August 29, we were actually fed, showered and on the road before well before 9 AM (AST), which was a first for us. We had few plans except to get the hell home, each of us for our own reasons. Short Pants accepted the destination with his typical sangfroid – he’s a pretty good traveler for all his disappointing lack of confidence in my navigation skills. Baby Girl was positively radiant at the prospect of going home for reals. She lives very much in the moment. She’s enjoyed each activity of the summer at it’s time, but has never stopped missing home, her pets, and Mama, not in that order.

Phantom of the Opera and lots of conversation carried us out of Cape Breton pretty quickly. While we were manifestly intent on getting home quickly, I did agree to a short diversion to the Hopewell Rocks on the Bay of Fundy. The Rocks are dramatic sea-sculpted formations carved out of the red sandstone cliffs by the year-round weathering of the Fundy tides. The rocks have been formed into arches, caves and giant mushrooms.

There was a nominal charge to enter the park. We paid about $20 for the three of us then raced our way down the path towards the water. It was fun to get some exercise. The tide was just going out as we started our walk along the shore. Tourists were wading in thigh deep water to inspect the rocks. As an experiment, we left a large rock at the waterline to mark the level. An hour later, on our way back, the watery places where the tourists had been wading was high and dry, and our marker rock was standing alone on a wide beach. We did some quick calculations to figure that the water had dropped about a meter in 45 minutes. Cool!

Well after that, it was just a car chase as we made our way north through New Brunswick and into Quebec. We had to cover as much ground as possible if we were going to be back in Toronto for school on Monday. As dusk approached we found ourselves across the St. Lawrence River from Quebec City in the ville of Levis. We found ourselves accommodations at an outpost of the ever-popular Holiday Inn Express. Those Johnston Kids settled in for some quality time with Treehouse on cable while I ordered pizza and salad from a local place that delivered.

We picked at our food and hit the hay early. Too much driving is exhausting.

It was overcast and still on Thursday. It threatened to turn ugly all day, but never really turned that corner. Nonetheless, we hunkered down, not wanting to be caught out if the heavens should open. It didn’t suck to not drive anywhere for a day anyway. We spent a quiet day around the cottage, but there was one notable event.

I received an generic email from the administration at Osgoode Hall Law School, welcoming students back to school, with a reminder that classes started on Monday. Monday. That is August 31st, 3 days later. I recovered my spleen from where I had spat it and logged into the Oz website to check the schedule. It was legit. Osgoode decided to start classes early because Labour Day was so late this year. This necessitated a dramatic rethink of our travel plans.

We had planned to stay at the cottage until Saturday, then meander home over the course of 5 or 6 days, with several stops along the way. That was all off the table now. We would leave on Saturday and put the hammer down. I expected that we wouldn’t get home until Monday evening, but that would only mean one missed class for me, so it was acceptable. The other problem we faced was childcare for Those Johnston Kids while I was at school and Mama at work, but we could deal with that later.

Friday was sunny, windy, and our last full day in Cape Breton. I had promised the kids that we would return to Point Michaud for more boogie boarding, so that was our plan for the morning. First, though, I had to have a leaky tire fixed. We’d been having trouble with one wheel that wouldn’t hold air for more than a few days. Rather than take the care to Canadian Tire and endure their inevitable and costly administrations, I went to a small local auto repair. The mechanic looked at immediately and within 15 minutes we were on our way with a newly patched tire, $15 all in. Canadian Tire could take a lesson (or several) in customer service.

The weather was fine at Point Michaud, but more importantly the surf was up and reliable. The teenage instructors were willing to take the kids out for a proper lesson. They were a cash only business, so I paid for the class with a handful of coins from the car change cup big enough to pull down their baggy shorts. Short Pants was pleased to wear a wetsuit even though the water was remarkably even warmer than it had been on Wednesday. I rented a surfboard and joined Those Johnston Kids and their instructor in the Atlantic. They can be a handful.

We did not learn how to surf but the wee ones were pretty thrilled to ride waves in to shore on their boards. The instructor was earnest, but a bit flustered. She was very young and was probably more used to teaching attentive adults than willful merchildren. While she tried to teach one surfing basics, I would shove the other down a likely wave and watch the ensuing hilarity.

