Nova Scotia Revisited

Today's plane to Montreal is called Great Futures. And I'm happy, as it did hardly any damage to my bank balance. I paid for it with my Air Miles. I’m going cat sitting again, but this time in Maritime Canada (Nova Scotia). Cape Breton Island in the North. That should mean that most of my trip was free, as I’m getting accommodation and a car as a reward. But somehow I’ve managed to extend the trip to five weeks in Atlantic Canada, fitting in St Pierre et Miquelon, Newfoundland and Labrador.

First, I'm making my way back to Halifax, the main town and principal port here. It poured with rain on my last visit to Halifax. Things can only get better, this time. The people of Montreal refer to the largest city in Atlantic Canada as 'alifax. So this is what I'm listening for, on the tannoy, at the airport.

I'm on budget airline Flair. It’s the Canadian equivalent of Ryanair. You have to pay extra to breathe and the seats are mega uncomfortable. I’m surprised they don’t charge a premium for upholstery. The complaint ratio is 1 in 5 customers. And it’s also in financial trouble. But it gets me there more or less on time and it’s half the price of Air Canada. And it’s flying. I booked my return flight to Montreal with Lynx Air from St John's in Newfoundland. They took my money and went bust three days later.

Nova Scotia

  • Nova Scotia (New Scotland) was first named in a 1621 Royal Charter, granting to Sir William Alexander the right to settle lands including modern Nova Scotia, Cape Breton Island, Prince Edward Island, New Brunswick and the Gaspé Peninsula. That's a very large area.
  • In 1867, Nova Scotia joined with New Brunswick and the Province of Canada (now Quebec and Ontario) to form the Dominion of Canada.
  • Today, Nova Scotia is one of 13 Canadian provinces (the second smallest), one of the three Maritime provinces (with New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island) and one of the four Atlantic provinces (add in Newfoundland, more recently combined with Labrador). Nova Scotia is Latin for "New Scotland".
  • The car plates here dub the province ''Canada's Ocean Playground'.

The good news is that some lovely people from the plane - Blane and Kate - give me a lift into town, in their huge glossy black pick up. And my Airbnb has an excellent location, downtown and seems to be well equipped. The bad news is that it’s raining and only ten degrees (it was 25 in Montreal) and there is no heating on in my new abode. There are thermostats on the wall, but these are encased in locked boxes. And as they are set at 20 I fear the whole system is off. Nova Scotians were known as bluenosers from early on, because the fishermen got so cold out at sea. I know how they felt. (To think that the taxi driver in Montreal sneered at me for bringing my coat.)

And there is no-one to be seen. It’s all key pad entries. My bathroom is just round the corner, off one of the lounges, so I have to remember to get dressed when I go to the loo, in case anyone pops up. I also have to take my phone with the codes on it, to make sure I can get back into my room.

A History of Halifax

  • Frenchman, Samuel Champlain, established the first settlements in this area (part of the American colonised areas known to the French as Acadie), in 1605, in the Annapolis Valley. They flourished, partly because the Acadians got on well with the indigenous peoples, the Mi’kmaq, who intermingled, looked after them, and taught them how to survive, salting cod and fur trapping. By 1700 they numbered 15,000.
  • British settlements did much less well, partly because the mother country gave priority to developing New England and partly because there was conflict with the native peoples, who were by now strongly allied with the French. Land continuously changed hands from the French to the English and back again. Eventually, the Treaty of Utrecht, in 1713, though principally concerned with the Spanish succession, handed all of the territory of Nova Scotia over to the British, except for Cape Breton Island, (then known as Ile Royal) and Prince Edward Island (Ile St Jean). They both eventually became British.
  • Edward Cornwallis, brought in as governor of Nova Scotia, made a thorough evaluation and pointed out that the area could not be defended from the French, if they decided to contest the issue. So he established the town of Halifax, starting with his citadel. It had a good natural harbour, and he brought 2500 settlers, German, French and Jewish settlers from Switzerland. He did not think the British were resilient enough and he also wanted a diverse settlement of Protestants. (As well as enough people to oust the French Acadians.) This brought further conflict with the Mi’kmaq, who objected to such large settlement on their land, a traditional meeting ground. In retaliation, Cornwallis put out an extirpation order, paying a bounty for Mi’kmaq scalps. At the time he was regarded as a hero and numerous streets and buildings were named after him, with statues erected, in this capital of Nova Scotia. Today, these memorials are gradually being eradicated.

'Ow is 'Alifax?

My 2024 explorations of Halifax are a much happier experience than last time. The weather defies the forecast and the temperature shoots up to 26 degrees. The boulevards around town are wide and leafy, lined with pretty painted timber mansions. There are a couple of streets of interesting boutique type shops, interspersed with cafes and small restaurants, catering to student tastes. This is very much a university town. There are two and half expanding campuses.

