2,175 kilometres, four motels, two packages of black twizzlers and a porcupine. A road trip filled with the unexpected, and wow, has it been fun. We had fish and chips made with freshly caught turbot in a roadside local cafe situated between the mighty St. Lawrence river and a lake filled with grasses and driftwood. We also dined on half a supermarket sandwich, salsa, leftover carrots and an apple one evening sitting at a formica-topped kitchen table at a guest house where we slept in what felt like the host’s grown-up child’s bedroom - one double bed, two of us, two dogs, and a window that wouldn’t open.

But the home made breakfast the next morning was excellent!

La Gaspésie is a large area at the far east of the province of Québec. Remote, maritime and unknown. Which is why my friend wanted to go, and I jumped at the invitation to join her. We headed out last Monday morning, her two dogs keen and alert in the back seat of the car. A proper road trip. One (sunny) day we did a 15 km hike out and back to the lighthouse at Cap Gaspé where we sat on two red Muskoka chairs eating chips (aka crisps) and looked out at the endless water from the high (and unseen to us) chalk white cliffs. We saw so many minke whales, their backs glistening in the strong sunlight, common eiders, scoters, gulls, a ruffed grouse that acted like a chicken, running along the path in front of us in a panic and sending the dogs into tailspins of frenzy. Oh, and the porcupine.

I’ve never been up close and personal to a porcupine before. We noticed him (?) from a distance, ambling along our forest path, and wondered if it could be a small bear. My binoculars saved us from having to turn back, which we would have had to do if it had been. As it was, we couldn’t risk the dogs getting anywhere near it, so I went ahead to suss out the situation. Contrary to popular myth, they cannot throw their spines, nor do they move quickly, but their first line of defence is to thrash with the tail, which holds the most lethal prickles that once in the skin continue to work themselves in at a rate of an inch a day. In the wild, that means that the spine often ends up piercing a vital organ and death follows. For a domestic dog, it would be extreme discomfort, pain, confusion and a trip to the vet.

 
I had to shoo it off the path as it wasn’t dangerous to me unless I tried to hug it, but it was reluctant to leave the clear, softly-trodden trail. Eventually, though, it ambled into the undergrowth and out of sight so that we could pass, the dogs held tight on their leashes as they went wild with the smell.

Most of the past week has been mild, with temperatures reaching 20 degrees in the afternoon, but then dipping quickly as the sun dropped. It was 1 degree one morning, but the crisp dryness was fantastic and the sunrise an intense line of orange and red that stretched along the horizon. That morning we took the dogs down to the coast before breakfast; a walk that took us through a forest of small, dry evergreens, their branches hung with spanish moss, and out onto grasslands. We stood and looked across at Rocher Percé, a well-known sea arch near Bonaventure Island which itself is a conservation area home to 120,000 pairs of gannets. Below us on the rocks were dozens of seals, sunbathing in the fresh sunlight. Everything glistened.

We had lunch in the town of Percé, eating delicious fish soup and crèpes on the terrace of the Nath Café, the dogs at our feet, Mont Ste Anne at our backs. We climbed it after lunch. Of course. In fact, I noticed a number of hills, drumlins and mountains with crosses on their summits. For those who know me well, this is tantamount to a challenge, so I’ve kept note for future adventures.

In Kamouraska we had dinner at Grand’Ourse, a microbrewery cantine where Dori had poutine and I ate a duck guédille: classic but low-brow Quebec food. Does anyone outside of Canada know poutine? It is a simple dish of french fries covered with cheese curds and gravy, and sometimes added chicken or pork. It doesn’t appeal to me but I am in the minority. Poutine is also how the French spell Putin. As in Vladimir. And it makes me chuckle to see his name in French newspapers written as a truck stop food.

My guédille could be considered more gauche than poutine, as the word means snot in quebécoise. Probably a good thing I didn’t know that in advance, but what I was served was a bun, split in two and stuffed with a filling. I opted for duck given we were in hunting season, but more regularly it would be filled with lobster, crab or fish. In no way did it resemble its other meaning, and the fries were divine. As was the beer, of course. It was a microbrewery, after all. 

At our motel here in Kamouraska we had a couple of provincial road workers in the next room. They spent hours cleaning their equipment and then set out a stove on the back of their truck and proceeded to fry up a feast of onions, peppers and potatoes, then grilled a massive steak (moose? elk?) on the other side. As we headed to our authentic Quebecois dinners (although realistically these two men were the real deal, and they weren’t having poutine) we apologised in advance for any barking from the dogs we were leaving behind. They laughed, and said nothing would bother them, they’d be heading to work at 3 am. Then they uncorked a bottle of red wine.

