A Shock at the Thrift Store

We were in our local ‘lightly used’ thrift store, Value Village recently and I wandered off to check out the jigsaw puzzles leaving Susan to work her way systematically through an eighty foot rail of jeans (at the small end), most so tiny I wouldn’t get a foot in them.

 

From a discreet distance I could see just the tippy-top of her little head and could tell she was engrossed in her trouserly inspections. I slunk surreptitiously back in her direction, keeping low to avoid detection. In no time I was creeping along the aisle next to hers and soon stationed myself right opposite her, just two rails of clothing now separated us.

 

The flapping of jeans legs and the clicking of hangers confirmed she was still rapt in her task and oblivious to most of what was going on around and about. Now I was crouched down and slowly parting the garments on my side of the rails... then, a swift swish of Levi’s and I poked my head through with a beaming smile! Well, the dancing and the jumping and the loud verbal protestations had to be witnessed to be fully appreciated. Suffice to say I could have done with my big spatula to ease the little lady off the ceiling!

 

Susan’s a good sport... but to calm her now thumping heart I skipped around to her aisle, sidled up to her and reached my arm right around round for a light squeeze of the upper t-shirt – a double squeeze, two in quick succession accompanied by a double-toot sound, somewhat reminiscent of a cartoon car horn. Inevitably I collapsed into giggles while Susan, to her eternal credit, gave me a sheepish grin.

 

Despite all this mischief she is still speaking to me (well, mumbling oaths, at least!)

Snowshoeing at Strathgartney

It’s remarkable what you can borrow from the Public Library these days: telescopes, yoga mats and even books. This weekend I took home a pair of snow shoes!

 

Susan and I drove to Strathgartney Provincial Park, a picturesque yet lesser-known tract of meadow and woodland tucked away off the Trans-Canada Highway in the Bonshaw hills. We were decked out in jackets, gloves and the thickest socks that would fit under our boots. I found a toque that would pull down over my ears while Susan produced the most extraordinary hat known to western civilisation! I had seen it lying on the back seat of my car and assumed it was a baby racoon but once donned and tied, it gave her the appearance of Deputy Dawg, an observation I was happy to share with her.

 

We slotted into our footwear, buckled up and headed out on a trail which had been groomed just enough to show its course and was solid ice with a surface of light snow. Susan is an expert and owns her own shoes, however I am a novice and found the experience a tad confusing at first. My twenty-five inch shoes seemed to find many ways of tangling with each other yet somehow amid unexpected leaps and stumbles, I managed to remain vertical.

 

The path ran uphill and down dale through birch woods eventually reaching the northern banks of the West River, frozen but for a small flow in the centre. We followed the river’s course for a while then forged uphill and away. The trail inclined sharply at times causing us to catch our breath but the spiked shoes kept us sure-footed as gazelles (kinda). When the green siding of the day camps came into view and the distant sound of traffic returned we had been trekking for ninety minutes, time to head home for well-earned potatoes, sprouts, carrots and chicken (well, veg burger for some!)

Blaze at the City Cinema

Blaze Foley was a country singer songwriter, highly regarded in the outlaw scene. His life was creative, colourful and sadly cut short when he was shot and killed while attempting to defend an elderly friend’s welfare cheque.

After a rather splendid burger combo at A&W, Susan and I made our way through swirling flurries to the tiny City Cinema where we watched a poignant biopic detailing the mostly low points of this fascinating man’s time on earth. Directed by Ethan Hawke and co-written by Sybil, Blaze’s long-suffering wife and muse, his story is told with tenderness affection. Scenes of his adult life - living with artists in a treehouse, touring bars and clubs and meeting record industry men - are interwoven between reconstructed bar room gigs and a radio interview with Townes Van Zandt.

His songs of life and love, sung in a low voice over acoustic guitar, emerge from a haze of drink, drugs, chaos, poverty and sheer bad luck. Yet despite a troubled and trouble-making existence, Blaze’s essential gentleness shines through in a movie that is filmed and acted in a style sympathetic to the singer’s values and legacy.

Not much remains today of Blaze’s musical output although he is known to have recorded three albums. The master tape of the first album was confiscated by the DEA when the executive producer was caught in a drugs bust. The second album was stolen from his station wagon. The third album "Wanted More Dead Than Alive" went missing when he died. All of which seems sadly fitting.

 

A Murder of Crows

We found the city's crow population in full song at sunset on Kent Street, behind Holland College. Alfred Hitchcock eat your heart out!

James Mullinger at the Harbourfront

Susan and I took a drive to Summerside on a bitterly cold evening, so cold that my car’s display was fooled into telling me that my tires had no air in them and that my brakes had failed. Oh well, hey-ho, at least the heated seats warmed our posteriors. During a fifty minute trek on roads glittering white with salt, under a near full moon, we debated the winter storm threatened for Sunday. Some say eighteen inches, some say nine. As usual we will suck it and see.

