Today there are no creative juices I’m afraid, they have been washed clean out of me, leaving only a residue comprising distain for the manufacturers of all motorcycle apparel. When the rain is heavy enough, gloves always leak, granted. That damned new “guaranteed” jacket however, made by REVITT, has all the moisture repellent properties of a paper bag, so that is all the product endorsement it deserves!
I was grateful for the lightning though. If it hadn’t been for that I don’t think I could have seen where I was going. So came to an end an otherwise glorious week spent in New Brunswick. Previously 30 degrees, humid and generally very foreign, it had at last started to feel like a road trip should.
If I recall, my last missive saw me at Atlanticade in Moncton, meeting wonderful people and feeling like a minor celebrity, a sort of legend in my own lunchtime. The addresses and invites that I received meant that I headed back into Nova Scotia and toured all around the southern coast. I spent more time in Halifax too and began a bit of a personal psychological journey.
I visited Pier 21, which as I’m sure all Canadians know, was the eastern entry point of over a million, mainly European, immigrants to this great country, all full of hopes and dreams for a new life in a new land. Given the 36 different ethnic groups that are still living in Halifax, it’s clear that lots of them didn’t make it very far inland. I went there because it seemed like as good a place as any to start the search for my Great Uncle Owen who arrived sometime in the 1920s to start farming in the prairies, and where, as it turned out, he froze to death on his horse. Apart from that, all I knew was that he managed to sow more than one type of seed before his passing, so if your family name is spelled Swiney, we have something in common. What I discovered was the start of something that led to many hours in the Central Archive in Ottawa, but I’ll tell you about it later.
I also sat and drank tea with a Member of the Legislative Assembly in her kitchen, where she tried to fill me in on the state of Canadian politics, and all because I met her husband at a set of traffic lights and we got to chatting. ‘Why is this country so friendly?’ And while I’m asking questions, ‘Why do you have such terrible road signage?’
I kept seeing a white question mark on a brown background. Is that directions for the perpetually indecisive, or some kind of automotive philosophy that asks bigger questions? I followed them around Halifax and PEI, but since I never knew what I was looking for, I don’t know if I ever arrived. While I’m on the subject, making it clear that the right lane only turns right is all well and good, but what about telling me where the right lane goes after it has turned? Or what is it with your direction signs that say something like “Barrington Street” left lane. If I was local, I’d already know that, but because I’m not, I want to know where the road goes, not what it’s called.
Oh, I feel better after getting that off my chest!
Nova Scotia has so much to offer, I know that I didn’t see the half of it, but I did get to Shelburne County where some surviving slaves who fought for Loyalism during the American Revolution were granted land that never really materialized, and I witnessed the amazing tidal bore coming up the Shubenacadie River, as well as the world’s first tidal power generator at beautiful Annapolis Royal, Nova Scotia’s first capital.
It was another two weeks before I made it back to Moncton and was spoiled rotten first by Ian and Angela, and then by Suzanne whom I’d met at Atlanticade. It is a real chore let me tell you, sampling the wares of microbreweries and being guided around the more beautiful backroads of New Brunswick in the company of fellow bikers. Don’t worry, I managed to cope.
I also fixed the bike. Now that, is news. Peggy now starts every morning. I can’t believe I’ve already put 6,000 km on her, so I’m going to have to ignore any weird noises because my plan wasn’t to do any service until Toronto. I know that’ll be 9000 km between services, but those old Rotax engines, “they’re bullet proof you know”, everyone down at the pub knows that!
It took me a day to pull the bike apart and find one damaged wire in the loom, but oh, what a sense of achievement. The temperature gauge works and everything. The oil leak has stopped (though I don’t think that’s related) and I’m in two minds as to whether or not I should check the level. Of course one outcome of that little oil problem is that my left sock is the only dry item of clothing I have today, it being the one that lives in the oil soaked boot. But having a purring steed beneath me has enabled me to see more of the world’s precious gems. Who could forget the world’s largest axe in Nackawic? I don’t know many lumberjacks, but maybe they do compare shaft and head size when they are out in the forest for long periods of time, so who am I to judge?
