Some Reflections Upon Flying Home from Sydney

After visiting Louisbourg Fortress I decided to head home. I overnighted in Sydney, awoke at 3:00 to be at the airport at 4:30 and fly out at 5:35 for Halifax. Touched down in Sidney, BC at 12:15 PDT. Total elapsed time airport to airport – just under twelve hours. It was a long day. My sleep pattern is disrupted so I’m still waking in hours way too early.

Canada is amazing. What’s a country? It’s borders? It’s terrain? It’s people? It’s certainly all of that and more. Thousands of generations of people have returned the substance of their bodies to the ground over which we walk and drive every day. The soil of Canada is rich with the ancient bodies of porcupines, squirrels, grizzly bears, sea gulls, worms, fir trees, alders, orchids and grasses. I feel something deeply human when walking over the grasses of our earth. When we drive on pavement, walk on the concrete of our sidewalks, even tread the floors of stores and offices, we miss a deep connection.

Canada is a photographer’s paradise. There is beauty and magnificence every place I look. Grand sweeping vistas of the Rocky Mountains, the seemingly endless prairies and the rocky bluffs, waterfalls and forests of the Canadian Shield in Ontario. The red mud of the Bay of Fundy, the red cliffs of Cape Breton, the rolling hills of Lower Canada and New Brunswick. All of this is familiar and foreign. There is something about travel that allows me to open my eyes in a different manner, to see things afresh. Returning to Victoria is not an act of complacency. I am changed.

Travel takes us out of our familiarity, our routines and our patterns of daily existence. Some of us become more curious, perhaps even bolder. We now have time to talk with people that we might otherwise have avoided in our busyness. There are so many kind and generous people I met in our travels. Owners of campgrounds who clearly enjoy meeting people from around the world and are delighted to engage in conversation. A lovely woman in a tiny hamlet in New Brunswick who rescued a dilapidated community hall and created a small café and a revitalized meeting place for the elders in the area. A mountain of a man with a gentle voice who tended his community’s cherished attraction, Prince Alfred’s Arch. A petite woman who started a curio, craft and gift shop in another community hall in a tiny hamlet that is dying as the fish disappear and the younger folk move to the city. Her lifelong friend and her husband having both passed away in the past two years. Her grief painted on her elfin face and within her need to talk if anyone would listen. A gentleman who pulled off the highway to inquire if we were having mechanical difficulties and offered his property and garage if we couldn’t find a spot to camp in Antigonish. There was a NASCAR event on this weekend, and he thought there might not be room at the two campgrounds. A fellow RVer and mechanic who chatted about the possible causes of our fuel challenges. When departing he offered his phone number and told us to call if we got into mechanical trouble. He was known across the Island and if he himself couldn’t come to assist he knew all the good garages and folks all knew him. And dozens more folks who engaged with us in a genuine, human fashion. This too is Canada.

Thanks for following the blog. I hope it offered some entertainment and kept you in the loop of our travels and adventures.

Here are a few more photos and then I’m signing off.

Centre of Canada, eh?

Detail From The National War Memorial, Ottawa

Murray Beach Provincial Park, NB

Burnt Coat Head, NB

Monday, July 22 - Louisbourg

Monday, July 22, 2019 – Louisbourg, Cape Breton

While at the Linwood Campsite (ocean views), Sven installs copper tubing from the fuel tank to the fuel filter, nearly eight feet. Surely this must be the answer. No pin-prick holes to worry about in a new line.

Our next door neighbours are a couple from just outside Port Hawkesbury. He’s a mechanic. Mostly diesels these days but lots of cars in his time. We go over the history of the stalling Ceilidh. He agrees with our analysis. Only thing left is vapor lock. Shield the gas lines from the exhaust. Keep the gas cool. In the morning he gives us his phone number and says to call if we get ourselves in trouble. He’s known all over the island. Wonderful folks.

Mostly I wonder how we’ve made it this far. The Ceilidh – sigh -she doesn’t want to perform at her natural born level. We start fine. Get across the Canso Causeway and up a wee hill into the gift shop and information centre for Cape Breton. I feel like celebrating!

A couple hours into the run we have the signature hesitation. Now to be fair, she doesn’t completely stall on us. That is a bonus. Don’t have to pull off the highway. But still. All that remains is vapor lock, a condition where the gasoline in the lines gets too hot and turns into vapor. It happens when fuel is too close to a hot engine. Check. So, we’ll now try to isolate the fuel lines and filter from an engine that definitely throws out heat.

The run up the island takes us through beautiful country. Lakes and inlets swaddled by mixed forests and fields. The stone here is black. On the Cabot Trail it is red. Over some hills to our left is a giant body of water known as the Bras d’Or. It cuts the island in half, but we’re travelling the backroads of the coast. Our lakes are smaller. The roads can be unbelievably broken. Winter frost heaves mangle the tarmac leaving it looking like a really bad case of the mumps. We bounce and lurch our way northeastward through hamlets and villages drawing their names from the Acadian French; L’Ardoise, Fourchu, Michaud, L’Archeveque, Saint Esprit, and Framboise. Many of the rivers,roads, lakes, bays and coves seem to have fallen from the Highlands of Scotland. Rockdale, MacDonald Road, Saint Andrews Channel, and Inverness. It’s a fascinating juxtaposition of names reminding me of the traditional alliance against the English.

