There is such a thing as a double-decker pontoon boat. That’s all I’m going to say about that. Except for one thing. Double-decker pontoon boats remind me of Dolly Parton’s height-defying wig. It catches the eye, but is completely unnecessary and possibly dangerous. The wake from the excessively prevalent wake-boats spring to mind. But what do I know?
There is a “secret” camping place just north of us, at McCrae Lake. Do not be concerned that I have spilled the beans. Those beans left the barn on a herd of horses a few months ago. This is how the outside-the-lines camping thing plays out. Cars park on the side of the Crooked Bay off ramp and along the road. Hundreds of them, with a corresponding number of people to match. Parked in a no-parking zone, which is a no-parking zone for a reason, because it is a narrow two-lane road with completely obscured sight lines on any corner. The rogue campers hike through the bush on a well-worn path (that’s probably wider than the roadway they’re parked on) through the bush with their stuff to somewhere near the shore. Once they get there, there are no bathrooms, no water, and no garbage facilities. Imagine how that works out for the forest.
My cottage clothesline takes advantage of the prevailing northwest winds (Kim Kardashian, sue me now for copyright infringement). It is accessed down a stairway beside the screen porch, adjacent to the back deck. Usually, one or two kitties will come down and watch me put the laundry out on the line, wandering among the raspberry and sumac bushes while I peg the clothes up, hoping for wayward small rodents. I have not corroborated this, but I am pretty sure that Newmarket does not allow clotheslines on your property, because it is the type of place that would make outside cats criminals. The only problem with my cottage clothesline is the towels feel like sandpaper when you take them down, but it’s cheaper than a luffa treatment at the Spa. And my sheets smell like some kind of wonderful.
Apparently, last night around six, the OPP started towing the illegally parked campers’ cars. Where they tow them is a mystery to me, but I’m hoping the impound lot is in Parry Sound. A good hour from here. Last night, it started to rain. Amazon rainforest rain. Torrential, warm and straight down. It was still doing it this morning, which did not stop me from going for my swim, pretending I was basking at the foot of a secret waterfall in Bolivia. But as I was basking, I spared a thought for the poor campers. Packing up their soggy tents and togs, slogging through the muddy path to their car to discover it gone. There’ll be lots of time for them to tweet their outrage before they can grab the non-existent Uber. Let the social media storm begin about lack of access to taxis in Georgian Bay Township. Forget about that. Can we please have reliable and unlimited data internet here? Asking for a friend.