Pelee to Ports

July 13, 2015
Pelee Island to Rondeau Provincial Park - 66 miles

Woke up early from a deep sleep, well rested and anxious to get going.  Decided it was early enough to at least peddle on the sunrise side of the island back to the ferry terminal on the sunset side, enjoying the morning light and sounds of the Erie shore. Boarded the same ferry for Leamington and over a cup of tea, absorbed the sunshine and scenery - watching the fading Pelee shoreline, and the emerging Ontario "north shore".  Arrived mid-morning and immediately headed east, generally along the shore, though not often visible, along the Talbot Trail. Its legacy dates to the American revolution when Loyalists fled to Canada to begin anew, and John Talbot survey the new road along the north shore of Lake Erie.  This landscape is characterized by an agricultural abundance - an abundance of large old, family farms, many of them century farms with old stately Victorian brick farmhouses immaculately kept, and windmills - many of them, laid apparently helter-skelter across this terrain, catching the continuous lake breezes.

Over the many miles of the day, one eternal truth kept nagging at me: how much time people spend cutting their grass.  It is all perfect grass, right up to the edge of corn rows.  Along the entire stretch people were mowing their grass.  It occurred to me that if everyone had 50% less grass to cut, it would still be beautiful, we would save energy, reduce pollution, and have more free time! Oh well - one has time to ponder these truths mile after mile.

Stopped in the town of Wheatley for a bite of lunch, as I had not had a proper breakfast in my hurry to get away, in a very take-me-back-in-time coffee shop with a lunch counter.  No Starbucks here!  Mushroom soup and a BLT is all that was needed to power the pilot forward.  The road was not heavily traveled, but had no shoulder to escape the higher speeds - but certainly still manageable. Ran into some rain, into a few fruit stands selling strawberries, cherries and raspberries, and into a smoothie in Blenheim, a regional center, before heading off the trail on a back route to Rondeau Provincial Park.  Once arrived at the check-in office, the attendant suggested a series of campsite with good access to the lakeshore, and so off I went in search of one.  And to my ardent surprise, Jordan Richard  (the fellow I met on the ferry the day before, but who went ahead of me to Leamington that night) was doing precisely the same thing in the same spot.

Some things are just meant to happen!

Our camp spot at Rondeau

We shared a campsite, my abundant fruit and fresh asparagus, and both toasted our good fortunes over a beer which he procured from a local brewery and brought along.  And as the sun set, the drone of the mosquitoes was noticeable not only in the distance, but also around our heads.  Simply awful!  So we retired early - a good day behind us.

July 14, 2015
Rondeau Provincial Park to Port Burwell - 75 miles

When the lake was in view, this  was the view!

We were pounded last night with a torrential thunderstorm, making sleep a bit of a restless affair. Rising early during a lull, we scrambled to dismantle our camp and bolt our oatmeal for breakfast (improved with the addition of fresh berries) while desperately warding off the equally hungry mosquitoes.  The advantage of this storm, however, was a persistent tailwind for our days travel.


We covered the first 30+ miles quite easily aided in this way, chasing the storm clouds ahead of us and again being bathed in their wet richness, arriving at the single intersection of Wallacetown, a place marked by a tire store, two houses, and the restaurant/gas station/convenience store/bakery and gossip house rolled into one.  We decided a second breakfast was in order, as this is some of the best ride fare, and took in this center of social life, where everyone seems to know everyone else, where the table of ladies and an adjoining table of their men spoke in their own special daily chatter of a cup of coffee.  This place, this atmosphere, could never be replicated in Starbucks.

Tale Tales Cafe - Wallacetown

We resumed our journey, passing through perhaps the most picturesque landscape of Elgin County, with intermittent views of the Lake, past old and elaborate farmsteads, dropping through small valleys carved by creeks, and actually cresting a few hills!  And no wind turbines!  "Progressive by Nature" is how Elginer's refer to themselves, and they managed to keep the wind turbines out of the landscape, and yet I thought wind turbines were themselves a progressive initiative.

HMCS Ojibwa 

Port Stanley is a small, quaint port village, definitely geared toward tourists (how can one tell?  tiny cute shops that seem quite out of place in such a small town) and pleasure craft.  Jordan and I parted ways here, as he was planning not to get home quite so fast.  I pushed on in order to roughly reach Connecticut on time, reaching my destination of Port Burwell by mid-afternoon.  A bit tired as a tourist spot, this town does have the HMCS Ojibwa, a cold war era diesel/electric submarine on display, in which I received a personal tour.  These boats are not made for tall folks like me.  The young lady docent, a teacher, gave me the tour expertly narrated as if she had served on it herself.  When asked at the end how she has come to know so much intimate knowledge of the workings of the boat, she replied a lot of reading, but also listening to the stories of past sailors showing their families "what it was like."

Sodden Port Burwell harbor beach at dusk

The clouds were again thickening, and a series of rain squalls again pushed through, making my decision to take a room at a local bed and breakfast (as the only guest) rather than a damp, mosquito laden campsite at the Port Burwell Provincial Park just that much easier, enabling me to post my travels in relative peace.