Canada, Nova Scotia,Big Intervale: Lazy Day

Episode 8. Miles so far = 388mls

 

Well athough I had not come very far, merely 388 miles in 2 days, I felt so happy and relaxed that I decided that an extra day here was worth it. Without the panniers, camping gear and luggage the 'bike seemed as light as a feather, and fun. I went back down the coast, spent time having a coffee at a campsite cafe, and lunch at another, before returning to Big Intervale campground.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Big Intervale Campground

 

Later I had a little swim, made my meal and sat in the glowming with my thoughts. A nice peaceful day.

 

 

 Miles so far = 423mls

 

Tomorrow: The east side of Breton Island.

Canada:Nova Scotia: A little lost and the Cabot Trail.

Episode 7: Miles covered so far = 188mls

My planned route for today, but I go wrong!

I woke up itching. When I got out of my sleeping bag, I saw the reason why. The undershirt I had on yesterday incorporates a mesh strip along the main seams to help with the ventilation. The blackfly of which the Park Ranger had warned, were small enough to penetrate this mesh, and I had a  band of minute bites up my arms and down my sides. The North American blackfly are like tiny vampire houseflies and their bites individually are not much, but when their individual attacks add up it can be very painful as this photo from the Internet shows. After washing, I sprayed Deet along the mesh seams of my shirt and rubbed insect repellent cream on my face and hands.

Not my leg, but my arms had a band of these

going up them and they itched like crazy.

Coffee and pancakes with maple syrup is a must for breakfast, half inch thick pancakes though not those effeminate french frappes. Today I'm heading further north to Breton Island and the Cabot Trail.

To get there I head west towards Port Hawkesbury which is approached via a long strip of road called the Canso Causeway that leads into Port Hastings. As it is the main road onto Breton Island it is always busy. The road leads up to a roundabout and I knew the road I wanted branched off from it but managed to take the wrong one; bearing in mind that it was not a proper roundabout, more a curved cross roads, and it goes anti-clockwise.

 

Where I went wrong.

 



I was still heading north though and after a few minutes thought to myself that by now the road should be heading west. Never one for making u-turns, I continued along figuring that a westerly road would turn up soon. This is a dangerous assumption to make, as I began to realise with more experience of the Americas, particularly Canada, but I had my moments in Mexico too. Some of the roads are logging roads in Canada and can travel hundreds of miles to end up nowhere in particular. However twenty or thirty miles down the road a reasonable side road appeared and I was now heading west. About an hour later I was on the road I wanted and the sea was just where I had thought it should be.

 

Community of Cap le Moine on the Cabot Trail, NW Nova Scotia

 

 The Cabot Trail is very pretty as it follows the coast road that winds up, down and around the mountains there. The lay byes were big and generous and allowed some nice photos to be had of the coast line. The map I had on my laptop from 'smellybiker' indicated that there were several campsites ahead and I thought I knew which one to go for. As I approached it though I could see it had several camper vans parked and decided to go on to the next one. Here too were camper vans, so keep going. All along here is national park, so I knew that there were several alternative sites.

 

Along the Cabot Trail

 

As the road turned east between the mountains at the top of Breton Island I began to think of turning back, but there was one campground up here with minimal facilities that might suit me. It turned out to be perfect, so perfect I stayed on an extra day. There were 'facilities' and a stream running by that was 4 or 5 feet deep in places, deep enough to plunge into for a wash. The great added bonus for me was that there was no one else camping there, and all I  had to do was fill in a form and put my money in a envelope then post it into the box provided. A Park Ranger arrived later and emptied the box and someone turned up to check the 'facilities'. Interestingly, because there was no water on tap here, an alcohol gel dispenser was available to wash your hands with. I noticed this in several out of the way spots and the toilets were always clean and never smelly. I wish we could say the same for our own public toilets in Britain. Having pitched my tent and sorted myself out I headed back the way I had come to buy a few things for tonight's meal at one of the bigger campsites that I noticed had a shop.

 

 

Big Intervale Campground

Camped amongst idyllic settings.

 

The hut on the site was a little communal cookhouse with a wood stove and trestle tables. But as I was here on my own I just used my little stove round the back of my tent.


 Miles covered so far = 345mls

Tomorrow. A lazy day

Canada:Nova Scotia;Marine Drive: Finally; just me, 'Christine' and the open road.

Episode 6. July: Distance travelled 0 mls.

