Beer Crisis

Flights first thing in the morning, first to Halifax, then on to St. John’s. Having two short hops was better than a direct flight (not that there was one), simply because we got more time below the clouds to ogle the maritime countryside.

Arriving in St John’s, we cabbed in to the city and managed to get a not-quite-ready room at the hostel. We had to wait a few hours while they acquired a bed for the room. We wandered into town, past jellybean houses and a building on fire. Having missed lunch, we grabbed some chips at a van, silently wondering what the (currently unavailable) offering of “dressing” was.

We soon found out. After getting settled in our room we met up with Matthew White and his roommate and fiancee.  We hit up Yellowbelly brewpub for a pint and some more fried potatoes, then moved to Ches’s, THE place for fish n chips. We had to try a plate of cod tongues, which were alright, except for the horrible gob of fat on the bottom, which about made me retch. This was followed by some lovely cod (and I’m not one for fish), and a plate of fries with gravy and dressing, the traditional Newfoundland way. Dressing is of the variety served with turkey; fine moist breadcrumbs seasoned with savory.

Having consumed the required elements of the Newfoundland food guide, we picked up some more Quidi Vidi beer, just to be safe, and proceeded to enjoy several hours of Burnout 3. This was followed by a relatively disappointing excursion to Boston Pizza to watch UFC. Like most sports, I can’t really understand why you’d want to watch the actual hours-long event rather than a five minute clip show after the fact. The primary element was ads and filler talk overlayed on shots of people standing around. After that, the majority of the fight time was just tired men cuddling and gently caressing one another. Interspersed were a few minutes worth of interesting stuff; some impressive moves and kicks.

We arrived back at the hostel to the vile smell of cooked fish permeating the entire building (except for our bedroom, thankfully). This perfume would last until the end of our stay, and I would work hard to keep from retching.

We’d made it as far as New Glasgow last night, and started in the morning towards the Fundy coast. We changed our minds partway along, and then turned up a bumpy dirt road back up to the north coast. Our travels were pretty uneventful, and we took the big boring highway part of the way. Andy was feeling anxious about our timing for some reason, so wanted to get to Moncton in a hurry.

We needed to do laundry yet again, and decided against visiting the Dieppe laundromat. Instead we went to The Lost Sock, a combination laundromat, cafe, tanning salon, and sears catalogue outlet. It was nice, and had internet and a friendly owner who came over to chat with us.

It was quite early in the evening still, and our flight wasn’t until morning, so we hit up the main downtown drag. It was a warm, clear day, and the outdoor patios were packed. Our first pub choice was uncomfortable. We sat at a table outside surrounded by smokers, and an odd odour. The tables were awkwardly sized, and we felt too far away from each other to maintain a conversation. There also didn’t seem to be any service to the outdoor tables. We up and left, and went for a long walk instead, circling back and ending up at another bar in the same area that had comfy chairs, a friendly waitress and a $2 rye special. This was fortunate, because they had no beer of any interest, not even Guiness (for which they had window signs) or Rickards (for which they had patio umbrellas). Across the street was a scummy pretentious nightclub. We watched, and learned that unbuttoning one’s shirt to the belly has superceded popped collars on the Moncton douchebag scene. We only stayed for one drink, as we’d learned of the existence of a nearby brewpub.

At the Pump House brewpub, we enjoyed a blueberry beer with fruit floating in it, as well as several more standard brews, and a plate of very good nachos. We retired for the evening on a roadside near the airport.

We swung by the Marconi exhibit again on the way out of town, but it didn’t open for another hour. Not worth the wait. We bought the worst chocolate bar ever at an Ultramar gas station. Horrible waxy chocolate with foul tasting caramel.

Louisbourg was our day’s destination. The French fortress and town built in the 1700’s was later captured and destroyed by some British jerks. In the 1960’s, unemployed coal miners were trained and hired to recreate the buildings and fortifications of one fifth of the settlement.

Some of the structures serve as museums housing excavated artifacts and describing the process of recreating the site. Others are furnished and populated by parks employees in period costume. Differing from the recreation at Lower Fort Gary, most of these interpreters only acted the parts for a moment or two, if at all. They were more like tour guides who just happened to be wearing costumes.

