Sunday 24 September 2023---Boulangerie le Fournand is closed on a Sunday, so we get our morning coffee at Tempête Café instead. It's okay, but I find myself wondering what the Australian lass is doing on her day off. In her place, I would be sleeping away the day after six days of running around. (Truth to tell, I would not have lasted the first day.) I have no doubt that she is off hiking somewhere instead, or working out at the gym, or doing some DIY on the house. Maybe all three.

Today's the day to take a drive around the area--I want to make sure the car is okay before tomorrow's departure. There is no trouble with it, aside from the need to pump the clutch for a while. We start by going up the hill back of town, where we look at the remains of l'Auberge du Gargantua, a popular hilltop restaurant and bar that closed in 2011. The empty shell burned to the ground just last October.

Back down, we take in the view from Cap Mont-Joli, the headland close by Rocher Percé. The nearby Villa Frederick-James, built in 1887 by the American painter of that name, is undergoing a major rehabilitation, and is covered by scaffolding with lovely orange sheeting. James was known for scenes depicting upper-class American life, rather different from the works of his rough contemporary, Krieghoff; but at some point he was smitten by Percé, and it appears he spent the last two decades of his life there, or maybe just summers.

Then off we go southwest, through a patch of farmland that seems atypical of the region. We stop at a fumoir to buy smoked salmon from Monsieur Émile. We end up at Grande-Rivière, and turn back toward Percé along the coast, stopping to see the lighthouse at Cap d'Espoir. It looks a bit shabby, but Lighthouse Friends says the automated light is still active. I notice humans moving about in the lantern room. Presently they emerge at the door, and I ask if the building is open. It isn't--they are lighthouse enthusiasts, I guess, who have asked the caretaker for permission to enter. I am not really of that fraternity, so leave them to lock up.

L'Anse-à-Beaufils is on our route, so we stop for a pint at Pit Caribou's taproom. This evening we dine again at La Maison du Pêcheur, the lukewarm chowder having been forgiven. We looked at menus at several of the other restaurants around town, but saw nothing that could draw us away from what has become our usual. We have a couple pints at Pit Caribou and are about to call it a night when we fall into conversation with a local named Jimmy. We stay for a pint or two too many, as well as shot of something or other that somebody or other has bought for the house. Why do these things always happen the night before we're leaving town?