – the breeze in the trees, the birds singing melodiously, what sounded like loons in the distance, the buzzing of an insect, Fernie sighing with contentment, Caesar snuffling in the long grass. Oh my gawd! I think I’ve reached Nirvana - - - or is that the vodka working its magic.

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Our life is a dream! We wake up every day to a new adventure unfolding. How can we be so lucky? I want time to stop – right now!

We work all our young lives, bringing up children, furthering our careers and dream one day of retirement and freedom. So many times I’ve heard stories how John or Mary retires and is so bored they want to return to work. Are they crazy? There’s a huge world out there just waiting to be explored.

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I’m getting paranoid – I woke up this morning with a swollen and soar ear lobe for the third time. It was an insect bite – on the same ear a week to 10 days apart. Why my ear? Why not Fernie’s? What kind of insect was it? I searched the bedroom, checking the bed but found nothing. However, later on I found I had about three more bites on my arm – could it have been those nasty disgusting black flies in the forest? But what is it about my ear that is so enticing. I think I’ll put some repellent on my ear every night before I go to bed.

As we were leaving our campground, we spied another moose just feet from the road. Now, I just want to spy a caribou. There is a huge herd in the park, but they did not make themselves apparent. We spent the morning investigating the south forks of Gros Morne. This park is a geologist’s dream – it holds proof of the continental shifts and divides – surprisingly, the Eastern side of Newfoundland used to be part of the African plate. The Tablelands, a range of barren brown mountains sit right beside the most lush and green hills. They are the residue from the ocean bottom and the rocks are most unusual appearing as if fish net was woven through them. They are infertile because of the minerals and metals in the rock and because of the high winds and cold temperature.

At the end of the road lies a little fishing town, Trout River which until recently was not accessible by road. It still seems to be a remote town. People walk in and out of each other’s houses, they gather along the roads to chat, they wave as we drive by and make their livelihood by fishing. A woman walking a beautiful chow, named Mala stopped to talk to us. She left Trout River when she was 28, moved to Ontario and returned to Trout River when she was 50, three years ago. She is so happy to be back “There’s nowhere else on earth like here” she said.

Now it’s time to shoot over to the east coast and meander around that side. The drive over to Grand Falls/Windsor was pretty boring. The centre of the province is not anywhere near as scenic even though there’s a pond or brook around every bend. Grand Falls/Windsor, a mill town is grubby and unkempt. The Walmart there is part of a mall and I had to go to the mall office for permission to stay.
“The office is closed m’dear,” said the lady at the Lotto booth beside it. “Cun I help yer?”
When I told her what I wanted, she replied, “I sees em there all the time”. So I took that as approval. It was the crumbiest Walmart lot we’d ever seen; we were a bit disgusted at the litter around, the huge potholes; the unpaved areas where big trucks kicked up choking dust; and it was noisy, from the Walmart intercom announcements to the cars peeling rubber. But it was late and it was convenient for shopping so we stayed and when we closed the blinds, we were in our private palace.

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Summertime……and the livin’ is easy

June 18 – 21, 2006
Nova Scotia has a Sunday closing law (for the time being anyway) so
Walmart was deserted as we moved on. Another beautiful day, but a sea mist was starting to encroach so we outran it.

Caesar’s leg seems to be improving. He puts a little weight on it now, to move along. We’re not going to allow him to chase waves on rocky beaches ever again.

My nephew, Matthew lives in New Glasgow about an hour and a half, northeast of Halifax. We were passing through on our way to Cape Breton, so we pulled in for lunch to a Walmart parking lot. Big signs warned that overnight parking was not allowed but we weren’t staying so it didn’t matter. I phoned Matt and he said that he’d really like to meet up. I assumed he had transportation and asked him to come and see us in the motorhome. It turned out his only mode of transportation is walking but he asked a friend to drive him over. He looks so much like his father, but different in disposition. We spent an hour or so getting to know each other – he’s a charming, friendly young man and I’m so happy to have made the connection. While we were talking, Matt said “Isn’t that a gopher?”. Sure enough an adorable round gopher was ambling across the vast empty parking lot towards Walmart. About a half an hour later, another huge motorhome pulled in and as he was driving across the lot, the sweet little gopher was making his way back down to the grassy ditch. Unbearable to think of it, but that awful big machine ran right over him and I don’t suppose they even noticed.

We drove Matt somewhere near his home in Maggie – we’re always careful because when we’re towing we don’t want to get stuck somewhere we can’t turn around. I felt a bit sad leaving him after I just got to know him but also elated at getting to know all three of them.

There were no boondocking possibilities in Cape Breton, so we went to a Passport America campground just outside Baddeck, Nova Scotia, which is at the foot of the Cabot Trail. It was extremely hot and humid but a lovely treed, cool and private campsite was ours to enjoy so we stayed there two nights.

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It’s unbelievable that we’ve lucked into absolutely perfect weather in a location that is known for clouds and rain. The circular Cabot Trail route is about 300km in total and the next morning we headed off early in the Honda so we could take our time stopping at almost every viewpoint and poking into blustery little coves.

Sliding around the twisty, turny, roller coaster of the Cape Breton Cabot Trail, Gordon Lightfoot was moaning “If You Could Read My Mind” on the CD player. The music and the locale eked enough young memories but when I glanced in the rear view mirror and spied a laughing young couple on a motorbike the nostalgia galloped. I was back in 1970 travelling with my then ‘amour’ completing our cross-Canada motorcycle expedition. I clung on tight as we swirled around the snakelike curves and thrilled at the majestic breathtaking views materializing around every corner. We pitched our pup tent along shady lanes overlooking the pounding surf and watched the sun go down. The sun was glorious then as it is today, thirty-six years later.

Now here we are, a happy couple in our sixties doing the same journey but with all the comforts of home. I was a little envious though seeing that young couple – where did the time go?

We made a stop for our requisite ‘chowder’ at a little café where we could see the car from our table and leave all the windows down for Caesar. Pleasant Bay is at the north west side of the trail just before it heads inland, a tiny town that seems to be there just for the tourists with ‘arts & crafts’, cafes, cabins and campsites.

The Alexander Graham Bell Museum and National Historic site is in Baddeck and as we have an annual pass, we stopped for an hour. Even though Bell was a proud ‘Citizen of the United States of America’ (this was on his tombstone), he took up residence in Baddeck and worked on flying machines, human-carrying kites and made the first hydrofoil. It’s a beautiful setting on the Bras d’Or Lakes, which seem to me to be inlets rather than lakes.

I was hoping for a lobster dinner but Fernie’s tummy was a little out of sorts. Perhaps it was my wild driving along the winding roads but I was a bit disappointed. I made myself a tuna sandwich instead – not a good replacement for lobster

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Thick fog and damp air caused a chill in the early morning, creeping in through our bedroom windows. It made it hard to get up early when it was so warm in bed. In spite of the chill, I pulled myself out knowing we’d need an early start in order to get a full day in at the fortress of Louisbourg. We drove Maggie over to another PA campground, five minutes from Louisbourg on the east coast of Cape Breton Island. None of the Walmarts permit overnight parking.



A National Historic Site, Louisbourg is a reconstruction of the town and fort as it was in 1744-45, while still held by the French. The town was levelled by the British but archaeologists have been excavating since the 1930’s and the accurate restoration followed and it opened in 1979. Only one quarter of the fortress has been rebuilt – the remaining ruins are still being ‘dug’ by archaeology students dressed in parkas, boots and gloves against the cold Atlantic wind.

The area is so vast that buses are used to transport visitors from the info centre to the town site. Every detail is authentic. Townsfolk in period costume roam the streets – soldiers, officers and servants. They tell tales of what their lives are like and re-enact behaviours. The buildings are mostly open for inspection from storehouses, a blacksmith shop, the elegant homes of the upper echelon, soldiers’ barracks, inns, cafes and bars.

A long walk along a narrow isthmus marked the sites of a convent, hospital, barracks, fishing buildings and more. The waves crashed violently on the rocky headland and the wind so high, we had to bend into it to walk. Tucked into the crevices of the rocks thrived miniature iris, wild sweet peas and an exotic little white flower I can’t identify.

