It was no use. The sun came out, I'd singularly failed to get properly hammered on St Paddy’s day and there was a three hour window before my first meeting.
Glacial pavements offered serious threat to my well being as I shuffled up Rue de Bleury and Avenue de Parc, a straight climb out of the city. I’d elected for shorts and short-sleeved top. OK it was minus three, but the skies were clear and I simply couldn’t face another mobile sauna in my windcheater. This unusual apparel drew slack-jawed gawps from the rush-hour crowd. Oh well.
About a mile out of the city I reached the eastern entrance to the park. I’d studied a map of the ‘mountain’ last night and found that my first excursion had taken in but a section of the full trail. This route would allow me to enjoy the whole serpent, close to seven miles of climbing, slithering ice-trail up and around the miniature peak. Before long my chest and the formidable bulge of my inexplicably* burgeoning belly began to chill. I reckon there’s nothing better than clambering up a snowy slope with a large sack of freezing lard wobbling about around your middle. Unless of course it’s a trip to the Cabáne á Sucre – The Sugar Shack.
The Sugar Shack, like the Love Shack, is a li’ll ol’ place where people get together . . . and eat vast amounts of Maple Syrup. You probably know that most (90%) of the World’s Maple Syrup comes from Canada. Well, most of that originates in Quebec, and Sugar Shacks are outlets set amidst harvest centres. The method of producing this wonderful stuff hasn’t changed too much since forever. Take a drill, bore a hole into the tree trunk, hammer in a tap, hang a bucket off the tap . . . and wait. Eventually you collect enough watery substance from your trees to fill a large vat. Boil the liquid until it pretty much vaporises . . . voila! Maple Treasure.
Lets not let the machinations of syrup retrieval spoil a good story. The IDF team and representatives from fifteen of the world’s largest Diabetes-related pharmaceutical companies set off on an hour-long coach trip to La Sucrerie de la Montagne. The irony of taking the great and the good from the World Diabetes community to a sugar fest was not lost on me. The journey took us out of the city across the Two Lakes Bridge. These lakes are vast and, at this time of year at least, entirely frozen. At the weekends the locals drive out here, hitch up to their bottomless wooden huts and drag them out onto the ice. They park up, drill a hole in the ice, sit on a stool and dangle their rods waiting for a tickle. It all sounds jolly kinky to me, not to mention dangerous when one considers the ramifications of frost bite. Each to his own.
The frozen plains basked in a glorious pink-purple sunset as we ventured further away from civilization and into the wilds of Canada. This is wolf and bear country, home to huntsmen and maple gatherers and not much else. The sun wasn’t the only thing to have dropped in the last hour; away from the energy-pulsing cityscape the temperature plummeted. Finally we reach our destination, disembarking into the half-light to mount a large wagon fitted with skates instead of wheels, powered by a pair of large, disinterested horses. Gliding easily along the snowy trails we came upon a series of log cabins, interiors lit by dancing yellow and orange flickers suggesting large open fires and – oh joy! – warmth! We were greeted by the magnificent Pierre Faucher, accompanied by his trusty pet wolf. Oh yes, not only did the man sport a magnificent crop of impressive facial hair that, added to his considerable height and girth, made him appear every inch the mad woodsman, he had a pet wolf. Equally well-proportioned the beast greeted each of us with a good sniff before barging through to inspect the next person. Monsieur Faucher suggested we not engage the creature but to let it socialise as it may. No-one argued.
A swift tour of the facilities and an amusing explanation of the tree-tapping, sap-collecting, syrup-refining process before we got to enter the main cabin and – again great joy – sample the fruits of Pierre’s labours. Thick pea soup served with ‘bacon ears’ (they were delicious and I’m not sure they weren’t real ears) paved the way for a meat-feasters’ delight. Pie, meatballs, thick chunks of boiled ham surrounded by crudely mashed potato, beans, beets and pickles were set on broad, groaning tables. Once our plates were filled to bursting we were invited to take up bottles of maple syrup and liberally plaster our supper in the stuff. Now I know this sounds pretty nasty to some but I’m here to tell you it was to die for! I’ve sampled bacon with syrup before, having pigged out at American diners where one’s plate is host to pancakes, fruit and what we in the UK consider cooked breakfast – bacon, eggs and sausage. But this stuff was the Real Deal, freshly harvested local produce, and it was heaven-sent.
