Scorched Lemons

                Sweat ran down my face in torrents. Stinging my eyes, dripping off my nose as I trudged slowly up the steep hill. The moon, near full, lit the night, the air still, heavy, heat merciless and without surcease. The south of France was on fire, in some cases quite literally, as Brad and I discovered when we tried to take the train along the Riviera. A wild fire had closed the track beyond Monaco, forcing us all onto buses as we made our way to Menton, a town famous for its lemons and beaches. The delay of several hours as the tracks burned and our subsequent loading onto the road meant our arrival in Menton was pushed back until midnight. A mercy, in this case. The sun was a hammer blow, the night little better.

                As Brad and I set up camp, the grounds rather inconveniently located atop an expanse of hill, affording a stunning view of the Mediterranean to the south, ancient lemon groves to the north, we decided to forgo the tent, and flopped down on our mats. The air was pregnant with heat, as still as death. Sleep was not easy in coming.

                The sounds of the market woke us. That and the blazing orb of the sun, which was throwing its heat at the earth angrily. The meagre shade of the olive tree we slept under offered little in the way of respite. We did what any young men would do. We bought a handful of local lemons, and a six pack of cheap French beer, before making our way to the beach. France may be famous for wine, but on a day of record heat, its beer is to be much recommended. Squeezing fresh lemons into the small bottles, we came to enjoy the sun, stretched out on the rocks. In the words of Lawrence Durrell, we were lithe bodies of the young, in search of a fellow nakedness. Such a day spent in relaxation seemed to us to be what the hot summer in the Riviera was all about.

                Menton was a quiet town. It lacked the frenzied bustle of its more famous neighbours, which suited us just fine. After our morning of libations and bathing, we backtracked up the coast, daring the still smoking train line to return Monaco. The Principality, one of the smallest nations in the world, made a tremendous impression on us. It spoke of wealth, an opulence reflected by the yachts that rode quietly at anchor in the harbour. We walked the grounds of the Monte Carlo, even braved the entry hall, but were permitted no further. Our board shorts and ragged backpacker appearance told the doormen that we lacked the funds to partake in the games held therein.

                Instead, we sat in the garden outside of that cathedral of wealth, and made sandwiches, content. We then explored the harbour, moving amongst the ships. Some, like Prince Rainier’s yacht, the size of cruise liners, others sleek sailing ships of wood. The breakwater sat at the harbour mouth, a tiered wall of concrete. We lay out in the sun, again enjoying the sweat that poured off of us, cooling ourselves by diving into the aqua marine depths. The water was cool, and deep, crystal made liquid.

                The sun, still angry with heat, began to sink to its westward rest. Brad and I climbed up away from the harbour. An ancient embattlement surrounded a garden of fronds. The moon, still blazing near to its fullness, hung over the old stones. We uncorked a cheap bottle of vin du pays. A night breeze stirred the palms, breaking the heavy stillness of heat. We finished our bottle, and made our way down into the tunnels that held the train station. The tracks were again closed due to fire. A bus trundled us to our camping ground. Again we climbed the steep slope, to lie hot and sweating under the stars. A scent of lemons reached me, mingled with the saltiness of the sea. This was a good place to be, on the seaside in the heat of the French night.

Northern Reflections or Thoughts on Poutine

                A friend of mine takes marketing in school. Recently, a local restaurateur came into their class seeking help with the promotion of his poutinerie, which has its sights set on an expansion into the United States. Oddly enough, “poutine” does not exist south of the border. The name must be too “French” for American sensibilities. Rather, this man will call his product “loaded fries”. A truly lost opportunity. In a culinary world devoid of Canadiana, poutine stands alone, for better or for worse, as distinctly Canadian. The only other offerings we can lay claim to in the way of pemmican and bannock lack a certain modern appeal.

                This recent discussion, combined with an afternoon stroll through a snow-bound cemetery, chaffed by wind, pine boughs drooped and laden with white, caused me to think on Canada, and our cultural treasures. Unlike with food, we have a great many icons to which we can turn to, none more so than the famed artists of the Group of Seven. Landscape painters of great renown, they captured scenes of great beauty, both grand and severe. In a time of sought identity, they painted a nation.

                The sweep of shoreline along the Superior coast called to them, and the artists returned several times, taking the train north in a series of trips now referred to as the “Algoma Train Trips”. Having taken myself a lonesome January drive along highway 17 to Thunder Bay, I can see why they were so drawn to these rugged scenes.

                Ancient, wind-tormented pines cling like spindled gargoyles to jagged bare rock; pale stands of birch shiver nakedly in ever deepening piles of snow. Frozen granite lit by a half moon falls away from the highway to kiss the cold-darkened waters of the lake below. It is a harsh and unforgiving landscape, as severe as it is beautiful.  Land of hard lines well suited to a painters brush.

                Even today, that north shore drive is remote, steeped in isolation. Once the road veers north in the Sault, you drive alone through cold wilderness. Towns may dot the highway, but not with any regularity. Each conclave is unique, a testament to the hard men and women who opened this nation. Wawa with its goose and mills, Schreiber and its rail yards, Rossport lonely by the water, and Terrace Bay crowning its hill.

                My drive through these places was brief. Thunder Bay was calling. It was also sad. Shuttered mills and derelict mines greet you, rail yards with three trains, but space for twenty, sit cold and unused. Even Thunder Bay itself, the urban centre of the North West, suffers, with 90% of its mills closed down, and the grain freight now heading for the open waters of Churchill and the North-East passage. The people in these (what have become hard-luck) towns persist, however. Hard places have bred hard and unyielding people.

                The drive itself is long, 17 hours from the steel mills of the Hammer to the rocks of the Sleeping Giant. To put that time frame into proper perspective, it once took me 16 hours to drive from home to the Floridian border. A combination of ice, snow, and mad truckers makes the drive treacherous. Jeremy, as is so often the case, was my co-pilot for this particular northern jaunt. Sadly, flu, or possibly a tainted hot ham sandwich in Wawa laid him low. He was out of commission, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the sweep of coastline.

                Night lashed out suddenly, all darkness and snow. The vista shrinks too little beyond what my headlights can reveal. I found myself worrying about moose, and wondering how the big rigs can keep their breakneck pace around icy bends without fear of fauna or road conditions.

                At a pull off, I stopped the car. My eyes were tired from the strain of looking to the shoulder for the glimmer of feral retina. My legs ache from riding hard on the pedals. Jer was fast asleep, bundled in what appeared to be all of his clothes. The snow was so cold that it cracked audibly underfoot. A transport whizzed by, and then there was nothing. The silence was heavy, laden, the air so crisp it iced my nostrils, and sent icy fingers seeking down into my lungs. Naked granite loomed above and below, crackling in the chill. Superior lay vast into the distance. Green fire flared briefly in the sky. A momentary shimmer of the Borealis, dreamlike and fey. I could almost have wished for some wolf-song, but that wish was never to be realised that night. My fingers become numb. Despite the dreamy beauty of this remote place, it is a harsh night. The cold has death in it. Despite the harshness of the night, there was beauty there too.

                As I walk the snow-laden Haldimand cemetery, I think long on that north shore drive. I think on a painting seen and loved. I think on beauty and severity, the marriage that exists between the two in this northern land. I think on our icons and our artists who could capture Canada with a stroke of paint. I think on cold and a snow weighed Jack pine that lets fall its burden in a gust of wind. And of course, I think on poutine.