My route plan for today is to ride along Marine Drive to a campsite at Boyleston Provincial Park.

Today is Friday the Thirteenth! Is that auspicious? Nah, I laugh and say fie to the superstition.

 

Early after breakfast I am found down in the car park loading up the bike. I had detached the panniers the evening before, and loaded them in my room. Another rule for shipping the 'bike by RoRo ferry was that only spare parts and tools could go with it. The huge family suitcase I had packed everything in was now redundant and the chap on reception duty looked a bit puzzled when I told him I needed to get rid of it, then realised I was the guy on the motorbike. A dumpster (skip) was at the back of the building, I should throw it in there.

 

Down on Marine Drive

 

My plan for today was straight forward, drive along the picturesque Marine Drive to Sheerbrooke then across country on smaller roads to Guysborough beyond which was a campground in Boyleston Provincial Park.

 

The Casino, Halifax, Nova Scotia

 

The Angus L. MacDonald Toll Bridge at Halifax, Nova Scotia.

 

 

I gingerly joined the traffic and headed down Morris Street, going the way I knew from my walks. Then parallel to the Harbour Boardwalk, now devoid of most Tall Ships, past the Casino and over the Angus I MacDonald Bridge where I had to pay a toll for crossing it. Then through Devonport and eventually peeling of  off from the main road onto the smaller scenic Marine Drive which follows the eastern coast of Nova Scotia. It meanders from one small bay or lake to another, passing through small fishing communities with evocative names like Musquodoboit Harbour, Lake Charlotte, Sheet Harbour, Tangier, West Liscombe Point and Shearbrooke. All conjured up images of quaint fishing villages with stone cottages against jetties washed by the sea alongside which lay small fishing boats at anchor. A small village shop perhaps and a cafe where I could get a cup of coffee and gaze out to sea. Nope. The Canadians have many raw materials in abundance and wood, or lumber, is definitely one of them. Another is land. Put the two together and you get houses made of wood spread out in their communities in a way we just don't see in western Europe. The boats are drawn well up on the shingle beaches to avoid the excesses of the Atlantic gales. Village shops and cafes? Forget it. However it is good to look at and you can easily see why the rugged land is called 'New Scotland'.

 



 Charlotte Lake

 

Typical estuary community along Marine Drive, Nova Scotia

 

The village centre.

 

In many parts of Canada there are no bridges across the larger rivers so they provide a ferry. Stormont has one such, and apart from looking twice at the highly polished steel plate on the approach, and the opportunity it offered for falling over, it was a refreshing ten minute break while we crossed the river. A little further on I made a snap decision not to follow the file of cars to the left, but turn right and carry on my route, thus depriving myself of the petrol station that was 5.5km that way, (about 4mls). I should explain that after consultation with the US Government, both countries decided to convert to metric measurements. At the last minute the USA pulled out of the deal, concerned that their citizens would get confused by litres and kilometres. Canada had more faith in its population and went ahead, which is why all the speed signs are kph (100kph = 60mph) and the distances are in kilometres, (100km = 60mls).

 Views along Marine Drive

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Stormont Ferry across the river at Country Harbour, Nova Scotia

 

Left or Right?

 

This turns into one of those thoroughly pleasant rides. The day is warm, the traffic light to non-existent, the scenery new and interesting, and despite the light use of the throttle I know this leg will be done much faster than I forecast, but I like what I'm doing so decide to go further along Marine Drive before turning north towards Guysborough.

 

A little further on I have to switch over to reserve on my petrol tank, perhaps I was unwise to forgo the petrol Station. Should I go back 15miles or carry on? I carry on and am rewarded by the sight of two battered old petrol pumps standing beside a village store. I pull up and eye them quizzically. Are they in use or not? The 'bike goes on its stand and I start towards the shop when the door opens and a little old man in dungarees calls out to me,

 

"What do you want?"

"Do you sell gasoline?" I ask gesturing at the two ancient pumps.

"Well we didn't put them there 'cause they look pretty." he replied in an irascible way and started down the porch steps towards me.

 

Despite his irritated look I couldn't help laughing and that seemed to soften him up a bit.

 

"You looking for a campsite? Only you can camp in the old quarry you passed on the way in. It won't cost you none, 'cause I own it. Say I don't s'pose you want to buy it, I'd sell it right cheap." he continued.