Halifax port may be one of the best natural harbours in the world, but it’s by no means the prettiest. (The Mi'kmaq name for Halifax is Kjipuktuk, which means ‘Great Harbour’.) However, the long waterfront walk provides plenty to look at. It waterfront walk starts at Point Pleasant Park, right to the south (plenty more desirable clapboard houses in the area) of the city. The park is thickly wooded, and hidden between the trees, are the Prince of Wales Tower and the remains of Fort Ogilvie. The fort was built to supplement sea defences, later in the eighteenth century and named after the governor of Nova Scotia at the time. The tower, is a Martello Tower, added later, on the highest point of the park.

Next, the path winds round the port, past grain silos, enormous conveyors, like something out of a science fiction novel and past museums, pubs and the cruise terminal. Then, it's the boardwalk proper. Old ships and museum ships. I can actually see the lighthouse on the island in the harbour quite easily, today. The yellow and azure ferry scoots backwards and forwards to Dartmouth. The colourful little booths alongside are all open for poutine and ice cream. (Cows is advertised as the best in Canada and they could well be correct.) There's the same red poutine shack that I photographed last time I was here. I still can’t bring myself to eat chips with gravy.

The historic buildings (they have a designated area, from the waterfront and up the steep hill to the Citadel) are all pristine and mostly Victorian, the several churches are suitably striking, with their elaborate decorative features and the clock tower at the base of Cornwallis’ citadel is at is best, against a cerulean sky. The view from the top, across the water, almost rewards the clamber up the grassy slope and you can visit inside the fortress, at a price. The noon day gun subscribes to historical allegiances – and makes me jump.

Victoria Day

I’m surprised to learn that today is Victoria Day, a federal Canadian public holiday to honour Queen Victoria, the 'Mother of Confederation'. It was conceived on Victoria’s birthday, a way of uniting French and English settlers and demonstrating loyalty to the crown, (as opposed to their southern neighbours).

From my point of view, it’s not necessarily good news, as many of the shops and eateries are closed. It was difficult enough trying to find somewhere to eat on Sunday evening, as it’s still very early season here. Wikipedia tells me that Victoria Day is informally considered the start of the summer season in Canada. Maybe not in the Maritimes.


I’m off to the more southerly port of Lunenburg, on a minibus trip. Fog has descended, so it’s hard to discern anything on the way there. Nova Scotia is virtually an island, joined to mainland North America by the Isthmus of Chignecto, and Atlantic mist is common. A two lane highway sweeps south (it has potholes though, they seem to be ubiquitous nowadays) through plenty of wintry forest, just about in bud, grey lakes, creeks. Around Chester, signs announce this region to be the Christmas Tree Capital of the World. But apparently this only applies to Balsam Fir. Indiana County in Pennsylvania also proclaims itself the Christmas Tree Capital of the World and I’m not qualified to arbitrate. Before Mahone Bay, we join the coast and squint to make out the picturesque islands floating ethereally on the water and the three adjacent churches in the quaint little town.

I’ve used the word quaint too soon. Lunenburg Old Town is UNESCO listed, as the best example of British colonial town planning in North America. Cornwallis founded Lunenburg, in 1753, as a second defensive settlement and place to relocate some of his original Halifax immigrants, who were getting restless at lack of opportunity - and land. The area, another good sheltered harbour, had originally been settled by the Mi’kmaq and then the Acadians in 1630. The French were removed without protest, but the local peoples resisted for some time. The town was named after George II’s German dukedom - Braunschweig-Lüneburg. An earlier Mi'kmaq name was Aseedĭk, meaning Clam-land.

The town flourished, especially in the 1800s, with fishing, lumber and boat building industries. Lunenburg is the site of Canada's largest secondary fish-processing plant, but apparently this is threatened with closure, which is why UNESCO have taken an interest. It’s an exceptionally rewarding wander, with its colourful wooden vernacular architecture. Streets of residential houses up the hill, interlaced with two streets of galleries, cafes (tasty food, high prices) , chic boutiques and fish shops. There’s even a model, gothic meets colonial, academy, opened in 1895 and only closed in 2012. St John’s Anglican church is also distinctive with its tiny spires and snow white wood. The timber was brought from Boston, when a church there was disassembled.

Down on the waterfront, there’s an unmissable scarlet painted maritime museum, which includes several boats bobbing on the water. The original Bluenose schooner was designed to win the World Cup schooner race and beat the Americans. It did, but after the wars it was sold for cargo use, in the Caribbean, and it sank on a reef. You can go onboard a 1963 replica.

