Thursday, January 29, 2015

This Is How Horror Movies Start

Friday August 15, 2015

I suppose you are wondering about the title of this post.  It does NOT in any way refer to St. Martins, New Brunswick or Century Farm campground.  These are charming places and we are very happy to explore the waterfront of our campsite as well as the adorable town in which it's located.

Our view

We spend the first day checking out the town and laying in some provisions from the tiny general store.  They make their own sausage, so of course we have to try those.  Also, vegetables because you know, Twizzlers.  We buy some firewood on the way back from the campground next door and have our lunch of sandwiches.  Mary has one of her Magic Bullet smoothies again.  I don't know how she does it.  After that, the boys putter around a bit while Rob does some work (that thing that's paying for all this adventure).  Mary and I decide to walk to St. Martins Harbour where, we are told, there will be shopping which has been in short supply this trip.  Our campground hosts, Byard and Linda Moran, supply us with a map:


If there is one thing I learned on this trip about campground hosts it's that they LOVE maps and sharpies.  Just look at all those colors!  Anyway, what looks like it will be a pretty good hike turns out to take just about 20 minutes.  On the way there, we pass beautiful old summer cottages, several of which are now B&Bs.  We also come upon this interesting covered bridge.

If you can see the purple blob toward the top of the map, that is our destination.  It's Harbour Park and there is a faux lighthouse with plexiglass windows and a treacherous staircase to the top.  The effect is a little like being in a strange attic.  It's dusty and filled with old photos of people we don't know.  On the way down, we make the mistake of engaging in chit chat with the girl behind the information desk.  I'm thinking she doesn't see too many visitors.  As the sun begins to set and the breeze turns chillier, she decides to engage us in a thorough examination of what we are planning to do and see.  As we are leaving tomorrow after a quick tour of the sea caves, we can't really tell her much.  HUGE MISTAKE.  She starts adding colors to our map with a crayon, highlighting her faves. She thrusts brochures we already have into our hands.  We take them; she is scary.
You can never have too many brochures...
Okay, here's the horror movie part.  As we are trying to leave, she calls us back one more time to tell us about the one thing we "absolutely, positively have to do."  There is a place called Anvil Rock where there's a real lighthouse and "the BEST beach ever."  Having been to the Grenadine Islands, I doubt this, but she is on a roll.  She tells us, "You have to climb over some slippery rocks to get there, and you must leave before dark because once the tide rolls in you'll be stranded for the night."  Ummm...no thank you?  We thank her and pry ourselves away.  As we are leaving, Mary, who is prone to scary scenarios, supposes that if we went, we would likely run into our enthusiastic tour guide wielding an axe and laughing maniacally.  They always fall for it!  Ha Ha Ha Ha! 


We head back to the RV where the boys have made a roaring campfire.  The previously serene campground has been replaced by a raucous, packed RV party.  It's Friday and the weekenders have arrived.  I'm reminded of those scenes in movies when the circus comes to town and sets up their camp.  What is fascinating to me is that they all seem to know each other.  We must look like outliers to them: this quiet, white bread family of five, with our foldable camp chairs and '40s era big band playing on our speakers.  I pour myself a martini and Rob cracks a beer and we soak in the goings on around us.

After our dinner of delightful homemade sausages, bacon drippings-roasted potatoes (if you said 'ew', don't knock it till you try it) and a big salad, we huddle around the campfire for s'mores.  The younger two retire fairly quickly because the weather has turned downright cold.  See your breath cold.  The 17 year old waits it out till us old folks head inside as well; he has a prowl in mind, we think.  Sure enough, he disappears for a while and we go to bed.  Oh to be young and anticipating adventure around every corner!  He returns just in time to say goodnight.  We are not sure if he's smiling because he had some fun or because tomorrow is our last day.  The kids are all kind of RV'd out at this point, but they've been great sports.


We didn't even make them stand together.  Surely this St. Martins is a land of miracles.





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