Monday, May 10th
West by Southwest.
Somehow I know I’m going
I dreamed I died last night
Dumb luck or premonition
I’m loosing the will to fight.— The Northern Pikes, Hold On.
As I open the curtains, the weather looks pretty much like I feel this morning: rather dull. Seems my subconscious is using the time off to sort out a couple of issues of its subown. I sleep rather poorly and am woken by many weired dreams. All I can do is treat myself to proper breakfast and hope for the best.
I decide to skip the eastern part of P.E.I. and to go back west into New Brunswick instead. First, I take the Trans-Canada Highway towards the bridge. Right before the bridge is Gateway Center where there is information to be had and tacky souvenirs to be bought.
For using the bridge off of the island, the considerable amount of $ 42.50 needs to be paid. But then, the bridge wasn’t particularly cheap. I found out, that the same scheme, pay nothing when coming, pay a lot when leaving, is in operation with the ferry mentioned earlier, too. So I could have come by ferry and left by bridge and still have paid the same.
Right after the bridge, I leave the T.C.H. and return to small country roads, going west. Back here, the soil is properly brown again, but the roads are still red. In addition to its number, the road is signed with a white star on red ground which is to signify that I am on the Acadian Coastal Route. This touristic trail goes all the way along the eastern coast of New Brunswick which, it seems, is all Acadia. Around here, you can easily find that out because many lampposts have their lower parts painted with the Acadian flag.
On the way west, I learn yet another useful thing: I just can’t sing in the pitch as Freddy Mercury. Good thing I am alone in this car.
Along the highway, quite a few houses look a lot more shabby then I am used to. Usually, all houses are freshly painted, but not around here. Either people are very poor or not so house-proud. Mobility is guaranteed by two types of cars: pick-up trucks and minivans. I suppose daddy’s car vs. mommy’s car.
Just before the town of Shediac lies Parlee Beach Provincial Park, claiming to be ‘New Brunswick’s Favorite Beach Destination’. As with everything else, at this time of the year it is still closed, but it looks like a bustling enterprise in summer. The beach is very sandy and very long.
Carry on to Moncton through a little detour which should take me directly to the big mall. But it is disappointing. The only things listed under books in the directory is Hallmark and its competition. At least they have a loo.
Moncton itself is best described as messy. Downtown is a confused blend of old and new buildings, of trees and concrete. Around downtown lies a ring of commercial strips in its usual splendor. The guide book suggests Magnetic Hill as an attractive optical illusion where things seem to roll uphill. I’d go and have a look, but can’t find it at first attempt, only the Magnetic Hill golf course and the Magnetic Hill Zoo, both of which I don’t really care for. But then again, this doesn’t sound all that exciting anyhow, even if it is the second most visited attraction in Canada after Niagara Falls.
Instead, I cross the Petitcodiac River and then follow it south to Shepody Bay. There are lots of beautiful old houses with front porches, but also way too many golf clubs. The landscape takes a turn that reminds me a lot of home.
Where the river turns into the bay lies Hopewell Rocks Provincial Park. Of course it is closed, but the people running it where kind enough to leave access to the actual attraction open and only put up a big sign saying that you climb down at your own risk. Hopewell Rocks is an erosion area where the tide has eaten away at the rocks and created bizarre forms. The most famous of them are freestanding leftovers with vegetation still on top, locally known as flowerpots.
At the parking lot, a German couple in a Corolla with Ontario plates prepares for exploring the rocks. She changes into her hiking boots, he also changes into proper pants. Serious tourism. Me, I end up with muddy sneakers.
Near Harvey lies the Ha Ha Cemetery, the sign of which is being photographed by yet another (most likely German) couple. This is the sort of thing we find funny. Although, one has to admit that the name does have a certain irony. Or cynicism even.
The main attraction of this detour and the reason for all those Germans is Fundy National Park. As a national park, it is not really closed, but it is not functioning properly yet either and so they charge no entrance fee. I turn off the highway to drive to Point Wolfe, where one can apparently watch the tide. Right after the turn-off lies, tada, a golf course. And here I thought national parks are supposed to be left to nature.
Point Wolfe is an inlet by high tide and a long, sandy beach by low tide. As we are having low tide, I could walk quite a bit. But I don’t. Instead, I drive on towards Sussex which I declare my destination for the day. Somewhere, a fox crosses the road in front of me, carrying his catch home. He eyes me rather suspiciously.
Sussex is a small town about halfway between Moncton and Saint John (note the missing apostrophe-s. With it, it is in Newfoundland, without, it is in New Brunswick). Busy downtown with a railway station and a bunch of shops. Mall on the west side and right there the Amsterdam Inn motel where I check in, stock up on supplies, and call it a day.
Beer of the day: Picaroon Timber Hog (a traditional stout from Fredericton kindly supplied by Alcool NB Liquor, the provincial liquor store, in a brown paper bag).