We Come From Away

To "come from away" = To be not from Newfoundland

With just eight vacation days between ending my last assignment and starting Spanish training, we needed to get away.  It was too few days for the tiresome lateral travel across time zones, and we weren't in the mood for tropical weather as we've got three years of 80+ degrees days ahead of us.  Given those restrictions, we chose to head north, even further than Nova Scotia and Cape Breton we loved so much last year.  

We're now preparing for take-off on our third and final northbound flight to reach our destination.  The young man who just loaded our bags into the slim belly of the Beechcraft 1900, attached the staircase for us to board, and gave us the quick safety chat, also just pulled a headset out of his jacket pocket, plugged it into the flight console and took the co-pilot's seat. We're heading for the opposite of El Salvador in every respect: Deer Lake, Newfoundland, Canada.  There are about ten of us on board the one hour flight from the provincial capital St. John's to the western hub town of Deer Lake. Take your pick: every seat's a window and every seat's an aisle.  The three guys hoping to continue on to Goose Bay, Labrador were told not to board as the pilot scheduled to take them on the final leg from Deer Lake was feeling sick and they'd cancelled that segment until... maybe tomorrow.  Air Canada would put them up in a hotel in St. John's for the night, but the desk agent wasn't sure about reimbursing their lost wages. Many Newfoundlanders work in some of the toughest jobs in Canada: in Alberta in the Athabasca oil sands, in Northwest Territories in the diamond minds, in Labrador in the iron ore mines, and of course, in the North Atlantic fisheries.  So one pilot's flu could mean a loss of a lot of wages; I understood why they were asking. 

The flight took us east to west across the length of the island nicknamed "The Rock."  In a plane that size, the engine and propellers provided a loud, constant, vibrating hum that lulled me into a nap with my head against the window.  By dozing off, I didn't miss out on any views, as although the calendar said late May - it was more like late February down below.  And besides, the heavy cloud cover hid what would've been my first good look at the province.  But even if it were clear skies - as we'd learn the next day in our long drive halfway back across the island - the interior of Newfoundland is rather, how should I say it... homogeneous.  Through the windshield we saw only spruce, birch, bog, spruce, birch, lake, spruce, birch, river, spruce, birch, rock.  

Spruce

Birch

Lake

But that's okay, we weren't planning to stay in the interior anyway.  Our first destination was Fogo Island, an hour's ferry ride into the Atlantic from the north-central coast.  Waiting for the ferry in the dock town of Farewell, we figured we'd walk through the town, maybe pop into a somewhere for a something warm to eat/drink/put on. We figured wrong.  There was in fact no town, just a few cars parked in the ferry line alongside a quiet inlet dotted with icebergs.  Yes, icebergs.  This northern coast of Newfoundland receives a veritable parade of icebergs coming from the northern Atlantic at this time of year. Those few that drifted into the inlet were destined to simply bob along until they beached themselves somewhere and melted.  We took advantage of our early arrival to the ferry line to park the car and go for a walk along the stony shoreline to check out the 'bergs. 

The ferry arrived exactly on time, one of multiple runs per day, and we parked on the car deck and took the stairs up to the passenger deck. Immediately, I couldn't help but notice our fellow passengers. First, they weren't interested at all in looking out the windows, moving excitedly from port to starboard to take in the scenery like the family dog on its first road trip (that'd be me). Instead, they grabbed coffees from the lady at the snack counter and settled into comfortable chairs for the trip.  Next, I noticed they were all BIG, even the small ones: hearty, hardy, solid folks of Irish root stock. The men wore camo somewhere, contrasting with hunter/road safety-reflective striping somewhere else on a jacket or work pants, leaving me confused about whether they wanted to be seen or not.  They had moustaches, big bellies and meaty hands that proclaimed, "I'm just after fellin' an 'ewing a 'hacre of logs an' buildin' me own 'ouse!"  The over-40 women had weathered skin, thin lips, and super-short highly highlighted and layered hairstyles, giving them a birdlike appearance. This look was astonishingly consistent, so much so that my husband and I couldn't tell if we were just seeing the same woman everywhere we went.  The under-40 women preferred dyed-black straight hair and, were this ten years ago, would've certainly been in acid-washed jeans.  Regardless of age, the women were as rugged and no-nonsense as their men, ready to pick berries and jar rabbit in the summer, and in winter care for their own three kids plus their sisters' three while everyone was away working on the "mainland" (i.e. the rest of Canada). 

