Richard Carreño
[Writers Clearinghouse
News Service]La Malbaie, Quebec
Think the Gold Coast of Florida. Without the palm trees. Think the Cote d'Azur. With a similar French flair. For almost a century, this riparian town, part former fishing village and now year-round tourist mecca, has been the coastal centre of what may be the closest thing that Quebec, even Canada, has to a European-styled Riviera. Including the rich and famous.
To be sure, the rich and famous here tend to be more like Canadian and American captains of industry than Hollywood movie producers and French starlets. Indeed, given the vagaries of north country weather and Malbaie's location of the north shore of the St. Lawrence, about 90 minutes by car from Quebec City, clothing of choice here is more often than not a snow bunny's fleece and mittens rather than that of a bikini-clad Cannes beach. If you can conjure the likes of ex-President William H. Taft, who was Malbaie fan, you can get the idea.
That said, these staid
attractions in this Charlevoix region of Quebec have been enticing visitors more
than 200 years. In the late 1700s, two Scots feudal lords, John Nairne and
Malcolm Fraser, maintained landed estates in the area, and kicked off the
tourist boom by inviting friends back in the Old Sod for prolonged visits,
involving golf, salmon fishing, and whale-watching.
Even now, visitors still revel in
these activities -- and in more modern summer-oriented water
sports.
I came for the
whales.Thanks to
George Frazier.
Frazier, the late, great
columnist for The Boston
Globe, was also a writer for the old Holiday magazine. Whales --
the ocean-going variety, as well the plump, overly-stuffed society matron
type (Margaret Dumont, anyone?) from the Lower-Forty-Eight -- Frazier reported
way back in the 1950s, were reason enough for a visit. Over the years, I kept
that in mind.
I also kept in mind
Frazier's admonition to observe Malbaie's conservative lifestyles. At least,
those back in the day when he was writing. Mostly, this was quiet,
family-oriented place. Mostly, modest. Though deep in the heart of liberal
French Canada, revelry in these parts still has some of the vibe of Scottish
prudery.
That is, with the notable
exception of one of
the world's marvels of contemporary craven excess, Sagard-Lac Deschenes. Tucked
away on seventy-six square kilometres just north along the river, Sagard is
120,000-square, $46-million pile that's supposed to resemble a 16th century
Italian villa. Since it was built, ahem, just a little-more recently by a
consortium of Canadian fat cats, the place has more of the ring of William
Randolph Hearst's San Simeon castle. Except that Sagard, interestingly enough,
located in the village of Saint-Simeon, is a working, real-life hide-away
for plutocrats, oligarchs, and just plain movers and shakers.
In all, according to
newspaper reports, the Sagard is like a Koch Brothers mansion on steroids. With Sheldon Adelson as the yard
boy.
Since I hardly fit that Sagard
demographic, I wasn't on the dance card to get in. Not surprisingly, Canadian
prime ministers, like Brian Mulroney, Pierre-Elliot Trudeau, and Jean Chretein;
former presidents George W. Bush and Bill Clinton; Sarah Fergusson, the duchess
of York; and King Juan Carlos of Spain all have been granted access over the
years. Tiger Woods gets to play on Sagard's golf links. Oh yeah, they all fly in
to Sagard's heliport.
Jean-Nicolas Blanchet, a reporter
for Le Journal de Quebec, calls Sagard 'a veritable fortress of secrets' and a play land for rich lobbyists to entertain on
behalf of the 'powerful.'
For most others, the height
of sumptuousness on public display here is the Fairmont Manoir Richelieu,
another wedding cake-like, fairy-tale neo-chateau, built as a 250-room hotel in
1899. Manoir Richelieu, in nearby Point-au-Pic, was President Taft's
home-away-from-home and where, in 1925, he inaugurated the hotel's now-widely-heralded
eighteen-hole golf course.
When I came here recently, I
arrived from the north, driving from Saint-Simeon and my misadventure with
Sagard. I had landed there by ferry from the south shore town of Rivere-du-Loup,
where a friend and I had set out for the hour-long cross-river
voyage.
We had hoped to sight whales. No
such luck. And in modern-day Malbaie, I learnt later, even the Margaret
Dumont-variety are now hard to find.