One evening we drove at speed towards a sand spit to catch the sunset. The sun drops fast, as does the temperature. By the time we were unloading the dogs and gathering our supplies, it was blowing a cold gale. We threw on all our extra layers, which weren’t quite enough, and sought out a distant spot that still boasted some sun. The dogs were keen and eventually we settled on a large piece of driftwood with our beers and a bag of chips (crisps). We watched the sun slip behind the mountains and the few clouds in the sky change to pinks and purples. We were determined to enjoy the moment but with the water at our feet being whipped up into choppy waves, the beer cans too cold to hold and the chips being blown out of our fingers, we fled back to the car. Relief. We flicked on the seat heaters and settled in to appreciate the last of the changing colours, beers still in hand.

Distances are vast and Canadians think nothing of getting up each morning and driving hundreds more kilometres each day. We did spend two nights at the same motel, though, and one with a Nordic spa. These are a thing in Quebec, and as I was keen to try one out, I thought our planning perfect. We envisioned floating in a sea of steaming bubbles after a long hike, resting our heads on our arms and gazing out at the ocean, the cool air a delightful contrast with our aching muscles being gently pummelled by hot water jets. Except that the spa only opened on weekends, so Friday morning was the only option. And who wants to spa at 8 am? It’s a reward after a day of strenuous hiking, not a post-breakfast bath.

Our only water experience, in fact, came towards the end of our 15 km hike to Cap Gaspé. We came out of a forested section, walked along a path beside a burbling stream and stepped onto a pebble beach. Steep cliffs loomed at each end and the Atlantic ocean gleamed in front of us. Almost without discussion we tied the dogs up and stripped off. We had to plunge, and didn’t much care if anyone unexpectedly appeared. 

The water was crystal clear and salty. Of course it was salty, it’s the Atlantic ocean, but I’m not used to sea water in Canada with its plethora of lakes. It was quite cold but not bone-chilling. Not like the Thames in 2020 when Justine and I decided that a Christmas plunge would cure of us of covid. Nor did it have the numbing effect that I felt when I “swam” in 11 degree water in Newfoundland in late July a few years ago. No, this was just bracing, and took away the sweat from the long hike. We emerged victorious and rejuvenated, then wrestled our clothes back onto our damp bodies, glowing from the unplanned immersion. The sun was warm and we continued on our way, a great day just that much better. 

Who knew that Rimouski was renowned for its sunsets? Unfortunately, we were heading straight into the blazing orb on the first leg of our trip back towards Montreal. Right in our eyes AND reflecting off the road surface. At times we had to slow to a crawl. But once it slipped below the horizon, the red glow kept intensifying as if our western trajectory allowed us to keep pace with the sun. When we finally pulled up to the motel by the lighthouse at Point au Père almost an hour later, the glow had only just diminished. Time felt elastic and ethereal.

So all in all, a successful road trip: lots of driving and hiking, stunning scenery and unexpected conversations in a mixture of French and English. I will definitely be back, perhaps in winter for some back country skiing.

I have lived and loved the London springs for the past fourteen years, always feeling somewhat giddy with the length and the gently unfolding beauty. And the blossoms. Oh, I’ll miss the blossoms. And yet, there are other places that have distinct seasons, such as the fabulous colours, deep blue skies and brisk but not cold temperatures of autumn here. 

Seasons are more subtle in southern England, without the harsh -30 winters of Montreal followed by the soaring temperatures and humidity of summer, with a violent and muddy slice of spring separating the two. Autumns here seem the equivalent of the springs I enjoyed both in London and when I lived in France. They start in early September when the days are still warm but cooler nights stir the sap within the trees. A few rascals start to change the colour of their leaves early, and by the end of the month the many green parks and the mountain of Montreal have become a riot of reds, yellows and oranges. 

Until one day, usually in mid to late October, you suddenly realise the clarity has gone, the colours are more muted, more shades of orange than red. Still stunning, though, still breath-taking; the kind of beauty that fills your heart with gratitude. 

Behind my toaster this morning I found an old blueberry that had escaped from my granola a few days ago. I don’t find small wild blueberries like that in the UK, so I was wondering if I could twist it into a metaphor. Or a euphemism. I could say that I’m looking for blueberries when I really mean that I’m cleaning my apartment, but that’s a little dull. Euphemisms need to be accompanied by a sideways glance or a wink. I’ll work on it, this could be a fun exercise.

Canadian inventions: ski-doos and jetskis, velcro, zippers, insulin, penicillin, zambonis, the telephone, the short-wave radio, robertson screwdrivers (and screws). I wonder how many people know what a zamboni is! I never understood why Robertson screws aren't found worldwide. They’re square, therefore easy to grip with the right screwdriver, and don’t strip as easily as Phillips screws. Maybe that can become a (minor) mission for me!

It has been said that Canadians are simply disarmed Americans with healthcare, but the differences run deeper than that. We don’t need to wave our flags and wear hats branded with maple leaves because we know we’re good. Some people call it quiet superiority, or passive aggression, but at least we’re not loud about it.

