It was a sort of a spur of the moment decision, though admittedly
I had been toying with the notion of riding around another of the great lakes.
For the benefit of readers that haven’t been with me from the first post on
this blog, I started this blog off with a ride around Lake Huron. It’s the
Victoria Day long weekend, also known as the May long weekend for those of us
of a more republican disposition. It’s Saturday evening and I have spent the
day doing the frivolous things that a home owner does, sorting out blocked
eaves troughs, planting herbs, buying groceries and getting the irrigation
system working after the winter. My mind has however turned to the more serious
matters of motorcycle riding, “what to do, where to go?” Google Maps indicates
that I could do a round trip of Lake Erie in two days. Hard riding to be sure,
but I decide to give it a go. I will leave on Sunday morning early and aim to
get back Monday night, in time for the annoying fireworks that get fired off to
celebrate the birthday of a constitutional monarch that died more than a
hundred years ago and who never bothered, not once, to visit her faithful
subjects in Canada. That all said, a statutory holiday in spring and the
Boulevard all serviced and with new spark plugs, I couldn’t care if it was
called Genghis Khan Day!
On Sunday morning the fart of sparrow comes and goes and I
fritter away the time with packing lunch, packing clothes, polishing boots,
shaving, showering and making breakfast (not to mention hitting the snooze
button three times), eventually it’s 9 a.m. and I hit the road. I am little disgusted with myself, really there is
no reason why I didn’t get going two hours earlier, but as a wise boss I once
worked for used to say, “we are where we are”. I take the 404 south to the 401
westbound, my goodness does the 401 ever sleep? It’s 9.30 on a Sunday morning
and already it is damn nearly bumper to bumper, can this be church traffic? I
somehow doubt it…no hats. I take the QEW, named for another constitutional
monarch, but who has at least actually visited a few times. Now the trouble
really starts, not only is it bumper to bumper, but grinds to a halt on a
regular basis, and seems not to be able to get above 40 km/h. Then one of those
information signs indicates that the road becomes very slow after Burlington
road, they mean worse that the stop start hell I am in now, so I escape the
motorway just after the Burlington sky bridge onto the regional road 20.
Not a bad choice as things turn out, it’s a pleasant ride,
much nicer than the sterile and now clogged QEW, not quite as picturesque as
the roads I ride to the north of Newmarket, and straight as a die, mostly farm
lands with very little forest. This is prime farming land, the more interesting
rides tend to be in areas that are too rocky for farming, still it’s nice and
the occasional vineyard and orchard reminds me of the valleys in the
Stellenbosch area in the Cape of Good Hope. I remember being somewhat surprised
when I first arrived in this part of the world to discover that Ontario has a
vigorous wine industry, and indeed makes some pretty decent wines. The Trius
brand do a fabulous oak matured chardonnay, really good, crisp yet buttery.
They also market a wine called Truis Red, it is a superb ‘drinking’ wine at a
mere $22 a bottle, it’s a Merlot /Cab Franc/Cab Sav blend aged in oak. There
are a few other pretty good brands and then there is the ice wine which is a
desert wine, similar in taste to the noble rot wines of the Cape. It is produced
from grapes that have been frozen while still on the vine. The sugars and other
dissolved solids do not freeze, but the water does, resulting in a smaller
amount of more concentrated, very sweet wine, it’s not bad at all. Of course
they make some pretty horrid plonk, the French Cross brand comes to
mind.
The 20 takes me right into the City of Niagara, from the
least salubrious side of town, and this is a somewhat seedy place to start
with. A few rub and tug joints advertise their services with almost no pretense
at being anything else. I am no prude and make no judgements, but I haven’t
seen anything quite so blatant in Canada so far. Niagara is a place devoted to
the less cerebral side of life anyway. I have a bit of an odd relationship with
the town, I think it is a truly ugly place that ruins the sense of awe one has
at seeing the falls, which are utterly spectacular. Ugly and nasty though the
garish attractions, shops and casinos are, the place has some great memories
for me. I brought my daughter here for a weekend to celebrate her 21st
birthday, we had a lot of fun together. It is also the place where as a family
we walked across the Rainbow Bridge to the USA, in order to ‘leave ‘ Canada so
that we could return to do our first landing as immigrants rather than
temporary workers and students. An odd ritual, but it was fun and significant
in its own way, especially as it was February, about 25 degrees below, snowing
and blowing a gale.
