Sunday, May 9th
Red Hills, the Good Kind
I’ve all my wisdom teeth
Two up top, two beneath
And yet I’ll recognise
My mouth says things that aren’t so wise— Crash Test Dummies, Comin’ Back Soon (The Bereft Man’s Song)
Once upon a time, there was an island called Epekwitk. It was the home to the Mi’kmaq people. Then came French settlers, who renamed it Île Saint-Jean, and made it part of their colony of Acadia. This roused the interest of the English, who snatched the island as part of a treaty and named it Island of Saint John. This, however, lead to much confusion, as there were already two towns dedicated to this particular saint in the area. The governor tried to rename it New Ireland, mostly to attract Irish settlers, but that didn’t go down well with the English back home. Queen Charlotte, whom we met yesterday, missed an opportunity, possibly in an attack of decency since the capital was already named after her, and so the island got renamed after her son, Prince Edward, leading to the very long name Prince Edward Island and the necessity to shorten that down into P.E.I.
The morning starts very overcast, dark rain clouds hanging in the air. During the night, it did rain, but for now it is dry. As a concession to it being Sunday, I take my time and only leave the motel around nine. Summerside has plenty of tourism facilities by the waterfront. The water in the harbour is brown and muddy and not all that inviting. Main street, with its small shops and restaurants, is set back quite a bit.
I leave town westwards, only to stumble across the Summerside Golf and Country Club. Sounds rather exclusive, even in a somewhat unimportant town like Summerside.
The road I have chosen goes north along the coast, thereby forming a more tempting alternative to the ruler-straight inland path of the main route. Seems they have trash collection day again (on a Sunday?). A scarecrow uses the opportunity and picks the good bits out of the trash bags. A bit further on, I sight a white headed eagle flying along the road. Quite impressive, really. But there seem to be birds everywhere on this island.
The name Red Island would also have been appropriate. The soil is very red and has a tendency to muddiness. As if to match, many buildings are painted red too. Even the asphalt of the roads occasionally is red.
In the middle of nowhere there is a large, beautiful French church, part of the town of Mont-Carmel. The French have been deported from P.E.I. during the Acadian Expulsion but returned soon thereafter. Today, about a quarter of the inland’s inhabitants is of French origin.
The coast is very flat here, more like that of a lake than of an ocean. This is probably due to the protected orientation towards Northumberland Strait. On some stretches, there are properties with houses right by the sea. You can leave your back door in the morning with a cup of coffee and walk right into the water.
For some reason, this landscape makes you drive very slowly. The roads aren’t particularly narrow, so it can’t be that. But the result is that there are two kinds of drivers on the island. Those that sneak with 65 kph along a 90 kph road and those that do 120 where 80 are allowed. There doesn’t seem to be a single driver sticking to reasonable speeds.
In Baie-Egmont, lots of cars are parked by a small building but nobody is about. I think the sign said ‘church,’ but it was really to small to hold that many faithful. A bit further on, the old, white wooden church is in the process of being dismantled, a rather sad sight as angry orange monsters eat into wood and stone.
The road ends at Mount Pleasant, where there is absolutely no mountain whatsoever, and I have to take fast inland route for a bit. A sign announces Heart’s Gravel Road. That might even trump the three Newfoundland towns in poetic-ism (Google Maps says that the road is actually Harts Gravel Road and that there is a Hearts Gravel Road in Nova Scotia. I opt to not believe any of it.)
Another sign says ‘Prepare to meet thy God’ which I find slightly aggressive. This sounds suspiciously as if these people are threatening to kill me.
Turn off to continue my tour along the coast. In Milo, there is a property for sale. A main house, a tiny outhouse, and a barn, all beautiful old stone buildings arranged around a yard with large trees. I wants it. Probably isn’t all that expensive either.
Cedar Dune Provincial Park allegedly contains West Point Lighthouse, but is closed. What you can see from the barrier isn’t very promising anyway, mainly a parking lot and a beach. And lighthouses are seriously overrated. If you have seen one, you have seen them all. They are all white with some red and have a light on their top which, if the lighthouse is still operational, rotates. There: saved you miles of travel along dubious side roads.
The coast up here is cluttered with lots of wind turbines. P.E.I. has the government with the most progressive wind energy program in the world. By 2015, it wants to produce all its electrical energy using wind power. Given that the province is rather small with less than 150,000 people and subsequently a rather moderate energy consumption of no more than 200 MW, and at the same time has rather a lot of wind, this makes perfect sense.
Shortly before the end of the road, a sign points to Norway. Apparently, P.E.I. is also home of a very progressive transportation system. But it turns out, Norway is just another small community with a couple of residential buildings and a wind park. Whether it has actual Norwegian roots, I can’t find out just now.
At the end of the road lies North Cape, this time both a cape and the most northerly point of the island. Apart from a lighthouse (ah, damn it), it also is home to the Wind Energy Institute of Canada. It takes advantage of this rather windy location which is open to winds from three hundred degrees. As seems to be a great tradition in Canada, this warrants an interpretative centre, in this case the Wind Energy Interpretative Centre. One of these days, I will actually go into one and have someone interpret stuff for me. One of these days.
