A quick bit of catching up must be done before I get to the main story (i.e. I'm back in England):
The very next night after returning from Quebec, Isaac & I headed over to Porter's to enjoy a sociable evening with friends, bunk down for the night and get up at 5am, with the intention of leaving for his family cottage at stupid o'clock in the morning. The only one of us not staying the night was Mike, who said he preferred to sleep in his own bed (a sentiment I can relate to) and he would be round at 5.30am to pick us up. At 5am I dragged my sorry arse out of bed and knocked everyone up* and we sat around waiting for Mike. 5.30am came and went. So did 6am. Porter called, no answer. By 6.15, Steph suggested Porter call again, which he did. No answer again, but Mike called straight back to say, somewhat defensively, that his father was just putting air in his car tyres for the journey and he'd be round as soon as he'd finished. Three minutes later, Mike called back to say that what he'd just said was a complete lie and that he'd only just woken up.
At 7.30am we finally left, after an interesting game of Car Boot Tetris. We were
travelling north in two cars, with Porter, Steph, Isaac & I in Porter's truck, and Mike & Smokie (a.k.a. Dumb & Dumber) in Mike's Oldsmobile. Porter soon got a little way ahead on the highway but as Mike kept calling to say he was desperate for McDonalds, we finally pulled off the highway at the nearest one and waited for them to join us. And waited. And waited. Cue frantic phone calls which went something like "well where are you now?" "no idea" "what have you just gone past?" "erm...something business park?" "well have you gone past the Super8 yet?" "not sure". Eventually we gave up waiting, got back on the highway and discovered they'd gone straight past us and were now miles ahead. Long story short, we finally found them at the McDonald's further up the highway where Porter had once been arrested for chasing two strippers with an axe - don't ask.
We dropped off Porter's truck to his sister's in North Bay, where it was due to be resprayed, and all piled into the Oldsmobile Cutlass, a.k.a. the Cutty. An appropriate name for a car that bounced, swayed and banged around like a ship on the high seas, I thought. Though I'll admit it took me a long time to work out that they weren't calling it the Cuddy, because those darn Canadians tend to pronounce their Ts as Ds.** A further hour or so north to Tamagami and we met up with Porter's cousin Merry, who I assumed was called Mary for most of the trip, once again due to the quirkiness of the Canadian accent*** , and their grandmother's dog, Benjy, who purported to be a cute little Cairn Terrier, but was actually Satan's bitch herself. Merry took us to the private island where the cottage was located in her lovely fast boat, though it still took around half an hour.
The area north of where we live in Ontario is known as 'Cottage Country', because
that's where everyone has their holiday homes (though the Canadian version of a 'cottage' rarely tallies with the English image of a small, possibly thatched rendered house with roses round the front door) and going to visit your cottage in Canada is known as 'cottaging' (cue much sniggering from my English readers****) This cottage is fairly small and cosy: two bedrooms, couple of pullout couches/sofabeds in the lounge, no real washing facilities bar the lake, a jetty into a natural bay, and a boathouse with a third bedroom up top, which Isaac & I bagged immediately.
Nothing like a bit of privacy and a balcony overlooking the lake to make you feel relaxed, I always say. The weather was amazing and hot, so we spent the weekend messing around in the lake, sunbathing, reading, cooking fabulous meals for each other (I made everyone eat my famous sticky coq) and drinking. Oh yes, drinking. Well, I didn't drink, obviously. Porter & Isaac drink very little and Steph never managed to get
quite as drunk as she hoped on the rum she'd brought, so that left Mike & Smokie to do the majority of the drinking, a task they took on with as much determination as they could muster. I can't remember what the final tally was in the three days we were there, but I believe it was something in the region of 40 beers each. Quite possibly more. Thus they became a highly amusing double act, and the addition of Benjy the dog, who took a fancy to Smokie and would go from docile and affectionate to snapping and biting without fair warning, produced pure comedy genius.
The main purpose of the trip was fishing and everyone had brought their reel, rods and tackle boxes. The fish, however, were in hiding it seemed and no one caught a damn thing until finally, on day three, Porter, Steph, Isaac & I were out in the fishing boat, casting out and chatting, as you do. Porter cast and reeled his spinner in and as it came close, he looked confused. "I didn't put any bait on the hook..." he said slowly, before he realised that he'd somehow hooked a tiny smallmouth bass right through the middle. Still, it was the biggest catch of the weekend and still warranted recording for posterity.
The weather held up beautifully until the day we left, when it began to piss down. Hard. 6 people in the Cutty with rain pouring in via the straps holding the top box on and hailstones the size of maltesers did not make for a comfortable journey home, though all agreed regardless that it had been a fabulous trip.
*for my Canadian readers, a little clarification: this does not mean I got everyone pregnant.
**see also the 'Yoda' (Isaac's Toyota truck)
***see also the Indian restaurant I'd had recommended to me in Barrie called Tara, when I was looking out for Terra.
****for my Canadian readers, 'cottaging' is in fact when men have sex with other men in public washrooms
You know when you go to one of those kid's soft play areas with your own, or a friend's, children and think to yourself: 'That looks like fun. I wish I could have a go'? Well as it turns out, you can.
