Days ago our resident acquaintances Joy and Gary L shared with us a recommendation of Constance Lake Lodge. Shamefully after having lived for approaching fifty years in the Ottawa Valley and having acted for people who lived on Constance Bay, I hadn’t heard of the establishment. The subject arose only upon having casually mentioned to J & G that we had lately returned from breakfast at Neat Coffee Shop in Burnstown at the other end of the Valley. Such is the value of gossip. Early this Sunday morning as an opener to our customary perambulations we chose to venture to Constance Lake Lodge to have a look at the place; and to put on the nosebag. We had the indisputable fortuity and favour of a brilliantly sunny though decidedly fresh day.

Another reason I was ashamed of not having recognized Constance Lake Lodge is that I have familiarity with two separate families, one which once lived and another which still resides on nearby Barlow Crescent in Dunrobin Village along the Ottawa River. Both are people whom I have represented professionally and with whom I have longstanding acquaintance from Ottawa and Almonte respectively. Once again the topic of Constance Lake Lodge appears to have escaped our communal discourse.

The preliminary to arrival at Constance Lake Lodge is appropriately a descent along Constance Lake Road to the water’s edge. It appears from the little geography of which I am knowledgeable that the lake is the remnant of water which spilled from the cavern of what is now the much more voluminous Ottawa River during the last ice age. I’m guessing. The other local anomaly is what are denominated Constance Lake Waterdrome, Flint’s Landing and Karl’s Landing (and what we discovered in the restaurant were the associated photographs of seaplanes and other small landing craft). Contributing to this evocative history is a similarly prominent collection of photographs of Harley-Davidson and other such exotic motorcycles.  Finally there is the undeniable fishing element. And of course the usual bits of groaner humour (about we and the fish getting into trouble by having opened our mouths).

Altogether, with the polished ancient oak floorboards (likely retrieved years ago from the Ottawa River as the timber floated from Renfrew County towards the St. Lawrence River), the resort has the semblance of an ancient cottage, one-floor level, moderately pitched roof and multiple windows surrounding the structure immediately overlooking the lake.

My rural antennae informed me that many of the patrons who frequented the restaurant were locals. My partner and I were among the first to arrive at the restaurant (there was only one other couple at table when we entered).  Accordingly we were able to form an accurate summary of the clientele. Most appeared to know where in the restaurant they were headed without the invitation or direction of staff. The apparel of certain of the patrons echoed the motorcycling theme (though naturally with a distinguishable feature of strictly weekend frivolity). Our server was a young sylphlike creature who performed her duties admirably. Apart from a grilled cheese sandwich (which I simply couldn’t resist as my accommodation of an undying passion for fried bread, cheese and butter) I limited myself to Dr. Atkins’ healthful recipe of bacon, sausage and eggs (with tomato slices as penitence). I manifestly avoided the potatoes (treachery of gastronomy).  And in deference to my bladder I drank only a half cup of coffee.