The Eastern Townships and Unfinished Business in Chambly

For our final day in Montreal we decided to do a day trip to the Eastern Townships. My brother and sister-in-law in Ottawa have often visited here for skiing, camping, and rugby tournaments, and it always seemed like a mystical place – a Canadian Rivendell, Eden, Asgard, Elysium. Part of the mystery for me was that I didn’t know where the Eastern Townships were and had never taken the ten seconds to look them up online. So when I realized we were only 90 minutes away from these promised lands we just had to go.

As we approached our first targeted town of Magog, the landscape changed from flat St. Lawrence River Plain punctuated with random and lonely Monteregian hills, into a beautiful foothill area decorated with dazzling fall colours of changing leaves in the thick canopy of ancient oaks and maples. This led into some larger peaks of the Appalachian Mountains and the highway cut through openings of blasted vertical rock walls.

What we found in Magog was not quite Rivendell, but mostly a collection of tourist friendly shops and cafes along a long, arrow-straight main street. The prominent location of a Queues de Castor (Beaver Tails) franchise told me everything I needed to know about Magog. The weather had turned very windy and cool, and we wore our jackets zipped up as we walked the shop line. Ana stopped to check out a couple of shops but didn’t find much of interest so after a bathroom break at McDonalds and a quick walk along the path winding alongside Lac Memphremagog (that’s a mouthful) we returned to the vehicle and headed towards the next town on the route – North Hatley.

The twenty-minute drive snaked through a portrait of autumn – small farms, creeks, ponds, reds, yellows, greens, and golds. North Hatley was a cute little village, snuggled into the north shore of Lac Massawippi. Sadly, as we were cruising for a parking spot, a large yellow tour bus pulled up and started unloading its cargo of explorers. They trailed out in a loose gaggle of Velcro sneakers, yarn sweaters, tweed hats, and one old feller was wearing full cowboy garb - boots with spurs, beaten leather jacket, dinner plate buckle, shabby jeans, and an iron face. This man, you could not beat in a staring contest.

We stayed long enough to snap a few photos, take a short walk, and peruse the menu board of the sandwich shop featuring lobster rolls for $29, which we decided to kindly leave for the tour bus folk. There was a third village on our AI-generated travel route for the day, but we felt we’d seen enough of the Eastern Townships and opted for a final stop in the town of Chambly instead on the return trip to Montreal.

I had unfinished business with Chambly. Last year, my son Magnus, my brother Curtis, and I passed through this town on SeaLight, taking a modified route back home due to the unexpected closure of the much more direct Erie Canal. Curtis had a flight back to Saskatoon from Montreal the next day and we’d gotten caught up earlier in another Quebec town called Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu due to some canal malfunctions, which cost us a couple of days on our schedule. There, we spent the time mostly drinking with backalley Quebecers which suited us just fine and really helped to pass the hours. So when the Chambly Canal finally opened, we were way behind schedule and hung over, but ready to push hard to make up for lost time. Chambly is the terminus of the final three locks of nine of the Chambly canal. These locks are tiny and we had to jam SeaLight in with a nautical shoehorn, leaving precious little wiggle room between us, the rear gate, the lock walls, and the other two smaller boats crammed in with us. So as we exited the final lock, all frazzled, exhausted, and dirty, the only thing we could think about was pulling over, tying up, and hitting the pubs for a few pints of Blanche de Chambly, the delicious Belgian wit beer brewed right there in Chambly at Unibroue, a famous Quebec brewery. We could see the patios of the pubs, all packed with people pounding pints, and it took everything we had, every gram of character, every grain of grit, every lump of restraint we had to sail away from Chambly and not look back wistfully or otherwise.

I felt like we really put the bull in responsible that day. And Curt did make his flight the next day…barely.

Ana and I drove into Chambly and it was about a hundred times larger than I was expecting. We did a little tour then found parking and went for a walk to check out the town. There wasn’t a lot going on, but it was nice enough. After showing Ana the locks and her not believing it possible that SeaLight and two other boats had actually fit into them, we found a worn out pub on the main street, ordered a burger and a nacho, then I finally got to enjoy a fine pint of Blanche de Chambly, while Ana had a halfer of Kronenberg Blanc. I sent Magnus and Curtis a photo of the pint, proving that SeaLight’s crew did indeed get the last laugh (well, me at least). While we enjoyed our lunch and beers we watched an older feller out on the patio wrestling with an ice cream cone as it melted all over his arms and hands. He gave up and hurled the cone onto the street where it splattered and probably became an ant oasis. That was all the excitement we found in Chambly.