Following that trend of thinking, and perhaps showing my Canadian blood, I recently learned that of the top ten countries in the world as far as quality of life, seven are constitutional monarchies: Norway, Netherlands, Sweden, New Zealand, Denmark, Australia and Canada. I realise that the UK is also a constitutional monarchy but I’m afraid it didn’t reach the top ten. And given all the drama going on at the moment - I check the news with a hesitation and a turn of the head, like someone trying not to watch a slowly unfolding car crash - I’m not sure that the quality of life for the average joe is going to improve over the winter. I wish only the best for the UK. I have been proudly British for quite some time, and it’s hard to see it slip in the eyes of the world. It makes me wonder if the Queen simply gave up on trying to have an influence on the morals and values of her Prime Ministers. She couldn’t take any more. 

I miss having Queen Elizabeth around as the head of the country and a dignified figure of service. That moral continuity and those weekly chats would help, I think, in controlling rampant populism. Time will tell.

In the meantime, while the Brits, or at least the Conservative party, vote for yet another leader of the country, I am heading out with a friend for a road trip through eastern Quebec. We’re driving along the south shore of the mighty St. Lawrence river, the plan being that we will hit Gaspé and the Rocher Percé (a sea arch) later this week, a distance of almost 1000 kms. 

I plan to write more about this adventure on my blog as it’s uncharted territory for me. Not only the geography but also a road trip: two women and two dogs, driving into a blaze of autumn colours. Without the Thelma and Louise ending, of course. They didn't have dogs.

Stay tuned.

 Fall Foliage:

 

A good friend told me once that blogging is a full time job, and I’m finding she’s right. It also affects my decisions in ways I don’t like. Am I searching for interesting anecdotes and activities to share with my readers or am I engaging in meaningful activities that may resonate within my soul but come without a narrative or punchline?

I am on the train out of Toronto, having enjoyed my first Canadian Thanksgiving in decades. The best part about this weekend, beyond the two turkey dinners I managed, was spending time with my assorted nephews and their partners, followed closely by a meandering walk with my mum through the ravine near her apartment, finishing along the winding path through Mt Pleasant cemetery. 

Canada is so beautiful in the autumn. My phone is filled with photos of the changing foliage – “oh my god, look at that tree!” I splutter to a friend or just to myself as I stop for the seventeenth time on a meander up the mountain. I paused at twilight the other day to take a picture of two young women on a blanket under a flaming red tree. The deepening dusk made the leaves look like fire, and it seemed so Canadian to socialise like this as the temperature dipped below ten degrees.

I return to Montreal, though, with my down ski jacket. I am Canadian enough not to be fooled by the arching blue skies and fluctuating temperatures – November will be different. The view from the train is stunning. We are travelling along the shores of Lake Ontario, seeing frequent beaches and occasional towns. The infrastructure is excellent and I notice boardwalks and cycle paths amidst the reddening sumacs and sugar maples.

Is it boring to have me rave about Canada?

Perhaps I’m a born-again Canadian! After all, this was my environment for the first thirty years of my life, but I feel as though my eyes have been opened. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. It does help to be around enthusiastic Canadians, and it’s exciting to be planning a cycle journey into the Eastern Townships out beyond Montreal. I won’t be here for the snowy activities of back-country skiing on the mountain or skating on the long and winding pond at Parc Lafontaine, but I’m doing my best to engage fully in the current season.

Here are some small random things I have learned about Montreal which amuse me.

First off, there is Société d’Alcool Québecoise (the SAQ). This is the government store for purchasing alcohol. It is possible, because this is Québec rather than Ontario, to buy cheap wine at the corner stores, the dépanneurs, which we frequented when students at McGill. The mention of Si! Si! Si! still conjures up memories of late nights of backgammon, cozy friendships and the slightly acidic taste of an incoming hangover. 

The SAQ, however, has run out of bags. Bags of any kind – plastic or paper. It’s been months and as these are obviously things that one can order, it must be a choice. Especially in a country such as Canada renowned for its pulp and paper mills. So if I stop by without planning, without a bag of my own, I then have to walk home with a couple of bottles of wine tucked under my arm. And I notice others doing the same, as if we’re a city of well-dressed winos. Perhaps we are.

Also, there appear to be no $10 bills in Québec. There are plenty in Ontario, oddly enough, but if ever I purchase something with a $20 and the change is more than ten dollars, I am inevitably given $5 notes. I’ve asked, and people just say that they never see them. It’s been six weeks now and still no sign of one.

There is drumming in the parks, particularly on the weekends. I emerged from the woods of the mountain the other evening to reverberating drumbeats. It changed the rhythm of my steps, filled my being with a restless stirring. A cluster of people were sitting on benches near the large Angel statue, some playing hand drums, one or two dancing in front. There was a warmth, a roundness to the sounds. The sun was just sinking behind the mountain and the glowing fall foliage was slowly being dimmed.