Weird dreams last night … I woke up in a place called Squirrel Town. Damn things were eating my microwaveable porridge, right out of my collapsible blue travel cup!
What all this means is initially unclear, until I have a total moment when I see Squirrel Town exists on my map; not only that, but it’s around the frickin’ corner.
This is a trap, surely – a Rodentia conspiracy. The next person I see will be posed the following three questions:
- Do you know anyone from Squirrel Town?
- Have you ever been to Squirrel Town?
- Do you know anybody who has ever been to Squirrel Town?
In the meantime, I’m looking over my shoulder as I load my porridge into the microwave; closing the bathroom window, too.
Take my breakfast outside into the bright morning sunshine, to sit on my fabulously robust locally-made hardwood chair, watching the big rigs slowly trundle past, keeping my wits about me all the time. This porridge is mine!
When the time comes to pack up, my German host appears to take the red key, and suddenly it dawns on me … my German host is from Bielefeld!
I wake up shortly thereafter at a lookout point at Wikwemikong, wondering what the hell happened back there at my motel on the crossroads, pondering this over a beautiful view of the bay down below, kayakers meandering back and forth.
At King’s Bay, the only living things I need to be worried about are the flies, which I swear are breeding and multiplying in front of my very own eyes.
They conspire to ruin my early-morning stroll around the handsome cove, breaking through the still peace of this unceded land.
Back up the road, the strangely well-preserved skeletal walls of the convent school – which look like they could blow over in a stiff breeze.
The Holy Trinity totem pole provides me with a contemplative moment, reflecting on the events which have brought me here, thoughts which are abruptly dispersed by the man taking his granddaughter for a joyride on a ride-on lawnmower around the adjacent church grounds.
For an afternoon excursion, I go up the bluff – the one in the shape of a spearhead, which seems to have been mis-translated into English as the Cup and Saucer Trail. Michigiwadinong [(m) chi-gwad-nong].
Turns out it’s all Nenabozhoo’s fault – as usual. Left his Grandma in the shit, in the middle of Lake Mindemoya. She must have been rolling in it though, as everyone now refers to her as Treasure Island.
If that big fella hadn’t have been on the run from those pesky Mohawks, I most definitely would not be here now, on a mid-week afternoon in the middle of May.
And still I’m on the Niagara Escarpment, rock-climbing, following the Adventure Trail, a yellow-marked improbability.
The ground around me having broken up in angry hysterics and thrown itself around in pieces, many landing in odd positions.
Up here trees cut silly angles, with some living on the sides of the vertical ledges just for laughs, to throw us all off the trail.
At the sheer cliffs, a panoramic lookout which I was told by a perfect stranger on the hike up is worth the effort and the price of admission. Well yeah, bring me the forest, bring me the horizon, a cacophony of birds, and I’m well-satiated.
Above me, those threatening clouds keep me moving … just a shame they seem to be following me.
Grey cliffs keeping a stern eye on the forest and its noisy inhabitants down below, the menacing stratus fractus adding an extra dose of pent-up anger.
Something within that forest expanse has broken a law; down there in the trees lurks a guilt inherent.
Yeah it’s properly dark, the old Cup and Saucer.
Things brighten up in m’Chigeeng, where Elvis is busy transforming himself into a ’77 Thunderbird, in the Ojibwe Cultural Foundation, opposite the Esso shop … and why not?
It’s reasonable to say that this is somewhat unexpected.
The fire pit room is empty, yet full of spirits, ashes, and handcrafted cushions. A series of thoughts that will go up in smoke, near the tepee church, where last orders is called daily at 4pm.
Through roadworks to Kagawong, where I stop by the Bridal Veil, at which a man announces to me: “That’s a lot of water”. I’m unsure whether he’s referring to my time in the john, or the raucous waterfall beyond the ledge behind him, the roar of which overtakes me.
A woman from Worcestershire then creeps up on me, to tell me that yes indeed this is a lot of water, and I’m like what is this yes this is a lot of water what’s with these people have they never had a freakin’ bath or seen the sea or what?
I’m the highest I’ve been for a few decades, perhaps. Or at least since this morning.
And I’m tripping over myself to see what the local folk are gossiping about – a noisy bride with an unruly white veil, honeymooning alone after the car crash maybe, cowering beneath the sins of the rocks from thousands of years ago.
Yes there’s the vertical veil, it’s impressive I admit, and here’s the pony trail; am I supposed to stick the veil on the donkey? What is this, a party? Where are the squirrels?
Water descends via rapids through a series of transcendental open-air artworks, past the hydro-electric station, into Kagawong bay, and the harbour I’ve always wanted to go to, but never knew about until three minutes ago.
Joyful at this discovery, I skip back up the path to the car park, by the roadworks and the toilet facilities.
From here, it’s a short coast down the hill to the old Post Office, now re-purposed as my boarding house for the next few nights: the Ol’ Hot Rod Rest Stop.
Where my host Mark is at once comfortably laidback and courteously considerate. Turns out I’m the first guest of the season – which we toast immediately, with firewater.
Up from my digs on the first floor, I can see it all from here … and shit me it’s a kind of paradise here in a film set of abandoned shops and forgotten sunsets all looped around a perfectly still bay.
For sustenance I’m sent packing to Gore Bay, with instructions from Mark to return soon to shoot the shit.
I take the straight road out west, then a ninety right at the gas station, following the tumbleweed drifting down the hill and around the bend into town.
As always I’m easily led to a brewery, to witness an inmate escaping on a two-wheeled contraption, shouting to no-one in particular “Brew!”.
This place is on lockdown. Over the road, Buoys in the hood.
Where the fish of the day is so fresh it’s still in the freezer. But as I say, the plaice is on lockdown.
My alternative option is a pulled pork sandwich, which arrives with a mango salad party side; it’s a bit like Barney Rubble dropping anchor at the drive-in with Lois Griffin. So wrong it’s right.
Everything gets flushed through the system with an amber ale from over yonder, the wooden love shack. I’m told by the owner to go to Timmins, for a powerhouse brewhouse experience. I might just do this.
In the meantime, I exit along the harbourfront boardwalk, beyond which three curious deer are trying to get in at the Queen’s Inn for bed and board. I’m guessing they’re here to gatecrash the wedding party. It could be worse … could be squirrels.
At the wharf lie all the vacant boats – a natural high; what was I thinking?
Feeling the urge to shoot some shit, I head swiftly back to Kagawong CBD.
But first I need to take a beer on the bay, for a spectacularly serene sundowners.
Over the harbour I spy a chapel, pure white: one for the mariners. I go in, and I’m immediately transported back to that Western Isles pulpit, the one with the full Boaty McBoatface altar.
The view out the window here is enough to knock your block off and keep you in line … or at least to block out all of the nonsense in front of you.
Ultimately who worships what is never very clear.
Back outside, well-used snow ploughs, the old mill (always an old mill), the miniature lighthouse; above which a setting sun is busy throwing around all sorts of colours which we swoon over as small mortals – all from a conveniently-placed bench.
To get the full picture back I head back to the gaff, where Mark and Sherri are in good spirits, and who can blame them having not long-since escaped the city and a still life of drudgery.
To set up shop here with their newborn daughter, taking in paying guests in private rooms up the wooden balcony.
We drink beer and whisky and talk constellations and life itself and shoot that shit which time forgets.
When the conversation lulls, I slope off up those wooden stairs – in search of sleep, in hope of linear dreams.
An Outside World 