Alongside the Road. Many, Many Lakes. (Sven Photo)

We travel down a pock-marked road, purportedly paved, and come to a tee intersection. The crossroad is gravel. To the right, dead end. To the left, no indication of town or road number. Consult GPS on iPhone. No cell coverage. No phone coverage. Consult map. Seems we’re to take the road. No problem, I grew up driving on gravel roads. Off we go at a sedate pace appropriate to the conditions. A woman in a tiny white Ford is following. A Chev passes us in the opposite direction. Clearly the road if functional. A few kilometers down the road turns to dirt, then a few more it’s back to gravel. I’m dodging washboard, potholes, sharp rocks, there are no round ones here. Around a corner, start down a hill and suddenly a racket like a piece of metal has torn loose and is flapping against a tire. Rapid stop. We get out and I start back up the road looking for some sign. Nothing. I look back at The Ceilidh. Ah. Blown tire, front driver’s side. Now this is the easy stuff. Fifteen minutes later the spare is mounted, and we’re back on our way.

A Secondary Road on our Way to Louisbourg 

(Sven photo)

I phone ahead to the Riverdale RV Campground and reserve two spots for the night, maybe two. It’s the closest to the fort at Louisbourg. We pull in and set up, snug at 4:30. Spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. We’ve eaten very well on the trip. Always a salad. Often fruit for dessert. It’s an early night for all of us.

Tomorrow we take the fortress!

Saturday, July 20 - Bound for Louisburg and The Cabot Trail

Saturday, July 20, 2019 - Bound for Louisburg

The morning is cautiously optimistic. We drain the fuel filter of water, fire up The Ceilidh and set off in full, glorious sunshine. She purrs up the dirt road, slides onto the pavement and waits for traffic to clear at the top of a short, steep hill. She leaps onto Highway 7, turns left, rides the bridge over the St. Mary's River and motors through Sherbrooke at a sedate 50 km/hour. Outside town we bring her up to cruising speed.

Twenty minutes later, after the appropriate sputters and gasps, I pull The Ceilidh to the side of the road on a steep hill a couple hundred meters past a long, slow corner. Not the best place to stop but not the worst either. Check filter. No water, its air. Crank, crank, crank. No start. 

Sven dons the coveralls, we pull out the tools and begin the process of swapping out the new fuel pump for the old. It takes a couple of hours in the boiling sun. Once completed The Ceilidh starts and we motor on toward Antigonish, hoping to make it there rather than crap out again. She splutters a couple times but I find a pull off short of town. 

Another hour waiting in the hot sun while Sven, Larry and Betty head into town. Sven gets 10 feet of 3/8th copper tubing. Gonna replace the fuel line. I phone two local campsites. Both fully booked. The next closest is the Linwood some 25 km away. Taking backroads is less stressful. Less traffic, more places to pull off the road if necessary. The Ceilidh gasps a few times on the way but we manage to pull into the campsite and set up.

Sven's under The Ceilidh. Pulls the steel fuel line out. It takes time. In goes the copper line. Reattach rubber hoses at the appropriate joints. All tied up we crank the engine. As usual she starts with ease. Shut her down and hope for the best tomorrow. 

A poor day of travelling. Less than 90 km. 

Friday, July 19, 2019 – Off to Sherbrooke and Cape Breton

Hopefully there will be few, if any, reports on things mechanical, other than to say things are running well. It’s a lovely, sunny morning, cool and quiet. We’ve a few things to set about and then on the road once more.

Highway 7 follows the coast, most of the way. There is a part that’s more freeway than coastal road. But in the main, 7 is the winding, patched, narrow, curvy tarmacked road that we all loved as children. Well, I loved as a child. The road jumps up hills and falls down the other side, unlike newer roads that cut through and level out the drive. Boring if efficient. We drive through towns with fabulous, imaginary names; East Chezzetcook, Gaetz Brook, East Petpeswick, Musquodoboit Harbour, Head of Jeddore, Ship Harbour, Norse Cove, Spry Harbour, Popes Harbour and Mushaboom. Past  water features like Railway Bridge Pool, Graveyard Pool, Eel Pond, Navy Pool, Oyster Pond, Pyches Cove, and Eel Weir Pool.

Mason’s Cove, Prince Alfred Arch.

We spot a historic feature marker and turn down a short road to a wee park at the head of a tiny cove. Prince Alfred Arch is located at Mason's Cove, Sheet Harbour, Tangier. At this place October 19, 1861, the sixteen-year old Prince, second son of Queen Victoria, landed ashore from a longboat and was feted by the local dignitaries. Upon leaving he was presented with a gold nugget from the somewhat famous gold mines of the area.

Prince Alfred Arch, Tangier

We’re taking photos, reading inscriptions and an older man with thick-lensed glasses gets out of his pickup and slowly saunters over to us. He’s a big man, big hands and decked out in white-paint spattered jeans. Bluenoser through and through his accent is pure downeaster. He’s a talker. We learn lots about the monument, the Prince Alfred event, the gold history and folks of the area. A few years back the entire community recreated the Prince Alfred landing. Everyone had a role to play and were dressed in period clothing. He was the ships commander upon which Alfred was sailing as a midshipman. He’s salt of the earth. Couldn’t finish cutting the grass in the wee park yesterday because his sciatica flared up. Come back today to finish the lawn. We sign the guest book and manage to pull ourselves away. Sweet character.

