It is impossible to plan a trip to Bobcaygeon, or to see the word Bobcaygeon on a map or a sign without hearing the Tragically Hip song in your head. On repeat. Even if you don’t know all the words. Especially if you don’t know all the words.
You’re singing it right now, aren’t you?
I get to Designated Travel Companion’s (DTC) house early enough
(I got to your house this morning
Just a little after nine)
so we can have a leisurely drive to today’s destination, Globus Theatre at Lakeview Arts Barn in Bobcaygeon. DTC and I have been on a few road trips together and so it shouldn’t surprise me that we both:
a) are wearing dresses
b) with little sweaters brought along for later if it gets chilly
c) and have a change of shoes to dress up in the evening
d) with our matching travel rain coats rolled up just in case
(I left your house this morning
About a quarter after nine
Could have been the Willie Nelson)
NO.
I pull up the song on my phone and blast it as we pull away, thinking it might spare DTC the ordeal of hearing me sing it. Doesn’t work. The drive is pretty, though.
Bobcaygeon is a community of 3500 on Pigeon Lake, in the Kawartha Lakes region, and about two hours northeast of Toronto. Historic Lock #32, the first built for the Trent-Severn Waterway, is smack in the middle of town. There is a single lane swing bridge over the canal; tourists sit on benches, eating ice cream and watching the boats go through the lock. While we look around, a single houseboat enters but the people piloting it seem a bit baffled. One of the lock attendants crouches down and offers encouragement until they get the engine going; everyone cheers from the sidelines. The scene makes a bit more sense when DTC and I spy a sign announcing Bobcaygeon as the Rental Houseboat Capital of Ontario. Ah, landlubbers. I wonder how many of those things are returned with long scratches running their lengths.
Wanting to get a sense of the place, DTC and I attempt to follow the Bobcaygeon Walking Tour I have downloaded. I can’t make heads or tails of it because I’m a little directionally impaired and there isn’t a map. It’s kind of funny, too, as many of the 23 stops “used to be” something else, before burning down and being rebuilt. Never mind. I spy one of the stops across the street (which used to be a General Store before it burned down in 1913) and I can’t help but notice the SHOE SALE! signs in the windows. As a footwear aficionado bent on recovery, I exercise the utmost restraint and keep on walking. I decide to congratulate myself with a salted caramel brownie from Kawartha Coffee Company. Baby steps.
There’s a line-up almost out the door when we arrive, definitely a good sign.
Kawartha Coffee Company is a riot of colour, a proud peacock of a café on the main street. Multi-hued flags zigazg across the ceiling, vying for your eye with twinkly chandeliers; blackboard paint on the walls provides a background for doodles, curlicues and encouragements (“Smile. Enjoy Life. Eat good Food.”). An identifying statement is drawn around a bubble mirror near the front window: “This is Who We Are: Seasonable Farm Fresh Local 100% Organic”.
I like this place. I like these people. I get what they’re doing.
The café carries coffees from Reunion Island, an especially eco-conscious small batch roaster in Oakville. One variety, Organic Sierra Verde, comes with a tree-planting initiative: two trees are planted in a developing coffee-producing country for every pound sold. Owner Kathleen Seymour says KCC is responsible for 25,000 of them.
Adding to the kaleidoscope are happy-making paintings for sale by Canada’s very own Toller Cranston. If you are my generation or older, you remember watching him, transfixed as he skated his way to bronze at the 1976 Olympics. He’s an accomplished artist, and the works that clad the walls attest to this. Kathleen tells me that her business partner was a skating contemporary of Toller’s, hence the connection.
DTC and I, continuing on in our SuperBestFriendsTwin Day, both choose to have an iced Americano. Real espresso, pulled and poured over ice, no syrups or frothy ice-milk product added. Honest-to-goodness coffee that makes my heart skip a beat. Also? That salted caramel brownie sitting under a glass dome on the bar, mocking me? It is dense and chocolatey and gooey and a lovely balance of sweet and salty, and completely, utterly demonic. I am glad that DTC and I decide to share its sinfulness as we stroll along the main street to the toy store; if we’d sat at a table, I might have had to grab a couple more…as souvenirs.
A few doors down, the window display draws us into Gigi’s. Less than a year old, they offer thoughtful toys and games for children, and the adults who play with them. The good stuff, with recognizable names like Thomas the Tank Engine, Playmobil, Lego, and wooden toys from Melissa and Doug. Challenging board games, too. There’s a giant chessboard set up inside the store and a kid-sized door that I would try if I wasn’t wearing a dress.
It’s now too drizzly to walk about
(Yeah, the sky was dull, and hypothetical
And falling one cloud at a time)
so we give up on the Bobcaygeon Walking Tour and hop in the car to poke around town instead. We pass the busy parking lot of the Kawartha Dairy factory; there’s a corral for customers in front of the order window. The list of ice creams is long and daunting and, so as to not hold up the line, I spy a childhood favourite and pounce. My “small” Tiger Tail cone is as big as my head and manageable only with constant vigilance. DTC has a gigantic cone of her own, so there isn’t much talking for a few minutes.
As the late afternoon sun continues sliding west (or so I imagine; haven’t seen it for a while), we start driving out of town to Pigeon Lake Road.
(Drove back to town this morning
With working on my mind)
Halfway along King Street East, I ask DTC to pull over. The eye-catching signage outside Douglas + Son grabs me. Vintage Goods? Antiques? It’s calling my name.
What a great store. Carefully curated industrial objects and furniture, colourful maps, vintage letters and signage and lighting. They have their own line of t-shirts too. And an enormous mounted bison head, which I somehow fail to get a photo of.
(I thought of maybe quitting
I thought of leaving it behind)
Globus Theatre is the company in residence at the Lakeview Arts Barn (LAB), an old cattle barn that was converted to a dance hall in 1967. It’s a social hub, where conferences, events and weddings also take place. There’s a full kitchen to cater events from 40 to 400, and a table d’hôte dinner is offered before every evening performance.
I have a chance to speak to Sarah Quick ahead of time and I ask her if she’s crazy. She laughs but doesn’t answer. Sarah, with James Barrett, Artistic Director and Artistic Producer respectively, are Co-Founders of Globus Theatre, Co-Stars and Co-Parents of a 2 ½ year-old; they are also responsible for the new dinner menu launching this opening night.
I find James pulling a shift as bartender pre-show; he kindly offers to tour us through the theatre space and allows me to pepper him with questions.
Why here?
English Sarah met Canadian James on the international Fringe circuit. They decided to produce theatre in one spot rather than continue touring. James grew up a half hour from here.
Why is this show performed in the round?
It heightens everything for both actors and the audience. It’s fun for the actors, who don’t often get the opportunity to act in the round; but it’s also fun for the audience, who feel like they are right in the middle of the action.
Are you two crazy?
He laughs but doesn’t answer.
Instead, James tells me about Sarah’s accomplishments as a playwright; her play Knickers! A Brief Comedy has recently been published by Playscripts, Inc. Last month’s Do You Take This Man?, a “devastating and devastatingly funny” show that addressed topics like testicular cancer and euthanasia, was written by Sarah, starred Sarah, and was directed by James. Light-hearted summer theatre? “It’s cathartic,” he says. “You are laughing and crying within a minute.” This season, their 11th, Globus is extending into the fall with a remount of their popular comedy Sunshine Express, also written by Sarah.