We wandered the impressive grounds and buildings, only mildly annoyed by the several groups of obnoxious kids on field trips. Before leaving we had a surprisingly good meal in the authentically-styled 18th century restaurant, tying giant cloths around our necks, and eating our meals with a single very large spoon each.

The other site we wanted to hit on the island was the Alexander Graham Bell museum in Baddeck. We hadn’t expected to make it in time, but the drive was quick, and the site was open late. Bell seems to have been a pretty alright dude, and he did a lot more than just invent the telephone. He started as a teacher of the deaf, and methods he used to teach deaf people to speak inspired his ideas about the phone. Later, he moved to Cape Breton, built a fabulous house, and contributed to development of the airplane and made some sweet hydrofoil boats. Looking at the lives of people who constantly create and experiment and explore makes me feel awfully lazy.

I wanted to just spend the rest of our holiday driving back and forth on the Cabot Trail, but alas, it was time to return to the mainland. I actually felt pangs of sadness as we crossed the Strait of Canso.

Our original plans would not have had us leaving the island by this route just yet. Our first intention had been to take the ferry from North Sydney to one end of Newfoundland, drive the 900km to the other end, and take a second ferry back. This was modified when we discovered that one of the ferries wasn’t running yet. It has a seasonal shutdown due to icebergs (!!) Our second plan was to take the ferry to the west end of the island, and drive across and then back. This was the working plan until Andy was invited to speak at the Jalloo festival in Miramichi. The timing was almost right, but a couple of days too early for us to be able to enjoy our 1800km drive. As a tradeoff, they offered to pay for a flight from Moncton to St John’s before the conference. New plan then: drive from Cape Breton to Moncton, fly to St. John’s, stay a few days, fly back, drive to Miramichi. There are advantages and disadvantages, but this is the path we’re following.

Day 39 photos.

We set out along the western coast of Cape Breton Island, stopping for a tour, taste and to pick up a bottle of cask strength from Glenora distillery.

We drove the Cabot Trail around the highlands of Cape Breton. I’m at a loss for words trying to describe it. It was simply an astoundingly beautiful place. The cliffs, the ocean, the trees, the hills. We couldn’t stop gaping and pointing.

We’d planned to do a hike or two, but it was so very cold and damp and windy. We stuck to the road, stopping to absorb higher concentrations of beauty wherever we could.

Halfway through the trail, there’s a road leading away to the northern tip of the island. We started following it, but turned back after a few kilometers. It may have gotten prettier later on, but this bit was boring, and we were losing our high. No Meat Cove for us.

We were giddy, but kept our wits about us enough as we approached the edge of the park (Cabot Trail follows the edges of Cape Breton Highlands National Park, but also continues beyond it) to slink our way into a campsite offering full bathroom facilities. There were no campers when we arrived, only a few maintenance workers. We located the showers which were unlocked, functional, clean and hot. Score!  Warm, clean and full of endorphins, we glided along the rest of the trail and further on to Sydney.

We managed to get lost in Sydney. The cell phone hasn’t worked anywhere on the island, and Andy had some inexplicable compulsion to keep driving into industrial districts. We passed a travelling set-up of rides and games in a mall parking lot and argued over whether it should be called a fair, carnival or midway. The correct answer is “midway” (these are the perks of being the writer).

There was still some daylight left, so we continued on to Glace Bay. We took a look at the national historic site marking Marconi’s first trans-Atlantic transmission. It was closed, and also looked a bit lame, being a tiny info centre and a few placards pointing out where the cement foundations for the antenna used to be.

Driving around the residential streets of Glace Bay felt really odd and uncomfortable somehow. We soon realized it was because there are almost no trees in any of the yards. I have no idea why. Anyone?

Day 38 photos.

After breakfast we went back up the hill to York Redoubt. They have some serious cannons up there.

Heading back through Halifax, we got lost a bit, bought groceries, crossed a toll bridge to Dartmouth and wandered to another oceanside spot for lunch. Driving along the eastern shore of the province, our next stopping point was Lawrencetown, where there is an awesome rocky beach beloved of surfers. I was already frozen enough by the wind, but Andy braved the cold and danced around in the waves for a while. I tripped backwards over a rock trying to run away from the water, and contented myself sitting safely up on the shore, admiring the view.

