Paradise Found

Day 29

Before we even roll out of the tent, we can see that this is going to be a beautiful day. The skies are blue with high up clouds, or singular puffy clouds only. No rain in sight. The wind has calmed down entirely. This is the day we've been waiting for: it's time to find the beach.

Most of the beaches on PEI seem to be national parks, which means they charge admission. We decided to ask around a few days ago about free beaches, and a source (who shall remain nameless) graciously gave over the location for the prized secret local beach. She said she never tells anyone about this beach, so we're feeling pretty lucky. And, we're not telling where it is.

You may have thought we were kidding about eating bologna sandwiches, but we weren't. Our little lunch for the beach consists of 2 bologna and cheese sandwiches, a bag of BBQ chips and a bottle of water. We bring towels and sun hats, and wear our swimmies under our clothes. No frills.

After a few wrong turns, we wind down a longish red dirt road, and see the cars parked along side the road that mark a good path to the beach. This reminds me very much of going to Folly Beach as a kid. Mom would park the blue station wagon on a side road, and we would hoof it to “pre-Pier” Folly. On the way back, we'd have to carry a bucket of salt water to dip our feet in before we got into the hot car.

This beach, however, comes with it's own foot dip. From the parking lot, we climb down a rickety staircase, and walk knee deep through the shallow, sun warmed salt water to what is essentially a giant sand bar. We end up walking with a man who is from Toronto and has been summering here for the past 30 years. He says this beach is only about that old. It began as a skinny sandbar, and is now a wide, grassy mile long little paradise. We walk a short path through the pale green beach grass and come out on a vast expanse of red sand and dark blue ocean. It is deserted except for about 5 families gathered in small clusters here and there. Our friend tells us that a crowded beach on PEI is one with other people on it. As usual on this island, I'm in heaven.

North Rustico

The water is really cold, colder than Lake Erie. We decide to walk the beach and wade in the water rather than swim. The beach is absent of shells except for occasional broken clams and hollow crabs. It is covered with sea weed though. Some of it looks like wide, dark green lasagna noodles, others like miles of cassette tape removed from its case. The water is clear and beautiful.

We round the corner of this “sandbar” to find that we are just a few yards across a narrow inlet to North Rustico, a fishing village founded by Acadiens escaping the deportation. It is quaint and picturesque, complete with weather-worn shake buildings, a little lighthouse, and families jumping off the wharf to swim in the sparkling water.

On the way back to our towels, we circle back around to the grassy path we walked in on. On the way there, we slide across muddy flats, slick with nearly dry seaweed, and step on millions of tiny snails in the shallow water. Sandpipers fuss at us as we walk near their nests. Ospery fly over, black loons and seagulls gather out in the water to float and cry together. Minnows erupt as we near their schools so that it looks more like wind blowing over the surface of the water than fish in motion. It's perfect.

After a little nap, and an attempt at a swim, we head to Keith's for ice cream before going back to camp. Tonight we have big, juicy cheeseburgers cooked on cast iron over hot coals with sliced salt and peppered tomatoes. These PEIers need to take a class in burger making from the Pirate, seriously.

Drying Out

Day 28

After the many millimeters of rain that feel yesterday, our focus today is getting everything dry. The morning is spent hanging things from the already sagging clothes line and all of the trees in the campsite. It's about time to give everything a good airing out, anyway. Once we have sufficiently hung, strung and laid out all of our belongings it looks like an explosion, or a badly organized yard sale.

The Pirate takes this morning to install the Girl's headlight thingy. He took the power supply line to the headlight, and spliced in a plug so he can simply disconnect the power to the headlight there rather than taking the whole headlight cover off. He credits his Dad for inspiring such MacGyver-like solutions.

While all of this drying out is happening, we head to the pool. It's cold from the rain yesterday, so not as much swimming as basking. I will say, I am several shades darker than when we departed Asheville 28 days ago. My skin never gets quite tan, it's more that the freckles get bigger and closer together. I have inherited spotty skin anyway. When my tan fades, I am left with spots, the type that most cosmetic companies develop products to eliminate. I should stay out of the sun, or never leave the house without sunscreen; that's what popular wisdom says. But to hell with that. I want to live outside during the summer, and I want proof that I've had a good time during my years. I will not go to my grave with skin like Cate Blanchett, and I will likely not be described as well preserved. I will leave preservation to historical societies and jelly makers. One day, I may be known as the Leopard Lady, Grandma Cheetah, or the 102nd Dalmatian, but at least I'll look like someone with some stories, and someone that's had a damn good time.

Anyway, after our sunbathing we get the camp re-organized and freshened up and then head down to Keith's grocery. We stock up big this time, since we're not eating out anymore. Fresh ears of corn, thick sliced bacon, fat red tomatoes, four hot Italian sausages, sharp cheddar, a dozen eggs, ground beef, homemade bread, thick cut German bologna, an onion, 3 cloves of garlic, beautiful bunches of carrots, bags of garden grown salad greens with nasturtium flowers and 2 lbs of mussels should get us through a couple days. We get all of that (all of it local, including the cheese and meat) for about $50. Not bad.

Tonight we're doing another “Ex-pat Boil” as we like to call it. I'll give you the recipe for this version:

over some hot coals, rest a tall stock pot with a tight fitting lid.

Fry the onions, sliced into thin half moons, in butter and olive oil for 5 minutes

Add 2 of the sausages, cut into bite sized pieces. Fry another 5 minutes.

Add 6 cloves of minced garlic. Fry about 2 minutes

Add about an inch of water and bring it to a strong simmer.

Add potatoes, cut into bite sized pieces, simmer 8-10 minutes.

