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 …