The Ceilidh is performing like a charm until just short of our destination. She burps and nearly stalls. This is so very disheartening. We feather a bit and manage to drive the next five kilometers to our Riversedge Campground. Checking the inline fuel filter reveals more water. That’s actually good news. We can drain the filter and the water remaining in the tank, and there can’t be much at this point, will be gone and we’ll be driving like a charm. Bad batch of gas from Amherst can do this.

Riversedge Campground abuts the St. Mary’s River. There are a few trees along the rivers bank, but the rest of the campground is an open field. The river side sites are all taken. We are isolated in the middle of the field, not a bad thing. 

The St. Mary’s River Bordering Our Campsite.

The sun is falling to the west as is its wont. We are toasty and warm. A large bald eagle flies low over the field and along the tree line. We hear a loon making its signature call from the river. I spot two chickens walking north along a dirt road, clearly some distance from home. I wonder if the eagle knows.  

Tomorrow we’ll head for Louisburg.

Thursday, July 18 - Dartmouth

Thursday, July 18 – Shubie Campground – Dartmouth

Our morning is hopeful. The fuel tank was spotless. No muck. The tank filter was free and clear. The rubber hose from the tank spout to the fuel pump was loose. We’ve replaced and tightened all the hoses and purchased a new gas cap. The fuel delivery system has now been completely checked. The transmission has a new cork gasket and a new batch of ATF.

Sorry, no current photos. Not only did I spend most of my time around and under The Ceilidh, photos of sparkly clean transmission pans or sparkly clean fuel tanks, are not likely to interest most readers. No cute squirrels, raccoons, porcupines, sparrows, seagulls or golden eagles set down on The Ceilidh or any of her parts, let alone long enough for me to leap for my camera and snap off a shot or two. But here's one from a previous shoot.

The Ceilidh's Great, Great, Great Aunt.

Larry’s big, 33 foot unit is scheduled for a 9 o’clock appointment to repair/replace a ‘doughnut’ gasket between the exhaust manifold and header pipe. This is the third repair in three months. Larry follows us to the BTC (Burnside Truck Centre) shop. We head off for breakfast and await a phone call letting us know what will be required. We have breakfast from a great menu. Lots of fresh fruit, eggs, French toast…what ever you want for breakfast, they’ve got it. We finish eating and are hanging around in the restaurant drinking coffee contemplating our next move. 

The phone rings. Larry’s RV is ready to go. Barely more than an hour has passed.We’re back at BTC. The bill. Well, the bill is a surprise. Just over one hundred dollars! Larry and Betty are relieved and quite happy, having considered the possibility of a huge bill. The mechanic tells us he removed a bent header stud bolt, cleaned up the internal threads (chased the threads), re-positioned the header and exhaust system so the parts lined up, and placed lock washers on all three studs. We drive off. Larry can’t tell if his engine quit while at a traffic light. He’s very happy. Yay! Hopefully we have success all round.

We decided to book an extra night at the camp. We’ve had to re-supply our food stores so a big trip to the Atlantic Super Store. Hmm…President’s Choice. OK, things are familiar. Loaded with supplies it’s back to the camp and up on to our blocks for the night. Tomorrow we set out for Sherbrooke, Nova Scotia, via the far more picturesque coast road. Stan Rogers comes to mine and I’m humming Barrett’s Privateers as I crash for the night.

Tuesday, July 16 – Shubie Campground – Halifax

We overnight and head up to the shop for 8:30. ‘Leave it with us ‘til 1:30’. OK. We head back to the Inn and sit in chairs outside the entrance for four hours. Sven works on his book. I contemplate. We walk back to the shop. They’ve blown out the fuel line. Great. We pick up a cork gasket for the leaking transmission pan, pay the shop and head off for Shubie Campground in Dartmouth after stopping at a few different shops to gather tubing for a fuel tank drop.

We and The Ceilidh stumble in to three locations, sputtering a few times while on the way. Finally, we head for Shubie. She loses power and all the ‘feathering’ of the accelerator pedal fails to bring her back to life. At least we’re not on a freeway. Wait ten minutes, turn her over, and drive off toward the campsite. A half dozen hesitations and splutters later we once again lose power despite my desperate attempts to tickle her into running. This time we block a bike lane on a secondary highway but there’s enough room for cars to pass around us and still allow opposing traffic to pass. Ten minutes later she runs, we run and make it to the gates to the campsite. She stalls once more. Sven heads in to register for two nights. I sit with The Ceilidh. Crank. Engaged. Die. Crank. Engage. Die. On a whim I get out and loosen the gas cap. Get in. Crank, we’re running. Gather Sven, head to our assigned spot, back into the site. Safe!

This running on roads and having the RV stall out is very stressful. It can’t continue. We cannot return cross Canada with a vehicle that dies every few miles.

I go for a nice long walk exploring the history and nature in the area. Shubie park was created to preserve a portion of the Shubenacadie Canal, which passes through the park and from which the park takes its name. The park was part of the ‘King’s’ woodland in the 1720’s and provided masts for the Royal Navy. In 1783 King George III, the mad king, granted land to mast maker Samuel Greenwood. The paths follow the abandoned canal and form part of the Trans-Canada Trail.

