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.