Saturday we had planned to say goodbye and move on around the coast, but Storm Dorian, a hurricane you’ll have heard of having laid waste to the Bahamas on it’s path up the east of the Americas, had other ideas. En route to brunch, the town’s inhabitants could be seen strapping down anything smaller than a hatchback, and a cursory eye over the news/forecast gave us concern. We chewed it over at Café de Couleurs, a beautifully multicoloured wooden building overlooking the green and blue patchwork wetland of the Barachois. There was a still a fair amount to get to further round the peninsular, but ultimately the thought of driving, and let alone camping, in that weather – bravado of two ultimate YES people aside – was unappealing and we decided to stick it out another night at the pub and in the caravan. Residents at said pub would later confirm the wisdom of this decision, citing possible 90 mph winds, and no small amount of nerves themselves even as hardened country-folk. Brunch, by the way, was top notch; beginning with the storm-antidote soup of the day, piping hot and filled with much needed vegetables, a smoothie filled with much needed fruits, and finally a shrimp and scallop waffle! Heated argument (is it an argument if everyone is on the same side but shouting?) debates to what extend something can be called breakfast if one simply cracks an egg on top... In my book goat curry, boeuf bourguignonne and pad Thai are all affirmatives.
Gambling that there may still be a ship’s captain brave enough to make the hop over with us to the Ile Bonaventure, we head back into town. By now my road awareness is up to scratch and I’m fully appreciating the sweeping bends, undulations and dense foliage to either side. The ‘incontournable’ or ‘must see’ island is home to one of the largest colonies of gannets in the world, endorsed thusly by Laurence “It stinks and they’ll poo on you for sure”... AND we have to get there by another vomit-inducing sea vessel? Count me in! What a shame then that all shuttle ferries have already been cancelled in anticipation of the worsening weather. With mother nature threatening, and the populous telling us “there really isn’t much to do in a storm but drink” we admit defeat as far as outdoor activities are concerned and set off on a tour. La Societé Secrete – a distillery in fact so secret that I couldn’t identify it on my bank statement the following week when undergoing a fraud check – operates from an old church overlooking the cliffs, so is automatically the prettiest distillery I’ve ever been in, comfortably beating those charming but grimy London railway arches and garages. They’re something of a cult hit, often seen on Tshirts around Montréal, and we pick up bottles of Dry, Camerise (one of many random local fruits) & Cassis Gins along with a new Amaro bitters which I’ve since cracked into. We also grab “one of everything” for friends back in the city. I like the look of one of their very soft jumpers, but am put off by the hipster connection, and besides if I’m grabbing merch, I feel much more affinity with Pit Caribou, where we’re headed next. Tossing our spoils into the car boot, we realise the whip is in quite the state. Logs for a fire, pillows, beer, underwear (unclear whether clean or dirty), charging cables, damp towels, coffee cups, cheese curds (yes from day 1) and unfurling toilet paper – a photo would have served as a good trip summary, but I hadn’t the presence of mind. Next stop is a return to the Microbrasserie Pit Caribou where we barbecued the other day, and where I buy a cosy hoody in size ‘Medium” which at 6’5 and 190lb puts into perspective the size of some of these rural Quebecois beer enthusiasts! We can’t resist a last drink here, so we grab a takeaway can of Session de Lesseps and climb the rocky ridge in what are now aggressively grey, gusty conditions, and huddle together in crevasse watching the growing waves crash in. In a coup of pathetic fallacy, conversation takes a darker turn, covering the depressing