A Portion of the Abandoned Canal.

There are lots of curious red squirrels and chipmunks waiting for handouts. A mourning dove sits on a feeder. He doesn’t seem to be mourning at this time. The canal is shallow. The water is lazy, moving ever so slowly between Lake Charles and Micmac Lake. It’s hard to imagine canal boats or logs making their way through this big ditch. Perhaps it’s filled in since being abandoned.

Red Squirrel Trying to Look Cute.

That’s if for the night. Time to turn in. Tomorrow we’ll drop the fuel tank and re-seal the transmission pan.

Saturday, July 13 – Peggy’s Cove & Halifax

The night was filled with wind and rain. The dawn is grey and without rain. Wayside Camping Park is a bit on the dilapidated side of things, lacking the shine and luster of most campgrounds we’ve visited. We had the required services and the washrooms were better than expected, at least for the men. Apparently, the women’s weren’t up to standard.

 Peggy’s Cove is only a few kilometers down the road. Parking was a test. Saturday at the cove is very busy and a painting festival was taking place. We managed to sneak into the information building's parking lot and weren’t served a parking ticket, a notice, or towed away. Success!

Peggy’s Cove is one of the great tourist spots in Nova Scotia. It’s a working community of approximately 30 permanent residents. Lobster fishing is still the main industry for the locals. The area is renowned for its natural beauty and the lighthouse is perhaps the most photographed in the world, standing on barren granite, thrashed by the waves of St. Margaret’s Bay.

Ant-people Crowd the Rocks Surrounding the Lighthouse.

Tourists ignore dozens of warning signs, clamber down onto the wet, slippery rocks and some inevitably drown. While there one large, overweight man slipped, landed with an audible ‘thud’ and injured his ankle. He lay there quite a while. We moved on. Don’t know when he did.

Peggy’s Cove is Highly Picturesque.

We all had fish and chips at the restaurant at the top of the hill, the Sou’Wester. The haddock was delicious.

From Peggy’s Cove we made our way toward Dartmouth and an oil change at a Jiffy Lube. The Ceilidh was sucking air from time to time but we feathered our way there. The gang were friendly and efficient. We have now established that The Ceilidh is slightly more than ten feet tall. Once Sven scrambled onto the roof and removed the vent covers, we nosed into the bay. Oil drained and refilled (we’ve travelled some 7,000 kilometers), tire pressure checked, greased. Transmission fluid leaking, brake line from master cylinder leaking at the front distribution block end, still leaking air into the fuel delivery system.

One of the lads at Jiffy Lube recommends the Shubie Campground. Cools. We head off by GPS, avoiding the toll routes, that is, the bridges. The Ceilidh is hunting for fuel a few times. I manage to play the accelerator in a way that keeps her running. We crawl up some of the hills. 

Alas, we cannot crawl up the hill just north of the A. Murray MacKay Bridge (Toll road) on Highway 111. Four-way hazard lights on. Finally, we phone BCAA/CAA for a tow. A ‘special constable’ walks to my driver’s window. He has his red and blues flashing behind us, alerting traffic. Our four-ways aren’t too bright, so this is a big help. He also let’s us know our exact location which will help CAA find us. 

We chat about things policing and I find out that the Halifax Harbour Bridges polices the bridges, not the Halifax Police. Every few minutes I crank the engine over hoping she’ll ‘catch’ and we can move out of the traffic. After about half an hour of intermittent efforts she catches and dies. In my mind this is at least progress. I continue chatting with the officer and continue cranking from time to time. He shakes his head at each failed attempt. He does acknowledge that our stoppage is legitimate and that we are trying. 

Another twenty minutes passes. No tow-truck. Luckily it’s a Saturday and the traffic is relatively light. Crank her again…she fires up! I tell the officer I’m going to try to get up the hill and at the very least pull over onto the ‘on’ramp up ahead, if necessary. He runs back and jumps in his cruiser, we drive up the hill, take a right and pull into a small mall parking lot. Yay! I thank the officer for standing by while we were on the highway. He’s cool and heads off. The tow-truck arrives within three minutes.

We phone around for auto/RV repair shops to which we can tow The Ceilidh. No success. They’re either closed or not answering the phone. We decide to tow it to Nova Automotive. The tow-truck driver, Mark, says it’s a good choice as they handle RV’s and trucks. He says they’re reputable. He backs The Ceilidh onto Nova’s lot and uncouples the towing gear. 

We hear a strange whirring from the hydraulics of the tow-truck. Mark can’t retract the tow-bar set, the hydraulics aren’t working properly. We call it the curse of The Ceilidh. He phones his boss. Just shut down the engine and let her sit for fifteen minutes, then try again. Hmmm, sounds suspiciously like our Ceilidh. After fifteen minutes he starts his engine and the hydraulics work again. We part ways.

We phone a cab, pack in our guitars and valuable goods, lower the blinds and lock up The Ceilidh. I slip an explanatory note, including cell phone numbers, through the mail slot of Nova Automotive explaining our situation and stating we’ll come by at 8 AM Monday.