That was plenty good enough for Baby Girl who shrieked and cackled all the way to shore with every ride but never managed to get to more than her hands and knees on the board. I barely improved on my previous attempts at surfing but did get up to a reliable kneel and could steer reasonably well. On the downside, repeatedly throwing my naked chest on the rubberized deck of the board to catch a wave had the effect of painfully pulling out my chest hair. That must be why surfers are always boyishly smooth-chested.

Short Pants was the most successful of us all. As they called us in to return the boards, I looked up to see him riding a small wave into the shallows, perfectly stable with his arms down at his sides. He looked almost bored at how easy it was.

Back at the cottage, we spent the evening packing and prepping for an early departure. OMG, school starts on Monday!

I learned through a third party (Mama) that Baby Girl had lost her wallet. She had been afraid to tell me that it was gone. That was unfortunate because if she had told me sooner we might have recovered it immediately. She seemed pretty certain that she had left it at the camp store at Fitzroy Provincial Park, our first stop on the road east from home. It immediately brought to mind our misadventure with our pack containing her camera in Riding Mountain National Park. I called Fitzroy as soon as it was open and described the wallet and contents. Happily, it had been recovered and was even intact with contents. They agreed to hold on to it until we passed through again. Our trip is almost thematic in its repetition of things lost and found.

I had an interesting experience last week, as we sat in the parlour of Rita’s Tea Room in Big Pond, Cape Breton. Short Pants asked about the ‘big CDs’ on the walls, leading me to try to explain what a platinum record was. Of course, I went into the Bell and the history of the phonograph, wax cylinders, plastic disks at 78 rpm, electromagnetic induction, master disks and vinyl pressing. Naturally that led to the explanation that platinum and gold records actually weren’t, with the exception of the gold record included with the Voyager spacecraft, now on its way out of the heliosphere. Then the clam chowder came and I ran out of time to finish the lesson.

Road trips have come a long way from automotive record players, and binders of CDs. On our trip I carried about 300 albums of music on a very small USB thumbdrive. Not that it was necessary. Kids like familiarity and repetition, and Those Johnston Kids are no different. If something is good to listen to, it will be good to listen to again, and again, and again. Despite the plethora of music available in our collection, in many different genres, we really only listened to 3 recordings, with the occasional diversion mandated for my sanity.

As we drove west, the Imagine Dragons were in heavy rotation (funny choice of words, isn’t it?). There’s that one lyric from Radioactive, that goes “don’t make my system blow”, that the kids always sing as “don’t break my sisters toes”. That’s only funny the first 30 or so times you hear it though.

After we picked up Mama and were moving through BC, they discovered Stompin’ Tom. That album got played pretty much non-stop from Vancouver, when we picked up Alison, back to Ontario. Alison was not a Stompin’ Tom fan especially before the trip, and still isn’t, but at least now she knows all the words. It was neat to visit or pass through many of the places that Stompin’ Tom sang about.

As we headed east from Toronto, Those Johnston Kids discovered The Phantom of the Opera. They are now ready to perform any of the singing roles in the British production. Baby Girl would like to play the Phantom herself. She didn’t much take to the role of Christine, but belts out the Phantom’s verses with verve.

The weather on Wednesday was happily a bit better. It was a mix of clouds and sun with the blend favouring the daystar. Baby Girl had been agitating for a chance to try surfing at the world famous (?) Point Michaud beach, so it seemed like a good day to try it out. I took an utterly ineffectual surfing lesson there a few years back. After about 6 hours in the water the best I had managed was about 3 seconds on my feet, although I wouldn’t call it standing so much as falling terribly slowly. It is astonishing even to me that I can ride a unicycle, and keep a boat upright in anything short of a tsunami, but can’t stand on a surfboard. All my talent is obviously in my ass.

Nevertheless, the surf beckoned, so off we went. As we drove, I became aware of a curious odour in the car. At first it was just a whiff, a scented tendril that tickled at the back of the nose, but it grew in strength as the car warmed up in the sun until it was a full bore olfactory insult. It was the smell of a ripe cheese, or the socks of a teenage boy. It was body odour freshened up with a hint of old seaweed. It was the contents of a sealed race bag that you discover rotting forgotten in the back of your car. Naturally I blamed Those Johnston Kids and castigated their lack of foot hygiene and general affinity for dirt. They protested ineffectually.

