Je n\u2019exag\u00e8re en rien, mon voyage est exceptionnel. Adieu Paris, Londres et Istanbul. J\u2019y suis all\u00e9e, j\u2019ai ador\u00e9 et pourtant, ce pr\u00e9sent retour aux sources est incomparable pour moi. Ayant quitt\u00e9 vers midi l\u2019auberge de NOTRE-DAME-DU-PORTAGE, je me suis mise \u00e0 chercher le loup de RIVI\u00c8RE-DU-LOUP. Le pauvre se cache certainement quelque part dans les 138,4\u00a0km carr\u00e9s de territoire qui lui sont allou\u00e9s. J\u2019ai vu l\u2019H\u00f4tel Universel, l\u2019H\u00f4tel L\u00e9vesque, le Comfort Inn et l\u2019Auberge de la Pointe, mais aucun loup, nulle part. Cherchant au-del\u00e0 des cl\u00f4tures \u00e0 p\u00e2turages, j\u2019ai appris que le nom de la ville pourrait venir de la pr\u00e9sence de phoques, aussi appel\u00e9s loups de mer, qui auraient autrefois \u00e9t\u00e9 nombreux \u00e0 l\u2019embouchure de la rivi\u00e8re. Il para\u00eetrait m\u00eame que c\u2019est Jacques\u00a0Cartier en personne qui, lors d\u2019une exp\u00e9dition exploratoire, aurait baptis\u00e9 la bourgade d\u2019alors parce qu\u2019il avait vu de visu beaucoup de loups marins sur la gr\u00e8ve de la rivi\u00e8re. On peut donc conclure qu\u2019un loup n\u2019est pas toujours un loup et que chercher l\u2019animal m\u00e2le de mes r\u00eaves est une aventure plut\u00f4t al\u00e9atoire.<\/p>\n
Heureusement que la belle CACOUNA d\u2019\u00e0 c\u00f4t\u00e9 a su me consoler. Avec ses maisons magnifiques zieutant le fleuve en permanence, son resto Pub d\u2019Antan, son immense meunerie, ses boutiques d\u2019antiquaires et des centaines de lilas qui parfument la bourgade, CACOUNA est un tr\u00e9sor bien cach\u00e9. Je l\u2019ai travers\u00e9e aussi tranquillement que lorsque je l\u00e8che un cornet de cr\u00e8me glac\u00e9e molle. Surtout qu\u2019un soleil \u00e9blouissant essayait de me convaincre d\u2019y dormir une nuit. Pour \u00eatre belle et unique aux yeux des autres, il faut d\u2019abord l\u2019\u00eatre pour soi-m\u00eame. Avoir le courage de montrer notre unicit\u00e9, nos couleurs, nos couronnes de fleurs sur la t\u00eate et nos fringues excentriques. Oser n\u2019est pas un jeu, mais une d\u00e9claration de courage. Mon courage et celui de CACOUNA la magnifique.<\/p>\n
Toujours sur la 132 est, la Mini Cooper crachote. Elle a de quoi tourner en bourrique avec le fouillis de d\u00e9pliants qui l\u2019habite. Cartes par-ci, fascicules par-l\u00e0, carnet de notes, livres entrouverts, factures en d\u00e9sordre, l\u2019habitacle ressemble \u00e0 un kiosque touristique ayant subi une attaque nucl\u00e9aire.<\/p>\n
RIMOUSKI, annonce un panneau vert. Au loin, l\u2019\u00ceLE VERTE pique du nez dans le fleuve. Des cyclistes p\u00e9dalent vers demain. Deux femmes en d\u00e9capotable me saluent et me d\u00e9passent. Tout au long du parcours, le fant\u00f4me de l\u2019autoroute\u00a020 me menace. \u00c0 chaque \u00e9claircie, je le vois me tendre la main. \u00c7a arrive toujours depuis que les carrioles n\u2019existent plus. La facilit\u00e9 nous tire la jupe. La rapidit\u00e9 est reine!<\/p>\n
12\u00a0h\u00a026\u00a0: Pendant un long moment, je traverse des terres arables plus vertes que l\u2019espoir. Je r\u00e9siste \u00e0 la tentation du traversier pour aller serrer la pince \u00e0 l\u2019\u00ceLE VERTE. NOTRE-DAME-DES-SEPT-DOULEURS me console. La pauvre paroisse relate l\u2019histoire de la Vierge suivant pas \u00e0 pas son fils vers le Golgotha. Seigneur que c\u2019est triste. Savait-elle qu\u2019Il allait ressusciter d\u2019entre les morts?<\/p>\n
