Motorhome News from North America 22

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Motorhome News from North America 22. 1st -12th September 2006
Nova Scotia - Cape Breton to The Bay of Fundy and ghostly ships

Bright rose hips are gathering in the hedgerows and maple leaves are showing their first signs of change; those pale shades of yellow and chestnut brown, as we pass along the highway. Fall will be with us all too soon but we must mark time for a while to fulfil our plans to reach New England and the blaze of colour dreamed of for so long.

Winnie was booked in for minor maintenance at Adventure Sports at Dartford, just outside Halifax, in the caring hands of Dave’s men, Scott and Michael. Whilst we waited, Janice came with me to the gent’s barbers - just to make sure they cut it short enough to last another four months. Suitably satisfied and impressed with the handsome snappy scissor swinger, she volunteered to have her own hair cut. Two haircuts for $21, (£5 each plus tips) will give Janice something to talk about each time she pays nearly five times that in the ladies salon back at home. With Winnie’s toilet repaired, slide-out greased and gas checked, we took to the road again and headed southwest towards Peggy’s Cove on St Margaret’s Bay.

I’m not sure how Peggy’s Cove first came to my attention. Apart from Halifax it was the only place I was aware of in Nova Scotia before we came here. We’re told Peggy’s Cove rose to fame through a number of local artists, inspired by its fishing community, its light and its texture. Perhaps the memory stems from the remnants of a picture from National Geographic picked up in a doctor’s or dentist’s surgery and stuck in a corner of this tiny brain. It is quite beautiful still; a tiny harbour dotted with colourful boats, lobster pots and fishing gear, pretty cottages along the winding street, tasteful gift shops and a lighthouse of course, set high on a vast granite outcrop. Sadly, being so near to Halifax - and this being Labour Day weekend, there were coach-loads of tourists too, bees around the honey-pot, a reminder of Clovelly on a Bank Holiday Monday - and so rare throughout our journey. We camped on the water’s edge at Indian Harbour two miles along the road, an equally beautiful spot, with bobbing boats and clapboard sheds on wobbly wooden jetties, off-shore rocks swathed in golden seaweed swaying on the gentle tide, the call of gulls on the sea breeze - and a campground all but empty. That’s the life!

All is not sweetness and light on this idyllic coast however. There is sadness here too. Nearby stands a poignant memorial to Swissair Flight 111 out of Boston, facing out to sea to the spot where 229 men, women and children lost their lives eight years ago to this day, September 2nd 1998. You might just remember it. Everybody blamed everybody else of course.

Sheltered bays lined our route along Nova Scotia’s south-western shore, yuppie yachts and costly cruisers at anchor in calm reflective waters, patiently awaiting dry-docking to escape the ravages of winter as the end of season approaches. Around coffee time we stopped at Chester to ogle at boats and soak up the last of summer’s sun when a friendly wave from a greying gent caught our eye. Wayne had been tying knots on his 12m yacht, (or whatever it is you do on boats when moored and bored) when he spotted us parking Winnie on the harbour front. “That’s a smart bit of kit you have there,” he remarked admiringly. “We’re thinking of getting something like that when my wife retires. She has two more years to do at the school. 24ft is it?” This led to that, as it does, and he joined us for coffee and muffins by his mooring at the Rope Loft Restaurant. “Wife’s gone to Halifax for a hen party. She’ll be back in an hour.” Coffee turned to brunch as time passed us by and we talked of aeroplanes, Gander Airport, sailing and navigating (Wayne’s an ex bush and airline pilot and I’m ex RAF and Decca Navigator employee). Strange coincidences spring to life in good conversations. Wayne actually flew the DC3 that has its tail sticking out of the hanger at the Gander North Atlantic Aviation Museum - and The Visitor Centre we visited at the Cape St Mary’s Ecological Reserve on Newfoundland is dedicated to his father, a prominent local naturalist on the island. ‘Happy sailing, Wayne, and thanks for sharing time with us.’ We never did get to meet Mrs Wayne. Shame that.

Rain came on Labour Day as it regularly does for our own August Bank Holiday Monday, the last chance for many to enjoy a day at the beach with the children before the start of a new term. We sat it out at our camp on the hill above the old fishing and boat-building port of Lunenburg, writing and reading, awaiting the inevitable change we have become accustomed to - the sun, straining through muslin clouds by early afternoon. Settlers first came to Lunenburg in the 18th Century, many immigrant farmers from Germany as the name suggests, and some English, French and Swiss. Built on a hog’s back between two harbours, the town rises in a grid from the waterfront boat yards and wharfs on steep terraces in San Francisco fashion. The architecture is out of this world: mansard roofs with gabled dormers, bay windows and grand verandas, some dating back to the 1830’s. Row upon row of colourful wooden houses line the streets on narrow pavements; mauves, blues in all hues, ochre, brick red, green, and black and white, all draped in dappled sunlight beneath mature oaks and maples.

