Nova Scotia lured us back for another visit. It is a rugged, sparsely populated Province with much to offer the adventurer. Bags, cooler and electronics stowed, we set off mid-morning under leaden skies and were soon crossing the thirteen kilometre Confederation Bridge, driving south.
We dined heartily at our favourite lunch spot, the Irving Big Stop at Aulac New Brunswick; vegetable omelette with fries, and toast and marmalade for me, a vast plate of club sandwiches for the little lady. As usual we took careful stock of our fellow diners, noting their odd appearances and lunch choices. Susan crammed handfuls of cream cartons into her pockets but I don’t think anyone noticed!
As we crossed the border into Nova Scotia Susan produced a Garmin GPS tablet from her bag and set the co-ordinates for Bayers Lake. Last time we sailed past and did several laps of Halifax before getting it right. This time we had a female voice to warn us of upcoming off-ramps and turnings. She did get a touch huffy when I overshot a turning and immediately demanded that we do a u-turn. Needless to say, I gave her a good talking to.
Eventually we found a free parking spot at the remotest corner of the Costco site and headed inside to hunt for bargains, bulk-style. We emerged an hour later, arms brimming with goodies, and staggered back to my car to drive the short distance to Dhaba Express for a gorgeous Indian meal of onion bahji, garlic naan, butter chicken for Susan and chana massala (chick pea) for me. Somehow we squeezed back into the car and instructed the GPS lady to take us to the Stardust Motel... and sharpish.
Our accommodation was clean, fairly new and set beside a scenic lake. The elderly office guy had a brusque manner, a long grey ponytail and even longer finger nails, stained umber from nicotine. Lovely. He did call me bro so I assume he liked me. We waddled into our unit and flopped down, barely able to move after a long day of driving and eating.
***
Next morning dawned clear and bright with the promise of warmth. A thirty-five minute drive took us to Peggy’s Cove, a spot we have visited before but which is so alluring we never tire of it. Approaching the coast, the land is strewn with car-sized boulders, delivered and deposited during the last ice-age. Precious little topsoil has been laid down and vast areas of exposed bedrock lend the scene an otherworldly feel.
At 9:00 we were one of only a handful of cars in the visitor parking lot. Wasting no time we locked up and clambered out onto the vast granite sheets which undulate like sand dunes for several hundred meters, dotted with boulders, cut by fissures and offering amazing views in all directions.
The seas were moderate although strong northerly winds blew foam from the breaking waves. I have seen images of the lighthouse surrounded by dangerous, pounding surf but today we could venture close to watch the might of the ocean, swell, thud and retreat.
Wherever you point your camera is an arresting view. I took dozens of shots, many with Susan scampering ahead, leaping from one dangerous outcrop to the next. Luckily the granite is extremely grippy, where dry and clean.
The beauty of a visit early in the day and at a season well before the first cruise ships bring busloads of tourists, is that the views are unspoiled by people. Later in the year the coastline will be crawling with life and some of the fun will be lost. I saw just one other couple and was easily able to keep them out of frame. (Later I would photo-shop out one interloper who had crept into shot!)
A long, loop brought us eventually back inland where we met a lady sitting on a rock with her camera. She introduced herself as Mimmi Henriksen who lives locally and is an avid walker and photographer.
A stroll on a steeply rising and falling road took us through the small Peggy’s Cove fishing village. There is room for just a couple of boats in the tiny harbour. The sheds are grey and worn; here and there old boats lie derelict; fishing traps are piled high among heaps of rusted anchors; and brightly coloured roofs punctuate the landscape.
My car thermometer read thirteen Celsius when we got back and my forehead had turned a bright pink from a day of glorious sun and wind. Not for nothing does the little lady call it my ‘jutting’ forehead!
PS: our little Spring excursion amounted to 785km where my car achieved a fuel return of 6.1lts per 100km (or 41.38mpg for those of an Imperial inclination).
