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Published: July 15th 2006
At home with Joyce and Elmer
Joyce, Joy, Elmer and Janice survey the party fareMotorhome News from North America 15 27th June - 9th July 2006
‘Gone Fishin’ in Ontario - and the Italians were celebrating in Quebec City!
It was time for a break from travelling, planning routes, seeking out campsites - even writing - and time for a change of routine. In Europe we took a holiday break and flew to Majorca in January 2005, leaving Smiley, (our UK Autotrail motorhome) in Valencia. It snowed in Majorca somewhat to our amazement, but hopefully that’s far less likely in Ontario in June! This time we plan our holiday break with friends in Huntsville, Ontario; about a two-hour drive north of Toronto (or Tronno as they pronounce it here), before heading out east once again.
Huntsville has grown a bit since our last visit in ’93. In step with growth, comes the onslaught of ‘Out of Town Malls’ the Wal-Marts and Home Depots, Sears, Zellers, Canadian Tire, Tim Horton’s, McDonalds and Subway, groping down the highway like a slippery slug. But Downtown Huntsville retains its splendour, its old fashioned touristy façade, its friendly welcoming feel, its ‘county’ pride and its smiling people.
We were invited to stay a few days with
our friends Joyce and Elmer in their tasteful home, sleeping in a real bed, reading, chatting, shopping, golfing and just sharing time with two very special people. You might recall we met them on our travels way down south in Lake Havasu, Arizona, in February. They threw a 'lovely' (as we say in England) party for us mid-week, inviting many of Janice’s old school pals and other friends from her twelve months of teaching here in 1985/6. We’re all 20 years older now, but the faces are the same, the memories still bright enough and the friendships just as strong. Thank you for that, Joyce and Elmer- and much more.
Ten minutes north, down a winding tree lined track there’s a romantic cottage on the lakeshore where we were to stay for our last few days. Such a place was Janice’s home for that memorable year of '85/86. It’s the home of Tom and Lexi, and their three teenage children, a delightful cottage buried deep amongst the trees overlooking pine-clad islands on a stretch of water justly loved for its many changing moods and colours. Clearly, Janice adores it here. Not on record as a morning person, she was
up at 6.30am leaping gracefully off the end of the dock and swimming with the loons in the sun-drenched lake. On the day of our departure she was swimming at 6am! (having misread my watch which she thought showed 7am) I took her pulse and temperature when she eventually returned - she’s OK now, recovering nicely, but we’ll get her to the doctor for a check-up anyway. Janice also caught her first fish whilst at the lake, a bass. It was huge, from head to tail wider even than Sydney Harbour Bridge. One or two of mine were only a touch bigger!
Janice and I were married here on the shores of Lake Waseosa in high summer 1988, shortly after her teacher exchange year when she swapped homes, cars and jobs with Lexi. Ensconced for a few days in the luxury of the boathouse apartment, we savoured the comforts of real country living and fine home cooking, a good Canadian trait, where the skills of domestic-science linger on, like many other things, in true motherly fashion. A violent storm passed overhead in the night, thunder rocking the cedar clad walls and bright flashes of lightning searing through shuttered windows
Tom and Lexi's boathouse
Our home for a few days - and the lake’s pair of loons added their haunting song to the nocturnal serenade. By daybreak, the air was still. The lake sparkled yellow in the early morning sun, dancing to the sound of silence, patiently awaiting the start of another summer’s day.
There can be few things left on this planet to turn me green, but green I am, with envy for the luxury of a Canadian basement. The basement is where the furnace (boiler) resides, alongside winter togs, skis and sledges, mother’s old sofa, the treadmill - and the old man’s winter workshop. I’m picturing one in particular not too far from here with some of the finest woodworking equipment imaginable, where I could tinker about to my heart’s content for many a dark night. There lies the soul of the Canadian ‘hobby’ lifestyle, nurturing practical interests through the long, long winter without leaving home for the shed down the garden! It’s a far cry from my freezing workbench in the depths of a dark and windy Norfolk winter.