This is such a beautiful area with a strong sense of community. The town’s population of 2,500 is well served with churches. St John’s Anglican stands majestically in the centre on open ground, resurrected from the ashes and finely restored after a dramatic fire in 2001. Just one bell was lost in the fire, damaged beyond repair and since replaced by a new casting in New York, now safely aloft with the remaining nine - from Whitechapel! We have a sneaky feeling a dear campanologist friend of ours might well have pulled a few strings here.
Lunenburg remembers its history of fishing in sombre fashion with a heart -rending memorial to those lost at sea in boats. Triangular pillars of marble form a circle, each bearing a hundred names or more, names of whole families of local men; fathers, grandfathers, uncles, brothers and sons who have perished together off these shores, many, whole families on the same day. There were celebrations on the waterfront in Lunenburg this year. No lives were lost to the sea. A famous local painting depicts the back of a woman in Victorian dress gazing out to sea from the shore. The title reads, ‘Perhaps tomorrow.’ I don’t know the artist, but I shall remember the painting and its passion always.

It is now some eight months since we arrived in North America. In all of that time we have not met any other British motorhomers. Where are those adventurous Brits who first ventured to this land in search of a new life? The Germans are here aplenty, driving their hired holiday motorhomes and drying their towels. Tourism in Nova Scotia is down by 12% to July over last year the Chronicle Herald reports Saturday (they miss out the ‘on’, in North America). That’s the bad news. The really bad news comes when you learn that 2004/5 was also down, 3% on the previous year. A major indicator is the absence of motorhomes or RV’s, 24% down this year reflecting the price of fuel of course, but the strength of the Canadian dollar is also affecting American travellers. The good news, (though too late to help the slump in visitors this year) is the price of gas (petrol to us English), down this week to 97.9 cents per litre (less 3.5c vouchers from Atlantic Superstore), from as much as $1.24 a few days ago.

Kejimkujik National Park - sorry, I’ll say that again….Kej..im..kujik. No, that’s still not right. Never mind! The KN Park is divided into two parts: one on Nova Scotia’s beautiful south coast and the other, much larger, some forty miles inland. Kejimkujik’s Seaside Adjunct at Port Joli, offered us a forested walk across sand dunes to a shallow beach set amongst granite rocks. This was no ordinary beach. We sat a while in the afternoon sun, mesmerised by the sweet scent of golden rod amongst the maram grass, enjoying a vista of deserted silver beaches washed by rippling waves, where harbour seals bobbed their heads playing ‘now you see me, now you don’t’ and eider ducks gathered in tiny groups for their afternoon chat. A scene straight from the front cover of that holiday brochure called ‘Romantic Places to visit before you die.’ This one’s a secret, so keep it to yourself. We’ll just sit here for a while longer if that’s okay with you?

There’s another pretty little town of 2,800 people straddling the leafy highway along the coast here. The town sits on the estuary of a smooth flowing river called the Mersey; its fine timber houses set back beyond lawned gardens bedecked with perennial borders alive with colour. Yes, believe it or not, this is Liverpool, a place you would be proud to call home. There is much to commend this stretch of sunset coast.

The road inland from Liverpool leads into the vast forest of Kejimkujik National Park, truly another paradise. We walked through great stands of ancient hemlock and mixed woodland laid on a lush green carpet of moss, the path lined with ferns and bracken edged in bronze under a veil of misty sunshine. We took a hired canoe on the tranquil Mersey, a jet mirror of maple and fir in the silence of morning, feeling the warmth of the sun on our backs, watching the ripples of paddles on glass. That evening on a pre-dinner walk, a porcupine, about the size of a badger, appeared on the path completely oblivious of our presence. It moved at the speed of a V6 Tortoise GTX, and after a while became aware of being followed. Slowly and deliberately its back rose, exposing a great array of white-tipped quills like a thorny peacock! Having done enough to frighten us he nonchalantly sauntered off to climb a nearby tree, koala fashion, scratching claws on oak-bark, to join his mate, noisily cheering and applauding from the leafy loft high above.