We'd heard about the Newfie dialect before arriving by watching some YouTube videos (which I'm thankful for).  We learned it's not "New-fun-lund", but "Newfin'-LAND."  We learned that H's disappear from where they're supposed to be and reappear where they have no business, like starting all words that normally begin with vowels.  Verbs are all conjugated in the third person, and "th" is replaced with "d." 

"I's goes h'over dere an' sees dis fella comin' an' I says, luh! I'm just after tinkin' 'bout 'im an 'ere 'e is!"  

This is all said without a space between any of the words.  I was instantly mesmerized and lingered within earshot of any conversation, no matter how mundane, just to listen. 

After driving off the ferry, we headed about 20 minutes to the far northwest corner of the island, to Fogo Island town where we'd rented "Nan's House" for a few days.  I thought "Nan" was someone's name, but it was clear after arriving that "Nan" meant grandma. Duh.  
Cozy and authentic, just as grandma left it it.  We had a few years' supply of "Down Home" magazines to work through (the Newfoundland and Labrador homemaker's Reader's Digest, with cover stories ranging from "Saved from the Sea: Our Most Dramatic Rescue Stories!" to "Our Favorite Puddings: Steamed, Broiled and Baked!") and a great collection of "I'm watchin' da' grandkids dis month" videos: Strawberry Shortcake, Barney, The Care Bears, Cheaper by the Dozen 2, and inexplicably, Carmen Electra's Aerobic Striptease Workout.  Finally, it's a good thing my husband is 6'0", because at 6'1" he wouldn't have been able to stand up straight in the kitchen.  

My choice of teapots!

But it was lovely that we had the whole place to ourselves: a full kitchen with all of Nan's spices still in the cupboard from before she... well, I'm not sure what happened, a sitting room, a bathroom with lovely view of the harbor, and two upstairs bedrooms with beds piled with quilts and sloped dormer ceilings.  The place had been warmed up for our arrival and, according to the guest book, it seemed we were the first guests of the season.  And really, we still weren't in "the season" which wouldn't begin until late June.  Seeing as it was 36 degrees outside and blowing hard - this was understandable.  Normally we prefer traveling off-season but at times it has its downsides.  The weather isn't always ideal and often the restaurants or stores  - those that are even open - will be open only limited hours.  We had this fact working against us combined with our Sunday evening arrival on Canada's 3-day Victoria Day weekend.  So it was a very good thing we'd stopped at the grocery store in Deer Lake to stock up before leaving the main island or we'd be having toothpaste for dinner.  

Actually, we lucked out even more in that one restaurant (of the four in town) was open.  Naturally, it was the Chinese restaurant.  Although we were the only patrons, we had a good feeling about it after being greeted by the Cantonese owner/waitress/cook.  She offered an extensive menu of Chinese favorites and my husband and I ordered two completely different dishes.  I was a bit puzzled when, while taking our order, she paused for a good long beat to think before jotting down our choices on her notepad, as if trying to remember how to spell something.  We realized when our plates arrived that she must've been doing a mental inventory of her larder, because as you can see here - we clearly ordered two vastly different dishes.  Ah well, it was good enough regardless of what the menu may have described.

Okay, one was a bit spicier. 

I was up early the following morning, giving me some time to walk around the town in the morning light, which had been streaming in through the windows fresh across the Atlantic since 5:15 a.m.  Fogo Island town is just as charming and authentic as could be, with two protected harbors, tall-spired churches, traditional salt-box architecture houses, rugged, rocky tundra-covered landscape, and lobster traps stacked on the piers.  

Now THAT'S an iceberg!

Lobster traps and other fishing accoutrement. 

An hour or so later, I returned from my reconnaissance walk to find my husband up and having breakfast. After getting a full belly of tea myself, I got dressed for our day hike to the top of Brimstone Head, just a few minutes' drive from our house.  I put on my long underwear top and bottoms, fleece-lined winter leggings, wool cable-knit sweater, down vest, wind and rain-proof coat, gloves and Andean wool cap. NOW I was ready to go back out again. 