13\u00a0h\u00a032\u00a0: Sur la pancarte verte, TROIS-PISTOLES allonge le nez. Pourquoi \u00ab\u00a0Trois\u00a0\u00bb? Et non quatre ou huit? Avons-nous affaire \u00e0 un ancien r\u00e8glement de compte entre cur\u00e9s? Peut-\u00eatre devrais-je demander au fameux Victor-L\u00e9vy\u00a0Beaulieu? Il est encore vivant et tr\u00e8s prolifique. Peut-\u00eatre m\u2019encouragera-t-il \u00e0 continuer d\u2019\u00e9crire? \u00c0 ma gauche, la Fromagerie des Basques semble \u00eatre le point d\u2019attraction de TROIS-PISTOLES. Je m\u2019y arr\u00eate. Je r\u00e9fl\u00e9chis. J\u2019ai oubli\u00e9 ma glaci\u00e8re! T\u00eate de linotte que je suis. Moi qui voulais rapporter un vrai homard \u00e0 ma petite-fille. Pas de fromage non plus.<\/p>\n
Environ 14\u00a0h. Devrais-je prendre le traversier vers LES ESCOUMINS? Quoi, quoi? Secouer mes mains, bardasser mes doigts? Tiens donc, un mus\u00e9e \u00e0 l\u2019horizon, un ramassis de vieilles bagnoles du temps de Maurice\u00a0Duplessis. De l\u2019autre c\u00f4t\u00e9 de la route, l\u2019atelier de Marcel\u00a0Plourde, \u00e9b\u00e9niste. Et juste \u00e0 c\u00f4t\u00e9, un petit commerce de Ballons en Folie. J\u2019arr\u00eate ma Mini, descends la vitre du conducteur et demande \u00e0 une petite vieille pourquoi la place s\u2019appelle TROIS-PISTOLES. Croyez-le ou non, elle ne le sait pas. Elle me dit qu\u2019elle est d\u00e9sol\u00e9e; presque pr\u00eate \u00e0 pleurer.<\/p>\n
Je reprends la route. J\u2019adore mon pays, ses terres et ses mers, son ciel bienveillant et ses gens chaleureux. Je suis heureuse. Diable, que vois-je? Un corbillard accoud\u00e9 \u00e0 la cl\u00f4ture d\u2019un cimeti\u00e8re et tout plein de belles bagnoles stationn\u00e9es aux alentours. Qui est mort? Monsieur le maire? Un gros bonnet? Un bien nanti, comme dirait Victor-L\u00e9vy? \u00c0 qui appartient la rutilante Jaguar rouge? Je voudrais bien le savoir. \u00d4 miracle, en avan\u00e7ant, une petite librairie emplit mon parebrise. J\u2019immobilise la Mini, ouvre ma fen\u00eatre, enl\u00e8ve mes verres fum\u00e9s et aper\u00e7ois un gros FERM\u00c9 AUJOURD\u2019HUI. Ferm\u00e9 pourquoi? En deuil du mort dont j\u2019ignore le nom?<\/p>\n
Je r\u00e9alise qu\u2019en sillonnant ma belle GASP\u00c9SIE, j\u2019accumule beaucoup de POURQUOI. Pourquoi au juste? Mon pied droit l\u00e9ger sur la p\u00e9dale \u00e0 gaz, je continue ma route. Ainsi va la vie, \u00e0 TROIS-PISTOLES ou ailleurs, je m\u2019accommode de ce que je ma\u00eetrise. Et je ne souffre pas du syndrome FOMO (de l\u2019anglais \u00ab\u00a0fear of missing out\u00a0\u00bb), qui veut dire la peur de rater quelque chose. Je ne suis pas le nombril du monde, mais peut-\u00eatre un tout petit grain de beaut\u00e9 sur la joue de mon patelin. Je vis, les deux pieds sur terre, dans un monde connect\u00e9. J\u2019en perds des bouts assez souvent, mais RADIO-CANADA et LE DEVOIR du samedi m\u2019apprennent le plus important \u00e0 savoir.<\/p>\n
Et voil\u00e0 qu\u2019une magnifique grosse \u00e9glise s\u2019impose \u00e0 moi. Un chef-d\u2019\u0153uvre en v\u00e9ritables grosses pierres des champs. J\u2019ai une belle pens\u00e9e pour les anciens b\u00e2tisseurs de cath\u00e9drales. Je stationne et marche autour de l\u2019\u00e9glise. Juste derri\u00e8re, un petit \u00e9difice moderne annonce\u00a0: MALLETTE Soci\u00e9t\u00e9 de comptables professionnels agr\u00e9\u00e9s. C\u2019est quand m\u00eame \u00e9difiant de voir \u00e0 quel point TROIS-PISTOLES en m\u00e8ne large. Juste \u00e0 c\u00f4t\u00e9 de chez Mallette, la Cantine d\u2019Amour. Mes neurones s\u2019entrechoquent. J\u2019ai le go\u00fbt de rester \u00e0 TROIS-PISTOLES. Du moins, jusqu\u2019\u00e0 ce que je d\u00e9couvre pourquoi \u00ab\u00a0Trois\u00a0\u00bb Pistoles et non quatre ou huit. Devrais-je cogner \u00e0 la porte de chez Mallette? Devrais-je quitter ces lieux \u00e9nigmatiques?<\/p>\n
\u00ab\u00a0On the road again\u00a0\u00bb, me r\u00e9pondrait le c\u00e9l\u00e8bre Jack\u00a0Kerouac. Personne ne m\u2019attend et c\u2019est bien tant mieux. Moi-m\u00eame, je ne sais pas o\u00f9 je dormirai ce soir. C\u2019est un peu \u00e7a, la libert\u00e9. Ne pensez-vous pas? Serait-ce le propre de la vieillesse? Ne rien promettre et raconter apr\u00e8s-coup ce qui s\u2019est v\u00e9ritablement produit? La v\u00e9rit\u00e9 toute crue?<\/p>\n
