Trip 45 — Prince Edward Island Walk

Day 7: West Point to Pleasant View
Sunday, 3 August 2025

Today: 65717 steps/42.96 km/26.69 mi/8h 33m
Total: 328241 steps/232.44 km/144.43 mi/44h 9m

The dredging boat lulled me to sleep. It was like the whir of a taxiing airplane: oscillating, rhythmic, comforting, predictable.

This morning it was my left calf and right quad and, curiously, my right arm that were sore. But my feet were starting to get back into shape, and I could execute athletically adventurous maneuvers such as standing up without whimpering and walking downstairs facing forward.

I looped around West Point via the park road and rejoined Route 14. My destination was on the same road, 42 kilometers ahead. Fourteen threes. Seven sixes. Six sevens. Three 14s. Halfway there at 21...

Or I could follow my progress based on the house numbers. The park road put me at about number 4300. I was headed to about 12500. Every increase of a thousand would be a mark of progress.

Heading north, I followed a string of wind turbines for about 15 kilometers. They provided their own hum, a melancholy duet with my footsteps. Meanwhile, CBC provided appropriate music for a Sunday morning, a mass written in 1598 by Géry de Ghersem — the only extant complete piece of his, as the rest were destroyed by earthquake and fire in 1755.

Route 14 worked its way toward the coast until it ran roughly parallel to the water, a few hundred meters inland. On both sides were houses of various sizes: some single-story, long and squat, and some two or three stories, with angles and two-car garages. Most were set back from the road behind large lawns. The names on the mailboxes were a hodgepodge of English and French names: Doucette, Cooke, Chaisson, MacKendrick, MacWilliams, MacThis and MacThat — many Scottish settlers came this way in the early 1800s, which explains the College of Piping.

I was moving, but I was nowhere near my usual speed. My first kilometer was 11 minutes, and it went up from there. When Helga scored my eleventh kilometer with "Split pace twelve minutes, eleven seconds," I cursed my lack of progress.

Corn, potatoes, turbines, sea, houses. Green lawns. Traffic, but not too much. The occasional cliff at the sea's edge. I had my guard up after my experiences in Coleman and Milo, and with every house I approached, I looked for dogs. There was no trouble today, but I was suspicious of anything that seemed dog-sized. I fixed my gaze on a suspect for several minutes until I realized it was a black wheelbarrow. The cow statue at the Cassa Barra Farm — was it going to rush me? Much later on, there would be a dog statue.

At 16 kilometers, I found a rusty bench at the Cape Wolfe Cemetery. The seat was so flimsy that if I had leaned back fully, it might have toppled over. But it was a pleasant place for some cheese, pepperoni stick, and cucumber, with the sea behind the well-appointed graves.

It's been hard to resume after a break on this trip. I can't just get up and start walking again. It's as if I have to learn it anew, taking one step, seeing how it feels, taking another, and starting up with the full weight of each leg, placing them deliberately. The first kilometer after a break has been tedious, and it's only after that when I can maintain anything resembling a normal gait.

Also challenging was the shape of the road. The way Route 14 was crowned, my left foot was often lower than my right. I sometimes walked on the shoulder, flat but a mixture of grass and dirt, and it was better for balance but not always as comfortable. Sometimes the road had a dip in the asphalt, a sort of gutter to accommodate both feet.

The weather was perfect. It wasn't too hot, and the sun was behind a gentle screen of haze that prevented it from beating down. There was often a breeze, sometimes a tailwind — good for the psyche if not actually helpful.

A white car was just past the intersection in Campbellton. The driver must have missed the turn and was trying to back up, but cars kept passing him or approaching the intersection from the cross street. Eventually I caught up with him. He wasn't off course after all.

"I've passed you twice," he said. "I'm going your way. Do you want a ride?"

"No, thanks, I like walking."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, thanks. I appreciate your looking out for me!"

The human interaction was welcome. There were a few other walkers and cyclists to exchange hellos with, and the tattooed jogger who passed me went home to house number 7000. But most of my connections with people were waves across wide yards.

As I passed the pond in Roseville, the mosquitoes became horrendous. The bug spray seemed only to attract them. They remained abundant long after the pond, and all I could do was close my eyes and spray ahead of and behind me in a frenzy as I walked. Then I'd see one or more of the little buggers and try to spray it directly, walking into the particles of spray and collecting them in my eyes.

"Big dragonfly. You look hungry!" I said to one of my favorite insects.

I eventually outran the mosquitoes. I'd taken another break on a guardrail, but I needed a third in Miminegash. The Harbour View Convenience store operated a restaurant, and although it was already almost 5:00, I went in for a late lunch.

There were five tables, seating 19 people total. All were empty when I arrived, except for one man, who was almost finished. By the time I'd used the bathroom, there were seven people in line putting in orders, and even more were sitting down. I was glad I'd claimed a seat with my bag.

The person at the register taking orders was about 14 years old. All the customers in front of me ordered quickly, accustomed to lingo such as "with the works," which wasn't explained anywhere on the menu.

I didn't have their finesse of language. Or understand their math. Today's special was a scallop burger for $13, but the same item on the regular menu was $10.99.

"What's the difference between the special scallop burger and the one on the menu?"

"They're the same," the boy said.

"Then why is the one on the menu cheaper?"

He looked at it for a moment and said, "It's an old printing of the menu." My 14-year-old self would have been all over that — I'm still bothered by a bakery place in Brookline, Massachusetts, where the incremental cost of your eighth bagel was more than that of your seventh. But this boy didn't seem bothered.

It didn't matter, because I was going to have scallops for dinner. But I couldn't figure out what to order. I needed to do it fast. There were now more people behind me.

"I'll have a fish burger. What does 'with the works' mean?"

"It means with everything."

"Like what?"

"Tartar sauce, coleslaw, cheese..."

"I don't need that. Just the plain fish burger. With..." I looked at the list of sides, all of which seemed heavy. "Do you have a salad?"

"No, no salad."

"Then...sweet-potato fries. No, fries with peas and gravy."

"And nothing on the fish burger?"

"Can you do tomato?"

"Sure. Tomato."

"And onion?"

"Onion."

I hesitated to tell him that we were already halfway to a salad.

"That'll be great. And...do you have a Coke?"

"Yes, over there."

"A big one?" A can is never enough. "Or medium-sized?" I didn't want him to think I wanted a whole liter.

"Yes, there's a big one." He didn't advertise how big, but I figured I'd know it when I got there.

I paid and reclaimed my spot. The Coke was a perfect 710 milliliters, the equivalent of two cans. The fish burger was small, but the onions were nicely grilled, and I added one of my own slices of cheese. The peas and gravy were a good balance for the fries — something wet but not too salty. I appreciated enhancing them with something other than ketchup. As I left, I gave the boy $2 for his having to deal with my snooty math and my inclination toward the occasional vegetable.

It was after six when I resumed the journey north on Route 14. The sun's descent had turned the sea surface yellow. I passed the Black Pond, and a few minutes later, Todd and Heather, along with their chickens, dogs, and cats, welcomed me to the ThistleBloom B&B. I was about to be well-fed.

Go on to day 8