I pretend to experiment in non-intentionality by piloting my car without charts, of course in full compliance with Coast Guard standards. The smart critic must rule otherwise: I get lost. Good fortune and bad fortune can visit the lost in equal measure and when one stops in a delightful place, one can declare oneself found. I believe I was steaming up Jordan Harbor, an estuary of the Jordan River, a tributary of Lake Ontario, the final Great Lake. I remarked upon a street illumined gently by faux gas lamps and dominated by immense buildings of a charming block, not garish such as cinder block. Rusticated in texture, I hope to learn the block was carved out of dolomite, the beautiful hardened limestone of the Niagara Bench. I noticed the inviting facade of the Inn on the Twenty and the tasting room of Cave Springs, which remarkably, I found receiving visitors, despite the newly fallen darkness of 5:30 PM. Speaking about the fall of darkness, I noticed a stout man in the passenger seats of a Niagara Region police cruiser, gaping out the rear window at me, uncomfortable and grimacing, his arms surely handcuffed behind his back. He didn't wave. An officer of the law, who like the Mountie, had gotten his man, was standing by the motoring cruiser in his winter blue uniform parka, phoning in for instructions. Intent on his duty, the officer didn't wave either. I entered the establishment, and encountered a warm atmosphere, with an affable group of husband and wives enjoying a selection of cheeses and fruits, thirty-somethings dressed in dark winter wool, wards of their tour driver, who gave me a look over with a glance. Despite the fishing hat he wore, I was certain I had been checked out by a former high level military operative. Attended by two plummy hosts, I sampled the Cave Springs Dolomite Riesling and the Dolomite Pinot Noir, both delightfully mineral in aftertaste, a tribute of tough terroir of dolomite dominated soil. I am sure people in the the Jordan benefit from good bones and stronger backbones from their calcium rich water. I'm unsure what the fellow in custody perpetrated, but whatever his actions, it caused him to miss out on a brightly lit evening of hospitality and wine tasting. It is better to avoid the ways of the boundary crossing bounder and simpler to belly up to the bar with ready money.
The tour guide took charge of cases of wine the staff were ringing up at the register, guiding the staff on labeling the cases with names and directing the loading of the limousine. The couples walked over to the Inn on the Twenty for a candlelit supper. I believe the Twenty refers to a river that gathers up a torrent of water from the limestone ravines, becoming a gushing tributary of Lake Ontario in twenty mere miles.
At King Road, I wanted to stop at a small gas station for directions, but a classical music station out of Buffalo New York was broadcasting Bach piano sonatas in honor of his birthday and the next movement contained a mazurka. Or was it Beethoven's birthday and the next movement promised a fugue? I knew a great performance of piano was in the offing. It would be silly to stop and ask for the directions toward Toronto. Later, as I pulled onto the QEW, the CBC announced their new website documenting the life and achievements of Glenn Gould, famous for two recordings of the Brandenburg Concertos, one in youth and one after a life of experience.
Inn on the Twenty has an extension in Jordan Village, which is on the Jordan River, right?