Before long we were back at the hotel and Ana realized she picked up a cold somewhere along the way and was feeling quite shitty. So our final meal in Montreal was take-out beef pho and vermicelli, eaten on the bed watching the MTV video music awards, which was among the stupidest things I’ve ever seen. But the food was delicious.

A Bike Race and Portuguese Food

The hotel breakfast brought back so many memories of Cuba. It’s the clearest insight into what happens to well-fed humans when food resources suddenly become scarce. The breakfast included in the hotel rate was a continental-plus, with cereal, yogurt, bread, croissants (amazing ones), pancakes, muffins, apples, juices, and weak coffee. And there was plenty of that stuff so nobody was going hungry. But they also periodically brought out small buckets of scrambled eggs and a bowl of hard boiled eggs and this when guests lost their composure. You see, they only released enough to feed about 15 people, but there were usually around 30 or so having breakfast. So it’s a bit like when a wild boar with a lame leg accidentally wanders into a camp of hungry Cro-Magnon folk. It’s goddamn chaos. The pig doesn’t have a chance, and neither did the eggs. After a rush of bodies to the buffet, the eggs were completely gone, and most combatants returned sad and empty handed to their tables while the fastest ones loaded up four boiled eggs each and two giant scoops of scramblies, most of they left uneaten on their plates. And for some reason the scrambled eggs were a worrying orange colour, though that didn’t make any difference to their desirability. This same things happens at Cuban resorts, but the item generally fought over is bacon. Thank god there was no bacon on this buffet otherwise it would have been too dangerous to go down there.

We’d never been to Mount Royal park so this morning we drove to the nearby Little Portugal area and found a parking spot then walked towards one of the park entrances. Well, we were surprised to find the perimeter of the park had been transformed into a world class biking track and media centre for something called the UCI Road World Championship, which brought 1000 elite cyclists and thousands more cycling fans into Montreal and explains why we had such a brutal time finding a hotel room for our weekender.

After a long walking detour we reached the park and started hiking, taking first the steeper stair route, then switching to the more gradual path after busting out in hot sweats. There were a lot of people there, most walking, but some on bikes, and the trail was as wide as a standard road so there was room for everybody. We walked as far as the Mount Royal Chalet, which was quite impressive and offered fine views over the city, then returned, and by that time some of the racers were rounding the curve into the finish area, drawing massive roars of approval from the gathered crowds. We walked back towards Little Portugal but had to wait for a while along the race route, which we enjoyed as we got to cheer on the speeding racers as they whizzed past.

While passing down a street we peeked into a backyard and noticed a tropical paradise that looked like it may be a cafe. After finding the front door to cafe Santropol we were led to the garden and served coffees. It was a beautiful scene, with running water, a thick canopy of trees, groovy artworks, and a lot of cool Montrealers hanging around. We sat there for a long time.

We then strolled around Little Portugal (Ana found two small street-side garage sales...she always finds a garage sale no matter where we are) until we got peckish and found a local place with an outdoor patio that served a fine bifana (though it was a continental version of it, not the ultra-juicy and flavourful Azorean original) and a cold Super Bock. Ana tells me that the Montreal version of Little Portugal is much like what the comparable area in Toronto was like before most of the Portuguese left for more affordable parts of the city, and is now mostly a gentrified mess of expensive shops. It was most enjoyable sitting on the patio, watching the passersby, and enjoying the sunshine on a gorgeous late September day.

After a short chill out back at the hotel room we set out on foot for Old Montreal and found a city alight and buzzing with activity. The most popular areas of the old city were crammed with tourists – many Americans – and we passed through on the way to Porto Mar, a lovely Portuguese restaurant just outside of the scrum, and one we discovered last time we were here and wanted to return to. They asked us to come back for a table at 7:30 so we found an outdoor patio around the corner and got a couple of happy hour bevvies to keep us hydrated while we talked and watched the touristos walking by.

