Kingston to Balsam Lake Provincial Park, ON

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Confederation square in Kingston at 7am is a nice place to be. The scenery is beautiful and there are only a few walkers around, couples taking an early morning stroll, or store employees soaking in the sun, Tim’s in hand, facing another day inside with far too many people to service properly. I liked my prospects better.

I wanted to take in the visual Kingston, take some pictures, and then get out of the city before the tourist crowds gathered again. I find cities of this size much more difficult to get to know people through conversation. I am probably just as much to blame as others, because I also feel hesitant to approach people. It is true that larger cities permit anonymity. I picked up a small map titled “Historic Downtown Kingston”, but all the old buildings were identified not by their historic significance, but, rather, all the present businesses. I wonder who paid for the map to be printed? Accordingly ‘historic Kingston’ was defined by: ‘Canyon Mountain Company’, ‘Diva Esthetics’, ‘Cunningham and Poupre’, ‘Cynthias’, and ‘Wellington Foreign Exchange’.

Kingston, for the most part, is a nice town, with some historic bits. RMC (Royal Military College) is nicely located, but very private. It certainly has an air of military isolation. I always try and explore the districts where the local people live, so I headed off Princess, one of the main streets, into an ordinary, yet old neighbourhood. I came across some wonderful classically constructed stone buildings that housed The Princess of Wales Own Regiment. This is not something new, invented during the time of Princess Diana, but a very old Canadian regiment established around 1868.

Continuing into the older district I came across a small, locally owned coffee and doughnut shop. With its clean finish and big windows it was clearly the most prosperous business in the little strip mall it shared with the typical layout of a variety store, laundromat, and video store. There were several benches outside for smokers, with their coffee in hand, to sit and talk. This was clearly a blue collar area, so what, as a coffee shop owner, was the use of thumbing your nose at the smokers. After all, they probably made up more than half of shop’s income. Inside, there were all sorts of different looking folk. Do you remember my learning about the linkage between culture and language from Les? In that shop, I heard Canadian English and French, Russian or some other eastern European language, and Italian. From that I considered the mix of culture that must exist in the neighbourhood and imagined the family discussions when romances of the young folk crossed those culture boundaries. I knew these people lived close by because there were a lot of people and few cars. Most of these people walked here. Being Sunday, some of the people there would normally be at work. There were some on their own, sitting stoically, slowly savouring their coffee, making sure it lasted. The coffee was better than Tim’s and everything was fresh. The lady behind the counter was managing to handle everyone’s request and knew most by name. She could do the work of two or three people at Tim’s. I hoped she was paid accordingly, but then realized she was probably the owner taking what profit she could and having the freedom to decide which sixteen hours she wanted to work on any given day.

I am glad that I stopped at Kingston, not only because of what I saw, but because it left me a day of relaxed riding with an objective to get somewhere north of Peterborough, into cottage country. I looked for and found the Loyalist Parkway, an extension of the road I was on yesterday that hugs the St. Lawrence. The road led through a variety of scenery, starting near Kingston with expensive houses on large properties, changing to vegetable and fruit farms along the way. Around Bath there were a couple of power plants with their huge stacks and offshore unloading platforms for the boats that brought the fuel for the plants. The British influence, past and present, abounds and can be seen in the town names such as Bath, Sandhurst, Millhaven, Glenora, and Wellington, as well as on flag poles where there were many Union Jacks hung in conjunction with the Canadian flag.

At the Glenora ferry, a free ferry service across a small channel, a fellow with an accent from somewhere near London approached me. After commenting on how far from home I was, he proceeded to give me all sorts of unsolicited advice on what to see locally. He lived close to the ferry on the other side and was quite enamoured with the area, so much so that I sensed he was getting annoyed when I kept saying that I had limited time and had to get north of Peterborough for the night. Although this was true, I also didn’t want to be caught in an afternoon storm like yesterday, and thought the further I got away from the St. Lawrence in the afternoon, the better off I was going to be.

I guessed where his accent came from, told him that I had lived in Manchester, and then mentioned that I had a fantastic time cycling in the Peak District last year.