We discovered the actual culprit when we arrived at the beach and piled out of the reeking car. As I pulling our swimwear out of the back, I realized that the rank stank was emanating from our trunks. We had hung them to dry after our kayak on Monday, but they still smelled terrible. Something dark and monstrous lives in the cold water of the Bras D’Or, and it smells like parmigiano. It couldn’t be helped though, so we put on the rotten suits anyway. Short Pants complained bitterly, but isn’t into skinny-dipping. Yet.

In the parking lot at the Point Michaud beach, there is a small hut that houses the lifeguards and surfing instructors. You can arrange a lesson, or just rent equipment, at exceedingly reasonable rates. On this day, they didn’t recommend a surfing lesson because the wind was blowing up choppy, unpredictable surf. They did rent us boogie boards, a metre-long oval of painted foam, for a mere $5 per hour. The staff were very friendly, but they may have just wanted to get the strange cheese-smelling people out of the close little shack.

Those Johnston Kids are legendary for their seal-like ability to swim in anything short of solid water, but Short Pants isn’t much of an eater and is skinny like a rez dog. I don’t know where he gets it. While Baby Girl was immersed before we boys even hit the water, Short Pants found the water entirely too cold for his liking. I think maybe he was having an off day because he was showing symptoms of a head cold as well. After a few forays into the Atlantic up to his waist, he finally gave it up as unreasonable and went to sunbathe instead. That meant lying fully dressed on a towel in the sun. Practical if not traditional.

Baby Girl and I in the waves, some of which were respectably large. Things got a lot more fun when she finally caught a wave with her board and surfed it into shore on her belly. We spent two hours in the water with nary a break until even I started to get chilly. She would never admit such a weakness.

On our way back to the cottage we stopped at the dock in the tiny village of L’Ardoise, which is apparently not pronounced in French as you would expect. It’s pronounced in English, with a heavy east coast accent. That’s not very specific, I realise, but whatever pronunciation you come up with based on my description will be closer than the French. We went there to buy live lobsters for Granfa. He loves him some ocean-dwelling arthropods. Lobsters were out of season in the area, but there is a fishing company there that has some in tanks all summer. I don’t know if fishers save them from their catch during open season, or if they ship them from areas where the season is open. Probably the latter. Live lobsters are pretty easy to transport on ice because they just go dormant. Anyway, we picked up 3, one each for Granfa, Bobby, and Baby Girl. I don’t mind lobster, but I wasn’t in the mood for all the live-killing and tearing apart required. I think Short Pants was on the same page as me, but Baby Girl was already whispering “kill, kill, kill, kill” under her breath like Jason.

Back at the cottage, Granfa fussed about in a pleased fashion, getting ready for a lobster dinner, the kids GameBoyed themselves silly, and I took a nap. You know those dreams when you’re being chased by zombie raptors? I hate those.

Come dinnertime, Granfa covered the table with plastic and newspaper and taught Baby Girl how to disassemble a lobster. It was like watching a biology class dissection. I participated long enough to secure Short Pants a set of empty claws. We put them on the deck to dry out and ate our leftover spaghetti with relish.

The cottage is a comfortable little place on Bras D’Or Lake in Cape Breton, owned by Mama’s parents. They routinely make the mistake of inviting us back every year, Those Johnston Kids and all. Despite the racket and mess created by energetic kids, Bobby and Granfa are most genial hosts, and so we return as often as we can. Most summers we’ve been there, it’s been hot and humid, relieved by swims in the cold, briny water of the Bras D’Or.

This summer has been unusually cold and wet however, as we witnessed first hand. The kids swam on the first day there, but not again. On Tuesday, staring out the windows at a steady rain, I realised that we would have to make our own gravy. I compiled a list of projects that we might undertake with the limited tools, time, and resources available to us. It became a sort of shopping list that led to a trip to Sydney and stops at Home Depot, Walmart, and Michael’s. We came back with a small pile of cool stuff.

Most of the ideas came from Howtoons, an engineering and art graphic work collaboration that inspires kids (and me) to learn about and make things. Throw a bucket of small hand tools and a Howtoons graphic novel at your precocious pre-teen and you won’t see her again until she has something to show you or she needs a bandage. I wish these had been around when I was short. I’d have even more tools than I have already.