Je reprends la route et plonge dans l\u2019\u00e9merveillement. Approchant le BIC, tout est beau, tout est vert et la luxuriance des arbres est incomparable. Est-ce \u00e0 cause de l\u2019eau, \u00e0 cause de la temp\u00e9rature, d\u2019un microclimat ou de l\u2019amour des r\u00e9sidents? Au BIC, m\u00eame les jolis bouleaux travaillent \u00e0 s\u2019embellir. \u00c0 ma gauche, on annonce un traversier pour la C\u00d4TE-NORD. \u00c0 voir peut-\u00eatre du bateau\u00a0: un BIC, une baleine et son b\u00e9b\u00e9.<\/p>\n
Avez-vous d\u00e9j\u00e0 remarqu\u00e9 que ce sont les bouleaux qui prot\u00e8gent nos routes de campagnes? Ils sont minces, flexibles et vaillants. Et ils sont polis, avenants et discrets. \u00c9l\u00e9gamment v\u00eatus, ce sont eux qui s\u2019\u00e9tirent, se courbent et se penchent pour aider un petit lapin sauvage ou une maman marmotte. Ce sont encore eux qui aident les conducteurs lorsque tombe la brunante. Eux qui allongent leurs bras blancs et \u00e9clairent la route.<\/p>\n
J\u2019arrive enfin \u00e0 SAINTE-FLAVIE o\u00f9 j\u2019ai jadis demeur\u00e9 quelque trois ans. Je trouve un lit pour la nuit \u00e0 l\u2019h\u00f4tel Gasp\u00e9siana et m\u2019empresse ensuite d\u2019aller sentir le doux parfum de la mer. J\u2019y trempe mes pieds deux instants avant de geler. \u00c0 19\u00a0h, je d\u00e9guste enfin un homard local dont la chair me chavire. Totalement \u00e9blouie, j\u2019ose commander 8\u00a0onces de Sauvignon blanc Jackson Triggs Reserve. Tout juste sorti d\u2019une casserole d\u2019eau bouillante, l\u2019animal me tend ses deux pinces; comme si terre et mer allaient se r\u00e9concilier pour la premi\u00e8re fois au monde. \u00ab\u00a0La vie est dangereuse, ch\u00e8re amie. Il faut fracasser la carcasse pour go\u00fbter \u00e0 la chair\u00a0\u00bb, m\u2019aurait certainement dit le grand Bocuse s\u2019il avait \u00e9t\u00e9 assis \u00e0 ma table. Ce grand cuisinier, dont j\u2019ai lu la nourrissante biographie, fut un homme passionn\u00e9, bourr\u00e9 d\u2019entrain et de savoir-faire. Il est mort dans son sommeil le 20\u00a0janvier\u00a02018.<\/p>\n
Ouranos! Premier fils de la terre et ma\u00eetre du ciel \u00e9toil\u00e9, entends-moi\u00a0: c\u2019est ce genre de d\u00e9part que je souhaite avoir. Partir en r\u00eavant du prochain d\u00e9jeuner \u00e0 inventer. Partir sans regret, avec la main d\u2019un ange me guidant vers l\u00e0-haut. Si haut; l\u00e0 o\u00f9 aucune contrari\u00e9t\u00e9 ne pourra germer dans ma caboche.<\/p>\n
Je vole, je m\u2019envole. Qui serai-je demain? Une reine d\u00e9coiff\u00e9e par la houle? Une sir\u00e8ne s\u2019approchant de l\u2019\u00ceLE BONAVENTURE?<\/p>\n
\u00c0 suivre dimanche prochain!<\/p>\n
Cora
\n\u2764<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Je n\u2019exag\u00e8re en rien, mon voyage est exceptionnel. Adieu Paris, Londres et […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":414,"featured_media":7488,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-7486","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lettre-mme-cora"],"acf":{"img_en":"","contenu_en":"I am not exaggerating when I say my Gasp\u00e9sie journey is exceptional. Goodbye Paris, London and Istanbul. I went there, I loved it, and yet, this current return to my roots is unrivalled. Having left the Notre-Dame-du-Portage inn around noon, I started looking for the wolf of Rivi\u00e8re-du-Loup (loup<\/em> is \u201cwolf\u201d in French). The poor thing is certainly hiding somewhere in the 138.4 square kilometers that make up the territory. I passed the H\u00f4tel Universel, the H\u00f4tel L\u00e9vesque, the Comfort Inn and the Auberge de la Pointe, but no wolf, anywhere. Looking beyond the pasture fences, I learned that the town\u2019s name might come from the presence of seals, also called \u201csea wolves\u201d in French, which would have once been numerous at the mouth of the river. It is said that the maritime explorer Jacques Cartier, during an expedition, named the town because he had seen many seals on the river\u2019s bank. So it seems that a wolf is not always a wolf and the hunt for the male animal that haunts my dreams is an adventure that\u2019s not without false tracks.