If you’re following our route on the map you’ll see we’re heading north for Annapolis Royal on the Bay of Fundy, once the capital of Nova Scotia. A delightful Historic Garden was created at Annapolis Royal along the marshy reaches of the Annapolis River in the late 1970’s, now stunningly mature, brimming with shrubs, colourful perennials and scented rose-gardens, Victorian bedding and babbling streams. We’re an easy touch for a good English garden when so far from home! The Queen was here a few years ago, adding a stitch or two to Queen Victoria’s collar on a historical tapestry in Fort Anne, a reconstruction of the 1797 British officer’s quarters set amongst impressive earthworks with canon overlooking the Annapolis River. It’s unlikely she made it downtown to see the beautiful houses near the Historic Gardens in the shade of ancient lime trees - or to sample the fresh bread at the German Bakery.

Dramatic tides flow through the Bay of Fundy between the coasts of Nova Scotia and New Brunswick. The highest tide ever recorded was 56ft at Burncoat Head to the west of Truro, Nova Scotia. A cold sea mist swept up the bay in a grey line above the hills as we followed the Annapolis Valley from scrubby meadows to the rich market gardens to the east, through Kingston, Somerset, and Cambridge, from Kings County to Hants and Colchester County, all the way to Truro. Every two hundred yards along the valley another sign announced ‘Yard Sale’ beside the road, more junk changing hands, moving up and down the valley as spring turns to autumn, kids grow out of their bikes and trousers, and auntie brings gifts from far-off places. And every two hundred yards there’s another house for sale, wooden sheds and smart abodes. A three bed detached with granny annexe on a corner plot in Bridgetown will set you back C$182,000 (£90,000) if you’re quick. I expect it's the same price if you’re slow.

A group of camera-toting tourists stood with us as the wind rose over the Salmon River near Truro, heralding the approach of the famous Bay of Fundy bore on the incoming tide, 2.39pm on the button, racing, brown as old boots, thrusting a torrent of water three-feet high at fifteen knots between the rust-red muddy banks. Within twenty minutes, the tide had risen more than twelve feet! Another notch in life’s walking stick.

Way out to the west on the northern peninsula lies the tiny hamlet of Spencers Island, on a stretch of coast now sparsely populated.The age of wooden tall masters is long gone, but they built big fast wooden boats here until 1924; tall schooners that sailed the seven seas. Now, just the rotting stumps of pilings and jetties appear at low tide, thirty feet below our campsite on a raised spit between marsh and sea. At three in the morning our camp would be surrounded by water as the tide rose to within a foot or two of the bank and swirled through the marsh behind us - but we were fast asleep without a care in the world. This area is off the beaten track somewhat, and it may be that which gives it such a sense of peace and tranquillity beyond ordinary words. There’s a hand-painted sign by the lighthouse that says, ‘Just another day in Paradise.’ It comes close.
In 1861 a new 100ft briganteen, the Amazon, was built on the shores of Spencers Island. In 1872 she left New York bound for Genoa laden with 1,100 bottles of pure alcohol - but she never reached her destination. 27 days later the ship was discovered drifting aimlessly under full sail in the North Atlantic, her crew missing. By that year she had been renamed the ‘Mary Celeste’. They know about the sea and boats in these parts.

There’s a strange habit of lighting fires on campsites in North America. Smoke billows from old washing machine drums and truck wheels by every pitch from early evening though midnight. It’s not in our nature to set light to sticks, but there’s plenty of wood to burn here, sold in bundles just big enough to fit in the trunk of the smallest car. We were fortunate to meet two fire-raising couples this week. Our neighbours from Florida invited us to join them for a sing-song by their fire one evening. Sparks filled the air and flames leapt in the warm breeze encouraged by Sally’s hairdryer as Chris played out the tunes on a sort of rhythmic electronic zither and we sang the words from pre-prepared hymn sheets. Great fun! They had never heard of ‘Ging-gang-gooley’ and we didn’t have the music. Two days later, Ken and Juanita from Ontario came to us for a wee glass of wine after dinner and as the night progressed we joined the full moon and a sky full of stars around their campfire, chatting in the flickering light till well after our bedtime.

Tall cliffs and rolling hills line the tip of the peninsula further west, jutting out into the centre of the Bay of Fundy at Cape d’Or where the tides wrestle for control in a whirlpool of current in the channels between Nova Scotia and New Brunswick. Steep grey beaches flank the cliffs and lone nomads walk hand-in-hand in sunshine by the shore amongst the flotsam and jetsam - dreaming of tomorrow, New Brunswick - and our last week in Canada.


David and Janice. The grey-haired-nomads.

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Photos

The end of a DC3
Gander Aviation Museum Newfoundland

The Fishermen's Memorial
Lunenburg

Kejumkujic Seaside Adjunct
The marvelous silver beach

On the River Mersey
Now, that's peace!

Salmon River
The Tidal Bore - It rose 12ft in 20minutes!

Spencer's Island
Can you spot the Mary Celeste?

Lunenburg
Spectacular architecture everywhere