I thought that
Niagara would be a good place to start the Lake Erie trip. Stop for a few
pictures of the falls then ride onto the shores of the lake, perhaps at the
Peace Bridge. Scratch that idea, Niagara is heaving, wall to wall people and almost
grid locked roads. It takes me an age to get through the town and past the
falls. I only manage to get a glimpse of the falls from the corner of my eye,
there is no way I’m going to stop, find parking and walk with the throng. It
was clearly a silly idea and I could have saved myself a good deal of time and
frustration by taking the 406 and meeting up with Lake Erie at Port Colborne. Eventually I get through and ride along the Niagara
River on Niagara Parkway and end up in Fort Erie. I have visited the fort
before, it’s interesting and worth a visit. For most of the war of 1812 it was
held by the Americans, under siege by the Canadians, perhaps more accurately
the British. I just ride past today and look over a narrow stretch of lake to
the city of Buffalo, then find Highway 3 and travel west.
With all the slow traffic and getting away later than
planned I am several hours behind schedule. It is already almost 1 o’clock, I
am hungry and have progressed almost no distance along the lake. The chance of
making it to Toledo (about half way around) by this evening is zero unless I
abandon the scenic routes entirely and take the motorway… hardly a lake ride,
so I make peace with a reduced ambition and stop for lunch at a public park in
Ridgeway. The park is on the lake shore, but not really a beach. I take my
packed lunch of chicken and steamed vegetable and a tin of diet ginger ale - I’m
trying the Paleolithic eating plan, high fat and protein almost zero carbs –
find a spot on some rocks under a tree with a good view of the lake. There are
several large family groups of Indians, not the First Nation kind, but folks
that originate from the Indian sub-continent. I have noticed this about
Indians, they love to picnic and they do it so well, they cook full on meals
that fill the air with mouthwatering aromas. I love good Indian food, my lunch,
whilst satisfying is not lamb curry with fresh steaming roti… oh well I’ve got
to get rid of some of the ballast around my waist. It’s interesting to observe
these family groups, mostly there are at least three generations. The
grandmothers all wear sarees, and the grandfathers wear trousers with a sort of
safari jacket, the parents are a mix of that and standard western casuals wear,
some of the younger women are wearing very colourful stylish sarees, clearly a
fashion statement and the younger set wear exactly what all the other Canadian
kids wear. I even see one teenage boy sporting a pair of jeans in that ghastly
fashion, hanging off his ass, underpants showing. What is odd is that the teens and younger
children all speak English to each other and to their parents, whilst the older
generations converse in some or other Indian language.
Lunch done I ride north to get back to highway 3, next stop is
Dunnville on the Grand River. Another interesting piece of history. After
serving the British during the American Revolution (or War of Independence)
Joseph Brant, a Mohawk chief despite the English name, led his band of Mohawks
and other Six Nation’s people from New York State where they faced persecution
for fighting for the British, to this part of Southern Ontario. The Haldimand
Proclamation granted them land on the left and right banks of the Grand River from
the shores of Erie, north to the source of the river. A total of 3,800 square kilometers. Today
there remains an area of only 190 square kilometers near to the town of Brantford
(named after Joseph Brant) under First Nation control. As good a tale of
treachery, corruption, fraud and broken promises as you are every likely to
read.
The Haldimand Proclamation as surveyed in 1821
At Dunnville I part company with highway 3, and take regional road 3
instead, hoping to see a bit more variety, be closer to the lake and maybe
encounter a twisty or two. So far since leaving the QEW it has been mostly farm
lands with very limited patches of forest. Nice enough, but it gets a bit
monotonous… that ambition of riding across Canada to Vancouver through the
Prairies, several thousand kilometers of same, same, grass and more grass,
maybe a rethink on that one’s due. Regional road 3 keeps pretty much to the
pattern, straight, farmlands and parallel to the lake, but not close enough to
see it. There is actually a road that hugs the shore, but poor planning and not
looking properly at the map on my part, I missed it, damn. I’ll put that info
away for another ride. Highway 3 takes me through a lot of little hamlets like
Sweets’s Corner and Selkirk, little too many for my liking, barely get up some
speed and have to slow down to 50 km/h.