Add the corn, ears cut in half. Add the mussels on top of that. (if you have clams, they need about 3 minutes more than the mussels).

Cover the pot tightly and steam no more than 10 minutes, until the mussels have opened.

Remove from heat. Scoop out everything but the broth onto a plate. You can drink the broth, sop it up with good bread, or use it to make rice in the morning.

Singin' In the Rain

Day 27

There's nothing worse than sleeping in a tent when you really need to sleep in. Though it is cool and windy, the sun gets us up despite our 2 am bedtime last night. We just make coffee, and go in search of somewhere that will serve an early lunch. The skies are darkening by the minute, but the air is so nice that we chance it and ride without our gear. Predictably, we're in a rainstorm within 10 minutes, and we are soaked.

We end up pulling off at Carr's Oyster Bar to change into our gear, and decide to go ahead and have lunch there, since we enjoyed our dinner so much last week. It sucks, however, and we vow that we are not eating at another restaurant in PEI. It's too expensive, the portions are too small, and the food is mediocre. Let me emphasize that PEI is a great foodie vacation if you are a cook.

We continue on to Kensington, which is our goal today. There are a few galleries there, including an artist's co-op. For those who don't know, I am a founding member of an artist's collective in Marshall, NC called Flow. I'm able to sell my product line, river island apothecary, there along side world class art that is hand crafted in or very near Marshall. By the way, you can “like” both Flow and river island apothecary on face book.

In lieu of “not saying something nice” about the Kensington galleries and the art therein, I will say that it is my honor to be a part of Flow, the Marshall High Studios and the whole Marshall scene. The Pirate and I have realized that our compatriots in Marshall have turned us into the worst art snobs by spoiling us with their constant genius. I am moved by the work of the artists that surround me in my humble hometown everyday; not something I can say for much of the “art” I've seen on this trip. My plan was to take some photos of these galleries in Kensington and write magnificent things about artistic group endeavors, and share it on the Flow face book page. But alas, I can't. I was not too impressed.

We tooled around Kensington for a little while in the rain. The Pirate found the parts he needs to put a switch on the Girl's headlight so we don't have to bust the tool kit out every time it gets dark or rains. The reason we have her headlight out is that her stator is going bad. The stator is to a motorcycle what an alternator is to a car. To replace this on the road could be up to $400, so we're being as clever as possible and making due. So far, so good.

This is the fist day of our entire 27 day adventure that it rains all day long. It is a gray, sopping day. There is a break in the weather, so we ride back out for a scoop of our favorite ADL toffee almond twirl ice cream. We pass a little gallery, the Howes Hall, and it seems to be hopping. We pop in and are greeted warmly by the gallery owner. She welcomes us in, and we ask her what's going on tonight. She says “Oh, it's a private function, but just come on in!”. So, we happily crashed the art opening. To our delight, this gallery is wonderful. It's mostly 2D work, lovely haunting watercolors, delicious oils and bright, bold acrylics of bays, groves, fields and roots; also traditional hooked rugs with great designs and modern, tasteful palettes. We are served a stem glass of cranberry juice and soda water, and offered cheese and crackers. It's wonderful to be on this side of an art opening for once! All the people at this function seem really sweet and interesting, and, again, I am so impressed by the work in this gallery. Thank goodness, I was really beginning to wonder what all the fuss around art on this island was about.

Our evening is spent in the community room writing, looking at the weather forecasts and pricing sea kayaks. We thought we might watch a movie online, but a branch fell on the wire down the street and severed it, so the power is out. Tonight we get to read our story to the sound of raindrops pitter-patting on the rain fly of our summer home.

Double Feature

Day 26

I had the morning chats like crazy today. It's like, I build up all this energy from sleeping and dreaming, and when that combines with my coffee, I'm really creative. It's all in the form of brainstorming though. If you try to coral the morning chats, make them productive, or fruitful, or realistic it's no fun. We must have chatted an hour and come up with a million ideas for a million different things before we went to get our food from the camp fridge.

It's hot and sunny, and extremely windy today. The tress tops are constantly whistling and humming today, bending and fluttering with this wind against the brilliant cobalt sky. This much wind feels a little crazy-making, a little altering, like the setting in that movie Volver. It seems that something big that is really far away is blowing in. That feels both exciting and ominous.

Now that all of the weekend campers have gone, and it's just us long term folk, we're able to enjoy the pool. I like a pool, I do. Especially when my Pirate and I are the only ones there. We bask in the sun like rotisserie chickens for hours, dipping into the pool here and there, trading off old Vanity Fairs. We have a great system for our poolside cocktails. The campground allowed us to buy a bag of ice and keep it in the ice cream freezer all week. We go up to the camp site, mix our cocktails (which are clear) in a water bottle, tote that and our empty Sierra cups back down to the pool. We fill the cups all the way up with ice, but pour only a standard martini's worth of booze over it at a time. It's enough ice for 2 or 3 drinks. The Pirate kills his in no time. I sip until all the ice is melted and I have something more like gin flavored ice water. It's probably sacrilegious to dilute good booze, but it's so good. I can stretch a good icy cocktail over 2 hours when I'm poolside.

We relax like this all day long. Hours and hours of lounging. This is my favorite speed.

And speaking of how much we're enjoying our relaxed pace, we made a decision yesterday to stay another week in this campground. Basically, though American and Canadian currency are neck in neck, Canada is expensive. They have socialized medicine up here, and all manner of things that are funded by taxes. There are heavy taxes on food, lodging and restaurants in particular. From what I can figure, traveling through Canada has cost us an extra 20% across the board. We had a long talk about what to do. One option is to stay in Canada just like we'd planned, and cut way back on our spending. The other option is to blow it out like rock stars but head home early. We chose the first option. The weather and the scenery up here is where it's at. We'll live on their thick cut bologna and homemade white bread if we have to. The luxury is in the setting, not the entertainment. If we book this campground for a week, we get the 7^th night for free. Staying here two weeks had allowed us two free nights, which goes a long way, not to mention this is a helluva great campground.

