A sign of the times

In between the rapid shaking of heads about the orange turd and his ridiculous comments – a shaking that reached almost violent proportions as the day went on – a rather pleasant day was had by all. I got up around 9 to find I was still tired, but not hungover. It had been so long since I had had anything more than a couple of drinks, that I was rather worried a pall might be cast on the day. Thankfully not. I was, following a restorative shower and cup of coffee, in a position to enjoy our proposed trip to Wakefield.
 
Although he lives over in Vancouver, Jamie is a northern Yorkshireman by birth. So, the trip to Wakefield we had planned didn’t immediately produce the expected levels of excitement in him; for those that don’t know, Wakefield (the English Wakefield, that is) is a rather dour city, perhaps best known for its coal mines, cathedral, having a pretty good rugby league team, and being the location for a lot of the A Touch of Frost tv series. Wakefield (the Quebec Wakefield, that is) is a small village with a mill, a lovely waterfront, a great market and the Black Sheep Inn, which is one of the best indie music venues in the whole of Canada, if not the world. Having called him an ungrateful arse for his apparent lack of enthusiasm, I chivvied him and the similarly recalcitrant Ottawackers into the car, and drove off to our neighbouring province.
 
A glorious day, warm and sunny, with just the merest of breezes to cool the brow. We made pretty good time to Wakefield – partly because I misread the speed signs – and before we knew it, we were wandering alongside the Gatineau River, admiring the views. It is a small place, but (like me) perfectly formed. A few nice cafes and boutiques, a bakery and depanneur, and of course the world famous in Wakefield Black Sheep Inn. To my absolute horror, it was closed. And, not only was it closed, it didn’t look  like it would ever reopen. This wasn’t what I had planned at all. Having declaimed my disappointment to anyone who would listen, I asked a passing local (you can always tell, they don’t wear shorts) just what the hell was going on. Nobody had asked me for permission to close down the inn and we had a famous Yorkshireman staying with us, so just why was the inn closed?
 
After offering a rather insincere apology (does anyone take responsibility for anything any more?), I subsequently found out that it was closed for extensive renovations and had been since the start of the pandemic. How the hell had I missed this? It seems having the life of a virtual recluse has its downsides.
 
Stop off at the Wakefield Market – a very nice, very small, very French-style market, with excellent Syrian falafel, and a very nice selection of stalls. No cheese, however. Quick visit to the library where I had espied a book sale: in a miraculous turn of events, I was the only one who didn’t buy a book Then back home. Sat in the garden listening to the booming bass of a nearby festival – the Escapade Festival – which is most definitely not my cup of tea, but I’d rather have that than live in a complete cultural wasteland. Having that and living in a complete cultural wasteland though…?
 
Jamie treated us to a Light of India special for dinner – the chefs on top form for once – and then we settled down once again to chat and drink too much wine.