A Fat Purple Fig

We descend the steep stairs to a confined dining room, below-ground, where and handful of tables has been set for breakfast. There are three other American couples present, and our arrival has interrupted their conversation. We offer a reciprocal ‘good morning‘ and park ourselves at the only available table.

‘I like venison in my chilli, served with sourdough and a big hunk o’ cheddar,’ a gent continues. ‘In hunting season, I throw some deer in the pot and we share it with the neighbourhood.’

I pour a filter coffee, then trap a half-grape at a time with mini-claw tongs. The man from the table neighbouring ours abandons his can of Mother, approaches Mr Chilli – who is wearing a grey goatee, braces and a neckerchief – and crouches beside his chair. ‘Being an ex-marine, you’d probably know…’ he begins, in a low tone.

‘Who is the baddest motherf*cker of them all?’

I dare not catch Kitty’s eye.

Having devoured our oh-so-simple, yet near-perfect, omelettes, Kitty and I return to our room. ‘I’m not sure I feel well enough for Île d’Orléans,’ I tell her, glum not to be cycling around the island’s villages, tasting vinegars and jams. My alternate suggestion is that we begin with a late-morning walk around Old Quebec City, to get a feel for where we are, and take it from there.

‘I’m okay with that,‘ Kitty replies, climbing into bed, curling into a ball, and matching her phone to her eyeline. I climb in next to her and spend the morning in bed, digestion-monitoring while watching ‘Hell’s Kitchen’ and ‘Deal or No Deal.’

Later, as we cross Jardin des Gouverneurs, we are thrilled to see a black squirrel frolicking between trunks. A group of boys tries to break one of the lower branches on a nearby tree, goading one another in pre-teen voices. It occurs to me, needlessly, that children-who-speak-French are just like other children.

We cross the boardwalk and admire Château Frontenac beneath a mackerel sky, spotting ‘falling snow risk’ signs upon its walls. A busker plays the trumpet amongst the tourists, parked on the row of public benches, and around the rainbow tables of a gelateria. We wonder what the ‘funiculaire’ is, but don’t bother to check. It reminds me of Edinburgh; narrow and old, but for no other reason.

I am nostalgic when I spot a similar maple syrup bottle to one I was gifted decades ago, when my sister lived in Canada, and enjoy considering what maketh the ‘Real Replika’.

Having climbed the stairs to our room – walk complete, and feeling notquiteright – I find a ladybug on the shoulder of my shirt, and plummet down the death-stairs to release it. I ask a couple crossing the road if they can see it on my back. ‘No, I can’t see it,‘ the woman replies, ‘…isn’t that good luck?‘

I’m not sure if it applies if the ladybug sees out its days in a B&B, however, I catch the ‘Cabaret’ episode of ‘Schitt’s Creek’ during our afternoon rest, making future luck inevitable.

Scrolling, I discover there is a part of Quebec called La Basse-Ville, also known as the ‘Lower Town of Old Quebec’, accessed by descending an interminable number of steps. I suggest to Kitty that perhaps we should head out again, later in the day, to explore.

‘I’m okay with that,‘ she replies, reading a book on her Kindle app.

On the descent to Barre-Ville, a couple asks Kitty to take their photo, and I enjoy the result of having promptly taken my own. We pass a couple posing for wedding photos, on the cusp on sunset, as we head down to the water, photographing dormer windows and murals to the blasts of a ship’s horn, signalling its imminent departure.

We walk past a ‘strange funfair’ called Humanorium, and sit by a garden bed to learn more. We learn less from the website copy than from the shopping-trolley round-a-bout, and give it a miss.

There are fat, pink, inflatable sculptures by Phillipe Katerine in spaces all around Old Town, floating upon high, squashed in trees, and peeking through buildings. I like things that make me wonder why I like them.

Kitty shows her admiration for the menu at La Pizz Place Royale, with ‘yum…pasta.‘ The front courtyard is full by the time we decide we want to sit there, so we we return to its rear counterpart. From our table, we observe a steady stream of passers-by. Kitty orders a linguine carbonara, and I an olive and fetta pizza, that I take away in a covered tray.

A couple rides by on a tandem bicycle. Earlier, I had attempted to sell an electric version for our tour of Île d’Orléans, which Kitty had emphatically vetoed. ‘Don’t look now,‘ I say, ‘but something is about to appear that may change your mind about an important decision.‘ She giggles when it comes into view, and adds, ‘No f*cking way.‘

I take photos I love.

Exiting Barre-Ville was always going to be tougher than entering it. We take it slow, stopping for postcards and inhaling the sweet scents from Mary’s Popcorn Shop. The funiculaire is a railway system with counterbalanced carts on a steep slope…and this one is now closed. I pass a window with a ‘Dunder Mifflin’ t-shirt on display; further confirmation of my impending luck.

‘Kitty, I have discovered something.‘
‘What?‘
‘That walking slowly can be quite nice.‘
‘No way! I hate walking slowly.‘

We tackle the first flight of steps, and choose a steep slope in preference to attacking the second.

Tucked-up inside, we discover a sports store is located fairly close by. Kitty is intent on finding a New York Ranger’s jersey emblazoned with her favourite player’s name, so I suggest going straight back out, to see if we can snag one. We turn in the opposite direction to the boardwalk, past uncovered windows that offer glimpses into local kitchens and lounge rooms.

The lights on a church catch my eye, and I stop to take a photo. Kitty, who takes her time with focus and composition, positions herself in the centre of the iron front gate to angle her phone. I move on to admire a sculpture in the church grounds. It is so unusual: the t-shirt texture, the boy’s expression, the supporting team of teddies.

We don’t find the jersey, so listen to a duo of raucous buskers, spy on French-language Maccas, and head home, this time to stay.

We didn’t do a whole lot today…

(and I think I’m okay with that).