After hours of traipsing around the marvellous village, we went for lunch in an authentic inn, which prepared meals as they did in 1745, dishes and utensils recreated in perfect detail. The meals were served in intimate little rooms. There were two choices – salmon or roast beef. I chose the salmon, Fernie the beef. First came a battered tin tureen of root vegetable soup and verbal instructions for Fernie to serve it.
Fresh hot rolls and butter accompanied the soup. A glass of red wine was served in what we would call a ‘martini glass’ – apparently authentic. Fernie had a hot buttered rum in a pewter tumbler. The delicieux entrées were served with rice and mixed root vegetables. I questioned the use of rice but was told that the upper class French of that era wouldn’t eat potatoes (peasant food, I guess) and imported rice instead. Completing the lunch, a small apple tart with cream and tea. A wonderful repast in an evoking environment, well priced at $15.95/each and the drinks $4/each.

It’s a good thing we waited until the end of the day to partake in the meal. We were stripped of energy and dragged ourselves through the streets, along the walls to the main gate and the last one hundred metres to the waiting bus.

Caesar had been alone all day so we went back to pick him up, returned to town with our laptop to clear up email then drove over to the lighthouse at the opposite side of the Louisbourg harbour. Canada’s first lighthouse was built there and replaced three times. This day the peninsula was shrouded in fog and the sad lonely sound of the foghorn echoed through the harbour. Much too windy to venture of our car, we pulled in for a while and watched the angry sea pounding at the rocks beneath the mist-veiled lighthouse.

Caesar isn’t doing as well today. His leg seems more tender and he won’t walk far. I popped him a quarter of an aspirin to control the inflammation. He’s very stoic though and patient through it all.

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The following morning, we had to get up at 6:30am because we had an appointment at 8am with a Honda dealer in Sydney to get our differential flushed (whatever that is). We woke to a drumming of rain on the roof and we didn’t want to get up but we had to. I couldn’t help but think how lucky we’d been weather wise the last couple of days. The Cabot Trail in the rain would not be good. And Louisbourg – fog’s ok, it created atmosphere but rain would have spoiled the day.

The car was finished by 10 o’clock. They had to do a ‘double flush’ because it was so dirty. I’ve found out a differential is a gizmo that sits between the rear wheels and does something to assist the four wheel drive. The brake fluid had to be replaced too. I’m sure the 7,000 kilometres it’s been towed through the muck and mire contributed to it. The rain had stopped by the time we left and the mist started to dissolve over the next few hours.

We left Maggie at Walmart for the day – it’s only overnight parking that’s banned. A drive south to St. Peters took us through the town of Big Pond on the shore of Bras D’Or Lake. A trivia question for all you readers:


What famous Canadian larger-than-life songstress hailed from Big Pond? (and swam in the big pond every morning) She opened a tearoom in an old school house in Big Pond and I’m a sucker for afternoon tea with fresh scones. The schoolhouse has been radically transformed into a lovely garden-like retreat with large comfy chintz armchairs, but it was dead quiet when we got there and a sign said ‘Not serving until July 1, but please help yourself to a nice cup of tea and a homemade cookie”. There’s a gift shop and a room of memorabilia – Gemini Awards, Genie Awards, gold records, platinum records, photos and a history of - have you guessed?…….Rita McNeil, the barefoot but red-hatted, muu-muu clad singer. I know our friends B&B got it because they brought us back some of Rita’s tea a couple of years ago.

One photo of Rita at 18 showed a svelte and serious young woman. The parish priest told Rita that her harelip would be a burden but that he knew she could overcome it – I’d say she did a good job. We poured ourselves a cup of tea, a delicious blend and munched on a cookie while we toured her museum and no-one bothered us.

St. Peters canal and its locks between Bras D’Or Lake and the Atlantic is a historic waterway built in the 19th century and it’s a lovely stroll along the tree-lined banks. Even Caesar, with his lumbering gait enjoyed it.
We stopped in town at “Chubby’s School Bus” for a takeout lunch and shared a $10 seafood platter that was enough for three, so Caesar shared it too – the clams anyway; no scallops or shrimp for him. St Peters is one of the oldest settlements in Canada first populated in the 1600’s but not much remains of historical significance – just a tiny one-room museum.

Glace Bay, fifteen miles northeast of Sydney was our next stop. I mentioned while driving there that my memory (from 1970) of it was a depressing and unkempt town. Wouldn’t you think it would have changed by now? But it was as dismal as ever; obvious extreme poverty, no pride in their sad little homes, no flowers or trees, boarded up businesses and all this in a beautiful location overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. But first a stop at Table Head where Marconi sent the first radio signal across the ocean to Cornwall, England in 1902 or thereabouts. Not much left but a presentation centre showed a video and explained his work.

The weather was glorious by late afternoon and at 6pm we moved over to the ferry terminal. However, the 6 o’clock boat was delayed and they told us to come back after it sailed which was about 8:45pm. We found a park just a quarter of a mile away that jutted out into the bay and we were able to watch the ferry’s progress while we had dinner. Arriving back there, we paid our $267 ($213 for Maggie and $27/each for us – one way) and settled in for the night – front of the line.

We had a strong free wifi signal and I (saint that I am) gave Fernie the computer for the rest of the evening to play online poker. He made $15 and really enjoyed it – it’s what he misses the most while travelling. Caesar and I snuck off to bed – I fell asleep on my book. It had been a long day.

Raindrops Keep Falling on Our Heads……

June 15 - 17, 2006
Who knew the clouds could hold so much moisture? It changed our plans somewhat when we woke to the socked in downpour. We had intended to visit Port Royal and Fort Anne historic sites and take a drive down Digby neck, but what was the point – we wouldn’t see anything. Instead, we headed inland across to Bridgewater. I had phoned ahead to the Walmart and the fellow I talked to said the welcome mat was waiting. The drive wasn’t pleasant with the driving rain and we were happy to pull in to Walmart, until we noticed signs clearly stating that there was no overnight RV Parking allowed. I was furious that the man I spoke to had given me improper information and marched into the store. They were most apologetic and explained to me that if it was up to them, they’d be pleased to have us, but the town has proclaimed “No RV parking”.

The weather was lousy but it was early in the day so we drove over to Lunenburg, parking Maggie a few blocks from the historical centre and braving the downpour in our raincoats, hats and duck shoes. We couldn’t use umbrellas because the wind was starting to really blow.

Caesar stayed behind in the warm and dry. By the time we returned after taking a cursory look at the old town, we were drenched and changed into dry clothes. We figured the only thing to do was head to Halifax, about an hour north. The drive was interminable; the rain was driving and sudden gusts of wind felt as if they would take Maggie away with them. It was a long and arduous drive and we were so happy to arrive in Halifax safely. It was late in the afternoon and the wind was worse than ever blowing puddles across the parking lot in sheets of water. We got soaked in the five minutes it took to unhook the car and had to get changed into dry clothes again – every available space was hung with wet clothes. Maggie was really rocking by now. Later on that evening we realized that what we were experiencing was the tail end of Hurricane Alberto. I know we’ll never drive again in such weather.

We decided on dinner out and a movie as we were in the middle of a huge shopping / restaurant / movie complex. We tried a restaurant, which must be an east coast chain “Jack Astor’s”, and it reminded us of Earl’s in Vancouver but the food was so much better. I had a Thai Chicken Curry and Fernie Butter Chicken – Wow! We intended to see the film “The DaVinci Code” in spite of the bad write-ups, but Fernie talked me in to a more light-hearted movie “RV” with Robin Williams. This one too had been slammed by the critics and we do agree it’s drivel, but we found we could relate to a lot of the RV incidents and got quite a few chuckles.

Caesar was so afraid of the terrible wind that he wouldn’t do his duty when Fernie put him out on the grass beside the motorhome. So we drove him out looking for a spot that would be sheltered. We did at the very end of the shopping complexes, a high wall and a corner that the wind didn’t enter and I blocked the other side with my car and VOILA! Success. We all went back home and snuggled into bed together while the storm shook and battered us – but we felt quite safe.