Canada is a tidy place of tidy people, tidy houses and tidy gardens without fences. By and large it’s a safe place where we could settle
and feel quite at home. Amongst our brochures collected from an assortment of Visitor Centres in Ontario, we have glossy articles extolling the wonders of Northumberland, Perth, Lanark and Pembroke, Whitby, Grimsby, Lincoln, Stratford, London, Harrow, Windsor and Norwich. They all appear on the Ontario map along with the counties of Essex, Norfolk and Kent. Around-about Huntsville amidst the lakes there are signs to Windermere, Ullswater - and Dorset.
As we travelled north along the western seaboard of the USA, Mobile Home Communities appeared on the edge of most towns providing affordable and flexible housing, but we have not seen much evidence of this in Canada as yet. It occurred to us that this reflected a more supportive economy here in Canada, a more stable and secure culture and a shade higher standard of living. Perhaps it is some or all of these things, but it is much more likely to be a factor of severe winters, heavy with snow and shivering with below zero temperatures that make ‘mobile’ living less attractive to people here. Canada does have its share of homeless though, and signs by the highway: ‘Cheques Cashed’, ‘Payday Loans’ and ‘Pawn Shop’, much a thing of
Changing of the guard in Quebec City
A very British affair in a very French City the past back home, are a reminder that there are those in need in all communities in all parts of the world.
There have also been fewer motorhomes like ours in evidence across Canada. We surmise this to be another consequence of long cold winters, campers preferring to pack a tent, canoe and fishing rod; brave the black-fly and mosquitoes, and practice their pioneering skills under the deep blue skies throughout the all too short spring to fall each year. Recent tenting neighbours had the latest answer to all weathers and bugs, with a fly-screened gazebo under a waterproof flysheet beside their tent - complete with table, chairs and cooker. Now, that’s camping in style! Canadians have a close affinity with adventure and the great outdoors in all seasons; fishing, hunting, camping, back-packing, skiing, skating, snowmobiling and curling. Yes, life here is different and challenging.
School holidays have started now and the coming eight or nine weeks will see more traffic on the roads, more full car-parks, more children on campsites and less free spaces. Here’s hoping the price of gas will continue to keep them at home and the kids will be packed off to summer camp for
the duration!
With wet eyes and heavy hearts we finally left Waseosa for the long drive east through Algonquin Park, skirting north of Ottawa and Montreal which we have visited before, and onwards towards Quebec and The Maritimes, our prime goal. There is every chance we’ll stop off in Quebec City, if just to reinforce fond old memories, long since faded with time and age.
There is one black bear every three square kilometres in beautiful Algonquin Provincial Park we’re told. We didn’t get to see one there, but a busy beaver obliged with a close-up display as he munched away at the water lilies by our campsite around dinner time. Oh, and I nearly forgot! A wolf crossed our path on the highway beside Lake Superior last week. It happened in a flash; one second there and the next second gone, to leave us stunned in disbelief and asking; 'was it really a wolf?' Wow!
Finally, after many days of travelling across northern Ontario, the heavily wooded forests gave way to hayfields, corn, barley and ranching on open farmland, red-winged blackbirds reappeared and bugloss, chicory, willow-herb and purple loosestrife brightened the roadside verges as we entered
French speaking Quebec across the Ottawa River bridge at Chenaux. Substantial brick-faced houses lined the highway, clapboard cottages with classic verandas nestled in tiny villages with their dominating churches, all the way to Trois-Rivieres.
They like to let you know you’ve arrived in Quebec, and they rubber-stamp the experience. The ‘STOP’ signs all read, ARRET!’ Even in France the signs say, ‘Stop’, as they do across the rest of North America and in every European country, but in true French style, Quebec has found a way to make a statement. You know how the road-signs are in Wales? Yes, they are in both English and Welsh. The same goes for all signs across Canada as far as we are aware, in English and French - except in Quebec. Here, signs are in French only, denying English speakers the same courtesy extended to the French elsewhere.