Getting back on the road, it is clear that New Brunswick seems to work hard and has less time for ‘quaint’ than the other Maritime Provinces. All those lumberjacks mean saw mills and paper mills abound, but bilingual New Brunswick makes up for it with intriguing tourist attractions of its own. Like the famous frogs of Fredericton, the 1897 covered bridge in Hartland which is the world’s longest and one of only 62 remaining in the province, and of course the big axe.
But for me, New Brunswick is also famous for being the first place where I was accused of being an itinerant and ‘moved on’ outside Timmies. Engaged in conversation with Bob MacKay, an Iron Butt member and one of the many Albertans I met who have decided on early retirement out east, I just hadn’t realized there was an allotted drinking up time, and it appears that I overstayed my welcome. Either that or we made the place look untidy.
We decided to retreat to the pub and I spent many happy hours chatting to Bob about his motorcycling exploits. So it makes me very sad to say that I have since discovered he isn’t well and I wish him all the very best with his recovery to full health.
Everyone is starting to fill my head with stories about the big furry people eaters, especially when I say that I am camping wild to save money. Even Bob mentioned the cook at the hotel in Hyder, Alaska that popped out the back for a smoke and annoyed all the diners by not coming back in. They found his mauled body later. So you see, smoking kills!
Every tourist leaflet that I find also says things like “Don’t attempt to outrun a bear” and the very poignant advice that photographers should employ a telephoto lens for capturing the cuddly killers. The wildlife that is absorbing most of my attention at the minute though is the mosquito.
I see that ’OFF!’ is now sponsoring the weather channel and the PEI government is talking about spraying Listerine to beat the little blighters. I don’t know what effect that’ll have other than give them fresh breath when they bite, but at least it’s not just me that is paranoid. I think I have to accept that I am going to look like a Chicken Pox sufferer until, well, until I get back to Europe I suppose.
And so I leave New Brunswick in the rain and head into Quebec in the rain, to see for myself whether it really is different from the rest of Canada, or if it’s just populated by a bunch of belligerent Canadians with a different language who have adopted the Gallic shrug of indifference.
Well as someone who has been to France many times I can say with confidence that it really is a little piece of France. Actually, it’s the biggest piece of French speaking land in the world, but I hope you know what I mean. Quebec City even looks French architecturally, with all its cobbled streets, stone buildings, and shops selling anti George Bush t-shirts. The kids all scream around on scooters in t-shirts and shorts, the gas station attendants smoke, there is a laissez-faire attitude to traffic laws, the pastries are wonderfully fresh and all the waiters roll their eyes when I ask for tea. It really is like France! Indeed most of the people that I spoke to had spent time living in Europe, so that must add some authenticity.
The only dramatic difference is that motorcycles aren’t allowed in the old part of town, which I only discovered after a few traffic wardens had chased me and everyone else had given me death stares. It seems that loud pipes have led to a complete ban. I just smiled and kept saying “je ne comprend pas. Je suis touriste!”
Of course it was a real party town while I was there, being the 400-year anniversary and there were stages for live music seemingly on every street. The official ceremony was marked with torrential rain, but President Sarkozy of France still managed to start a minor constitutional crisis when he referred to Quebec as a “great country”. Another referendum anyone?
On leaving New Brunswick I had planned to cross the St Lawrence River by ferry where it gets narrow at Rivière-du-Loup. According to received wisdom, the roads on the other side of the river are incredibly twisty, “truly awesome, nothing else like them, eh”. Thing is, when you can barely find the road because of the rain and the visibility is down to a few hundred feet, there seemed little point to me in taking the mountainous route.
Instead, keeping off the highways, I headed down towards Quebec City on the south side of the St Lawrence and the villages all began changing. The houses got closer together and were right on the road instead of having driveways. Maybe it’s being alone inside my helmet, but I notice these things.
