Breakfast at the Earle of Leinster Inn is a friendly international affair. People from across Canada, the US, Norway, Germany and even India might sit at your table this week.  Conversations flow and bounce—back and forth, across the table, across the room.  It is a fantastic way to start the day; not to mention the breakfast—all guests feel pampered, leave full, and skip lunch.

We discover this morning that several of the guests have the same plans as we do—a drive along the Fundy Trail—less than an hour away, down scenic roads, with a trail a mere 16 km long, it is an easy trip, with enough time left over to stop and smell the roses.

Memories

We take back roads to get to the scenic byway and are rewarded with pastoral wonder.  I can’t help myself—I equate farms with my grandmother, childhood summers, childhood wonders, rides on tractors, bumping down dirt roads in the bed of a pick-up, chocolate malted milk, milking the cows, feeding turkeys, grinding corn, separating milk from cream, Aunt Minnie, Aunt Ella and Uncle Lambert and of course Grandma—I adored all of them and the memories they gave me.  So, I equate farms with happiness—and I continue to love them.  Michael has learned to accept that.  He willingly stops while I try to capture remembered joy in a smart phone photo.

St. Martins

We drive through St. Martins with its two covered bridges—Michael parks the car so we can both explore.  The tide is out and many boats rest on the muddy bottom. We see several parked tour busses and wonder how they manage to make it through the bridge.  Apparently some don’t as we watch a long train of tourists walking along the edge of the road from the bridge, toward the shallow caves that mark the beginning of the trail.

Exploration Along the Coast

Once on the parkway we decide to drive all the way to the end of the trail, and then stop where we want to on the return trip.  That lasts all of five minutes, as we take the first pull out, head for a grandma’s-farm-type-out-house—they aren’t any better in 2014—and then stop to view the cliffs crashing down to the sea.

Out next stop is a waterfall and I think walking to the viewing area is a great idea till I see the 4×4’s that serve as a staircase down the steep hill.  I’m thinking no thank you, when I begin to put one foot in front of the other in gingerly descent.   Mike takes pictures.  I find a bench, look at the sky and listen to the music of the falling water.

My next challenge is a suspension bridge over the Big Salmon River.  I…h-a-t-e… s-u-s-p-e-n-s-i-o-n…b-r-i-d-g-e-s.  They make my knees week, my palms sweat, and my stomach turn; at Mike’s urging I walk to the middle so he can take a picture. This bridge isn’t bad. Not too wobbly.  Not too high.

The end of the trail comes too soon.  We park and walk back to a bend in the road…the spectacular waiting view…to a place to sit.  And stare.  And be.

On the way home, we take a wrong turn and head on a highway to the middle of the province instead of the edge that borders the bay.  Serendipity at work, the path we are forced to take in order to get to St. John is full of charm.

Dinner & a Show

Dinner reservations at 6 p.m. were made during a Monday lunch at the UrbanDeli.  A deli by day and cozy Italian restaurant by night.  I order Cacio e Pepe for an appetizer and Tagliata alla Fiorentina for a main course. Michael has an assortment of crostini—beautifully presented—and vegetable lasagna.  The ambience is lovely.  The food good. Along with a wonderful bottle of Italian wine we leave the restaurant in very happy and mellow spirits. We decide to walk through the park on our way home, emerging in front of the Imperial Theater. Lights are ablaze, people are buzzing about. We walk to the billboards to check things out, and on an impulse I tell Michael, “I’m going to see if there are any tickets available.”

“C-h-a-r-l-o-t-t-e.”

Before a real objection can be raised, tickets have been purchased and we are seated in the mezzanine with a perfect view of the stage. We are here to see George Canyon on his cross country Decade of Hits Tour.  We do not know what to expect, but on the poster George Canyon had on a cowboy hat, and we are both into country.  I tell Michael, “If we hate it we can leave.”

We do not hate it.  George Canyon sits in a corner of the stage—just a man and his guitar, house lights up—taking us through his life in snippets of song. He begins when he was nine years old, sitting on his parents couch playing a harmonica, through teenage years when Elvis was the rage, and on to the song he sang at his father’s funeral when he was just twenty-four years old. He leaves the stage. The theater goes dark. The band takes their place and suddenly George Canyon bursts back on stage amid lights and glitter looking like he is straight from Nashville—in fact he is—singing the song he sang ten years ago in a C&W competition in which he placed second. He continues through the next ten years with more anecdotes, more songs…more hits…now his own.

He has two new fans.  First he has a magnificent voice.  Second, you can’t help but like the guy.  He is kind, grateful, unassuming, a loving father, loving husband, loving son, loves his country, is self deprecating; and we love his stories…and he does have a magnificent voice.  Young and old are in the audience.  They are all fans extraordinaire. I understand why.

…and then he talks about his country and the Canadian military and the struggle in Afghanistan, and if you see a soldier on the street you need to stop and give them a hug, and his own experiences while entertaining the troops and the missiles and the guns…and I am reminded it is not all on US, but others fight for safety and freedom too…and I am glad I have been fortunate enough to travel this way and stop at this theater on this night and see this man sing his songs and tell his stories…

9/20/2014 5:10:44 AM