It’s not quite 6pm, so we grab a stool at the well-stocked bar. The cocktail menu has fun offerings like Pimm’s No. 1 which I haven’t had since 1989. The Whisky Menu is extensive and impressive (“It’s my thing,” James tells me. “I’m allowed to buy three new ones each year.”) and includes some names I recognize and this one I don’t: Glengoygne (21 year old) which merits 4.5/5 stars on the review sites I check.
I also note that the wine list offers wine by the glass for $4.65. I refrain from asking him again if he’s crazy, but I do remark on the bargain price. James says it’s important they keep things affordable for their patrons. I guess. A table d’hôte dinner (three courses with three choices for each) with show is $59.50, even less for subscribers, which explains their growing numbers each season.
Eating at the LAB is fun. There is a sense of occasion. The servers glide smoothly in and out, checking tables, whisking away plates; there is happy chatter and the clinking of glasses from diners.
The food is great, too. My cream of asparagus soup is the ultimate comfort, warm and smooth and restorative after a day in the damp. Steak and ale pie, topped with a square of puff pastry and served with a side of al dente peas, is thick and rich and so filling I can’t even contemplate dessert. But then the server sets the cheese board in front of me, stylishly served on slate and accompanied by green apple slices, crackers and spicy pecans and somehow I persevere.
Everything is expertly timed and we are ushered into the theatre, behind the black curtain running along one side of the dining room, just before 8pm.
The pre-show songs are cheeky foreshadowing: “Love the One You’re With”, “Love Shack”, “Escape (The Pina Colada Song)”. The show, The Long Weekend by prolific Canadian playwright Norm Foster, is an anti-romantic comedy and perfect summer theatre fare. Played gustily for laughs, the foursome also features Globus alumni Anna Black and Kevin M Sepaul. The audience eats it up.
As we file out of the theatre, James and Sarah are there to individually thank their patrons for attending this evening’s performance. I confess, I’m completely smitten. I adore everything I’ve experienced at the LAB: the performance, Sarah and James’ vision, the care for their audiences, love for their craft, and their dedication to putting on a helluva show. We leave happy. And humming.
(It was in Bobcaygeon, I saw the constellations
Reveal themselves one star at a time)
Anne Heathcote—writer, roadtripper, theatre lover—is counting her blessings in Prince Edward County.
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The trip to Gananoque, or Ganawage, or Cadanocqui, or one of the myriad other spellings throughout its long history, has an inauspicious beginning. Designated Travel Companion (DTC) gets stuck in a jam on the 401, the cause of which is long cleared by the time she passes. The wait gives me time to thoroughly investigate the commuter parking lot just off the highway (FYI: uninspiring) but also to muse on one of the benefits of a day trip by car: the ability to pack unrestrainedly for unpredictable weather. Today there were sarcastic comments about “polar vortices” on my Facebook feed, and I fished out a pair of tall boots usually reserved for autumn. There is rain in the forecast and we will be walking along the waterfront, so I have dressed in three layers and brought along a bag full of additional wardrobe options should the weather become even more changeable than expected.
But the somber skies and the delay can’t dampen the enthusiasm of DTC. She arrives at my car door with a big smile, an umbrella, a raincoat and a pashmina, ready for any and all eventualities. Except maybe a surprise boat tour into American waters for which a passport is needed. I cross that off the list.
As we finally shimmy down the Macdonald–Cartier Freeway, I point out the climate controls on the dashboard and explain the rules of the road, which have been refined over the course of eight prior excursions. The DTC:
– may use the dual temperature control to alter the temperature on her side of the car
– may redirect the vents on her side
– may not increase/decrease the fan speed
– may not turn off the a/c if the a/c is on
– may not turn on the a/c if the a/c is off
– must never imitate the voice of the Google Maps lady
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Gananoque is a town of 5200 whose population swells with “Islanders”—cottagers on the Thousand Islands—during the summer months. It’s just a half hour past Kingston so we’re there pretty quickly. We park on the main drag and pop into The Socialist Pig to plot our afternoon. The coffeehouse is an eclectic space in the former Gananoque Spring and Axle Company building, and a King St. fixture for the last four years. The bar is made of highly polished wood beams supported by hardcover books stacked higgledy piggledy, one atop the other. A gleaming Elektra Crema Caffe espresso machine emits a soft yellow glow, all chrome and retro styling. It’s so pretty, I barely resist stroking a finger along its perfect shininess. The back wall is a painted black chalkboard, the drinks list cohabitating with pithy quotes.
I’m excited to see a Flat White on the espresso menu, my coffee of choice during a recent trip abroad and an option I’ve not yet seen in North America. So there’s no question what I’m having. DTC selects a pot of peppermint tea from the list which the owner rhymes off from memory. We take a corner table so we can admire Town Hall across the street, and we spy a woman in a winter jacket clutching a German language travel guide. She’s one up on me—I didn’t pack any down.
We take a quick stroll along the downtown to admire the architecture of the historic buildings and to window-shop at a host of antique stores. We find the Gananoque and the Thousand Islands Visitor’s Centre, one of the finest I’ve ever seen. They offer free wi-fi, public washrooms, a children’s room with colouring books, and sell tickets for a host of local attractions. There are even Muskoka chairs on the front porch where one may plan next steps or maybe just lounge and people watch.
We move next door to Confederation Park to view “Canada’s largest outdoor contemporary art exhibit”. Straddling the Gananoque River on the former site of the Jones Shovel Company, the Sculpture Park is a lovely place for a stroll along the winding pathways. I’m particularly taken with Bruce Mellon’s Great Blue Heron.
We are late to return to the car and our expired meter. I fully expect a parking ticket, but there is none. Instead, there are still 20 minutes remaining; someone has pumped in another quarter and topped up my time. Neighbourly.
Onwards to the Arthur Child Heritage Museum. It is exactly what you hope for in a small-town museum. Upstairs is a well-appointed exhibit on local history, the mining, lumbering and milling that took place here, and Gananoque’s importance in the forwarding industry. There is a wheelhouse exhibit, artifacts, and a stuffed beaver. “Beavers are a lot less cute close up,” DTC observes. The taxidermied mammal, all yellowed teeth and dangerous claws, has a Please Do Not Touch sign on it. Yeah, no problem.
But it’s a temporary exhibit downstairs, tucked away in a back room, that steals my heart. A small sign over the door announces “100 Years: Remembering World War 1”. It’s a moving tribute to sacrifices made. Of the many men who marched out of Gananoque in 1914, most did not return home until 1919; 83 never returned at all. There are display cases with brief biographies of some of the soldiers, their portraits and personal effects—a uniform, a pocket watch, medals—laid out to see.
DTC pulls my attention to a large, framed group photo of the 3rd. Battery – 1st Brigade taken just before their deployment to France. Each soldier is named, rank given. In the corner of the photo is a grim legend so one may decipher which soldiers were killed in action, which were wounded, gassed or kept as a prisoner of war.
The gravestone rubbing of W.E. Dailey is there, with a small note correcting an error; he died at the age of 15, not 16 as incorrectly engraved. He had lied about his age in order to join. On the tombstone, there is a maple leaf at the top, the details of his rank and battalion, the date of his death. At the bottom it says simply “Mother’s Darling”.
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The Watermark Restaurant is a beautiful room overlooking the river in The Gananoque Inn & Spa. It’s a little too damp to be outside on the patio, so we are seated in a corner overlooking the harbour. The room is comfortable and chic, with white linen, lit votives, and vases of blue hydrangeas on the tables. There’s a fun cocktail menu, but DTC and I are directed to Naughty Otter Lager by our server, Hannah, who says it’s made on Main Street by Gananoque Brewing Company. I’m not a regular beer drinker, and so certainly no connoisseur, but this is the exact right thing to be drinking after a day in the drizzle. It is cold and refreshing and not heavy but hoppy. These are good beer things for a neophyte. By a third of my way through the pint, I may be a convert.