Peggy’s Cove

Peggy's Cove is the Tourist Trap of Nova Scotia, featuring on every itinerary. It’s on St Margaret’s Bay, named by Champlain, for his mother, with some unusual excitement generated as to which Margaret the village itself was named after (Peggy being a diminutive of Margaret). There are several contenders and rescues, love stories and shipwrecks are involved. It’s a tiny, extraordinarily picturesque fishing village, with a lighthouse (which flashes happily for the tourists), surrounded by large, smooth granite rocks. Again, exceptionally photogenic; this is the most photographed lighthouse in Canada, or possibly even in the world. And the clouds have miraculously disappeared, so we can savour it in all its glory. It’s not without its hazards. Apparently the darker rocks are notoriously slippy and there are freak waves, when it’s windy. Someone dies here very year. Happily, it’s not today.

Though some small glossy black birds are out to ruin my day, by stealing the prime meat from my lobster roll. It’s almost obligatory to buy one from Tom’s Shack (at a shocking price). The birds are exceptionally cunning and swoop in swiftly, even as the roll is on its way to my mouth. It’s not the most relaxing way to eat.

Peggy’s Cove came to public attention, and grew in popularity, in 1998, after a Swissair flight crash-landed in the sea, five miles up the coast, in mysterious circumstances. There’s a memorial, on the rocks, there.

Cape Breton Island

It's mid May, but Spring has only just arrived in the wilds of Cape Breton. The daffodils are in full bloom, with the odd crimson tulip. The lawns are scattered with dandelions, which grow prettily in clumps, around the white and grey timber clad bungalows. Otherwise it’s pointy fir trees, as far as the eye can see, with the ocean peeping between the tips of the conifers. Water is never far away here. We’re joined to mainland Nova Scotia by a (just over) kilometre causeway, across the Canso Strait. It's 65 metres deep, which apparently makes it the deepest causeway in the world, and there’s a swing bridge at one end to allow boat traffic through.


I’m in L’Ardoise, a tiny community, which is part of the village of St Peter's, 12 kilometres up the road. It sprawls up a small hill, above two small coves, with curved Atlantic ravaged, cement coloured beaches, one a classic tombolo. Pretty ponds, a pirate ship atop a small cliff (for children to play on) and a melancholy fog horn baying across the water. Houses strung along the roadside, a church (in the prime viewing spot as usual), a community centre and a bank. L’Ardoise is pronounced Lordways, by everyone as the British couldn’t (or wouldn’t) say it the correct French way.

Cat Sitting in Canada

I got here by shuttle van, picking up the Trans Canada Highway, at Truro. The highway passes through all the provinces of Canada, starting at Victoria and ending in St John's. The most important sections are numbered 1. This bit, which runs parallel, is a 10. My bungalow is in apple pie order, owned by Jim, a proud Scotsman who lives on his own (he’s on holiday in the UK.) Everything so clearly has a place I’m scared to touch it. I’m looking after Whiskers, an exceptionally beautiful chocolate and cream Siamese cat, with piercing blue eyes. He’s easy tempered (apart from the odd nip, when he suddenly decides he doesn’t want to be stroked any more) and affectionate, but restless.

The house is very much his kingdom and this is no exaggeration. Like most cats, Whiskers does what he wants, when he wants, and humans are only there to serve his needs. He whines loudly to indicate that he wants something (the word caterwauling wasn't invented for nothing), though it’s not often clear what that is. He doesn’t want to sit on my lap, but stretches along my legs to request that he is picked up and cuddled (with stroking) like a baby. But only for two minutes or so, while he purrs loudly. Then he frets to be put down. And then he wants to be picked up again and pats my face gently.

Whilst I'm working on my laptop he crouches right next to me and head butts me if I don't stroke him at the same time as I'm attempting to type.

Whiskers has a bedroom to himself, containing the largest scratching post ensemble you ever saw (and I don't say that lightly), sundry places to perch and comfy cushions. But that’s not the end. Each of the other bedrooms has a bed for him, so he can choose where he wants to sleep. There are more scratching posts, numerous toy mice in every room, on springs or strings. And rubber mats are installed on shelves, sills, cushions, other view points so that he can roam where he wishes. Even the huge basement (with enormous American style wash facilities) has additional shelves and mats placed on the machine tops. And he does indeed, clamber over all the furniture, lording it over me from the top of the fridge. Or sitting right in front of the giant TV screen. Apparently, it’s warm there. Or he just wants centre stage.