I stopped in Saint-Louis-du-Ha! Ha! for a photo and a laugh, but the laugh was on me. The biting black flies were so thick they got in what’s left of my hair, so the next time I took off my helmet it was full of blood. I just hope they were monogamous.
The rainstorms came and went, but the head wind never eased. To take a break I pulled in to a fantastic little motorcycle museum called L’Épopée de la Moto. Super friendly staff greeted me and took all my wet bike gear so that I could wander unencumbered. The museum covered all eras and styles of bikes, but seemed to concentrate on European marques. There was even a whole room dedicated to Italian bikes, but I couldn’t get Peggy in to let her meet her fellow countrymen.
Having spent a few days in old Quebec City I headed north after first circumnavigating Ile d’Orleans, an island in the St Lawrence covered in little strawberry farms and chocolate box houses. It was here that I watched a tourist reverse their car into a huge ditch, surrounded by farmers who just shrugged and raised their eyebrows.
I pressed on north and set up camp almost where the Rivière-du-Loup ferry would have docked. The weather cleared the following day so I decided on a day of cruising and looking at the remarkable vistas. It ended up being a 600 km day almost by accident before I set up camp for the night.
Four a.m. was when the heavens opened with enough force to bend the tent. It never actually leaked, but my main concern by 6 a.m. was whether or not it could float. The particularly jaunty angle it was at when I finally ventured out was due to the excessive weight of one of the tent pegs. Sounds bizarre perhaps, but I lost a peg a while ago so the big “Peggy” now acts as the main guy rope stay. Problem was she had sunk into the mud and was pulling the tent with her.
As I crossed the bridge onto Montreal Island and the city itself, the rain temporarily eased and I remembered my first experience in the city in 1987. As an angst-ridden teenager with a well-decorated denim jacket, I had spent time with the police before, usually for crimes such as walking with intent to get somewhere. Funny then, that in less than a kilometre my mirrors should be filled with that familiar light show.
“Where is your Quebec licence plate monsieur?”
I don’t require one, I am not Canadian.
“But ave you a permit to drive?”
“Oui, ici”, as I hand him a sodden lump of papier mache that had been in my inside pocket.
“Ah” said the colleague who was inspecting the bike, “ere is de plate. You mus display monsieur”. He had found my hidden souvenir of Quebec.
“Well, you see the thing is… it’s not really mine.”
“Ow is dis possible?” I tried to explain that I had found it a day or two earlier and was keeping it as a souvenir. “But if you find it, you must return, oui?”
The “Je me souviens” on the licence plate seemed a little inappropriate after the 2nd time I tried to explain it, so instead I hung my head in shame and said sorry like a school kid.
By the time I got on my way again the skies unleashed another torrent of rain. When I booked in to a motel to dry off, there was one thing that I had never expected. True, it wasn’t the most salubrious place, and they asked if I wanted the room for the whole night, but even I had a bit of a shock.
Picture the scene. A slightly dank motel room with 1970’s décor and imaginative stains in the most unexpected places. My tent draped on the furniture with all my other clothes. My not-very-waterproof jacket dripping in the shower cubicle and a red screen on the weather channel saying, ‘Beware heavy rain and flash flooding’. When all of a sudden the roof fell in and there was the rain again, right there, in my room.
I’m not kidding, I couldn’t make this stuff up!
It took just a moment for the uncontrollable laughter to start and it hadn’t fully subsided when I did a Hugh Grant impersonation in the reception.
“I’m terribly sorry to disturb your thrilling and intellectually challenging televisual experience, but it would appear that I am having some difficulty avoiding the rain today, now that it is also falling on my bed. So I was rather hoping that you could relocate me to another room with slightly more indoor qualities.”
The establishment was very accommodating. I went out for food and arrived back just as the police were raiding the premises. Truly an authentic North American, big city experience that I had dreamt of as a kid.
How cool is that!! Oh Canada, never a dull moment.