Tour boats return to port, marking the half hour regular as clockwork. The sun starts to sink, the light playing across the water, as my appetizer appears. It is quite honestly the prettiest salad I have ever laid eyes on. And delicious. The sweetness of the watermelon is offset by the bite of the feta and vinaigrette, with a little peppery kick from thin slices of purple radish. The mains that follow, my perfectly pink lamb chops and DTC’s pan-fried pickerel, leave us satiated and happy and yet, somehow, we are gently nudged into dessert (key lime verrine, chocolate mousse, thankyouverymuch) and two hours pass and suddenly it’s coming up on show time.
It’s a bit of a rush to the theatre, which is unfortunate. It gives me only a passing opportunity to take in the lower level lobby which is top to bottom wood and wonderful, and hints strongly at its origins. The 359 seat Springer Theatre is housed in what was formerly the Gananoque Canoe Clubhouse, built in 1909. With the smaller Firehall Theatre next door, Thousand Islands Playhouse is producing eight plays over five months this season; it’s considered one of the top five summer festivals in Ontario.
The Importance of Being Earnest, A Trivial Comedy for Serious People is Oscar Wilde’s most popular, most enduring work. This satire of Victorian-era values and hypocrisy is so full of devastatingly clever Wilde-isms (Lady Bracknell: “To lose one parent, Mr. Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness.”), it’s a relief that the actors clearly cherish the lines with which they have been furnished. Each epigram is a gem; to miss even a single word would be unfortunate. Indeed, esteemed poet W.H. Auden called the play “a pure verbal opera.”
The luxe costumes, with bustles and ruffles and extravagant hats, lend an air of wealth and privilege. The set, too, suggests a life of ease and affluence and just enough inactivity for ennui to creep in. There are two fantastic set changes between acts which have been choreographed like a formal dance. The actors, in character, shift chairs and tables in time to the music. Five panels, used to suggest walls, are spun in unison to reveal a new panel. A sudden dropout of music and a snap of lighting, and we’re onto the next act. Both times, this delightful dance was met with applause from the audience.
This production is grounded in really terrific performances; all are exactly as you would hope—ostentatious, luxurious line deliveries in perfectly plummy tones; light-footed frolicking around the set, with people alighting and dismounting from the settee as they battle wits. But it’s the delightfully weird characterization of Reverend Chasuble by Jody Richardson that is so utterly unexpected and awkward, all elbows and knees and stutters, I laugh every time he opens his mouth. He steals the show.
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Gananoque is a town in constant motion—easy motion, not bustling; languid like the water that flows along the St. Lawrence at its southern boundary. Cars and people stream at a regular pace along the main street, the leisurely boat traffic from the islands, to town, and back again, everything in slow, simple locomotion. Even the layout of the Sculpture Park forces you up the bank of the river, across the footbridge, and down the other side. Maybe it’s an unconscious reaction to the inescapable quiet of winter, when the river freezes and boat traffic ceases, summer cottagers long gone for home.
So, amid all the movement, it’s a surprise to find little pockets of hushed stillness here and there. At the town centre, we thrill to the rush of water over the rapids, all white and yellow foam travelling out of the Gananoque River to the Seaway. But above the dam, a placid pool reflecting the trees and houses and grey sky; serene enough that a leaping fish leaves concentric circles in its wake. I watch for a minute.
And again, down by Mill St., it’s tranquil even though the phalanx of boats suggests a great deal of activity. The river here is brown and as quiet as the church whose reflection is caught in the mirror of the water. An older gentlemen glides by in a canoe, lifts a slow hand in greeting.
During the play intermission, when we step out to the long deck at the back of the theatre and stretch our legs, the view is inky black. Only the lights of a passing tour boat and the scent of fish suggest we are overlooking the St. Lawrence, one of the greatest rivers on the continent. I am sure the water is moving, I know it of course, but in the darkness, I imagine a still surface, silent and mysterious, keeping guard while the Islanders sleep.
Anne Heathcote—writer, roadtripper, theatre lover—is counting her blessings in Prince Edward County.
]]>The view literally stops me in my tracks.
A cadmium yellow glider towed into an endless cerulean sky. Below, a glint off scarlet metal roofs atop cedar shakes the shade of juniper. Colours so vivid, so basic, you could fill them in with just a Crayola 8 pack.
You have to understand —I’ve lived here for six years, been visiting for the better part of two decades, but this moment takes my breath away. Maybe it’s the midday sun beating down or the sense of import in this historic site, but my head is spun and my body follows and it’s like I’m seeing the place, really seeing it, for the first time.
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This week’s theatre trip takes me to Prince Edward County, known by the locals as “The County” (or, as it’s spoken by same, “The Cowny”). It’s an amalgamated municipality of 25,000 spread out over 1000 square kilometers on an island in southeastern Ontario. It has a long history as the first settlement for Loyalists, and has featured at various times as a provider of hops for American brewers, a launching point for rum runners and as a centre for canning fruits and vegetables for the better part of a century. Long appreciated for its beaches and birding, PEC has lately developed a reputation as a must-see for foodies, winemakers and oenophiles, and artists.
This week also poses a bit of a challenge for a travel writer: to see one’s own backyard with fresh eyes while, at the same time, offering an insider’s knowledge of the place.
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It’s sneaking up on the dinner hour as Designated Travel Companion (DTC) and I take a short hop down Loyalist Parkway to Rosehall Run, at the bottom of Greer Road. The vineyard was first planted in 2001; under the watchful eye of winemaker Dan Sullivan, Rosehall Run is home to some of the County’s finest offerings.
The tasting room is housed in the same barn where large oak barrels used to turn grapes into wine. It’s a warm and inviting room, full of gleaming surfaces and reclaimed wood, with the easy elegance that permeates the area.
We belly up to the tasting bar and Katie hands us each a glass of 2011 Pinot Noir JCR, the bright garnet-coloured wine catching the late afternoon light when I hold it up to inspect. It’s gorgeous, with hints of tart cherries and supple tannins and is the kind of pinot that Prince Edward County has developed a reputation for. This wine also won gold at the 2014 All Canadian Wine Championships.
It’s the chardonnay that surprises me, however. I was an ABC girl back in the day, but this 2011 Chardonnay JCR Rosehall Vineyard, with a minerality typical of the terroir, wins me over. DTC and I grab a bottle of each (for research purposes, of course) and head over to the food truck for a quick bite before the show.
New to the County this summer is Picnic PEC. Rebecca and Trish have created the consummate food truck for locavores. With a focus on “healthy, local, gourmet”, they offer freshly-made sandwiches, salads and juices. They also do this peanut butter pie in a mason jar and, look, just get one, okay?
The food truck has regular stops at select wineries and Barley Days Brewery; they offer drink pairings with their menu. Follow that truck online so you can follow that truck in real life.
My banh mi (“The best vegetarian banh mi in the County!” laughs Rebecca) is baked tofu loaded with slaw and cilantro, and drizzled with spicy sriracha mayo on a perfectly chewy baguette. DTC chooses a sandwich made with Seed to Sausage Hunters salami, Black River cheddar and Cressy mustard. I make DTC give me a bite of his sandwich (again, strictly for research purposes) and as I chew, it dawns on me: this moment encapsulates the magic of summer. The alchemy of easy conversation, beautiful food paired with beautiful wine, at a picnic table looking down rows of grapevines, peerless skies overhead. I am deeply contented and we haven’t even moved onto the main event.
