28 August 2015

from Saguenay to Øresund

28 August 2015

The North Atlantic Arc Home

--August

/September/

October--

S	M	T	W	T	F	S
		18	19	20	21	22
23	24	25	26	27	28	29
30	31	1	2	3	4	5
						3
4	5	6	7	8	9	10
11	12	13	14	15	16	17
18	19	20	21

Friday 28 August 2015--We're leaving Chicoutimi today, but before we do, we go to take a few more photos of La Petite Maison Blanche in sunshine. Then we cross the Saguenay River and head for Tadoussac, about a two-hour drive. The road is well up away from the fjord, and the scenery is not very interesting, for the most part. Just short of the village of Sacré- Coeur, we stop for lunch at a roadside gas station/motel/restaurant. Such places are hit-or-miss in Québec; sometimes you stumble on a real gem. This isn't one of them--not terrible by any means, but we have occasion to regret the choice when we see a couple of more attractive options in Sacré-Coeur itself.

We've miscalculated with our lodgings in Tadoussac, as well, having chosen a budget motel outside town, a little too far and uphill to walk. We check in, drive into the village, and take a stroll around. This spot, close to the mouth of the Saguenay River, had been used as a summer camp by the Innu since prehistoric times. Pierre Chauvin established a trading post here in 1600, making this the oldest surviving French settlement in the western hemisphere. The fur trade gave way to the lumber trade in the early 19th century, and by mid-century tourism began to take root. It's a very charming place today, busy in summer, but with a year-round population of just 800 or so.

The most prominent building in the village, the very signature of the place, is the Hotel Tadoussac. The original hotel, built in 1865, was destroyed by fire, and replaced in the 1940s by the current edifice. This is one of the iconic hotels of Canada, its red roof a symbol of elegance on a wild shore, subject of countless calendar shots. Looking at it now, Marc and I are shocked at how badly faded and chipped the red paint is, obviously years overdue for a new coat. All else about the building and grounds looks well-kept, though, and business appears to be good. I suggest to Marc that, although we can't afford to stay in the hotel, or even to eat in its restaurant, we can have a drink in the bar, and pretend for half an hour to belong here. "Come on, I'll buy you one," I tell him.

In the bar, I'm pleased to see beer from the microbrasserie St-Pancrace, and order two. The barmaid pops open the bottles and says, "Trente dollars, s'il vous plaît." Thirty dollars. Turns out we can't afford to drink here, either.

We take our fifteen-dollar beers to a table out on the lawn and nurse them for all they're worth. Marc tells me what he knows about the hotel's owner, an absentee who lives in Vancouver. I'm left to think that the place would be much better off in the hands of Fairmont, Marriott, or (dare I say it) Red Roof Inn.

We make our way up to Café Bohème for dinner and pints. I scouted this place in advance of the trip, and, for the first time today, we are not in any way disappointed. It reminds me a little of the Café de la Grave in the Magdalen Islands--like that place, it's a former general store, the old wooden shelves left up to remind us of its previous life. We can't stay too late, since we have to drive back up to our motel (where, at least, a cooler full of beer and cider awaits). But I do take note of the hotel down the street, and make a promise to myself to stay there on a return visit, so I can sit on the porch of the Café Bohème on a pleasant evening like this, until closing.

Next