But Whisker’s preferred pastime is stalking moles on the neighbouring lawn. He’s only allowed beyond the back door on a long leash, which I have to keep attaching and detaching from his collar, as he wanders in and out. And he is mostly out, only venturing back if he feels hungry and then miaowing and stretching to look out the window, indicating to me, his slave, that he is to be let out again. I can’t see the moles, but he can clearly smell or hear something , as he moves stealthily across the grass. He’s crouching most of the time, by a heap of off cuts from shrubs. I don’t see him pounce at all though, so I suspect the moles stay tantalisingly underground, out of reach.

I have to keep a constant eye on him, as I have to disentangle his leash, every five minutes, as it catches on little pieces of scrub or a corner of the decking, or Whiskers winds it round a tree. I’m terrified he will escape. It’s a big responsibility. He whines to go out and then whines to come in again. Over and over. He should be called Yo-yo.

Notwithstanding all the above, Whiskers is adorable. It's going to be a wrench to leave him.

Cape Breton’s Heritage

Cape Breton’s historical roots and affinities are made very clear. This was Ile Royale, Acadian French country, according to the Treaty of Utrecht (although a French name of sorts has survived) and the stars and flag of Acadia (French tricolore with a gold star) are proudly displayed on many of the buildings. Along with the scarlet maple leaf of Canada. Even the welcome to the village signs have a tricolore background. And there’s an annual Acadian Festival. I don’t see any British Union flags……

But that’s not all. There are the Mi’kmaq, of course, with areas dedicated to the First Nation, the original landowners and some heritage in terms of place names. And then there’s the very strong Scottish influence. There were many Scottish settlers and they even tried to turn the island into a Scottish colony at one point. Place name signs in Breton, (when they’re not Acadian) frequently bear Gaelic alternatives. It’s an interesting mix.

Exploring Cape Breton

The weather forecast says it’s going to rain nearly very day. And, when it’s not raining, it will be foggy. I’m hoping that they’re wrong again. And they are. Though the sun is as deceptive as the forecast, encouraging me out and disappearing not long after I set off to explore. Jim’s girlfriend April has been kind enough to lend me her little turquoise Mitsubishi, so I’m about to be let loose on left hand drive again.

Fleur de Lys Trail

It seems that there are a plethora of trails to choose from. The famous scenic Cabot Trail, in the north west - which I’m told I should allow three days for. The Bras D’Or Scenic Lake Drive winds round one of the world's larger saltwater lakes, Bras d'Or (Golden Arm), which dominates the island's centre. The Ceilidh Trail, ‘following the music’ and the Gaelic culture, on the west coast, the Marconi Trail , which hugs the north east coast (coalmining heritage and the place where Marconi made his first transmission) and the Fleur de Lys Trail. I can’t find any rationale for this one, other than 'it's historic', but it follows the southern coast of the island, visiting beaches, coves (there seem to be a lot of those round here) and Acadian villages, from the Canso Causeway to Louisbourg. And it passes through L’Ardoise, so I’m following this route east.

There are a few hiccoughs. Signposting isn’t amazing and there’s no phone signal round here, so Google is no help either. I detour accidentally to Point Michaud. I’ve been told it’s a nice beach. The locals obviously think that’s an understatement. There are signs to ‘Our World Class Beach’. Maybe it looks better when the sun’s out. Most things do. Today, this crescent of camel coloured sand is decidedly unprepossessing, dull and a little dirty.

But that applies to most of my journey. Tiny lakes (even Loch Lomond), fingers of Bras D’or, fishing villages and firs galore. The sun stays well out of the way and the flatter coast isn’t shown to best effect. But the air is fresh, the countryside pristine. And the dandelions are still out.


At Louisbourg, the mist rolls right in. I can just make out the historic reconstructed fort. It’s a chilly visit. The sun deceived me inti leaving my coat behind. This is advertised as a reconstructed 1700s French colonial town with a fort, a living museum. But the park service has just moved into shoulder season and washerwomen and musicians aren’t yet part of the offering. It's atmospheric with towers and gates looming up out of the fog, like a Victorian horror novel. There are an inn, houses with gardens and pig sties, even an ice house, as well as the revitalised fortifications and the cannons, facing out across the water. But I don’t stay long enough to do it real justice. Brrrrr

For five seconds I consider going on, up the coast, to the Marconi Historic Sites, around Glace Bay but they don’t open till July. That makes my decision easier. This is where Marconi set up his first and second stations to transmit radio signals to Europe. Glace Bay Station was responsible for transmitting the world's first radio message to cross the Atlantic, from North America, in 1902.


To the north west, is Sydney, the largest city on the island. Not to be confused with Sydney, Australia, although stories tell of bemused passengers who have wound up at the tiny airport here, instead of in New South Wales, as intended. Most of the Fleur de Lys trail is on winding single track potholed roads. Louisbourg to Sydney takes me on a wider, fairly quiet highway. But in Sydney I’m suddenly in three lane highway territory, with slow moving traffic that gives no quarter. It's really odd here, the way that countryside transitions into urban (usually retail parks), with no warning.

