Back to Quebec

The morning emerged, cold. I had a marathon drive ahead of me. The reason was that New Brunswick was almost devoid of hostels and those that existed were not on my way. So I had to make it to Quebec province by nightfall. Fortunately I would be crossing a time zone and gaining one hour.

I crossed into NB. A friend had said to avoid Magnetic Hill and I did. Holidaying in NB is a Canadian joke, he said, but I saw nothing wrong with the scenery. NB was backward because it had little modern industry, and still relied on timber and fishing.  But I saw signs that NB was trying to catch up. Near Fredericton I closed in on the St. John river. The other side of the river is Maine, USA. As the crow flies the shortest path to Montreal is through the USA, but I had to go through this narrow neck of Quebec to avoid crossing borders. Also I wanted to see scenery.

At Fredericton I decided to try to get my US money changed again. Half expecting to have to drag out a hard luck story I walked into a bank. But there was no fuss, they took the money and gave me Canadian dollars. I could have kissed the cashier, but no, no scenes. I was solvent again.

NB is not a province of pretty little coves like NS but there are grand vistas to be had from the tops of hills, beautiful lakes. The petrol prices got quite good near the Quebec border. Remembering the high prices near Quebec City, I filled up. By 6 in the evening I was past Edmundston. I stopped at a provincial park and made dinner with the rest of my luncheon meat and mashed potatoes on the propane stove. There were a couple of loud quacks nearby. I fed the ducks. They were so bold that they came up and snatched the bread from my fingers. The only problem with this park was flies.

I crossed into Quebec and Eastern Time Zone and gained an hour. The highway passes Notre Dame Du Lac, which was absolutely gorgeous in the evening light. At Rivière du Loup I decided to try to make the most of the extra time by looking for the ferry across the St. Lawrence. I had some faint idea of crossing to the north bank but the ferry didn't seem to be operating anyway.

But I got lost in the town and drove through some very French looking quarters. There was a beautiful sunset that I photographed from the car park of a hospital. A nearby car had overheated and the female occupants were wondering what to do with the steam coming out of the radiator. I couldn't do anything for them but give them a smile.

I reached St. Jean Port Joli after dark. The hostel took a bit of effort to find even though it was on the main road. The door was open and a note inside said to make oneself comfortable and to call a number and the warden would be along by and by. In French of course. I used my best French on the phone and fortunately the other side helped out in English. They were less fanatical about mono-lingualism than in France. Then the warden arrived, instead of the wardeness I had been expecting, with a group of three high-spirited French Canadian girls. They had been visiting their grandparents in Gaspe. That was the destination I had to sacrifice to see PEI—Forillon National Park and Cap aux Os. Sigh, someday, perhaps.

They invited me to have a beer with them and play a board game not unlike Ludo. Lots of giggling and joking with their broken English. It was fascinating to hear English idioms being spoken by non-native speakers with a strange accent. This hostel was one of the most comfortable I had used on my travels. Since there was a lot of room, I got a whole room all to myself and the girls got one upstairs.

Halifax or bust

I had to make a decision: Nova Scotia or Gaspésie. (Gaspésie is the peninsula south of the St. Lawrence River where Quebec Province meets the Atlantic.) Labrador and Newfoundland were definitely out of the question, given the limited time. In the end I decided it was Halifax or bust. So in the early morning rain, I started towards New Brunswick. The only reasonable place to stop was Campbellton, where the youth hostel is a lighthouse.

Highway 20 east is unremarkable, the land gently rolls around the Fleuve St. Laurent. I began to lose sight of the opposite bank of the St. Laurent. At Mont Joli I turned south towards New Brunswick. The road ran along the Matapédia River. This valley is very scenic. But the rain and mist were so thick that at some spots I couldn't see more than 200 metres ahead.

I wished I had more cassette tapes, I like Flora Purim but I was getting sick of listening to Nada Será Como Antes for the twentieth time. But what can you do, even a dozen is a lot to carry.

I also lost an hour crossing to the Atlantic time zone, but I didn't expect crowds at this hostel. I heard French at the dépanneur. They spoke English with equal facility. There were half a dozen other people at the hostel. Troy, a clear-faced youth managed it. It was quite small, located at the base of a lighthouse overlooking the bridge across the head of the Matapédia River. It is one of a pair of lighthouses. Vessels can navigate into the harbour by keeping the pair in line. It was also the last night of the season for this hostel.

All of the people here came by motorcycle or car. There are jokes about NB in Canada. If you tell your friends you intend to go to NB for a vacation they smile at you sympathetically, as if you were an idiot.  Who wants to travel NB? Well, the scenery is good in places, but tourism isn't well developed.  People here just, well, get along. The hostel management is so sure they won't be getting any more Afghanis or New Zealanders that they have already written the totals for those countries in the summary sheet.  While we were having dinner, Troy relayed the occupancy figures over the phone to his supervisor. The decision came back: shut down tomorrow.  This hostel was very clean and neat, the best hostel of the whole trip.