There is something unusual about Montreal. The traffic does not seem nearly as hectic as Toronto. I don’t know if there are fewer cars or just less driving or maybe just a better metro. One thing they don’t have here is that snaking mess of streetcars that definitely jams the streets of Toronto.

Our meal was excellent and I treated myself to two lovely grilled sardines for a starter then a large bowl of marinated and fried pork cubes, clams, roasted potatoes, and a scattering of cold pickled vegetables which all worked together perfectly. Ana had cod croquettes then a lovely dish of flavourful rice with a shrimp and squid mixup. It was all fantastic, and we had a nice conversation with our server who had moved here two years before from Calgary to pursue a music degree at McGill and brush up on her French.

The night was now fully alive, with a full moon and full bars and clubs. We walked the streets, Ana popped into a shop or two, then made our way back up to the hotel. The huge, delicious meal had bogged us down to the point of slumber so that’s what we did.

25th Anniversary in Montreal

25 years together with the woman of your dreams is something to celebrate. And we chose to do that in Montreal, Quebec over an extra long weekend.

Ana and I last visited Montreal exactly five years ago for our 20^th anniversary. During the drive to Montreal (made it in seven hours…a record), Ana and I were reminiscing about that trip and we positive it couldn’t have been our 20^th, and must have been only two or three years before. Wrong. Time holds no prisoners. To be sure I pulled up an old blog posting and proved it. One evening we sat together on Crescent Street and formulated a longer term dream list of travel ideas and destinations, as we watched the hoards of university kids packing into the surrounding restaurants and bars. The dream destinations on that list are still enticing and desirable today, and we were now five years closer, tantalizingly close, to pursuing those goals.

So, for us, Montreal is a love getaway, a place to establish dreams, a place to celebrate our life partnership, and a place to return to. There really is no match for Montreal, at least not in Canada or the US. It is the greatest city on the continent. That’s right. There’s no better.

We arrived in Montreal and checked into the Empire Suites hotel, in the Latin Quarter neighbourhood. We weren’t really settled until after 11 and decided to stay in and save our first night on the town for the next evening.

Morning arrived and we set out by foot for a day of wandering. And wander we did, 20 kilometres worth, through some new areas, and some we’d visited before, but felt new. We walked to the old port area, mesmerized with the two giant cruise ships there, went for coffee at Crew Collective and Café (a more magnificent coffee shop exists not), criss-crossed streets on whims and fancies, had lunch and a beer at a brasserie, explored Crescent Street and McGill university, and I had a pleasurable lie down on a Rue St. Laurent public bench while Ana browsed the aisles and shelves of Winners. I was again impressed by the pervasiveness and sheer volume of public furniture in Montreal. In every public place you visit, you will find somewhere to sit, lean, lie, or lounge. As many cities are ripping out public furniture (to make life even more miserable for homeless people), Montreal continually adds it. Providing places to sit and rest or visit is a love letter to the public. It’s a license to chill. It provides relief from the overwhelming pressure to spend time and money in commercial establishments. And it is kind.

After an early evening chill out session and foot rest back at the hotel, we entered the evening, choose a lovely outdoor Thai restaurant for a late dinner on a bustling Latin Quarter street, and munched crispy pork, jasmine rice, and pad thai as we sipped Pelegrino and swayed to the sounds of the Montreal night.

An Old Friend and a New Friend

We awoke to a beautiful day in the Toronto Islands. The birds were singing, the monarchs were fluttering, the turtles were sunning, and the swans were preening. I walked to the bathhouse for a shower and along the way passed the RCYC version of the Brantford Beer Bike. The Brantford Beer Bike is a local classic and could be described as a 1980's 10-speed with the curvy handles turned backwards and pointed up such that it easily carries 12 pack and you over to your buddy's place on Murray Street to drink on the front steps. The yacht club version is different, and holds only a single glass of wine, but is perfect for getting you to your rich friends' yacht faster, and you can be sure they'll have plenty of fine wine so no need to bring more than a starter glass.

