Thor welcomed us to Nova Scotia. The first night in our campground the RV was pummeled with rain—great for sleeping— except for the lightning and mainly thunder that rolled across the North Atlantic in loud low-pitched booms of minutes rather than seconds. Colette left her bed and joined us on our bed for the duration of nature’s display. The morning was calm but overcast and drizzly; however, not to be deterred, we took the coast road to Peggy’s Cove. It is, as are many of these coastal villages, painted and photographed by artists from all over the world. The lighthouse and small community sit on a rocky, wave-tossed, cove that was once home to a simple fishing community. That was before a young lady named Peggy was en route to Halifax to meet her fiancée when her boat crashed and she was rescued and nursed by the local folks. Of course, Peggy was the original attraction, but once people saw the area, the cove became the attraction. At least the province acknowledged her “contribution” to the area and now we have Peggy Cove Road and Peggy’s Cove.
On the drive in to Peggy’s Cove, we passed a memorial to the victims of Swissair flight 111. The airliner crashed off this coast after leaving New York in 1998. It has a significance for us as we were on a Swissair flight from Atlanta on that same date in 1998 when we left for a year in France. We had no knowledge of the disaster until we received a land line phone call a day later—no cells, at least for us then—from a friend in Atlanta at our house in Provence advising us of the tragedy. Meanwhile, our family who knew we were flying Swissair thought that flight 111was our flight. We finally got calls thorough to them and confirmed our safe arrival. We told our children that it was akin to our not knowing where they were after curfew hour when they were teenagers; however they never acknowledged the analogy.
We drove the coastal highway west from Peggy’s Cove. To us, the vistas were not spectacular but tranquil and pretty. The one thing that does stand out in these small coastal communities is the frequency and beauty of the churches, and there are many—Anglican, Presbyterian, Baptist, and Catholic with a few Lutheran and Methodist. I believe the most beautiful and well preserved architecture exists in these numerous community churches. There are at least two in each of these very small communities and often they exist across the road from one another—I wonder if they blaspheme each other across the road and denigrate the other’s architecture? Doubtful, since they are all Christians?
The most picturesque and charming coastal villages were those of Mahone Bay and Lunenburg—fishing heritage, stately colorful homes, and nice shops and restaurants— as they are now tourist draws. Interestigly, despite being popular, the number of tourists is small even in these summer days of August. In the US, these villages would be mobbed at this time of year. Maybe, it’s because there are less people in Nova Scotia and Canada or less people who travel outside their province? Anyhow, it is delightful for us. The most interesting sign thus far, other than the car and dog wash sign, was one in a boutique distillery in Lunenburg. It read, “I would rather have a bottle in front than a frontal lobotomy.”
We camped in a provincial ( state) park in Shelburne next to the bay with a view across the water to the town—quiet, peaceful, and pretty. The following day started with an overcast sky and periodic drizzles but the sky cleared in the afternoon for a lunch in Digby on the waterfront. The drive down on the east coast was all about the sea. All the villages were working fisheries with their lobster traps and boats. The area is touted as the lobster capital of Canada and we believe it. We turned back north at Yarmouth and tracked up the west coast, more agricultural and less dependent on the sea. In fact, we traveled to the charming village of Annapolis Royal, the port in the fertile area of the Annapolis River Valley which became known as the bread basket of Canada. It was fought over by the French and British because of its value, both fishing and agricultural. The British won but the French heritage still persists today. Most of the homes and villages still fly the Acadian flag, basically the French flag with a gold star in one corner. This is the area where the British expelled the Acadians, the french colonists of the 17th century, many who ended up in Louisiana—our Cajuns (Cadiens). The event was commemorated by Longfellow in his poem “Evangeline,” thus the Evangeline trail that we followed up north. Most of the local signage is in french and the summer festivals still celebrate the Acadian history. After a visit in the village, we traveled over the mountains to our campsite overlooking the ocean from a high bluff. We toasted another sunset on the Bay of Fundy again, but in Nova Scotia this time rather than New Brunswick.