By mid-afternoon I reach Port Dover. This is a bit of a
motorcyclists’ destination. On any warm enough Friday 13th all and
sundry that own a motorcycle head to Port Dover, probably something invented by
the Port Dover chamber of commerce. Personally I am adverse to crowds so it
doesn’t tickle my fancy. Port Dover turns out to be a typical seaside town,
albeit actually just lakeside. It reminds me of Sauble Beach (http://not-so-easy-rider.blogspot.ca/2014/09/closing-loop.html)
crowded beach, lots of scantily clad people, some beautiful and others not so
much, shops selling completely useless junk, pubs and restaurants...and no
shortage of motorcycles. It’s nice, but not really my sort of place anymore,
I’m too old and too grumpy. I had a notion of staying over, but decide that
it’s not where I want to spend the night, besides I have not actually traveled
far enough along the lake. Port Dover is not even a third of the length of the
north shore of Lake Erie. My ambition to circumnavigate the whole lake in a
mere two days seems a little ridiculous now, but Port Stanley, about a hundred
km away seems to me to be a destination that at least would be a little bit
honorable.
Port Dover
By now I have realized that I have ridden the less scenic
route so far, but I am tired, hungry and my ass is sore so I decide to take the
most direct route to St.Thomas, then to head south to the lake shore and
overnight at Port Stanley. I’m back on Highway 3 and travelling at a pretty
good speed. It’s straight and relatively un-interesting. My mind wanders a bit
to the name of the town ahead, St. Thomas. I’m not sure, but it is probably
named after St. Thomas Aquinas. He of the five proofs of the existence of God,
the arguments from bullshit baffles brains, very tiresome tortuous reasoning. I
wouldn’t have too much of an issue with this particular saint if all he was
guilty of was woolly thinking, and who wasn’t back in the 13th century,
but his stance on heretics reveals his true colors. ‘With regard to heretics two points must be observed: one, on their own
side; the other, on the side of the Church. On their own side there is the sin,
whereby they deserve not only to be separated from the Church by excommunication,
but also to be severed from the world by death.’ I am guessing the man was a humorless, mass murderer in the name of god, devoid
of a single drop of the milk of human kindness, of course being a decent human
being is not a prerequisite for sainthood.
St. Thomas, Ontario, on the other hand, seems to be a nice
enough town, though I don’t really get to see a whole lot of it. I had wanted
to see the life sized statue of the world’s most famous elephant, but tired and
sore of ass as explained I give it a miss. St. Thomas is where poor Jumbo met
his end, at the relatively young age for a pachyderm of 24 years. He was killed
by a freight train whilst crossing the tracks on his way to his own boxcar after
a circus act, as the guys at GO Transit say, “Crossing the tracks at platform
level is both dangerous and illegal.”
The short distance from St. Thomas to Port Stanley is quite
a scenic little route with the encouraging name of Sunset Drive. It traverses
some expensive looking areas residential areas, golf courses, bits of forest
and so on, a peasant ride and hopefully the end of my day’s ride, I have not
booked ahead so who knows. The town is at the bottom of a gentle incline which
makes for a nice feeling of arriving from the hills. As I enter the town the
air becomes cooler as expected, freshened by the lake. A thin mist has rolled
in making it even cooler and lending it an aura of a seaside fishing village. Well
that’s not actually inaccurate, it is engaged in fishing and Lake Erie (like
all the great lakes) is more like a freshwater inland sea that a mere lake. Despite
the mist it is evident that Port Stanley is a much more genteel place than Port
Dover. I pass a theatre, a few art galleries and some expensive boutiques,
clearly the arts take precedence over beach gear, tattoos and T-shirts. Now I
would hardly classify myself as a particularly upmarket person, but I do prefer
this sort of place to the Port Dovers and Sauble Beaches of the world.