\r\n\r\nFortunately, the beautiful Cacouna next door was able to console me. With its magnificent houses overlooking the river, the Pub d'Antan restaurant, a huge flour mill, antique stores and hundreds of lilacs that fill the town with their scent, Cacouna is a well-hidden treasure. I walked through it as gently as if I were licking a soft ice cream cone. Even the dazzling sun was trying to convince me to sleep there one night. To appear beautiful and unique in others\u2019 eyes, we must first be beautiful and unique to ourselves. To have the courage to show our uniqueness, our colours, the flower wreath crowning our heads and our eccentric style. Daring is not a game, but a declaration of courage. My courage and beautiful Cacouna\u2019s.\r\n\r\nStill on 132 East, the Mini Cooper sputters. It's enough to drive you crazy with the jumble of pamphlets inside. Maps here, brochures there, notebooks, half-open books, bills in disarray \u2013 the interior looks like a tourist kiosk that has been hit by a nuclear attack.\r\n\r\n\u201cRIMOUSKI,\u201d announces a green sign. In the distance, the \u00cele Verte plunges into the river. Cyclists are pedalling towards tomorrow. Two women in a convertible wave to me as they pass by. All along the way, the ghost of Highway 20 threatens me. I see it reaching out to me at each clearing. Such is the case since the horse and buggy disappeared. Convenience tugs at our sleeves; speed is queen!\r\n\r\n12:26 p.m.: For a long time, I cross farm land more fertile than hope itself. I resist the temptation to take the ferry to go shake hands with \u00cele Verte. Notre-Dame-des-Sept-Douleurs offers solace. The poor parish tells the story of the Virgin following her son step by step to Golgotha. Lord, how sad it is. Did she know that He would rise from the dead?\r\n\r\n1:32 p.m.: Another green sign appears, this time announcing TROIS-PISTOLES. Why three? And not four or eight? Are we dealing with a duel to settle a score between priests? Perhaps I should ask the famous author Victor-L\u00e9vy Beaulieu? He is still alive and very prolific. Perhaps he will encourage me to continue writing? On my left, the Fromagerie des Basques seems to be the town\u2019s main attraction. I stop there. I think about it. I forgot my cooler. Foolish me! I wanted to bring my granddaughter back a fresh lobster. And now, no cheese either.\r\n\r\nAbout 2:00 pm. Should I take the ferry to Les Escoumins? Look there, a museum on the horizon, a collection of old cars from the Maurice Duplessis era. On the other side of the road, Marcel Plourde\u2019s workshop, a cabinetmaker. And just next door, a small business called Ballons en Folie. I stop my Mini, roll down the driver\u2019s window and ask an elderly woman why the place is called Trois-Pistoles. Believe it or not, she doesn't know. She tells me she\u2019s sorry, almost tearing up.\r\n\r\nI'm back on the road. I love my country, its lands and seas, its benevolent sky and its warm people. I am happy. Then what on earth do I see? A hearse parked alongside a cemetery\u2019s fence and many shiny cars parked nearby. Who died? The mayor? A big shot? A well-healed man, as Victor-L\u00e9vy would say? Who owns the shiny red Jag? Curiosity takes hold of me. Then as luck would have it, a small bookshop comes into view through my windshield further down the road. I park the Mini, open my window, take off my sunglasses and see a big CLOSED TODAY. Closed for what? For the funeral for the deceased man whose name I don't know?