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Ian hadn’t brought a map.
Actually he didn’t have a copy which was a reasonable excuse under the circumstances, although he may have had a point or two deducted had it been some sort of leadership test. Eventually we found ourselves about eight kilometres along our intended fourteen kilometre bike trail in an outbound direction, with no turn in sight. There wasn’t even a hint that there would be a turnoff now or at any time in the future, so once we had determined that finding the intended route was improbable, we decided to return the way we had come.
There is nothing wrong with being lost of course. Apart from riding on the fake tourist train with the Johnny Hallyday fans it’s the best way of seeing things in an unfamiliar place which is precisely why we wandered off into the clearing skies of the afternoon with no particular destination in mind.
It’s a pretty place, we like it here, we like the parks and the back streets and the colours and the waterways and the little bridges and the poignancy of the memorial statue with the patriot tied to the execution stake staring defiantly at the (figurative) firing squad, ready to go calmly where he must, the a live pigeon standing equally as resolutely on his head, daring them to fire.
We'd like it so much we'd like to visit some of those things again next time we are here, but we have almost no idea where we were.
We didn't take a map either.
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