The sleepy Maggies
lands – our trajectory of choice was the 14-or-so hour ride to Prince Edward Island, followed by the five-hour ferry ride from Souris, P.E.I. to Cap-Aux-Meules, Îles-de-la-Madeleine. “Tack a few more hours on there and we could get ourselves to Australia,” I kidded him. “Pretty impressive to travel almost 20 hours and still be in Quebec!”
Having just spent a week with the kids, we were off as a duo, but still managed to pack the van from port to bow. We left on a Sunday morning, stopping only once or twice for gas and grub. Our ferry was booked for 2 a.m., meaning we had to be there at 1 a.m. P.E.I. time. We made good time. I squinted as I crossed Confederation Bridge for the first time, but the deep darkness only afforded me a few lights on the shoreline, the same for the sprawling potato fields.
Boarding the ferry was an adventure. Queuing up with cars and campers, most hauling bicycles and kayaks, ours with two kayaks and a motorcycle was par for the course. Once parked, we headed upstairs, past the gift shops and information to the deck. We couldn’t see much but the churning water below. I was glad for the ginseng-based nondrowsy Gravol we had taken about 20 minutes before boarding. I felt a tiny edge of seasickness, but not much. My partner in crime fared slightly worse, but we both survived a night at sea. As dawn broke, we ventured back to the deck, and there they were, 100 kilometres of islands, stretching out to greet us.
A quick coffee and breakfast at Café de Chez Nous, almost right off of the ferry boat, allowed us to gather our wits about us. We knew it was too early to call on the friend we would be staying with, so the rainy, windy morning didn’t deter us from beachcombing.
We headed for lunch at Café de la Grave — Stéphane’s favourite haunt in the area. While ownership had changed since his last stay, the feel was still the same — a place where for a visit you could become something of a regular, where you could count on warmth, hospitality, home-cooked food great coffee and that micro-brewed white beer mentioned earlier, called “Le Vieux Couvent” — served only on tap at certain spots throughout the islands.
Our dwelling place for the week was a friend’s authentic Mongolian yurt. For lack of a better description, the yurt looked like a Smurf house, with a yellow door, ornately painted with colourful flower and chevron patterns, continued on the inside framework (including the domed ceiling), two small nightstands and two bureaus.
Our first days in the Maggies were grey – the locals tutted and shook their heads over the greyest, coolest summer they could recall, yet we were enamoured and nothing could shake our enthusiasm for the place. In spite of the damp and grizzle, we explored, breakfasting and night-capping at Café de la Grave.
Over the radio, we heard of other tourists cutting their visits short due to the weather. Midweek, the grey began to lift, as did the morale and spirits of the locals, who breathed easy that their busy season would at least see some of the sun. “This is why we moved here!” Our friend Alain enthused, formerly of the South Shore of Montreal. Alain and our host, Michel, often joined us for meals or a pint in the late evenings. They introduced us to other Quebecers who had fallen in love with the Maggies and made the move, all of whom raved, sighed, cooed and rolled their eyes over their new home.
We shopped, we ate, we rode our motorcycle to Grosse Île (one end of the islands, traditionally an English settlement), we beachcombed non-stop and every beach revealed its different personality, completely different bounty. Rocks that looked like planets, pink chunks of salt, black sand, perfect sand-castle sand, green stones, driftwood bits as far as the eye could see...no two beaches were alike. We marveled over the kite surfers hanging from their half-moon sails far above their heads, cutting neatly through the waves and occasionally lifting to turn off of the water and land again. We were welcomed with loving grace by Yulie at her shop La Route Vers la Soie. Formerly of Bali, living a large portion of the year in the islands with her husband and daughter, Yulie crafts hand-painted silk scarves and shawls, each with a story, a purpose. We toured Le Flaneur, restaurant and curio shop, filled with the lifesized whimsical personalities crafted by Arthure (the Madame Tussaud of the Maggies) – including a series of replicas of men from les Îles (with portraits to match). She told us the stories behind each, as well as the group of wedding guests of “Germaine” — a colourful, plump bride who marries a new husband every year on July 12. “We just found her new husband for this year — he rolls his change in his pockets,” Arthure explained as she continued with the introductions of her multiartistic-media creations.
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