The cab shows up within minutes. He seems surly. Perhaps because we’re only going a short distance. We load our gear and drive a few hundred meters down the road to a Comfort Inn. The cabbie is Russian. Sven talks with him and soon he is laughing and shaking our hands. Leprechaun magic I say. We enter the lobby.

Do they have a room with two queen sized beds for two nights? Yes. Yay! Sven mentions our BCAA cards and we get a decent discount. I’m looking forward to a long, long, hot shower and a really decent bed.

We get stowed away, polished up and head across the street for dinner and a beer at Hugo’s Bar and Grill. It’s 7 PM and the end of a stressful day. We enter. It’s a strange place, filled with various gambling machines and a half dozen locals. It advertises bottled beer. There’s a door into a much larger hall with tables and music. No one there. We sit down at the bar. A larger, friendly woman dressed in bright yellow tells us there’s no food. Only on Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. She says the owners’ weird that way. I have a can of Guinness. Sven finds there are taps and has an Alexander Keith’s IPA in a Moosehead glass. We have a pizza later. I turn in and fall asleep before my head hits the pillow.

Bonus Peggy's Cove Photo.

Friday, July 12, 2019 – Hidden Hilltop Family Campground

30 Km, from Truro

It was chilly during the night, left the windows open. Clouds are covering the sky, greying it, promising rain in the afternoon. Mosquitoes are loving it, out in numbers. Even though equipped with screens, doors and windows left open are like neon signs for mosquitoes. ‘Come on in. Smorgasbord of fleshly delights for your quivering probiscii!’ I’ve become used to itchy bumps all over my body. Shannon brings over the coffee pot. We exchange stories of mosquito bites. She may have trumped me with a spider bite. I think of getting home and some of the scars we’ve earned on this journey. The early explorers must’ve had some very challenging times enduring flying bugs of all descriptions.

Sven removes our cool see-through inline fuel filter, drains the water and reinstalls. He seems to enjoy wiggling about under The Ceilidh and checks the fuel line back to its source atop the fuel tank, checking for possible air leaks. He talks about dropping the fuel tank.

The Ceilidh starts a charm and we motor on toward Peggy’s Cove, ‘the’ must see stop in Nova Scotia. We are moving along quite nicely and then she starts struggling for fuel/air once more. Pull over to the side of the road. On with the coveralls, under the RV at the passenger door; a little bit of water and a lot of air. Clear the water, put the filter back inline. Every time we pull the filter it will hold air for a bit until the fuel fills the filter. We drive on for some time and The Ceilidh struggles up hills once more. Checking the filter we find it nearly filled with air. Only one diagnoses remains, there’s a leak somewhere between the fuel tank pickup and the inline filter.  A quick inspection leaves only the rubber hose connecting the fuel tank uptake with the steel gas line.  Guess we’re gonna have to drop the tank.

We stop at Burntcoat Head Park, site of the world’s largest tides at 53.5feet differential and drop down to the beach. The red sandstone cliffs are stunning. The tide is falling and we can walk all around on the ‘flowerpot’ island.

Burntcoat Head Park

The original lighthouse was located on a headland, thus Burntcoat Head. The ‘flowerpot’ island formed when the tide finally broke through a thin connecting isthmus leaving the harder rock of the flowerpot still standing. The current lighthouse was built by the local community as a tourist attraction.

Leaving the park there’s a sign advertising a restaurant 13 km down the road. We decide to have lunch there. Rounding the corner after some 13 km we see the sign next to an old community hall. Into the hall and a lovely lady offers pastries, ice cream and an Italian sausage hot dog. The hot dog is delicious and really hits the spot. The lady tells us the story of rehabilitating the derelict community hall. She and her husband have done a fabulous job both bringing the hall into good repair and in navigating those in the community who feared making changes to the hall.  Sven left a book.

We feathered The Ceilidh all the way to our campsite near Peggy’s Cove, managing to find an auto parts store on the way where we picked up gear to work on our fuel delivery system in the morning.

The Ceilidh Camped Under the Canadian and Nova Scotian Flags.

Burncoat Head ‘flower pot’ island.

The Ceilidh does a trooper’s job and gets us to our campsite near Peggy’s Cove. We spray the fuel tank strap nuts with Loosen'All and think about doing this job in the morning as it’s currently raining.

Wednesday, July 10^th – Oyster Bed Bridge – Bayside

Today we replaced the fuel pump and carburetor filter on The Ceilidh. We found a long, broken rubber hose from a vacuum connection to the after-market cruise control. It all took some time. We then cruised into the Napa Parts Store in Charlottetown to pick up a headlight switch for Larry’s RV. Muffler tape is hard to find but we got a few shreds and wrapped them around Larry’s leaking headers. Not so much difference but perhaps a small reduction in sound. The Ceilidh’s repairs? Well, she stuttered a wee bit on the way back. All fuel filters replaced; fuel pump replaced. Gotta be pollution control stuff. Oh joy!

Our reward for the hours spent on repair related chores was to jump in the campground pool. It was lovely.

The Pool Was A Nice Reward After The Repairs.

I walk down the road to view the bay. Yep, the oyster farms are still there. I’m told they were mussel farms the past years but the nutrient load in the bay is changing and oysters do much better.

Some Oyster Farms in Rustico Bay. There Are Many More.

