In true #TBT fashion, we’ll be throwing it back to long-lost stories. The ones in which we did put pen to paper (in a 2017 kind of way), but for whatever reason remained tucked away in the unpublished folder.

The Tobermory Misadventure: Tobermory, Ontario circa summer 2014

Why we didn’t publish: No good reason at all. That’s the truth.

So the first international misadventure Rosy and I embarked on was to a typical place fitting for two bright-eyed girls with a love for shopping — Las Vegas. It was four days of probably a million some odd footsteps in and out of countless hotels and shops, casinos and restaurants, a Cirque du Soleil show and a really sketchy bus ride to a shady part of town that led us to, well, more shops.  

A stark change from Tobermory, Ontario, where we shared our most recent misadventure. A tiny town a few hours outside of Toronto. Quaint  — I never thought I would ever be able to use that word to describe anything I’ve experienced — but Tobermory is the definition of quaint. And if I might add, it’s picturesque as well. 

Tiny shops, Beavertails, and Flower Pot Island — Mother Nature at her finest — Tobermory is a place where I’m sure everybody knows everybody…and a place where the locals probably love boasting about how the big city kids come to visit their neck of the woods every year. 

Just like the young Parks Canada employee we met at the very end of our hike through Flower Pot Island. After wiping the sweat from our brows and embracing the sun that finally came out, he asked if we were camping on the island. To which we scoffed and said we are not those type of girls. The hike, though began as a walkable, peaceful trail — one in which we were able to eat our Nutella sandwiches (made by Stefania) on the way — almost ended in disaster, or in our case serious misadventure. 

The greenery, stones and natural forestry were very beautiful and also a little daunting, think the Hunger Games. While we followed the “easy trail” up one side of the island, we misread a sign going down, and ended up climbing, jumping and pulling ourselves down a much harder trail for about 20 minutes before deciding we had to turn around and run back the way we came up. To make matters worse we were in a time crunch. The boat bringing us back to Tobermory was set to pick us up in 30 minutes.

Upon starting the trail we talked about the creatures that may live in the forests, snakes for example. Lo and behold while running back to the dock we spot one and hurdled over it.

Yeah, we were done with this Hunger Games shit and needed to get back to our motel.

While we both agreed camping was a no-go, Rosy and I are not the kind of girls who insist on five-star hotels. The motel we spent our night in was pleasant; outdated being an understatement, but clean nonetheless.

My only real complaint was the motel mascot, a cat named Brucey, as funny as I found his name to be (“Brucey” as in Bruce Peninsula, home to Tobermory).

If you must know anything about me it’s this — I dislike and thoroughly distrust cats. Rosy and I are unequivocally dog people (although she has a soft spot for fat cats). There’s just something about cats; the fact that they’re so independent, natural born hunters and that without a jingly collar to give away their whereabouts, you can never hear them coming. For me, I envision that every cat has the potential to claw your eyes out as you sleep peacefully in your bed because at the end of the day they don’t need you. Brucey the devil cat had already torn a hole in our patio screen door, so he could come and go as he pleased, leaving his hair all over our room. I was on to the cat.

Despite the cat hair, the Tobermory misadventure was well worth it. It’s a shame to explore internationally when there’s much to see right in our own backyards. While our choice of destinations may prove to be a sign of us aging — like a fine wine — one thing remains the same: when we get going, we’ll always find something worth writing about…even if we have to nurse sore feet.