 

I declined gracefully and we carried on chatting while he pumped gas and I searched for change. We carried on talking there in his dirt forecourt, passing the time discussing the different ways our two countries dealt with pollution, fishing permits, (my youngest son James was working on a fishing boat at the time), cancer, his wife had recently passed away too. Four large limousines cruised slowly to a halt in the road opposite, obviously waiting to turn in here for fuel.

 

"I'd better get out of your way," I said, "you've got customers."

"Ahh, let 'em wait, I was talking to you first, it ain't polite them butting in."

 

I grinned incredulously at this old timers brilliant attitude to the world, then he smiled and said, "Local big-wig thinks he's royalty, his daughter got married today and these limos have just dropped some of the guests off. They got time, 'sides where else they gonna go?"

 

With that we shook hands and I carried on my way, that nice old guy was like a character out of an old film, not many of his kind left.

 

The Provincial Park at Boyleston has a long driveway though copses and meadows and I was beginning to wonder if I had taken the correct turning when I saw the Rangers office.

 

"Not many people here at the moment." he said, "So you have got the pick of the site."

 

I replied that as I had no idea what the site was like I would leave the choice to him. He said that he thought opposite 'the facilities' would be good for me seeing how I needed to fetch and carry everything, and as there was only a camper (-van) further up from me, and they had their 'facilities' on board, then I wouldn't get bothered. He also asked me if I wanted to buy a bundle of logs for the fire, which he would be pleased to drop off to me a little later. I declined as I wasn't sure just what the offer was, later, and more experienced, I would have gladly said yes.

 

Also his parting words meant little to me too. "Be careful the blackfly have just started to bite."

 

I've dealt with blackfly before, usually on my broad beans, but I don't recall them biting.

 

Like most Canadian campsites the plot was large, discrete and had a fire pit and picnic table. There was a tap ten yards away and a his and hers toilet opposite. The tent erected, the pan boiling merrily over my multi-fuel stove and dinner in preparation I could not help feeling that if all days were like this it would make for an idyllic trip, but I'm not that naive to think they would be. Although the little hand out that I received with my receipt said firmly that I must not cut down branches, it said nothing about gathering fallen boughs, so I went foraging. I should have realised I would not have been alone with that thought and although sparse, I did get an armful of wood for the campfire. I didn't really need it, I just thought that if you are in the woods camping then naturally you had to have a campfire.

 

 

 

 

My first campsite with 'the Facilities'

 

The lightweight clothes I wore under my motorcycle clobber are design to stay fresh and be biologically repellent of odour producing bacteria. Being long sleeved they would of course protect me from the mosquitoes buzzing around. Deet on my face and hand would protect what skin was left exposed. As I sat in the twilight drinking my coffee I was amused to see a mosquito veer suddenly off just a few mm from the back of my hand, the Deet was working fine. Then to my amazement he alighted on to the light skintight cloth covering my arm and pierced straight through to get his fill of my blood. As I had a cup of coffee in the other hand I could only look and swear.

Just before turning in I noticed the fireflies. I had never seen fireflies before and was fascinated by these little bluey-white flashes of light going off like Christmas LEDs in the bushes. A couple had got into the tent and as I snuggled down into my sleeping bag I thought to myself, 'That's the Canadian insect press reporting that you have arrived in the countryside and they're taking flash photos with miniature insect size cameras, you'll be front page in the 'Insect Times of Canada' tomorrow, and fell into a happy sleep.

 

 Tomorrow: A little lost and the Cabot Trail

 

 

Canada:Nova Scotia:Halifax: Reunited with my BMW f650 'Christine'

Episode 5: July

 
Today's journey, first on foot, ferry and taxi, then by motorbike.

The Wallenius-Wilhelmsen RoRo ferry 'Ortello'

Through the early morning mist, across beyond McNabs Island, with the aid of my camera's zoom lens, I can just make out the word 'Ortello' on the stern of a ship anchored there. I sort out the paperwork I need just taking the bare minimum, everything I've got in reality, the whole bundle, including the free magazine from the air flight. Then down to one of those classy downtown office blocks to find the Wallenius Wilhelmsen shipping office. A nice man there makes a phone call from his nicely appointed office and confirms that my motorcycle will be offloaded this morning. He prints off yet more paperwork and tells me the Customs Office will need to issue me with a temporary import licence, and they can be found in the Post Office Building in downtown Halifax.

Modern Office Buildings in Halifax, Nova Scotia.