As we stroll to the big top, it’s nice to see so many familiar faces milling about, chatting. But there is one familiar face that is a little out of context for me. It takes me a second to place Jeremy Smith, AD of Driftwood Theatre, who I had the pleasure of interviewing way back at the beginning of July. It’s the troupe’s cottage week, when they set up camp at Jeremy’s family’s place near the entrance to the famed Sandbanks Provincial Park, and perform at venues within a short drive. Driftwood’s in Madoc tonight but Jeremy has stolen away to catch the show
Sarah Phillips, Artistic Director of Festival Players of Prince Edward County for seven of its eight years, has just been welcomed to the stage with hoots and hollers, which she shamelessly encourages for a moment or two. Then, with a smile, she warns, “This is an opening night unlike any other opening night you have attended.” In an exquisite example of ‘the show must go on’, the lead actor was replaced a mere six days ago. Sarah suggests there may be some “mild creative improvisation but we’ll be fine.” The audience is onside and we are ready to laugh.
Test Drive, by Dave Carley, is the story of Earl Hughes, a man who “loves his wife, children and cars – and not always in that order.” In the lead, Douglas E. Hughes is a marvel. Even if you discount the fact that the man has had a week with the script, and the requisite nerves of steel that come with, his performance is well-rounded, honest and funny, an absolute delight
The two other actors in the trio, Andrew Perun and Alyson Smith, are no slouches either; they inhabit the many characters that populate Earl’s story, with little more than a slight wardrobe alteration to signal the change. It’s done to great comic effect, culminating in a particularly delicious scene where three actors play five roles, all bunched into the tight confines of the bomb shelter. The audience is helpless with laughter as Andrew rapidly rotates his baseball cap forwards and backwards between characters in a dizzying choreography. I spy one woman literally holding herself tight as she guffaws, maybe fearful that ‘sidesplitting laughter’ is a real thing. Sarah’s direction is outstanding; each vignette of Earl’s life, strung alongside the next, builds beautifully to a moving and immensely satisfying conclusion. The audience stays on its feet, clapping passionately, long after the actors have left the stage.
A quick deke back to the tasting room for the Opening Night Reception to say a few hellos. The Hubb at Angeline’s, a groovy eatery and lounge in Bloomfield, is catering the event with their usual panache. I spy an oyster bar set up in the back, meet Dan who is shucking, and catch up with Krista Dalby. This season, she’s Stage Manager for All For Beaver Hats!, the Young Company’s production that comprises the Festival Players for Families series. This comedic and musical romp about the fur trade performs at a variety of outdoor venues around the County, and it sounds like a hoot. I promise to bring my kid.
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The next morning I am off to take in a few sights like a tourist. I zigzag along back roads with my camera at the ready. This summer, my eye has been drawn to long vistas with big skies and I am rewarded at almost every turn. Amber wheat fields awaiting the combine or sprouting green ones already visited, their tight bundles dotting the field; symmetrical rows of rustling corn stalks, tall and stretching to the tree line; a lake view that dissolves into the horizon.
First stop in Bloomfield is an antique store whose sign you may have seen recently making the rounds on the internet. Owner Sue Hierlihy tells me that the name came out of a catch-up conversation with a friend who asked her if she was “still selling that dead people’s stuff?”. The sign earns a slow down and turn around for the new and uninitiated.
What began as a weekend pastime out of their trunk at antique shows turned into the Dead People’s Stuff store eight years ago; like many others here, Sue and her husband Terry (of “Sue’s Husband Terry” handyman fame) chose to reinvent themselves with a move to the County. The place is hopping when I arrive at the converted drive shed. The collection focuses on items for cottage and country, reflecting a laidback attitude. It’s an eclectic mix, with china tea cups and crystal alongside old radios and vintage kettles. The Mantiques room reminds me of my Grandpa’s work bench; nostalgic finds.
A little further along Main Street is a clutch of charming shops. My favourite is KOKITO, a store that focuses on “Canadian design and lakeside living”; the name is a play on the postal code around Consecon Lake (K0K 1T0). Co-owner Shelley Durnin confesses that while most products are made in Canada, many right in Prince Edward County, she sometimes gets distracted by especially beautiful objects from around the world.
KOKITO is home to exclusive items like locally-made cushions, napkins and shoulder bags from Lakehouse Linens PEC. The line showcases clean design with flair; it’s functional and beautiful, well-constructed and comfortable, like everything in the store. You see Toronto-made Wildhagen hats on smart heads in the County. The MacAusland’s handcrafted virgin wool blanketsare so popular, KOKITO struggles to keep them in stock, even in the thick of the August heat.
It’s a gorgeous space, full of light and a carefully curated collection of goods to beautify your home (or that of your favourite travel blogger)(hint). And KOKITO’s Twitter feed gives you a great feel for what’s happening locally, too.
One must-do, in this former ‘Garden Capital of Canada”, is a trip to the farm stand. There are many celebrated markets in the County, but there’s something about Vangrootheest Farm that appeals to me. It’s a no-fuss kind of place, just off the main drag in Bloomfield. Today, it’s an embarrassment of riches: yellow and green beans, peas, shiny purple onions with the scape still attached, big fat field tomatoes, two kinds of corn, and buckets of gladioli. I leave, as usual, with groaning shopping bags, my wallet only a little lighter.
At the suggestion of Julianne Snepsts, GM of Festival Players, I head over to see their production workshop at Loch-Sloy Business Park, up on the heights in Picton. This location was formerly Camp Picton, an RCAF base and, before that, a RAF Bombing and Gunnery School. It is now home to a diverse group of businesses including a commercial fishery, artists’ studios, auto mechanics, a flying school, and even the Canadian Opera Company’s storage facility.
I can’t even begin to tell you everything I learn while being guided around by Properties Manager, Jacqui Burley. (She offers tours for history buffs and photographers. Call her at 613.476.3064 to arrange. A highly recommended off-the-beaten-path kind of thing.) As we zip around in her well-travelled convertible VW, she shares riveting details about the site, built in 1940 to train British pilots. But it’s the personal stories that give a peek into why Loch-Sloy tackles the daunting and unsexy job of preserving—literally— an important part of our history.
Jacqui tells me about the elderly Dutch gentleman who arrived, weeping, on her doorstep. As a boy, his front line family home was saved by Canadian soldiers, like the ones who were trained at this facility, in WWII. His gratitude still keenly felt decades later.
The restoration work continues steadily. Two of the original 45 buildings have been lost, slumped forlornly as a reminder of what will happen if the others aren’t rehabilitated. Mid-sentence, Jacqui stoops to pick up an errant nail from the sidewalk; her deep love and respect for the place is obvious.
As I stand there, the buzz of another glider being tugged up into the sky fills my ears and I get it. The visual onslaught of primary colours, the sharp angles of rooflines and subtle shading of worn cedar shingles, the interplay of light and shadow, of decay and resurrection, buildings subject to merciless winter winds and an unforgiving sun. This is hallowed ground I’m standing on. Sometimes we forget, while hustling off to a committee meeting or rehearsal or the next art opening, that we live in an area of exceptional beauty. Today I remember.
Anne Heathcote—writer, roadtripper, theatre lover—is counting her blessings in Prince Edward County.
]]>Today we are approaching Brampton from the northeast, having made an earlier errand run to Schomberg. Rather than hopping back on yet another 400 series highway, we decide to zigzag through pretty Peel Region, along Mt. Wolfe Road and Old Church Road and The Gore Road. I can’t remember ever seeing a street name with a “The” in it. Luckily, there’s this handy website that gives the origin behind Peel street names (seriously). I learn that a gore is an intersection that creates a thin triangle. So.
