Down Under Visits the North Country, Part 6

Niagara Falls, Niagara on the Lake and a Reflection

by Stephanie McCarthy of Australia

On a Sunday in July 2017 Nancy and Ron Marshall drove us to Niagara, but they had carefully planned our first view of the Falls from the room they had booked at the Marriott – sixteen floors up and seemingly perched above the very edge of the mighty Falls.

Our first view took our breath away, just as our hosts had intended. Ron told us the incredible story of how a seven-year-old by the name of Roger Woodward (no, not Australia’s famous classical pianist) had survived going over the Falls after his Uncle’s boat had capsized upstream. When we finally descended to take a closer look, and gazed at the unfathomable power of that plunging water, Roger’s survival seemed even more miraculous. Someone told me that in a half second the volume of water dropping over the Falls would be more than Alice Springs in the heart of Australia would receive in a year’s rainfall. I hate the over-used word ‘awesome’, but it must be used about Niagara Falls, especially when seen from the Canadian side of the border.

Later that afternoon our friends Glenn and Barb Holliman, who had driven most of the day to be with us, arrived at the Marriott. On the sixteenth floor, overlooking those wondrous Falls, we nibbled at delicious pre-dinner food prepared by Nancy and lifted our glasses to each other in pure joy at all meeting up again. Towards evening Glenn drove us to the Riverbend Inn at Niagara on the Lake. This gracious and beautiful chateau set amongst acres of grape vines became the venue for a very special meal.

 Left, Ron, Maurice and Steph before dinner.

My mother, who is too infirm to have made the trip, treated us to this feast and this time we toasted her. As he’s always done, Glenn asked profound questions about the meaning of life in that deep hypnotic voice of his, and it took only a few dreamy hours to solve all the world’s problems. At least I think we did.

Maurice and I then found our way to a room in the chateau fit for a king and queen and ‘given’ to us for the night by Glenn and Barb, and we felt as if we were in some wonderful dream – the kindness of our Canadian friends will be hard to match if ever they can make it to South Australia, but we’ll try.

Barb Holliman has been coming to Niagara on the Lake since she was three years old, and she applauded the fact that it has retained its charm and beauty and class despite the huge growth in population and tourism.

In the magnificent Prince of Wales hotel, we sank into leather chairs and ordered refreshing drinks and pretended we really were royalty. Eventually Barb and Glenn had to set off for their home in Pennsylvania, and the Marshalls took us back ‘home’ to Kitchener. 

Below, the Prince of Wales with Maurice, Barb and Ron.  Right, flowers at Niagara on the Lake, Ontario.

The next day we set off once more on a long drive, this time to their cottage on Lake Huron. And what a little honey that cottage is! Secluded in the woods adjoining the Lake, it was built by Nancy’s father, and extended by Ron who is no slouch with the carpenter’s saw. The warm glow of wood everywhere, and little treasures washed up by the lake or given by loved ones are all around to delight the eye. 

We sauntered along the lake’s edge, seeking weird and wonderful stones, and I was thrilled that Ron shares my passion when it comes to rocks.  At one stage his pockets were so full of rocks big and small, his trousers were in grave danger of falling down.

Right, the rocks and shoreline of Lake Huron.

Back at the shady dell in front of the cottage I was persuaded to have a ‘swing’ game with Ron. This involved me arcing higher and higher on a conventional swing, while he perched on a table on a stick swing and judged to time to hurl himself off the table towards me. One foot of his and one of mine touched, but the aim was that both of our soles should meet at the same time. Once more he judged his moment and swung to meet me and bingo! Our feet met. By this time, I was laughing so hard I could barely see, and began to imagine I was eight years old again. And so, when I was still in mid swing I jumped. A million times I did it when I was a kid, my backside gliding gracefully out of the swing, my body arcing in the air, and two feet landing firmly on the ground.

Steph's dangerous swing in the back-shaded lawn facing Lake Huron.

Well, this 68-year-old launched herself from the wooden plank, flew through the air with the greatest of ease, and then all is a bit hazy. I think I landed on my feet, but the momentum was too great, and I lost the desperate struggle to stay upright as I staggered and fell. One day perhaps I’ll act my age, but I doubt it.

During the afternoon Ron taught Maurice the art of paddling the Canadian canoe, and when that was mastered he produced two kayaks. Maurice had a sixth sense this might end up a wet exercise, so he shed clothing until he was in nothing much but board shorts and lifejacket, and the pair set off to compete in fetching a stick. Maurice kept reaching the stick first and therefore was the winner (so he maintains) but after a while began a jostling of paddles and nudging of kayaks and muffled shouts. Maurice’s kayak began to lean dangerously for several seconds before ‘splash!’ and he was christened in Lake Huron. With insincere condolences Ron very decently helped his Australian mate, who nearly drowned laughing, to shore. One day, Maurice vows, he will have his revenge. Maybe he will take Ron out to sea from our beautiful Brighton Beach in a catamaran one hot day in summer, and an accident just might happen when they go to turn about, or ‘aboot’ as the Canadians insist upon saying.

 Above the cottage on Lake Huron....

It was time to catch a series of planes home to be greeted by a jealous family all struggling to get warm in grey wet and cold South Australia. What an irony – to tell them that we’ve been gallivanting in T-shirts in sunny Canada. The warm glow of Canada and Canadians is still with us despite the wintry weather. We honestly feel as if we’ve been given the very best tastes of the land of moose and maple leaf – nothing studied or thought about too much, just tastes and flavours and glimpses, but we are certain that profound memories of that remarkable three weeks will stay with us for the rest of our lives. – Steph McCarthy, traveler extraordinaire