conditions in the northern territories of the country, youth suicide rates, immigration politics and the challenge faced by small businesses choosing product quality and human experience over profit margin. It’s a sign of how universally positive an experience the trip has been that this accidental slide into the sombre doesn’t dampen our mood or lead to any arguments. A perky little lone seal snaps us out of the slump, frolicking in waves which are now a little too close for comfort. We take some of his spring in our step and decide to head inside to the Pub Pit Caribou down the road, and given we’re chilled to the bone, to another alcoholic coffee with our pint. If this were an English pub, there would be a roaring fire, but trying to to be not too disappointed we seat ourselves – yes at the bar – and listen to the locals shoot the shit, reminiscing about past storms and warning us home early. Comfortingly, they proudly promise the town never loses electricity. More porter Gaspésienne – maybe my favourite beer of the trip – and thoughts having now been turned to colder climes, we set about creating an Autumn/Winter to-do list to help get me through my first seriously snowy season. It’s a classic rainy day activity, filling us with hope and excitement for life-after-holiday. If I make it through even a quarter of the bars, ice-skating rinks, sugar-shacks, snowy music festivals, ski trips and US border-hopping I’ll have put together a hell of an extra-curricular resumé. Free shots from Alex send us on our way down the street to chef Greg - of moose Bolognese fame - manning the pizza oven at Maison de Pecheur, where we sit in the all-glass conservatory, a glorious place from which to witness the lashing rain and howling sea wind. We’re been recommended the cuttlefish, and we can’t decide between a seafood pizza or pasta each big enough for two, so order the full trio of dishes and a bottle of Muscadet which nails the pairing in a big spot. A little breadyness from the yeast echoing the pizza dough, sharp citrus emulating a lemon wedge for a whole layer of sliced salmon, while the acidity cuts through the creaminess of the sauce. We save four slices of the pizza to crack an egg on the following morning. Unable now to see the sea 20m away thanks to the sheet of horizontal water-bullets now pounding the panes, and cosy as I am with the wine and carb overload, we surrender in our game of weather chicken and nip home before we become those ‘morons’ I mentioned earlier and need to be rescued by the authorities. The pizza box serves as a crucial shield, but as we step outside, a giant power outage plunges us into darkness…and I thought that never happened? There’s obviously even less to do in a caravan than a pub, but I’ve always had a childish enthusiasm for a good squall, whether it be imagining two Pokémon duelling it out in the skies of my youth, or suspecting a divine participation in the Thai New Year water-fight festival of Songkran. Separated from the deluge now only by 12mm of creaking plywood, the noise is epic and we’re both a-buzz with adrenaline. We haul in our stash of trunk-booze (canned Chardonnay, Raspberry Dubbel, Barleywine) and natter the night away, stepping outside only once more, much later, as Dorian reaches the height of its powers for a naked pee in the punishing open air, just because it would be, and was, awesome! Song of the Day - Everything by Nujabes in the stormy caravan Beer - Everything by Pit Caribou, either on draught or takeaway bottle
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It may not seem like an incredibly demanding regimen of eating, drinking, wandering and river-drifting, but the driving, camping and constant beer was beginning to take a minor toll. The two of us being naturally up-and-at-‘em early bird types, we nonetheless took the opportunity - despite nose-licking and heavy purring – of a lie in until seasoned sea-kayak tour guide and all around outdoorsman Kevin was ready to take us for a spin on the water.
