It’s hard to remember just how slow a dial-up modem is until you’ve been offline an entire week and finally get an opportunity to reconnect. Somehow paint actually dries faster these days.
After three days attempting to avoid the clouds of pine tree pollen in Cantley, Quebec I headed out toward Wakefield. At least I was able to make use of a couple fine days to open my storage areas and sort through the items I have stored, combining food stuffs, and repacking to save room. On the way south of Cantley to find the nearest bridge across the Gatineau River I found a general store open on St John Baptiste Day to sell me some orange juice and Ginger Ale. I also managed to locate the Gatineau Park Visitor’s Centre in Chelsea and pay it a visit. They have some interesting interactive exhibits but not that much by way of guides or tour books on the park. Their campgrounds, I discovered are not managed by the parks department but rather farmed out to a private company. When I reached the fee station there was a multi-car line-up at the kiosk and when I went inside the main office to see about camping the single person present spent 15 minutes on the phone while I waited. Even when she finally hung up she interrupted serving the people in front of her to answer the phone—a practise I abhor. The fact that someone was an hour late for work should not have been my problem but it certainly became so. The person serving me was not with it and after three reminders still tried to rent me a site for 2 days rather than the 3 I’d requested. The Philippe Lake area of Gatineau Park is emphatically in shield country and negotiating its roadways is an exercise in dodging rock outcrops. The forest however is a hardwood/softwood mix. The place was quiet although the odour of campfires hung heavily in the air and the heat of the day didn’t ease until well after midnight. Sleeping was definitely a clothing optional experience. The predawn chorus of birdsong awakened me every morning. Alas it was way too hot to essay the it was way too hot to essay the 14 km hike to Lusk Caves so on my off-day Thursday I sat inside with my curtains drawn and read my book.
Wakefield is an English Community in Francophone Quebec. The first surprise I received when I drove into town to reconnoitre was that there was no Black Sheep Inn as I’ve always heard it referred to on CBC—it’s Le Mouton Noir. Took me a moment to make the connection and by that time I’d driven past. Driving up Riverside Dr one discovers that the sidewalk on the waters edge runs between two rail lines which in places abut the roadway and in other locations are mere inches from houses on the riverfront. Obviously people who park there must take care as the line is actually still in use by Le Train Vapour. To prove the point the train blew its whistle and rumbled through town before Friday’s performance making its return run shortly after. Although that train boasts a steam engine and tender car it seemed to me that the majority of work was being accomplished by the diesel unit behind it which obviously also powers the passenger cars and dining cars.
Just outside town, on the road in from Hwy 105 is an artesian spring which is a popular spot to get cold, gushing refreshing sweet water. If you can find parking a wander along Rue Principale reveals an odd mix cafes and eateries, bookstores and giftshops, clothing and whatnots. There is a library if you can find it open, the schedule defies logical examination. Main street was in need of repaving half a decade ago and at the entrance to the community centre a rapidly expanding sinkhole threatens to eat anything that gets too close. Le Moulin is a quarter mile up Mill St along a road with forest and rock outcrops on one side and a rushing stream on the other. Certainly a peaceful idyllic location for a five-star Inn.
What can I say about the Sheep? Le Bistro Rutherford which manages its kitchen serves up a yuppie version of pub fare and lacks a liquor licence and like many other establishments in town accepts only cash. Hence I approached the place to find everyone outside in the boiling hot sun eating on the Black Sheep’s patio which is licensed. That an overweight pug has the freedom to wander wherever it pleases including a seat on the sound board was a revelation—strange liquor laws in Quebec. In spite of the fact that having dinner there was supposed to assure me priority seating for my evening concert staff failed to inform me that the doors had been opened prematurely until all the seats were taken. As it turned out the improvised seating on the covered pool table in front of an open window proved to be the most liveable seating available. Wednesday’s program managed to start on time. Not willing to be hoodwinked twice I had dinner before I arrived Friday night and got myself in the line-up at the entrance around 6:30 with my book in hand. This night the doors did not open until 7:45; allowing the audience in before the opening act has arrived not being a wise act. It was not until 8:30 the opening act performed their sound check and that completed they decamped to the patio for another beer. The performance did not begin until 9:15. All the more time to make alcohol sales it would seem. I’m still not clear on why Blue Grass or any other music needs to be deafening but I’ve definitely decided that the ability to understand the words is not important. Venues where the audience talks all through the performance and the performers drink beer on stage are not my usual stock in trade. I did get 76 pages of my book read before the performance began Friday.
Fred Eaglesmith attracts a devoted following of Fred Heads. With no introduction he launched into his first set and moved seamlessly from song to song. To say that his commentary, when it did come, was salty is an understatement. When sweating profusely he opined he might go out and jump in the lake as he has on past occasions an audience member was told to f… off when he was informed that it’s actually a river. Similar language was used to describe audience members who gossiped away in the middle of his performance and came up frequently. It would seem I haven’t listened to my CD’s often enough to have recognized most of the numbers played. I do find it novel that one who so offhandedly insults his audience maintains such a devoted one. The opening act was so utterly forgettable that most of the audience ignored him and continued their conversations.
The tardy Grass Mountain Hobos are a 5-piece combo fronted by Josh Ellis who shares singing duties with a couple of his mates. A double bass player provided rhythm while a fiddler added grace notes. Despite their hayseed front their music is an eclectic mix. This we were informed was their concluding performance of a cross-country tour that will see them returning to home base in PEI to launch their sophomoric album July 1st.
The United Steel Workers of Montreal are a 6-piece combo in which the tiniest player works and even balanced on top of a huge double bass and the hulking gruff-voiced no-neck grimacing lead singer played the smallest. The group boasts a female accordionist who sings, a banjo/mandolin and lead, rhythm, and electric guitars with a fife and other instruments thrown in as the mood struck. This night the audience was attentive to both acts.
As much as I enjoyed the live music I doubt I’ll be making the long trek to Wakefield again given the many drawbacks. This morning after a quick bowl of cereal and a walk to the comfort station I set out for Renfrew Ontario. Once again I was dependent on my GPS to take me there as much as I sometimes wonder at allowing myself to be at the mercy of an electronic wonder—particularly when it leads me along 22 km of washboard dirt road. I should be grateful that a kampsite was waiting for me but I must say it’s been some time since anybody called this old curmudgeon “sweetie”.
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