RCYC operates two small and classic passenger boats to transport members and guests to and from the islands and we took the first of the day to Cherry Street, which is in the rapidly developing Portlands area of Toronto, just east of downtown. Once there we did what we do best - started walking. The area is a mix of ancient port operations - hulking and rusted machinery, lift bridges, ships, loading channels, steel cranes and towers, and piles of aggregate, but interspersed around these were modern additions such as huge outdoor concert venue, two new colourful bridges, and a newly constructed and massive green space named Biidaasige Park, which doesn't just guarantee progress towards Canada's reconciliation efforts with First Nations, but also ensures that nobody will ever be able to remember the name nor be able to pronouce it properly. I'm sure somebody will come up with clever and easy-to-remember nickname.

The park is the result of a massive $1.4 billion redevelopment effort to improve flood water management by rerouting the Don River back to its original path after a hundred years of diverting it to better allow companies to use it as a toilet for their toxic waste. But a secondary goal was to make the Portlands a beautiful place to play and live. And they are well on the way to doing this.

It is a lovely spot. Amidst the four kilometres of natural walking trails are paddling waters, an incredible playground with giant snowy owl, public art installations, and several viewpoints. The playground was full of kids and parents. And one parent acting like a kid. Me.

From here we walked a short distance to the Distillery District, putting us into Toronto proper, and we enjoyed some hot drinks as we lounged in the warm sunshine. Magnus, who moved back to Toronto earlier this week to complete his last year of college, wandered over from his residence to hang with us for a while. He is so happy to be back in Toronto and excited to get started on his final year. It's hard for me to believe he has already been at it for three years and will soon be a fully educated young Canadian looking to make his unique mark on the business world. Hopefully, the mark is not writing "DD" on Tim Horton's cup lids during the midnight shift trying to raise enough money from that and his other part time gigs to cover rent.

After a bit of shopping and exploring, we went to St. Lawrence Market for a spot of lunch (Portuguese bifinas for Magnus and Ana, a falafel meal for me), then met up with our old friend Carmen and her partner Antonio. Carmen and Ana go way back, like to the days of rocking mini-skirts and fluffy hair at the late night raves in the pursuit of big city Toronto studmuffins. Carmen also joined us in The Hague to work on a big oil company project Ana and I were on in the early 2000's and we spent a lot of time together. She is such a great friend, but despite living so close to each other, we rarely catch up.

Carmen was shocked to see the manly state and towering stature of our little boy Magnus. He stayed for a few minutes to chat then was off, leaving us to get to know Antonio. Well, Antonio is one cool dude. He's a dapper looking Italiano with a great sense of humour, a musical rhythm to his voice and stride, and a carefully manicured Van Dyck beard. Plus he wears a bitchin' hat.

We visited for several hours, first at St. Lawrence, then got wise and found a perfect patio at Duke's on Front Street and enjoyed a plate of nachos and several pints as the unbroken conversation meandered and weaved through soccer, music, family, and I can't remember what else. Then, Happy Hour arrived and I was ecstatic to see five dollar pints of PBR on the menu. I don't think Antonio knew about Pabst Blue Ribbon, but after seeing me devour a pint of the cheapest and funnest shitty lager on the planet, he had to get one of his own. We were on a roll, feeling loose and tight, and left Duke's looking for the next place to saddle up and pound some more beers when Carmen announced she had to deliver some soup to her mom. Look, I understand how important parental soup runs are, but drinking on patios in Toronto is important too. I was going to suggest that Ana and Carmen do the soup run while Antonio and I carried on the good fight, but before I could stop the train there was a flurry of huggies and kissies then they disappeared into the crowd. Fortunately, they committed to coming to Paris for a weekend sometime in the coming months, so we can pick up where we left off then.

It was 6pm and we needed a plan. Remembering that Cineplex was offering five dollar movies and five dollar popcorn this weekend (surely because of the dismal selection of movies currently playing, including the god-awful, painfully bad, stinker of a film called The Odyssey), we walked to Dundas Square and settled in to watch The End of Oak Street. And for what it was, it was pretty good. And I'm glad the dinosaur ate Ewan McGregor, he deserved it after the atrocious American accent he was trying to put on. He should just stick to Scottish flicks.