We carried on along the coast, winding in and out of harbours and coves. We didn’t expect to make it the whole way, but were heading for Cape Breton Island. Andy had more driving in him than expected though, and we crossed the bridge and reached Port Hawkesbury before nightfall.

Feeling masochistic, Andy wanted to try for himself the delicacies of a foreign McDonald’s. I can understand this desire, as I too have felt the lure of the Quebecois McPoutine, the Spanish McTapas, the French Croque McDo, and the assorted european McPork burgers. Numerous times have I given in to this temptation, and numerous times have I felt the sting of regret. I warned against it, but one must make one’s own mistakes in life, and so came to pass the purchase and consumption of a McLobster.

“Legs,” he said, “it’s all legs”. Plus a few tiny claws and bits of shell. The mayonnaisey lobster salad sat atop a leaf of lettuce, which made no secret of its true purpose–separating the cheap, sad hotdog bun from the salad’s moisture while the McLobster sat for hours at the ready in it’s jury-rigged clamshell of two styrofoam bowls wrapped in plastic.

I watched in fascinated disgust. The last time I’d seen someone eat one of these, the first bite had been spit out, and the rest tossed in the garbage. They seemed to have improved in quality, and Andy deemed the salad decent by west coast standards, and the rest crap. Not one for seafood, I had my own exotic delicacy, a Tim Hortons oatcake. A bit sweeter than I expected, but pretty good. Also probably total crap nutrition-wise.

Day 37 photos.

It was a night of poor sleep, broken repeatedly by the sounds of heavy rain and cracking thunder. Thankfully we only had minor leaks and stayed mostly dry.

Our assorted squeaks have been worsening, we could use some heat once in a while, and were overdue for an oil change. We tracked down an elusive Canadian Tire to see if we could get things checked out sometime today. Finding one in Clayton Park, they told us they’d be able to start in twenty minutes, and would call to let us know what needed doing once they’d opened her up. Two and a half hours later, after loitering in a Tim Hortons and a Sobey’s, we went back in to see if they’d gotten anywhere. Chumpy was up on the lift, sans tires. Apparently there were some issues with the brakes, and we’d lost an engine mount and broken a ball joint. They assured us that they’d probably have everything done before closing at 9pm, and again promised to call.

With the help of a friendly bus driver on break, we got onto a bus headed downtown. We walked along the waterfront and visited the immigration museum at Pier 21. I’d wanted to go after seeing some of their online archives of stories. What works well as an online archive doesn’t necessarily translate well to a museum format. It was pretty boring. Standing in a hall pushing a button to hear a randomly selected story isn’t that awesome. They had a film that was aesthetically pleasing (projecting ghostly film figures onto a three dimensional backdrop), but had painfully bad acting and dragged on far too long without saying anything I hadn’t learned from reading the informational panel at the entrance to the museum.

We wandered town for a while, then sat in a park eating bags of candy. We decided to call Canadian Tire to see if we’d have to spend the night in the hostel. Turns out the van was ready, but their outgoing phone line was down, so they couldn’t tell us.

Another friendly bus driver pointed us in the right direction, and we made it back to Clayton Park. We picked up groceries and the chumpwagon, and went to see if York Redoubt was still open, so that we could have dinner on top of a cannon. It was just after eight, and the site was allegedly closed (though the gate was still open). We instead found a nice spot right next to the water and decided to stay the night. The sound of waves was much more relaxing than the previous night’s thunder.

Day 36 photos.

Stopping at an Irving station on the way out of town, we observed that they appear to sell a cheddar-flavoured slushie. We are intrigued, but deeply disgusted.

We followed the coast again, and stopped in Lunenburg for a walk around town. It’s a Unesco world heritage site, and home of the Bluenose. It’s a cute enough town, with well-maintained houses and shops. Most shops were closed (it being Sunday), we weren’t up for the museum, and the Bluenose II was out for repairs. I could see enjoying a sunny afternoon here, wandering about with an ice cream, maybe stopping for a pint somewhere. On a foggy morning, it was nice to have visited, but didn’t hold our interest for more than a half hour or so.

