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
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