Google is working now, but my lady guide doesn’t always give the clearest directions and when I end up in the wrong lane none of the drivers will let me back in. The people are friendly on the streets, but definitely not on the roads. It’s a tad stressful. Though the numerous excellent supermarkets in the shopping centres make up for it. The fresh produce makes my heart sing.

Conversely, Downtown Sydney is deathly quiet and a aittle depressing. I can only tell that the shops are open because there are illuminated 'Open' signs in the windows. The buildings have those rectangular Wild West style stone facias, or peeling clapboard, but beneath it's mostly Dollarstore or Pharmasave. No sign of a cosy café. Further north, the tiny historic district. As usual, impressive churches, solid brick municipal and federal buildings and some Victorian clapboard.

Then, to the waterfront, the heart of all maritime cities. The word tiny also applies here. Assorted striped and brightly coloured booths, mainly closed. I suspect they only open for the cruise ships. A couple of statues and, an attempt to add some sightseeing incentive, Bizarrely, the largest fiddle in the world. It plays a doleful jig.

Lake Bras d’Or

Finishing my circular tour, I’m picking up the Scenic Lake Drive, south alongside Bras d’Or. This, the signs tell me is a UNESCO designated Biosphere. It’s a salt-water estuary, where the Arctic currents meet the warm subtropical oceans. Vast and picturesque, even under the cloud cover. It’s hillier here; there's even a ski resort. The firs have their new buds and the slopes are a striking palette of dappled green shades, from olive to emerald. As is so often the case with these drives there are enticing views and nowhere to stop and admire them. There’s one layby where the trees obscure the view of the lake. There are countless side roads snaking towards it, but who knows where each of these go. The odds are I will end up in someone’s back yard.

And, on the highways, hardly anyone obeys the speed limit. They go at about 20 kph faster. If you can't beat them, I reason. As it's a short summer season there are roadworks nearly everywhere, causing queues. When it's a longish stretch of road that's closed they utilise lead trucks with big flashing arrows, on the roof, that we have to follow to make sure we stay the right side of the cones. It's like being behind an F1 safety car..

St Peter's

St Peter’s is home to my nearest supermarket, a couple of inns, (the Bras d'Or, serves very good food), a Subway, a pizza place, a parked bus/diner selling snacks and lunches, a small museum, a Tim Horton (Canada's coffee chain), a café (Farmers' Pantry (excellent cakes), a Dollarstore, some churches (steepled churches are the focal point of every village here), a gas station, a small parade of stores and a Christmas Shop ( I hope they get enough tourists to keep it afloat).

This pretty village is, literally, the entrance to Bras d’Or, with stunning views across the tiny islands and gorgeous reflections in the early morning stillness. The water might be chilly, but it’s crystal clear. There’s a boat canal, along the edge, which connects the glistening lake to the ocean. It is almost exclusively used by pleasure boats nowadays. Adjacent to the canal, at the Atlantic side, is Battery Provincial Park. There's a hill with the remains of a fort atop it. It's a steep scramble, for an obstructed view of St Peter's Bay. There's a better line of sight from the water's edge, by the lighthouse.

St. Peter's is one of North America's oldest European settlements. Prior to the arrival of the French, it was a Portuguese trading and fishing post named Santo Pedro. The French settlers, who came after, established the fur trade here (so furs and firs were both important). But it was a useful spot, as boats could be hauled over the isthmus (pre canal) separating the two bodies of water.

Isle Madame

The weather here turns on a sixpence and the forecast changes every time I look at it. Often, it's completely wrong. So, as soon the clouds clear, I hop out excitedly. This time, I’m heading south west, on the Fleur de Lys Trail, to Isle Madame. The name refers to the Queen of France – no prizes for guessing where political allegiances lie down here. The ocean south of St Peter’s is dotted with fir covered islands and red capped lighthouses, making for the prettiest views so far. Isle Madame is reached by a causeway, to the west of St Peter’s and its north coast beckons, as I drive along the highway. It’s a scenic loop round the island. More islets floating offshore, another scarlet and white lighthouse and then views out, into the choppy Atlantic.

The little harbours are still and silent. I’m promised a photographer’s paradise of lobster pots, but not one in sight. A sign on a café tells me it will reopen for the season in Spring. So we’re not there yet? At the tip of Ile Madame, arichat and then Petit Grat Island. At the tip of that, Little Anse. It’s billed as one of the most colourful harbours in Canada. I check to make sure that I’ve got the right place. Grey and white houses (there is one blue one) and nothing happening on the water. Maybe it’s the wrong season again?