Continuing on the foggy shores, we ventured out to Peggy’s Cove, which was swarming with visitors. It is a beautiful location, a road passing mossy rocks and small shacks on the water. The lighthouse is perched on a grey rock outcropping, lapped by the waves, and really is quite picturesque. The view is marred slightly by the sprawling concrete paths and the people inexplicably standing next to the lighthouse, staring at the side of it. It would be a nice place to sit and look out over the ocean, if not for all the other people doing the same thing. Maybe I just need to be less misanthropic to enjoy it fully.

A few more kilometers of foggy views, seagulls, dories and waves, and we were in Halifax. Not sure where we were heading, we ended up downtown, parked next to the citadel. The rain had increased, so we opted for pub over outdoor historic site. Kate Beaton had recommended drinking a Ringwood and lime at Henry House, which was only a few blocks away. An historic stone residence converted to a super cozy pub and restaurant with an array of local brews on tap, it was a great spot for a rainy afternoon’s boozin.

When we’d had a bit too much, we stumbled back to the citadel. It had apparently closed an hour earlier, but the doors were still open, and we ventured in only to be shooed out by a security guard on his way home. Andy wanted to sneak back in, under the gate, but I figured it’d be a cold and boring adventure.

We walked around town instead, sobering up enough to drive to a Robin’s donuts, where we got super gross stale and off-tasting donuts (I bit mine and then tossed them out) and found a quiet street to park.

Day 35 photos.

We took the minor highway leading along the Fundy coast and into the Annapolis valley. We had sun for the morning, but after we’d left the coast it turned grey, rainy, and a bit boring.

At Annapolis Royal we stopped to check out the remains of the fort. There were outdoor structures as well as a small building housing a museum. I had a SERIOUS need to pee, so we went into the building first. We crowded into the closet-sized foyer that had museum exhibits to the left, and a small office to the right. There were signs directing us to enter via the office, so we sort of did, standing awkwardly at the edge of the room. We were prevented from entering further by a couple standing in the middle of the small office, listening to one employee loudly explaining that Acadians were never deported to Louisiana, only Georgia (is that better somehow?). Another employee sat in a chair, silently staring at us and grinning uselessly. I lost patience after a minute of this and ventured into the museum area in search of required facilities.

This sparked the silent employee into action, “You need to pay to go into the museum!”, she exclaimed, running up to Andy. I’d already passed the “museum” and was into the far hallway, peering into doorways with no luck. Not interested in her museum, I asked about the loo. In another building, was the reply. Curses. I’d been delayed far too long already.

After visiting the worthwhile building, I was feeling much less frantic. I trotted away in the rain to poke around in the remnants of the fort. According to Andy, who was still outside while I was checking out the dark depths of the powder magazine, our no-longer-grinning guide came out of her doorway, flailing and gesturing towards me, then throwing her arms up in frustration. I guess the admission charge applies to the outdoor exhibits as well. Oh well. Our heritage passes covered this place, and if she wanted, she could come out into the rain for them.

Walking around the ramparts in the wind and rain, I imagined myself a soldier on sentry duty, patrolling the fortifications. It sucked. I don’t ever want to be a soldier. It’s cold and wet, and you have to jab people with bayonets.

The tidal generating station offered tours, but was closed, so we turned towards the south coast. We took a small detour into a National Park, which warned of the presence of fearsome endangered turtles. Rawr. We figured we had time for one short hike, and followed signs towards an eel weir, because both eels and weirs are cool. We were taken down a very narrow winding dirt road, which was quite pretty but also frightening. Fortunately we only encountered another vehicle once. The road was closed partway through, so we saw neither weirs nor eels, but we did poke around the nearby river, spotting a catfish, and the splashes of several top-feeders picking large insects off the surface.

At a gas station, Andy picked up a bag of roast chicken chips, the grossest of chip flavours. I had vague recollections of trying them as a kid and being disgusted, and this time was no different. Andy couldn’t even eat them. Bleh.

Nova Scotia is a narrow province, and we reached Liverpool surprisingly quickly. We followed the smallest roads along the coast that we could find, the fog growing thicker and thicker. We stopped at rocky shores and sandy beaches. We’ve so far seen brown, red and now grey sand beaches. The fog shortened our view considerably, but was beautiful in its own right.

Bridgewater was our stop for the night. We decided to immerse ourselves in local culture by eating donairs (the preferred fast food of the east coast, it seems) and visiting the local pub. I got a small donair, which was way too much for me, and Andy had a large (after having contemplated the extra large) which about killed him. It was good, though the sweet sauce was a bit cloying, but my vegetarianish-conditioned insides regretted the decision for days afterward.