Hmmm... a two bedroom house that has ten coat hooks.  What does that say?

We were excited to see Brimstone Head as it'd been designated one of the four corners of the earth by the Flat Earth Society, which coincidentally had an office and (until recently) a museum on Fogo Island.  I couldn't wait to see what the edge looked like.

The path to the edge.  The local Lions Club does a great job of maintaining the trails and boardwalks on Fogo. 

Beautiful autumn-colored tuckamore, peat and heather. 

Final staircase to the top. 

Did I mention it was a wee bit windy?

At just above freezing and facing winds as strong as I've ever felt in my life (do I still have eyebrows?), we made our way up the perfectly maintained paths and stairs to the top of Brimstone Head. The effort was well worth it. However, I gotta' say I'd pictured one corner of the earth to be a bit more.... square?  I mean we could still see the neighboring islands and icebergs slowly drifting by and all. Disappointed as I am to say this, I'm not entirely convinced that we were really on the edge of anything more than a hunk of rock in the north Atlantic Ocean.  Sorry Flat Earth society, but I don't think you'll be getting our membership paperwork this year. 

The next day we took off to the east side of Fogo Island and the towns of Joe Batt's Arm and Tilting. (Oh side note here: Newfoundland has THE BEST names for places!  Among my favorites are: Random Island, Ireland's Eye, Tickle Cove, Seldom Seen, Heart's Delight and Heart's Content.) The Fogo Island Inn in Joe Batt's Arm, just 20 minutes' drive from Fogo Island town, was what had originally attracted me to come up here to begin with.  While searching for places to visit online, I came upon photographs of the inn and knew I had to see it for myself.  And see it we did. Equal parts sculpture and building, it perches out over the cliff like an occupiable, wooden Moby Dick on stilts (personal interpretation).  The inn isn't just a tourist destination, it's also a concept.  Sure it has rooms and a restaurant, but it also serves as a way to reinvigorate investment into the Fogo community, as their website boasts. I was contemplating splurging on a night or two at the inn... until I saw the room rates which START at $1500 per night. So instead of a month's salary for the weekend, we settled for a brisk walk around the grounds like celebrity wedding crashers, as staff greeted us and politely asked, "Tell me your name again, please? I just don't remember..." certainly code for "You're not supposed to be here, are you?" I snapped some pictures and we hopped into the car before they could run us off the property.  But check out the place and read about their raison d'etre for yourself here. 

The great beast of the Fogo Island Inn seen through the mist. 

Sculptural workshop of sorts at the Inn. I snuck in to take a peek; it was pretty cool. 

Just a few minutes' further to the east we found the community of Tilting, recognized for the preservation of its Irish heritage.  We stopped for a cup of tea and some conversation at a cafe (after narrowly escaping an impromptu acoustic sing-along of "Hotel California" we were told) and later had a cliff-side walk and sandwich lunch in a protected spot on the rocks, tucked between the tuckamore and the crashing surf. We later learned that "tuckamore" is the Newfoundland word for the stunted, tangled stands of spruce and fir trees that cling to cliff edges like Canadian bonsai. 

The omnipresent net/boat/fishing shed.  We never figured out what the dots meant, but they're on nearly every door. 

Classic saltbox style house surrounded by tuckamore and heather.

A surprisingly abundant amount of grass considering the general lack of topsoil in which to grow it.

Our final day on Fogo brought the sunshine and we climbed Fogo Head for a last look around before heading back west across Newfoundland to our next stop.

We learned icebergs can be very dangerous to approach as unseen parts can below the surface can break off and shoot to the surface, because don't forget that we only see the tip of the... well, you get it. 

We were happy to find the craft and quilting shop open and a friendly couple working there to chat with.

Typical Newfoundland crafts: quilts, hooked rugs and miniature lobster traps.  This fella' helps in the shop and works overnights at the fish processing plant in town, one of three on the island and a huge source of income for locals.

The path to the top of Fogo Head.

A last look at Fogo, finally in the sunshine.