It’s lunchtime. There is a Vietnamese restaurant downtown close to the theatre, but Designated Travel Companion (DTC) and I are hungry now. Tripadvisor is my co-pilot and I locate the well-reviewed Pho Bo Saigon along the way. It’s a good call; we pull into a nondescript strip mall, usually a solid indicator that we’re about to get a tasty meal.
The jasmine tea arrives as soon as we are seated. Just the pho listings take up two full pages and I am glad for the English translations—I don’t want to accidentally eat tripe again. I’m an adventurous eater but not that adventurous. I go for #P1, Phở tái, straightforward rare beef and rice noodles in broth. A not-so-small bowl is $5; the XL is bigger than your head and will set you back a whopping seven bucks.
Into my piping hot bowl of pho I add just enough glistening drops of red chili oil to make my nose run. Thai basil and bean sprouts get piled onto the broth and you cannot imagine how delighted I am by those sprouts. In my small-town idyll, if you can even find bean sprouts, they’ve often seen better days and/or are bound in a Styrofoam prison by a large swath of plastic wrap. These are fresh and crisp and light-tasting. I offer a silent prayer of thanks
DTC compliments his fried fish special, something about it being crunchy and not greasy, and accompanied by vegetables and noodles or rice or something, but it doesn’t really register—I am face-first into this life-affirming bowl of fragrant, steaming perfection. La la la can’t hear you. Eating.
On the way back to the car after lunch, I spy Peninsula Bakery, the kind of place with plastic trays and tongs, and rows of bins filled with delights. For the entirely ridiculous sum of $2.85, I grab two Chinese buns, sweet and chewy bread filled with BBQ pork or chicken; a dense black bean bun; and two danish-y fruit-filled thingies. I love Chinese bakeries. They remind me of my morning commute through East Chinatown in Toronto when I was green and poor. These go into the picnic basket for a late night treat on the drive home.
Okay, headed to downtown Brampton in earnest this time. A trip straight down Main Street takes us into the heart of the city. It’s busy with cars and transit but we find street parking easily enough. As soon as we turn off the ignition, the threatening skies finally open up. Fine. We were headed into Peel Art Gallery Museum + Archives (PAMA) anyway.
Next to the welcome desk is Spirit Seeds: A Celebration of First Nations Beadwork in the Community Connections Gallery. It’s a pleasant little space, hushed and quiet as a tomb save for the TV monitor that plays a looping video of personal oral histories. Cabinets are filled with exquisite objects decorated in tiny glass beads—”Little Spirits” in some First Nations languages. DTC and I sign our names on wooden beads and thread them onto the community string.
We pop over to the museum portion and, although the focus seems directed to younger families, it’s a fine diversion. Current exhibits explore the history of Peel Region, including its aboriginal roots, industry and farming. The Peel County Jail, one of four buildings that makes up PAMA, opened in 1867 and was decommissioned 110 years later. Three jail cells remain intact. You can examine the iron bars and thick walls and get a sense of what it was like as an inmate. As I move from the one cell to another, I am startled by a mannequin propped up in the corner. I feel a little silly; it isn’t even that lifelike. But we’re seeing a thriller tonight at Rose Theatre, maybe my nerves are already on edge. Yep. I’m sure that’s it.
The Art Gallery at PAMA recently underwent an expansion to house its growing collection. Under the tutelage of David Somers (curator 1989-2009), this county gallery increased its Permanent Collection from 300 works to over 3500 and counting; his endowment fund enables the gallery to continue to acquire new pieces. An interpretive guide tells us a little about the late curator and the current show honouring him, LEGACY: David Somers and PAMA’s Works on Paper Collection. Some of David’s favourite pieces, as assembled from his archival notes, are on display. There is artwork by internationally renowned artists like Andy Warhol and David Hockney. I recognize pieces by Michael Snow and Robert Motherwell, but it’s the charming etching and aquatint on paper, Interior and Exterior by Annie Pootoogook, a third generation artist of Innuit heritage, that holds my attention.
PAMA is a cheap date and a great way to spend an afternoon. Adult tickets are $4.50, less for kids and seniors, and a family of up to seven people can enter for $10.
The sun has come out while we were in the gallery and it’s become a serene summer’s day. I’m meeting with Robert Woodcock, Theatre Production Coordinator for Rose Theatre Brampton, in about half an hour; it gives DTC and me enough time to wander across the street to Gage Park.
In its earliest days, Brampton was a global powerhouse in the cut flower industry. Established in 1863, Dale’s Nursery was the largest of the city’s employers and the biggest nursery in North America in its heyday, producing 20 million blooms and encompassing 140 greenhouses. At one time, there were 48 nurseries operating in town. Along the way, Brampton adopted the moniker Flower City as a part of its revitalization efforts and to honour its heritage; the Rose Theatre was named in step with this strategy.
You see the results of these efforts downtown. The flowerbeds are abundant and gorgeous. In the park’s centre is a picturesque gazebo, which is wrapped with twinkling lights and ringed with a skating rink in winter. I am drawn to the canopy of trees overhead and aiming my camera directly up the trunk of some sort of coniferous when I am nearly bonked on the head by a falling pinecone. Then another. And another. An industrious squirrel is stockpiling provisions and I happen to be in the way. Moving right along.
The gardens are even more lush at the new city hall adjacent to the park. There is a rotating sculpture of three girls at play entitled Young Canada by Manfred, and a water feature celebrating Etobicoke Creek. As I am framing a photo of the building, a woman scoots apologetically out of the shot. I offer my thanks and then inquire about the gelato she is obviously enjoying. She points to a store a few doors over. “Have you ever had Whole Foods gelato?” I shake my head. “Well, this is a thousand times better.” Duly noted and bookmarked.
Rob is waiting for us in the lobby of the Rose Theatre. A big handshake and a quick smile, he is generous with his time even though he is a busy man; besides heading up the programming for the Summer Theatre Series, he is directing two of its four plays and also oversees the children’s art camp. Rob is in what may be a unique situation: heading a theatre company as an employee of a municipality. The company grew out of Brampton’s need for homemade programming due to the size restrictions at The Heritage Theatre, the venue which predated the Rose Theatre complex. The 20’x20′ stage—brick wall to brick wall—made for such a challenging space that they weren’t able to book many touring shows. Hence the birth of the theatre company 15 years ago and its place in the operating budget for the city.
Black plastic chairs on black risers in a black-walled room, Studio Two is the quintessential black box theatre. The smaller of the two performance areas, this space can be configured with seating and stage in an endless variety. For last year’s 12 Angry Men, the seats were raked up opposite walls, the performance taking place around a long table in the middle. Brilliant.
This current layout holds exactly 100 seats. The stage is wide and shallow, yet it takes up a good portion the room; the space is intimate and the walls of the mansion loom over us. Sarah Scroggie’s set is an absolute visual delight. Based on the board game 13 Dead End Drive (sort of like Clue for those of my generation), the floor of the stage is painted like tiles, indicating the internal geography of a mansion; cartoonish portraits and faux rugs complete the effect. Rob explains that the element of game playing, at the very heart of Sleuth, inspired the setting.
The main space, with seating for 870, houses the largest stage I’ve ever stood on. It’s mesmerizing and humbling and awesome. Not only does it host theatrical productions, concerts and movies, the main stage has also been home to private dinner parties. You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown, the fourth and final show of the Summer Series, opens here in a few weeks.
