13 May

There is a man parading around town in a full wetsuit, flippers as well, videoing himself as he goes with a selfie-stick.

I will pop up in the background of his cinematic efforts like a startled deer.

It’s 7am, it is cold and wet. Which is possibly why he’s wearing a wetsuit on a morning.

There are numerous tattooed humans at the harbour, but no boats going anywhere anytime soon today.

I’m not the only one left crestfallen at this turn of events. But then I guess if the skipper can’t see anything, then we may all end up in the drink, sinking to the same level as all the other maritime ruins.

At the Dry Dock, cheery Ashleigh, and a European sightseer who likes to point at things, including me, are waiting with a generous breakfast spread.

How we’ve all arrived here to eat bagels off the same wooden table at the same time is as unlikely a question as why is there a man parading around downtown in a full wetsuit and flippers. The cats aren’t impressed.

Talk is cheap when you’re on the road … where are you going / where have you been / where did you sleep last night (upstairs – in the, erm, Captain’s Room).

Today, I give everything away, and it’s all for free.

Highway 6 and the Visitor Centre is a waste of fifteen minutes, so I drop myself off instead at Grotto Park P1, after a crash through the barriers.

It’s raining – if not quite cats and dogs then at least kittens and puppies.

Exposed tree roots everywhere, wrapped around rocks and the like, keeping everything anchored down.

Those rocks don’t want to leave, nor can they. Consumed by a large forest, and properly green with it up in this neck of the woods.

It’s a collusion of nature to overthrow all notions of self-conscious existence. Belittled by this, I maintain a slow trudge onwards.

Down the Horse Lake Trail and onto precarious cliffs which will erode me, given half a chance. This is a balancing act, with ropes, lurking by the clear turquoise waters.

There is no-one to witness my antics down at the Grotto, nor anyone at the Overhanging Rock, wherever that is. Maybe I can hang out there in another life.

Inland, the trees are ganging up on me, except for the isolated ones in the most unlikeliest of places, like amongst giant beach boulders or sprouting horizontally from bare rocks or perched upon the edge of land itself.

This is now a brisk hike back up to the car park, and a slight return to the Visitor Centre.

Up a windy fire tower which rises above nature, blowing me all around the platform, only to confirm that yes, there is a large freaking forest out there, over yonder.

I forget the loop (it’s obvious), so rather than go around in circles I’m going all the way to Little Cove.

On the map, this is just up the path, around the bend. Slow / stop, the snowmobile track; the hole in the rock, the yellow grab rails.

Abseiling down a cliff face isn’t what I woke up to do this morning, yet here I am placing any trust I have in a shitty old rope.

All around this, the cheeky birds are parping and woo-hooing. Loudly.

Finally, along softer ground, to arrive at a paddling pool in the middle of the path.

Ill-prepared and snorkel-less, I’m forced to climb trees to dance around this mess, and just to end up on an abandoned golf course of all things. This is not a day for teeing off.

Appears that the greens today are being temporarily overseen by the local wildlife – ducks, in the main. Must be a riot down the 19th hole, a right old wingding.

Past the falling-down barn, and the raow-raow cry of the undiscovered pair of large beige flightless birds, who are either up for a fight, or up for a love-in tonight. Possibly both.

That track spits me out whole onto the up-and-down arrow-straight road down to Little Cove. Through the overbearing trees to the beach, a fake lookout, and a horseshoe bay of sparkling clearness and aquamarine pureness (despite the monotone daylight skies enshrouding us).

Two hours to get here to see this, only to feel slightly underwhelmed, moderately cheated. Especially when there’s a secret parking lot here!

Contemplating the long walk back, which will eat up hours that could have been best employed in a dry place; somewhere like a pub, with a roof – just a thought. And yeah it’s started raining again.

Paddling pools are now full-blown swimming pools, and no lifeguards on duty. If I could climb up the walls I would do, but I’m too busy yielding to looks-like-a-duck golfers. They likely have a better handicap than me.

A chequered flag is in the wrong place … this most definitely isn’t over yet.

Bumbling over forgotten shrubs and faltering above the fallen bracken, through mosses and ferns and the endless mess of greenery.

Backwards along the snowmobile trail, following the signs now to Tobermory – still miles away.

Up ahead, people lurking, with kids. And I swear my car is moving away from me, the closer I get. Eventually, the game’s up and I catch up to it.

The second-last jalopy in the car park, and ridiculous to think how far I went just to return here, muddy and wet and colder still.

It’s all I can do to retire to the first floor of the harbourfront pub down there in Little Tub, sitting silently under the dusty knick-knacks and the rubber rings and the ripped-apart fishing nets, in an idle bid to resuscitate myself with the local brew – a Sweepstakes IPA, sunk within minutes and leaving little trace.