That said, not all campgrounds are created equal. Between our trip last summer and this one, we've stayed in a myriad of campgrounds. The reason we like this one so much is that it's small, it's away from a traffic-y road, it's wooded, it's a quick walk to the water, and, though the common buildings are not in the very best shape, they are kept spotlessly clean. The vibe here is relaxed. The hot showers are free. Nobody messes with your stuff. It's affordable. It's heaven. That's why we're staying another week.

Tonight, we are going to the Brackley Beach Drive-In Theater. We arrive around 8:30, just before dusk. For $9 a piece, we get to see both movies tonight and get a small drink. Since we don't have a car, we sit in the plastic Adirondack chairs that are front and center. We are joined by all manner of teens and tweens, all excited to be able to snuggle up under blankets with each other on the grass on this beautiful evening. There are piles of little girls all tucked in under their blankets, already in their pajamas. The wind is still blowing, and it's starting to cool off fast. The “theater” is a big, grassy lawn that slopes gradually down toward the giant movie screen. In front of the screen, making kind of a stage, are two 40's model cars with working headlights. Gradually more and more cars arrive, and some Oldies get cranked up, then some previews telling us about the concessions and how not to have your headlights on, then the latest Bat Man movie, Black Knight something or other. As soon as the movie comes on, we are swarmed by mosquitoes. Everyone else is covered in a cloud of bug spray like Peanuts' Pigpen. But not us. We end up with bandanas over our noses, and hoods and hats down just above our eyes. These mosquitoes are serious, they bite your head right through your hair.

After the Bat Man movie, most people clear out. A pile of blankets begins to move and brings forth about four 14 years old girls and one 14 year old boy; nice move, son. Somehow we didn't understand that we could see both movies when we arrived, so we're thrilled when we realize that we can stay. We get our small drinks, which are in the satisfying waxy coca cola cups, but do not come with ice. Canadians do not drink their “pop” with ice, ever. They won't even give you any of you ask. A pop in a waxy cup with no ice is not as good.

View from the pool of the bay

The next movie is Magic Mike. It's ridiculous, but totally worth it to see Matthew McConaughey strut around in stripper gear.

It's 2 am by the time Magic Mike finished. Cars gradually begin to start their engines and slowly drive down the red dirt road to the highway. Families peel their young children from their rosy cheeked sleep under the blankets and tuck them into their cars. We plug the Girl's headlight in and pray that a deer, or a red fox, or a coyote doesn't run out in front of us on the way home.

Southbound to Charlottetown

Day 25

After our lazy day in the campground yesterday, our only outing being the race, we're heading to the big city today. Charlottetown is about 20 miles from Cymbria. It is where the PEI airport, the University of PEI, the Arts Centre and the Culinary Institute are. The main reason we're headed there is that we need another canister of fuel for our cook stove, some Dr. Bronner's and some dark roast coffee. You know, essentials. It is a gloriously beautiful day. The sun is out, there are no clouds in the sky. The temperature is perfect for riding in a tank top and leather jacket (no scarves, fleeces or long underwear). That is ideal riding weather, in my opinion. The only thing about this day is that it's Sunday, which we had no clue of, so the outfitter is closed. No matter, we hit the Canadian Tire (which are everywhere) and find at least the fuel. I would not buy coffee at the Canadian Tire.

We ride into downtown on River Street, which deposits us at the start of a lovely scenic drive along the waterfront. It feels like the battery in Charleston SC, only not so grand, and not as many weapons. People are casually lying in the sun in their bathing suits alongside their cars on this “battery”, something that may give the duck head clad Charlestonians a fit. The water in the bay is dark blue and sparkling and dotted with sailboats, white sails full and tight.

Soon we are in the unfortunate tourist section; marked always by throngs of people, stupid shops with sandblasted brightly colored signs, and tour buses in novel shapes. Here, they are boat shaped, and called “Hippopato-bus”es. Jeez. Away from the water, it's hot in the sun. I'm in no mood to poke through shops, stupid or otherwise. We retire to a shady bench to re-group. I notice that the other people doing this are well into their 70s or 80s, white haired couples with the men smoking pipes and the women reading paperbacks. It's fitting.

We decide to walk back to the Girl, who is parked on a shady side street, and hit the road. My mood is all wrong for this hot, crowded place. Once we're there, we realize that we parked in front of the island's only beer brewery, duh. It beacons us, and we succumb. The décor is lovely; old beams and exposed brick, a blending of modern edge and traditional. We are seated by the window, so we can peer at at people in the street. My mood improves.

We order the pot roast sandwich with onion rings. At $13 at lunch, we figure this will be a mountain of food that we can easily share (though it is our custom to always share a plate when we eat out). This would probably be a safe assumption anywhere but Canada. The plate is meager: a very small serving of onion rings along side what I would consider a half of a sandwich. It was delicious, don't get me wrong, but dang, they don't feed you in Canada.

We're realizing that our initial choice of “groceries not restaurants” is holding true. First, it's cheaper. Second, we're blowing the cuisine we've sampled at restaurants out of the water with our Whisper Lite stove and a good campfire.