I woke in the night and the wind was still strong but there was no more rain. Next time I woke, it was silent. I looked out the window – dawn was breaking to a beautiful clear and still day. Amazing!

It was perfect weather for our early morning walk along the Halifax waterfront and our climb up to the Citadel. Time passed quickly and we were in the fort for the noon firing of the big cannon – a big fuss of pipers, dynamite carriers and other Scottish Guards. This was our second visit to Halifax and not much had changed but we enjoyed our stroll and as the day went on, the temperature got quite high – about 25 degrees and I was wearing a black sweatshirt.
A huge group of men and women young and old in period costume appeared about the same time and we thought that they were part of the performance, so I was busy snapping pictures and making fun of the young woman in running shoes beneath her black dress. I was so embarrassed when the realization hit me that they were a tour group of Mennonites or Hutterites. I do hope they didn’t notice.

We had a 3:30 appointment at a Honda dealership for the CRV to have a check-up and the oil changed. Since we had to put in a new battery in Hanover, Ontario, the radio would not work. The anti-theft feature needs a code to be entered and we don’t have it. We phoned Vancouver Honda where we bought it but they didn’t have it and told us to get another Honda dealer to pull out the radio – a number should be behind it and with that number Honda head office will give us a code. What a rigmarole! We asked a Honda dealer in Toronto how much they’d charge and they quoted $90. YIKES! We’ll go without at that price. The Halifax dealer said it would an additional $78 so we said “No thank you”. So what a surprise when our total bill for check-up etc. was $81 and when we turned on the car, the radio worked.

Fernie is a vacuum cleaner fanatic and when our cordless Shark broke, he was almost in tears. So we bought him a new Dirt Devil mini today at Walmart and he’s cleaned Maggie from top to bottom. I’m not really complaining.

Saturday bloomed into a gorgeous day, even warmer than yesterday. The farmers’ market in the centre of town is only open on Saturdays, so we took a trip down and bought fresh local strawberries, salt cod cakes and some homemade red pepper jelly. It’s a lively marketplace with small nooks and crannies instead of the usual wide-open affair. There were musicians playing where they could find space and the small town atmosphere of Halifax was apparent as friends greeted each other effusively.

I hesitate to describe how succulent the salt cod cakes were not wanting to appear a total glutton….but oh ‘what the heck’ – they were delectable. With fresh strawberry shortcake for dessert and of course a fine wine pairing.


Peggy’s Cove used to be such a quiet little fishing village but not anymore. It’s teeming with day-trippers and I can’t imagine how horrid it would be when a cruise ship disengorges its bevy of passengers onto buses headed for Peggy’s Cove. People were swarming across the massive boulders and up to the lighthouse, cameras clicking, kids screaming but it’s still a marvellously beautiful spot. An old car pulled in beside us in the parking lot as we were preparing to pull out. A tough overweight fellow in a muscle shirt jumped out of the driver’s seat and stalked as fast as he could over to the restaurant. From the passenger side tumbled a tiny but also tough lil’ gal with a mop of bright auburn hair. “Git the hell back here” she yelled at the top of her maritime voice.
“I’m not puttin’ up with any of this fxxxing sxxx,” he growled back at her from fifty feet away. She ran as fast as her tiny little legs would carry her and threw the heavy bunch of car keys at him. More screaming and growling ensued and a sullen teenage girl emerged from the back seat of the car as the redhead stormed back. “He’s a fxxxxxx axxxxxx and you can just go to hell with him. He wants you up there, so fxxxxxx git up there to the restaurant with him – fxxxxxx get away from me” We figured this was a good time to make our exit.

A couple of miles along St. Margaret’s Bay from Peggy’s Cove is a memorial to the Swissair Flight #111 that crashed just off the coast in 1998. I had forgotten about it until we chanced upon the monument and then it brought back the memories of how the locals had done so much to assist the people that poured in after the tragedy.

My only brother lives in Halifax and I was so lucky to manage to get in touch with two of his children, Hilary and Sam whom I hadn’t seen in sixteen years. They were three and four years old then – now they’re 19 and 20. Hilary’s just finished her first year of Anthropology at St. Francis Xavier University in Antigonish and Sam’s just completed his first year of Architecture at Dalhousie in Halifax. My other nephew, Matthew, the eldest is 22 and doing a co-op out of town for his final year of engineering. It was a delight meeting them! They were a delight! They drove up to see us on Sam’s motorbike and I would have recognized them on the street by their resemblance to their parents. Sam, so much like my brother and Hilary a carbon copy of her mother. We vowed not to lose touch in the future.

While Fernie was watching a Stanley cup final hockey game, I found a super wifi spot not far from our motorhome and was able to catch up a lot of email, banking and blogging. I still miss not having internet 24/7.

Yo, Ho, Ho – Avast Me Hearties!

June 12 - 14,2006

Housekeeping duties filled our morning – emptying holding tanks, filling the fresh water tank, lubricating jacks and slides, checking the tires, and so on. It was time to move on and we bid a sad goodbye to Prince Edward Island.

The toll for the Confederation Bridge is paid on leaving PEI. It was $54 for both ways, not much more than for a car, which was $40, and they didn’t charge extra for our tow vehicle. In no time, we were across the bridge to New Brunswick and crossing the border to Nova Scotia. The NS Welcome Centre was a great source of maps and books and it offered free internet access from several stations. I hadn’t had time in PEI to seek out Wifi, so I took advantage to download my email – but I need more than the ten minutes they allotted. I dream of finding a place where I get a strong signal for an entire night.

Truro, a town of 11,000 has a Walmart but for some reason also had big signs out “No Overnight Camping”. We were just starting to take Walmart for granted. No Costco in town so we checked our Passport America catalogue and decided on the Millpond Campground at the head of Cobequid Bay in the historic hamlet of Maitland. But I’d much rather be in Walmart! The ocean water in the bay is blood red – beautiful but weird. A great tidal bore – an extreme high tide ‘roars’ into the bay twice every day; they are the highest tides in the world.

I found one Wifi signal in Maitland but it kept cutting out on me. Publishing this blog with photos is getting very difficult.

The coastal highway on the north side of Nova Scotia was extremely narrow without shoulders and very rough in patches, which made our progress slow. We were thankful that the traffic was so light and we could straddle the centre line. We stopped for an hour near the town of Cheverie at a scenic viewpoint, which gave us a wide vista of the bay. The tide was so far out when we arrived that we couldn’t see where the water started. While we had breakfast at a well-placed picnic table, we watched the tide come in swiftly forming islands and then submerging them.

This is Acadian country and there are several National Parks and Historic Sites that we visited. We are becoming quite the experts in Acadian lore. At Grand Pre, they listed the fifty family names that most Acadians come from. None of Fernie’s family names were listed but one of our brothers-in-law may have Acadian roots – the name Gauthier was one of those listed. I wonder if he knows. While we were strolling around the grounds of Grand Pre Historic Site, loud thunder started crashing but we paid no heed until the drops started and made a mad rush for the building. The skies opened up a floodgate and we were absolutely drenched. The storm passed fairly quickly but another one crossed our path as we drove along highway 101 to Digby and then we were back to puffy white clouds in the cornflower blue sky.

I phoned the Walmart in Digby and asked them if they permit overnight parking for RV’s. “We surely do, dear” the friendly woman who answered the phone replied, “It’s our pleasure to welcome you”. I liked Digby before we got there. I’m sure just about everyone knows what Digby is famous for – scallops. So many times in restaurants, I’ve noticed ‘Digby scallops’ on the menu.

Digby is a charming little fishing village, full of historic homes and seafood restaurants.
As soon as we arrived, we jumped in the Honda and rushed down to Fisherman’s Wharf hoping we’d find a seafood shop still open. We did and we bought a pound of huge bay scallops, stopped at the liquor store for a chilled bottle of white wine, came home, lightly sautéed the delicate shellfish and feasted on them. They were fabulous.

