There is unrest in the forest
There is trouble with the trees
For the maples want more sunlight
And the oaks ignore their pleas
It’s easy to fall in love with Montreal. Cultures blend effortlessly; French elegance and couture, British order and climate with a dash of New York street savvy, mapped out in hop-scotch street blocks. This fusion is expressed though names like Rue du McTavish, Avenue President Kennedy and Rue Notre Dame. Gothic architecture rubs shoulders with brownstone townhouse and city block escarpment, replete with rusty fire escapes and weed-heavy back-lots.
Shortly before seven this morning I shuffled wearily along Rue de Bleury on my way to the Parc du Mont Real. I’d
been here before back in March, but whereas the city then was draped in winters’ white, now she wowed in a dazzling array of gold and scarlet as autumn took the stage. The early sun peeked across the Saint Laurent river, illuminating oak and maple on the mountain’s hem, iridescent against a steel-grey sky. As I chugged off the Avenue du Parc, leaving the bad-tempered town-bound traffic to snarl and honk, the roar of impatient motors receded as the forest took me in its soft embrace. Cold hard pavement yielded to a thick carpet of red and gold; bleak brick and concrete replaced by lofty, lithe-limbed guardians, stuttering streetlamps by a canopy of dancing, rustling joy.
The trouble with the maples
(and they’re quite convinced they’re right)
They say the oaks are just too lofty
And they grab up all the light
But the oaks can’t help their feelings
If they like the way they’re made
And they wonder why the maples
Can’t be happy in their shade
I took the long and winding trail to the summit at a leisurely pace, drinking in the moments like a man with a desperate thirst. In my ears Robert Plant assured me that since he’d been loving me he’d been about to lose his worried mind. The setting - cool temperature, gently waving trees, squirrels gambolling in dappled shade, the occasional ‘Bonjour’ from walkers and cyclists, beautifully crafted, gentle music - sent me into a semi-conscious state. I started to day-dream, images flickering on the fringes of my thoughts until one swam into sharp relief. It was so clear, and so entirely unexpected, it almost stopped me in my tracks.
I was dancing with a beautiful young woman. We were both done up to the nines, me in a Tux, she in a stunning ball gown, her long hair swept back from a delicate pale forehead. Her eyes sparkled like rare jewels, her mouth beamed a generous smile of love and pride. Around us, slightly out of focus, a large convivial crowd clapped and laughed as we danced. My feet were lighter than air as I swooped and span the girl around me, effortless and graceful. I could feel my grin broaden and, as the realisation of this moment dawned, a tear escaped to roll down my frozen cheek and splash onto my clammy running vest.
For this, clear as day, set at some as yet unknown point in the future, was me, dancing with my daughter, on her wedding day.
The emotion was so powerful, so intoxicating and so real that I’m fighting back the tears even now. As I came to understand the significance of the moment the image started to fade, like a snowflake landed on a child’s outstretched palm.
There is trouble in the forest
And the creatures all have fled
As the maples scream `oppression!`
And the oaks just shake their heads
I stopped atop Mont Royal to watch the sun rise over the waking city. An elderly gentleman had taken station in the centre of the paved section of the look-out, lost in his own world of Tai Chi, watched silently by a woman of similar age. Below us the city's arteries spread, connected by buildings of all shapes and sizes, fused by occasional splashes of natural foliage and man-made parkland. To the east the La Fontaine bridge spanned the mighty Saint Laurent, leading highway 20 on its quest to Quebec. The hinterlands to the south and west shone, hazy in the sunlight, merging with the horizon in a blue-grey smudge.
After a sweaty slurp from a drinking fountain I turned tail and hit the downslope, my heavy tread beating out a slap-slap rhythm that even a cranked up i-plod couldn’t smother. I felt certain I was causing the ground to shake as I thundered off the mountain and back towards a hot shower, breakfast and work. Last night’s Guinness wobbled unkindly around my waist, bringing feelings of guilt as I recalled EG’s parting shot yesterday ‘aren’t we being good?’ Well, I was . . . but then there was Hurley’s and I had to drink to MLCMan’s birthday, then Antonio’s, then the band started playing Diddly-Dee music (sorry about the late-night phone call SP). By the time I’d resolved to call it a night I’d started talking to Brian the Barkeep about the Canadian election which, not that you’d know it, took place yesterday. The ruling Conservative PM had called a snap election to try to gain an outright majority. As it turned out he failed, but made significant gains in local government positions.
I bore down on downtown, a sweaty blob all in white (now part translucent) hurtling down the perilous slopes of Rue de Bleury. I felt sorry for the ashen-faced commuters yeilding to this lumbering juggernaut as they scurried about their business. Lemmy & Co popped up in my ears, crooning another favoured love song from yesteryear,
Bomber. I’d already enjoyed
Dead men Tell No Tales – a ditty about the perils of hard drugs, announced by Lord Kilminster on stage as
‘Dead Men Smell Toe Nails’ – and the heart-pounding ‘
Sucker’ to spur me on as I flagged over the last few kilometres. The chorus, much like the infamous
Ace of Spades, is a chanted repetition, this time of ‘It’s a Bomber’. With my mind on the US elections it sounded uncannily like ‘It’s Obama’. This helped replace the pavement-pounded grimace with a cheesy grin as I floundered up to the hotel. The shower was restorative, almost indecent in its embrace, the breakfast that followed rich and plentiful and heartily devoured.
13.8 kilometres, 1 hour 18 mins.
So the maples formed a union
And demanded equal rights
the oaks are just too greedy
We will make them give us light
Now theres no more oak oppression
For they passed a noble law
And the trees are all kept equal
By hatchet,
Axe,
And saw ...
The Trees, Rush
