We had an abortive start to the day. Eager to get on the road, we left the motel at 9 am with the sun shining brightly, perfect for sightseeing. However, a few hundred metres down the road, the Satnav screen suddenly switched to night mode, making it impossible to see anything in the bright sunlight. I pulled into a side road to try and reset it, but it bizarrely required a Wi-Fi connection to find our destination. We returned to the motel, parked outside the office, and picked up the signal. It was then that we realised we had forgotten to fill up with fuel. The gas station was just five minutes down the road, but in the opposite direction. It’s not wise to begin any car journey of several hundred kilometres in Canada without a full tank, as the distances between refuelling opportunities can be vast. After a quick fuel stop, our conscientious Satnav worked flawlessly for the rest of the day, satisfied that we had taken the hint.

Our first stop was an impromptu visit to the French River Information Centre. We were the first visitors of the day. The friendly receptionist suggested we start our exploration by following the trail to see the rapids, which were once navigated by fur trappers from the Hudson Bay Company. She mentioned that it wasn’t too challenging and would take about an hour or so.

The trail began at a poster ominously warning us to be cautious of rattlesnakes. We plunged into the forest, following the small blue discs pinned to trees at regular intervals. It was decided that Sue would keep an eye out for the blue discs, and I would be on the lookout for snakes. However, we quickly realised that the unmentioned, local mosquitoes were also watching us and were a more immediate nuisance! We quickly gathered some tree branches to swat the annoying, biting critters away and set off. The path at times was a tangle of tree roots and, at others, we had to navigate around boulders, all the while pushing through thick undergrowth. It was hot and sweaty, and with annoying swarms of bugs, there was always the risk of slipping and twisting an ankle. Did our friendly receptionist say this was an easy trail?

Eventually, we heard the roar of the rapids and, after a difficult hundred metres or so, we emerged from the tree line onto a rocky promontory with a view of the thunderous rapids below. Despite the impressive vista unrolling before us, the absence of clouds of biting insects was more than welcome.

We carefully descended to read an information board situated on the rocks below, next to the rushing torrent. I couldn’t help but smile when I read that the rapids had originally been controlled by the French, until a couple of British brothers, the Kirkes, arrived and took control of this important fur trapping route. However, the river still bears the French name. We lingered for quite a while, pondering how, in the past, one might have navigated the turbulent waters by canoe. We discovered several very old metal pegs drilled into the rocks, likely used to help trappers in some way. Many lives must have been lost on this dangerous section of the river.

For some strange reason, the bugs didn’t attack so much on the way back. Perhaps the switches had taught them a lesson they didn’t want to repeat, or maybe they had taken a dislike to British flesh. When we saw the receptionist again, I jokingly asked if sending tourists to see the rapids was her way of ensuring the local mosquitoes were well-fed. She smiled knowingly.

We spent a little time browsing the exhibits on fur trapping displayed inside the centre. Though there wasn’t much depth of information, we decided to move on towards Midland.

Our only other stop of the day was for a delightful fish and chip lunch at a roadside restaurant. There, we spent some time chatting with the owners, who were very interested in the British Royal Wedding and expressed their extreme dismay over Donald Trump. Surprisingly, unlike many we have met on this trip, they didn’t have any relatives in the UK, nor had they ever travelled abroad. They were, however, very content with their chosen lifestyle, and they served up the best fish and chips I’ve had in a long time.

The next section of the drive was a bit of a drag. Despite a gorgeously sunny day and beautiful scenery, with little traffic, I was feeling tired and had had enough of driving. I was relieved when we finally reached our accommodation for the night at The Knights Inn (good name, eh?).

After a short rest relaxing on the bed, we took a walk to nearby Little Lake, a lovely amenity for the town. The area boasted shallow beaches, warm water, plenty of squirrels and trees, and importantly, lots of benches to rest weary legs. There was even a vendor selling the largest ice cream cones I’ve ever seen!

On circumnavigating the lake, we stumbled upon an unusual and novel sport, Disc Golf. As we wandered through the park, we had noticed strange posts with chains dangling down into circular tub-like structures. Then we encountered a group of five guys practising for what they informed us was a big competition happening the following day. They were eager to explain the rules of the game to us: you had to throw a disc (essentially a heavy, flat Frisbee) into the tub from a concrete slab situated around 100 metres away, navigating trees and other obstacles. You start with a driver disc (the heaviest) and then switch to a lighter putter disc. There is a white circle drawn around each tub, and when the driver disc lands inside it, you change to use the putter and try to spin it into the tub. It looked like a very popular sport, with several other groups practising. I would have loved to have had a go myself, but the offer wasn’t forthcoming.