We left the sunshine behind and spent nearly all of the next day driving back west to Deer Lake in the slushy rain (spruce, birch, lake...). But then continued a bit further to Norris Point, a small town surrounded by the incredible Gros Morne National Park, a UNESCO heritage site.  Besides wanting to see the park's fjords and snowy peaks, we chose Norris Point as it was hosting its annual Trails, Tales and Tunes festival, timed to kick off the summer tourist season.  (See weather commentary above about whether or not the chosen festival dates may still have been a bit, errr, premature.)  And really - how could I resist a festival dedicated to just about all my favorite things: outdoorsy activities, storytelling and music.  If it was the Trails, Tales, Tunes, Tea and Cat Appreciation festival I'd have been apoplectic. 

"Downtown" Norris Point: the Marine Research Center in the middle and the Cat Stop pub on the right in blue. 

Colorful Newfoundland houses with the Tablelands as the backdrop.

We'd rented a cottage from Big Garden Cottages along Neddy Harbour, one of the many scallops of Bonne Bay, a fjord-like inlet off the Gulf of St. Lawrence.  The festival was in its sixth day by the time we arrived, offering organized hikes into the park and along the coastline each morning, and music featuring Newfoundland and Labradorean (or at least Canadian) acts at various venues each mid-day and evening.  The "tales" part was mixed into the above schedule. We spent our second evening listening to stories of the (now-defunct) Newfoundland railway system: the folks who built 'er, the "wreck-house" winds which frequently derailed 'er, and the songs to accompany it all. 

Oh Canada, once again you spoil us with your perfectly maintained trails. Roofing tiles on the boardwalk - what will they think of next?

A duo performs at the "Cat Stop" pub venue in Norris Point.  I was sad to discover that the "cat" in the title was short for the catamaran that docks there.  Ah well. 

  
The forecast improved each day, and we woke up one day to a thinly-overcast sky that looked like it just might burn off and turn blue.  By 10:00 a.m. it did not disappoint, and we joined one of the festival's organized walks out to Cow Head under sunny skies.

Gros Morne panorama.

Hiking companions.

Ya' gotta' have a sense of whimsy in such an extreme environment.

Our final day hit the low 60s, which may not sound like much - but after a week of topping out in the 40s - it felt like Malibu.  I scampered around the town re-taking pictures of the landscape and houses now bathed in flattering sunlight.  

Gros Morne National Park's Tablelands. The mountaintops are made of the earth's mantle (look it up - I can't explain it well) which is one of the reasons the park is a UNESCO Heritage Site. 

View of Neddy Harbour, the Tablelands and Norris Point from our cottage. 

Fisherman's shack. 

Before turning the car back to Deer Lake, we joined one last festival event: the Lion's Club Market Day featuring live music, crafts and baked goods for sale, and the main event - a Fisherman's Brewis lunch.  We'd been hearing about this local delicacy since our arrival in Newfoundland and my husband was excited to try it.  Always frightened by the word "delicacy" and not much of an experimental eater (okay not an experimental eater AT ALL) - I wasn't so confident.  But who could resist a big scoop of minced fish, piled on a mountain of reconstituted hard tack, loaded on a hill o' mashed potatoes, smothered in a simmering broth of melting scrunchins and topped - if yas' like - with drawn butter?  Sign me up! Especially when we learned that "scrunchins" are minced salt pork - i.e. pure fat.  For $7.50 we joined the line and filled our bellies with a week's worth of calories and a lifetime of cholesterol.  I felt I could, and probably should, go row a boat across the ocean afterwards. By myself. In winter. While dragging a net full of writhing cod. 

Folks digging into their Fisherman's Brewis while enjoying some music. 

Spoiler alert on your Christmas presents.

But our trip had to come to an end and so we packed up the car and drove an hour back to Deer Lake from where we'd catch the flight back home at the crack of dawn the next morning.  It was a spectacular day - nearly 65 degrees - and families were out enjoying the first day at the lake.  The water was probably close to 45 degrees, but as we learned - that's nothing to a true Newfoundlander. 

The father on the right reported that while this WAS his first day of the year with no shirt on, it' wasn't his first day in his shorts and flip flops.

We were happy to report to Budget Rent a Car that this did NOT happen to us.

Canadian Coasting

Soundtrack: CKJM community radio. 

