Saturday, May 8th
The Three Povinces
The road now leads onward
As far as can be
Winding lanes
And hedgerows in threes
By purple mountains
And round every bend
All roads lead to you
There is no journey’s end.— Loreena McKennitt, Never-ending Road (Amhrán Duit)
The story goes that a couple booked a flight to Sydney from a slightly careless travel agent. They were a bit worried when they had to go through Canadian immigration when they were flying to Australia, but didn’t think much about it. Back home, they said that they had imagined Sydney to be bigger and where exactly was this opera house everybody was raving about.
Mind you, Sydney, Nova Scotia, is a lovely little town. Downtown is about twelve blocks long and four blocks wide. The central shopping street is Charlotte Street, probably named for Queen Charlotte, consort of King George III, and occupied with trying to set a world record in getting things named after oneself. The shops on Charlotte Street are mostly local business, there is only one or two chain stores. The commercial frenzy only lasts for about three blocks, anyway. At the end of it, at the corner of Dorchester and Charlotte, stands the building of the Bank of Montreal, which looks suspiciously like a Roman temple. Make of that whatever you want.
Down by the waterfront lies the Sydney Marine Terminal, which features a gigantic fiddle. It is seventeen meters tall, weighs eight tons and its F holes serve as a nesting spot for pigeons. The HMCS Athabascan is moored at the terminal. According to the local newspaper, which ran an article that day, she is the largest ship of the Canadian navy and came from Halifax to bring the lieutenant governor as is a tradition round this time of the year. Today, there will be some ceremonies in relation to the 100th anniversary of the Canadian navy. Maybe that was the event in St. John’s too.
I walk back to the hotel along the harbour boardwalk. It is a lovely morning. The sun is out (or oot, rather) and the wind has almost died down. I probably should have used the opportunity for a little run along the boardwalk, as it looks like specially made for that. Ah, well. Missed that one. Instead, I pay for the room and take off. On the way out of town, I pass a park which has one of these curious half-spherical orchestra pavilions as well as a pond glistening in the sun.
I drive down the twenty-odd kilometers to Louisbourg which features a reconstruction of the eighteenth century French fortress. But despite the guidebook saying that it should be open in May, it is not. I should have checked the Intarwebs instead, Parks Canada’s website says it only opens May 16th.
The town of Louisbourg is rather nice by itself. They don’t have any allusions and call their centre Midtown instead of Downtown. There are plenty of traditional settler houses with their all important feature, the front porch. The station of the long gone railway is now a museum.
I decide to use the time saved by not visiting the fortress to take the scenic route west. It is named the Fleur-de-lis trail indicating that we are in Acadia again.
I still am in a rather sober mood this morning. Driving on a sunny day along the winding roads of not-quite-a-town Nova Scotia, I realize one thing: I’m just a small town boy, livin’ in a lonely world. I may appreciate the big city, but nothing more. What I want is a big house with a lot of green around it, somewhere stunningly beautiful if possible. A pub in walking distance down the road. Friends coming over ever so often and we’ll sit by the lake reminiscing. I might even want a pick-up truck. I take that over the pretended sophistication of the city in a heartbeat.
This sounds like a simple, unimportant, even pointless life and indeed it is. The truth is, being remembered by history is overrated. If people remember you at all, they will do so in their own way. As with Alexander Graham Bell, the things that are dear to your heart are likely to be forgotten. And the person you’ve been, the life you lived will be forgotten within a generation or two, anyway. The simple life instead. With and for the people close to you. Love and be loved. Care and be cared about. This then is happiness: not the big moments, but Heart’s Content. Smart people, these Newfoundlanders.
Lunch in St. Peter’s. I try to find grown-up carrots, but the ugly truth is that the only ones they sell ready for consumption are baby carrots. This reminds me of one of the Great Jokes Which Cannot Be Told Publicly (If this publication had footnotes, the following would be at the bottom of the page: A baby seal walks into a club).
Over coffee and the map, I realize that the road to Prince Edward Island or P.E.I., as it is commonly called, is quite long. So no more philosophical country roads, proper driving now. The route is by way of New Glasgow, Port Howe, the border with New Brunswick, the Confederation Bridge and into P.E.I. The following is a few notes from those three or so hours.
Port Hawkesburg: A shop named Hart uses the slogan ‘A truly Canadian shopping experience.’ Unfortunately, they don’t say what exactly they sell. But maybe that is at the heart of the truly Canadian shopping experience. A mother’s day sign saying ‘Treat mum to a diner at KFC.’ The tan suggestion suddenly doesn’t look all that bad.
Right before Canso Causeway (and yes, we’ve been here twice, but I forgot to mention) is a thing called a rotary, Canadian for roundabout. Except, it isn’t. There is stop signs and weirdly arranged lanes all over the place. A roundabout looks different. The highway after the causeway is the Miner’s Memorial Highway.
At Antigonish, clouds finally move in. Various insects seem to be unable to cope with that and commit suicide bombarding my windshield. Off the highway in Antigonish are a number of large, very English looking red brick buildings arranged in some form of campus. The map notes a St. Francis-Xavier University. Maybe it is that.
Outside Pictou, right after the causeway over the Pictou river, there is a proper roundabout, sorry, rotary. Further on, in the community of Caribou, a burnt out church can be seen next to the road.
Further on still, after River John, a sign announces an Estate Auction just off the road. It seems to attract lots of people, which have temporarily turned the road into a parking lot. As I pass through, people are taking already off with all sorts of new possessions. Saturday also seems to be the traditional day for yard sales. If you haven’t heard of that, the idea is ingenious. If your garage or attic gets to full with stuff, you put up all the stuff in your yard, place a sign by the road, and sell all the junk to passers-by.
Around here, spring has gotten a lot further. Most trees have their leaves out already and shine in young green. Some even started an experiment in blossoming. If you wind down the window, the air smells of freshly mowed lawn.
Tatamagouche is just another one street town, although a very nice specimen. On the left side of the road are parks and front yards, while on the right you find a variety of businesses. The old railway station has been converted into a restaurant.
After Malagash, a sign points to the Malagash Bible Camp. And here I thought that was a myth.
Pugwash has been placed smack in the middle of the mouth of the Pugwash river. There is water everywhere and the road has to swirl widely to get through and serve the town at the same time. Thereafter follows Sandy Shores. Apparently, Ms. Pool has married.
The bridge across the Shinimicas river in Northport is closed, making a short detour necessary. Down Shinimicas Road, across the bridge and back the Mud Creek Road, a dirt road.
Eventually, we arrive at the Confederation Bridge, or Pont de la Confederation if you prefer. This thirteen kilometer long structure crosses the Northumberland Strait between the mainland and Prince Edward Island. It is a toll bridge with a rather steep price, but the ferry over at Caribou is even more expensive. And since P.E.I. is a Canadian province all by itself, what can I do?
At the end of the bridge, I have to make a decision. Go left to Summerside or right to Charlottetown (yes, that Charlotte). Since Summerside is only half the distance, I choose that one. A big sign announces some construction work on the way to Summerside and proposes an alternative route. I ignore it and arrive in Summerside without any construction wide and far.
Check into a motel next to a restaurant. Write down some notes of the day, including some uncalled for semi-philosophy and go for diner as it is Saturday, after all. I have the haddock which is nothing special. Cheesecake is very chocolaty and I surprise myself by having a hard time finishing it. What exactly is happening to me?
Beer of the day: Ironworks Brown Ale (that would be American, I believe. Nonetheless quite good. I would have had another one, but a large group came into the restaurant and started to noisily watch some obscure hockey game).