We didn’t have time to work on everything that made our short list of neatest projects, but we did make stilts from 2x2s and bolts, and designed our own stuffed toys. I did the most intricate bits, but Those Johnston Kids took sewing needle in hand as well to complete a cute and cuddly owl, as well the beautiful and deadly vampire squid. Shame on those that mistook the (sort of) anatomically correct squid for an octopus. Everybody knows squid have 10 arms, including the 2 long feeding arms. I mean, duh.

One of our favourite makes was fresh ice cream! We couldn’t agree on the flavour, so we made two batches: fresh fruit strawberry and caramel pecan cranberry. That stuff was good. I’m not even a big fan of ice cream, but my mouth cried a little when it was all gone. I tried to save some for you, honest.

Still on our project to-do list: a fart maker (why? 7 years old, that’s why), an air cannon, and Tyvek kites. Oh, and jack up the single-storey cottage, dig out a basement, and pour a foundation. I’m going to need a lot of rainy days next summer.

Those Johnston Kids will swim anywhere, anytime, so I was not surprised when the first thing they did on their first morning at the cottage was jump in the lake. ‘Jump’ means pick their way out through the rocky shallows to a point deeper than their hips. The water in the Bras D’Or was actually warm, relative to the glacial runoff they’ve become accustomed to. The chill drizzle didn’t seem to dampen their spirits either. They frolicked with the assortment of swimming accoutrements that Bobby and Granfa keep stockpiled for grandkids. Like literally all of them. Every plastic, rubber and inflatable toy spread out across the deck in a day-glo potpourri of water toys.

I had them tidy it all up again before taking them out in our fat-bottomed sit-on-top kayak. It’s not my favourite craft, but it’s stable enough for amateurs and has a useless window in the hull for looking at things that are immediately under the boat. It seemed like a good idea when we bought it, but there is never anything immediately under the boat. The window well also fills up with water, bugs, and whatever is on your feet, rendering its efficacy as an actual window nil. We went for a short circuit, just long enough to drain the last of the blood from their extremities and turn their lips a healthy shade of purple.

My phone was completely dead, but it’s a Nexus 5, with built-in wireless charging. I realised that I just needed to find a wireless charger. That’s not a common bit of kit yet, but it’s growing in prevalence. Within a couple of years, all new mobile devices will charge wirelessly. Cables will be for suckers.

Accordingly, we took a trip to town to find a charger. It took a few stores, but I eventually found the last (only) one in Cape Breton, in a Source outlet. They didn’t really know what it was, so I patiently explained that it wasn’t an Apple accessory, it was a wireless charger based on the Qi standard that could charge any compatible device. Like mine, making this entertaining post possible.

Then we had to rush back to the cottage because it was only raining a little bit. That’s good swimming weather.

It came down biblically the night before so everything was damp again on the morning of the 23rd. After a couple of days of hot, muggy weather we were overdue for showers, so that was the first activity of the day. Short Pants goes readily to the showers. He has decided that he likes being sprayed by warm clean water. Baby Girl still treats every shower as a consignment to a soapy labour camp. There was much pouting, stamping of feet, and loud sighs from her as we made our way to the free (!) showers with normal taps (!). She came out happy enough. You just can’t argue with clean.

The shower stall was about the same width as my shoulders, so Short Pants and I had to take turns. He reminisced fondly about the extra large showers at the KOA campgrounds. KOA has made a lasting impression on the boy for the cleanliness of their facilities. I had no idea that it was so important to him.

With the exception of the campground in the Cypress Hills, and Cape Croker park, every campground we’ve visited has had potable water. I contrast this with Cape Croker which has had a nearly unbroken streak of boil water advisories for years. My mother lives in the Maadokii senior’s residence, and even they can’t use their tap water. Cape sadly isn’t alone among reservations in that regard. I think the percentage of reserves without safe drinking water is something like 40%, but I will update this post with the most recent numbers that I can find. This is the Third World in Canada and we ought to be ashamed. We can provide clean water to every backwoods campground in the country, but we can’t ensure the same service to native communities. I think Indians should occupy national parks, just for the drinking water. We’ll call the movement Liquify. Or Boil No More. Something catchy.