On a hunch that a good picnic spot would be near, my husband pulled our rental car off the side of the dead-ending, dirt road and parked.  We were in White Point, Nova Scotia, a fishing village consisting of (so far as we could see) a dozen or so houses within walking distance of a small, snug harbor that hosted a handful of boats bobbing in the tide.  While not quite the most northern town of Nova Scotia's Cape Breton Island - that'd be Meat Cove - White Point is a close second, sticking out on a slim promontory just outside the Cape Breton Highlands National Park. The namesake point juts north towards Newfoundland with the open Atlantic beyond. Probably why the wind came headlong towards us at gale force, barely slowed by "The Rock" (as Newfoundland is nicknamed) and cooled by passing over Greenland and the Arctic itself.  Although nearly June, it was still just 45 degrees out, but under brilliant sunny skies - it hardly felt below 49. Oh, but then minus the windchill.

Drawn by the desire to see the end of the earth, or at least the end of the long land mass we'd been working our way up and across for a week, we tightened the draw strings on our hoods, grabbed our lunches and headed north following a path across the treeless landscape.  The land, a big rock really, was covered with a thin layer of soil allowing the hardy ground-covering heather to grow in a lush variety of autumny colors from deep green to orange to rust.  We came to the top of one rise and, expecting to be at the tip of the point, instead found more point stretching out in front of us.

"Should we continue?" my husband asked as we stopped, disappointed we weren't there yet after walking hard against the headwind.
"Why not? We've come all this way already. It'd be a shame to stop this short of the end."  But also, I didn't want to eat lunch in the car. 

White Point harbor.

Over hill and dale...

...until we could go no further.

 We reached land's end and my husband wisely picked out two spots where we could sit behind large boulders to block the wind.  Even still, I was worried that the tuna salad might be blown out of my sandwich and back into the waves from whence it came.  About twenty feet below us the sea angrily hit the shore as if surprised to find it there. 

As tough as this point was to survive this daily elemental onslaught, it was charming to see that the rocks were actually pink granite intersected by sparkly quartz stripes.  Barbie would have definitely chosen these materials for her townhouse kitchen remodel. 

We finished lunch, sitting mesmerized by the waves a good bit longer, and finally, reluctantly picked ourselves up and headed back to the car.  Our drive then continued to Neil's Harbour, another fishing village nearby, where we decided to turn around and return to our base in Cheticamp. 

Before I continue, a bit of background: In keeping with our vow to make this domestic assignment as adventurous as being overseas - we're exploring new territory close(ish) to home.  This trip started with a short flight to Boston and a rental car pointed north across a bit of New Hampshire, a lot of Maine, along the New Brunswick coast and finally across to Nova Scotia. Two weeks and 2500 miles, the majority of which were navigated without the benefit of technology because, quite frankly, we're cheap and didn't want to pay the extra daily charge to use our cell phones in Canada.  With guide books from the library and maps from just about every roadside visitors' center we passed - we "Lewis and Clark'd" our way from the border crossing between Calais, Maine and St. Stephen, New Brunswick where we turned the phones off.

While we'd been to Quebec and Montreal ten years ago, we had no experience in either Maine or the Canadian Maritime provinces.  Which means we also had no experience with a little specialty of the area - the black fly.  I first read about this pest in Bill Bryson's "A Walk in the Woods" where he wrote of them being a bother at the end of his trip along the Appalachian Trail.  Had Mr. Bryson been a bit more explicit in his descriptions of what  are essentially tiny, flying bed bugs, or had I paid more attention to the numerous roadside advertisements for shops selling "head nets" - I may have applied a bit of bug spray to my unprotected jugular before stepping out of the car at the first scenic viewpoint of Maine's interior.  At first glance, they looked like something between a fruit fly and a gnat, and swarmed annoyingly in front of my face and flew into the frame of my photos, but I didn't think any more of them than that. Ten minutes down the country highway, we pulled off for lunch alongside a quiet, shady stream and I noticed them again. We were chatting with a Canadian couple who were heading the opposite way, sharing travel suggestions while naively swatting at the small swarm that had suddenly descended upon us from the depths of the thick, Maine woods. It wasn't until I wiped away a half-dozen of the little vampires from my husband's neck and saw the small streams of blood and growing welts they left on his exposed flesh that I realized I'd greatly underestimated their true, evil nature.  By that time, it was also too late for my own exposed flesh.  That same second, the other couple noticed them as well and exclaimed, "Black flies!" They quickly made their goodbyes and shot off for their RV. Shoving our lunch supplies into the cooler, we bolted for our own car, diving inside and slamming shut the doors while madly smashing all intruders who were fast enough to follow us into the sanctity of the closed vehicle.  Each victorious swat left a smear of blood (our blood!) on the windows and dashboard.  And just like that, the optimistic conversation we'd had that morning about what a gem Maine might be as a retirement destination were dashed and smeared into the rental car's upholstery like the flies themselves. The little bastards!  

