Motorhome News from North America 23

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Motorhome News from North America 23 13th -23rd September 2006

The south coast of New Brunswick - and back into the USA

Back in New Brunswick at last; a smooth new road, hard-hatted workers in orange boiler-suits, heavy rollers, lorry loads of tarmac and happy flaggers and bright-red cones at the border, as if to say, ‘Welcome to a new world.’ It didn’t last of course; the roads soon degenerated off the main highway, rolling, rising and falling, a switchback on a patchwork of bodged repairs, tarmac pools black as a stormy sky, rocking our poor motorhome from left-to-right and up and down, and making driving distinctly uncomfortable.
“What’s a flagger?” you ask. Well, I’ll tell you. A flagger, male or female, is employed at road works to wave at passing motorists with an inconspicuous lollipop sign, saying, ‘Stop’ on one side and ‘Slow’ on the other, whilst holding a walkie-talkie to one ear and pretending to be a traffic light - and at the same time also required by the company manual to smile nicely at frustrated drivers.

With few exceptions, houses throughout North America are of wooden construction - or possibly vinyl or aluminium wood-look-alike cladding for longevity and maintenance. Combined with the present availability of land this perhaps goes a long way in explaining house prices across the continent, so low in comparison to the ridiculously overvalued houses in the UK. But then, everything in the UK is expensive compared to here; food, clothing, fuel, housing taxes, cars, utilities - I could go on. A man in New Brunswick told us his smart summer home on the coast was built on two beams - when he wants to move, to retire or change jobs, he can just jack it up, load it on a lorry and sell the land. That makes a lot of sense.

You won’t remember of course, (why should you when we have trouble remembering it’s Tuesday tomorrow?) but we travelled south along the east coast of New Brunswick many weeks ago before going to Prince Edward Island. This time, we entered from Truro, Nova Scotia, to Moncton in the south and turned back onto the northern shore of the Bay of Fundy. New Brunswick doesn’t have a lot to say for itself. Within its plain exterior it has become lost somewhere between Quebec and Nova Scotia, unsure of its identity, whether to be French, Acadian or British Canadian in either character or language. Houses here are functional rather than pretty, the landscape pretty without being stunning, the coast stunning in parts with a few surprises.
Pictured on the front page of every New Brunswick holiday brochure, is one such surprise - Hopewell Rocks, a robust infrastructure protecting the local environment from the ravages of hordes of tourists who flock to the shores each year to get their shoes muddy. For Hopewell is rocky pillars on a slippery shore, statues, silhouettes in the sun, grey as granite and red as rust on sticky beaches. The rocks have been eroded by the power of the world’s highest tides to become stranded, defiantly erect, amongst the swirling waters. These are the Flowerpot Rocks, topped with tufts of trees and grasses. Beyond the rocks, a carpet of mud at low tide, miles of oozing liquid chocolate, slimy brown clay shining in the morning sunlight, narrow rivulets writhing like slithering snakes to the shallow waters edge. Nature presents itself in so many beautiful ways, doesn’t it?

Winnie was due for a 40,000 miles engine service, booked in for an ‘oil and lube’ at Alma, not so much a town as a gathering of pleasant cottages, a gas station, a handful of small shops and motels. As a DIY nut, I can relate to the garage mechanic’s workshop: (the quarter inch chisel is under the short piece of four by two on the left end of the right hand bench, near the vise - precisely where I left it). But my workbench is like the buffed floor of a military billet on CO’s inspection day compared to that one. He came recommended and he did a good job, while we sat in the sun reading, chatting to his friendly aide de camp - and watching! A good fifty bucks job.

Fishing boats stood precariously on their keels at low tide in Alma harbour, ballerinas on tiptoe holding tight to half hitches high above on the jetty. Fishermen’s trucks lined the wharf, left on Monday whilst hardy men boarded their boats with lunch boxes tucked under their armpits as the water rose, to return when their scallop quota is filled, probably Friday - if the tide comes in. We stayed a few days at nearby Fundy National Park, walking the trails through mixed woodland and rolling hills, sweating profusely in unusually high temperatures. There are National and Provincial Parks throughout North America, often covering huge tracts of wilderness the size of an English county. Most have good campsites, private and secluded, with minimal facilities and close to nature, which suits our style of travel and comfort. Winnie, our motorhome, has everything we need on board.