Slightly before noon and fortified with more Coureurs des Bois coffee, we don some sexy wetsuits, and this time laughing along to Kevin’s version of a water safety briefing (he has generously promised us “the full works” as even girlfriend Christine has never had it). We’d be a sharing a two man/woman/person kayak today, and curse my imposing height, my long limbs prohibit me from taking the driver’s seat in the rear, so I settle down up front resolving to provide paddle power and just take in the scenery. Lucky I had that epiphany yesterday about handing over control hey? Thankfully the views of both the coastline from which we depart and the Rocher Percé up close were both majestic, however at a distinct point in Kevin’s coastal geology lesson 15 minutes in, I felt a familiar nausea and accompanying dread coming on. Having not suffered serious seasickness since vomiting voluminously through my scuba regulator in South Africa back in 2009, I thought I’d outgrown this weakness, but as we navigated the increasingly choppy water, the beautiful surroundings played second fiddle to my internal mantra of “right arm, left arm, look at horizon”. I was however, distracted by the arrival of a posse/heard/murder of seals, curiously bobbing up all around us, just yards from our vessels, to play, before tilting heads askew, rolling over and sliding back under us as we coasted. After such a dearth of wild animals, a close encounter with these dogs of the sea snapped me out of my ‘mal-de-mer’ enough to enjoy the experience overall. We also got to witness the daily rescue of morons not heeding tidal warnings and getting stranded on the rock. “Oh…turns out you didn’t know better than the centuries old lifeguard service? Shocker”. Thirty minutes of gritted teeth later I collapse on terra firma, a salty, sweaty starfish, smiling relieved once more into the resurgent sun. Still a little jelly legged, it’s a beautiful afternoon for a hike, so with another tuna sandwich (quicker this time but with all the extra cheese loose in the paper bag) and a couple of Pit Caribou Blondes we began our ascent of Mont-St-Anne, the primary peak overlooking the bay. It’s only twenty-five minutes up a gentle, winding, sun-dappled earth track; the kind you delight in straying from as a child, rummaging in the undergrowth and carving you own unique, steeper path. A fluorescent jacketed Rocket Grunt at the entrance of the sparkling new viewing platform informs us with somehow no hint of sheepishness that admittance will cost 9$ each, so we laugh in his face and descend fifty yards back to a bench with just as good a view. A hiss, a clink of bottles and a self-satisfied sip & sigh as we take in the Rocher from above. Masculinity having taken a hit earlier with the whole sea-sickness palaver, I gain back some arbitrary man points with the classic “do you want to borrow my jumper?” move as the early evening shade lowers the temperature. We sit a long while, and Laurence recounts to me a detailed history of the Quebec student protests of 2012, in which she participated heavily. Known here as the “Printemps Erable” or “Maple Spring” (a pun on Printemps Arabe) I take a while to get my head around how you can justify a six month strike and violence on both sides over raising tuition fees to what still falls way below what they were in the pre-Nick Clegg backstabbing UK. “Why are the French so bloody dramatic when it comes to protests?” I thought. Frustrated, I listen…always, I’m finding more with age, a valuable tool. Finally I begin to understand the added complexities of Quebecois pride in affordable education, the dismissal of youth priorities by a selfish older generation voting on things that don’t affect them and the emotion added by any violent oppression from the state. In fact, the story has much more in common with today’s Brexit scenario than our own tuition fee kerfuffle. Enlightened (although it’s very me to pat myself on the back for listening rather than congratulating the student activist raconteur) we shuffle our way back down the slope to town, and relocate to a fishery with the most stunning array of live lobster (and craft beer) I’ve ever seen. Tonight, we’re having a banquet. The aforementioned king of crustaceans is joined by crab, scallops, prawns and cod, all inexpensive and all from the local waters, fishing having always been the economic backbone of this region. Despite my offers to cook for our hosts to make up for their hospitality, I’m relegated to garlic butter duty as Kevin, as I said an expert in all things on and in water, walks us through the preparation and degustation of our haul. I dispatch a disgusting amount of rice as I again feel my usual 5 meals a day stomach rebelling against vacation rations. To celebrate Laurence & Christine’s 10 year friendiversary there’s a bottle of Champagne on hand, because as Martin Thibault, head beer aficionado in these parts writes “if you find nothing {beer} to pair with your plate, there is always Champagne”. I wish there was always Champagne... The final few hours pass with plenty of shell cracking, fizz-pouring and brain slurping; “It’s the best bit!”