The town appeared to have two pubs, and we visited the non-sleazy looking one. We figured it would be packed on a Saturday night, but there were only five patrons, four of whom were enthralled by video lottery terminals. They had some decent beers, from Propeller in Halifax, and the staff were friendly if bored. Apparently they’d expected greater crowds as well, but “there must be a big party somewhere”.

Deciding to call it a night, we crawled into our van bed. Some teen boys passed by, perhaps on their way to or from The Big Party. We caught a snatch of their loud conversation: “Obama’s a nigs, N-I-G-S, nigs. He’s the whole reason we’re at war right now”. The children, they are our future.

Day 34 photo (there’s only the one).

Quaint downtown Charlottetown was our morning’s destination.  We first visited the legislature building, birthplace of confederation. They showed a good film about the great booze up that led to the BNA act.  I’d forgotten that PEI had thought itself too good to sign up with the other four provinces at first, only joining Canada years later, when it’s railway debt became too much to handle.  Ha ha PEI, you don’t even have a railway anymore.  Who’s the chump now?

The upper part of the building had the refurbished offices where the meetings took place, as well as the current legislative chambers. Teehee, their legislature is all tiny and cute. The historic rooms had cool furniture and really nice carpets. I suppose I should feel some tingling over the history of the place; how drunken Sir John A talked some other dudes into forming a country in THIS VERY ROOM, but I tend to have a hard time with that. I like seeing old stuff (or recreations of old stuff) because it’s usually awesomely functional and well-made, and I enjoy a good historical re-enactment. I like seeing how people lived and getting hints of what the world used to be like. What I have trouble getting excited over is just standing in a place where histories happened. Whoopie. At least there was a building full of artifacts here, putting it a big step beyond Winnipeg’s weak attempt, but I think I’m immune to the effects of history’s aura.

We wandered through downtown a bit, having some of “Canada’s best” ice cream (it was really good), and picking up some award winning local liquor. We’d originally planned to drive up and down the other end of the island, but decided we’d had our fill of red fields, lighthouses and sandy beaches. With better weather it might have been more appealing. We took a slow and winding route to the ferry terminal and travelled back across to the mainland.

We took a quick swing through Pictou, then hit the highway towards Truro. I don’t want to be insensitive, but almost everyone we saw in Truro was overweight and a bit… um… inbred? Maybe we just saw a poor sample, but we were a little creeped out.

Day 33 photos.

The rain had returned, and stayed with us through the day.  We drove the western half of the island on a recommended scenic route.  The red fields, and sea, red with rain-washed mud were surreal, though they eventually became a bit monotonous.

We visited our second potato museum of the trip, a bigger and more thorough example of the genre.  If you’re only visiting one, I’d recommend this over Florenceville, though both were well managed.  Their potato-themed cafe wasn’t yet open, though they did have some samples of potato fudge.

We continued on through more red fields and seaside cliffs to the northern tip of PEI, home to a large windfarm. We visited the windfarm interpretive centre, which was alright, if a bit lacking in the science department. It was kind of cool to see a blade and nacelle on the ground. They look big from a distance, but so very much bigger close up.

We followed the northern coast back to the centre of the island, stopping to frolick in the rain on one of the national park beaches.  They’re beautiful red-tinged beaches surrounded by grassy dunes, but are better enjoyed under the warm August sun.  We felt obligated to stop at green gables. For some reason it’s a national heritage site, so we could have gotten in for free with our heritage passes, but alas, it was closed for the day.  Neither of us was particularly heartbroken.  A house that inspired a location in a fictional work that neither of us has even read (though I’ve seen the miniseries a few times) isn’t terribly compelling.  Visiting it wouldn’t be nearly as silly as making a pilgrimage to Forks, Washington (not that we know anyone who’s done that…), but in the same vein.  I hear the Japanese are pretty keen on it.  The whole area around Cavendish was filled with horrible tourist trap “amusements”, and we were happy to leave.

By nightfall we were in Charlottetown, the only city of significant size on the island. We were in need of warmth, so picked up a pizza at a scruddy, but clean-looking place, did some internetting outside a Subway, and then found a quiet nest.

Day 32 photos.