Trip 45 — Prince Edward Island Walk

Day 2: Cornwall to Victoria via Rocky Point
Monday, 28 July 2025

Today: 70269 steps/53.78 km/33.42 mi/9h 49m
Total: 84434 steps/65.99 km/41.00 mi/11h 47m

I liked the breakfast setup at Chez Nous. A basket of bananas and apples was on the counter next to large jars of Nutella and peanut butter. The fridge, which could be raided at any time, contained yogurt, various pastries, orange juice, and lemonade. I could have had breakfast at midnight.

If I'd made it to sleep early enough, I'd have happily fed myself at 6:30 and gotten an early start for today's long route. However, I needed to buy a bottle of water at the grocery store in Cornwall — the only place to buy anything for the next 45 kilometers, except for the honor-system roadside potato kiosks — and the store wouldn't open until eight.

It was cool, overcast, and breezy when I set out. There were a fair number of walkers and joggers along the main road into Cornwall, the same road I had walked last night, and a safe place for those on their feet would have been welcome. Purchasing a bottle of water would not only hydrate me but also, after being paid for with cash, leave me with some coins for the laundry machines in Summerside.

The downside of carrying water was that it would increase the weight of my bag by almost half. When I left New York I had it down to a respectable 3.42 kilograms or 7.7 pounds. The water would add a kilo and a half to that plus the weight of the bottle. My toothpaste tube was now two applications lighter, but that was small consolation.

I passed farms on the way out of Cornwall: cows, horses, and potatoes. After Meadowbank, the road (Route 19) crossed the West River. A few small boats were stationed near the south side. There were 142 steps of sidewalk on the bridge, the last sidewalk I would see for the day. The remaining 8½ hours would all be on roads, shared with traffic.

At New Dominion I turned left to follow Route 19 toward Rocky Point, the northeastern part of this southern bulge. To get me through the rest of the morning, I turned on the radio. The first station that tuned in was 95.1 FM, Island's Country — the only station to make you lose weight by hootin' and hollerin', it claimed.

"That's what I'm honky-tonkying about," I heard in the first song. I like country music as long as it isn't political or objectifying women, which, admittedly, happens a lot. But the lyrics can be sweet, such as "my little dangling-feet, pretty-in-pink backseat driver," a tribute to the singer's daughter.

Listening to local commercials can be illuminating — in between the songs about drinking and driving (usually not at the same time) were ads for Mr. Plumber and Hillside Chevrolet and the jingle for Nova Garage Doors. Jingles are one of the great things about the radio. I remember one I heard exactly twice in the Midwest about 20 years ago and it still sticks with me, something like "You get a better better deal on a better better car...so good good you gotta say it twice twice." But so many are about cars. Has there been a memorable transit jingle since "Take the train to the plane"?

I rounded Rocky Point, which gave me a glimpse of Charlottetown. A sign pointed toward Skmaqn–Port-la-Joye–Fort Amherst, at this peninsula's eastern shore. This is where the island had its first permanent European settlement, and it was also the site of the establishment of an alliance between the Mi'kmaq and the French. It would have been nice to visit the fort's remains and the associated monuments, but I still had seven hours of walking to do. It was either the fort or dinner.

Route 19 now curled west into Cumberland. I finished my 20th kilometer of the day at noon, and the Northumberland Strait, which separates PEI from New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, came into view. On my right were farms.

If I'd been a cow, I could have had lunch. I also could have peed. And sat down. But there was no place to do any of those things until almost two kilometers later, when a bench under a tree next to a church provided me a few minutes' rest. There was still no food (I had two Air Canada cookies but wasn't in the mood), and the only toilet I saw was being hauled along Route 19 at top speed. I almost halted the driver.

I'd had enough country, so I put on the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, which was launching into three hours of young classical musicians — part of their "30 under 30" list, including those from past years. Of note were Ari Hooker's piano etudes, melodious and whimsical, and music for solo trumpet by William Leathers, whose sharp bird calls formed a duet with the crows along Route 19.

By now the sun was shining and it was hot. A section of Route 19 had been repaved, and the surface was still oozing extra heat. There was little shade. I crossed Nine Mile Creek Road, the extension of the road from Cornwall.

As the afternoon dragged on, I understood why they left this area off the Island Walk. Apart from the fort, there was little to see, just farms and people's huge yards. There was no food, nowhere to pee, and nowhere to sit except at the churches. There was no sidewalk, and with all those farms and a mainly straight trajectory, Route 19 was plied by fast traffic replete with those ugly, outsized GMC and F-150 pickup trucks. There were glimpses of the bright water, but I couldn't walk near it, because the access was only down dead-end dirt roads, mostly leading to private communities, campgrounds, lots for sale, and rental homes.

I headed briefly down a short inland dirt road, because of the promise of a church where I could sit for a few minutes and have my second water break. It was also secluded enough for me to take care of business. I'd gone 32 kilometers. I was getting tired; the day had started out with nine kilometers of 10 minutes or less each and now I was up over 11 minutes. I needed another break an hour later, and there was no place for it but on the grass of the sloping shoulder. I sat down and almost lay down.

"Are you OK?" a driver called out from the driveway of a campground.

I put a thumb up. "Fine. Just need a little rest."

A strawberry stand after 40 kilometers turned out to be closed; so was the bakery shed a little farther on. Just before the end of Route 19, I paused again at the DeSable Free Church. I still had eight kilometers to go.

Being in single digits gave me a little more energy, and I sped up as I approached the junction with the Trans-Canada Highway: more trucks and faster traffic. I was three hours past the closing time of the Blue Goose restaurant, one kilometer down, but I found its convenience store open, and I went in to gape at the drink refrigerators and fantasize about being inside them.

I used a proper bathroom and took two half-liter cans of cold, flavored sparkling water and a blueberry muffin. I finished the muffin and one can in about 30 seconds and started on the other, carrying it out and continuing along the highway.

It was 6:30 and the day had gotten cooler, although the sun was still brightly shining. Clutching the cold can felt good. I closed my eyes when trucks passed to avoid taking in any dirt, but even the wind from their whooshing helped cool me down. Eventually I turned onto Shore Road and then the causeway leading to Victoria, and I limped into town at 7:45.

Puppies found me at the door, and their barking summoned Susan, who showed me upstairs at the Oxley House.

"Put your bag down and then you should get moving," she said in a friendly way. "Places will close for dinner soon. What time do you want breakfast?"

I was yearning to sleep in, and tomorrow's journey is much shorter. "Nine? I'm walking only to Carleton-Borden. Or Borden-Carleton." I can never remember which word goes first.

"Then breakfast must be at eight."

"Really? It's less than four hours...oh, you have to open your shop!" Susan sells stained glass from the house.

"Oh, I don't open until eleven."

"How about eight-thirty, then?"

"All right, eight-thirty."

I made it to Casa Mia in time for mussels and shrimp with linguine, along with a glass of sweet Canadian white wine, as the sun set behind some haze. People were picking on the beach at low tide; were they gathering quahogs?

I dined outside. As the temperature cooled down, the mosquitoes revved up their attack. By the end of the meal I was engaged in a frenzied choreography of twisting linguine, scooping mussels from their shells, and swatting at bugs. At least my torso and arms could handle it. My legs, however, need a rest.

Go on to day 3