The mighty Saint Lawrence River is intertwined with the history of Canada and the United States, and forms a natural border between the two countries. It’s how everyone arrived in Canada before the invention of air travel. The waterway was named by the staunchly Catholic explorer Jacques Cartier in 1535, and I’m glad that it kept its saintly name under Anglican English hegemony. After all, Prince Edward Island was originally called Isle Saint-Jean, before being named after said prince, Duke of Kent and Strathearn, fourth son of George III (the one whose ‘crown’ the Americans threw off 250 years ago), and the father of the future Queen Victoria.
The Saint Lawrence – may it always be called so! – extends for 310 miles, flowing east from Lake Ontario and the Great Lakes system to the broad estuary past Quebec City and then Tadoussac, where one can find dolphins and whales, finally leading into the vastness of the Atlantic Ocean. There are thousands of picturesque islands along its coast – the region is called ‘Thousand Islands’ and is a favorite of boaters of all kinds, from kayaks and sailboats to gigantic cruise ships and ocean liners. Its waters are eminently swimmable, as you will see I discovered, clean and clear and refreshing, keeping some of the coldness of the Atlantic even as far down as the venerable city of Kingston. Also, I have a bias, as Saint Lawrence is one of my patrons, being born on his own dies natalis – which is his death day. He’s the only non-Scripture saint who is a full feast in the modern calendar.
It was in Kingston that I began a brief pilgrimage along its shores recently. Months ago, I had purchased tickets to a Voces8 concert, whose works we have posted any number of times in these pages. So, on a very warm Sunday after Mass, I threw my trusty Norco bike into the back of the car and headed down the winding back roads to Highway 41. I always try to turn such trips into pilgrimages – so I stopped at this lovely old church of Saint Patrick on the side of the highway, not far north of the turn off to the 401:
It’s about 30 minutes down the busy four lanes to Kingston, and I made my way to the cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, a glorious edifice, one of the oldest still-functioning churches in Canada, dating back to 1858, nine years before Confederation.
From there, on to the concert. Voces8 is one of the most accomplished vocal ensembles in the world, and it was a delight to hear them live. Their repertoire included a few classical pieces, and other more contemporary works arranged into beautiful harmonies. They were there to meet and greet everyone in the foyer afterwards – selling CD’s – and I was pleasantly surprised how down-to-earth and personal they all were, star struck as I was. One was even a fellow Scot!
It was close to midnight by the time I drove out of Kingston, so decided to sleep in the car to get an early start on a bike pilgrimage the next morning. My plan was to start at Saint John’s church in Gananoque, and cycle along the ‘waterfront path’ that follows the Saint Lawrence, which I’ve thought of doing for a long time. It’s a wee bit of a misnomer, since the river is across the Thousand Islands Parkway. But one still gets some rather lovely views.
I said morning prayers outside the church dedicated to the Evangelist (they’re almost always locked, alas), which has some poignancy. It was my brother’s wedding anniversary, and he and his wife spent part of their honeymoon here (the other part in Las Vegas), so I could take their intentions, and those of their lovely children, my nieces and nephews, along.
I had a repast on a picnic table near the river, then drove a couple of miles north to a convenient parking spot, threw a few things into a backpack, and started cycling north, hoping to make noon Mass in Brockville. It was over 26 miles (give or take, mostly give, a few) one way, but mostly flat. That ‘mostly’ makes a big difference.
It was just after 9 am, and there was still a lingering coolness of the evening and a bit of a breeze off the vast river. That soon changed. The temperature gradually climbed as the sun rose higher, and with each degree, the distance to my destination seemed a little farther. But, still, beautiful and invigorating, the wind in my hair, and the rhythmic exercise good for body and soul.
I couldn’t dally, for Mass beckoned. I did make it to Brockville, only to discover that the 50 km did not include the other 8 or so km through the outskirts to the church downtown. I thought I’d be late, but made it in time to change into fitting clothes and cool down a bit.
The church is dedicated to Saint Francis Xavier, and is also an historic masterpiece, with its Gothic architecture dating back to 1826 and 1856 (depending on what section), still with the marble high alar and stained glass. Mass was simple and to-the-point, with no glaring irregularities, a clear and direct homily. Deo gratias. I met there the father of a family who had sent their children to the college, who invited me to dinner – with some help from my temporary homeless plight.
I had to cycle back first, though, and retrieve my car, to which I was not fully looking forward. No more any cool morning breeze, but blazing mid-day sun, all the way. If that trail may be compared to a 50 kg weight, the amount of shade might be a few grams. Perhaps I exaggerate, but not by much. There are also not scarce amenities for bathroom, food and drink breaks – so arrive prepared.
But by dint of some prayer, grace and a smidgen of willpower, I made it back, the last stretch accompanied by a young man who flew out of a driveway on his bike, nearly colliding with my own. We chatted about music, life and education, and he admitted that he had always wanted to learn how to sing. I gave him a few pointers, and invited him to visit us here at Our Lady Seat of Wisdom, and hope that he does someday.
I arrived at the car, hopped in and drove back to Brockville, sweaty and grimy, stopping at a beach I had passed on the bike, to dive into the Saint Lawrence. Rarely, dear reader, if ever, have I had such a delightful and refreshing swim. (I do recall a similar one years ago after another hot afternoon ripping out decades-old carpet from a former convent). The water just cold enough, clear all the way down to the sand below.
I prayed Vespers outside the church – one gets used to that, but the Real Presence is still within – after which it was a short jaunt to the family home just a few blocks away. The welcome I received was heartwarming, all in all quite delightful, including their young son and new bride just returned from their honeymoon in Italy, who regaled us with stories and pictures. After dinner, we went on a stroll through the historic waterfront downtown, replete with history.
I shall return! I hope to do a kayak pilgrimage next, up the Saint Lawrence to a statue of the eponymous martyr saint by Jim Smith of Campbell Monuments, completed in 2006. Lawrence stands at fourteen feet and 8 metric tons, gridiron and all. I saw the statue just after it was carved those twenty years ago, before it was moved to its present location. The saint now stands watch over the cliffs above the river just east of the bridge to the U.S.A. at Ivy Lea, only visible to boaters below.
Sometime soon, I hope to be one. A boater, that is, floating in my kayak in the Laurentian waters below. I’ll leave the martyrdom to God’s decision. The way Canada’s going, one never knows. The churches are all there for a grand Catholic restoration, but the culture’s going mostly the other way. We pray and we hope. As the popular song has it, whether our tomorrows be filled with good or ill, we’ll triumph over our sorrows, and rise to praise Thee still.
Usually, life’s filled with a little of both ‘good and ill’. The key is always, always, like Saint Lawrence, to be of good cheer. As Christ promises, all be will well, if we but persevere to the end.