 

A Subway dinner sitting comfortably in our bellies, we found a parking spot and trudged over tire-rutted ice at -17C towards the doors of the Harbourfront Theatre. Our show tonight would be the English comedian, now New Brunswick maritimer, James Mullinger. We entered and Susan skipped ahead, down the aisle to our seats. It’s a lovely five hundred seat auditorium, small enough to have an intimate feel and we settled in, our heads swivelling to check the audience for buffoons. Sure enough there was an ample supply.

 

We were in a delightfully short, four-seat row to the far right of the stage, three from the front. The row ahead was empty leaving us an uninterrupted view. When a dishevelled couple arrived to occupy the two-seat front row we wasted no time in commenting on the woman’s hand knitted dress, reminiscent of a potato sack. The man had seen neither barber nor razor in many months, warranting opinionated shaking of our heads.

 

Patrick Ledwell opened with a twenty minute slot of sharp observational humour on Island customs, mannerisms and speech. He’s a tall confident performer and his insight into Island life really hits the mark.

 

By contrast James Mullinger seemed a tad nervous. His voice is high-pitched and he paces the stage with a shuffling gait, shoulders slightly hunched. His act revolves around his experiences over the past four years since immigrating to New Brunswick from London, England. We both found his narrative included plenty of warm examples where his experiences mirrored my own: leaving family behind, finding numerous differences in culture and language, yet settling into this most friendly and safe, small corner of the world. He used many English expressions and gave me a nice reminder of home. At one point he referred to childhood summer vacations on the beach in Bournemouth! The town of my birth, three thousand miles away!

 

Certainly I have been to plenty of live music concerts and Susan has had her fair share but a stand-up comedian was a first for us both and an evening we thoroughly enjoyed.

Wild Impulse

“Let’s pop in here!” Susan chirped.

 

In she darted and marched right up to an extensive wall display of dildos. I trailed in her wake glancing surreptitiously left and right, waiting for some cheery voice to call, Hey Paul, how’s it going! Yet none came.

We busied ourselves studying the exciting merchandise on offer, murmuring quietly. Susan stooped to study brightly coloured items on the bottom shelf while I scanned the upper reaches. A lady of advanced years sauntered over and began researching right beside me. She appeared particularly taken by some abnormally large stock, tantalizingly just out of reach of her up-stretched arm.

“Would you mind, young man?” she asked. I looked all around me to locate this juvenile she was talking to. “I’m in a hurry,” she beseeched, looking me right in the eye. Even at sixty-one I was probably twenty years her junior. I politely inquired, “Which one?”

She pointed to a huge black phallus standing alone and erect high above us. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Susan’s shoulders shaking with silent mirth. I reached for the requested cock and gripping it firmly I brought it down within her reach.

She gave me a demure smile of thanks, grabbed it with both hands and immediately thumbed a switch which set the thing whirring. I edged away watching her examination from a discreet distance. It seemed this eye-wateringly large member met her exacting requirements and she scuttled off to the checkout.

I raised my eyes at Susan. “Who knew?” I whispered.

After a lengthy perusal of the toys, with much nodding of approval, sage rubbing of chins and the occasional raised eyebrow, we took a nonchalant stroll to the lubricant display where small spritzers in alluringly dark colours stood solemnly in neat rows. Descriptors such as ‘hyperglide’ spoke seductively to our inner animal. Equally enticing was the range of subtle flavours. Caramel caught my eye and we exchanged wordless glances and barely perceptible nods.

Eager to do justice to the visit we took time to admire the inflatable partners who claimed to cater to all tastes and persuasions and promised an ultra-realistic experience, For display purposes these rubber friends were neatly flattened and folded into boxes which you could carry conveniently under one trembling arm. How thoughtful.

Leather lingerie, whips and stilettos; vibrators of every size, shape and colour; paraphernalia whose purpose we could only guess at, though the tapered ends hinted at insertion. Yes, something for everyone here. Well, anyone bold enough to come in and browse!

We checked the coast was clear of acquaintances and carried our one small purchase to the pay desk where we were greeted by a friendly old lady with a blue rinse and pearls. “Oh, caramel!” she bellowed for all to hear. “My favourite!”

Camping at Corney Brook, Cape Breton, NS

Cape Breton called and we answered. Driving via the Confederation Bridge is cheaper but adds two and a half hours to the journey if made by ferry. However we were in no rush and enjoyed spending the cash saved on a slap-up breakfast at the Aulac Big Stop, a great place to eat while people-watching. “Who dressed her today? Does he realise those shorts look ridiculous. She doesn’t need that huge slice of pie!”

The somewhat irritable lady announcer on Susan’s GPS squawked in indignation when we appeared to be yomping though fields near Antigonish but calm was restored when the newly laid section of Highway 104 resumed contact with the old road and her protests subsided.

After five and three quarter hours driving, watching the Nova Scotia scenery slide by, we arrived at the tiny Corney Brook camp site right by the shore of the Northumberland Strait. It’s unmanned and first come first served. Luckily at 4pm we were in time to bag one of the four remaining pitches. My dome tent popped up quickly but there then ensued a twenty minute bout of grappling with the fly. It flapped like a pterodactyl in the stiff on-shore wind and at times we stood either side of the tent holding it and wondering what to do. Those handy little Velcro straps came to the rescue and we tamed the beast.