We bid Rob adieu and go on the hunt for supper. DTC and I are still a little full of pho but we know we’ll need something to tide us over. We settle into Fanzorelli’s Restaurant & Wine Bar nearby and decide on a dozen Malpeque oysters to start, a shared insalata mista to follow, all washed down with frosted pints of Stella Artois. A lovely late afternoon salute.
A basket of foccaccia arrives: dense and chewy and heaven of the sort a low-carb dieter dreams. Then the oysters, all glistening pretty on the half shell, little pots of freshly grated horseradish and mignonette sauce on the side. They taste like the sea and fill me with joy. I like the ritual of it: lemon squeeze, tip back, slip back, down the throat. (Insider’s pro tip: Fanzorelli offers oysters for half-price on Tuesday nights this summer. And any night, a 15% discount if you have a Rose Theatre ticket for that evening’s performance.) The insalata mista is piled high and drenched with a nicely balanced vinaigrette—a perfect ending.
We have lingered a little too long over dinner and slip into the last two seats as we arrive just before curtain; I forgot it was general admission. Moments later, the lights begin to tease over the set; it feels a little like the Haunted Mansion ride at Disney World, all lurid colours and spooky innuendo.
This production of Sleuth, by Anthony Shaffer, is directed by our friend Rob. The actors Scott Carmichael and Dan Karpenchuk, are old friends of Rose Theatre and warmly draw us into the game. Despite the fact that this classic is more than 40 years old, it hasn’t aged a bit. It’s only when we are nearing intermission that I realise I’ve seen the Laurence Olivier-Michael Caine movie version of this play. No matter; though I remember a substantial plot twist, I don’t remember the ending and I still jump like a nervous nellie at the gunshots, each and every one.
Pacing is a tricky beast, even more so with a thriller: too slow and the story loses momentum; too fast and you lose half your audience. Rob and the actors find the right rhythm—the repartee is quick and the show zips gleefully along. The original music by Alexsis Karpenchuk adds to the fraught atmosphere. The actors play cat and mouse, artful, devious, with mounting tensions until we rush breathless to the final twist at the end. Fantastic fun!
Post-show, the audience is animated with chatter as we file out of the theatre. DTC and I are in for a long late drive home, so we grab a couple of coffees (the gelato café was closed; I checked) and I root around in the picnic basket for one of those buns from the Chinese bakery. I shift into drive and we hit the road, following taillights headed east.
Anne Heathcote—writer, roadtripper, and theatre lover—is counting her blessings in Prince Edward County.
]]>With my Designated Travel Companion (DTC) at the wheel, I am headed north to the land of sixteen hundred lakes, granite outcrops, millionaire mansions, Kurt and Goldie. Cottage country. I know this area mostly by reputation: endless bumper-to-bumper drives up and down, at the poles of the weekend; more long line-ups at that famous hamburger joint on Highway 11; the movie Meatballs.
But this cottage country isn’t the cottage country I grew up with. I was raised in Southwestern Ontario where our cabin was on a lake so great, you couldn’t see the other side of it, and the beaches were wide and sandy. So I am completely gobsmacked when I step out of the car to take a photo of the Bala town sign and am hit with the unmistakable scent of cottage/water/beach from my childhood. It’s a heady mixture of smells I’ve never been able to dissect ingredient by ingredient, but which I recognize immediately. One of those early memories that embed themselves in our DNA, like the smell of a new box of crayons or a purple-inked math test still warm from the Ditto machine.
The trip north, on a sunny Saturday morning, requires a great deal of fortitude on my part. Countless yard sales, farm stands, butter tart stands, even an art show under a tent in the park of a small hamlet tug at the steering wheel. It’s a longish drive today and I don’t want to be late to meet Eva Moore, Artistic Director/Producer/Director/Force of Nature at Actors’ Colony Theatre.
Eva Moore is a helluva dame.
It’s an old-fashioned term my Mom uses, and one not in wide circulation these days. But how else to describe a woman who has the gumption to restart a long-defunct theatre group through sheer force of will? Not in any way to discount the efforts of the many behind Actors’ Colony Theatre (ACT), but when we meet for coffee, Eva is working it. The box office phone is forwarded to her cell, and she answers a couple of calls while we chat. She takes ticket reservations, gives directions, and strategizes with a volunteer about where to find chairs to get the number of seats above 70. “The Anglicans have some extra ones and my neighbour has a trailer.” I tell her this is the greatest quote I’ve ever transcribed.
After helming the Stephenville Theatre Festival in Newfoundland for five years, Eva came to Bala to visit her old friend Annette Procunier, an international theatre adjudicator, in the autumn of 2010. She never left. That winter, after learning that professional theatre was birthed right here, and over a bottle of wine, a plan was hatched to relaunch the company.
Actors’ Colony Theatre was the first professional troupe in Canada, founded by John Holden in 1934 in exchange for room and board. The first group of actors were each paid the princely sum of $11 for the season. The company performed in Victory Hall; the theatre upstairs, the jail downstairs. Eva tells us that Saturday evening performances were often interrupted by the ruckus from drunk tank inhabitants who quickly learned that their silence could be bought with cigarettes. The Victory Hall burned down in 1942. With the venue gone and their young men off to war, priorities were elsewhere. ACT all but faded from memory.
That second beginning, summer of 2011, the New Actors’ Colony Theatre (the ‘New’ was dropped this year) produced four shows in repertory plus one ‘bought’ show. Without a dedicated theatre space, the troupe set up shop in the Bala Community Centre. Mounting a season in a shared space had its complications. There wasn’t a drunk tank to deal with, but the thrice-weekly exercise class required a full set strike. Ditto Monday night bingo. Since 2012, the troupe has made a home in the town’s curling club.
While Eva takes a call, I poke around Cottage Cravings Café and Gift Shop where we’ve been chatting. It’s been here for just over two years, reincarnated after an earlier location in Gravenhurst was razed by a fire. The owners, Henny and Randy Brown, had been living upstairs of the store; they lost everything.
This current version is a one-stop shop: a gift store, ice cream/hot chocolate bar (seasonally), sandwich counter, with a freezer full of prepared foods made in the homey kitchen right at the front. Cottage Cravings seems like the sort of place where you head in for a coffee and kind of wander over to the retail section and come out with linen napkins, a couple of candles and a jar of fancy mustard you didn’t realise you needed but are glad to have. Henny tells me that variety is what allows them to stay open year-round, after the summer population of several thousand dwindles to 416 full-timers.
We bid Eva goodbye and head over to the theatre’s box office to pick up tickets for this evening. While waiting my turn at the trailer, I strike up a conversation with a smiling blonde-haired woman who is waiting beside her motorcycle. We chatter about what I’m doing in Bala, what she’s doing in Bala, and our common plans to see this evening’s performance of Driving Miss Daisy. Kate, one of ACT’s 20+ active volunteers, gets me sorted quickly.
I wander next door to Overboard, a woman’s clothing and home accents store. Inside, owner Sheila Overbeek is making connections with a new customer as she rings up her purchases. They discover friends in common—Sheila’s neighbour plowed Laurie’s driveway this winter or something like that; I’m trying not to eavesdrop. But what I get is that sense of small town connectedness I’ve witnessed time and again.
High atop a shelf, in amongst the glassware and kitchen accessories, I discover a taxidermy bear cub who looks as surprised as I am. Sheila tells me that it was found on the side of the road by her stepfather, who then had it stuffed, more than 20 years ago. It’s become somewhat of a mascot for the store. Which is why, when its nose got squished while being driven in the front seat of Sheila’s Audi (to transport it, not for a joy ride), she had it repaired by a girlfriend who just happens to have that skill set. Handy. And now that the tail’s fallen off, back to the shop it goes.
