How’s that for an click-baity enticing title, eh? Last weekend was planned several months ago, after coordination with another blogging buddy and IRL friend, Karen Hume. Joanne (aka trail name: Blaze) and I visited Karen last in the summer of 2018 and another visit was definitely overdue!
Joanne asked me if there was anything in particular I wanted to see on our little road trip (besides Karen, of course) and without much hesitation I said “Tweed, in Smiths Falls!” This was more than cool with our intrepid Joanne as well, so off we went on Friday morning to see what this facility that grows cannabis was all about. Joanne wrote about her observations on our tour here and she has some great pictures of pot production at “Ganga University” as I call it, because our tour guide kept referring to the facility as a “campus”.
So, without replicating Joanne’s photos…we were both snapping away so a lot are the same…here are some of mine, from our tour:
After a couple of hours spent gaining an education about ye olde electric lettuce, bhang, mary jane, dank, green goddess etc., we were off to meet up with Karen for some pub grub and plans for our Saturday together. Which included visiting:
And the Brockville Railway Tunnel, Canada’s first:
While visiting with Karen, we stayed at a lovely little complex on the banks of the St. Lawrence River:
And it really was lovely, except for the paper thin walls between the rooms. On Saturday night Joanne and I turned in early, in our respective but far apart rooms – we’d had a full day of catching up and touring the area with Karen, and had filled up on some delicious Chinese food for supper as well. We were both looking forward to relaxing with a good book and catching up on our (a-hem) beauty sleep.
Joanne was treated to a loudly battling father and son in the room next to hers while I was treated to something else entirely.
There I was, safely tucked into bed and enjoying a good book, when I heard the unmistakeable sounds of…er…knockin’ boots, from the other side of the wall behind my headboard. Which was not at all unusual I suppose, except that I was also treated to some loud and (I sincerely hope) playful slapping going on, besides! Talk about your “slap and tickle” – it was a veritable slap and tickle festival happening next door to me. Hah! Thankfully it was at a decent hour in the evening and the festivities um climaxed died down before they cut into my ability to sleep.
The next morning we shared our experiences at breakfast while I scanned the couples in the complex’s dining room to try and figure out who was the slapper and who was the slappee of the previous evening. I think I figured it out. Not only that, we ran into those same people at a highway rest stop on the way back to our respective homes later that morning! The woman seemed in quite a jolly mood so I inferred from this that apparently all that slapping was done in a loving and consensual manner.
Joanne asked me how long I had to listen to this symphony of slap-happy sex. I said long enough that I didn’t have to feel sorry for the female partner. 😉
Have you ever had your rest interrupted by a loud couple next door? Do tell, and…
Rock on,
The WB