Broad horizons east of Bangor, Maine 

Hilltop cemetery covered in creeping phlox

Site of the Zombie Attack of the Black Flies

Hillside of Maine heather

A short drive after the blood-bath, we crossed the border into New Brunswick, Canada.  From there, it was a few hours' drive to the pretty harbor side city of Saint John (not St. John's - which is in Newfoundland - crazy for us to get those two mixed up, eh?) where we got our first view of the Bay of Fundy that separates New Brunswick from the bulk of Nova Scotia.  For most of our trip, we had booked our accommodation well in advance, but for the driving days between destinations, we left our night's stay up to what struck us as interesting.  On a whim, we decided to leave the Inter-Canadian highway and head south, through the Bay of Fundy National Park to what would be the first of many lovely fishing villages, Alma.  Yes, yes, I too can hear the echoes of every guidebook about Greece or the Cinque Terre full of coastlines "dotted with tiny fishing villages"  - but when it comes to the Canadian Maritime provinces - it's for real.  It's not, as my Dad would say, ersatz.  

We pulled into Alma on a Thursday night off-season and were happy to find a few hotels open to choose from.  The one we picked had balconies with unobstructed views of the Bay of Fundy and the town's small, but essential harbor.  More interesting than just that, Alma also offered us front-row seats to observe the highest tides in the world.  Which, I learned, means the largest difference in height between the high and low tides, in this case a 50 foot difference over a six-hour period between tides.  When we'd arrived, the lobster boats tied to the docks required a ladder to step down onto them.  When I awoke pre-dawn and peeked out at the harbor, the boats were resting on their hulls on the muddy bay floor.  To keep them from keeling over, they rested on a crate on one side, and leaned against next boat or the dock to the other side. By the time we got up to start the day, the boats were floating level with the docks, having already made their morning rounds to set the lobster pots in the Bay.   As we checked out, I asked the hotel manager what happens when a fisherman needs to get his boat out at low tide, but it's in the middle of the domino chain with others leaning against it? He politely didn't point out the flaw in my logic (he ain't going anywhere at low tide, lady!) and humored me with an answer:  

"Well you just call your friends to come down and move their boats first."  

Not satisfied with this response that just begged more questions to my city-brain sensibilities:

"But what if it's in the middle of dinner? What if you're tired and don't want to drive back down to the harbor? Or what if you're away on vacation?" To which he just laughed and assured me, "We all live right here; we all work together - really, it's not a problem." 

Saint John church

The tide at "half mast," shall we say?

Lobstermen returning to Alma for the evening. 

So they don't keel over twice a day at low tide, each boat has a crate stuck under one side and leans against either the dock or another boat while resting on the bay floor. 

The next day took us north along the Bay of Fundy, across the narrow land bridge from New Brunswick and into Nova Scotia.  It was a dreary morning, raining steadily as we made the five hour drive to the south coast of Nova Scotia.  By the time we found Black Point, the "village" that would be our base for the next few days, it had cleared and we were welcomed with sunny skies at the colorful waterside cottage we'd rented on St. Margaret's Bay. 

Our rented cottage, and yes, those are tulips blooming on Memorial Day!

Stretch of coast across from our cottage on St. Margaret's Bay

Caribbean clear, but Canadian COLD water

The southern shore of Nova Scotia has most of the popular tourist destinations: Halifax (which surprised us with a massive cruise ship in the harbor); Lunenburg - an UNESCO heritage town; the town of Peggy's Cove with one of the most photographed lighthouses in the world, and a long scalloped coastline of bays and points with hundreds of fishing villages.  Visiting in late May meant we were arriving off-season still, giving us nearly empty highways, walks and beaches almost to ourselves and a better idea of what regular life is like when not flooded with tourists.  

