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)
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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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November 2019
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