The Customs office is neither as grand or as imposing as the shippers office. In fact it is a kiosk window in a spartan waiting room. The lady who inspects my documents is wearing a Government Issue Customs Official Uniform rather than a smart business suit, but there is no mistaking the authority of it or the power this lady exerts over my plans during the next few minutes. I smile nervously and answer her questions.

 

"Yes I am only here for less than six months"

 

"No I won't be taking passengers, there is absolutely no room on my bike for anyone else."

 

"I will be leaving on my motorcyle to the USA following my transit across your country, which is why I do not have a return ticket for either the 'bike or me."

 

and 

 

" God forbid that I will even think about scrapping my motorcycle in Canada"

 

And lastly.

 

"Here is my passport with my home address in the UK."

Does it matter that I sold it last week? I decided not to ask that question.

 

Here begineth the second lesson. Sometimes it pays to keep your gob shut.

 

At least half a dozen other questions follow and she looks at the form with the sort of look that says "If I could find a reason to refuse this I would" and stamps it reluctantly.

I head back to the dorm to don my riding boots, jacket and grab my helmet, but there's still plenty of time for a last piece of chocolate and pecan pie with the Wired Monk on the way back. I sit outside with my coffee having devoured the pie, and light up a small cigar just to savour the moment. A young, slight built man sits at the only other sidewalk table downwind of me, and so I go over to him and ask politely if my smoke will bother him. He replies that he is about to have a cigarette too and, 'Hey, are you British? Come and join me.' and we sit and chat about this and that while we finish our smoke and the coffee. It appears that he is a screen writer from New York and has rented a cabin in the southern part of the island, so he can have piece and quiet while he tries to rewrite someone else's script for a Hollywood studio. The title is unimportant he tells me, as it will be changed many times before it goes into production, if ever. But he will get paid never the less, even if the author isn't. I bid him goodbye and carry on up the hill for the last 500 yards to the Gerard House dorms.

 

Clad now in my motorcycle gear I head down once more to the Harbour Boardwalk and long to the ferry that will take me the short ride across the estuary to Dartmouth. I have researched on line and know the number of the bus that stops near the Autoport facility. However, outside the ferry terminal in Devonport, although I know the number of the bus, no one can tell me where the bus stop for it is. In mild frustration I hail a taxi and another problem is solved with a 'flash of cash'

 

Outside the ferry terminal, Devonport, Nova Scotia 

 

Arriving at the Autoport Office I presented my sheaf of papers to an enjoyably flirty lady who got on the walkie-talkie to the men who were sorting the vehicles out. Yes they had noticed a red BMW with aluminium box panniers and would see if they could get it to the gate after they sorted something else out. Ten minutes later the walkie-talkie squawked into life and the message came through that it was at the gate, ready to go. I walk the 200yds up the road and cross over to see 'Christine' parked at the port gate waiting for me. An exchange of paper, a cursory glance over her and I'm off up the road trying to remember the my map that I had been studying in the office. Half a mile on and the elation has drained from my face. The radiator temperature is climbing remarkably fast and shows no sign of easing off. The radiator cap is right under the headstock, tucked against the left hand fairing, and it is notoriously difficult to fill the cooling system one go unless you are an ambidextrous acrobat. I had obviously not done so and had not had time to check it after a last minute service on the 'bike. Now I was paying for this lack of attention to detail. I needed a garage urgently for petrol, vehicles can only be shipped with the minimum of petrol in the tank, and some water for the radiator. Then around the bend I spotted what I thought was a petrol station, and the blue and white canopy of an Irving Gas Station revealed itself to me. I became quite proficient at spotting gas stations from a long way off when I was running low, once many miles off on the horizon and in a different country!

 

St.Irving has saved me!

 

Having bought my petrol and a litre of water I parked out to one side and attempted to check and top up the water. I think I got some in. but not much because the engine was hot, oh well fingers crossed and just keep an eye on the temperature gauge. Apart from taking one wrong turn the only other problem I had was the traffic slowing down in the afternoon rush hour. While travelling enough cooling was reaching the engine, but when slowed to a crawl even the electric fan couldn't stop the engine temperature rising. Luckily the last part of the freeway back into Halifax was both slow and downhill, so I was able to coast some of the way with the engine turned off. At last I made it to Gerard House and knew that after dinner, when the engine was cool, I had to sort it out. So after dinner I was in the car park studying the problem when I noticed that the temperature sender, the part that tells the dial on the dashboard how hot the engine is, was at one of the highest points on the cooling system, and accessible. If I took that out I could use some of my spare fuel hose to syphon water from a bottle into the cooling system. Unconventional, but it worked a treat and I went to bed happy.