One such glimpse came on our first night when, at the suggestion of our hosts, we drove a short way down the road to the Shore Club in the town of Hubbards.  An institution for generations, the Shore Club refers to itself as "last of the great dance hall and home to the original lobster supper" as well as being THE local hangout for live music.  Who could resist that?  That particular evening was a fund raiser for the local radio station complete with free hors d'oeuvres, a long table full of donated crafts for their silent auction, and a line-up of favorite local bands to keep us going late into the night.  It had the feeling of being at someone else's high school reunion; not in a fancy-dress-and-name-tag kind of way, but because it was clear that EVERYONE knew everyone and was just having a great time bopping from table to table to catch up. Truly a community affair of all ages and being there made me want to emigrate tomorrow and join in.   

Date night at the Shore Club, Hubbards, NS

During the next few days we set out in different directions, following the two-lane road from town to town, pulling off in places that caught our eye and eating in mom and pops restaurants to eavesdrop on conversations in Nova Scotian accents.  The towns felt so authentic, even though tourism is clearly a cash cow for a few.  The lobster pots stacked in the yard aren't just for show, and the guys going out to fish are all generations-deeply rooted to the towns painted on their boats' hulls. The simplicity of the boxy architecture is brightened by primary color paint, but even the houses painted black are beautiful against the gray granite, or clear blue water and stands of evergreens. 

(However...during the nights, we were tormented by the black fly bites that were not fading as the days passed, but rather were merging into red, hot, swollen and torturously itchy cervical collars around our necks.  We used two types of creams - antihistamine and steroidal - in the day and ice packs in the evening to bring some relief.)

One more photo of the most photographed lighthouse at Peggy's Cove.

Oh those Canadians!

Peggy's Cove harbor

Typical boxy and practical, but colorful architecture of NS fishing towns

Saga of the fisherman carved into a stone mural

Three churches of Mahone Bay

Black trimmings and even black houses common here. 

Harbor buildings of Lunenburg, UNESCO heritage site for its classic town layout

The second half of our trip took us east across the length of Nova Scotia and over the bridge to Cape Breton Island.  While the landscape didn't change too much (trees, trees and more trees), the flavor did.  Town signs went from English only, to English and Gaelic.  Following the Ceilidh Trail, we drove along the north shore of the island (An clada a tuath), drove through the towns of West Mabou (Mabu ar Iar) and Judique (Sludaig Mhor) with its Celtic Music Interpretive Center where my husband picked out a tin whistle for himself and a necklace for me with a celtic knot made of old guitar strings.  We continued to Glenora, taking a tour of the Glenora Distillery, North America's first single-malt whisky distillery situated along MacLellan's Brook, touted as the "purest and cleanest source of water in Cape Breton".  Distilling since 1990, it can now offer whiskys aged from 8 to 25 years. But with a long, winding road still ahead of us - we only sampled one batch and bought a small bottle for later. 

Distillery and Inn.

Learning the whisky distilling process.

Then just a short ways up the road, the street signs and town names changed again- this time to French.  No longer was it a recycling depot we passed, but a depot de recyclage. Street signs displayed both "CH" and "ST" should any confusion arise about whether or not this was Chemin Black Rock or Black Rock Street. The Acadian flag (a French flag emblazoned with a single, gold star) flew in front yards and family names on the mailboxes were now Aucoin and Michaud.  Although officially we'd been in Acadia since Maine and New Brunswick (hence Acadia National Park in Bar Harbor, ME), our destination town of Cheticamp considered itself Cape Breton's Acadian heart.  

