A trip to the County in the mighty fall (and how the mighty fall)
“Well, actually I’m going to The Cow-nty for the weekend,” the “Cow” part drawn out and emphasized by the most fashionable hipsters, as they order their bespoke soy lattes from equally fashionable coffee shops on Ossington. Their beard fixer, empty coolers, and ice packs are in the car-share - they’re set for the two hour drive east to Ontario’s getaway; these coolers will overflow with Truffalo cheese, Cressy mustard, and cider when they set foot in West End Toronto again in three days. You don’t need to take provisions to the County.
Before it was Prince Edward County, it was Muskoka or worse, “The Muskokas,” that allowed the haves to separate themselves from the have-nots each summer weekend. For years, I’ve scorned this kind of pretension. Jealous? Sure, a bit, but also sad that we have a world of such extremes. When I was growing up in a rural community, rich meant your car was new enough to have shoulder belts and you’d learned firsthand that Disneyworld, not Disneyland, was in Florida. Rich didn’t mean having (or having access to) a holiday home bigger than your regular one.
I’ve joked for years that I live in my cottage. My house is 10 kms further from the core than I ever thought I’d be. The Friday traffic to Weston from downtown is the first leg of the weekend exodus so in the before-days, when I worked downtown everyday, if I drove to work I got a taste of the cottage commute at the end of the day. I wondered about the fascination of this. Who are these people, how do they have patience for such long, slow drives, and why do they have to have two of everything? If they need space, shouldn’t they just give up their downtown digs for a bit more real estate in the inner ‘burbs? Wouldn’t that satisfy the urge?
Unexpectedly, I now know people with second homes. And good people too. Any judgment I once had has dissipated as I’ve moved into middle age and the gap between me and the haves has closed.
Indeed, I wrote this from the living room of a friend’s County house. I arrived late Thursday night, alone, unshackled from domestic duty, dogs, and work. I awoke Friday morning after 10 hours’ sleep interrupted only by the bathroom trips of middle-age. The weather was 10 degrees and brilliant. I strode out in leather coat, boots, and jeans ready to explore, imagining for the first time in 18 months that the pandemic might be on the downswing. I beelined past the line up at Tim Hortons, as popular here as elsewhere in Ontario, and instead hit the local coffee shop and bought me the biggest latte (yes, cow’s milk, yes full-fat) and the breakfast bagel (yes, pork bacon — pork bacon? seriously?). On to the harbour where I sat reading and noshing and drinking it all in. Wiping the crumbs and pork fat from my mouth, I strolled uphill and back to Main Street where I ventured into a bookstore for my first book-and-card browsing session since March 2020. Heaven. I might well have spent the day there but was concerned at the cost of my pent up enthusiasm. With a big bag of books and cards slung over my shoulder, next stop - the vintage clothing store proudly stating they were from Toronto. Isn’t everyone here? I thumbed through blazers and blouses, picturing a time - soon? - when dressing might once again be more than an exercise in warmth and decency. Then to one of many purveyors of fine food, drawn in by the tub of Gochujang paste in the window. I doubt that’s for the County born and bred. I left the store bearing more than just Korean chilli. Damn I love cooking. COVID has certainly reinforced that!
Home to put away the spoils of the morning and prepare food for dinner with two friends joining me from the city. They arrived late in the afternoon and we enjoyed a simple dinner of roasted chicken, potatoes, and coleslaw. Food, wine, and conversation inside(!) at a table with other humans: it’s the long draw of water after months in the desert that we’ve all been missing, well, that I’ve been missing.
On day 2 of County pretend-living, we drove from one food shop to the next, trying cheese, cider, and baked goods and savouring the camaraderie of being together in a car, letting the road take us where it made sense, without agenda or clock. Friday’s brilliant sunshine heightened the reds, ambers, and oranges of trees, but Saturday those same hues were muted by the not-quite rain. Grizzle, my husband Jack would have called it - a word he used first by mistake and then by design, an apt mashup of grey and drizzle. The damp didn’t stop us from sampling cakes on a lake-side picnic table painted honeycomb yellow with black bees - so cute! So County!
We all agreed it was too soon to eat in one of many tempting looking restaurants, low-grade pandemic anxiety still very present. Instead, we enjoyed another dinner à trois, this time a luscious roasted squash soup with sourdough, the main course that followed a long round of cheese sampling.
Sunday morning we parted company, them to go birding, me to hop on a Zoom call for a writing class and then to make the return trip to Toronto. As I drove westward into the late afternoon sun with the traffic thickening as I got ever-closer to the city, I thought about the appeal of the weekend getaway. I’m not going to be quick to get my own country place, but I am certainly rejuvenated.