Port Stanley - an artier place
A short ride around town yields up only a few places to
stay, no doubt there are more than I can see, but between the mist and my
tiredness I don’t try too hard. The
Kettle Creek Inn looks like a good option and they have one room left. A little
expensive, but they do discount it for me as I am alone and the rate is
generally for two, bed and continental breakfast. It is a lovely little place, fresh
and clean, beautifully decorated, quaint, but modern in the things that need to
be modern. There are no room numbers, rather the rooms are named after local
artists, I get the Dobson room, and indeed there are several watercolors by
Diana Dobson in the room. I am not sure if they are originals or very good
quality prints, not entirely my taste, but very good nonetheless. I Google the
artist and find some more of her stuff, http://www.portstanleyartguild.com/artist/diane-dobson.
It’s an interesting idea to promote local artists… as I said this is an artsy
town.
Port Stanley in the mist
The mist lifts and the sun is still up when I take a walk
around, it’s a very pretty little village, but not a great deal to see and not
much is open, it is after all a Sunday evening and it is still out of season.
There is a guy singing and playing guitar in the courtyard of a restaurant, Stanley Tapas and Grill. I decide to
have some supper there as the music is the type of thing I like, sort of Jack
Johnson sound. The musician is also a talented performer that knows how to
interact with his audience. It’s great, but by now I am really hungry, and now find
myself studiously ignored by all six waiters (five young ladies and a middle
aged man). They seem to be rushing around in a bit of a frenzy as if there is a
huge rush on the go, but the place is not in the least bit full, I count 23
patrons in all, that’s less than four per waiter and all patrons are laid back
listening to the music. I wonder what sort of froth they get their pee in when
things really get busy. After about 25 minutes I get noticed, the last 10 of
which I have been waving at the waiters as they bustled past me. I ask if they
have Scotch, the young lady does not know, so calls over the middle aged man, I
ask if they have Johnny Walker perhaps, “Yes,” he says, “but that’s not Scotch,
it’s more like Irish whiskey.” Really, I’m sure that he has just offended two
nations in one sentence, but I don’t argue, and order a double with ice and club
soda on the side. I order chicken wings, it seems to be a good option that
doesn’t have carbs. It takes another 15 minutes for the drink to arrive, now
anyone that serves club soda on the side accompanying whisky should know that a
limp slice of lime hanging over the rim of the glass of club soda is not
required or even wanted. I don’t want a hint of lime with my Scotch, if indeed
what I have is Scotch. I am not an expert whisky taster, but this tastes rather
like bourbon to me. Still it’s cold and alcoholic so I deal. Another 20 minutes
pass and finally I see the waitress with my wings emerge from the kitchen, only
to be called back in. Five minutes goes by and she comes out again, this time
with my supper as well as someone else’s… a time and motion specialist would certainly
approve. The wings were not grilled as I had expected, but deep fried in batter,
cold and totally drowned in gooey sauce that is not spicy in the slightest as I
thought I had ordered. Perhaps my fault for not establishing how they are
prepared, still, not a good way to make wings. I ask for the bill as by now the singer has
taken a break and I have eaten three wings and the celery, enough to take the
edge off my hunger and the paltry two paper napkins provided are saturated with
goo… a further 25 minutes wait ensues, but by now it is in line with
expectations. The bill charges me for Jim Beam Kentucky bourbon… Jim/Johnny,
Beam/Walker WTF am I so picky about?
I return to the Inn and after ablutions climb into bed and
enjoy a deep sleep only periodically disturbed by a hen party going on in one
of the rooms down the hall. Vaguely I note the point that things go from happy
squeals of laughter to tears of drunken regrets. In the morning an abandoned
handbag, shoes and wallet litter the hallway, no doubt heads will be hurt when
it’s time for rise and shine. I’m not keen on the baked goods breakfast I could
help myself to, but I’m able to get a cheese omelet and an excellent Americano
at the coffee shop across the road.