Nevertheless it’s a tranquil drive, chilly in the Atlantic breeze even when the sun is out. But, of course, it has long disappeared.

Land of Lighthouses

Lighthouses are becoming a theme in my writing this trip. They are definitely a theme for the Nova Scotians. There are 150 lighthouses in this maritime province, all now automatic. Other than Peggy’s Cove, most are white with scarlet caps. But it doesn’t stop there. These lighthouses are replicated in wood outside many of the houses. Some with working lights inside, some with cockerel decoration and the Acadian flag. Village signs are painted onto lighthouses. Restaurants have lighthouse entrances. They have been turned into shops or offices. They feature in malls. There's even one at the airport.

The Cabot Trail

The tourist boards here report that the circular Cabot Trail is one of the most scenic drives in Canada. If not the most scenic trail. Better than Vancouver? Or the Rockies? I can’t risk missing it. But it’s a long distance. The start is nearly 90 minutes drive away and the 185 mile tour itself is said to take five hours. If you drive non stop. Most guides advise taking three days to a week. I don’t think Whiskers would be very happy if I did that.

The trail is named after the Italian explorer John Cabot (so actually Giovanni Caboto), who was the first European to properly explore North America, (under the English flag). I’ve read it was devised by Angus L. MacDonald, a premier of Nova Scotia, who wanted to re-brand Nova Scotia for tourism purposes, as primarily Scottish. As part of this effort he created both the names Cape Breton Highlands and Cabot Trail (I’m bemused - only the word Highlands seems Scottish to me). The initial route was completed in 1932.

I’m checking the weather forecast to try and choose the most auspicious day. Though as they’ve been wildly inaccurate so far, I’m probably wasting my time. Sunday looks good, but then I settle for Monday. Which turns out to be a wise move, as when I arrive, I discover that the Annual Cabot Trail Relay Race (17 stages over two days) took place at the weekend and the road was crowded. Today, there are hardly any other cars (out of season has its advantages) and the sun is out. Perfect.

Counter Clockwise on the Trail

So, up the west side of gleaming Lake Bras d’Or (I'm on Trans Highway 10 again) and onto the route, counter clockwise. It’s not hard to find my way. For much of the journey it’s the only road. Even the house addresses say Cabot Trail. Through Baddeck, which has an Alexander Graham Bell National Historic Site. He lived here and invented and experimented and was philanthropic, after he got rich from patenting the telephone. This seems like a hotspot for communications pioneers.

Still alongside Bras d’Or, the start of the trail proper at St Anne’s (famous for its Gaelic College of Celtic Arts and Crafts) and then fishing villages and sweeping Atlantic views. Or they would be, but the mist rolls in here, as we stay at a fairly low level. Trickling blue streams and up to Ingonish Beach, with its cliffs, large round pebbles and artistically arranged driftwood.

This is the entrance to the Cape Breton National Park (you have to pay if you’re driving all round). The road meanders in and out of the park, climbing steeply beyond the most northerly point of the route, Cape North. As always, trees stretch in every direction. This Acadian forest is composed of mixed hardwoods and softwoods - a rich diversity of more than 60 tree species, including yellow birch, red spruce, American beech and sugar maple.

From here round there are several whale watching stations with interpretive boards. There are trips running from Pleasant Bay (the ticket office is a lighthouse) and it’s the start of the whale spotting season. There have been sightings today. I can see boats bobbing out on the ocean and some splashing, but I think I’ll wait for Newfoundland.

Hairpin bends, brooding folded mountains fringed in forest and vistas across to distant waterfalls, shallow lakes, a canyon and bogland, take me to the west of the island and the McKenzie Mountain lookout. (In the park there are plenty of pull offs, thankfully.) Here, you can see across the Gulf of St Lawrence and then, south, there’s a spectacular jagged shoreline, rocky cliffs, pillars, tiny sapphire coves. On the landside, the most enchanting of hillsides, cloaked with frilly trees and dotted with charming dwellings.

Lunch at Cheticamp (in a restaurant with a lighthouse entrance). One of the trail guides says that this village is so pretty that I will dream about it afterwards. Another case of creativity going well into overdrive. It’s by no means the most attractive place I’ve ever visited. A harbour and a string of unexciting clapboard hotels, motels, houses and restaurants. But the trail as whole is well worth the trip. Beautiful scenery and extraordinarily diverse. Through the gently rolling Margaree Valley and back to L’Ardoise.


The Nova Scotian accent is very distinctive, but also different depending on the area. It may have Irish , Scottish or ‘Industrial’ overtones. Whatever, the people round here are invariably friendly and shop assistant or folk in queues launch into long conversations, telling you their whole life history.