The temperature was still lovely and the city night was electric so we decided to take the long walk back to Cherry Street, thinking maybe we'd hit a pub along the way, but realized we were cutting it close to catch the last ferry back to the yacht club, so we strolled our way south, which turned into a speed walk, which morphed into a jog, then transformed into a sprint when we saw the ferry pulling up to the bridge and realized we were barely going to make it. It didn't help that there was a huge concert (an EDM/rapper guy we'd never heard of, and Drake made a surprise appearance) that night at the Portlands outdoor stage and there were hundreds of people clogging up the sidewalks.

We made the ferry, had another private ride back to the club, and walked back to SeaLight through a quiet, dark, and undisturbed island landscape, still finding it incredible that a place like this exists 1.79 kilometres away from the largest city in Canada.

The Royal Canadian Yacht Club

As the final long weekend of the summer approached, we were desperate to do something, but the yacht clubs we regularly stay at in Toronto were all full and had no transient slips available. I had put our name on the waiting list for a spot at the Royal Canadian Yacht Club, located in the Toronto islands, but held out little hope, as this weekend also featured a big air show and the final days of the Canadian National Exhibition. Shockingly, we received an email saying they had a slip for us and we were welcome to visit.

The Royal Canadian Yacht Club (abbreviated RCYC), founded in 1852, is the oldest yacht club on the Great Lakes and the second oldest in Canada after the Royal Nova Scotia Yacht Squadron. Somehow during all our years on Lake Ontario we have never visited this spectacular club, and were very exited to experience it.

We left Newport shortly after 5 am and after more than 5 hours of motoring against the wind and slight waves, we arrived. The club is located on two connected islands and has a spectacular clubhouse, two blocks of tennis and pickleball courts, a large pool, lawn bowling, a chandlery, bike and kayak rentals, as well as a secondary location in Toronto which is similarly provisioned. After getting settled into our slip we walked the grounds then went to the registration office and met a few of their lovely staff. We spent a long time talking with them, hearing about the history of their club, their challenges, and sharing ours at Newport. We decided we need to set up a club cruise next year so the rest of our gang can experience RCYC.

During the sail across Lake ONTARIO, I had noticed a large number of monarch butterflies passing over us. During our walk at RCYC we looked into the sky at one point and saw hundreds of them fluttering overhead. I don't know if it's the start of their annual migration to Mexico, or if there's just lots of milkweed blooming now, but I will say that seeing one monarch is a treat; seeing a cloud of them is unforgettable. We sat for a while in some Adirondack chairs on the perfectly manicured grass, facing towards the Toronto skyline, and enjoyed the view which included dozens more monarchs flapping around.

We decided on an afternoon island walk and spent a couple of hours exploring the various islands of the chain - Snake, Ward's, Algonquin, Centre, Olympic. We were not alone; the last long weekend of the summer and perfect weather attracted hundreds or probably thousands of people to the islands so the paths were full of people walking or riding rented bikes, tandems, and four wheeled carts while the channels and lagoons were filled with paddlers on rented paddle boards, kayaks, and canoes. Parts of it are commercialized with food and drink venues, and there is a small amusement park meant mainly for kids, but there are also some surprisingly quiet parts of the islands and a resident population of about 600 people who live there year round. Despite the busyness, we enjoyed it and marvelled at this exquisite resource hiding in the shadow of the largest city in Canada.

After a chill-out session back in SeaLight's cockpit, and possibly a short nap, Ana put together a nice dinner then we jumped in the dinghy and went for a cruise, first out into the inner harbour where we had a bumpy ride thanks to the thousands of boat wakes stirred up by a day's worth of boat traffic and had to be careful to dodge the many logs and stick floating in the water, ejected into the bay from the Don River after a terrible wind and hailstorm passed through southern Ontario a few days before. We then cruised into a channel near Ward's Island and found the waters absolutely full of debris and weeds that make even dinghy passage difficult. We motored through slowly and eventually made it back to our slip.

With our remaining energy we took a walk to the north island of RCYC to see what was happening at the clubhouse (which turned 100 years old in 2022). The airplanes which had been buzzing overhead all afternoon finally stopped and the skies were quiet as the participants of the club regatta partied hard in the clubhouse and on the expansive front lawn to grooves of the live DJ. We do not join in, but instead take a walk to the end of the jetty dock to snatch some photos of the magnificent Toronto skyline, then snoop around the second floor of the clubhouse, which features masterly portraits of historic commodores winding down the grand staircase, spiffity ballrooms for weddings (which we were told happen every weekend of the summer), and ancient carpet, ripe with the smell of Churchill cigars, spilled brandy, and tales of war, peace, and everything in between.

