12 May

Relieved to wake up in the Nights Inn, especially since that’s where I drifted off.

Despite that, a sense of foreboding – but then I am over the road from Calvary, eating a cream cheese bagel off a paper plate.

In a vague attempt to persuade myself that this is not in any way strange, I steal a cup of tea and roll down the hill, through downtown to Inglis Falls, where I drink it all in unapologetically.

Unrepentant, because I’ve found myself a waterfall! And it’s a right old crying fountain. A loud white wedding dress, strapless, draped over the rocks – like they care.

A mill watches on with suspicion, and I reckon it’s right to – this waterfall has betrayed it more than once, leaving the plant empty, derelict; in debt to the nature which surrounds it.

Easy to surmise that this will be roped off as a crime scene at some point.

Until then, it’s fenced off as a tourist attraction, with mandatory lookout points providing the casual observer with obligatory selfie opportunities, to prove they were here, even if they can’t remember it.

Other people are here, and I’m starting to stray into their photographic boundaries, which is disagreeable given the circumstances and the weather conditions.

Disappearing into the forest is the only solution, past the improbably calm waters of the lake which lies just above the violence of the rushing falls … an illusion if ever I saw one, like the uneventful meeting of two seas.

When the leafless trees lead me directly to the highway, I go all moody blues on them – I don’t need this turning into another aimless hike like last night.

Exit the woods via the old mill, shortly after tripping over the only backpacker in the near vicinity. We will not go to the same places today.

Like Indian Falls, the tennis courts, my curtain call, a casual trespass.

Here is where it’s at, if only I knew where it was. There’s space reserved under that waterfall for things yet to happen. It’s just below the lazy water, which bursts into uncontrollable life once it’s arrived at a knife-edge.

The trees stand over this scene with a decades-old nonchalance; water is not new.

From here, we all scramble and swim back to our SUVs, tough-mudder style.

Further up the coast, to see things in time I will forget, much like those things in a short minute will dismiss me, much as the lake neglects the shipwrecks long-since consumed. This Bruce Peninsula is hard work.

Ahead, old Wiarton Willy the groundhog has indicated an early Spring … shows how much he knows – it’s shiver-me-timbers raw and wintry out here. Everything indoors, in full thaw – everything, that is, except for the flies.

It’s all I can do to disappear into the Lion’s Head in a bid for warmth.

In a sense of increasing defiance, I eat my cheese sandwich on the beach, in full view of the caravan park, just to give them something to talk about around their night-time bonfire.

Out west, boats balanced precariously on stilts, waiting for a new paintjob – some getting it.

A tiny lighthouse is admittedly pretty, but when it’s landed nowhere near the bay entrance I do worry. I could move it, if only folk would stop taking photos of it.

Stone-me beach is a walk past diagonal telegraph poles, along to a circular path moving upwards through the trees, lined with poison ivy and lookouts over cliffs and signs which tell me what to do / what not to do. Obedience / disobedience … I have choices, I am free … I keep telling myself.

And all of the time, I get the feeling the crashing waters over the edge are laughing at me. They organised themselves billions of years ago, and here we are still arguing about what’s real (nothing!).

Right now, the same tree keeps popping up in my photos, the hardwood photobomber. Keeps happening until I get back to the boats, near where a lone tree is now falling back in on itself, folding itself into a vertical slump.

In time, the Lion’s Head releases me. It helps to have hands-free entry and exit for a pain-free escape.

Dyer Bay is next. There is nothing to see at the harbour because people have built houses all around it in the last ten minutes.

So I reverse into the massive empty parking lot, and climb up and over the triangular ladder to nowhere.

Up there, a glimpse of the lakeside. White flowerless trees, a weird landscape that no-one comes to see. Juniper Hill, the gin flats – on ice, with a slice of lemon. And it’s at this exact moment, I realise I have somewhere to be.

Loss of direction will not happen today. But to be somewhere / anywhere by 5pm is not happening.

When I arrive back at the car park, it’s no longer empty – there’s a shifty man in a Volvo staring intently at the blue portaloo.

After a few seconds, the door opens. Out steps a female, shaking her hands. And I can see it on their eyes – they’ve been to the Swinging Sands.

The Bruce Peninsula peters out at Tobermory, but this Tobermory not where I left it – in the murk on the Isle of Mull, a few short years ago.

I arrive in town mere moments after the rest of the world has disembarked the Chi-Cheemaun. I barge my way through a gap onto Legion Street, because someone had to … otherwise I’d be waiting all night.

Finally I’m here at the Dry Dock. I’m late to meet Ashleigh, Maverick and Judas. Two of whom don’t seem to mind too much. A real conversation later and I know where I’m headed to now – the bar.

Downtown Tobermory is a boat car park, with tourists occasionally dropping in. Watch the drink!

There is a grown man throwing very large solid objects into a skip up the hill by a motel, very loudly. I think this is a kind of evidence gathering. I want no part of this.

Up and down pedestrian walkways, along gang planks, past maritime civilisation, and finally all the way back around to the Tobermory Brewing Co.

I wait for an Ontario minute to be seated by the bear, by the bar, by the memorabilia, on a high chair – because we regress.

Landlord here is one of the cheeriest living things I’ve seen for days, and that includes the chirpy songbirds.

Does his best to flog me a big-ticket fish risotto and a strong coffee stout, in exchange for an arm and a leg. And I have to wonder, who’s holding up who here? Piss off yer salty scoundrel, I don’t say, and order up a blonde and a chicken burger chaser.

Nevertheless, I’ve arrived myself in a Good Place, at dusk, with an adequate view of the harbour and a respectable view of a bar.

Even the stuffed black bear won’t start me, such is the relaxed state I am in.

Once I’m through with my Fire Ban, I ease myself gently back onto the Bruce Trail, the straight and narrow.

Calvary is long forgotten.