“Jeet?” Translation: Did you eat yet?
“No, jou?” Translation: No, did you?

April’s sister, Kim and her husband Phil have a holiday home just down the road. They spend their summers here (so they think summer has begun at least) and their winters in their home city of Ottawa. Both are great fun and maintain the local tradition of hospitality. Phil is a natural story teller and has an anecdote for every occasion. He’s give me a copy of an autobiographical book he wrote – Those Were the Days of My Life, referencing the Bryan Adams song – it would make an entertaining film.
Kim takes me shopping in Port Hawkesbury. Walmart, Giant Tiger and the DollarStore. We stock up on bargains. Then an all you can eat Chinese buffet. It’s tasty , but you get fined if you leave food on your plate, so it is wasted. Good idea.

Then, that evening it’s Open Mike at the MacBoush Inn. There are people at maybe half a dozen tables. It's a decidedly low key atmosphere, but the singing is good. The host wears a traditional Canadian tuxedo - plaid shirt and jeans - and deftly switches between classical and modern guitars and his ukelele.

A sucker for punishment, Kim then invites me for a lobster supper. Lobster is just in season now and there’s a glut. Much of it nowadays goes to China and, like most luxury items, it’s in danger of being priced out of the market, in these days of economic squeeze. But it’s the main source of income for most of the fishermen. Kim’s bought the shellfish direct off the boat at 6.50 CAD per pound. That’s pretty good. Arlene, from over the road, a larger than life character in cowboy hat and boots directs operations. There's a proper lobster boiling kettle, with a lift out drain inside. It's standing in the doorway to Phil's workshop, so he can complain about the smell. And Arlene’s a demon with the large knife and the claws. We’re all cracked and served in no time. Kim’s also made hot garlic butter. It’s truly delicious.

Across the Gulf of St Lawrence

Prince Edward Island (PEI) is calling. It’s a province I haven’t visited. And I’ve found out that you can travel there by ferry (75 minutes) from Caribou and get a free ticket, if there’s stand by space available. And there’s plenty of stand by space, in this early season. The Gulf of St Lawrence is like a millpond today, flat as a pancake, whatever suitable cliché you want to employ. So it’s an easy and uneventful crossing. PEI is just about visible across the water. It too, looks as flat as a pancake, from here.

Prince Edward Island

  • Prince Edward Island (or PEI), otherwise known as The Island is the smallest Canadian province, in terms of land area and population. But it is the most densely populated. The Island has several other nicknames: Garden of the Gulf, or Cradle of Confederation.
  • Its capital and largest city is Charlottetown.
  • Traditionally Mi’kmaq territory, the area was colonized by the French in 1604 - part of Acadia. Then, known as Isle St-Jean, it was ceded to the British at the conclusion of the Seven Years' War in 1763 and became part of the colony of Nova Scotia. In 1769 St-John's Island became a separate British colony. Its name was changed to Prince Edward Island (PEI) in 1798, to honour the Duke of Kent (the fourth son of King George III and father of the future Queen Victoria). PEI hosted the Charlottetown Conference, in 1864. The intention was to discuss a union of the Maritime provinces; however, the conference evolved into a series of meetings and then to Canadian Confederation, on 1 July 1867.
  • Although hosting, PEI was reluctant to join the confederation and waited until 1873, when economic pressures forced the issue.

Anne of Green Gables Country

PEI is only 224 kilometres long and between six and 64 kilometres wide. It won’t take long to drive across it. There are more scenic drives on offer (the Canadians have these everywhere I go, but then it’s a scenic country). However, they’re all along the coast - there’s still over 1,100 kilometres of shoreline. Red beaches, low cliff trails and lighthouses. And I’m only on a day trip, so I’m just going to drive along the coast, from Wood Islands, where the ferry makes land, on the Trans Canada Highway again, (and this time it's Number 1), to the capital, Charlottetown.

There are still fir forests here. A whole string of lumber filled trailers rolled off the ferry before I boarded, but in the main, this is very different to its neighbouring maritime provinces. This is agricultural land. The low hills are covered in brown furrows and there are picture perfect farms, with large silos and horses roaming in paddocks. PEI produces 25% of Canada's potatoes, which thrive in the red clay soil.

It’s pretty, rather than beautiful. The epitome of rural. And just as Lucy Maud Montgomery painted it, when she set Anne of Green Gables here. There are even clapboard houses with green window frames. Again, quiet roads, until I hit the outskirts of Charlottetown and the retail parks.