After lunch, re-fueled and refreshed, we head to Beaconsfield, a grand historic home on Victoria Bay. The day we visited the Shipbuilding museum, we bought a pass that allowed us to visit three historic sites/museums for the price of two. One of the sites is here in Charlottetown (we discovered this at lunch, cleaning out our pockets) and it turns out to be our favorite of the three. This is a grand home of a ship builder from the late 1800's. It overlooks the bay, and anyone who was pulling into the harbor would see it. The original owners actually moved a house that sat here across the street so that they could have this particularly good site. The home is huge, with ornate details, room for servants, spaces for entertaining the likes of visiting British royalty. We figure that this guy sold his soul to the devil though, because he and his family only lived here for 5 years before declaring bankruptcy and moving out with only the shirts on their backs. Apparently, they didn't keep up once steam ships caught on. He and his wife also outlived all six of their kids. There are many lessons in this story.

On our way home, we pick up food at the country store: steaks, fresh corn, eggs and butter. We'll cook it over the campfire, and it will be more affordable and delicious than if we'd gone out for it. Plus, we make better cocktails. I guess we're just spoiled, being from Asheville where there are so many beautiful restaurants. I will not waste my money on shitty food on the road when I can go to the Admiral or Tod's or Rezaz once we get home, you know?

Day of Thunder

Day 24

About four evenings ago, the Pirate and I were casually hanging out in our camp when he stiffened, sat bolt upright and titled his head the way a dog will when it hears something. He sat very still, his eyes bright and focused, sniffing the air just slightly, and finally said “You hear that? That's a race track! We gotta find it!”

Yesterday, we found it. It's the Oyster Bed Speedway, and last night they had a race. We got there an hour late (had we known we could get hotdogs and fries there we would have never cooked dinner), but we still managed to get a good seat and catch some of the rounds of only 15 laps before the big 50 laps and 100 laps races. The races tonight are Street Stock, Outlaws and Enduros. It is thrilling.

The track is surrounded by bleachers, a huge fence, concession stand, and restrooms (“washrooms” in Canada). To me, it felt fondly reminiscent of a high school football game. There are families with little kids, high school couples stealing kisses, tribes of children who rule beneath the bleachers like trolls, groups of middle aged men in camouflage, high school aged boys acting tough, motorcycle couples in leather, gaggles of teenage girls giggling and trying for attention from the boys, and etc. If you didn't know where you were, and didn't hear anyone's accent, you'd think you were in the south. Speaking of accents, this was the place to be to get a big hit of the island lilt. It's almost Irish the way it goes up and down like a song. You should hear it when the speedway announcer does it.

We've had a lot focus on the local food of this place, but not of the local folk. They are not foodies, they do not sea kayak, they could give a shit about Anne-of-Green-Gables. Some of these islanders are Acadien, descended from people who survived by eating these prized PEI mussels because there was nothing else. Others are descended from the folks who would push a boat over the many miles of ice from the island to the “mainland” in the winter for supplies. These are people who may have had great grand parents who knew this bit of land as a country and not a province; maybe loosing that independence is still in their cells. These are people who you would never meet of you let a guide book dictate your PEI experience. I admit that was a bit if a rant.

After about an hour of watching the races, the sun went down. The very second this happened, the entire crowd of spectators pulled out their hoodies, jackets, polyester comforters and kitten imprinted blankets. But not us. We're southern, we still think that when the sun goes down is when it gets comfortable. So we sit there with goosebumps until I decide to fetch our leather off the Girl. While I'm walking toward her, I can see the tall, bright lights of the racetrack. These lights make obvious that we are sitting in a straight up dust cloud; a constant tornado of red dust that rises at least 40 feet in the air.

This is my fist race. People warned me that I would need earplugs. “Ppshhh” I say, this is nothing compared to being on the Girl at top speed. Nothing. Anyway, the race is really fun. The cars looks wrecked up and tough before the race even starts. We choose our favorite car, and root for it. There are wrecks, and grudges and triumphs, and drivers who's cars die before the green flag is even waved. Most of the drivers are local, though some are from Nova Scotia.

At the end of the night, we hook up the Girl's headlight and ride the few miles “home”. We are covered in red dust. I can hardly get through our chapter of Snow Falling on Cedars without coughing. It's OK, we fall asleep instead to a chorus of coyotes hunting in the neighbor's potato field.

Thunder Road

Day 23

The storms last night left us with a cool morning. It was hard to get out of the tent. One of the very best purchases we made for this trip was a two person sleeping bag. It saves a lot of room when packing all the gear, and it's lovely to snuggle up in, as you can imagine.

We have decided to go in search of booze today. We've heard tell of an artisan distillery on the eastern shores of PEI, so our goal today is to find it. As navagatrix, I have fun leading us up and down all manner of red dirt roads. The east side of this island seems “wilder” somehow than the other parts we've seen; there are more stretches of forest, more national parks. As we ride, the weather worsens until we're riding through low, gray skies, and a chilly mist that comes off the ocean. I have all my gear on by now.

Within an hour or so we are in Rollo Bay (originally an Acadien settlement, incidentally) at the The Myraid View Distillery. The setting is ideal; a beautiful view of the Northumberland Strait from a tidy little plot with cottage, cottage garden, and still. The Pirate and I are both expecting the same thing: a super fancy tasting room with hipsters pouring booze and acting as though they know something about it, or at least that they know more than we do. This expectation proves we're from Asheville. Anyhow, what we get is quite the opposite.

