Trip 45 — Prince Edward Island Walk

Day 10: Alberton to Miscouche
Thursday, 7 August 2025

Today: 86500 steps/61.19 km/38.02 mi/10h 39m
Total: 506251 steps/354.60 km/220.34 mi/66h 40m

The earliest breakfast time at La Petite France was 7:30 — even that was stretching it a half-hour earlier than the posted notice, next to the blackboard where guests would write their preferred times.

It was buffet-style, and a lot to set out for only one guest: fruit, yogurt, cereal, cold meat, cheese, bread, homemade jam, blueberry crumble, two juices, tea, and coffee (I should have told Hubert I don't drink that) — and that's before the scrambled eggs.

"You'll need it for your long day," he said. "Be sure to take extra with you."

I took the second blueberry crumble, but I didn't want more weight than that. This early repast would certainly last me until lunch, eight hours away.

He watched me apply the bug spray outside. "They're used to PEI blood," he said. "You have fresh blood."

I started along Church Street. It passed two more churches, went downhill, and then turned to the left as the continuation of Route 12. I was greeted by the morning's fauna: mosquitoes, a crow that came to the overhead wire to say hello and then flew away, and two unfenced golden retrievers. They barked, but how can I be put off by golden retrievers?

New Country played Taylor Swift and it was a good beat for walking swiftly: that song about short skirts and the bleachers. I never realized that she breathes in the middle of those three-note "ee" vowels. She recorded them in a studio. Why couldn't she hold the syllable all the way through?

At nine I switched over to CBC for the news — tariffs here, tariffs there, Trump sounding like that fist-pounding ignoramus from that horrible "Robin Hood" animated film ("Double the taxes! Triple the taxes!") — followed by three hours of classical music. De Falla's "Montañesa" ("Landscape") didn't have the same persuasive energy for walking as Taylor Swift, but it certainly was in concert with the serene surroundings.

There was a fair amount of traffic, and I walked in the shoulder rather than the road. Along this stretch of Route 12, the shoulder was fairly wide and not too rocky. It was soft dirt, easy on the feet.

I was making good progress, staying well under 11 minutes per kilometer. I had vestiges of blisters on my left heel, and the little toe wasn't quite shipshape, but I'd refined the art of applying bandages of the proper sizes in the proper places.

After I crossed the bridge into Cascumpec, to the left was a little field of wildflowers: sections of purple, white, and yellow. It was barely visible unless you looked deliberately from the shoulder, and most people probably missed it. But there it was, brightening up the day for those who paid attention. It enhanced a morning that was already delightful for its sunshine, I was satisfied with my pace, and even the mosquitoes weren't too bad. But would I still be this happy in 50 kilometers?

As I came down Route 12 through Cascumpec, Beethoven's fourth piano concerto came on, and music doesn't get much more lovely than that. The piece took me all the way to Portage, where I sat down for my first rest, after 22½ kilometers. That's about as far as I can go without stopping.

I'd been through Portage before. The treacherous Bay Road, part of my previous 60-kilometer day, was right across Route 2, with a clearly visible "Road closed" sign. Last week, I'd stayed on the southern side of Route 2 and picked up the Confederation Trail heading west.

Now I stayed on the north side of Route 2 and took the trail east, through the wetlands. The insects here were primarily dragonflies, butterflies, and grasshoppers. Other than a construction crew, I saw no one on the trail — no walkers or bikers. Past the wetlands, a few homes were just off the trail, with children playing.

I followed the trail for 15 kilometers and then turned east onto a dirt road for about 20 minutes. A trio of golden retrievers barked but stayed just within their lawn, perhaps restrained by an invisible fence. At the next house, a weary-looking golden retriever came into the street with something in its mouth, hopeful for some attention.

"I wish I could play with you," I said. It retreated, listlessly.

The dirt road became paved and dropped me into Tyne Valley, 39½ kilometers and just under seven hours into the walk. This remote town has several eateries, and Backwoods Burger was highly recommended. I had a burger with bacon and overflowing with macaroni and cheese on top, accompanied by fries "with the works” — onions, ground beef, peas, and gravy. It could have fed all of Tyne Valley, and I almost finished it.

"A valiant effort," my server said. "We have a dolly downstairs, if you want to be wheeled out of here."

"I'm going to walk it off for the next four hours," I said.

"Where are you going?"

"To Miscouche. I started today in Alberton."

It didn't take her long to calculate that distance.

"Are you doing the Island Walk?"

"An expanded version," I said, and we discussed the whole Abecedarian Walks project and my having read Dori MacLean's book. The server was well acquainted with the author, who lives in the area, and the predicament of there being nowhere to stay between Alberton and Miscouche.

"Enjoy our overcast, cloudless day," she said.

"For better or for worse." The wildfires were in the middle of the country, but they're responsible for the sheen that's protected me from direct sunlight for a few days, as well as the poor air in the Midwest.

I don't know what was in that burger, but I was flying for the next hour. Totally in my element, somewhere between a walk and a trot, under ten minutes per kilometer, two of them under nine. Late-afternoon sun, steps in rhythm, even without Taylor Swift. The occasional jogger to greet. The sweet smell of farms in the evening.

The last crossing, over the Grand River. A side street called Itch-A-Bit Drive promised mosquitoes, but instead there were black midges, hundreds visible at a time. They didn't bother me, though, and I rounded the shore and headed up Allen Road.

And the final turn, about 45 minutes later. Now I was back along Route 2, busy with trucks, the sun setting behind me. A noisy place, but a safe shoulder for walking. I could have used a rest, but I was afraid I wouldn't get up again. How was I still beating 11-minute kilometers?

Where the speed limit dropped near the entrance to Miscouche, there was one of those digital signs that tell drivers how fast they're going. I don't know where the camera was, but the numbers flashed long before the cars approached. From what I could tell, the display went dark by the time a driver could make out the numbers. If a driver did get close enough to read them, they were for a trailing car.

Shoe removal was requested at the entrance to the Prince County Guest House, and I couldn't take them off fast enough. I was shown the common areas downstairs — the guest kitchen, the TV lounge, even a piano in working condition — and then escorted up to my room, where I lay on the bed and wondered whether I could catapult myself into the bathroom without walking there.

But I was still happy. This was the last of the 60-kilometer days. And Liz will be here tomorrow.

Go on to day 11