. We roll comatosed back to the caravan and to slumber. Song of the Day: Leon Bridges – River (but really the whole NPR tiny desk half hour, while cooking) Sunshine at 8am, there’s no time to be wasted. We grab a tuna sandwich a-piece in the now the clearly very picturesque town centre; sunlight really does wonders for any place. It’s another ten minute wait for tinned fished in a hunk of bread but it doesn’t even bother us, we must be relaxing! Heading back down the 132 to do some kayaking on the beautiful Rivière Bonaventure, this time I make sure to “ooooh” and “ahhh” at all the seaside tableaus I couldn’t fully appreciate in yesterday’s gloom. I’m DJing again, but Skepta’s revenge rap doesn’t fit the mood, so I swing for our friend Ariane’s 90’s pop throwback playlist, and we take a tour through Backstreet Boys, Avril Lavigne and Alanis Morisette. There’s no such thing as a guilty pleasure. The river safety video is predictably patronising, given the maximum depth on our 8km section is 70cm, but eventually we leap enthusiastically into two kayaks and paddle swiftly away from the other dozen clients ruining our tranquillity. It becomes clear though, as we cover ground fast, that a preferable strategy for solitude would be to hang back, so we let the plebs disappear around the sweeping bend, tie ourselves together and crack a can of Miller Highlife (“The Champagne of Beers”). As I said, no such thing as a guilty pleasure. The cans float alongside us in the cooling current, and we take in the foliage filled banks, the stark rock formations jutting upward from within, and even the occasional chalet, the shoreline garden of one in which we derive some satisfaction from relieving ourselves. It’s almost too perfect a scene, uncannily flawless like a film set, and the promised wildlife again eerily absent. “Which of these houses would you most like to buy?”…”None” I reply. No property can bring me the happiness I feel drifting along under these blue skies and sunshine; it’s bliss, and maybe my favourite moment of the whole trip . Shit! With all the appreciation of the moment and our kayaking complacency we’re now well behind schedule, but we could use some exercise following all this beer, so we power 4km into the wind to avoid being the last home, I myself paddling unnecessarily hard just to show Laurence (though of course she didn’t ask) what a phenomenal athletic specimen I am…such a petty man. Out of the water the wind is chilly, I having twice dunked myself heroically saving someone’s errant plastic bag, then my own sunglasses. We shiver onto a classic yellow school bus for a lift back to the car, and chow down on some crunchy Miss Vicky’s crisps, discussing the rumoured shortening of the 5 second rule to 4, as we drop and rescue stragglers from our greedy handfuls. It’s suggested that for dinner tonight we take advantage of the barbecues offered on the seaside patio of Pit Caribou’s actual microbrewery. Je suis down. I’ve honestly planned nothing this trip and gems like this keep coming…maybe I can learn to hand control of the wheel to others more often. Some steaks, incredibly flavourful “patates” (no ‘apples of the ground’ in Quebec) and some very intriguing seafood sausages; that’s pork with chunks of prawn and lobster inside, go down delightfully with more top-notch beer and the company of two dogs. A little authorial self-indulgence here: I crush some sort of “I can, and you cannette” pun, but I’m told I don’t have to follow every gag boasting “I’m funny in French now!”. I am though. Canadian government provided THC oil gives an added giggle to the exchange of travelling horror stories among our group as the light fades, and I sit back and enjoy not being a key player in the conversation for once. An after dinner coffee spiked with Quebec’s own maple liqueur - Coureur des Bois - is so delicious it becomes a daily ritual and helps us to get cosy in the caravan that will be our abode these next three nights, perched atop the Cap d’Espoir with a stunning 270 degree sea view. We bed down with two feline roommates insisting on sharing our pillows, one of which later snores so impossibly loud I get a dig in the ribs under the assumption it’s me. Everyone here has multiple pets; I can only assume both for company and for something to talk about in the loneliness of what must be a tough winter off-season. For us though animal friends are just a bonus in another fantastic day. Songs of the Day: As Long As You Love Me – Backstreet Boys Jenny from the Block - Jennifer Lopez Beer List:
Vilains
Pit Caribou
Awoken not by the expected pitter-patter of raindrops on canvas, but the same lilting waves that sent us off to sleep, I’m momentarily filled with hope that maybe the bad weather has passed us by. A tentative poke of head through zip to reveal a very British greyness and some worrying dark clouds over the water banishes this flight of fancy, and though still alone on the beautiful beach, we opt to decamp to the highly recommended and only café in town, Brûlerie de Quai, before we’re soaked. We are nonetheless caught in drizzle while trudging (my opportunity to teach some English as apparently our range of stroll, saunter, wander etc. have no equivalents) back through a seaside town which I can now see is much more charming than any UK settlement I’ve graced ending in “on sea”. Though our pillows are now damp (an oversight in carrying them loose) our spirits are lifted with by a couple of Americanos and a browse of the Microbrewery Micromarché featuring salmon, local wagyu-style yak steaks, hop tea, fishing coats and preserved Gaspésian insects. Unfortunately, our plan of kayaking the nearby Bonaventure river is scuppered, but we decide to head on up to Percé and the promise of a shower and a real bed, then drive back in the morning. This road-heavy plan is vindicated immediately by the increasing beauty of the 132, which on my left is shadowed by rolling mounts and river valleys overgrown with firs, pines and spruces (all different on account of needle positioning apparently) and not 10 yards to my right either endless, calm open water, or sheer cliff. It won’t be such a chore to spend 5 hours a day on this after all, however my only wish is that, with yellow hazard signs constantly promising meese (if multiple goose are geese?) and deer, I would actually like to see some wildlife bigger than the shouty campsite chipmunk. The “animalerie” we pass is apparently more of a pet store than moose-sanctuary. Fun fact: “kites” here are “cerf volants” or “flying deer”. A strawberry farm drop-in to pick up some wine and a tart for our future hosts passes pleasantly until the shop-manager goes all frosty on us for not buying 5 cases of rhubarb wine each, and I’m reminded why I prefer the beer community. Percé is the touristic capital of the region, one of those villages of a few thousand which swells one-hundred-fold in peak summer season; the favourable Canadian dollar over the past few years bringing anglophones from other provinces, along with the irrepressible and apparently highly irritating French (from France)! Today though it’s deserted and as we round a bend and crest a hill, the jewel in it’s crown, the Rocher Percé comes into view. I’m thrice assured that this vista is much more beautiful when it isn’t raining, but really a 100m rock formation pierced by one of the worlds largest natural arches is breath-taking enough today. On entering town we swing by the mythical, only ever whispered (some might say overhyped) Auval Microbrewery down an un-signed gravel track. They’ve barely enough stock of the one beer available – IPA Arcane 17 – to fulfil our maximum personal allocation of six bottles, and when we later uncap one, I notice it was bottled that morning; fresh as can be! It’s phenomenal beer, but clearly a case of rarity-driven demand. Pulling up to Pub Pit Caribou, the heart of the community and a brewery I’m very familiar with from Montréal, I’m a touch nervous to meet a band of Laurence’s friends and potentially lose my vacation chill while trying to be hilarious, charismatic, and indisputably justify (in reality to no one but myself) my presence on this trip. Within minutes of meeting Kevin, Christine and Alex however I’m at home and my hitherto tedious preoccupation with passenger-seat French practice pays off in a dazzling display of breezy bonhomie. There’s really not much to be done except commit to the pub at 15h30, so we settle in, ordering pints of chocolatey-comforting, cold-brew-refreshing Gaspésienne 13 porter and then a smashing “all dressed” pizza from the supermarket deli next door. We’ll return here often so I’ll save the review and attach a blurry picture summarising the scene. We shift spots for a very necessary hot shower, displaying our gratitude to host Alex with a case of lukewarm Laurentides (think Rolling Rock) and a canned Cab Sauv left over from last night’s picnic. His fridge is brimming with Pit’s spontaneously fermented specials and stashed Auval, but he’s effusive in his thanks and welcome, as is Charlot his handsome young Bernese Mountain Dog who devastatingly 2 days later is diagnosed with terminal cancer. A night of fairly freaky virtual-reality musical light-sabre games (yes) followed by some classic Mario Kart & Party action, and accompanied by an out-of-this-world moose Bolognese courtesy of chef friend Greg replenish my rain-tested contentedness back up to 100 (or 110 if you’re a footballer) before we hop in bed and crash harder than Donkey Kong on Rainbow Road. Song of the Day: Rebirth of Slick (Cool like dat) – Digable Planets Beer List:
