July 2nd - Into Quebec

July 2^nd – into Quebec.

We arose to a lovely morning, dew drenched sparkles, sweet, fresh air. Departure day. Clean up the Ceilidh, stow the gear so that it doesn’t roll about the RV, drop the tanks, unplug the 30 amp, uncouple the fresh water hose, crank her over – she starts – roll forward, remove and stow the leveling planks, secure all the lockers, enter destination into the GPS, put on the hat and shades and au revoir Poplar Grove with your $20 Wifi that seldom worked!

It’s good to be back on the road again, engine humming -sort of- wheels whistling tunes on the pavement, windows down and wind blowing through your hair – well Sven’s any way – on to Drummondville bypassing Montreal to the south. 

The Ceilidh (for those joining late or struggling with pronunciation, cay - lee, does it nicely) is still whimsical, stuttering every so often to let us know to treat her properly. We figure about three hours driving time, an hour or so for a lunch break.  Be there by four in the afternoon.

We cross the border into la Belle province singing appropriate songs such as Donkey Driving and Frere Jacques. I pull in for petrol (we talk about why calling a liquid a gas seems weird) and I use my best French at the petrol station. Hmmmm….well, she got the money part but not much else.  I have an accent that seems to come from Brooklyn as far as Quebecois works. Filled up and refreshed The Ceilidh not only refuses to start, but she refuses to show the instrument panel lights! ‘This’ I think to myself, ‘is trouble’. Nonetheless I give Sven the sign and he lifts the tiny hood, finger poised over the spring loaded hot wire button. I lean out the window, Spitfire cockpit style, give the universally agreed upon thumbs up and he hits the button. I envision this as hands on propeller and the mighty pull down to crank the engine. It’s not, but I like to think of it this way. In a minor miracle The Ceilidh blesses us with a start. I’m relieved. My French would surely fail when trying to explain the intricacies of The Ceilidh’s startup foibles.

Off we go on our adventure, some twelve kilometers down the road to the information centre at Rigaud. We spend some time chatting with the staff and collect some pins and decals. The tourist advisor also suggests bypassing Montreal and paying the toll, of which she doesn’t know the amount. We figure it can’t be more than $4.60 per vehicle according to the computer screen she brought up. Cools. As I’m leaving some very English accented dude says to me, ‘Ah, someone who speaks English. Bloody frogs have an attitude. Can’t stand them’, as he’s walking in to get some help. I think we know who has the attitude. My mother was French, as clearly were my grand parents etc.. Perhaps that makes a difference.

We leave Rigaud and carve our way back to the Trans Canada Highway on our way to bypass Montreal to the south. A few kilometres south and we see a could of dust and a spray of taillights immediately in front of us. Affirmative action on the brakes. Rounding the slight corner and coming to a standstill we are on the still smoking scene of a horrendous crash. A vehicle has run into and back out of the centre meridian and flipped at least once. People are running about. Some are trying to pull victims out of the car.  There are lots of folks trying to help. I tell Sven I don’t think our French is good enough to be of any help in such circumstances.  In minutes the emergency vehicles begin to arrive. Police, fire and ambulance. Over the course of the next 20 minutes there are nearly 20 vehicles. Dozens of officers and medics are working on folks in and around the totaled car.  I can see the victim’s legs, toes down, laying on the road. Sven is outside taking photos, talking to folks. He tells me they think the fellow is paralyzed. We wait and wait. Police place flares on the other road. It’s still sunny and hot. Sven thinks there is at least one dead. Its horrific. 

Finally, we are moved across the meridian and head down the opposite lane, back toward Rigaud.  We take side roads and emerge back on the freeway much closer to Montreal.

I think of all the people who are going to be deeply impacted by the accident; the survivors, if any, the loved ones of all the victims, the first responders who have to attend and deal with brutal assaults on human bodies and, tragically, those who die of terrible injury. The wives, husbands and children of all of these people. Dozens and dozens. We heard a rumour there may have been cell phone use as a cause.

Well, there will be a toll booth to navigate. Money out we approach the booth. A lovely Quebecker smiles and says, ‘Go through’. I’m not sure I hear correctly. ‘You mean I don’t have to pay?’ She smiles again and says ‘No, you don’t have to pay, it’s free for you.’  How cool. What a nice surprise. I feel much better because of this small act of kindness. What a world.  

We’re into traffic now that we are in Montreal precincts.  Our speeds begin to fall, The Ceilidh is impetuous, gasping for fuel, or perhaps air, on a more regular basis. But we travel on.

Sven’s phone beeps. Bruce and Shannon’s RV is now miles behind and they’ve lost their brakes and the engine has over heated and stopped.  We decide to find a campground close by and manage to claim space at Camping Alouette, just north of the Trans Canada.  An hour later we get the update.  Their RV has been towed to the nearest dealer where it is determined that the fan belt has broken.  This is indeed a relief. They’ll get to camp in the garage. We are camping in a huge field.  Merde. What a day.

Sorry, no decent photos.