Zigzagging Nova Scotia

Last week I took the ferry from Prince Edward Island to Caribou, Nova Scotia.
This ferry ride was the 7th of my trip, and the voyage itself was by no means incredible. The weather was kind of drizzly and cold, the scenery of the Northumberland Straight pleasant but not knock-your-socks-off (crossing the Saguanay, man that was outstanding!), and the ship pretty much average in every way. Except that I met a couple of lively retired ladies, Mary and Elizabeth, who made the journey both fun and entertaining. They were returning to Mary's home in New Glasgow after spending the weekend on the island visiting friends on the east coast, not far from where I stayed in Georgina's back yard in Murray Harbour. scubameaghan@gmail.com

"We had a wild time!" Elizabeth exclaimed, "Stayed up until one in the morning drinking wine in the kitchen!"
"Oh we laughed and we laughed!" Mary added, "Telling stories about how things were back in the day. I laughed until my stomach hurt!"

And all the while I'm smiling to myself, because their idea of a good time is exactly the same as my idea of a good time. Suddenly, I felt a bit more at ease with the idea of growing older (because there are times when the thought of being out of my 20's terrifies me), and knowing that some things in life don't have to change. Perhaps this also has something to do with what Elizabeth said to me, "I'm not old. Each year I get older, but I'm not old, not yet!". Later I found out that she is 76, and I never would have guessed it. Her bright eyes, cheery smile, expressive storytelling, and stylish short gray hair denied any sign of being 'old'.

So perhaps I too will refuse to grow old, and continue to ride my bike into the setting sun even after my legs have become veiny and wrinkled and mottled with age spots. And then I'll arrive at an old friend's doorstep, change out of my tired worn spandex into something more comfortable and we'll share a bottle of wine as the moon rises over the sea, and laugh about the way things used to be.

Once the ferry docked in Caribou I said my farewell to Mary and Elizabeth and took the backroads through Pictou and on to Truro, stopping for the night at Nicole and Darrin's place. Their friendly welcome, high energy dog Shadow, maritime-y bathroom (with lighthouses and ships and blue walls galore!), and their stories of Terra Cinque, Italy will be what I remember them most for. I continued along the old highway to Halifax, where I experienced a momentary breakdown upon my arrival in this bike-unfriendly city. After I gained my bearings and figured out what side of the water I was on, I reattached my head to my shoulders and found my way to Katrina and Steve's place (friends of a friend in Montreal) in the North End of town.

For four days I hung out, wandering through the harbourfront and the windswept parks and the steep sloped streets of downtown Halifax. For four days, I spoke with Haligonians and Capers and played crib and learned about the good, bad, beautiful and ugly of the city. Katrina told me about the open mic night a few blocks from her apartment, held in the living room of some folks whose neighbors happen to be the liquor store and thus don't mind the racket. I wandered into houses, coffee shops, apartments and flats and heard stories of buskers and exes and crazy people with samurai swords on buses. It was actually kind of hard to get up and go after spending so much time in Halifax, and I finally understood what Katrina meant when she said to me on my first night, "Halifax is home to travelers; the kind of people who say they'll never settle down in one place? They wind up in Halifax.".

So rather reluctantly I stitched up my torn panniers, bought a pair of pants from MEC, and pedaled out of the city through Sidney Crosby's hometown of Coal Harbour. As I faced off against angry headwinds along the south coast while pedaling east toward Cape Breton Island, I wondered (just for a moment) why I hadn't just ended my journey in Halifax, found a job in some coffee shop or bistro, and planted myself there for a while. But by nightfall, I was back in the groove, and remembered that my mission was incomplete and the roads ahead of me were vast and rich with beauty and unknown possibility. The tiny coastal fishing villages, the inlets which reached deep into the land like craggily old witches fingers, the smell of the salty air. I was in love again with the open road.

I slept that night in a mock fishing village, which was actually a museum. I munched down a nutella-banana sandwich, sat on a picnic table contemplating the day's ride, tossed my food pannier up on the roof of an outhouse, and crawled into bed before nine. My tent was still damp from when I packed it up in the rain on PEI, so crawling into it was no treat. During the night, I awoke to the "crunch crunch crackle crunch" of branches braking under the feet of small mammals, and didn't fall back asleep until the ruckus in the bushes died down. Skunks? Raccoons? Who knows.

The next morning, I continued east until Sheet Harbour, ate a most delightful club sandwich (buried under a mountain of crispy fries), and shot off through the interior of the province towards the north coast. There was nothing in the way of civilization along route 374, which kind of suited me well. I enjoyed the low grade slopes, the dense woods lining the road, and the little lakes and streams which I spied occasionally off on either side. A few cars passed through each hour; once in a while I heard the low rumble of a logging truck coming my way. The remoteness reminded me of Northern Ontario.

I came out of the 374 in New Glasgow, where I was fortunate enough to stay with Mary from the ferry and her husband Allen. I had the pleasure of their company, a delightful meal of pork chops, and a comfy bed to snooze in for the night.