Bearly There

No camping for us

Cottaging [sic] is a big deal in Canada, or at least in Ontario. Our family have occasionally been invited to join friends at their cottages, which might be edifices as basic as four walls, floors, and a partial roofed, to magnificent palaces that make our own house seem a hovel. We have always enjoyed being guests in these homes from home. This year we received a generous offer from a fellow anthropologist, now a friend, to occupy her cottage on Georgian Bay (the forgotten Great Lake), on our own, figuring out how to cottage [sic] for ourselves. We said yes, with much gratitude, and juggled our dates and plans-- this summer, as most, we have had obligations at home - work, kids' activities-- and abroad-- England, California; family, also work. Husband and I envisioned a few days lolling by a lake beach, watching children cavort like dolphins. We would throw them a few fish every so often, or at least fish fingers. We would read, and write, run and idle.

First thing we learned is that a lot of work goes into preparing to be idle. I read a column in the Toronto Star by Uzma Jalaluddin ( 'The appeal of cottaging finally makes sense' ) about the columnist's first time taking her family, along with several others, to a cottage, and she described their planning meetings beginning weeks if not months in advance. Suffice it to say we were a little more chaotic in our arrangements.

Eventually our car was packed and the route plugged in and off we sped. 'Can we make s'mores while we're there?' daughter asked. She has become a true North American. 

'S'mores?' queried husband. He has not.

'Sure,' I promised. Rashly, as it turned out.

We hit no traffic (that would be down to our late start), and it took under three hours to reach the tiny island on which perched our borrowed cottage. It was exactly as I imagined a cottage would look when I first heard of them (they would be called 'cabins' in California): a spare box, enclosing the bare necessities, lots of space, lots of wood-planked walls and screened windows, lots of board games. Lots of outdoors. Not a hut, not a mansion; rustic, not alpine. This one was born in the middle of last century, its charming history lovingly outlined in a ring-binder on a table.  

View from Turtle Island in the gloaming

Unfortunately, though, we hit a snag. It turned out that in fact not all the bare necessities were available. Although the lake itself, Georgian Bay, was full to the brim with water, none of it was reaching the house. The mechanism designed to pump and purify had been damaged, probably, according to the hastily-summoned caretaker, by a motorboat coming too near the machinery. He expressed his regret, told us repairs could not take place till next week, explained (extremely helpfully) how buckets of lake water could be used to flush the loos, and then departed.  

We ended up leaving, too, after a day and a night, but we used our time well. Water was hauled by wheelbarrow (for la toilette). We had lugged a couple of plastic jugs of drinking water in the car, for emergencies, and rationed those carefully. No bathing or cooking.

Hauling water by the light of the iPhone

Games were played round the long dining table, swimming was swum off a rocky shelf, a kite was flown (by daughter standing on hands, using one foot, and why not), frisbee was thrown, football was kicked, books were read to the sound of wind in reeds. We saw snakes (water and garter) and frogs and found a desiccated ulna beneath the porch.

But the effort of living without plumbing got to us by the second night and we decamped for the town of Parry Sound, sited picturesquely on the lakeshore 30 minutes distant. En route we stopped in Killbear Provincial Park and walked to its lighthouse and beach. We saw no bears, dead or alive. 

Killbear Provincial Park

Books galore

Tiny Parry Sound offered us a cheap motel that accepted dogs,and a waterfront diner that served - lo!- deep-fried s'mores. The next day husband and I rose early for a jog on the shoreline trail. Then we all, dog included, plundered the town's wonderful second-hand bookstore, the delightful Bearly Used Books. Astounded by the volume of our chosen volumes, the staff graciously offered us a 25% discount.

As a last hurrah, we found a small, family-run marina at nearby Otter Lake that rented us a couple of canoes, and we embarked on a family voyage. It lasted 2 hours, rather than 10 days, as seems to be the Canadian norm, but it was a start. When the time comes we shall note it on our citizenship applications. Luckily the dog is already a native son, because he was definitely not a fan of the sport.

We canoed! Canoe?

We arrived home two days early but with the sense of being on vacation still: no plans, no one expecting us anywhere. A staycation tacked to the end. A soft landing. So while the cottage trip may not have worked as planned, it worked for us. 

And eldest son, newly licensed, did much of  the driving! That's the way to travel.

Killbear Beach, Georgian Bay