 

Here begineth the third lesson. If you do something to machinery check it works before going 4000miles away from home to use it.

 

'Christine' packed and ready to go.

 

Note the extra bags hung on the engine crash bars, these contained tools and spares and helped keep the centre of gravity low, also absorbing some of the splashes off the front tyre. The spare tyre was a special 'gravel' one, designed for the type of road conditions I expected to find in Labrador. The pink metal bottles clipped to the front of the panniers contain a small amount of spare fuel on one side, and water on the other.

 

 

 

Tomorrow: Finally; just me, 'Christine' and the open road.

Canada; Nova Scotia; Halifax: ....and out of the fog appeared the ghostly shapes of Tall Masted Ships

Episode 4: July 11

Halifax, my daily route

 

 

One particularly foggy morning when the air was still and the mist lingered over the water well into mid-morning, I began my usual promenade down Morris Street and onto the Harbour Boardwalk when I saw faintly appearing out of the fog that hugged the estuary the shape of one of those magnificent Tall Ships. I defy all but the most cold hearted not to be at least a little caught up with the romance of the sea when seeing one of these ships in the flesh. Even if you get seasick on the jetty, even if you know that the lives of the seafarers was hard and cruel, yet even then I believe the sight of one of these ships will stir the imagination in all but the coldest heart, well it did mine, that much is obvious.

Consider then my delight that on approaching the quay where this phantasmal ship was berthed, the misty curtain parted and revealed yet another Tall Ship a little further down the Boardwalk, a pair of Tall Ships, how cool was that? A slight breeze drifted through the misty curtain, now thinning it, now making it thicker. As it thinned at one point, half of the Boardwalk length came into view. Not just a pair of Tall Ships berthed, a whole flotilla! The following photographs illustrate what I saw, but not the joyful emotions they conjured up in me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

As I walked on through the misty morning, seeing the sights like a time-traveller transported back a hundred years in time, my mind kept playing the old whaling song 'Blow Ye Winds Hi-Ho.'

 

'Tis advertised in Boston, New York and Buffalo,

Five hundred brave Americans a-whaling for to go.

And it's blow ye winds in the morning, blow ye winds hi-ho!

Clear away our running gear and blow, blow, blow.

 

They tell you of the clipper ships a-runnin' in and out.

They say you'll take five hundred sperm before you're six months out.

And it's blow ye winds in the morning, blow ye winds hi-ho!

Clear away our running gear and blow, blow, blow.

The skipper's on the after deck a-squintin' at the sails.

When up above the lookout spots a mighty school of whales.
And it's blow ye winds in the morning, blow ye winds hi-ho!

Clear away our running gear and blow, blow, blow.

Then lower down the boats, my boys, and after him we'll travel

But if you get too near his tail, he'll kick you to the devil.

And it's blow ye winds in the morning, blow ye winds hi-ho!

Clear away our running gear and blow, blow, blow.

 

When we get home, our ship made fast, and we get through our sailin'.

 A brimmin' glass around we'll pass and damn this blubber whalin'.

And it's blow ye winds in the morning, blow ye winds hi-ho!

Clear away our running gear and blow, blow, blow.



 

I had a particularly lively chat with the Master-at-Arms of the American Privateer 'Pride of Boston II', where, both knowing of what we speak, we took up opposing views of the War of 1812; but, I may say, in a most convivial way.

 

 

Pride of Baltimore II under sail.

(Photo from their website http://www.pride2.org/index.php)

 

The noonday sun dispersed the fog and the estuary tourist traffic off the Boardwalk was soon once more in full swing. I stopped for fish and chips in a busy restaurant inside a marquee erected just alongside a tented market where I bought Eeyore a skull and crossbones pirate flag for him to wave as we rode along, that is if my 'bike ever arrived. I would check the website when I got back for a progress report on the vehicle ferry 'Ortello', as I always did anyway.

 

 

Pleasure craft doing their thing, in the background is the town of Devonport.

 

 

 

 

 

Eeyore looking ecstatic with his new flag, while keeping lookout for the good ship 'Ortello'

 

Good news! The 'Ortello' should dock tomorrow over at Shearwater, I wondered if I would be able to see it from my dorm window?