Morpeth, ON to Port Burwell, ON. 71.4 miles.
By Judd Curran.
The morning breeze off Lake Erie was delightful. Victoria found a fresh pack of bagels in the market at the nearby town yesterday evening. Those bagels, combined with just-picked blueberries and peanut butter made for an awesome start to the morning, complete with a view of the lake in the background, all from the comfort of our campsite.
The breeze was also helping to finish the drying process of our clothes. We were a bit shocked by the $48 price tag for our campsite, and the campground manager agreed with us that it was steep. But, she said, "Well, ya know, the owners are from Toronto." "That should tell ya something." Apparently, Toronto is a very expensive place, and to the owners, waterfront anything should cost a lot. We were ok with it, given our convenient proximity to the beach. But, when we found out that their laundry facilities had only one working washer (coins required), and no functioning dryers, we were a bit disappointed. Fortunately, I brought a long nylon rope that we fashioned into a clothes line. By the time we were packed up, the clothes were dry.
For the high price of real estate, I insisted that we take a walk on the beach before departing to soak up the beauty of the quiet shoreline of Lake Erie. It wasn't hard to convince Victoria of the idea. We both decided to have our official swim together in the lake further down the road, since we would be riding along it's shore for the next several days.
As we moved on, more corn and soybean dominated the landscape, with large wind turbines scattered about, reaching into the sky. The lake was always nearby, but far enough away that we would only occasionally get a peek at it in the distant horizon to the south of us.
About ten miles down the road from Morpeth, we pulled off for a 5 minute break in the shade of a maple tree at the entrance to a cemetery. While resting, I decided to take a stroll through the cemetery to see what I could find.
Famous for his poems, a plaque provided one of his more famous quotes.
The chapel in the cemetery stood tall.
Around the corner from the chapel, a remnant of an old tree, it's roots spreading out and around several gravestones, probably difficult to remove, was instead carved in place.
The far side of the cemetery sloped downward, providing an expansive view of the soybean fields and Lake Erie in the distance.
John Allem, one of the older residents of the cemetery, had one of the best views.
Back on the road, while following the shore of Lake Erie, we were about a mile away from the water. We could still see the lake often, but with wind turbines and soybean or corn frequently in between.
We had our eyes on the small community of Wallacetown as a place we would seek out lunch. It was about 6 miles down the road, and my stomach was growling. I spotted one of several signs lining the side of the road announcing "Fresh Blueberries". A sign of this magnitude cannot be ignored.
Then came the rows of tall bush blueberry plants -- a sign that the sign really meant what it stated -- "Fresh"!
We pulled into the gravel driveway and headed to the shaded picnic table to lean our bicycles against the benches. Our bicycles don't have kick stands. This is primarily because the stands would be useless under the weight of our bags, and the distribution of that weight over both the front and back tires gives them a mind of their own. Thus, we are always in search of a wall or bench or some shaded feature on the landscape that is at least as wide as the span between the front and rear pannier bags to be used as support.
Little did we know, this stop was more than just being about blueberries. On display, blueberry juice, blueberry syrup, blueberry jam, and on the menu, blueberry muffins, blueberry mini tarts, blueberry bread, honey, pie, etc.
No salesman needed here. The challenge was not if we were going to buy something, but deciding what. The difficulty in these situations comes from the fact that we are traveling on a bicycle, and whatever we purchase has to either be consumed on the spot, or shortly after, as all things acquired must be pedaled.
Two friendly kids were running the operation behind the counter while their parents tended to other tasks on the farm. Giacomo (left) and Giulia (right) were very helpful, and their smiles made the whole experience that much better. Despite the fact that Giacomo doesn't like blueberries, he was having a fun time with his sister answering our many questions. We bought two out-of-this world mini blueberry tarts, the last basket of organic strawberries that Giacomo had picked this morning (he told us that his parents put him in charge of tending to the 100 foot row of strawberries that are right out front, and that he is allowed to keep all of the profits from the sale of them). We also bought, of course, a small pint of fresh blueberries.