Sheila herself is a hoot. I feel like I could have yapped with her all afternoon. She has a great sense of style: cropped haircut, big earrings, and is wearing a softly flowing sweater over comfortably rumpled linen trousers. It’s the same casual chic that’s echoed in the clothing on the racks. She tells me that the ACT box office is the church’s repurposed crepe shack that gets hauled out for the Cranberry Festival. She offered to host it on her lot, just one way she supports the troupe.
Next, DTC and I take a spin up to Johnston’s Cranberry Marsh a few kilometres northwest of town. The business, started by Orville Johnston in 1950, is one of only three cranberry farms in the province. Inside the shop, we are surprised by the vast assortment of cranberry-themed products: preserves; cookbooks; candles; juice; and frozen, dried, or chocolate-dipped cranberries. I am intrigued by the deep red brown of the cranberry honey, produced by bees which pollinate the blossoms on the farm. There is also a tasting bar for their Muskoka Lakes Winery, which makes wine from fruits native to the area.
We head to the Old Marsh Trail, just down the hill from the shop. I am immediately descended upon by mosquitoes (this summer’s leitmotif, apparently), my DTC unharmed as usual. A standard dousing of insect repellant leaves me un-pestered for the remainder of the trek. Off we go.
From the placards dotted along the trail, I learn that cranberries don’t grow in water (I feel like maybe I should have known this already), but the marshes are flooded three times a year. Flooding in spring and winter protects the vines; in the fall, it makes harvesting easier. Also, cranberries float because they have four air chambers. I’m going to clean up next trivia night.
It’s a dazzling trek around the original cranberry marsh. Dragonflies dart and dance among the pond lilies, crows caw, and we are briefly serenaded by a bullfrog choir. As we round a bend, I spy stacks of colourful bee boxes that are a hive (sorry) of activity.
DTC notes the fence “to keep bears away.”
“Stupid humans,” I counter.
“It’s an electric fence,” he points out.
“Really stupid humans,” I counter again.
Turns out DTC is right. We find a note explaining that the electrified fence was added after happy bears discovered the hives the first year. The battery powering the electric fence was moved inside the enclosure after the happy and smart bears learned to unhook it.
The young lady at the shop had said that this trail takes approximately 30 minutes to go around. DTC and I are so taken with the sights and sounds that we’ve been here for nearly an hour.
We’ve worked up an appetite. Good thing we have pre-booked ACT’s dinner theatre package at Moon River Lookout. We’re cheerfully greeted by Tiffany Bol, who has owned this restaurant with her husband Ken, the chef, for more than 15 years. We walk through a wood-paneled main dining room to a screened-in front porch that looks like it belongs to the lavish Muskoka cottage owned by your millionaire friends. It’s a terrific space, with elevated views over the river, and, I’m told, sensational winter sunsets.
As an homage to Bala’s designation as Cranberry Capital of Ontario, our salad greens are dotted with dried versions of the fruit, and the hand-battered lake pickerel is accompanied by a pink, cranberry-infused tartar sauce. Also, some really really excellent fries. It’s a lovely meal, perfectly prepared and presented.
We chat with the locals the next table over who tell us to follow their car to the show as they’re headed there as well. The building we pull up to is unmistakably a curling club. Long, low building, metal sides and top, a gravel parking lot. A true go-getter, Eva is taking tickets at the door. I say hello to the lady I met earlier at the box office and ask where her motorcycle is. She tells me that she arrived here by boat; she’s yet to get inside a car this weekend. Cottage life.
The interior of the curling club has been magically transformed into a black box theatre. Heavy curtains line the walls to make the space more intimate. A low stage sits in what I guess would be the middle of the ice, were it winter. The economical set—a desk and a chair here, a table with a telephone on it over there, a couple of chairs down stage right—suffices. Two straight-backed chairs on a lower riser, a pair of cushions behind, create the car. Effective use of lighting delineates where we are, where to look. This is theatrical simplicity at its best.
The actors give charming and effective performances. Little musical interludes with cello, violin and banjo move us along. The play is a series of vignettes which trace the deepening relationship between Daisy and her chauffeur Hoke, and also gently show the passage of time. The largest leap forward, with its attendant aging of the characters, is done so well, with now-trembling voices and unsteady gaits, murmurs of appreciation ripple through the audience.
Response to this production has been great. So great, in fact, on a recent night, Eva had to turn people away at the door; they literally ran out of seats. One enterprising couple pulled two camp chairs out of the trunk of their car and plopped themselves down at the back of the theatre. BYOC.
Like any good story, there have been a few twists and turns along the way for Actors’ Colony Theatre. This season, their fourth, they hope to find their feet, their rhythm. DTC poses the question I am too shy to ask: “Where does your resolve come from?”
Eva apologizes if her answer seems trite, even if it is heartfelt. “It’s the right thing to do. Professional theatre started here 80 years ago. Why not fight for it?”
Anne Heathcote—a writer, roadtripper and theatre lover—is counting her blessings in Prince Edward County.
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I had a moment of panic when I realized that I’d scheduled myself for three outdoor evening performances in a row. All that outside-ness, all that exposure to the elements. All those mosquitoes.
I’ll freely admit that I am a mosquito magnet. We all know one; that person to whom the little peskies are inexplicably, inexorably drawn. The person everyone wants to be friends with because, consequently, everyone in their orbit remains bite-free. Well, I am that one. The Chosen One. The Itchy.
When I visited 4th Line Theatre the other week, I thought I was a goner. The moment I climbed into the car to start the road trip to Millbrook, I was bitten by a mosquito—an omen. However, that prediction was a nonstarter. Not only did I not see another little blighter for the remainder of the day, I didn’t even think about them again save for admiring the acrobatics of the swallows who were feasting on same.
So when I have the chance to speak to Jeremy Smith, Founding Artistic Director and General Manager of Driftwood Theatre Group, in advance of the preview, I ask him: “What advice can you give to people attending their first outdoor performance?”. He says, “We encourage all audience members to come prepared for being outdoors at sunset!”, meaning blankets, warm clothing, picnics, lawn chairs.
I hear “MOSQUITOES!!!”.
Turns out my fears are unfounded.
I could guess that it’s the new bug repellent I’ve purchased and soaked in, or maybe my chemistry has changed and I’m no longer in with the insects, but both theories are debunked when I sit out with friends the following evening and am descended upon. The truth is, for the duration of The Tempest, I don’t swat. I don’t see anyone in the audience swat. I don’t even see the actors swat. Is it possible that the world of the theatre conjures up such magic that keeps them at bay?
Or maybe it was the garlic. Does it work like that, like with vampires?
Lunch, you see, was a feast and heavy on the allium sativum. My Designated Travel Companion (DTC) for this trip is an ex-Torontonian like myself, relocated to small-town Ontario. And while we are grateful for the quality of lifestyle we are afforded in our little slice of rural heaven, sometimes you need supplies you can only get in the Big Smoke; like kaffir lime leaves and fermented soy bean paste and the good peanut oil. So any trip to the city must necessarily include a stop at an international grocery store to stock up on supplies, and a good meal at an ethnic restaurant to stock up on tastes. DTC hasn’t been to the Pacific Mall in Markham, which claims to be the largest Chinese indoor shopping mall in North America, so we decide to head there. After lunch.