There is a tiny show room as you enter, and a sweet lady who will help you find what you're looking for, and pour you what you'd like to taste. We are the only ones there. It's heaven. While tasting no fewer than nine artisan distilled spirits, she tells us the story of this “Strait” (as in Northumberland) booze. It's the labor of love of the local M.D. He brews and his wife does the distillations. He acquired this hobby after partying with his “flock” of patients who were desperate to keep him in their midst (I guess doctors are hard to keep around in rural PEI). Before he left a party, someone always asked him if he'd like a bit of shine, which he did, and he liked it so much he decided to go through the effort of legalizing it and producing his own. He started out with two kinds of shine: Strait Lighting and Strait Shine. Since then he's added a whiskey, a pastis, a gin, rum and navy strength rum, and dandelion shine. They're all delicious.

PEI shine is a bit different than what we get in NC. It's brewed with molasses and cane. We asked so many questions about how and why all of this was made that we (along with some lucky folks who walked in just as we were entering the secret room) got a tour of the still itself. The room with the still is kept separate from the public. It stays surgically clean. There is one giant still and lots of huge stainless steel barrels containing all of the liquid it brings forth. Behind the still are stacks of barrels aging things like brandy and whiskey. Canadian whiskey has to be aged a minimum of three years before it's right. The gin is infused with 8 spices (or “spoices” as the local accent would have it) that are organic, grown on the premises, and added not to the mash (which would exhaust the essential oils in the herbs) but up in the vapors. Genius.

We leave with a bottle of the gin and a bottle of the lightning. We're giddy.

We take the long way home, winding around the northern most tip of the eastern edge of the island. I have figured out how to locate on the map the fish shops, it's not hard: find the bay, then find the most inland tip of the bay; if there are boats, there is a fish shop. Voila, the equation works like a charm, and we stop in St. Peters for a nice pre-cooked lobster. I like to get them cooked because I hate the idea of driving 50 more miles with a live, freaked out creature in the saddle bag. That's a good way to ruin dinner.

We stop at our neighborhood country store for sausages, garlic, potatoes and corn to go in an “Ex-pat Boil” that we plan to do over the campfire tonight. It's fun; we pretend we're making a cooking show and video the whole thing. Let me tell you, this is the best food we've ever made. The broth is out of this world, the corn is sweet and crunchy, the potatoes are not-too-soft, the sausage is chewy and hot, and the lobster is just perfect. To top it all off, we've made a cocktail with mostly gin and a splash of the lightning that's about as good of a martini as I've had on this trip. The Pirate thinks that his old buddy Hank would have even approved.

Flexing Our Mussels

Day 22

Another lazy day with a slow start. We're realizing now how worn out we were from our first two weeks on the road. Breakfast involves a little bit of a walk through “camp town”, as we call it, to retrieve our groceries out of the community fridge. Whoever volunteers to make this walk usually has coffee awaiting them upon their return.

It's beautiful and sunny today, so we spend a few hours by the pool. This campground miraculously has some vintage Vanity Fairs from the mid-90's; anyone who knows me knows my love of a Vanity Fair. Lying poolside with a pile of magazines is my idea of heaven.

After a chlorinated hour or two, we decide to venture out; not too far this time, not as far as yesterday. There is a coast that's within our “neighborhood” that we keep bypassing, so we decide to check it out. We ride west through Rustico, Cavendish and Stanely Bridge. In Long River we pop into the Kitchen Witch restaurant, a little place that's both charming and haunting with it's stark black and white palette. It's in an old school house from the late 1800's, and run by an American ex-pat and her Canadian husband of 35 odd years. Though these people are wonderfully nice, their food was a snooze fest and their décor is comfortable, though eccentric and dispensable, like a flea market booth. They do offer tea leaf readings though, but the leaf reader wasn't there today.

From our disappointing lunch we continue west to Malpeque, a name you may recognize as it generally proceeds “mussels”. This little harbor village is lovely, and somewhat abandoned at the hour we visited. This allowed us to poke through the marina, greet the dock cat, and take pictures of things these fishermen see everyday of their lives. From here we circle around east again, this time taking deep red dirt roads through farmer's fields. PEI is a motorcycle riders dream. The Girl is doing much better now that we're treating her like the cruiser that she is rather than a touring bike.

On our way home, we stop in a Poissonerie (now just called simply a fish market) and buy mussels and clams. If you turned your head a few degrees to the right, you could see the very water where these creatures were just a few short hours ago. The very water, as they have an aqua culture outfit in this particular bay. We also get a loaf of their crusty homemade bread. From our favorite country store at the bottom of the road to our campground we snag some more salad mix and a lemon.

Because of the recent rain, we can now have a campfire. We buy the wood from the campground, it seems like some kind softwood like fir. The Pirate gets the fire blazing, and then tends it down to hot coals. We put our tall, borrowed stock pot over the coals, and wait for the 2 inches of water to come to a boil. Once it boils, we add the clams first, and let them steam about 2 minutes. On top of the clams we dump the mussels, and cover that up for another 10 minutes exactly. Meanwhile, the last of the garlic butter we bought in Gaspe is melting in a Sierra cup near the coals.

While this is coming together, a nice little thunderstorm blows through. There we stand, in our rain gear, passing Crown Royal back and forth, waiting for these bivalves to blossom. The storm clears just as the food is ready. It has left everything soaked, so we simply dump the pot of shellfish over the picnic table like a giant wooden colander. We put it all back into the pot, squeeze half the lemon over it all, and commence to feast. We tear bread off and smear it thick with ADL butter, and pluck salad greens out of the bag with our fingers. This is the way it should be.

It seems clear to me that PEI is a place for ingredients, and not amazing preparation. Granted, I have been here only 3 days, but in those days I have figured out to revel in the groceries that are available here, and not the restaurants.

Don't Know Much About History

Day 21

Last night it rained, answering the prayers of probably all PEI-ers. There has been a dry spell here. Campfires are banned, and, according to Keith the grocer, the island isn't as green and lush as it usually is.