Giulia and Giacomo were born in Peru, speak fluent Spanish, and go back and forth between Peru and Ontario, visiting family in Lima and working on the farm in Ontario. Giulia told me that she likes Peru, but Lima is such a busy and crowded city that she also likes to be at the blueberry farm in the Summer in Ontario, where the rural life is a welcomed reprieve.
They gave us restaurant recommendations for nearby Wallacetown, and even washed our strawberries for us so that we could eat them on the spot.
While devouring the pint of strawberries and the blueberry mini tarts, a local couple returned from the fields with a bucket full of blueberries, taking advantage of the lower "U-Pick" price. "It's hot out there in the sun", the woman exclaimed as they paid for their harvest.
We said our goodbyes to Giacomo and Giulia as we pedaled on to Wallacetown for lunch. We had a long day ahead of us and this was the fourth day in a row that we had been riding. Victoria was ready for a day of rest, which we had planned for tomorrow. We had our sights set on one of two destinations.
Port Stanley, with a population of around 2,000 people, was the closer option to us, and is also the closer option for the large nearby city of London. It is a bustling tourist destination, providing a place to cool off in Summer along the shore. The quieter Port Burwell was our other option, and while an additional 23 miles further, putting our riding day at over the 70 mile mark, it was more of what we were looking for as we take a day of rest. So, we decided after reaching Port Stanley that we had the energy to go the extra 23 miles to Port Burwell. Given that we were going to take a day off and spend 2 nights, we were motivated to make the extra push to a place that interested us more.
Our day had been aided by some decent tail winds that helped push us along, maintaining an average of around 14 miles per hour. This was a significant contrast to the 10 mph average we had been keeping over the past several days due to some degree of headwinds from the Northeast.
Ontario has well-posted signage all along the roads we have traveled with information about influential figures and or historical events. One such roadside plaque provided information about Colonel Thomas Talbot.
He started a settlement in these parts in 1803, and several things in the region are named after him.
We continued through more fields of soybean and wind turbines late into the day. With the wind supporting our forward motion, we moved quickly. We didn't have a reservation in Port Burwell for accommodations because we had been holding out to see if we would be able to make the additional distance from Port Stanley.
Along the way, we caught the interest of some cows with cool hairstyles.
Near to Port Burwell, we stopped at a small outpost at a 4-way stop sign in the middle of nowhere, looking for a payphone to make some calls to the local accommodations hoping for some availability. We had a backup with the provincial park campground in Port Burwell. But, Victoria preferred something more comfortable for our upcoming day off, and I couldn't agree more.
The store at this stop was closed, and the only sign of life around was a skinny, balding guy in a fish n' chips food truck that was closing up shop. "No pay phone here", he said as he stumbled out the side of his truck with his flip-phone in hand. "Use my phone", he said, as he continued to clean up the tables outside. We dialed the number for the beach cottages listed on our Adventure Cycling map, but the number was out of service. The other number we had was for the Grey Gables Bed and Breakfast. I dialed the number and my call was immediately picked up by an answering machine. Leaving a message with no way for anyone to return a call (I didn't have international calling activated on my phone), I told the machine of our interest in a room, and that we would be there within the hour.
Rolling into the cute port town at around 7:30 pm, we searched the few residential streets around Main Street looking for accommodations. I spotted the beach cottages, and the woman out front, after telling me that there was no vacancy, gave directions to the two other options in town, both BnBs.
First stop was the Grey Gables Bed & Breakfast. As we pedaled up to the front of the house, a gentleman stepped away from the conversation he was having with three other guests on the front porch to greet us. "Can I help you?", he asked. We explained our situation and he interrupted us with, "Oh yes, I just got your message".
He had a room available for two nights. Relieved by the idea of not camping, or searching around this late in the evening for other options, we took the room. Little do we know, it had a full on-suite bathroom with jetted jacuzzi tub and air conditioning, all in a beautifully restored old house one block from Main Street and two blocks from the beach.
We are both looking forward to exploring the town tomorrow and giving our legs a rest.
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