“Ah yes, Kendall. What a wonderful area,” he noted.

“Actually,” I said, “Kendall is in the Lake District and not close to the Peaks at all. But, it is pretty nice country in its own right.” He stared off into space for a moment and then the call came to load the ferry. After we were on the boat and underway, he came up to me once again with more thoughts.

“Yorkshire. I should have remembered, the Peaks are in Yorkshire.”

“No, the Peaks are shared between Derbyshire, Cheshire, and Staffordshire. Maybe some of the White Peaks in the north touch Yorkshire, but I’m not sure.”

“Well, Yorkshire has some peaks,” he retorted, a little frustrated.

“Yes, but I think they are called The Yorkshire Dales.”

He gave me a look of defeat, smiled, and walked away. Ah, the ignorance of some Southerners.


I made my way up to Peterborough and promptly got lost trying to go through the older part of the city. I saw some parked motorcycles beside a pub where there were some guys having a beer at an outdoor table that I approached for some directions. I told them I was lost and then mentioned that I was traveling from Alberta.

“Boy are you ever lost,” one of them said. “You should have turned right instead of left in Calgary.”

Yah, yah - good one, but give me some real help will you. They did set me straight and their directions were impeccable. I found the well known lift locks and then found my way out of town and on the right road for the lakes to the north. I had considered a provincial park called Balsam Lake for camping that night and it turned out to be a good choice. The country between Peterborough and Balsam Lake was dotted with lakes with a lot of them interconnected by canals that small pleasure boats could travel on. There were copious lakes busy with boats of all description buzzing about with skiers, hang gliders, and small boards towed behind. Obviously a great area for water sports, but I also saw a lot of homes and cottages tucked into the woods away from the lakes.

After I was set up I backtracked to a town called Coboconk for supper. There is a restaurant there called The Pattie House. A woman by the name Pattie and her husband originally opened this place in 1873. He died a young man and she ran the place until she was too old to manage. The restaurant is still in the same building that her husband built. It is still very popular.

I tried to order a couple of different items but they were out of both of them. Frustrated, I asked the waitress to tell me what was available and then I would choose. She said they had huge, unexpected crowds the past few days and it took them completely off guard. They were really expecting the large crowds the next weekend which was the long weekend in August. She was a lot of fun. Sharp and bright, she took everything in her stride and was pleasant to talk with. She handled a potentially bad situation with three little kids running around the place and, at the same time kept everyone serviced. Most of the music played was music from my generation. I was singing the songs to myself, starting each within about three lead in bars of music. I am often amazed how I can recall that old stuff yet not remember where I put my keys. I told the waitress that I liked the music, but wondered why they were playing it instead of more modern stuff.

“My father listens to this stuff all the time, so it is all I hear at home. I love it,” she said as she sung along to Bobby Curtola’s ‘Three Rows Over’. “That is my kinda stuff. What is with the spiked hair and pink curls today anyway? Give me a break.”

Right on. Unfortunately, the food wasn't as good as the service.

I told her about my trip and she seemed a bit overwhelmed. “Across the country on a motorcycle. I can’t believe it. Wait until I tell the guys in the back.” She opened the door and yelled something about my trip into the kitchen. There was a muffled voice from back there, but I am not sure what they said.

There was a seedy looking guy at the bar nursing a beer. He had been talking to the waitress and seemed a bit miffed that she was spending time talking with me and not with him. He looked at me and said “Calgary eh.”

I said, in a friendly way, “Calgary is a great place. What do you think is wrong with it?”

At that, he turned away and stared outside. Not everyone in Ontario is friendly nor necessarily thinks my trip is interesting, but I don’t care.

I thought it was a good time to leave.

Odometer at the end of the day: 39813km

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Photos

Princess of Wales Own Regiment
This is located in Kingston, but is out of the way on a side street away from the centre of the city. I liked the classical architecture.

Glenora Ferry
The ferry is pretty small, but you can see it leaving the other side. This was one of those great riding mornings. Sunny, hot, little traffic, and now a boat ride.

Camping at Balsam Lake
This was a provincial campsite and was very well designed.