Many things remind us of home. Our NHS provided 90 days of tablets for my minor ailments before we left. To renew a prescription abroad it is necessary to visit a doctor who will check if there’s still breath in the old dog and issue a new one, (prescription that is, not dog) for a small fee - or a large one. It’s considered best to do it in Canada - it could be twice the price in the USA we're led to believe! Tourist information recommended a visit to the Sussex Hospital to meet the local doctor. Five hours later and an arm and a leg shorter, we came away with a prescription. They can keep my arm and leg as my contribution to Canadian medicine, but remind me never again to complain about the NHS.
Frustrated and somewhat cross at a wasted day, we left Sussex through a long valley heavy with trees on rolling hills and wild blueberry patches. Pastoral settlements with brown cows and hay-stuffed barns lined the meadow margins and green patchwork fields. Outside the clapboard farmsteads, green garden swings and red-flagged post boxes on white wooden sticks - 2347, ‘Mary and Jim MacDonald’, all the way to St Martin’s, back on the Bay of Fundy - just in time for afternoon tea at Mrs Brown’s Tearooms, not to be missed. Oh, so frightfully English, with floral fine-bone china, and a selection of fifty teas from exotic places: Amaretto Rooibos, Lapsang Souchong, Tikuanyin Oolong, Darjeeling and Hanna Chrysanthemum, Taylor’s of Harrogate and Yorkshire Red. There was just one waitress, the Scottish owner’s cousin, in her sparkling white pinny, serving tiny sweet pastries and sugar lumps with tongs, milk from a crystal jug, smoked salmon, miniscule egg and cucumber sandwiches - crusts removed of course, and a glass pot of Rooibos for Janice. Tea was served in delightfully tasteful Victorian surroundings. More English than Betty’s! There’s a visitor’s book in every establishment in the tourism-reliant Maritimes, all of which we take care to sign. This one, in Janice’s hand, bears our mark. ‘Janice and David, Suffolk, England.’ ‘Simply divine!’

The port of Saint John, New Brunswick’s largest community, holds pride of place midway along the south coast. The arrival of steel hulls brought a founding tradition of boat-building to an end almost a century ago, leaving Victorian redbrick buildings dusty with age, decaying commercial warehouses and merchant’s houses along the waterfront - and the industry of today, the urban oil refinery puffing out evil clouds pervading the town, steam belching from the wood-pulp works like a witch’s cauldron, and a grid of more recent architectural offerings to the banks and shopping malls. That said, there was sufficient to bring us back for a second day, for coffee in the convivial market, a self-guided tour of some of the historic buildings, and a brief look at the town’s parks, a treasure so close to the centre. It’s still summer, but back-to-school brings the new ice hockey season to life this week with Saint John’s first match of the season on Friday - and practice for the under 10’s in the car park on Saturday morning.


It proved impossible for us to resist a visit to a town called St Andrews, our last port of call before crossing back into America. And it came as yet another surprise; St Andrews, a sparkling jewel, tasteful shops on leafy streets and tasty restaurants overlooking the waterfront to tempt visiting Americans across the border. A straggle of locals were out on the Terry Fox run, mostly walking in glorious sunshine on Sunday, and members of the New Brunswick Sports Car Club were having lunch at the Algonquin Hotel. The car park gleamed with vintage MGs and Jags, Triumph TR6s and 7s and a Sunbeam Alpine. I take it all back New Brunswick, there are pearls amongst the trees. It’s the rule in North America that your official vehicle number plate and license is on the rear end only. Some of the rear ones read things like, TR6 4ME, FI NALLY and YA BABY, and front ones ‘Rather be Golfing' (fishing or skiing), ‘Hey Mom’ and ‘My Princess’!
The St Andrews campsite is on the beach overlooking the calm waters of the Passamaquoddy Bay, a convenient short walk into town. There were many Americans there from way south, Texas, Georgia and Florida, getting away from the overbearing heat of the summer. They’ll be heading back in a month or two, with the Canadian snowbirds currently planning their winter trips to Florida and Arizona, to escape from the snow and ice!
It goes without saying; we checked out The Algonquin St Andrews Golf Course, but disappointingly, it’s not a links course and the prices seemed excessive. We have better things to do. There will be others.

Our last stop in Canada was in St Stephen at the border, for hand-made chocolates at a dollar a throw. Farewell to Canada - hello Maine, USA, across the St Croix River and freshly stamped US visas giving us another six months. Following us, a steady stream of local Canadians popping over to fill up their tanks with contraband gas - it’s 25% cheaper on the western bank. Our fuel warning light was blinking red - perfect!

Canada has been good to us yet again, leaving us with many fond memories to pack in our bags and feed our discontent with the constant impatient rush, overpriced everything and the crowded streets of the UK. Our photo gallery and memory bank form a great wall covered with pictures of amazing wildlife, stunning mountains, easy friendships, wild coastlines, polite language, huge forests, space, and broad skies. It has been wonderful to meet up with old friends and to embrace many new ones. Drivers have shown great courtesy, discipline and patience along the often not so friendly roads, and the people, generous and reserved, have greeted us with friendly waves from coast to coast. There is little evidence of social snobbery here in Canada; cars are generally modest, few ostentatious, and dress always casual. That said, we have purposely avoided the high-density areas of Toronto, Montreal and Ottawa on this occasion, preferring to point our noses towards wilderness and peace.