We decided to stay two nights at the Digby Walmart and drive the southern NS peninsula by car. That way, we were able to skulk along the back roads pulling in wherever we had the whim to do so. Highway 1 south of Digby to Yarmouth runs through fishing village after fishing village. The sea mist was quite thick when we started but it would clear and then submerge us again and then lift again. The sun was never far above and even when the mist was at its thickest, the sun’s glow would lend it a cheerful aura. Each little cove seemed more picturesque than the last and we ‘coved’ our way around the peninsula.

The most southerly point in Nova Scotia, “Cape Sable Island” is barren and windswept – it’s battered on both sides from the wild Atlantic storms, sticking out the way it does. The houses are square and practical – little fortresses with small windows, no front porches and high peaked roofs making them look quite impenetrable by water. Their yards were full of lobster pots piled high and mounds of brightly coloured fishing floats and ropes. It was there in Clark’s Harbour that we found a little local café ‘Fisherman’s Cove’ where we dined on a seafood chowder that was full of lobster, scallops, and fish. It was absolutely superb. I wonder if anyone has noticed my descriptions of food are a central theme in my blog…….I guess I just enjoy food too, too much. And I thought I’d lose weight on this journey. Think again!

The waitress’ accent was as broad and musical a maritime accent as it could possibly be – long stretched out a’s. As we slurped down our chowder, the owner arrived – a mn about 45 years old in t-shirt, jeans, boots and a smile as wide as his belly, which his t-shirt so prominently displayed. A lock of greying hair hung over his chuckling eyes.
“Didja bring thet butterfly all the way from British Columbia?” he asked in his broad accent, noticing a large yellow and black butterfly stuck on our license plate and seemingly alive as the wind ruffled its wings.

He was born ‘just down the road’ of Scottish parents. “The west coast is mostly French but there’s a lot of us Scots on the east coast” he said. He poured himself a mug of coffee, sat on the edge of a stool and chattered on about politics, travel and life in general. He was interested in our journey and British Columbia. He’d been there once just after 9/11 with his ‘girlfriend’. A handsome young man with days of unshaved whiskers burst through the door. The waitress, pleased to see him said “You’re home!” and ran to hug him. “Noooo” he said pulling back “ I just got off the boat – been out for eight days and I’m pretty rank”. We paid our bill and left them all prattling away.

Just up the coast a ways, the town of Shellburne has a wonderfully restored historic waterfront. A Tudor style building on stilts, old clapboard structures now housing museums, shops, pubs and yachts bobbing at anchor in the choppy harbour. It was pleasant just ambling around.

Caesar always accompanies us on our ventures. It’s more difficult now with his injury. He’s had a degenerative hip condition for several years and the vet has said theree’s really nothing we can do about it. This is the worst it’s ever been though and I get a lump in my throat as I watch him lumber along clumsily on his three legs, dragging the other. He doesn’t go far and sits down when he can’t go on and we pick him up and carry him. We don’t allow him to jump or try to climb stairs and when we go out in the car for a day, we set him up in his bed in the back seat and take him out for short walks /; hops whenever we find nice grassy areas. At first, Caesar couldn’t turn on three legs and had to hop in a wide arc but today he learned to pivot. Yeah! We spoil him totally now; we give him bits of whatever we’re eating – his favourite is the end of Fernie’s ice cream cone.


Back on the east coast, the hillsides beside the highway were ablaze with masses of wild lupins – pale pink, varying shades of mauve up to deep royal purple. It was a magnificent sight. It was a long day out as we completed the circular route by crossing over on the inland route 8 back to Digby and we were all quite exhausted.

My Blue (Red & Green) Heaven!

June 9 – 12, 2006
The Confederation Bridge between New Brunswick and PEI is an awe-inspiring structure – nine miles long and we were oh so glad it wasn’t windy. As a matter of fact, the clouds were miraculously clearing and blue skies lay ahead of us in PEI.

We used our Passport America membership at a campsite not too far from the bridge. We planned to stay for three or four days so didn’t want a Walmart. The central location of the Sun ‘n Shade Campground made it easy to do day trips around the three designated scenic drives in PEI, using the Honda. I don’t think I’d like the campsite in tourist season, because the grassy sites are very narrow. We didn’t have anyone near us at all which gave us a lot of privacy and an outlook of velvety green lawn. The owner/manager who signed me in, was a very dour woman. No matter how hard I tried, I could not get her smiling. She spoke in a monotone and narrated her spiel as if she’d said it a million times before. “The Confederation Trail is at the rear of the campground and if you walk that way for 15 minutes, you’ll get to a Tim Horton’s. If you want seafood, go to the front and 100 yards down the road is a good seafood shop with good prices”. Friday and Saturday nights, the owners have entertainment in their community lounge. She and her husband belong to a bluegrass band and jam it up. We were invited but got back so late each day, we were just too tired – and anyway we’re not really bluegrass aficionados.


Our first day, we circled the central portion on the ‘Blue Heron’ route. Our initial impression of PEI is somewhat like that of Jacques Cartier – it is one of the most green and beautiful, pastoral places on earth. The red earth furrowed with newly planted potatoes contrasted with the bright lush green of the fields spread like carpets to the azure shore. The shallow water of the ocean was blood red reflecting the colour of the clay coloured sand; marshes full of herons and other water birds surrounded the meandering rivers; rolling hills with tall gabled and shuttered houses peeking through the trees; church spires – some pointy/some blunt could be seen here and there; coves sheltered fishing boats; quaint and peaceful little villages. It is a province of such vivid colour, like precious gems – ruby, emerald and sapphire.

Cavendish, where ‘Green Gables’ is situated has been turned into another tourist nightmare with all those ‘attractions’ to throw away their money on. In 1970, there was just the house and the expanse of lawn.
Just a few miles down the road from Cavendish, we stopped for dinner at a huge restaurant called ‘New Glasgow Lobster Suppers’, one of many such establishments around the island. We had a meal to die for, starting with delicious lobster chowder, a huge bowl of steamed mussels, fresh baked buns, cole slaw, potato salad and green salad. All of the preceding was in unlimited portions. Fernie had more chowder and I had an encore of mussels and I put a few mussels aside for Caesar who was waiting patiently in the car.

The piece de resistance was next – our one-pound each of lobster with dipping butter. It melted in our mouths. Fernie chose a Nova Scotia Chablis to accompany it and it was surprisingly good. Julie, our friendly server entertained us with tales of the island as she brought us each course. This wasn’t the end of our over-indulgent feast – huge slabs of lemon meringue pie, Fernie’s with a mound of vanilla ice cream on the side. The ice cream was made ‘just down the road’ – from those Guernsey cows we see all over the place, I guess. Fernie, the ice cream gourmet, gave it a score of 10 out of 10. When we were offered a plate of assorted cakes, we both groaned in unison “Noooooo thank-you” but we accepted the offer of tea, which was brewed – not a teabag in the cup. The price of this food orgy was just $27.95 each – a terrific bargain.

Caesar snoozed in the car while we had dinner but his head popped up when he smelled the mussels I’d brought for him. At least, his injury hasn’t taken his appetite. He slurped them down quickly with drooling delight.

The second day, we decided on the ‘Points East Coastal Drive’, which twisted and turned along the north-east coast to East Point at the tip of PEI and back along the south coast. We awoke to a warm and dry but misty day. The sun managed to burn through the mist every now and then but it wasn’t as glorious as yesterday. The north coast is the wild blustery side of the island and is not so developed. Shifting dunes border the long stretches of wild desolate powdery sand beaches. The sand is lighter in colour than the red sand of the south shore from the pounding of the open sea waves. Greenwich National Park protecting the dune environment had an interesting interpretation centre where we spent an hour learning about mussel culture, lobster fishing, animal & bird life in the dunes, 10,000 years of PEI’s habitation; Miq-maq culture. You might think it all sounds tedious but it was quite stimulating. We were the lone visitors.

North Lake on the remote north coast is a fishing village that bills itself as the ‘Tuna Capital of PEI’ and it’s a busy little port, boats coming and going. Deep-sea fishing charters were available from every available fisherman, it appeared. It seems that every farm in PEI has cottages for rent or a B&B, so I’m imagining that the island in July and August is just teeming with visitors and wouldn’t be anywhere near so appealing. The whole island is riddled with cottages and B&B’s so there’s a huge market.