We arrived in Cheticamp late in the afternoon. Our host had warned us that coming off-season as we were - the prime tourist season doesn't kick into high gear until at least July - we should fill our tank and stock up on whatever wine or booze we wanted as soon as we could because business hours were prone to unexpectedly early closure this time of year.  We pulled into the one-pump gas station/garage and stepping out of the car, heard the mechanics listening to the same radio station we'd tuned into on the drive up.  It was CKJM, the francophone community radio station of Cheticamp.  They greeted us in French and my husband conducted the transaction completely en francais, much to his pleasure.  The main road that had brought us up the northeastern coast of Cape Breton Island turns into Cheticamp's main drag, but this is by no means an un cheval town. The town is many kilometers long, sandwiched between the Gulf of St. Lawrence and the mountains of the Cape Breton Highlands National Park.  With a prominent stone church marking the start of the town on our right and a long harbor full of fishing boats to our left, and restaurants, inns and small businesses lining both sides - the town seemed to have all we needed, which was a relief given the distance to the next town.  

Acadian-flag themed decorative lighthouse.

Town skyline in late May with the trees only partially leafed out. 

See - I told you it was all French!

At the northern edge of town, we found our rented A-frame cottage set off the main road by a quarter-mile gravel drive and tucked into the edge of the evergreen and hardwood forest.  The instructions for the cabin warned that "some guests have been concerned by the 160+ km per hour winds that frequently hit the town (les suetes), but don't worry, the cabin was built to withstand them."  The large rocks holding down the Adirondack chairs on the front porch echoed this reality.  Fortunately, we'd arrived under clear blue skies and were treated to a beautiful view of our surroundings that first evening, with sunset after 9:00 pm and a full moonrise over the mountains outside our loft bedroom window. 

Our quirky, beautifully stylish cabin.

This is my new motto.

Colored votive holders in our cottage window.

The next morning a blanket of fog socked us in, and so instead of planning outdoorsy activities, we stayed close by and got to know Cheticamp.  It started with a visit to Les Trois Pignons Culture Center, just a few minutes' walk from our cottage.  Not just a regional information hub, it also hosted a wonderful museum to Acadian history (which is far too long and convoluted for me to summarize here - but fascinating to hear nonetheless), and my favorite - the hooked rug museum.  You read that right.  Let's just say that after going through the museum, talking at great length to the women running the center and seeing just what can be accomplished with yarn, a hook and a piece of burlap - I was hooked and bought a few starter-sized kits.  In their heavily-accented English ("Excuse us, it's just May and we're not used to speaking English again!  We'll remember all the words by July."), we learned about life in Cape Breton through the ages.  We heard stories of communal hooking- shall we say - where all the ladies from the town worked together to get so-and-so's rug made, ("We all know that if I help you for three days on your rug - you'll come help me with mine when it's time"), and learned that the best way to clean the rugs is by laying them on fresh, crisp snow banks to let the crystalline top layer draw out all the dirt.  The conversations painted a picture of a traditional life, a rugged life, built by and reliant upon the tight knit of one's community.  Throughout our visit, we saw this in action. From the community radio playing at every business we stepped into, to the evenings of Acadian music at the senior center where everyone got a turn to play or sing in the musical circle, to the fishing boats leaning on each other during low tide in the Bay of Fundy. It's a life not lead separate from your neighbors, and a living not made at a desk or a keyboard. It felt like a world away certainly from our DC lives, and even just our American lives.  

Morning misty view of the town from Cheticamp Island just across the harbor. 

Fisherman's shack on Cheticamp Island.

Our last night in Cheticamp, the evening after our picnic lunch on White Point that started my story, we ate at Restaurant Evangeline, opposite the harbor on the main street.  Striking up a conversation with the matronly waitress, we were sad to hear that indeed the young people were leaving the town and only about a quarter stick around and continue with fishing, maybe a few more in other town businesses.  She tempted us with two desserts from a long list (I had the butterscotch pie), all homemade in the pre-dawn hours by the octogenarian woman who lived upstairs. We joked about our longing for a quiet life like this, to which she laughed and told us that in fact, they needed two cooks. Under different circumstances, I'm fairly certain my husband would have shook her hand, asked where the apron was and when did they want him to start? 

View from Restaurant Evangeline. Heading out to check the lobster pots at the day's end. 

Sunset on the glass

A plus tarde Cheticamp!

But for now - we're just passing through.  Looking out over the harbor to the slowly sinking sun, I raised a glass to Nova Scotia and promised we'd be back.  

Who knows when or for how long.  

Let's just hope it's not in black fly season.

Little bastards. 

And this was after nearly a week!