As we were hooking up the trailer, I noticed that a wire had snapped in the wiring harness. That necessitated a pause while I dug out tools and tape to repair the harness, because legally we can’t roll without lights.  Check out time was 11 AM, but we went over about 20 minutes. Just as I was putting it back together, the next occupant of the site pulled up in a pickup, with his massive trailer behind, and asked if we were leaving. Our car was packed, the campsite clean, the trailer hitched, and I was obviously working on something. Check in time was also not until 2 PM. I replied that we would be done and gone in a few minutes. No problem, he said, because he could go dump his toilet water for 15 minutes anyway. Then why did you ask, I wondered. I finished the repair, then asked Short Pants to have his last pee right into the fire pit. I know, I know – but I hope Mr. Pushy enjoyed his campfire that night.

We tried to go for a trail ride at Brudenell Park before we left, but Short Pants was too young for their uptight regulations. We decided to do something else that we could all participate in, so we went kayaking instead. Well, Short Pants and I did. Baby Girl had herself a good bad sulk because riding was out. We left her on shore, contemplating the harsh vicissitudes of her young life. On the water, we had a great time. I believe this was SP’s first time piloting his own kayak, so he was pretty stoked. He’s a natural with a paddle. Coming off the water, a fellow on the dock asked how old Short Pants was because he had looked so good in the boat. In the end, BG came out on the water for 10 minutes, but she was a lot more noncommittal about it.

From Brudenell Park we drove down to the Wood Islands ferry. That would take us over to Caribou, Nova Scotia. I had successfully charged my phone with a wall charger the night before, but when I plugged it into the car charger, the cable fried and melted. When I yanked the cord out of my phone, it trailed threads of melted plastic. I think there’s a short in the USB socket on the phone, so that current just flows back into the wire. In any case, it doesn’t work at all now. My reanimated phone was a dead device walking again.

The ferry was full with reservations, so we had to wait a couple of hours for the next departure. While we waited, we were entertained by a group of teenage performers on a small stage near the loading area. There was a chubby boy on guitar and vocals, and the rest were girls. Three girls playing fiddles, a singer, and a step dancer. A couple of adults played a keyboard for some arrangements, but the kids were the show. The boy playing guitar was especially talented.

On the ferry crossing, we saw a few dolphins, as well as some seals bobbing at the surface. I always look, but that was the first time I’ve ever actually seen wildlife from a ferry. They were probably hired to promote the magical charm of the Maritimes.

The drive from Caribou to Big Pond, Nova Scotia is only about 2 and a half hours, but Those Johnston Kids were eager to arrive, which made the leg seem longer. Short Pants asked frequently how much further there was to go, but I had no ready answer. No phone. I guessed from a linear extrapolation of our distance travelled on the paper map, but that did little to satisfy him. With only 15 minutes left until our arrival, he became convinced that I had taken a wrong turn – and told me so repeatedly in increasingly anxious tones. Finally even Baby Girl came to my defence, sparing me further degradation of my tooth enamel.

Despite fog, twisty roads, and darkness, we arrived safely. The kids rushed inside joyfully to greet their grandparents and tell them that there was no bedtime on vacation.

Bon matin!

The overnight downpour had resigned itself to contemptuous spitting as we broke camp Saturday morning in Mount Carleton. We had flirted with the idea of a swim or maybe a canoe rental in the morning, but the overcast morning deflated our eagerness. Baby Girl was also a bit subdued as she’s come down with a head cold. She sounds like a heavy smoker despite eating Halls like Tic-Tacs.

Before we left the campground, I effected some repairs to the trailer again. When we were escaping from Montreal down a potholed street in the suburbs, we were startled by a Québécois driver coming the other way honking, yelling in French, and pointing behind us. When I looked in the mirror I was aghast to see that we were dragging our propane tank by the hose. It looked like the bolts holding the tank on had rattled loose. The tank had fallen from its seat, pulling the hose mount out of the trailer wall, leaving ragged holes in the aluminium side. At the time, I had just tied the tank back onto the frame and crossed my fingers. It was time to fix it properly. I drilled out the holes and put in expanding bolts, then remounted the tank with lock washers. That’s not as interesting a story as our propane tank exploding on the highway, but probably safer.

My phone is a vital part of our trip logistics. It provides communication (sometimes), maps, research on upcoming destinations, WiFi hotspot for various devices, and photography. Imagine my dismay when Baby Girl kicked the charging cable by accident while we were driving and let the Magic Smoke out of my phone. (All electronic devices rely on magic smoke to function, and if it gets out, they don’t work anymore.) I yanked the blackened half-melted wire out of the phone, but it seemed too late. The phone still worked, but even with another new cable, the phone refused to charge. It was just a matter of time before the lights went out.

