Travelogue, Prince Edward Island

Sometimes different places are perfect. Sometimes perfect places are different.

After the Ferry to Prince Edward Island we drove onward to our next lodging at a 4-cabin compound behind the owners’ home with 3-days left on our 10-day trip.

Our cabin was listed as the newest. It felt a bit like a State Park cabin in New York, adequate bed, very private, with an electric stove and small refrigerator.

When we arrived it was as advertised. There were some pots and pans, a cutting board and dishes and silverware but only one steak knife for cutlery.

Our goal is usually to visit the places people don’t go. When a local asks “why would you visit here?” we have found our sweet spot.

Adventures in cooking

We stopped at a small grocery on the way and purchased a frozen piece of fresh halibut, an onion, and a sweet potato.

Beth always handles coordination of where we stay because she is good at details. I struggle and offset her skills by being able to cook almost anywhere.

On this trip, her research revealed the 10-day Festival of Small Halls would be starting the day we left so we shifted one day so at least we could catch one show on our last night.

We would be in the cabin for two nights

We had transported our milk, eggs, butter and leftover fresh spinach and basil in a 75-cent ice cream bucket we purchased way back in Wolfeville.

The only seasonings present in the cabin were salt, pepper, sugar and a mystery container of what looked like pork rub.

I tried to dice the onion with the steak knife before hacking into the sweet potato. It was very hard. The easiest way to penetrate was stab it and then move the tuber.

Beth watched nervously, certain we were headed to the emergency room as I stubbornly hacked away. Once I had achieved cookable chunks, I put it in a small pan to simmer with some water.

I sauteed onion, spinach and basil with salt, pepper and butter and seasoned the fish with rub.

Once the potatoes were cooked, I emptied 5 sugar packets in and mashed them with butter and milk. Candier sweet potatoes it was.

Red sand beaches

We went exploring the next day, first visiting a place called Argyle Shores. It was a delightful provincial park with miles of red sand beaches.

We parked by the public bathroom and headed down the sand to the red sand beach which was framed by 20-foot cliffs.

There was shallow water along the beach, it was low tide. We took it all in until we saw someone walking a dog and stopped to chat.

We were both missing Gord dog, our poodle, and craving canine love. The dog was friendly. His owner was named . . . Gord.

Gord asked us if we were Canadians. I said no. He said you don’t seem like Americans to me.

We chatted a bit and he told us about a nearby place called Canoe Cove. Beth has seen it online but misplaced the notes.

After Gord told us about it, I started to tell him about having a dog named Gord and how Canadian’s always “sorry, but can I ask you about your dog.”

Without letting me finish the joke, he said “If you ask someone from Boston about their dog they say ‘don’t you worry about it.’ ” His repartee was so quick I felt foolish.

I guess that’s the difference between a maritimer and a Masshole. I much prefer maritimers even if Gord reminded me of one of those weathered people I went to high school with who worked outdoors, rode Harley’s and smoked heavily resulting in premature aging that sometimes hides the wisdom that comes with life experience.

He said he lived nearby and has called the Island home for his lifetime even if he did spend a few years away in Alberta’s oil fields.

We left Gord, his dog and his girlfriend and followed his directions to Canoe Cove. His girl was nice, Gord said she didn’t like hockey. He never saw someone say something like that before. It was Fireworks, in a Tragically Hip sense. Without their help we would have never made it there.

We turned at the Presbyterian Church just like they had suggested and found ourselves at Canoe Cove. There were a couple more people but it felt still and remote. On the beach, parents lazed while teens and younger children played slam ball.

We worked left to more sandstone, this time smooth red rocks eroded to show layers, sculpted into whimsical curves, gulleys and grottos in ways no mind could imagine.

There was nothing built up about this place, just spectacular, desolate, perfected beauty with no one to bother us and nowhere to be but in gracious awe.

After two days, we needed to move on to a final stay in one room back in PEI before crossing the Confederation Bridge, which is 8 miles long and under construction, to reach New Brunswick and return to Nova Scotia.

Before leaving PEI however, we needed to take part in the Festival of Small Halls.

Festival of Small Halls

When our travel plans were almost set, Beth shifted our plans so we could be at Historic St. Mary’s in Kensington for Day 1 of the Festival.