A quiet evening, hopefully a good sleep and off to Nova Scotia in the morning. PEI seems a nice place.

Tuesday, July 9^th – Confederation Bridge onto Prince Edward Island.

We are blessed with another sunny morning. The wind blows a wee bit chill off the Straight. I walk the sandstone and slate tumulus lapped by small ocean wavelets. Twenty-foot cliffs show varying depths of the red, clay soil famous in this region. I hear some birds trying to scare me off but can’t spot them. A bit frustrating but a reminder of how awesome nature can be in the camouflage department.

Rock Strewn Beach and Cliffs at Murray Beach Provincial Park.

The wind blows steady. Our gas range outside vent-flap, flaps continuously. The Venetian blinds ‘ting’ in that Venetian blind way, familiar to anyone with windblown Venetian blinds. It’s good to have our senses. They have kept us alive for ages. In our modern age they keep us awake at night trying to figure out if the ‘tinging’ and ‘flapping’ are dangerous.  Never know, could be.

There is indeed a gas station a couple of kilometers down the road. We have our second largest fill of the trip, just over 100 liters. Windows are cleaned. Across the road a barn-like, white building houses a craft shop. Inside is a magic realm of oddities, colours and curios. There’s a blue heron painted on a lap desk, wall hangings of proverbs and cute sayings, carvings of birds and old men, dresses, skirts, shawls and scarves. Sven buys a seaside-oriented, small box of blue and white. I buy a framed photo of two blue herons knee deep in foreshore water.

We talk a little music. The elfin owner was in a blue grass band. She played a ¾ stand-up bass. She is very petite and offers that she had to stand on a small box in order to reach high enough up the neck to play the low notes. That in turn caused her back pains. The band broke up a couple of years ago when her friend the Dobro player passed away.  Her husband passed away shortly after. There seem to be more sad stories in the maritime provinces. Perhaps it has to do with brutal winters or living by the sea and holding memories of all the drownings. Perhaps folks here are more willing to share their pain. I feel for the recent widow.

We come to the Cape Jourimain Nature Centre located at the foot of Confederation Bridge. It’s modern and interesting. The area is a nature reserve noted internationally for the abundance of migrating and local birds. The exhibit hall is a delight for bird watchers of any age. We wind past brightly coloured birds captured brilliantly by taxidermists, vivid maps of dozens of local birds, each highlighted on a screen by pushing the appropriate button, and bird calls all around. Heading outside and into the sunshine we have a superb view of the bridge.  

Confederation Bridge. 

Confederation Bridge is a marvel. At nearly thirteen kilometers it’s the longest bridge over ice covered water. It took nearly four years to build and cost $1.3 billion Canadian. It takes some time to cross and gusts of wind keep buffeting The Ceilidh. She seems to like PEI and offers only a couple of surges during our run into Charlottetown. Perhaps she knows that we picked up a new fuel pump for her.

PEI is a charm. I’m struck by her picture-book beauty. The greens here are the greenest we’ve seen. I wonder if it’s because they contrast with the rich, red soil. Every turn in the road opens a new vista. The farmhouses are kept immaculately white  and sport red roofs. The barns the same. We crest a hill and see an arm of the Atlantic poking into a red-earthen valley, deeply green reeds filling the shoreline. Potatoes are sprouting in various stages in their red fields. This is a wonderland.

I book three spaces for two nights at our PEI digs, Bayside RV Campground. We’re sitting on the north side of the Island bordering Rustico Bay, down the road from Oyster Bed Bridge and not quite to Cymbria. The owner is friendly. It’s a nice campground. Tomorrow we install the pump while the others explore the Island.

Monday, July 8^th – On toward PEI

The day dawns warm. The air is calm, a change from the strong, constant winds of the past two days. Fresh cup of coffee in hand we begin securing the wagons for the continuing journey east. Last evening Shannon spotted a fox scanning the camp likely having nosed the lobster. It was also noted that The Ceilidh has made it from coast to coast. We are camped by the saltwater of the Atlantic Ocean. Today we will head toward Shediac and the Confederation Bridge.

The Sunlit Ceilidh Secure in the Setting Sun

at Murray Beach Provincial Park.

The Ceilidh starts with a gentle purr. We roll out of the camp, hang a right and motor down the 134. It’s the coastal highway. Small hamlets pop up every few miles, seeming lonely on the windswept coast, flat and reed infested. The land is prairie flat and that means the ocean runs up the shore for long stretches. It runs inland past low knolls and tiny hills with tidy houses, tiny, tidy houses. Each with a Louis XIV ‘Sun King’ sun, tricoloeur and starfish affixed to the front of the house and a tricoloeur/New Brunswick/Acadie flag. And most are flying a Canadian flag as well.

The folks are friendly and like waving, which is cool because I like waving as well. The pace of life here is much more laid back than home. A backhoe backs onto the highway (of course it backs, it’s a backhoe). We slow, stop, and wait. He fumbles about in a weirdly mechanical dance then moves back up the driveway from which he left. He waves. We wave. We motor on. Steppenwolf has been playing in my head lately and some tunes from 1755, a rocking Acadian band (1755 being the diaspora of the French in the Maritimes).  The sun is still shining.

