On September 12 Bob Nagel signaled the unofficial end of summer by clearing out for Boston. With no responsibilities to keep us in Big Bras d’Or, and Environment Canada offering a terrific long-range weather forecast, we decided to hit the road. Focused principally on war memorials, birds, historic sites and museums – and as much bluenose seafood as we could stick on a fork -- we covered close to 1500 km in our amble, chose back roads over main highways as much as circumstance allowed, enthusiastically welcomed the first Cortland apples of the season, hung out with kith and kin.
At the extreme eastern end of mainland Nova Scotia, the town of Canso drew us for its war memorial and nearby Grassy Island national historic site. Parks Canada spoiled us rotten: with no other visitors demanding attention, boatman Tom Kavanaugh delivered us not just to the historic island but on a tour of the entire Canso island group. Still better, it turns out Tom is a serious birder: we paused whenever opportunity arose to look at returning winter ducks, migrant shorebirds and whatever else flew within binocular range.
At Charlos Bay we stayed at SeaWind Landing, our first NS ‘Unique Country Inn’, and liked it well enough to target more. Though a native Nova Scotian and a resident for most of my first three decades, the far Eastern Shore was a ‘lifer’ for me. We took our time, charmed by old-town Guysborough, the Acadian Ancestors Park at Larry’s River, the Port Bickerton Lighthouse.
Sherbrooke Village preserves a community of mid-late 19th century houses and businesses. In this her sixteenth NS summer season Jan got to see Sherbrooke for the first time. Among the several highlights we sussed out I was particularly pleased with the MacDonald Brothers water-powered sawmill; it conveyed in spades that ingenuity, resourcefulness and self-reliance were once everyday qualities in people, not rarities.
We savoured a short stay with sister Nancy and Donald at the Black Rock mansion and spent much of a day at Truro with pals Garth and Carol, sharing enthusiasm for rugged Victoria Park and a musical evening with early-music virtuosos Chris Norman and David Greenberg.
Annapolis Royal goes back to the early 17th Century and has the heritage buildings to prove it. We visited Fort Anne, the oldest national historic site in Canada, and stayed at Hillsdale House, circa 1860, another Unique Country Inn. I can’t speak for Jan but I was entertained to sleep and snore under the same roof that once sheltered Lord Tweedsmuir, Mackenzie King and Prince George, the eventual King George V.
Yarmouth delivered a Henri Hebert war memorial figure so excellent and authentic that I had to modify my personal list of the ten best memorial sculptures in Canada. In Shelburne, founded by Empire Loyalists in 1783, we investigated three museums, stayed at Cooper’s, our third UCI – if you’ve been paying attention you’ll know what that stands for – and relished our best restaurant feast of the trip, a four-star scallop linguini at the Charlotte Lane Cafe.
Herman’s Island near Lunenburg delivered excellent food, drink and conviviality with sister Nora and Ron and something rare for me, an opportunity to boast of a victory at bridge. Jan seldom has to endure defeat when facing me at a bridge table but, paired with Nora, I enabled my better half – at least briefly – to experience the humility of being a bridge loser.
We went into rainy Halifax to see and photograph three more monuments including the oldest in the country, the 1860 Sebastapol memorial to two Haligonian soldiers killed in the Crimean War. Pals Stephen and Sheila hosted us grandly at Ferguson’s Cove. Hours spent with S & S are always edifying: this time Stephen even managed to add good value to my store of war memorial lore.
We’d planned to be on the road for maybe four or five days but diversions were broad and deep enough to keep us away for ten. I even managed to get
arrested. Approaching Tantallon (emphasis on the second syllable if you need to know), its lights flashing and siren squealing I was pulled over by an RCMP squad car. The young constable, all courtesy and good manners, inquired whether I was feeling alright. Indeed yes, thank you, I am. He claimed that I had wandered across the centre line. Are you the registered owner, he asked. Yes. May I see your driver’s license? On producing my BC permit, the young constable laughed and came clean: it seems that in the ongoing search for fugitives, miscreants and diverse ne’er-do-wells, Mounties are forever checking license plates. On asking his dispatcher about mine he learned that while the vehicle is properly registered in Nova Scotia, the owner hasn’t been licensed in the province for a third of a century. With things nicely cleared up the baby-faced cop sent the old fart on his way, the latter mildly disappointed at being deprived of a juicier tale to tell.
Now we are back at the shack, struck by the quietude surrounding us. It is officially fall now, but continuing warm temperatures belie the fact. Still, there are autumn signs: squirrels attempting to break into the cabin in search of a good spot to build a winter den, the woods bereft of birdsong, the ground lightly covered by the litter of early fallen leaves.
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