\r\n\r\nI realize that while crisscrossing my beautiful Gasp\u00e9 Peninsula, I am accumulating a lot of WHYs. Why exactly? With my right foot applied lightly to the gas pedal, I continue on my way. That's the way life goes, in Trois-Pistoles or elsewhere, I am comfortable with what I know. And I don't suffer from FOMO (fear of missing out). I am not the centre of the world, just a tiny beauty mark on my town\u2019s cheek. With both feet planted firmly on the ground, I live in a connected world. I frequently miss things, but Radio-Canada and Saturday\u2019s Le Devoir<\/em> teach me the most important things to know.\r\n\r\nAnd here is a magnificent big church. A masterpiece made of big field stones. I admire those builders of ancient cathedrals. I park and walk around the church. Just behind it, a small modern building is home to MALLETTE, chartered professional accountants. It's quite edifying to see how much Trois-Pistoles has to offer. Just next to Mallette's is the Cantine d'Amour. A clash of neurons occurs: I want to stay in Trois-Pistoles. At least until I discover why \"three\" pistols and not four or eight. Should I knock on Mallette's door? Or should I leave these mysterious places?\r\n\r\n\"On the road again,\" the famous Jack Kerouac would answer me. Nobody is waiting for me. So much the better. I don't even know where I'll sleep tonight. That's true freedom, don't you think? Could it simply be old age? Not promising anything and only revealing afterwards what really happened? The unvarnished truth?\r\n\r\nI hit the road and am mesmerized by the wonders before me. Approaching Bic National Park, everything I see is beautiful and green; the lushness of the trees is transcendent. Is it the water, the temperature, a microclimate effect or the locals\u2019 love? Even the birch trees in the Bic seem to put an effort into looking lovely. On my left, a ferry to the North Shore readies to leave. Visible perhaps from the boat: the Bic, a whale and her baby.\r\n\r\nHave you ever noticed that birch trees are the ones who protect our country roads? They are slender, flexible and hardy. Polite, friendly and discreet, too. Elegantly dressed, they are the ones who stretch, bend and stoop to assist a little rabbit or mother groundhog. They are also the ally of drivers, who, when dusk falls, follow the light from their white outstretched arms home.\r\n\r\nI finally arrive in Sainte-Flavie where I once lived for some three years. I find a bed for the night at the Gasp\u00e9siana Hotel and then rush to smell the sweet scent of the sea. I soak my feet for a few moments until they become numb. At 7 p.m., I finally taste a local lobster whose flavour sweeps me away. Dazzled by the moment, I dare to order 8 ounces of Jackson-Triggs Reserve Sauvignon Blanc. Fresh out of a pot of boiling water, the animal holds out its two claws to me, as if land and sea were finally to be reconciled. \"Life is dangerous, dear friend. You must crack open the shell to taste the flesh,\" the great Bocuse would certainly have told me if he had been my dinner guest. This great chef, whose biography I have read, was a passionate man, full of enthusiasm and know-how. He died in his sleep on January 20, 2018.\r\n\r\nOuranos! First son of the Earth and master of the starry sky, hear me: This is the kind of departure I wish to have. To leave while dreaming of the next breakfast to be invented. To leave without regret, with the hand of an angel guiding me skyward. High above, where no annoyance can take root in my mind.\r\n\r\nI fly, fly away. Who will I be tomorrow? A queen dishevelled by the swell? A mermaid approaching Bonaventure Island?\r\n\r\nMore next Sunday!\r\n\r\nCora\r\n\u2764"},"yoast_head":"\n