We briefly touched the northern corner of Maine back in August 1988 on our way south from Quebec into New England. This time, it’s the opposite corner, along the Atlantic coast - still on the Bay of Fundy. At Cobscook Bay across from St Andrews, we found a secluded campsite, a rock strewn shore, a hundred bladder-wracked islands, dark forms edged in the last golden light of the day, white pine tops burning bright, a haze of cold sea mist rolling in on the evening tide. Along the water-margins a great blue heron stalked, long neck stretched, erect, intense, murder in his eye, crabs scurrying for cover. Just here, in Washington County, 90% of the nation’s blueberry crop is plucked on rakes before the first frost, crammed into crusty pies, poured into glass jam-jars or piled into snow-light muffins.

Acadia National Park, 100 miles west along the coast, covers almost half of Mount Desert Island, at a guess, around the size of the Isle of Wight. The park is a renowned beauty spot within a few hours drive of 25% of America’s entire population. At Bar Harbour we encountered the first signs of busy roads for many months, something akin to Keswick in the Lake District in September when the grey-haired brigade takes to the footpaths. The hills here are by no means as challenging as those in The Lakes, but there is good hiking to be had on the many well marked trails with the bonus of many beautiful beaches to discover along pink granite shores.
News of a special treat had reached us even before we arrived at Jordan Pond for the three-mile walk around its perimeter. Jordan Pond House is yet another of those irresistible spots for afternoon tea - and popovers. Now, I suppose you want to know what a popover is, eh? You’re always asking questions! Well, a popover looks and tastes rather like a warm, slightly sweetened, Yorkshire pudding - about the size of your fist. It’s a speciality of the house. Mine, (two) came with butter and a rather large amount of strawberry jam. Janice went for the full house of course, a chocolate-sauce-covered popover filled with blueberry ice cream! Is that piggy, or what?

The Cunard Line has also heard about Acadia National Park. Essex Boy and his wife came ashore from the QE II at Bar Harbour while we were there: gold medallion, new jacket from Marks and Sparks and smartly pressed slacks, hanging on to his lady in new red shoes and printed silk blouse from the best store in Lakeside. They were joined by rather elderly chattering American gentlemen brazenly wearing their Queen Elizabeth II peaked caps - not to be removed before bedtime in any circumstances. A few paces in front, their wives, laden with diamonds, nail varnish and lipstick, toting Burberry bags and credit cards. I’ll bet they didn’t get time to stop at Jordan Pond House for popovers.

It’s autumn, and anyone and anything with any sense will be thinking about migrating south. Out walking along the shore we watched monarch butterflies heading for Mexico, flapping their wings in steady rhythm, bobbing on the breeze pretending they had all the time in the world to travel the two thousand miles or more to their winter home (amazing!). One bright sunny morning we joined a Ranger and a small group of enthusiastic birders at the top of Cadillac Mountain to help with a migrating raptor count. The birds head south for the winter using the thermals over the coastal hills to gain height and speed, dashing across the hills below us and up the steep valley from right to left.
Standing high atop the highest mountain on the eastern seaboard of the United States in a cool stiff wind waiting for a few migrating dicky birds to float by on the breeze is not everybody’s idea of fun. But boy, did we have a ball! In the space of the morning our group identified: two bald eagles, twelve ospreys, twelve American kestrels, three merlins, five northern harriers, twelve sharp-shinned hawks, a red-tailed hawk, fifty six broad-winged hawks and one turkey vulture. “Look, there’s another one - a merlin? Yes….compact, size of a jay, moustache, dark grey above - and there, look! a northern harrier… white rump, wings slightly above horizontal….Wow! Did you see that?” …… Now, that’s exciting!

The tremble of an earthquake a mile off the island woke us at 6.29am the following morning. The earth always moves for those who wake to new challenges each day. We’re off to the mountains to check out the autumn colours.

What’s on your menu today?


David and Janice. The grey-haired-nomads.

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Photos

Wooden houses
There is no shortage of trees across North America

Hopewell Rocks
The Flowerpot Rocks

Hopewell Rocks
The slippery mud!

An Engineer's workshop
Eh? As they say in Canada

Alma on the edge of Fundy National Park
Boats at low tide

Mrs Brown's Teashop
St Martins - More tea, Vicar?

Saint John
Portside buildings

Saint John
The Market - a good spot for coffee

St Andrews
The lovely main street

St Andrews
The NBSCC at the Algonquin

Acadia National Park
Todd getting a tan at Sand Beach

The QEII at Bar Harbour
From the top of Mt Cadillac

Birding atop Mt Cadillac
Spot the sharpie

A reminder of home
Spotted in the gardens at St Andrews