Currently, the institute is running tests with the noisiest little two blade wind turbine. It runs faster than the bigger three blade models and thus sounds a bit like an aircraft propeller. According to a display, the largest wind turbine they ever tested was a three megawatt monster with a blade diameter of ninety meters (the Vestas V90, in case you want to look it up).
On the natural side of things, North Cape features the longest rock reef in all of North America, which is the reason for the light house. Apparently, reefs are a bit of a problem for mariners, who prefer to be warned about such things. There also is a two or so kilometer Black Marsh Nature Trail with displays explaining the distinct biology of this rather harsh place.
I continue my island coast trip along another side road that follows the eastern coast. After the town of Alberton, it starts to rain. A bit later the sun comes out. Yet a bit later, it stops raining. There are still large clouds in the sky, but the sun stays out.
I try again for a provincial park, this time Historic Green Park, which sounds nice. But it is closed, too. Along the road to it there is a large farm complete with grain elevator and everything. Even better, it is followed by the most beautiful colonial manor in white with a tree-framed alley leading up to it.
Driving, I often feel threatened by the mail boxes, which reach rather far into the road, making the life of the postman a lot easier. But I wonder how often they are run over. Swerve for some suddenly appearing animal or pedestrian and: boom.
Information displays have been erected regularly along the roads. However, in order to discourage tourism outside of the official tourism season, which seems to be starting in June, the actual displays have been removed and only the frames left standing. Now I freely admit that winters are rather harsh in Canada, but this seems a bit too much.
The side road ends and I have to take the fast lane again. Near Summerside, the island gets strapped by Bedeque Bay from the south and Malpeque Bay from north.
At Seabrook stands a large factory. Cavendish Farms is a producer of frozen potato products, so this is probably what you get when you order fries at a fast food store. At the left side of the road is the production facility which produces large amounts of steam, possibly also something else. On the right side is the Research Division, which sounds a bit Veridion Dynamics to me. Might explain the funny smell.
Next up: Kensington. It’s main attraction is a haunted mansion which has a miniature Eiffel tower in its garden. Other than that, the town is mostly one big intersection where approximately seventeen highways meet (give or take a few). I pick one that leads up to the coast again.
On the way there, the road passes through New London, birthplace of Lucy Maud Montgomery whom hopefully at least some of my readers may know as the author of Anne of Green Gables. I didn’t knew either and blame my East German upbringing for that. I know Timur and His Gang, though.
New London is quite a handsome little village, placed on top of a hill at a crossroads. Quite understandable how you can long for a place like this so much that you write a novel about it. Around here, the hills are as rolling as you can possibly make them. There are some forests, lots of lakes and meadows.
The story, however, is set a bit further on at Green Gables, a farm house outside Cavendish and now a major tourist destination. It is part of the Prince Edward National Park which means it is owned by the federal government and also, that it is open, quite in stark contrast to all the other touristy establishments surrounding it, and there is oodles, which are all thoroughly closed.
The actual point of Prince Edward National Park, however, is the coastline. Outside of tourist season, the park doesn’t charge entrance, so I go have a look. But you can only feign interest in so much coast during one day. It surely is pretty, though, with the red soil slowly being eaten up by the ocean and grass and bushes covering up the whole operation.
I decide, however, that it is Sunday and I shall drive more or less directly to Charlottetown and end the day early. The clouds in the south form interesting shapes, so I stop at Oyster Bay Bridge to make a couple of pictures. Eventually, I stumble across the westernmost entrance to the National Park and decide to give it another chance. But, Ladies and Gentlemen, it is a beach.
At Charlottetown, I check into a hotel north of the old town. Since the sun is still out, I use the opportunity to go for a walk. Around the hotel, the area tries to make the rather unfortunate impression of a bigger city. Wide roads with charmless business buildings. Down the street you can see the impressive building of Province House. Right next to it is a splendid example of the Great Architecture of the Sixties: Confederation Centre of the Arts. Another fine specimen of ill-advised modern architecture is the Delta Hotel down by the waterfront. In between the two, about three blocks apart, lies the most lovely old town of the Atlantic provinces (well, at least the bits I have seen). The respectful St. Dunstan’s Basilica, a couple of well-behaved town houses, and some less well-behaved but nonetheless pretty houses with pubs and eateries.
One of them is Gahan House, P.E.I.’s only brewpub (or so I believe) where to I shall retire to now.
Now, this won Prince Edward Island over for me again. Good beer, good food, and the sweatest service staff. One of the waitresses even had her very own pair of the Determined Boots. But unfortunately, North Americans are a difficult bunch to serve. A lady being what shall euphemistically be called larger than life (well, a lot larger than life, to be sure), going to a brewpub drinking diet coke and complaining first about the fizzyness of the diet coke and then about the food, because, I believe, the toast was toasted. No sir, the dishes certainly are not at the chef’s liberty. Ah, well, Ashley, better luck with your other customers. Occasionally, you may even get easy Germans.
Beer of the day: Gahan House’s 1772 India Pale Ale, Sydney Street Stout, and Sir John A’s Honey Wheat Ale. (Yes, I might be the tiniest bit drunk by now. But I still declare the stout the best beer so far. Tremendously smoky and tasting a bit of Boonekamp, if you ever had the pleasure to taste that [If you didn't, let me know and we can fix that]. I also need to correct myself: Yesterday’s beer of the day wasn’t from America at all but rather Gahan House’s Iron Horse Dark Ale.)