The Victoria old-timers took off in a jet airplane and
spent a fortnight in southern Ontario, half the time in Toronto. This country
mouse was entirely willing to believe the report I received that Toronto is now
North America's fourth-largest city. Navigating a late-afternoon route out of
Pearson airport, westward along the 401 is a nightmare Jan and I have
previously experienced but the trial never seems to get easier. I have no idea
how people manage to do it twice daily while retaining some facsimile of sanity.
On arrival day we made a beeline for more tranquil
territory. Sort of. Point Pelee is a jewel in Canada's national park system not
because of soaring mountains, vast prairie vistas, or raging unspoilt rivers,
but because of its life-and-death significance to migrating birds. Every year
around this time warblers, sparrows and flycatchers fly northward across Lake
Erie and land exhausted on the closest bit of land that meets their eye – Point
Pelee.
They arrive in their hundreds or
thousands daily, tired out and easy to see. Where hordes of birds congregate, something
else does too: hordes of people carrying binoculars, spotting scopes, long-lens
cameras, or all of the above. Happily, in contrast to the 401, they are not
hurtling along at 110 kph.
We spent two full days and bits of two more in the bird
mecca. Prepared for warm May-type weather, we regretted not having brought goose-down
parkas. The thermometer dipped close to zero, winds howled. Ten years ago on
our first Pelee pilgrimage we found about 140 species over the same time
period. We fell 45 short
this time but
grumbled only a little: there was still plenty to divert two Victoria-based
birders who have no chance of seeing eighteen different warblers in their own
bailiwick.
En route to Pelee we indulged another trip priority,
dipsy-doodling our way into this village or that town we'd never seek out if
not for the fact it has a war memorial I particularly want to see. It is one of
my many pieces of good fortune that Janice indulges this odd madness, even
manages to be mildly entertained by the diversions that inevitably arise as the
quest is pursued.
The lure of memorials in a half-dozen towns at the east
end of the Niagara Peninsula drew us in that direction. We paused en route to
see the Canadian Warplane Museum at Hamilton and actually got to see – and hear
– a WWII Lancaster bomber in flight. We ventured into Niagara Falls and joined
yet more throngs of people gawking at nature's offerings. We ate fish 'n chips
at the bar of a Fort Erie pub and watched the Toronto Maple Leafs collapse in the
third period of Game Seven against Boston.
After driving 1,500 km we returned the car in Toronto and
happily got about for a week on shank's mare or subway. I was euphoric. We
watched ball games at Christie Pits and the place we used to call the Skydome.
We welcomed Steve and Elizabeth from Winnipeg, rode a quadricycle on the
Toronto Islands, prowled the Kensington Market and the St. Lawrence one too.
Steve and I visited the Hockey Hall of Fame and queued up to photograph each
other standing alongside the Stanley Cup. We saw lots of nephew Michael, swilled
beer and ate hotdogs and Cheetos with Mike's family and his friendly neighbours.
But it wasn't just baseball and hotdogs. Oh no. We
endured screaming kids at the MacMichael Gallery in Kleinburg, taxed old knees
at the Royal Ontario Museum and even joined the blue-bloods at the opera. Jan
was over the moon about the Canada Opera Company's production of Lucia di Lammermoor.
Once inside the 401/427 Toronto is a surprisingly easy place
to find relaxation. There is abundant architecture, public art and historic
places to contemplate. And abundant diversions too. The town that many
Canadians pretend to hate is just fine in my books – just as long as you stay away
from the 401.