Who pumps up air mattresses by hand? I do! I had acquired a set of adapters for my portable compressor but none would fit the mattress valve. Four hundred and fifty pumps later we were about to call it ‘job done’ when Susan heard a faint hiss. Oh well, we’ll see what it’s like when we get back from an excursion.

A quick jaunt to the Cape Breton Visitor Centre at Cheticamp and we were relieved of cash for three days of National Park passes and two nights camping – still cheaper than ‘half’ a night in a motel! Onwards next, to the main road through Cheticamp where expensive seafood restaurants have all but cornered the market. We spied Wabo’s Pizza and dived in for anything but pizza. Susan sampled the chicken fingers and fries, I the 12 inch veggie sub.

Energy levels suitably restored, we returned the twelve kilometers to our remote camp and inspected the air mattress. Darn it, a tad soft. Pump, pump. A short boardwalk with steps drops down to the beach of a little cove where we sat on a driftwood log and watched the sun sink into the horizon, a yellow and pink ball crossed with thin black streaks of cloud.

Waking for a pee break during the night revealed the mattress to be so deflated that we were partly resting on the ground. One hundred and ten pumps later, plus a swift pee in or near the bushes, and slumber was resumed but not before I took time to admire the star spangled heavens and the broad sash of the Milky Way.

7:30am, and we took a quick splash-and-dash wash at the toilet block where cold water was the only option. The heads to the hot taps had been removed, presumably in the interests of economy. Ever the careful camper, I had brought a spare queen air mattress with us and pumped that up in place of the other, ready for the next night. Indeed, a scan of my car truck would reveal a spare six-man tent should canvas have become a problem too.

A short drive south took us to the family-run Aucoin bakery for buttered scone (with a knob of butter ‘harder than the knockers of hell’ according to Susan!) and a more dignified apple turnover for me, all washed down with coffee. By 9am we had driven twenty kilometers north on the Cabot Trail and had gained fifteen hundred feet of elevation from sea level. There we parked at the head of the Skyline Trail and set off on foot. There weren’t many other walkers and some of those I saw at least twice as I had to walk back to the car after ten minutes to collect my binoculars. I made the return trip at a light canter, slowing to a respectful stroll as I passed other hikers.

The trail heads steadily downhill until it breaks out of the tree line and rewards the walker with spectacular elevated views over the Northumberland Strait. A stepped boardwalk continues steeply further downward with platforms every hundred feet or so as far as a headland, standing some four hundred feet above sea level. There we sat and drank in the natural beauty of the Strait, the coastline and the towering tree-clad slopes behind.

Every so often a dark dot would appear way down below on the water. Fortunately ‘someone’ had trudged back for the binoculars so we were able to identify the heads of seals and the dorsal fins of a small school of dolphins. Some years ago, I saw whales there and heard their spouting but not today. The uphill walk back is tough until the slope begins to level but the round trip hike of six or seven kilometers is well worth it.

Back in the car we drove further north to Pleasant Bay where we came across the Bean Barn Cafe and enjoyed their lunchtime sandwiches. The nicely furnished and rather homey bathroom was of special note.

There seems to be significant funds available for road repairs in Cape Breton as we came across numerous stretches of road in various stages of remaking: some were milled, some part repaved and other ripped up entirely where we drove in dust clouds on loose sand and gravel for several kilometers (as two stone chips on my new car can testify to). We headed clockwise on the Cabot Trail stopping at lookouts and other exciting spots along the way, including a goat soap farm where appropriate petting was carried out, and the stunning Green Cove where giant, pink granite blocks are strewn in a tumble into the sea. Needless to say, Susan charged straight out, leaping in flip-flops from block to block over yawning chasms until there was nowhere left to leap but the sea. I took the more sensible route and slowed my pace as the crashing waves drew near.

All three hundred kilometers of The Cabot Trail duly driven, we cruised back into camp and took deckchairs down to the beach to watch the sun set again. A seal kept bobbing his little black head up so we played spot the seal head while watching nature’s spectacular end to daylight.

Mattress number two remained trampoline-like all night so we woke refreshed and ready to break camp. We took breakfast once more at the highly recommended Aucoin bakery and began the steady drive home, banging out a long, long playlist through the iPod. We chose to take the ferry back to the island which gave me a more restful day and provided yet more fun for us people-watcher fanatics. Coats on deck when it’s 26C; toupees plastered onto shiny scalps; sandals with socks; gigantic bottoms crammed into miniature latex pants... oh the hilarity!

Apart from one dealer registration plate, ours was the only PEI plate in the queues for the ferry. We saw Pennsylvania, Florida, New Hampshire, as well as all the Canadian Provinces bar Manitoba and Saskatchewan. Holiday season is clearly still in full swing.

Last on made us last of the three hundred-or-so cars off and back onto home territory. In no real hurry, we cruised the hour back to Charlottetown and ate a gorgeous takeout Himalayan curry for dinner before crashing out and dreaming of seals and tents and stars and sunsets.