Off the Beaten Path to Grand Manan Island

 

We took the back roads from Woodstock to Black's Harbour, thence to Grand Manan Island on the "big" ferry. This is the picture from last year.

 

 

 

This year we were walk-on passengers. Walking on board involved navigating a rather slippery gangplank without much the way of barricades and then getting off ahead of the huge transport trucks and hoping the drivers knew you were there. 

 

This post is mostly pictures - worth a thousand words:

 



 

This well camouflaged cat was asleep in the old dinghy outside the museum. Here is a link with a picture of the museum itself:  http://www.grandmananmuseum.ca/  Apparently the cat visits here and at several stores along the road and can have a snack on the porch or enjoy cosier shelter as needed:

 

 

As for us, when hunger panged, we went back down Highway 776 to the Back Porch Cafe where we had the best chowder on our trip, likely because the fish was just fresh off the dock. It was neither creamy nor made with tomato base, just a plain broth with potatoes and onions.

 

Lots of fishing boats are in the harbour and drydocks, where I think we were trespassing. There was no one there and a gap in the fence:

 

 

 

 

I enjoyed reading the names:

And the local union:

I am not sure what these are:

 

 

Then there were  doorways, front yards and miscellaneous stuff:

 

 

 

A little bit of everything in this yard:  

 

 

Things derelict in the grass: 

 

 





 

 

We stayed at Ingalls Head Cottages run by our friends Ron and Wendy Plyley. Great accommodation, by the way, a stone's throw from the Bay of Fundy.

 

 

 

 This is the bay beside the cottages:

 

 

 

Ron and Wendy toured us around the Island; actually "around" is not literally true, as the road goes from the lighthouse at the north end to the lighthouse at the south end and stops at the cliffs.

 

We went from sea level to vertiginous in about 20 minutes. Incidentally, the museum does a great job explaining the geological structures comprising the island.

 

 

There were about 30 people there when we visited - most were there to see the sun set. A few sat on the very edge  - not something I would recommend as you never know what the under-cliff may be like! Notice there are no fences in these pictures; the one rusty chain link fence which was there gave only an illusion of safety. The Maritimes provides not a lot in the way of protective this's and that's, I noticed; people are expected to look after their own safety. Sometimes that works; other times it doesn't.

 

No one has fallen over the edge here in recent memory, although a shipwrecked soul a hundred years ago crawled up these cliffs and then to a farm house where he was succoured and revived.

 

 

 

 

The sun began to set, and we returned to Ingalls Head with one stop for really delicious ice cream cones - at a mini-putt golf course, which combined daring inclines and curves with lovely old-fashioned perennials. Alas, it was too dark to take a photo by that time.

 

This was our second year on tiny Grand Manan and we still have more things to see and do! Looking forward to next year ... 

What is it about islands?

I like islands. One of my earliest memories is of going to Toronto Island with my mother and paternal grandmother. I must have been about three when we went there – probably to Ward’s island because I remember a lot of trees near the shore. I remember swimming in only my white underwear and vest and thinking I really should be in a swim suit. A sense of propriety cosseted me even then, it seems.

Later while I was a student teacher, I visited Toronto Island in the middle of winter and stayed for a week at the Toronto Island School. Even though we were so close to downtown Toronto, it was an adventure for both the pupils and the teachers. We learned why ducks’ feet don’t freeze in the winter and, amazingly, how to shoot a BB gun.

Since then, I have travelled to many Canadian islands: Malcolm Island in B.C., Manitoulin, Pelee and Grand Manon, the Magdalens, Newfoundland, Cape Breton, and of course, Prince Edward Island. I suppose going across the water on a  boat is a big part of the attraction. There is that enforced pause: slowing down to a halt to wait for the ferry and then lounging about on board while the crossing is made. How often are we made to slow down and stop in life, to merely wait and wool gather with no choice but to enjoy patience.

Now that the fixed link has replaced one of the ferries to PEI, some of the magic of the crossing has been sacrificed for efficiency, but going to PEI each summer is what I look forward to all year long. This year Greg and I visited yet again, and I was not disappointed.

Some mainland habits die hard. A short distance from Confederation Village, there is an ESSO gas station, where the tarmac is always clogged with cars. Not for fuel for the vehicle, apparently, as much as for fuel for the body: the first Tim Horton’s, probably since Moncton, is located here. In fact, a sign enjoins visitors to pay for their gas before they get their Tim's.