We drove east in the fertile, green, Annapolis Valley to visit a national historic site in Grand Pre. This was a center for the Acadians and now there is a nice historical exhibit, beautiful gardens, and a memorial church commemorating their history and their tragic expulsion by the British. And, of course, a statue of Evangeline which appears to age as you walk around it counterclockwise—or so says Jan’s guidebook. Also, a monument to Longfellow in the gardens and numerous copies of his poem in the gift shop. I suspect they sell more copies than Amazon. We "discreetly" parked the RV in a motel parking, Evangeline Lodge of course, and walked up a hill to a winery, the Domaine de Grand Pre. They have a wonderful fine dining restaurant, Le Caveau, where we had one of the most elegant and delicious meals that we have had since arriving in these Maritime Provinces. Accompanied by one of their bottles of wine, of course. Later, we drove east bypassing Halifax to a provincial (state) park on Porter’s Lake for the night, camping by rippling blue water, surrounded by verdant mountains, and cooled by a light breeze—no heat!
We were on the east coast, north of Halifax and drove the only reasonable road, province highway 7, up the “Marine Trail.” It is a forested road dipping into numerous harbors of small, nondescript communities with white-water rivers that empty into the harbors. Trout and salmon fishing are big here as well as forestry. The road however proved as challenging as some of Alaska’s. Eventually the road turned north where we joined one of Nova Scotia’s “interstates,” highway 104 a smooth two, and three lane ( passing lane up the mountains) road that brought us into a very scenic area, broad vistas of forests, mountains, and lakes. We traversed the causeway that prevents ice from ever entering one of the important northern harbors at Port Hastings and were on Cape Breton Island. We camped overlooking the grand, green bridge over the large lake of Bras d’ Or that connects to North Sydney. You go to Cape Breton for two things, three if you want the ferry to Newfoundland; 1—take the 189 mile loop road around the island, the Cabot Trail and 2—stay in the Cape Breton Highlands National Park. The Cabot Trail is supposedly the world’s most scenic drive. We traversed abut 150 miles on a wonderful sunny Sunday. There are mountainside ocean vistas that are spectacular inside the park’s boundaries; however a good portion of the Trail is populated with the usual commerical ventures of “ art,” food, and whaling tours. The best views are related to be on the drive clockwise so that was our route until we checked into our national park campground where we intended to hike and bike a couple of days and then drive the remaining portion. However, the next morning we awoke to a misty, to turn later rainy and foggy, day and the weather was to be the same for the next couple of days. We decided to move on despite not having much of view over the last miles of steep, oceanside mountains. It did make for some challenging travel until we reached St. Ann’s Bay where we visited the Gaelic College, the only college that teaches Gaelic language and traditional Celtic arts and culture. I avoided buying a kilt and bagpipes. From there we completed our figure of eight route along the south shore of Lake Bras d’Ors. We did stop at Rita McNeil’s Tea House, her restaurant, basically her old school house and then home. She is a Canadian songwriter and singer with numerous silver records. They were displayed along the walls. She was there— remember large Kate Smith, double the size, soften the voice, add a tremolo. Her music was the only thing playing while we had a rather nice lunch and a half-liter of Jost wine. We resisted the urge to buy a CD despite the wine.
You may wonder, why not Newfoundland? We have been making up this trip, as usual, on a daily basis aided by Michelin maps and AAA guide books and we planned to go there. However, when we asked locals if they had visited Newfoundland, they all said “no.” The only positive response was from someone who said the western coast was like a “mini-Alaska.” Having been to Alaska and likely to go again, we decided that we liked the real Alaska in its grandeur. Thus, we had already decided not to take the ferry out of North Sydney before we awoke to the report of bad weather over the region for the next few days. Despite that decision, we took a wrong turn and ended up on the ramp at the large ferry terminal in North Sydney--they have their own highway. Fortunately we found an exit from the entrance terminal and headed west for Prince Edward Island.
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