We make it to Bathurst and turn in our empty beer cans. Sven finds a bookstore owner on site. They chat. He leaves one of his books. We check out the GMC dealer, Canadian Tire and various auto parts dealers looking for a fuel pump for a 1979 – Classic I must say – GMC RV. Not surprisingly there are none around. ‘They could be ordered from the states, but don’t you realize the parts are for a classic, heritage vehicle?’ Yes, we do. ‘Heritage’ doesn’t translate the same for us. I suggest Sven phone Charlottetown and see if NAPA has one. They don’t but will order one in for tomorrow. Yes! We’ll take it! Yay. (some genuine excitement here…it’s a story better told at another time).

We leave Bathurst and hurtle down the highway. Miles and miles of miles and miles…Oh. I’ve done that before.  Anyway, we’re on the freeway and not the picturesque 134. The roadside is strewn with corpses of once ambling porcupines. I feel sad. Like their very distant cousin gophers, porcupines have not adapted to the idea of highways and hurtling vehicles. Their defense developed against wolves and bears and consisted of stop, roll into a ball and let your very long and very sharp quills stick into tender noses. It’s been quite effective for hundreds of thousands of years. Against cars, RV’s and semis, not so much.

The Ceilidh, beautiful girl that she is, performs well and chortles only a couple times during the journey. I wonder what the chortles mean, both mechanically and more importantly, esoterically. Is my personification of this machine becoming, well, a problem? Or is there some hitherto unknown, cosmic energy manifesting from behind the Veil and animating The Ceilidh? Spooky. 😊

We roll past Shediac and shuffle our way to the Silver Sands RV Campground, once again proving the efficacy of the iPhone GPS/Mapping system. A ruddy faced, jovial Englishman greets us at the Large Lighthouse Office with great bonhomie. We are looking for three spots and we are lucky that he has three spots. This is a relief as we’re moving into prime summer vacation time and perhaps there won’t be spots for three of us. ‘One is in the back’ he says. ‘It’s $68. The other two spots are on the water - $100 each.’ ‘That’s a bit rich for us’ I say. ‘It’s the view. Magnificent.’ I look out and see the ocean. Lots of ocean. I’ve seen ocean before. I get it. People pay to see the ocean. Not us at $100 a pop for an overnight.

The owner is kindly. He suggests we travel a few more kilometers to Murray Beach Provincial Park where, he informs us, there will be room for us. Given the $100 price tag per unit per night, we scurry off toward the provincial park.

It’s a relatively short distance of 25 kilometres and we make it. Sven and I wonder how much fuel we have left. I assure him there is a gas station close by. Hmmmm.

OK, It’s A Cheesy Shot but I Had to Put It In. Sunset at Murray Beach Provincial Park.

We make it to the park. A young, freckle-faced, red-headed lad and his very chatty, friendly lady supervisor register our units. We chat and laugh and find out that there is indeed a nearby gas station. Also, there are magnificent sunsets, views of both the Confederation Bridge and of Summerside, on PEI. ‘The water,’ she continues, ‘is the warmest in the Northumberland Straight.’ An older man pops out of a side door and proudly announces the water temperature is 17.5 degrees. He’s just measured it. The temperature was warmer earlier, but it’s still the warmest around!

View Over the Northumberland Straight.

 Proof of Foot Immersion in the Atlantic Ocean at 7:30 AM.

The campsite is beautiful, perhaps the best at which we have stayed. Open spaces, tens of meters between units, pine trees, clean facilities, power and really friendly staff.

How Many Folks Can Identify This Device?

We set up, settle in, walk to the beach and take photos of sunsets. We climb the wee hill and check out the lights on Confederation Bridge.  The water in the Northumberland Straight is warm enough for the park supervisor to spend most of the day paddling about with her grandchildren, Real people, real country. How utterly magnificent!

Shannon at the Beach Hut at Sunset

Sunday, July 7th - Charlo - Blue Heron Campsite

The day breaks in beauty. Teeth brushed, face washed, both quietly so as not to wake the chortling leprechaun, I head out to walk the large campground. We border a beach on Eel River Cove, an arm of Eel River Gully which in turn is connected to Chaleur Bay and the Gulf of St. Lawrence.  I pass through a field of nodding daisy's, then a recently mowed lawn, past a small, lazy brook and over to the beach. 

A Wee Brook at the Campsite

The tide is high. It chews away at a red-soil bank turning a narrow band of saltwater murky brown. Off to the east a naturally formed causeway cuts across the bay, ending at Eel River Bar First Nation. The tide rushes through a small, bridged gap, filling and draining the bay twice a day. Reeds are inundated at high water. No blue herons in sight. 

There is a wide ditch across the road from the seashore. It too is filled with reeds, but of a different sort. I'm see splashes of violet and realize there are hundreds of naturally occurring irises growing among the reeds and young bull rushes. Mingled with yarrow, purple vetch, pink, puffy moss roses and the ubiquitous daisy's, the irises are a special delight in an unexpected seaside garden.

Mario arrives at 11 AM. Bruce, Shannon and I pile into his silver  Chrysler to begin our tour. He's known the areas since childhood and relates tales from the present and the past. Building that once housed thriving business and are now derelict. Local towns suffering by the closing of the pulp mill. The land too contaminated to be put to use without horribly expensive cleanup. 

