Mississippi Golf Club in nearby Village of Appleton is our social venue for private meetings. Our place is too small; and, old age excuses the delegation. This morning – sharply at a quarter to nine o’clock – we rallied there for breakfast as planned with my erstwhile physician. We hadn’t visited with one another for some time so we were anxious to hear his news – particularly because he and his partner are such inveterate worldwide travellers that his accounts of their upcoming ventures are always cause for whistling and marvel – whether hiking in the Himalayas, touring on a cruise ship in Antartica or languishing in a swank resort along the Grecian Mediterranean (to name but a few). And today’s travel report – by the way – was no exception.
Mississippi Golf Club is an 18-hole, semi-private golf course located on 190 acres overlooking the picturesque Mississippi River. Established in 1915 on the former Patterson Farm in Appleton, five kilometres east of Carleton Place, Mississippi Golf Club is one of the oldest clubs in Ontario.
When we left Almonte en route to the club it was raining heavily. It was the first occasion I had to use the windshield wipers on the new car. They open and close with a reverse flutter; that is, upon and away from one another as opposed to in the same direction at once. I used to think such engineering constituted a posh automobile. Over breakfast my erstwhile physician recounted how his former Mercedes Benz automobile had but one central wiper (which we unanimously agreed was of debatable utility). In relation to the subject at hand, I recounted how, many years before when I was still in prep school but on a summer driving adventure with my father to the Arctic Circle, I had overcome the temporary corruption of the operation of our windshield wipers by attaching two fishing lines to the main wiper, then pulling the lines contemporaneously but in opposite directions through the front driver’s and passenger’s side vent windows. I conducted this efficient but unceremonious relief until we descended (in our large black American import with attached diplomatic plates and Canadian flag on the hood) to Oslo where I ensured as reward for my insight and perseverance that we were booked into the most glamorous hotel in the city (my father had a habit of sleeping in the back seat of the car in a fjord). I telephoned my mother in Stockholm while declining in the bathtub to give her an update of our travels – upon which she noted wryly, “There’s a reason I don’t travel with your father!”
When upon arrival this morning we entered the club house there was an uncommon amount of chatter going on among an uncommonly large number of people who had collected like gnats indoors to avoid the torrential rainfall. Not long afterwards they mysteriously evaporated, leaving only several other tables of diners. One of the other men having breakfast there with his cronies at the other end of the dining room was a gentleman who lives along the same country lane as my erstwhile physician in the Village of Ashton. They know one another. My erstwhile physician also knew another chap who has lately connected with a widow and a patient of his.
By design we lingered over coffee just long enough to complete the latest intelligence. We each had moderate ambitions for the remainder of the day. Ours – apart from collecting a prescription at the local pharmacy – was to investigate the place of an upcoming wedding ceremony in the Province of Québec. The journey there required about an hour’s drive “across the (Ottawa) river” into the Gatineau Hills which were already profiting by the richness of the rainfall to enhance the verdancy of the mountainous projections. The ceremony is to take place in the Village of Templeton nearby Parc du Lac-Beauchamp. We’ve committed to attend the afternoon wedding ceremony but will withdraw from the evening dance that is to follow – preferring to leave that enjoyment to the younger crowd.
On the return trip we paused in Bells Corners to accommodate the daily necessity for vehicular lavation. Throughout our moderate tour we had listened to SiriusXM.
SiriusXM is an American broadcasting corporation headquartered in Midtown Manhattan, New York City, that provides satellite radio and online radio services.
Curiously our new car doesn’t enable Apple CarPlay. Though the monthly subscription cost of SiriusXM is insignificant (around $24) and SiriusXM has a wide variety of popular and classical music and news channels, we’re not convinced of its worth. The content – however varied – succeeds to become repetitious and monotonous. In any event we have a free 6-month subscription so we’re not currently pressed to make a decision.
At home this evening – while pondering our beloved cornfields and river – we were treated to a surprise delivery from our New York neighbours. It was homemade zucchini bread. As the “Two Fat Ladies” were wont to quip, “A bit of added butter goes a long way!”
Two Fat Ladies was a British cooking programme starring Jennifer Paterson and Clarissa Dickson Wright. It originally ran for four series – twenty-four episodes – from 9 October 1996 to 28 September 1999, being produced by Optomen Television for the BBC.
This continued gastronomic menu was preceded by gazpacho soup with shrimp then followed by a signature dessert of fruit, nuts, yoghurt, maple syrup and peppermint flakes. Superb! Oh – and I forgot to mention the chilled espresso. Altogether a very rewarding day!