Pit Caribou
Miller High Life (“The Champagne of Beers”) We awake to welcome the first of only a couple of sunny days, our berth bathed in morning rays, piquing our positivity for the hours ahead as we take in our 180 degree view, gas-burner coffee in hand, on a deserted park bench not 10 yards from where we sat on rocks in the dark. Peace comes naturally this time, so I let the crickets do the talking, and we re-remember with the help of some bottles what beers we had sipped on (siroter, word learned!) just hours before. Packing the tent as painlessly as we’d erected it we hit road again, this time with me behind the wheel for only my second time on Canadian roads, following instructions to “follow route 132 forever”. It rapidly becomes clear I can’t yet simultaneously speak and drive in French as I clip someone’s mirror pulling over for brunch and a beer in Riviere-du-Loup. Aux Fous Brassants outrageously isn’t yet open at 11h43 so we endure another lengthy wait for a coffee next-door, waking up to the fact that we’re no longer in the city and service may not have the urgency to which we’re accustomed. Discussion centres on London’s darling; the Flat White, yet to be seen in these parts, so I show Laurence McDonalds’ excellent advert satirizing the drink, and we forgive them yesterday’s break-farce-t. I pick up another new word, encouragingly on page 1 of Leo the Lion’s children’s book (gargouiller – to rumble stomach…which I use a lot) and it’s time to take our Passeports en Fut for a spin. It’s is a handy app giving the drinker a 3$ flight at 13 microbreweries of their choice; no brainer. We opt for sessionable stuff as we have driving to do, and it’s not our only beer stop, relaxing on a quaint, sunny high-street mostly populated by florists. As we cut south across the peninsula on the only part of the route not hugging spectacular coastline, we pass through the unremarkable Rimouski where Le Bien, Le Malt is our first disappointment. The bar itself is fine, but our server gestures unenthusiastically at the chalk board and sighs “the beers are up there, but there’s nothing left”. Charming. Luckily a sour-ish concoction, which for whatever reason (tourism, operational incompetence etc.) is our only decent choice, is a real banger, taking a tour of the tastebuds through acid, to salt, to a long bready finish not usually present in the style. We refuel our bodies on more saucisson and nuts - this time accompanied dried cranberries and some local cheese! – and our phones as we’re free-camping tonight. I would stress that the tech has been used strictly for Maps & Spotify thus far, and no scrolling; surely a cardinal road-trip sin. Besides, what ARE our favourite letters? Not X or OK…too mainstream. On the next stretch begins Laurence’s essential initiation into UK Grime Music 2005-13, of which the clear favourite is Akala’s poetic powerhouse and song of the day ‘Shakespeare’. Pulling up in an already dark (no sunset today) Carleton-sur-mer we make haste in setting up camp on the beach before the oncoming rain and wander along to Le Naufrageur just six minutes too late for dinner. Openly devastated (a man cannot survive on cured pork alone) we accept the apologetic chips and dip and actually take excitement in picking out a petrol station picnic next door before pulling up a stool and saying Re-bonjour at the bar. We always sit at the bar; good things happen when you sit at the bar. Having previously hosted a 35 strong tap takeover, I was already aware that the beers here are well-made and delicious so I wrap my lips around a Calico Jack, a new world IPA so mango-and-peachy I can’t believe there’s no fruit added. Our misfortune continues as we order the chalkboard bottle special we’ve been eyeing, only to find out that she too (beers are female) is sold out. No matter, the friendly barman distracts us with chat of the sociological impacts tourism here and our beloved service sector. I embark upon what will be a lengthy paper vocabulary list for the trip with the super Quebecois “Je te feel” and “solide” which may seem simple, but you only know to just say the same word in a French accent once you’ve heard it. Finishing up what was another superb swiggathon with a few free shooters of variously blended imperial stouts, our new barman friend saves us a twenty-minute walk with a lift in his van/mobile summer bedroom. Great; people are kind here too. Our Petro-Canada sponsored midnight feast of Korean BBQ jerky, egg sandwich and 'Bulles de Nuit' (sparkling wine-juice ‘mousse’ in a can) goes down a treat - as really anything would - reclining on a driftwood pillow next to my quickly cave-manned campfire, alone save for each other under the stars. Day 2 in the books, and despite having missed both beer and dinner at our checkpoints, it was perfect. Aux Fous Brassants