We felt such an affinity for this exquisite little island. Never before have we seen a place where every citizen takes such pride in his or her surroundings. Every lawn was manicured even when the homes were surrounded by acres of grass. Every homeowner had a ride-em tractor lawn mower and they’d mow before any shaggy appearance marred the perfection. The houses echoed the pristine surroundings – sparkling white or fresh pastels, which blended with the environment. Even the verges beside the roads were mowed which lent a neat and tidy park-like appearance.

We could easily imagine buying a piece of oceanfront property and building a Victorian gabled house with a wide porch surrounding it – and a high tower with a 360-degree view. The property is so affordable – oceanfront lots for less than $100,000. The lifestyle wouldn’t have suited us when we were younger and craved more civilized and sophisticated diversions but we’ve mellowed with age. However, we looked at Maggie and realized that she could give us a share of everywhere we love in North America. I don’t think we’d be content for long in one place --- not yet anyway.

Charlottetown, the capital has a population of only 64,000 which is 50% of the island’s total. We found parking spots without meters just off the main street in the residential area near the waterfront, which is still full of the grand old mansions of yesteryear.
The main street was lined with cozy coffee shops, enchanting little bookstores, charming restaurants and there was ample diagonal parking all along it.

In the afternoon, as we returned along the south coast, the weather changed and it started to rain. The rain got heavier and heavier so we beetled for home where we did our laundry and settled in for the night. No lobster tonight – a mushroom omelette instead.

It just poured torrents in the middle of the night. . I just love to be tucked in warmly with the rat-a-tat of the rain on the roof, which made our cocoon so cosy. It was dreary when we started off the next morning but it didn’t rain much and every so often the sun would force its way through bathing us in its warmth.

We headed for the ‘North Cape Coastal Drive’ the final of the designated drives. In the middle of the cape stands the ‘Potato Capital of PEI’, a town pioneered by the Irish from the family O’Leary and was thus named O’Leary. You might have noticed that my ‘pen-name’ for this blog is O’Leary – my maternal grandmother’s family name. Having been brought up by an Irish mother who regaled me with stories of her heritage, of Ireland, of the Potato famine, of her mother who was a suffragette, I was drawn to O’Leary, PEI like a moth to a flame.
A charming farm town, it houses the ‘Potato Museum’ in front of which stands the ”World’s largest potato”. I don’t know why they put a hockey stick in front of the big spud though.

As we had missed visiting (on our first day) the PEI National Park on the north coast near Cavendish, we returned in the afternoon. The park includes Green Gables, which is now a National Historic Site and with our annual pass, do you think I’d miss a ‘free’ entry? Green Gables was not the home of Lucy Maude Montgomery, the author of Anne of Green Gables, but it belonged to her distant cousins. She lived just down the road with her grandparents and loved the idyllic home so much that she based the house in the story on it. The house is lovely in the style of the day – early 1900’s but the property is even more so. They have copied the ideas from the book and incorporated them into the forest, stream and paths making it a delightful hour spent prowling around. It made me want to re-read Anne of Green Gables.

The remainder of the National Park stretches along the beach just north of Cavendish – with miles of dunes held together with Marram Grass. Caesar was still unable to walk and so we didn’t take too many hikes along the trails. He’s just too heavy and we feel guilty leaving him in the car. He is learning to get along on three legs in an awkward gait but he tires easily and is a bit afraid of being too far from home. He’s in good spirits in spite of it and accepts his injury with patience.

We stopped at a pub in Stanley Bridge, the Oyster Capital of PEI and naturally had oysters. They were much smaller than our BC ones and not half as tasty. I think we’ll stick to the lobster in future.

Aaahh! The salt air

June 4 – 8, 2006

The time changed at the Quebec / NB border losing another hour for a total of four. We settled comfortably into a quiet corner of the Walmart parking lot in Edmunston, NB for the night. Edmunston, in the northwest corner of New Brunswick, is a small town built around a pulp and paper mill in a very picturesque green valley.

I noticed some differences and similarities between the provinces of Quebec and New Brunswick. In NB, the houses were mostly white clapboard and austere in appearance but still had wide porches across the front, where rocking chairs, swings or gliders offered comfortable refuge. The ski-jump roofs, commonplace in Quebec were rare in NB – more common were high peaked steep ones. The main streets of the small towns were usually long and straight in NB instead of the curvy roads of Quebec. The ostentatious churches common in Quebec and near the border on the NB side petered out and more humble clapboard structures became the norm in the small towns. In larger communities, the churches while large were less flashy.

While driving through the little village of St. Leonard, we were amused that their ‘Auto Sales Used Car Lot’ had only two vehicles for sale and both were festooned with brightly coloured glittering lengths of flashy garland.

On a perfect summery morning, we headed off on the Appalachian Trail, along a ribbon of highway winding through the rounded hills swathed in a mixture of evergreen and deciduous trees. Further along, it was quite apparent that most of the forest had been radically clear-cut, by the design of the reforestation. The road was extremely rough and potholed which meant we had to crawl along trying to avoid the holes in the road. The semi-trailer trucks however still zoomed by at over 100kph so we had to pull over every so often.

Northern NB is ATV country in the summer and snowmobile territory in the winter; many trails followed the main highways, through the trees and over the hills. At Dalhousie, we changed to the Acadian coastal route, which wound along the coast of Chaleur Bay and it was oh so nice to be back to the ocean – the smell of the salt and seaweed put us on a high.

We settled in Bathurst at our usual choice – Walmart, and we stayed for two nights. Because we had so much trouble with our tow bar not locking, we read the manual and reckoned that the bar needed to be disassembled and lubed. We didn’t have the tools or the expertise so we called the manufacturer who recommended a company in Bathurst, EastCoast RV Sales. Their mechanic, Mike had never seen a Demco tow bar before and his first language was French so we had to read the manual to him. Thank goodness, he had a natural mechanical ability. He was a free-lance RV repairman and in the summer was very busy touring the local campsites and maintaining and repairing the travelling RV’s. He took the bar apart and there was a build up of rust inside that was inhibiting the easy movement so he cleaned and lubricated it and it seemed to really ease it. In the meantime, Roger the owner of the company and the other mechanic gathered around and chatted with us about our journey and they talked about living in Bathurst, a small mill town of about 13,000. We wondered how anyone from the area could afford the big RV’s that sold for between $100 and $160 thousand because New Brunswick is known to have a fairly depressed economy. Roger said that a lot of the older folk liked to winter in Florida and didn’t seem to have a problem coming up with the $. They were really caring business people and it felt so good to deal with them. At the end of it all, the bill was for $35 plus taxes – unbelievable in today’s world.

Fernie asked them if there was a Ford dealer in town that would do an oil change on a motorhome. So many times, Ford dealers don’t have bays large enough to handle Maggie. Roger knew the guys who owned the dealership and told us there’d be no problem and gave us directions to get to it. That was late Monday afternoon and we were able to get an 8am appointment with Ford for Wednesday morning. That left us a whole day to explore the coastal area along the Baie des Chaleurs and along the Acadian Peninsula to the tip of Ile Miscou.

The weather was beautiful and the journey along the scenic coastline through the many little villages was so pleasant. We stopped at a little sandy cove and took Caesar out for a walk along the beach. He is addicted to running along the shore and attacking the waves as they break on the sand, so off he ran forgetting he’s an old man of 12 (x 7=84 human years). He’s had a tricky hip problem for a few years now and running over the rocks, he threw it out and was unable to walk – poor little thing. We had to carry him after that. I’ve seen dogs that can run at full speed with only 3 legs but Caesar didn’t have a clue how to walk. Later on, when we got back to Maggie, I popped him a quarter of an aspirin to relieve the pain. It’s sad to see him unable to chase his ball.