2026 Sailing Trip - Moving to Hamilton

We have decided we are going to move to downtown Hamilton. Some day.

We had a lovely night’s sleep and woke up to full sunshine. From there it was coffee, blueberry pancakes, and sitting in the cockpit watching the junior sailor camp kids running around the yacht club lawn, the birds perched on the dock cleats staring at us, twitching their heads and ruffling their feathers, sailboats of all sizes, makes, and configurations leaving the marina on a light but consistent breeze, the glittering sun sparkles jazzing up the water surface, and the RHYC, Canadian, and British flags fluttering from the solemn and serious flag pole.

We walked the waterfront, passing the Harbour West Marina, the Leander Boat Club, the Macassa Bay Yacht Club, all the way to Bayfront Park then up a forested path that led to a residential neighbourhood and eventually James Street. We stopped for coffee and a tosta mista at Ola Bakery & Pastry (our favourite Portuguese café), then the Portuguese store where I picked up two varieties of herbal tea, packets of spices, and blood sausage to supplement tomorrow’s breakfast. From here we continued to the Hamilton Farmers’ Market, passing incredible murals and public art pieces along the way, then into the Jackson Square mall where we lingered in the Nations Fresh Foods grocery store, gobsmacked at the massive variety and low cost of vegetables (including fresh durian, whose smell welcome-wallops you at the entrance), the huge selection of fresh fish and shellfish (yes, they have fresh conch), the walls of spices, the weird meats (tongues, intestines, stomachs, feet, heads, plus all the other boring stuff) and such a massive selection of Asian products you cannot get anywhere else. We picked up some wine for dinner then sashayed back to the Farmers’ Market where we sat down for two pupusas, loaded with curtido and salsa – delicious.

We returned to the boat with a bit of time to relax before our friends Dave and Kira and their friend Jenny arrived for a cockpit picnic. After a couple of drinks and a fine meal we drove to the Staircase Studio Theater for a Hamilton Fringe festival performance by another of Dave and Kira’s friends named Tor Lukasic-Foss. The performance, called The Yodelling Ranger was a mix of music and storytelling and was excellent.

After the show we stopped to visit a small art gallery then our friends dropped us off on James Street where we found an outdoor patio at a Mexican restaurant and had a nightcap as we watched people of all shapes and sizes passing by on a beautiful Friday evening.

This is why we love downtown Hamilton. Art, music, theatre, restaurants, bars, cafes, parks, public transit, and a lovely waterfront. What more could you ask for?

2026 Sailing Trip - The Bending of Time

I’ve never had a dream that was black and white.

I’ve never lived a day without a night.

What comes next in this life of mine.

How far will I go?

Time is a funny thing. Albert Einstein was the man who proposed that time is flexible. It curves. It flows differently and the speed of time depends on the relative motion of those experiencing it. Time passes slower for people moving faster than you (or in a higher gravity situation than you…but that’s a different topic). If, for example, your friend boards a spaceship and travels at 99.99% of the speed of light for 10 years, that person will have aged 10 years at the end of the trip. But upon returning to Earth, that person will discover that over 700 years has passed and everybody they ever knew have been long forgotten to history. They will be a bona-fide time traveller from the past. This is not just Einstein’s theory; this has been experientially proven, and in fact, clocks in satellites orbiting space at high speeds need to be adjusted for these time differences due to relativity. It’s all rather strange and difficult to comprehend.

However, as we all know, time also passes differently depending on what one is doing. Or at least our perception of time changes. Some days drag while others seem to never end. Ana and I have always found that time spent on vacation passes much slower than time at work. It seems seeing new things, trying new things, injecting a large degree of randomness and surprise in our days, not moving according to a plan – all these tend to slow the passage of time. And at this stage of our lives slowing the passage of time is what it’s all about.

Our afternoon and evening yesterday in Hamilton were lovely. We walked up James Street, picked up a few groceries, then were met by our buddies Greg and Sharon, who joined us for jointly-constructed dinner back at the boat then a long walk along the waterfront.

It was a picture perfect evening. And time moved slow.