We sleep in until 9:30 because of the rain. It feels good not to have to pack up all of our things today. We slowly have coffee and breakfast. It's 1pm before we get the Girl fired up and head out to explore. Today we are heading back to the western side of the island in search of a ship building museum. It's called the Green Park Shipbuilding Museum and Yeo House. It's in a town called Port Hill, about halfway between Summerside and North Cape, the very tip of the western side of the island. The drive is really gorgeous, we pass farms and fields, lighthouses and cottages, and sweeping views of the water. The museum turns out to be fairly small, and so the din of the 35 children visiting that day was like maybe the noise of the boiler room of the Titanic as it was sinking. Loud. We toured the beautiful old home of James Yeo built in the late 1800's, and all the grounds where dozens and dozens of ships were built back in the day. Everything was made on premise, the lumber, the black smithing, the sewing of the sails, everything. No pallets of manufactured Chinese pieces and parts for these folks. Apparently, the PEI ship building business is responsible for kick starting the island's initial wealth and independence. By 1920, it was over due to total deforestation and loss of resources, and economic crash.

The independence of these islanders is pronounced. We learned today that PEI was very close to being a sovereign nation. They ended up owing Canada a bunch of money for a trans island railroad, and so they signed away their independence because of debt. This independence, in my opinion, is coming forward now with the local food movement. Even at the smallest drive-in burger places you get all PEI beef, all ADL dairy products and you better believe you get PEI potatoes. As you drive along the roads, about every other household is selling something; lobster traps, fresh eggs, sea glass jewelry, vegetables, shellfish, you name it. It's very much like the Ohio Amish country.

Just so you'll be impressed, we also went to the Acadien Museum. For one, I was totally confused about who these Acadiens are. I thought they were a Louisiana tribe. Here's what I found out: Some French folks sailed over the Atlantic in the 1600's and plunked down on the shores of the Bay of Fundy, in an area known then as Acadie (ah-kay-DEE). They thrived there peacefully until the British won the rights to their land, renaming it Nova Scotia and relocating all the “Acadiens” over to the French turf (what is now PEI). They lived there for awhile, and then the English claimed that island too, thus starting the Expulsion, an effort to ship every last Acadien back to France, where they had actually not lived for several generations. A couple thousand Acadiens escaped into New Brunswick and Quebec evading the deportation. The ones who survived the journey back to France turned right around and sailed to Louisiana. Eventually some Acadiens made it back to PEI, where, after a shitload of struggle, they maintain a thriving community complete with Francophone schools, teacher trainings, newspapers and political officers. After centuries of attempts at establishing lasting roots, PEI, New Brunswick and Louisiana are now home to the Acadiens.

As a reward for all this studiousness, we retire to the lovely outdoor seating of Carr's Oyster Bar in Stanley Bridge. We have a beautiful view of the bay where they raise all of their oysters, and where boats come in from the ocean. We can also see the bridge, where youngsters are flinging themselves into the water below. We have a martini made with local (of course) gin, and a big old bowl of oysters, mussels, clams and quahogs steamed in white wine and garlic. There is seeded bread to sop this up. It's as wonderful as it sounds.

Red Clay Halo

Day 20

My research on PEI last night was surreal. Though I obviously knew all about PEI mussels, I had no idea that this Province was named by Zagat as the second best foodie's destination in the world, and that this little spit of land in the Gulf of St. Lawrence is home to the Culinary Institute of Canada, and a major local food revolution. We have died and gone to heaven.

Since we're in the “big city” of Summerside, we spend the morning running some errands. When you're on a long trip like this, there is something novel, or comforting, about running errands. The whole ritual of writing out a list of what you need, pushing the buggy around and collecting everything feels good. Laundry is like that for me too; grounding and comforting.

It turns out that PEI, like our beloved home state of N.C., is made of red dirt. I think the consistency is maybe sandier than our red clay, but it's just as red. It was the first thing I saw when we came off the Confederation Bridge yesterday, red dirt. Apparently it's good for growing potatoes. After our errands, we ride north along the country roads toward Rustico where we plan to camp. There are endless fields of potatoes, scattered artists studios, fields blooming bright, happy-face yellow with some cover crop, and long misty coastlines. We pass the LM Montgomery birthplace, and other Anne-of-Green-Gables destinations. We agree that, so far, PEI looks and feels like equal parts N.C., Ohio, California, and Wyoming if you can picture that.

Our campground is in South Rustico in Cymbria (koom-bria), a little community marked by a sweet little country store. It's in the center of PEI on the northern coast, officially called the Green Gables Shore. We decided to stay here at the Cymbria campground since it's fairly central, and they have a good weekly rate. We figure that since we got to have a week in Quebec, we should have a week in PEI. It's a bonus that PEI is only 170 miles long.

That, and we've also come to a hard, but predicted, decision. We are not going to make it to Newfoundland. The ferries are expensive, and though we still have well over a month left of our adventure, we don't have time. We're sort of disappointed, but also sort of excited that here, in the heart of our allotted time, we can slow down and enjoy ourselves a bit. We'd like to soak up some culture, maybe meet some people, instead of blasting through places. We'd like a vacation in the midst of our adventure. How's that for indulgence?

Once this decision was made, we spent the day settling in. Our campsite is beautiful and private. It feels like a deluxe outdoor hotel room. There is a pool that no one seems to use, so we lazed around that for awhile. We posted blogs. We unloaded the Girl completely, since we will be day tripping the rest of the week. We looked at our budget, both money and time.