Threading my way to the waterfront (the waterfront is the focus in all the maritime cities) and it’s peaceful again. The day (and the season) is just beginning here; the shops, cafes and cluster of little booths are just opening up. The marina has plenty of berths, but they’re mostly empty. The stalls in the Founders Food Hall are sleepily awakening too. Apparently PEI is famous for its seafood and they harvest lots of mussels - 80% of the Canadian supply.

The old town, around the port, is chock-a-block with Victorian architecture: pastel colour washed clapboard, Greek and Roman revival elements thrown in. Many pre-date the Charlottetown Conference. The grandest buildings are on Great George Street. The massive porticoed and pillared Province House is partly hidden behind hoardings. It’s being revamped. Several townhouses have been incorporated, enterprisingly, into the Great George Hotel. Outside is a recent Nathan Scott bronze sculpture depicting two men deep in conversation. These are the two John Hamilton Grays, (both the premier of PEI and of New Brunswick went by this name) and they are said to be determining the future of Candi and establishing the confederation.

And then there’s the unmissable Gothic style Basilica of St Dunstan, with its twin spires. Although, dating from 1907, it's one of the newer buildings here. Queen Street is home to more solid stone and brick architecture. Shopping malls and the cultural centre. Opposite is the Victorian Charlottetown City Hall, still used today by the municipal government.

The road winds on, through more arable land, past more historic churches, before I know it I’m at the Confederation Bridge, which carries the Trans-Canada Highway across the Northumberland Strait and links the province of Prince Edward Island to the mainland province of New Brunswick. It opened in 1997, and the eight mile bridge is Canada's longest bridge and the world's longest bridge over ice-covered water. (Though not today.)

I’m quite excited at the prospect of driving over the water for such a long way, but I have to report that it’s a thoroughly boring journey. There is little to see, except for a patched concrete road surface, grey concrete walls and the odd splash of blue ocean. And I’m totally dashed by the toll. Fifty two dollars. You only have to pay to leave. No wonder they let me have the ferry free.

The Bay of Fundy

My last bucket list wish, in the maritime area, is to see the Bay of Fundy. This long arm of the Atlantic, with two fingers, separates New Brunswick from Nova Scotia and is famous for having the highest tides in the world. ( A range of up to 16 metres.) And I’m heading for Hopewell Rocks Provincial Park, which is said to be the most scenic area here.

New Brunswick

  • New Brunswick was named in 1784, in honour of George III, who was also prince-elector of Brunswick-Lüneburg in the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation.
  • This is the third of the Maritime provinces, abutting Maine in the USA.
  • New Brunswick was first inhabited by First Nations like the Mi’kmaq and Maliseet. This was the primary area in which the French colonists settled - the main part of Acadia. There’s even an Acadian Historical Driving Trail here. The British diluted the population through a mass exportation - The Great Upheaval. Many loyalists arrived in the area, fleeing the USA, and the province of New Brunswick was created, hived off from Nova Scotia. Today, a third of the province is French speaking and French is an official language. In 1867, New Brunswick decided to join with Nova Scotia and the Province of Canada (now Quebec and Ontario,) to form the Dominion of Canada.
  • After Confederation, shipbuilding and lumbering declined, and protectionism disrupted trade with New England. As a result, from the mid-1900s onwards, New Brunswick became one of the poorest regions of Canada. Today, fortunes are turning, as the province has seen the highest eastward migration in 45 years, in both rural and urban areas, and people from Ontario and other parts of Canada migrate to the area.

New Brunswick is about 83% forested and I swear the fir trees are taller here. It’s also unusual in that only about half of the population lives in urban areas. New Brunswick's largest city is Moncton, (the capital is Fredericton), which sits right at the tip of the bay. It’s not hugely exciting here, low, with red clay banks on the placid Peticodiac River. It's not quite boring, but there is a tidal bore, because of the huge tidal changes and viewing platforms. The bore is greatest when there’s a full moon.

Past the Albert County Museum and R.B. Bennett Commemorative Centre, on the site of the 1845 'Shiretown'. It features 24 exhibits inside eight original buildings; one of them is the County Court.

Hopewell Rocks

At the park, there are two sets of rocks, shaped by tidal erosion. The lesser rocks, in Grand Anse, are to my mind more picturesque, with hoodoo like shapes. But you can clamber down steps (101) to the shore, at Flowerpot Rocks, and marvel at the 40 - 70 feet pillars and arch. I’ve arrived at mid tide, which seems perfect to me. I can still squelch round the rocks, the water has not yet encroached here and I get far reaching views of the atmospheric mud flats. It was a long drive, but it was worth it. Even though the rain hammers down all the way home, back on Trans Canadian 10. The drivers still don’t give any quarter, streaking past and drenching my windscreen in spray.

Next stop, St Pierre et Miquelon, by plane from Halifax.

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