We prowled around the Acadian fishing villages of Caraquet, Shippagan and Lameque watching the boats come in and the fishermen scurrying about the busy docks. At the end of the remote peninsula, accessible by bridge is the wild and windswept Ile Miscou. It seems to be unpopulated except for a lonely lighthouse, which was supported by long cables. The storms must be brutal if the lighthouse needs such tethering. One small window on the Oceanside, mid way up the walls had a large windshield wiper. Visiting it on a beautiful sunny day, it was hard to imagine the gales that in the past had dashed and sunk vessels off this coast.

The area can’t have too many tourists visiting; we tried to find a seafood café and a place to buy fresh fish or lobster with no success. We prowled every fishing pier and no luck. Finally, away from the villages and back on the tourist route, we chanced upon a casual restaurant where we had fish and chips. In the shop attached, we bought a ‘homemade’ palourde (quahog – like a clam) pate pie.

First thing in the morning, we took Maggie to Ford for an oil change and check up. They found that her clearance lights didn’t work and tried to repair them but were unable to as the wiring is only accessible from the inside through the unit’s walls. It’s a warranty item but not Ford’s responsibility rather the motorhome manufacturer, Holiday Rambler’s. We phoned HR to report it and we can have the repair done when we get home. The total bill from Ford was only $49 and they didn’t charge at all for the hour their mechanic spent on the lights. Amazing honest service.

We finally stopped at a large tire shop and asked them about rotating the tires. They took a look and told us there was no need yet and we could have it done after our return to Vancouver. That’s the third business we dealt with in Bathurst, where we were amazed at the honest, friendly service.

Miramichi is only sixty miles down the road from Bathurst. Fernie’s arms, hands and shoulders were terribly painful after the rough drive through the NB interior and I realized it was time I helped with the driving and took Maggie’s wheel. I, not too willingly, drove about twenty miles of the journey. Maggie handles differently than our last motorhome and very different from our Honda and it took some getting used to. In the future, on days where we drive a fairly long distance, I will give Fernie a break (if it’s absolutely necessary!)

The Miramichi Walmart sits high on a bluff and we parked with a panoramic view of the huge bridge across the wide bay. We arrived early and had a long day ahead to tour more of the Acadian Coastal Route. The little town of “Escuminac could be a movie set for a typical Maritime fishing village. Bleak, windswept land; square clapboard houses with high peaked roofs at the backs of which, washing flapped wildly on clothes lines; fishing boats fighting the surf to return to the docks; fishery workers in rubber boots and aprons slopping through the wet docks.

In the centre of the main street stands a memorial statue. In 1959, thirty-five local fishermen perished in a sudden squall in the Northumberland Straits between New Brunswick and PEI. I read the names of the victims and found it so sad that there were 9 or 10 different family names. Families were decimated by the loss of three or four of their members. What a tragedy!

Further along the coast lies Kouchibouguac (try and say that five times) National Park. Bogs and marshes shelter numerous bird and wildlife species and the park is riddled with tempting hiking trails. Caesar was still not able to walk on his hind leg, so we took turns carrying him. Down a long boardwalk, over the salt marshes to a long sand bar and beautiful white sand beach, we were puffed out and couldn’t walk further along the beach. It curtailed our long hikes because his twenty pounds is quite a drag. Endangered ‘piping plovers’ darted through the air all around our heads and dove like bullets into the water coming up with little fish each time. The dunes are fenced off because the silly little plovers lay their eggs on the sand with no protection and the biologists are trying to boost the numbers of these beautiful little birds.

We were worn out when we returned home to Maggie and had an early night.

We intended to head for PEI on June 8th but we woke to high winds and torrential rain so we detoured to Moncton, which has two Walmarts. We chose the newer one on the outskirts of town because it had much more room. We’ve almost always been the only RV in the Walmart lots so far this trip, but this night three others pulled in. I guess tourist season is beginning.

The weather didn’t inhibit our day too much. We drove to the National Historic Site of the Monument Lefebvre in the little Acadian town of Memramcook. It was a large building memorializing Father Lefebvre who brought higher education to the peasant Acadians in the area. We watched a presentation detailing the 18th century deportation of the Acadians by the ‘damned British’ of course - another lesson in our Canadian historical studies. We still don’t quite understand why the Acadians didn’t relate to the other French in Canada and were even unwelcome when some of them returned to France. Even today, they don’t understand the Quebecois attitude and the Acadian dialect is not easily understood either. They feel they are not French. “We are Acadians,” they state with pride. Perhaps it’s because they intermarried with the Miq-maq Indians and maybe also because they were peasants and the arrogant French looked down upon them.

I visited Magnetic Hill in 1970 and it was a quiet rural road with just a small instructional sign beside it. It’s an optical illusion – you put your car in neutral, apparently heading uphill and the car rolls forward up the hill – of course, it’s really down hill. Today, there’s a water park, a zoo, mini-golf, a newly constructed covered bridge, restaurants, hotels, etc., etc., etc. They have even surrounded the ‘hill’ and now charge $5. These kin of tourist traps depress me. I guess it’s different if you have children.

Shediac is the lobster capital of New Brunswick and a short drive over brought us to a town full of hotels, seafood restaurants and campgrounds. Greeting us as we drove in was the world’s largest lobster – a bright red concrete depiction. We bought a cooked two-pound lobster ($17) at a seafood outlet and a bottle of Chardonnay and took them home where we tackled the delectable beast with glee. It was absolutely heavenly!

The Maple Leaf Forever - Hah!

June 1-3, 2006

Before leaving Ontario, we went into the little village of St. Albert to visit their cheese factory. It is a very French town and you’d have thought we were in Quebec. St. Albert Fromage is the only privately owned cheese factory left in the district. Big conglomerates like Kraft have bought the rest out. We loaded up on cheeses of all kinds including a bag of curds, a Quebecois delicacy and a hot loaf of freshly baked French bread – we are cheeseaholics! Guess what we had for lunch with a full-bodied red wine.

The temperature was more moderate, puffy clouds decorated the sky and the smog was not so obvious, after the wind and rain of the prior night. No sooner had we crossed the border to Quebec, Fernie was cursing “Les maudit tete de vache!” I’m not sure why he called everyone a meathead or more literally “damn cow head” but it remained his favourite expression while we drove through the province.He did finally admit to me that it didn’t matter how nice the Quebecois were to him, he hated their political stance and did not want to linger or spend money in the province. I, of course persuaded him to visit awhile in Montreal and Quebec City. As to the area where his father’s family originated – around Chicoutimi – we visited the district about fifteen years ago, didn’t like the attitude of the locals and he didn’t want to return. I do remember that there were thousands of Boivins in the phone book probably all related to him but he says he doesn’t care. I told him to just tell them that he’s a Boivin and they would welcome him. He says if they can’t be nice to him without knowing his name, he’s not interested in them.


Noticeably absent in Quebec was the Maple Leaf flag of Canada even in Montreal. The blue and white cross and fleur-de-lis flag was displayed prominently almost everywhere. The only Canadian flags we saw were on Walmart – Vive Walmart! and on Federal buildings.Fernie approached the store manager of the Walmart in St Eustache a northern suburb of
Montreal and asked him
“Veuillez pouvoir nous garons notre motorhome durant la nuit dans votre stationnement sort?“
He replied with a smile
“Aaah – Winnebago eh?”
I guess Winnebago is the generic term for motorhome.
“Oui, certainment – as long as you ‘ave dejeuner at MacDonalds in the morning”
Fernie naturally concurred.
“You won’t ‘ave any trouble in Quebec Walmarts when you want to park your Winnebago” he continued.
As Fernie walked away, he heard the manager say to his assistant “Les Etats Unis” not knowing Fernie could understand.

I’ve visited Montreal quite a few times in the past and yet I’m still enamoured by its Parisienne style. That never changes. I love so many things about this atmospheric city.