Once we were finally starving, we drove a mile to the end of the road where there is a tiny country store. There, you can buy all manner of local produce, ADL (Amalgamated Dairy Limited, PEI) dairy products including hard scooped ice cream, fresh baked bread and meats produced on PEI and butchered in this shop and, of course, mussels. The shop has been here since 1927. The latest owner, Keith, came out to have a chat with us. His son is a 17 year old professional snare drummer with Celtic bands, Keith is a motorcycle enthusiast. Keith says that he's been all over, and that PEI is God's country, truly. I think I might agree.

While at the country store we have a little dinner on their bench. We watch neighbors come and go, all greeting us warmly. A bald eagle flies by in a hurry, it's getting dogged by a murder of crows. On the way home, we drive past our campground to see what's beyond it. We discover a fine furniture gallery, beautiful views of the bay, folks walking their dogs, and some other campgrounds. We watch an osprey fly overhead, clutching a fish. It's growing dark, so we head back since we have no headlight.

We stow our newly purchased and oh-so-local groceries in the campground fridge, and wave at all the folks sitting outside of their campers on the way to our site. It's been a wonderful day here on PEI, and we're looking forward to having at least six more.

PEI on the Fly

Day 19

It stormed like crazy last night. The lightning coming in over the ocean woke us first. We got everything tucked away in case it rained, it was another 2 hours before the storm reached us. There is something both triumphant and comforting about a big storm when you're in a tent that's dry.

By 11 am we're packed and ready to hit the beach for breakfast. We've heard that the beach within the park is really nice, so we decide to visit it on out way out. There is a nice wide boardwalk that leads out from the woods to the sandy beach. It's warm and windy and, most importantly, free of mosquitos. We plunk down near the water and have our boiled eggs, salami and crackers, and look on as a few brave souls get in the frigid water. The water is not only frigid, but chocked full of jellyfish; all about 8 inches in diameter, and the color of canned cranberry sauce.

After our little beach-y feast, we are on the road to PEI. We think it will be a relatively quick drive, maybe 2 hours or so. Our plan is to get a hotel room for tonight, then, when we can easily get online and watch TV and relax, we'll research more about this Province. We stop at the Kouchibouguac visitors center to use their internet and book a room on the way out.

Within a couple hours we are at the foot of the Confederation Bridge, an epic structure spanning the entire sound between New Brunswick and PEI, about 13 km. It heaves us up over the water so we can see pretty far. PEI begins as a distant blue line on the horizon, and slowly comes into focus.

Our first glimpses of PEI are of the the red dirt, the rolling farmland, the white flowering potato fields and the big, beautiful barns. The air smells like ocean and manure. We found a room at an Econolodge in Summerside, west PEI's big town. Upon arriving, we discover that we can eat a Lobster Supper right there in the dining room, so we do. We have a view of potato fields and of those giant white windmills. We get a dozen PEI mussels for $6, complete with drawn PEI butter. It's coming clear that PEI is a local food movement all by itself. The meal is not the very best we've ever had, but we appreciate not having to drive anymore today, and that so much of what we just ate came from this island.

One reason we're glad to not be driving is that the Girl has been suffering a little. She's leaking some fuel, and she having trouble starting. The Pirate plans to get some tools and do some diagnostic surgery on her when we settle in to a campsite tomorrow. For now, her fuel gets switched off when she's parked, and we're riding without the main headlight to conserve the battery (the Ontario mechanics suggested we do this). Poor Girl.

Kouchi-what?!

Day 18

We have a chilly, damp morning ride today. I'm in full gear: rain pants over my jeans and my raincoat over my leather jacket. The sun doesn't seem to be coming out, and it's cold next to the bay. We ride past more charming sea side villages, a fair way to bid Quebec, which we have enjoyed so much, goodbye.

Around noon we take a break at a little rest area, and meet another couple on their motorcycle. They're riding in from New Brunswick, which they say is sunny and warm. They give us advice on directions and routes, and it's all the man can do not to ask the Pirate a billion questions about the Girl and our trip.

Within 15 minutes we are one hour ahead and officially in New Brunswick. It's bilingual here; signage is in French and English. A lot comes clear for us this way, an accidental translation of things we'd been reading for the past week. There is a strong Acadien presence here, and also Irish. Though I'm sure this province is quite lovely, we choose to zoom through it on the highway. So, instead of meandering through all of the presumably adorable seaside towns, we zip through the woods.

In Bathurst we break for lunch. There is a fast food chain up here called “Dixie Lee”, and we've been dying to try it. So far, these eastern provinces have 4 main American chains: IGA for their groceries, Subway, McDonalds (with all Canadian beef) and the PFK. PFK you ask? It's the Poulet Frit Kentucky, otherwise lovingly known back home as Kentucky Fried Chicken. Anyway, the Dixie Lee had Poulet Frit and Fruit de Mar, all fried. It has an old school feel with the food packaged in cardboard boxes. It's delicious, and it blows the fried chicken from Ingles away.

We break again in Miramichi, a town at the head of a giant salmon river of the same name. It boasts that it is Canada's largest Irish town. Soon after Miramichi we are in the Kouchibouguac National Park. It's koo-she-boo-gwack. Though it is lovely, at $47 per night it's the most expensive camping we've had yet. We're a little bummed. The campground is a kids paradise. Miles, literally, of paved and graveled bike paths, nature trails, programs about wildlife in French and in English, and a lobster boat marina within walking distance. We spend the evening strolling around, sitting on big boulders and watching the lobster boats, and listening to kids belt out camp songs as they zoom along on their bikes.

It's a bit of an uneventful day. We didn't take any photos, we're really just plowing through miles right now to get to PEI.

Au revoir!