Once we fueled up both ways, we headed for Victoria-by-the Sea, a former ship-building village, where the old frame buildings, now restored and painted glorious bright colours, house an inn, a playhouse, B & Bs, and one-of-a-kind shops. All were open but one; according to the notice on the door it was closed due to the wedding of the owner’s niece.  It might be the height of the tourist season, but family comes first!

Islanders are pretty trusting: Not all of the shops we visited were staffed. In one, I found a print I wanted to buy. As there was no one in the store, I wandered out a side door and found four people in a rather pleasant back garden enjoying tea.  One left the group and helped me make my purchase.

After doodling along the shore taking in potato fields and rolls of hay we arrived at our lodging for the night, the Desable motel, an unintentional paean to the 1970s and before. Each unit had an orange plastic basket chair outside the door.

The bathtub sloped slightly, but the water was hot, and behind the motel were walking trails to the ocean, an unexpected treat for the travel-bleary.   Meals were served across the highway at the Blue Goose Restaurant and Bakery, recommended by the motel proprietor who often went to eat there. She was right; the food was good.

The next day was Sunday, and we decided to go to church in Charlottetown. We had plenty of time to get to the 11:00 service, or so we thought, as we dipsy-doodled our way along Highway 19.

We came to a park, the Port-la-Joye – Fort Amherst National Historic Site of Canada, to be exact. From there, we could look across the bay towards what is now Charlottetown and agree with Louis Denys de La Ronde, a French naval officer and explorer, who wrote in 1721, "...Port-la-Joye, one of the most beautiful harbours that the eye can behold."

Unfortunately, despite a damp wind, we lingered a bit too long over the history of the M’ikmaq, the Acadians and the English and got to church in the nick of time, we thought, only to find that the summer services started at 10:00. "Oh, well," said the cheery greeter at the door, "You haven’t missed the most important reason for coming." By this she meant Holy Communion.  Needless to say, St. Peter’s is in the Anglo-Catholic tradition.

Clutching the bulletin and masses of inserts, so typical of any Anglican tradition, we crept into the back pew, where a plump, jolly older woman made sure we knew where the hymns were to be found. Once the very formal service was completed, we were invited to assemble for lemonade on the lawn – well, everyone went except for us, who were held in thrall by the same dear old soul, as she recounted decades of Anglican history and the lives of a number of rectors  from the Island and Upper Canada. Other congregants looked at us with a mixture of alarm and pity before quickly exiting.  

(On our way off the island at the end of the week,  we attended the other Anglican church in Charlottetown, a much more informal service, so low church in fact that during the chatty portion of passing the peace, someone left to go to the washroom - located conveniently in the narthex. He returned in lots of time for the resumption of the liturgy.)

  We agreed neither was necessary, as a cross draft provided all the air conditioning we needed, and the satellite TV offered the same two programs in every time zone across Canada.  However, I was happy to have WiFi and even happier to enjoy gourmet meals, lovely gardens, and a view of the Bay.  

Our week on the Island had begun well.

Shunpiking across New England

Greg and I have just returned from our annual jaunt to Prince Edward Island. Ordinarily I would be writing about happenings here in the wilds of NM, but I am breaking with tradition to expound on that age-old theme: what we did on our summer vacation.  

I’d like to say our journey involved meaningful reflection and momentous activity which begged to be revealed, but the real reason is that not a lot seems to have happened in our village while we were away. Mind you, I slept in this morning and missed coffee with my neighbours, so I may be jumping to dangerous conclusions.   

Nevertheless, all I can report is that our morning glories, mistaking the sunflowers for an additional trellis, got so heavily entangled with them that they all fell in a heap onto the strawberries. Something ate bits out of one of the only two pumpkins big enough to be a Hallowe’en jack o’ lantern. And the hummingbird feeder was bone dry.  

So to PEI: On our road trips, I navigate, and Greg drives. I enjoy reading maps – the kind that are made of paper and have to be folded to fit one’s knee. I am not a GPS person. Unfortunately, I am mildly – but I feel, rather charmingly – dyslexic, with the result that I frequently say “turn left” when I mean “turn right” and vice versa, as in “Turn right, no… no… left, that’s right, I mean, that’s correct.”  