Of course there was dessert to follow and there’ll be no prizes for guessing the main ingredient. I opted for pancakes but dodged the Sugar Pie. Musicians serenaded the diners, a young chap on keyboards who also sang and a rather creepy, slightly hunched older gentleman in a lumberjack shirt who leered wordlessly at us as he played an old violin. It was all starting to get a bit Deliverance when Pierre appeared brandishing a collection of what looked like large wooden clothes pegs. They turned out to be Canadian castanets, held in one hand, drummed against one’s thigh whilst using the other hand to increase the rhythm or, for the more adventurous, to use one’s fingers to add flashy staccato. Pierre encouraged us to accompany the players and after a while (and a few glasses of beer, blissfully free from any sugar-based contaminant) we got into it.
As we struggled with our generous portions of pudding Pierre took centre stage once more. He brandished a woodsman’s axe whilst his son, another bear of a man, wheeled in a tree stump and a set of antlers. The Great Beard then went into what I can only describe as his
Rowley Birkin ‘ Veey, veey Junk!’ routine. Pierre’s only coherent phrases were ‘Sugar Shack’ and ‘Prince of the Axe’ (pronounced, deliberately I’m sure, Ass). It seems it is customary at such gatherings to anoint a lumberjack and put him in pride of place at the head of the feast. For our purposes Pierre’s son would ‘select’ a ‘suitable candidate’ for the evening’s ritual. Worried glances were exchanged as the large man strolled amongst the diners holding a colourful sash above our heads. I suddenly realised this was a stitch-up. So it proved as my main contact at the IDF, Ronan L’Heveder, was singled out. He is French, lives in Belgium and has a ‘quiet’ sense of humour; some things are simply meant to be.
Ronan was invited to remove his shoes and socks, roll up his trousers and kneel before the tree stump. Pierre placed a large matchstick on the stump and announced that in order to prove his worth Ronan would have to cut the matchstick in two with the axe. However, to make the test truly worthy Ronan would be blindfolded. Having taken his aim - and a couple of lusty practice swings - a sash was tied around his head. Once Pierre was satisfied that Ronan could not see he picked up the discarded socks and placed them on the tree stump.
‘Okay, Ronan, we now see if you are worthy to hold the Axe! Swing with all your might! You have seven blows to sever the match! Everyone, call for Ronan to show great strength! Allez!’
And with that, to the amazement of the watching guests my customer, the hitherto logistical mastermind of the World Diabetes Congress, proceeded to chop his own socks into tiny pieces.
Tears of joy streamed freely down my face. I laughed so hard I almost fell of my bench and I wasn’t alone. We tried to cheer him on but frankly by the time the seventh, full-blooded blow struck what was left of the footwear most of us were in acute pain. At the last blow Pierre gave a mighty roar.
‘Bravo! You have done it!!’
He whisked the butchered socks away and removed the blindfold, revealing the perfectly severed matchstick. Ronan gazed around the room, nonplussed at the sea of red, weeping faces, unaware of what had happened.
‘OK, now, put on your shoes and socks and we can make the presentation!’
It was hard to stay upright as the poor man reached back for his footwear and held up the tattered remains. Of course Pierre had some replacements lined up and the ceremony was completed when Ronan posed with the gently giggling patron, antlers held to either side of his head, axe held across his chest and a look of total amazement painted on his wide-eyed face. Someone took photos; I trust they will have the good grace to share them.
These happy memories kept me warm as I chugged around a frozen Mont Royal. After pausing at the summit to snap some shots I set off for home, arriving at the hotel in 1:24, a shade over nine miles banked. It's been a demanding trip all in all, not least for my ailing back, but I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.
Time to thaw out and prepare for the journey home.
Allez!