Day 17

We were so blissed out from our feast last night that we neglected to properly pack up the camp before we went to bed; so, of course it rained. We had a nice middle-of-the-night scramble to get things covered up, and still our stuff is soaked.

It does not stop us from enjoying our breakfast. While drinking coffee and staring at the sea, we see the unmistakable spray of whales at 12 o'clock, about an inch below the horizon. We think it may have been more Orcas, since there were so many individual sprays in a short time. We also watch sailboats going past, and dream of how to spend next summer. We cook another white wine and shallot sausage with peppers and rice and scrambled eggs. With the rest of that baguette, we are not the least bit worried about our wet stuff.

Once we are on the road, however, the wet stuff becomes cold stuff, and with the cool, cloudy morning, this ride is a tad chilly. The ride is lovely, though. We are drifting up and down hills, near the water and then the forest. We pass little villages with their modest, brightly colored houses. They love a navy blue with white trim, also bright gold or red metal roofs, turquoise, pink and yellow painted wooden siding. These people understand what color does for a soul during the many-shades-of-gray that must be a Gaspesienne winter. The houses are all very small, there are no giant hurricane-insurance-money- funded places that sleep 25, no audaciously boring 15 story Myrtle Beach condos. It's quaint, truly; the lost art of the simple seaside cottage.

Our route brings us also by some natural wonders today. As the mountains dip, or at times dramatically break, into the sea, there are beautiful formations in the bays. It looks a bit like Arches National Park, submerged.

Lunch is a boefe hashe poutine. We vow this will be our last one. We are hypo-poutinic, we have hy-poutinsion, poutinitis, or something. All I know is, we're not eating any more poutine for awhile. Besides, after a full week, this will likely be our last night in Quebec.

After lunch, after we rounded the eastern most coast of the Gaspesie, 132 est became 132 oust, and we are now traveling the northern banks of the Cheleur Bay. The shores of New Brunswick are visible as blue-ish hills across the water. Tomorrow, we'll cross into our third Canadian Province, and a whole new time zone: Atlantic. We'll jump one hour ahead, which ultimately will mean a shorter day and that cocktail hour will come that much faster.

Tonight, we are in a campground in Caplan with long term camper dwellers who speak only French. As I write, there is a little party of about 10 people sitting around a campfire, huddled in sweatshirts and smoking cigarettes, speaking French.

Le Poisson, Le Poisson!

Day 16

Because we are so far east, and the entirety of Quebec is on Eastern Standard, the sun rises here at 4:30 am. This is an unfortunate fact when living in a translucent tent. It is beautiful, though, when you awaken to a ribbon of salmon pink over the ocean, whatever time it is.

Our morning today is gorgeous and sunny. We stare out into the sea while sipping the morning coffee. There is a path that leads to the bottom of the cliff made mostly of stairs balanced precariously on a sheer face of shale. The stairs share this angle with a fresh water spring that flow straight from the cliff into the Gulf. The beach is made of black pebbles, some with stark white splotches or perfect pin stripes, or images that look like runes. We find a big smooth boulder on which to perch, and contemplate the temperature of the water. The Pirate is brave, and jumps in. I am not brave, so I don't.

We are day tripping today, it's the first time we've done this. We have the Girl pretty much unloaded, suddenly skinny without her saddlebags and full pack. She's ready to zip down the coast to Gaspe for the day. We stop first in l'Anse-au-Griffon at a newly renovated Centre Culturel le Griffon/ Cafe for breakfast. We decide that the building must have been an old fish cooler, there are still thick doors with heavy duty hardware, like big freezer latches. We have dark coffee, homemade bread with homemade strawberry preserves, and ham and asparagus crepes. Just outside of the restaurant is the most enchanting bay, especially in the sunny warmth of this day. We are tempted to just stay here.

Instead, we wind on the coastal road to Gaspe, the “big town” out here. It's cute, though touristy. It takes us 10 minutes to walk up and down the main drag, choosing to skip to predictably kitschy shops. One shop we do not skip is the epicerie, a little market full of all of the gourmet ingredients we've been dying for. We browse around and decide to come back before we leave town. On to lunch; we settle on a little place on the corner called Brulerie Cafe des Artistes. We sit outside on these cool little picnic tables and await out meager feast. We are trying the day's special: a house made hotdog. When it arrives, it's clear that some things got lost in translation, because this is no hotdog, it is a master piece. The “hotdog” is more of a sausage, round and cooked to soft perfection. The center is soft, kind of creamy, and perfectly salty and spiced. It is on a warm bun, with whole seeded mustard and crispy fried bright green seaweed. We instantly regret ordering only one. It also came with a perfectly crispy and tart apple cabbage slaw.

After lunch we hit the Gaspesie Musee, which, if the building is any indication, will be beautiful and fascinating. It's not. It basically chronicles the exploitation and plundering of the resource-rich Gaspesie by the English and French. Does every nation in the world have this in common?

Now for grocery shopping, since this is our day-of-eating. First the epicurie, the Marche des Saveurs Gaspesiennes, for white wine and shallot sausages, little syrupy Belgian waffles and a fresh baguette. Then to the regular marche for eggs, a stick of garlic white wine butter and our beloved Quebeciose Notre Vin Maison, then to the SAQ (the liquor store) for a good old bottle of Crown Royal (which no longer comes in a purple bag. Where ever will little boys stow their G.I. Joes?), and finally to the poissonerie for the 2.2 pound lobster. All of this without any more French than merci and bonjour.

Our meal is as good as it sounds and it's all cooked over the campfire. The Pirate tears into that lobster like, well, like the Canadian border patrol tears into the rig of suspicious looking bike-packers; nothing is left undiscovered.