Given the crisis, we searched out a Bell-Aliant store in the town of Shediac, on the Atlantic coast of New Brunswick. Unfortunately, the fellow there couldn’t do anything to help because they were a Bell partner store, not a corporate store. He did let me know that my phone bill was overdue after two months on the road, so I took care of that anyway. When I throw my phone into the Atlantic, it should at least be paid for.

We bought a paper map and filled up on gas too before we left town. Baby Girl likes to do the pumping now, so I just run my credit card and leave her to it. It’s usually pretty helpful. Less so on this day, as we were to discover.

The bridge to Prince Edward Island is 2 lanes wide, about 15 kilometres long, and very high. With the ever-present rain, the grey clouds over the strait were vast and dramatic. I think it would be cool to ride a bicycle over it although the narrowness of the lanes would make it more than a little nerve wracking.

We stopped at the information centre on the PEI side of the bridge. We’re never sure what there is to do, so we like to visit the info centres to get the lay of the land. As we got of the car, Short Pants noticed that the gas door was still open and commented loudly as he shut it. I popped it open again with a nagging fear that turned out to be justified. We had no gas cap any longer. Baby Girl had pumped the gas, replaced the pump and collected the bill, but hadn’t replaced the cap or shut the door. Oh well. We needed candy. I needed candy. We got candy.

Nerves calmed by sucrose, I used a few previous milliwatts of my dying phone’s life to locate a Canadian Tire in Charlottetown. Then I had another good idea and plugged my phone into a battery, rather than the car. A competent scientist accounts for all variables, and I wanted to rule out the car USB adaptor. I left it plugged in while we made our way to Canadian Tire.

Happy, happy, joy, joy, it charged! It seemed like the adaptor had surged and fried the cable, not my phone. We purchased a gas cap and a new adaptor and we were a going concern again. Gotta roll with what hits you.

With the sweet tang of electrons filling my phone I called up Tourism PEI and made a reservation for the last serviced campsite at Brudenell Provincial Park. The lady on the phone had a great down east accent and was exceedingly helpful. It was full dark by the time we arrived. We chased out the mosquitoes and blackflies and went to sleep.

Vendredi, il a plu dans la ville de Québec, mais nous avons mis sur nos imperméables et est allé pour une promenade. Nous avons cherché la cathédrale Notre-Dame, mais sommes perdus. Nous avons marché sur la vieille ville sous la pluie, mais il ne faisait pas froid. Notre marche était humide, mais il était aussi intéressant. Enfin nous avons trouvé la cathédrale et allés à l’intérieur.

La cathédrale Notre-Dame n’est pas grande, mais elle est belle et lumineuse à l’intérieur. Il ya beaucoup de décorations et statues dorées. Je enseigné Ces Johnston Enfants un peu plus sur le catholicisme.

Ensuite, nous sommes allés à l’Église anglicane à côté de Notre-Dame. Il avait plus de bois et il etait plus chaud. Aussi, l’Église anglicane avait un orgue géant. La chambre était petite, donc je pense que le son de l’orgue doit être incroyable.

Les enfants ne sont pas impressionnés par les églises. C’est bien.

Les enfants étaient fatigués, donc nous avons marché lentement vers la voiture. Nous nous sommes arrêtés dans une boulangerie pour acheter des macarons. Les enfants les aimaient, mais je ne aimais pas les macarons. Je pratiquais parlant français avec la jolie fille faire du pain. Je pense que je parlais bien le français. Elle me comprenait et était très sympathique.

Enfin nous sommes retournés à la voiture. Je devais un billet de stationnement parce que je ne pas acheter un espace pour la remorque aussi. Je sais que le mot remorque parce qu’il a été écrit sur le billet de stationnement. Cela m’a mis en colère. Maintenant, je déteste la ville de Québec, et à Vancouver.

Dans l’après-midi nous sommes allés au Parc Provincial Mont Carleton, au Nouveau-Brunswick. Il a plu toute la journée. Mont Carleton est pas à proximité d’une ville et il est très calme. Fille Bébé fait un feu et nous avons joué cartes avant de se coucher. Il a commencé à pleuvoir autour de 23 heures.