We needed to pack up the cabin and spend a day exploring but as I started to get ready, Darrell the proprietor stopped over to say hello. He had on a baseball cap, a sleeveless t-shirt and was already working

“Where ya from?” he asked.

“Niagara Falls, New York” I said.

“You don’t sound like an American,” he said.

“I accept that as a compliment,” I said. “Hey, we didn’t want to complain or anything, but the cabin should really have some kitchen knives.”

“There were no knives? They are in the drawer in the island” he said.

“No,” I said. “There was one steak knife. I nearly killed myself cutting up a sweet potato.”

“You should have called us and let us know,” he said. “You would not believe what people steal. A brand new $40 set of barbecue tools was the most recent thing. How have you found Canada?” He asked.

“Wonderful,” I said. “Everyone is kind, and polite and they all know more about our country than we know about Canada.

“We’ve had a great time,” I said, looking at him in his sleeveless t-shirt and ballcap, “but I’ve had some intellectual challenges.

“We were in Cheticamp, Cape Breton. I tried and failed three times to get into Hemingway’s ‘The Son Also Rises’. Then I looked on the book shelf and saw ‘Larry the Cable Guy’. I took it to the bathroom. He predicted I would read it on the toilet in 27 minutes or less. I left Hemingway and took Larry.”

Darrell, in his ballcap, sleeveless shirt and tool belt laughed hard and suddenly appeared in my reality as Larry the Cable Guy hisself in my midst. (Phonetic misspelling intentional.)

We finished packing and as we headed out, I saw Darrell and his other brother Darrell working on the deck behind his residence. (OK, I admit. 1980s Saturday Night Live reference. Take off you hosers. Or was that SCTV?)

The cabin, which I am sure he built from a kit augmented with local lumber, was awesome. Dudes like Darrell and Gord we need to celebrate, whether walking on Sherkston Beach in the 1980s and trading them beer for pot in the dunes or just sharing admiration for Larry the Cable Guy and Gord on the beach.

I will remember Darrell with Rush lyrics: “You can choose a ready guide in some celestial voice

“If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice

“You can choose from phantom fears and kindness that can kill

“I will choose a path that's clear, I will choose free will.”

He’s still on that deck behind his house, with a cigarette dangling from his lips as he pounds a nail and ponders why those guests stole the knives.

On to the show

We killed some time in Kensington knowing the show “Shaking the Shingles” at Historic St. Mary’s in Indian River didn’t start until 7:30 p.m.

The entertainment was billed as James Mullinger, The Pairs and Beolach. It was opening night of the 10-day festival which featured 30 shows all across the province.

We pulled into the church lot at 7 p.m. and it was already mostly full as the volunteers directed us to a parking spot.

Inside we found an empty pew on the side, maybe 25 rows back. Drinks were outside in a neighboring pavilion. $13 got me a hard cider and a souvenir glass. The one-time sanctuary is now an entertainment space run by a nonprofit.

The show started exactly on time. I like things on time. Early is on time. Josh Ellis, the executive director, made the requisite announcements and welcomed the crowd, calling out numerous provinces with aplomb that felt as if he has on-stage experience even if I don’t know anything about him. Ellis mentioned no US states before turning the stage over to comedian James Mullinger.

Mullinger, a Brit with a New Brunswickian wife, had a successful career in London. The Mullingers relocated because the Maritimes are a better place to raise a family than the big city in his homeland.

He wore a tux for the event and was genuinely funny, sharing some adroit observations, for example, Donald Trump has been so adept at uniting Canada that even the Quebecois agree. For the first time ever.

I spoke to Mullinger later during the break. He said his friends and family warned him he was making a horrible mistake by relocating because he was giving up a viable and established stand up career for the unknown. He told me he’s never regretted it and is more popular now than ever.

Life is simpler in Canada. While he might worry about a drug bust or murder in London, in Halifax or Charlottetown he can pick up the newspaper and see the most stunning headlines be rodent feces found in a grocery store or Canadian Astronaut Jeremy Hansen whining about not being able to find a parking spot in Halifax.

Truthfully, I have spoken to Hansen about how shopping at Tops in Niagara Falls scared him because of the armed guard and police substation and also struggled to find parking in Halifax.

I wouldn’t trade living in Niagara Falls, New York for anywhere in the maritimes, but having briefly visited Halifax and Charlottetown, the PEI capitol is more fun and it is not close. Also, much like Mullinger, friends and family warned us moving to Niagara Falls from the sanctity of Clarence was a move we would regret. We never have.