The trip starts with an inauspicious visit to McDonalds. Hung over from “working” a sun-baked kiosk at Chambly Beer Festival, fatigued from the back to back “AFD” work shifts required to earn the holiday, and having collected my necessary backpack so carelessly left in a Chinatown drinkery, me and my friend/travel companion/Quebecois Spirit Guide Laurence are cursing the slowest fast-food branch known to man, and awaiting two McBagels and the first two of 1000 large, black roadside coffees. We remind ourselves that there’s no rush, we’re on holiday, and we can just relax. We’re destined for the Gaspé Peninsula (or Gah-spay-see in French pronunciation for mum) a highly spoken of outstanding area of natural beauty to the East of Quebec, host to innumerable flora and forna (some of which I hope to eat), mythically beautiful sunsets and microbreweries galore. Once nestled back in the passenger seat - having inhaled my bagel – I set to the task of embodying the ultimate travelling companion, seeing as Laurence is providing the car, travel route, tent, sleeping mats, itinerary, friends to stay with (and arguably some excellent company of her own) having trodden this route solo half-a-dozen times before. Another quick pit-stop for fresh & squeaky cheese curds “we’re on holiday already!” thrown down our necks like cinema popcorn, and I begin to fill the four hour drive to Kamouraska with what I consider the highest form of road-trip chat and tunes (this article comes with a playlist) ) ultimately wondering the big question; “What IS my favourite letter? Don’t worry, I suppose I don’t need one!”. The response from the driver’s seat: “You know…the greatest sign of a friendship is when you can just be silent together….”. Point taken. Wounded as I was, she will later complain of laughing so much as to re-aggravate a 3-month-old cheek injury, so I’ll “quietly” consider mission accomplished. This will be the only day without an accompanying song, as to acclimatise to a heavily French foray into rural Quebec we opt for a bilingual, comedy podcast. Having arrived in Kamouraska, we pitch our tent in just enough twilight at one of the most beautiful campsites I’ve ever had the pleasure of staying at, on the edge of the ever-widening St Laurent river. I quickly discover that insect-repelant is not optional - but Laurence has me covered here too, literally - so we stroll off eagerly down a fairy-tale, cross-clearing garden path to Microbrasserie Tete d’Allumette and our first beer. Braving the mosquitoes on the waterside patio just long enough to witness a cloudy sunset, we get more comfortable in a glass conservatory, and later a warm, wood-panelled taproom. Our tasting list (we share everything) over four of five hours of increasingly profound conversation follows this post, with highlights including the Imperial Stout Tete de Gasket (was there a Cognac barrel involved?) accompanied by a locally made blue cheese saucisson. Though delicious, this was the first of a few over-estimations of pub kitchens capabilities in the tourist off-season, of which we were purposefully bang in week 1. Some top notch maple caramelised nuts would have to see me through the night, so we take the three beers we haven’t tried in bottle from the neighbouring kiosk, pay a hefty but well worth it bill, and retire to the rockery that is our tent patio for the night, swapping stories and ever more enthusiastic sentiments of how happy we are to be making this pilgrimage together, quaffing pear barley wine from the bottle in the pitch black, surveying the blinking lights on the opposite shoreline. Disappointed and relieved to be told we won’t be troubled by bears in this particular spot, day 1 comes to a snug close in the trusty two-man. Beer List:
Tête d’Allumette
Song of the Day: Podcasts |
AuthorDavid Spoerry is a Certified Cicerone® and WSETL3 qualified wine student. However beer and wine focussed travel and socialising are his passion, and below are the records of his explorations Categories
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