We steer directly to the Hakka Chinese cuisine of Federick Restaurant, just north of Steeles at Markham Rd. I know the older location on Ellesmere, long a favourite within my circle of friends. This new place is elegant and pretty, with dark wood and bamboo growing in pots and red shaded chandeliers, but with the same easy vibe, speedy service and delicious food that keeps us coming back year after year. And cheap. Did I mention cheap?
The lunch special menu (11am-3pm) lists 26 items (A to Z) that can be yours for $5.75 each. Overwhelmed by choice and our need to hustle, I ask our waiter to suggest three dishes to share. It’s loud in the restaurant; I can barely hear him; we decide to trust him. The pitchers of water and green tea arrive immediately. The first plate of food shows up within five minutes. I barely have time to make notes.
The chicken is moist and with just enough heat to make my lips burn pleasantly. The noodle dish, bright red and smoky, is studded with chicken, bok choy and broccoli; an unexpected and sensational combination of flavours. The green beans that follow are shiny, still crunchy, and liberally doused with garlic. Not a single one gets left behind, even though we are stuffed.
Promptly at 2:59 pm, a server removes the lunch special displays from the tables. This place is efficient.
When the waiter arrives with our bill (three dishes + drinks + tax < $20), I ask him for the names of the dishes we have just eaten.
“Chili Chicken,” he says. I scribble this down.
“Manchurian Chow Mein.” Ditto.
“Green beans.”
“What kind of green beans?” I ask.
“Just green beans.” Okay.
(I look it up later. They are Kan Shue Green Beans and they are amazing. They also keep people—and possibly mosquitoes—at arm’s length for the rest of the day.)
Happily sated, we lumber onwards to Pacific Mall. As we sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Steeles in the mid-afternoon, we realise that, even though we’ve dined in record time, time is tight. We can hit only one store, so I choose Grand Fortune Food Mart, the one I used to frequent when I was a big city girl. It’s not the largest or the shiniest of the markets in this ever-expanding Asian neighbourhood, but the place is friendly and not too too busy. The 30,000 square feet houses rows and rows of perfectly placed product, cans and jars stacked neatly, every shelf filled to capacity.
My shopping list is a little dull, so in addition to ginger and daikon, I grab dinosaur plums, mangosteens and rambutan. In the extensive seafood section, two ladies see me snapping photos and point out a gigantic severed fish head nestled in shaved ice. They laugh at my astonishment. “It’s bigger than MY head!” I tell them. More giggles.
I fail to take a photo of the fish head.
Opting to avoid the DVP and instead crawl down Don Mills Rd. through East York to catch Pottery Road to Todmorden Mills (still with me?), DTC remembers a favourite bakery along the way. Despite my fear that this travel blog is turning into a food diary, we need caffeine darn it, (and, apparently, baklava) to shake the postprandial stupor we find ourselves in. Select Bakery, a longtime fixture just outside the boundaries of Greektown, still has fresh bread and piles of desserts, sticky with honey, this late in the day. While DTC loads up, I delicately demur. That might be a lie.
We arrive at Todmorden Mills Heritage Site, the venue for this evening’s performance of The Tempest. Even though it’s easily accessible, between Broadview Ave. and the Bayview Extension, and is a “green oasis within a major urban centre” according to the brochure, neither DTC nor I have ever been. It’s a lovely spot in a 9.2 hectare wildflower preserve, and provides a much-needed respite from our day in traffic. We gratefully alight the car, stretch, and start looking for the stage.
For the first few seasons, Driftwood was based out of the Durham region, where Jeremy grew up. As they “grew older and bolder”, they decided to push the boundaries a little. They headed east as far as Kingston, seeking places where access to professional theatre was spotty at best. Now in its 20th season, Driftwood is sought out by towns as much as they seek them out, continuing to expand its reach year after year; this current tour sees them into more than 25 communities in Ontario.
The Artistic Director stresses that, at the heart of Driftwood Theatre Group, is the idea that “great theatre is only of value if an audience has access to it.” It’s why all performances of the Bard’s Bus Tour operate on a Pay What You Can basis. There’s a suggested minimum offering of $20, and the reserved seats (or blankets, if you prefer) cost $22-24 when you book ahead online.
When I ask him about what makes a perfect venue for the touring company, Jeremy tells me that Driftwood can settle in almost anywhere. “We perform in venues ranging from wonderfully quaint heritage sites to modern urban squares. For us, a great venue is defined by its audience.” This evening, the audience is a little on the small side due to unforeseen problems; the kind of thing they can’t plan for but have to deal with as a touring company in a new venue almost every night.
Earlier, potential audience members had been warned via Facebook that a belching, gas-fuelled generator had wreaked havoc on Driftwood’s dress rehearsal. The monster, a mere 30′ from the stage, now sits silently. The electricians, who had been relying on it to power repairs to a nearby fire-damaged building, did finish their work before showtime. But it means that the preview audience is sparser than usual. No matter. Susan Green, Front of House Manager, helpfully sets up our chairs right near the stage, in the reserved section, demarcated by yellow tape. I notice there are snacks and bug spray for purchase at the concession stand, and chairs and blankets can be rented if you don’t want to bring your own.
And anyway, the audience quietly grows in size as the performance continues. Every time, it’s the same sequence of events: people out for a stroll in the park, with their kids, with their dogs, stumble unawares upon the scene. They stop, surprised and delighted, and are immediately engaged. They stand and watch for a few minutes or take a seat in the grass, and let the spectacle and the Shakespeare wash over them.
Originally employing a proscenium arch stage, Driftwood now performs in the round, and to good effect. The low, square stage, tonight plopped in a clearing at the top of a hill, allows the actors to reach out in all directions. This is especially effective in the opening scene: a fantastically-staged plane crash, updating the storm-buffeted ship from the original text. The modern references to luggage, and use of an air sick bag and toy parachutes, elicit laughs. As they bail from the faltering aircraft, the actors fly off the stage in all directions and out into the audience and beyond. They make good use of the entire surrounding space over the course of the performance.
At the heart of the play, Richard Alan Campbell as Prospero is grave and world-weary as befits a duke down on his fortunes. He is dressed in a dirty undershirt, animal skin and feathers, washed out and wan in earth tones. Campbell’s performance is compelling; I can’t take my eyes off him.
The stage brightens with the arrival of Madeleine Donohue and Peter van Gestel, as Trinculo and Stephano, respectively. Their delightfully comic performances provide levity in this story of betrayal and dark magic. They also perform double duty as the puppeteers behind Ariel and Caliban, highlighting an economy of casting and production that lies at the foundation of a lean and experienced touring machine. It befits the theatre group’s mission statement: “Our aesthetic is one of simple clarity: to tell the best stories and to tell them honestly.”
The simplicity moves through all aspects of the show, providing clean lines upon which our imaginations can grow. It’s how a steering wheel becomes an entire airplane; how a bit of lace and colour becomes a fairy; how we can see past the actors working the puppet to focus instead on the monstrous Caliban himself.
As the second half begins, an almost-full, golden moon peeks from behind the high-rises, skimming the treetops; the hum of the DVP playing underneath. We are bundled under blankets, the tips of our noses chilled, and we remember why we are here: the electricity of Shakespeare’s timeless words, offered plainly but evocatively, crackles through the ethers and jolts us from our complacency, animates our spirits. The Driftwood Theatre Group believes that “everyone who wants to be entertained, provoked, inspired or moved by theatre should be afforded the opportunity to do so.” And we have been. And we are.
Anne Heathcote—a writer, inveterate roadtripper and theatre lover—is counting her blessings in Prince Edward County.
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