11th June 2018

A lazy morning. A late 9:30 am start under a blue, cloudless sky, heading along a ridiculously quiet Highway 11. I motored along at a steady 90 kph (the legal maximum), staring blissfully ahead at the endless tarmacked road stretching to the horizon, flanked by a 50-metre grassy apron on either side, edged by a line of pines, beyond which stood a trillion more. Over the course of 200 kilometres, there were perhaps a couple of bends (if you could call a gentle lean to one side over 2 km, a bend).

There were three distractions. Occasionally, we passed through sections of forest that had recently been ravaged by fire, one of the few times we could glimpse further into the tree line, now reduced to charred, denuded poles. Every so often, an oncoming lorry or RV would break the monotony, though this was rare over such long stretches. But perhaps most intriguingly (from my perspective) was Sue grappling with technology, searching for a radio station on the car’s system.

Earlier in the week, we had listened to FM stations, but as we drove deeper into remote Canada, they had disappeared, replaced only by AM channels crackling intermittently. Now, we had no signal at all. With no settlements or traffic in this part of the country, it seemed the authorities had deemed it unnecessary to install relay transmitters along the route. However, my mobile was connected to the car’s power supply via USB, and earlier in the week, it had begun playing my music library through the car speakers while also directing us via its Satnav. Sue spent a pleasant 20 minutes figuring out how to repeat this function and, bingo!, we had music all the way into Longlac.

Upon arrival, we had lunch in a small restaurant by the river. Longlac lies alongside the Trans-Canada Railway, its very existence owing to the fact that this is where the trappers’ trail met the railway to transport pelts to market. Today, it remains a small town, marked by an impressive bridge where most lorries stop for fuel, food, and a brief rest. However, away from the highway, the town itself is quite charming, and down by the lake, the park is well-designed, a lovely place to relax.

We checked in at 2 p.m., and the receptionist informed us we were lucky to get a room; everything else in town was fully booked. Even the locals were renting out rooms. A large railway meeting was happening, and the town was packed. On a walk around the area to orientate ourselves, we spotted a neat line of accommodation carriages parked along a siding. I suppose those workers unlucky enough not to get one of these had to settle for motel rooms. Oddly enough, the town didn’t feel busy to us, but the motels were definitely full. It seems that Northern Ontario’s definition of “busy” is closer to the European version of “comatose.”

Returning to the motel, we took a drive to check whether the local steakhouse would be open for dinner, and also stopped by the liquor store in the hope of finding the peach wheat ale we’d recently developed a taste for. Unfortunately, none was to be found, so we settled for a local brew instead.

Whilst at the store, a minor drama unfolded. As we entered, a large, overweight Canadian gentleman courteously held the door open for us and followed us inside, where the chill felt like the depths of a freezer. Later, we were relieved to step back out into the 30°C heat, our purchase in hand.

However, as we left, I noticed the same gentleman leaning against a post, clearly in distress. His wife looked deeply concerned as he tried to reach his car just five metres away, but he managed only as far as the bonnet before struggling badly for breath. I hesitated, torn over whether I should step in to help. Sensibly, his wife was already on the phone to 911, and by the time we eventually drove off, I judged that she had probably faced this situation before and seemed to know what to do. Even so, though I reassured myself that an ambulance would soon be on its way, I couldn’t shake a lingering sense of guilt.

A short drive took us to the “posh” end of town, where we sat for a while, watching the locals engage in what must be a  Sunday ritual: putting their boats in the water and heading off to fish.

Continuing to the other side of town, we stopped by ValuMart. It’s frustrating to us Europeans that the price on the shelf of goods is never the final price, as tax gets added at the register, something that always seems to catch us off guard.

The public park and landing stage on the other side of town were just as popular, though the boats there were of a more modest calibre. We noticed, however, that despite the numerous signs instructing fishermen not to gut their fish and leave the remains in the bins, the bins were overflowing with fish guts. French is the predominant language in the area, and judging by the way the rules were being ignored, the French attitude toward authority seems to reflect that. One of the bins had its contents scattered everywhere, likely by the local wildlife. Not a place I’d want to visit after dark, I thought.

We returned to our room and spent the rest of the evening relaxing until it was time for our dinner.

Oddly enough, we both ended up ordering fish and chips at the Steak House and Pizzeria. It wasn’t what we’d expected, but it was exactly what we fancied, and it turned out to be very good. The portions, however, were enormous, far too large for us to finish. We left some behind, though, judging by the vast pizzas being carried out of the kitchen, we’d have managed even less had we chosen one of those. It was hardly surprising that many diners were leaving with doggy bags.

When we returned to our room, it was still light outside, so we settled in and watched television until it was time for some much-needed sleep.

The news remained dominated by Trump and the G7 meeting. The Canadians seemed absolutely livid about his remarks concerning their leader and nation. I find it astonishing that someone of his age has not yet learned how to conduct himself with greater decorum. His rudeness and ignorance appear boundless, and it is difficult to comprehend how a person in so high an office can behave in such a way.