Peggy's Cove, NS

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).

Nova Scotia Road Trip

“Let’s drive the Cabot Trail for the fall colours,” chirped Susan, “and ‘swing by’ Peggy’s Cove, as I’ve never been there before!” No matter that Peggy’s Cove is 400kms west of the Cabot Trail, I mused silently and smiled.

 

I hastily researched accommodation and discovered that the world and his wife had had a similar notion. Eventually I booked the last room at the Aberdeen Motel in Whycocomagh, Cape Breton, 700km from Charlottetown, via The Confederation Bridge, New Brunswick and Peggy’s Cove, NS!

 

The weather gods smiled benevolently on us as we headed south, stopping at an Irving Big Stop for breakfast. Half a day later and we were negotiating the remarkable rocky outcrop that is Peggy’s Cove, scene of the tragic 1998 Swiss Air disaster. Coach loads of cruise ship tourists from Halifax joined hundreds of car visitors in filling the narrow, twisting lanes of this attractive yet rugged fishing village. We clambered up the rocks on which the surprisingly small lighthouse stands and admired the natural beauty. We ventured further, onto the flat, blackish slabs. In rough weather these become perilous and many unwary sightseers have been swept into the surging waters never to return. Today the sea was smooth.

 

We planned a brief trip to Costco at Beyers Lake then spent a frustrating forty-five minutes negotiating a loop of edge-of-town highways, link roads and junctions around Halifax, which afforded brief and distant glimpses of our target before they were snatched repeatedly and cruelly away. Eventually I found the correct lanes, exits, slip roads and ramps and we dashed in to pick up a couple of quick items before joining the queues behind overflowing carts.

 

With time racing by, the sun fat and low behind us and Whycocomagh still a distant prospect on the map of Cape Breton, we headed east at pace; a brief stop for Subway fare, then ever onwards in fading light, and finally two hours in darkness with oncoming headlights and impatient truckers behind.

 

Saturday morning dawned grey and cool but the daylight revealed what yesterday's night time drive had not, rolling hills and splendid autumnal shades. We ate at a little coffee shop and diner full of old world charm, local preserves and a range of second hand books. Suitably refreshed we hit the road.

 

The Cabot Trail is a 285km road encircling Cape Breton Island, its undulating route repeatedly climbing hundreds of feet then dropping again to sea level. To call it a scenic drive is an understatement of epic proportions. Every turn brings fresh vistas that make you gasp and shake your head. How can so much natural wonder be concentrated in one area. The hills are steep and high, clad in mostly broadleaf trees and ablaze with fall colours. Our day was overcast and at times spitting with rain but even this could not diminish the views. We would climb through towering stands of beech and maple, a riot of orange and scarlet and yellow, stop at breath-taking lookouts then rush downhill towards craggy coastlines and rolling white breakers.

 

The culture of Cape Breton is a curious blend of Scottish, French and Native American resulting in quaint roadside views of tartan, bagpipes, Acadian flags and trinket shacks and barely pronounceable place names. We completed the loop and spent a second night in our old but comfortable motel.

 

Next morning we set off on a 200km journey westward for the small port of Caribou to board the ferry back to our Island, where the seventy-five minute crossing is free in the homeward direction. We sat up on deck in the late autumn sun watching the waves slip by, never totally out of sight of land. A relaxing end to a wonderful long weekend.

There are a few more photos here.

the big apple (a distant nibble)

Kathleen (sorrowfully): "Where's mummy?"

Me (somewhat impatiently): "The Big Apple!"

Maisie (educationally): "Oh, he means Noo York."

 

Yes, Michelle jetted off for a week in NYC; the melting pot, the city that never sleeps, home of the sky-scraper and the yellow cab. And where are we? The melting pot-hole, the city that sometimes wakes up, home of the lobster supper and Green Gables.

 

For me it's Daddy duties, the school run, playing shop with Kathleen and bedtime stories. However we aren't missing out entirely; in this digital age it's quite possible to tag along and enjoy a nibble of 'The Big Apple', to sample the sights and sounds, cored and peeled for public consumption.

 

"There she is! With Nana, crossing the road!" I point to a likely couple strolling across a pedestrianised section of Broadway.

 

"Where?" Maisie demands, brow furrowed as she squints at my laptop.

 

"Right there. See her red shoes and green jacket?"

 

Maisie studies the pedestrians intently before growing doubtful. "She could be anywhere..."

 

There are several cameras overlooking Times Square streaming HD video and sound online, night and day. When we tune in at 7am the streets and sidewalks are virtually deserted except for red-clad city workers hosing away last night's excesses, but by 9am the show is in full swing and our eyes rove the crowds. There are gridlocked lines of yellow taxis and open-topped tour buses; everyone racing to be somewhere else; strident horns blaring; and every minute or so the ominous wail of police sirens. Heck, it's a jungle out there.

 

Michelle and her mum are a 'no show', much to the girls' disappointment so we play spot the Disney character, watching creatively dressed pan-handlers harass the crowds for photo opportunities and tips. Mid-morning we see Buzz Lightyear taking a break, deep in conversation with Spongebob on a corner of 7th Avenue. One of several Statues of Liberty approaches and joins in.

 

Michelle texts us to say she is waiting for a Brooklyn tour bus so we zoom in on Google Street View and see what she's seeing. I click and step inside the Hard Rock Cafe to see a three-sixty view of the tables, bars and memorabilia. Soon I am sidetracked and soar north to Central Park to enjoy a virtual stroll right through that lush oasis, thanks to Mr Google's fleet of trusty cyclists kitted out with helmet cams. From the comfort of my armchair I can scoot along the path by the Jacquie Onassis Lake, passing runners with an effortless gesture on my mouse pad.

 

The girls join me as I jump the Hudson to the New Jersey shoreline and look back at the iconic cityscape. Then we adjourn to YouTube and look down from a helicopter flight, grazing the forest of dizzy spires, picking out the Empire State and the Chrysler, before buzzing Liberty Island and back to LaGuardia. After supper we chat with Michelle on Skype, tucked up safely in her hotel room in the heart of Theatreland. She doesn't even seem as tired as we are!

 

It's hard work, this armchair travel!
 

 

flying the great divide

Roughly three thousand miles separate Canada from England and sometimes the distance makes itself felt more than others. Like when my father died last month or when my grandson Oscar was born. You either organise expensive flights or make do with the phone and emails.

This year I flew to England in January to spend three weeks visiting my sons and managed to see various relatives and friends too. I lodged with my dad which turned out to have been a good thing. When I flew back to Canada I was as sure as you can be that I wouldn’t be returning to England for at least a couple of years.

Dad’s death in September meant I dropped everything and flew home for his funeral, a sad affair but an unexpected opportunity to see family again.

My grown up sons are eager to meet their little Canadian half sisters and although I could have taken us all in September, the occasion and the lack of available time prevented it.

To put matters right I have just booked tickets for the four of us to fly to England for the month of December! Long-haul flights will be a struggle with Maisie at three and a half and Kathleen still under two but the timing is reasonable. Kathleen goes for (almost) free as she is not yet two and dad’s bungalow stands empty until it is sold, so we can stay there . Michelle’s current nursing course will be over and she has sufficient holidays left to cover the period we are away.

As usual I will try to visit as many people as possible in the four weeks we are there but this time everyone will be meeting the girls for the first time and some of them will be meeting Michelle for the first time. There’s a lot to organise and plenty to plan for. I feel a list coming on!