We head into Campbellton and capture photos of the world's largest salmon. It's not a cheesy statue but tastefully executed art set in a large, blue pool into which drops a series of small cascades. But the name, Restigouche Sam, well, I guess you'll have to let it grow on you. This is the Atlantic Salmon fishing capital of the world where folks come to cast their lines into the Restigouche River. How interesting that Campbell River in BC claims to be the Salmon Capital of the World. What is it about Campbell's and fish?

'Restigouche Sam' the Largest Salmon in the World.

We decide that today is the day we'll feast on lobster. Mario is a pro. We pick up three pre-cooked, fresh last night, bright orange specimens, some other shell fish called bourgot in French, a baguette and stow them in the trunk for shelling and devouring once the tour has finished.

'Balmoral, New Brunswick', says Mario, 'is Canada's longest town. It's all built on one long road!' Once there we see he isn't kidding. One long road. Business's are interspersed with houses along both sides, separated by large yards, fields and short roads.  We see the building where his grandfather cut hair and sold groceries and we see his childhood home. Most endearingly, we visit his current home and meet his charming mother. Like so many bilingual Canadians she says her English is terrible. It's not. It's really great, as is Mario's. We get to view this lovely home built entirely by her late husband. It is a special moment. Oh, and the wee dog, a Yorkie, Cannelle.

Mario Works the Lobsters Out of their Shells. 

Down the road, into the camp and set up a table where Mario begins to shell the lobsters. It's a tedious, messy job requiring surgical instruments designed for a medieval doctor. But it's done and we feast. No butter, no added ingredients, just pure lobster, baguette and bourgot. It don't get any better. 

July 6th - Charlo, New Brunswick

July 6^th – New Brunswick and Mario

We wake to predictions of lightening and thunder. We don’t get a show. Instead, we get repeated downpours. Once again we see water running down the dirt roads of the RV campsite, gouging trenches that will have to be filled with gravel.  The sky seems lighter all round, but the rain sneaks up and drops tons of water when I venture out to take photos. We are holed up waiting for the weather to pass. None of us wants to decamp during the rain.

We finally leave Mady and his owner, the fellow wearing the crash helmet while navigating his red viper three-wheeler ever so slowly down the trailer park roads, grinning and sometimes waving. Decidedly different.  I’m happy the axes were locked up during the night.

We are driving into dark, threatening clouds. Lightening alerts are out for Maine, a couple hundred miles to the south. It begins to rain. The drops are large. Then it really begins to rain. Sheets of torrential downpour. Cars pass us with four-way flashers on. The rain is so thick that visibility is greatly impaired. We slow to 80 on a 110 road and turn on our four-way flashers. It’s now dark as well. I slow to 60 wanting to avoid hydroplaning on these old bias-ply tires. The water is piling up on the road. We cross a concrete bridge where the water is 6” deep because it can’t run off the road quickly enough. The windshield wipers can’t keep up. Then the rain slows, thins and finally stop. The clouds are lighter.

We drive for another half hour, turning off at our secondary road to Balmoral. The intersection holds a Subways and a Tim Hortons. We stop for a bite. Once inside, the rainstorm opens the heavens once more, flooding the street in seconds. Small rivers rush down the ditches and roads. From this point forward rivers we cross are swollen and dirty from the runoff.

Crossing northern New Brunswick takes us through rolling hills and valleys. Bursts of red, white, blue, orange and yellow lupines coat the wide verges. Signs warn us to be aware of moose leaping onto the road. We keep our eyes open to possible moose leapings.  Moose kill. This is serious stuff. I like moose and don’t want to injure any.

After a total of four hours driving, we reach the Blue Heron Campground, recommended by Mario. It’s a lovely, open field with well kept outbuildings, full hook-ups at all sites and a small, sold out beer festival including a band made up from camp regulars.

One of the fields at our Blue Heron Campground.

Mario drives in from Balmoral and meets us at our campsite. We haven’t seen him since he moved from Vancouver the previous year. He’s looking good. We share stories old and new and he promises to drive us around the hot spots the following day.

We are parked right behind the stage and get to enjoy the music. Many of the tunes are ones we play in our band, Backstage Pass. The hundred-person beer fest is over at 9 PM so the gates open for the rest of the performance. We enter and stay until 11. The band is a success and we get to chat we quite a few folks.

Once the finals note fades into the night the folks disappear quickly, taking their lovely, dancing children with them. Kids are a joy to watch when they dance. Uninhibited, lacking self-conscious concerns they dance to whatever moves them. How cool.

The cities and towns of northern New Brunswick are small enough that light pollution is low. There are stars out. Billions. I can actually see the Milky Way and Saturn.  Ursa Minor is easily located and therefore, the north star. I can locate Cygnus the Swan and Draco the Dragon and a few others that remain from my nautical days. Other constellations I can’t even remember, let alone the major stars used for navigation. Thus, the passage of time.  The stars don’t know, nor do they care.

The Sun Goes Down, the Band Starts Up, 

Bruce Heading to Camp.

We live in paradise. There are no wars here. We can cross thousands of miles, through hundreds of towns, meeting all kinds of people and we are still Canadian. We still talk with each other if we wish and we don’t worry about having medical coverage. There are billions of stars holding us close. It’s a good night.