· The rows of walk-up apartments on shady tree-lined streets some with ornate balustrades, filigree balconies and quirky turrets.
· The little sidewalk cafes and quaint shops in the various neighbourhoods.
· People live outside on the streets, in the cafes, bars and parks. (summertime only)
· Its Parisienne atmosphere.
· Beautiful young women in skirts riding bikes with flowers and bread in their baskets.
· Young men in berets.
· An older man and a beautiful young woman on a bench in the middle of a busy square kissing passionately.
· A young lithe couple in matching striped tight shirts; he with hair cropped close to the scalp and she with a short angular hairstyle.
· Street musicians in unexpected corners of the city. One lone fiddler playing classical violin with no one around. The melancholy sound echoed through the alleyways.
· Ville Marie, Vieux Montreal – a historic district with flare and panache (hope that’s not redundant.

We had Caesar with us when we strolled through the streets of Ville Marie so we couldn’t sit in one of the charming little bistros; instead we had ‘frites avec poutine’ on the waterfront. The temperature was perfect shirtsleeve weather.

The gay district of Montreal at the eastern end of Rue Ste. Catherine is the most flamboyant and vibrant gay area you can imagine. Patrons of the open bars and restaurants flowed noisily into the streets, drinking, smoking and just plain having fun and a lot of l’amour - naturellement.

Our tow hitch is still giving us trouble. When reading the manual, we discovered that it needs dis-assembly, cleaning and lubing inside, but we don’t have the tools (or expertise) to do it. We called the manufacturer in Iowa and they referred us to the Quebec distributor who in turn referred us to “Charest, Experts” in Trois Rivieres. Wouldn’t you know it, les Charest said they couldn’t work on a 31-foot motorhome – too big. So why are they the experts on RV tow bars when they can’t service big RV’s? It’s Friday now – guess we’ll find somewhere on Monday.

In spite of the remark by the Walmart manager in St. Eustache, we did have trouble at a Walmart in Quebec City. There were huge bi-lingual (the only time we saw a bi-lingual sign in Quebec) signs in the parking lot blaming La Ville du Quebec followed by an apology from Walmart – aren’t they nice folks? We made a phone call to the Walmart in Beauport, only five miles further along but outside the city limit and they welcomed us with open arms and friendliness but a scarcity of Anglaise.

The first afternoon, we went on a hunt for a homemade tourtiere at les boucheries. We found sugar pies but no tourtiere except for a frozen President’s Choice one. And there was no pea soup anywhere. I guess we’ll have to go to one of the tourist restaurants in the old town to have a traditional Quebec meal. The hunt turned out to be fun though. One supermarket we stopped at had a saxophonist roaming the aisles. Where else could you have so much fun food shopping. We got a bit lost touring the little curvy streets and we eventually had to retrace our steps. It’s hard when you don’t have a map. A funny thing I noticed about the old houses – they were all built at a 45-degree angle to the road making for a strange looking arrangement. I wonder what the reason for that was.

I am feeling like a pariah here. I can’t engage anyone in conversation and it’s killing me. We were being voyeurs at the scene of a bad motor vehicle accident, when a man spoke to me – I so much wanted to talk to him but I just answered “Je ne parle pas Francais”. He understood me so I guess my phrasing was close to right. Fernie makes constant fun of my attempts to pronounce French Canadian but I just tell him that I could laugh at some of his English – like ‘nord’. Also, my school written French has stuck with me enough that I sometimes know the correct word that he can’t remember.

One thing that’s really been obvious to us on this journey, is that nomadic RVer’s like ourselves have to accept all sorts of weather from freezing to boiling; from humid to arid; storms – rain, snow, ice, thunder, wind. It seems the weather is constantly changing – cyclically – except I don’t suppose we’ll see snow or ice again on this trip.

On our second day in Quebec City, we awoke to a typical Vancouver day – overcast and rain, off and on. The trouble was the rain got worse as the day wore on but it wasn’t cold. So strolling through “Vieux Quebec” was not as pleasant as it could have been. The wind was high right on the St. Lawrence River and it drove the rain hard. What was nice though is that there was no cruise ship in port and only a couple of tour buses, so it was far from crowded. We’ve visited Quebec before so the Citadel, Chateau Frontenac, et al were a bit ‘déjà vu’. Fernie, still on the hunt for a tourtiere, spied ‘Le Marche’ just a mile or so away from old town. It was primarily a flower market but he found his tourtiere, which we had for dinner later and it was superb.

A rainy day – what to do? Ah Hah! A visit to Costco, just like at home. I absolutely adore Costco – I’m addicted. We really went there to inflate the Honda’s tires, which are filled with nitrogen – only Costco uses it rather than air. Our tires lost about two pounds each across Canada. I came out of Costco with new shoes (a travelling show), jeans, wine, cheese, etc. etc. The nice part is I used our Costco cash card from Fernie’s retirement present.

We were parked near a big Cineplex complex so thought we’d enjoy seeing a film that evening, but all films were ‘French spoken over English’ and we figured it would be much too hard to understand so passed on it. Instead we took a drive to L’Ile d’Orleans and what a charming island it was. We enjoyed our time there far more than the tourist trap of Vieux Quebec. At the western end of the island is the little village of Ste. Petronille. Most of the island is designated agricultural and the ‘fermes’ are owned by families that have passed them on from generation to generation but Ste. Petronille is full of upscale homes, in the traditional Quebec styles; stone houses with red ‘ski-jump’ roofs predominate. Verdant with trees and shrubs on curving narrow lanes, homes fronted by vast lawns stood serenely at the end of long driveways, overlooking the St. Lawrence River and the hills beyond. At the end of the island, there was a terrific view of the city over the tremendous width of the river. Touring the agricultural end of the island gave us a different aspect of the culture. We traipsed through cemeteries and found that certain family names appeared over and over. The oldest church on the island, Eglise de Sainte Famille, was built in 1743. The same family names could be seen on the silos that were branded with the owners’ names; i.e. Ferme de Pierre et Marie Turcotte.

We left Quebec City on a beautiful day crossing the St. Lawrence to take Hwy 20 northeast along the river to Riviere-du-Loup where we headed inland to New Brunswick on Hwy 185.. It was a lovely drive but Fernie was in a hurry to leave Quebec. It drove him mad that he had to buy gas in the province but we couldn’t last until New Brunswick.

The price of gas was higher in Quebec. $1.08/L around Montreal; $1.11/L in Quebec City. The lowest we’ve found in Canada was in Toronto at $.893/L. I don’t think we’ll see that again.

We crossed into New Brunswick and were delighted to see the huge Maple Leaf flag at the border info centre. New Brunswick, while very French, is proud of its bi-lingual culture and the info centre clerks exuded warm friendliness. Free internet access at several computer stations was a nice touch too.

We’re Having a Heat Wave!

May 30-31, 2006

It was a hot night but with our windows all open, we slept well with just a sheet covering us. About 5am, a damp chill crept in and I pulled up a blanket – what a wonderful feeling after the heat. The heavy moisture in the air made for an eerie landscape as dawn arrived. The cold morning air meeting the warm damp earth created low mists with trees rising above as if floating through the air. We were up early (for us) and on the road by 8am. We could feel the humidity in the air but it was cool as we drove along with our windows wide open.

Destination: Ottawa – there are two Walmarts in Ottawa and one in Hull but the city of Ottawa does not permit overnight parking. Walmart’s sign says it only allows three hours ‘while shopping’ (can you imagine shopping for three hours in Walmart?). A perfect wifi signal there and I was able to upload a blog instalment but I mourned that we couldn’t stay and have that wifi signal for the whole night. The heat was pretty stifling though by now and a parking lot is not a place to be.






While we were in Quartzsite, Arizona at their big RV Show in January, we purchased a membership with Passport America at a cost of $35 US for 16 months. PA has a network of campgrounds across North America and the cost to camp is 50% of their regular rate. So we checked our catalogue and found one only ½ hour outside Ottawa near the little town of Casselman. ‘A Summer Nest’ run by Tony and Jeanne (pronounced ‘Genie’), a garrulous Francophone couple, was situated in the middle of farmland. As we drove in, Tony came out to meet us. His bow-legged and arthritic gait was accentuated by his cut-off denim shorts and he moseyed over like Chester from Gunsmoke (for all of you over 50 or maybe 60). His eyes were an opaque silvery-blue as if they were buried under layers of cataracts. His hands were scarred and calloused probably from long years of manual labour.
“Hello” he said jovially and I wondered how he knew not to say “Bon Jour”. His eyes must be good enough to read our license plates, I suppose.
“Come on” he said “I’ll show some campsites and you can choose”. So I followed him while he nattered about how he and Jeanne just got back from Florida a few weeks ago. They spend six months there every winter in a mobile home. He wheels and deals on his mobiles, buying and selling if the price is right.
“Everything is for sale at the right price,” he said in his broad French accent, grinning like smurf.