Nova Scotia is quaint, touristy and bustling. PEI is like Bona Vista or Salvage in Newfoundland, Come-by-Chance, that sort of place where the locals ask “why would you want to visit here?” It might be a Mistaken Point. Mullinger gets it. I bet Hansen does too.

He also told a joke about being trapped in Confederation bridge construction traffic for two hours on his way to the Island, a joke which would make anxious travelers with a plane to catch leave even earlier the next day, terrified of spending extra time in a Hyundai Venue, the worst car since AMC made the the 1972 Gremlin I bought for $300 in 1983.

Mullinger introduced “The Pairs” an acoustic trio from London, Ontario featuring twin sisters Renee and Noelle Coughlin and Hillary Watson.

The Pairs began as a quartet so their name became a misnomer, sort of like the Ben Folds Five only having 4 members.

The Pairs are all about harmony, with one guitarist per song but 3 vocal parts, the sort of tight sound that only comes from being together a long time, sort of like the Everly Brothers or closer to home, Darryl and LP Tonemah.

Noelle said Hillary’s twin sister was initially in the band, hence the name, but they have known each other since they were a month old.

“We finish each other’s sentences and thoughts all the time,” she explained in a brief chat. “Sometimes it is scary.”

Noelle thanked me for volunteering and parking cars. When I told her I was just a guest, she laughed and said I had a doppelganger helping out.

As I write this, I just looked online and saw they will be playing in Ridgeway, Ontario in October. At $30 a ticket Canadian we may have to go.

Beolach is a trad music quartet from Cape Breton with two fiddles, a third who plays fiddle and bagpipes and a pianist. They play tight, traditional Celtic music, the sort of music that lends itself to Irish dance.

There were Irish dancers on the elevated rear platform for a song during the show. The band took a pause as well as one of the female fiddlers and the pianist took to the platform to Irish dance the rhythm of the song they had just played. It was, in a word, stunning.

In fact, this was such a good time we may need to fly into Charlottetown next year and spend a week attending shows. They may have saved the best for first, but I doubt it.

Also, a word about the audience. They packed the house 30 minutes ahead of the show and clapped with the music and sang along when prompted. I also noticed almost no one scrolling on their phones during the show. It was a welcome change.

One more night

Our final night we spent in a single room we rented on AirBnb because it was cheap and closer to the airport. The drive to that lodging, across back country roads in our Hyundai tuna can, was harrowing because of all the small animals we saw crossing the road, including a raccoon, an opossum and, stunningly, what could only be a stoat in its full white phase. I am used to adding birds to my life list, rarely mammals. This was the most exciting new weasel since a pine marten in the Adirondacks.

Our final host was kind, met us at the door and led us to the most spacious, comfortable room we stayed in during our entire trip. She also fed us breakfast.

We left early to cross the Confederation Bridge. There was about a 20-minute construction delay. I still don’t know if Mullinger’s 2-hour delay was a joke or something he lived. We stopped for a hike in the nature preserve immediately across the bridge, taking photos of the fog-enshrouded structure and knowing it would be no problem because we were in New Brunswick, which is sort of a drivethrough province.

We killed some time in Truro as well, visiting an independent book store and the public library. The library was a stunning brick building that beckoned us to come in. We were short on time but it was the most impactful library architecture to me since I visited Westfield in Chautauqua County, New York or since I drove son Ben past Niagara Falls Library for the first time. Ben’s reaction: “What in the name of brutalist God is that and why is it not on the University at Buffalo North Campus” will forever rest in memory. 

Truro’s library perseveres, though it is likely haunted. In Niagara Falls, the roof has leaked from Day 1 and there are squirrels living on the 3rd floor in the history department because they cannot find a librarian to work there for the wage they can offer.

Back at the airport we dumped our horrible Hyundai and queued up for the return flight. I finally got that Cracked Canoe and realized it was Moosehead Light.

I dozed off and before long heard the announcement we were descending for landing. Our car was right where we parked it at Hamilton airport but after 10 days in the Maritimes, it is easy to say among all the things we did, The Festival of Small Halls was the highlight. Well that and maybe those sandstone cliffs, those pheasants and eagles in Wolfville or heck, too many things to remember. Thanks for coming along for the ride if you read this far.