En route to Montreal we arrived at Parc National de Plaisance campsite alongside the Ottawa River, with our National Parks Pass in hand anticipating free entry. ‘This is not a National Park,’ we were informed by the young lady at the desk.
’Je ne comprend pas,’ I replied. ‘This is Parc National
de Plaisance, isn’t
it?’
‘Oui, it is a National Park of Quebec, but it is a Provincial Park. It is
seven dollars for a Park Pass, please.’
‘Je ne comprend pas,’ I said again. ‘So you are saying it is a National
Park, but it isn’t. Why then, is it called a National Park?’
There’s every chance this is a question that’s been asked before.
‘Here,’ she said in despair. ‘Please take this form to register your
complaint. Post it to the address on the back.’
It was late. We paid the $7 and fumed with much stomping of feet all the way to our pitch where we talked for hours over dinner about ‘being French’. That said; if you were to ask us where we would live if it were not in England, we would surely reply, ‘France, of course.’ But they’re just as obstinate there, too - like us British, but for some reason we feel more at home there. Strange, that, isn’t it? With that in mind we set off early next morning for the 235mile motorway drive to Quebec City.
Samuel de Champlain came to Quebec in
1608 and established a small colony here on a defensively strategic rocky spur and over the years it became heavily fortified and changed hands in bloody battle between France, Britain and America many times. It was finally ceded to Britain in 1763. The French have a funny habit of coming second where war is concerned (with one or two notable exceptions).
The nice thing about many of the KOA (Kampgrounds Of America) campsites is their proximity to major towns and cities. Quebec is one such site, a fifteen-minute drive from downtown. We chose to take the shuttle bus from reception, pre-booked for 08.50. The driver checked us off his list with a rather unexpected greeting. ‘Top of the morning to you,’ he said cheerily. Ron has been here for more than 40 years and speaks French - and English, with an Irish accent. He let it slip to us it was his birthday and we managed to orchestrate a rendition of ’Happy Birthday’ from the other passengers as we journeyed into the city.
Quebec City is delightfully French and in recent years the Old Town has been beautifully restored. It is much as we remember it from 1988,
lively, colourful, architecturally stunning and passionate about tourism. Certainly we found lots to see and do on this sunny but muggy Sunday. First to Chateau Frontenac, the stately landmark hotel of the Canadian Pacific Railway rising high above the City, visible from every narrow street corner in the Lower Town. Then to the massive star-shaped Citadel standing guard over the mighty St Lawrence River behind its battlements. We watched the 10am ‘changing of the guard’ there on the barrack square, somewhat surprisingly British, complete with red coats, bearskin hats, the brass band and the Company goat. Good rousing stuff!
Whilst sheltering a while from the sun we discovered that the bells were removed from the Holy Trinity Cathedral some three weeks ago and sent to Whitechapel in East London for restoration. In some ways that’s not surprising as Holy Trinity is modelled on St Martin’s in the Fields on Trafalgar Square and doubtless the bells originated in London. We shared a one-hour guided tour of the Place Royale district with two Quebecois ladies and our costumed guide, dressed as the lovely rich widow Marie-Anne Fornel (1704-1793), sheltered beneath her parasol - and doubtless sweating her socks off under her
beautiful 18C dress. This was Summer Festival time and buskers were on every street corner, trick cyclists entertaining great crowds, face painters treating the kids, jugglers juggling, artists painting, puppeteers performing, guitarists playing classical melodies and harpists sending passers-by into lullaby land. A truly wonderful atmosphere and one we shall remember more vividly this time.
The TV was on in the snug little Italian café where we stopped for a late-afternoon beer. The tension was high, the spirits flowing and it was all over before we finally left amidst shouts and cheers, relief and tears, as the local victors leapt on chairs and tables. It was World Cup Final day of course, and boy, do Italians know how to celebrate. Flags were flying and car horns honking for hours!
France came second again.
Janice and David. The grey-haired-nomads
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