Greg, on the other hand, has a – somewhat annoying – hearing deficit. We remind me of the elderly couple who used to motor around Parkhill; one couldn’t see properly, and the other had mobility problems preventing him from getting behind the wheel. Unfortunately, when one spouse died, the other had to give up driving.   

In any event, Greg seems to have a hard time hearing my directions. For example, I say, “There is a turn coming up.  You’ll need turn left, no, sorry, right … in about 100 yards… I’d slow down now … now…. slow … slow, here it is, it’s here, turn, turn now.” 

 Greg snaps to attention only when he hears these words:  “That was the turn. You just missed it. We will have to turn around.” Those of us who still attend church may be reminded, as I am, of a similar rhythm in “Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again,” words whose sudden intonation in the middle of the communion prayer wake up those of us who have turned our attention elsewhere.

In any event, freeway driving makes a lot of sense for us, since turns are at a minimum. Therefore, it was with a bit of trepidation that, hearing dire reports about the imminent collapse of bridges, tunnels and traffic flow in Montreal, I decided we would “drive through the States.“ This involved long stretches of two-lane highway wending its way through northern New England. 

After getting advice from my cousin, whose work frequently takes him to New York State, we decided to cross over at Cornwall, remembering to “go past the burnt-out customs station on the island and continue right across the river.” Our more cautious overnight hosts in Morrisburg advised crossing at Valleyfield, but that bridge was in Quebec and likely near collapse, and if we missed the turn to it, we would find ourselves willy-nilly going through Montreal, so we fortified ourselves with Tim Horton’s coffee and set out from Cornwall.

Ironically, there was bridge construction there, but nothing, including us, fell into the St. Lawrence. In addition, the line-up consisted of only of us and three other cars approaching three customs booths. I always get nervous at the border, and my hands were so sweaty the envelope containing the passports stuck shut. The customs official asked where we were going, and did we have reservations for the night. We did, but quickly realized that was not quite what he meant. Greg couldn’t remember the name of the place we’d booked, and I mispronounced Skowhegan. But the agent waved us through anyway.

Fortunately, he didn’t ask any of the questions we’d been asked before and for which we now had composed witty ripostes: Are you married … to each other?  (What’s it to you?). So do you have the agenda for this dream conference? (As a matter of fact, yes, I do; I’ll just get out my binder). Who is the Archbishop of Canterbury? (Like you know who he is!). Have you ever been prevented from entering the United States? (You mean like the American ambassador to Canada?). Do you have any fruit? This time, I did, but I figured hey, don’t ask/ don’t tell.

Driving in a foreign country can be tricky, but we found it pretty straightforward. Soon, we crossed Lake Champlain on a small ferry, which came every fifteen minutes and had sides, thank goodness. A sign in the tiny washroom on the deck advised keeping the door closed in winter to avoid having the pipes freeze.

When we came to a crossroads on the Vermont side, I put my earlier use of street view on Google Earth to good effect and said, “Take the car past that big red-brick building with the two chimneys where they sell pizza,” rather than “Turn left, I mean right.” The restaurant was just as it appeared on Google Earth in 2009 except that a large empty flower box had been added to titivate the gravel parking lot.

 Slowly, we made our way towards Skowhegan. We went 25 miles per hour through a lot of very small towns with nowhere to eat. In between, we sped up to 50 mph and watched for moose. We finally ate at the first place we saw in a college town on Highway 2 in northern New Hampshire. Signs said the eatery had been voted the best pizza place in the area three years in a row ending last year. There were pizza crusts on the floor presumably from the night before. A sign in the somewhat sticky unisex bathroom, which also held extra pop (or is that soda?) cartons and an old refrigerator, indicated what cleaning tasks should be performed. None had been checked off.

 I did not order pizza, but my spinach wrap was surprisingly good, once the chatty college boys in the other room remembered to serve it. After a longer than anticipated break, no sooner did we get back into the car, turn left, no, right, up a steep incline to the main road, but we spotted the town’s slightly more upscale “Family Restaurant.” I took an extra acidophilus tablet and hoped for the best.

Such are the delights in going off the beaten path, but I must stop now, as I have run through 1,100 words and, as in our travels so far recorded, gotten almost nowhere.

To be continued …