From the front porch of their office / home, Jeanne called out “Tony – show ‘er the one at the end – the one with the trees and the grass; they’ll be cool there”. And that’s the one we chose.
“Go settle in,” said Tony “and you can come up to the office and see my wife, the bookkeeper later” he chuckled as he ambled off.

Jeanne with an elfin smiling face, hair pulled back with a sweat band, in shorts and t-shirt looked younger than I expected (Tony had led me to believe she was frail and ailing) greeted me like an old friend and ushered me into her large open office / kitchen. “I ‘ave lunch on” she said “ I been working in the garden and I’m real hungry”. A pot of soup (no doubt ‘pea’) bubbled on the stove. I told her we’d be staying for two days.
“That’ll be $25,” she said.
$12.50 a day - what a deal especially in a heat wave – with 30-amp electricity for our air conditioner.
She showed me around to the side of their house where the laundry and showers were chattering exuberantly all the way.
“We ‘ave music on the weekend” she told me “I play the guitar and we have a bunch who come in with their instruments and we play in the back field – country and western” she said beaming “I sing too” she said proudly. Her dimpled Pillsbury Doughboy face crinkled with glee as she recounted tales of their jam sessions.

As I made my way back over to Maggie, Tony shouted out “I’ll bring you a picnic table so you can ‘ave your lunch outside on the grass”. Good as his word, ten minutes later we heard a tractor pulling up on our vast stretch of lawn with a freshly painted half-size picnic table, which he put in the shade of a big poplar tree.
“I cut the tables in ‘alf” he said “that way, I can handle em alone and I get more for my money” guffawing at his own humour. He then went on to tell us how he bought the place nine years ago.
“The doctor told me that my Jeanne would be crippled soon and that I should ‘ave a ranch style home for ‘er with no stairs” his hazy eyes misted as he thought back “so I came to see this place – I was only 56 then and I still had to work” he continued.
“It was a bankruptcy - - and I told them at the ‘Caisse’ that I only had $48,000 to spend when they asked me for an offer” he paused looking around at his property.
“They accepted it” he said gleefully “can you believe it? The campground is 9 acres, and that’s what I thought I was buying but when I was signing the agreement for sale, it said that the property was 29.5 acres” by now he was chortling with the thrill of his deal.
“Next door, that guy has only 1.75 acres and he’s asking $250,000 for it – I figure I could get 1 ½ million for mine now” he said “and when I do, I’m gonna buy me a rig just like yours”.

We weren’t going to let the obscene heat and humidity stop us from heading back into Ottawa for a look around but we couldn’t leave Caesar behind. I was afraid to leave him with the A/C on because what if the power went off and he was shut in without ventilation. So we piled into the Honda and put the A/C on high and took a motor tour of our country’s capitol. We did get out a few times but hustled from shade to shade. We strolled along by 24 Sussex and peered through the hedge at the Prime Minister’s residence. Somehow, it doesn’t have the same glamour with Stephen Harper in residence as it did when Pierre Trudeau lived there. We crossed over to Rideau Hall and thought the lovely treed grounds would be a cool haven from the heat but they turned us away “No dogs, I’m sorry” the young woman said apologetically. We made another couple of stops – at Rockcliffe Park’s scenic viewpoint of the meeting of the Ottawa and Gatineau Rivers and at the Remic Rapids in Nepean Bay it’s strange how the calm wide waters suddenly break into wild rapids; It looks like shallow water running over a vast area of shale.



The traffic was very heavy along Wellington Street, in the heart of the city and along the stretch in front of the Houses of Parliament. It worked well for us as we crawled along in the shady bus lane because I (the driver) could sightsee too and it was so lovely and cool in the car. We followed the Rideau Canal south for several miles out of town – there are some lovely properties on the waterway and it was very picturesque.

When we got ‘home’, we cranked up the A/C and cooled down Maggie and spent a pleasant though muggy evening.

On our second day of patriotic tourism, we left Caesar behind in a well-ventilated and reasonably cool motorhome. We started early to take advantage of the relatively cool morning.

Ottawa is a lovely city full of heritage buildings, tree lined streets, the picturesque Rideau Canal running through it, beautiful residential neighbourhoods and no apparent poverty. The populace were dressed very formally in the core of the city even in the horrible heat wave.

We started with the Houses of Parliament, marvelling at the Victorian architecture with spires, gargoyles and other grotesque stone carvings. The immensity of the buildings is not realized when watching TV newscasts from Parliament Hill – it is most impressive in person. To visit the inside, you have to take an escorted tour and tours leave every ten minutes. The tour is short – only about 40 minutes and half of that’s taken up in clearing security. The gothic arches and alcoves made me think of the Harry Potter movie sets. We visited the senate chamber but not the House of Commons – I guess it was in session.

We took a little more time prowling around the grounds visiting the statues from Queen Victoria to MacDonald, Laurier and more recently Diefenbaker and Pearson – but where was Pierre? Tucked in the trees behind a fence, at the side of the main building just behind Queen Victoria is a cat sanctuary. What an incongruous feature with the pomp and circumstance of Parliament only steps away. Volunteers care and feed stray cats, along with squirrels, racoons, groundhogs and various birds. I don’t understand the feeding of the wild animals and birds – can’t they fend for themselves naturally? There were several well-fed cats stretched out in front of their refuge and a little black squirrel scampered by only inches from their noses stopping periodically to pick at bits of food – the cats paid no attention; they’d just open one eye to watch. Strangely, the government of Canada does not financially support this shelter at all. One woman who took over from the originator who died in 1987, spends $6,000 a year for food and has a box there soliciting donations.

As we strolled over to the locks on the Rideau Canal, the heat and humidity seemed to amplify. Our clothes were feeling quite damp. We decided a respite in a cool restaurant for lunch would revive us before tackling the National Gallery. The first restaurant we encountered was on the banks of the canal and was so inviting but all the customers were dressed in business attire and we would feel mighty uncomfortable there in our casual dress. We found an Indian restaurant offering a luncheon buffet and we figured that would hit the spot. Wonderful curries, butter chicken, tandoori, washed down with a Cheetah beer in an oh-so-cool location and we were revived.

Onwards to the National Gallery across the road from the beautiful Notre Dame Cathedral. What an unexpected treat the Gallery was – a wonderful exhibition of Canadian art from the very early days to the present; of course including a fine collection from the ‘Group of Seven’. We spent most of our time in the Canadian exhibits, disregarding the traveling DaVinci and Michaelangelo travelling exhibit (been there/done that). After all, this Cross Canada sojourn is to discover the many facets of our amazing country.

We looked at our watches and had to scurry back to Caesar; no time to visit Rideau Hall or Laurier House – our baby was waiting for us and had been alone all day. He was still fast asleep when we arrived back, got up, stretched and wagged his tail in welcome – I think he enjoyed his day alone.

The evening became unbearable with the heat and we couldn’t stand to be shut up in the motorhome with the A/C on, so after we cooled it down somewhat, we shut it off and just opened windows. We couldn’t go outside because the millions of hungry mosquitoes were waiting to attack. Sheet lightning in the west lit up the sky and we sat watching it having no energy to move. We started to hear the thunder and the lightning was closer and jagged as well as sheet – a vibrant light and sound show. The wind came up suddenly and we rushed to turn down the satellite dish – didn’t want it to be hit by lightning. Then the rain started and the storm was right overhead. We were gleeful at the thought of the lowering of temperature that usually follows a storm but it just seemed to get hotter and more humid. Lying in bed, with not a breath of air – I’m surprised we got any sleep at all.