Prince Edward Island

The abbreviation PEI is recognised throughout Canada as the acronym for the country's smallest province. One informant rather unkindly said that we could drive across the island in an hour, but it is not that tiny.

To take a vehicle to PEI the motorist has a choice of a bridge or a ferry. To encourage visitors, both options are free to enter the island, and to make you want to stay they each have a hefty charge when you leave. We decided to arrive by ferry and depart across the bridge.

The ferry from Pictou did provide tourist information, including maps with several suggested driving routes. There are no major hills, making the island's fertile soil easy to farm so scenery was much more pastoral than Nova Scotia. Much is made of the island's association with the novel, Anne of Green Gables. Bill had started to read the story in his youth and put it aside as “a girl's book”. Eve downloaded it to her Kindle to refresh her memory and found it a bit preachy but enjoyable to revisit. But that didn't detract from the island's genuine charm.

Our first and only night on PEI was at Cable Head on the North coast. Most, or possibly all, of the North side of the island is a large, sandy beach.

Cable Head with another camper's vehicle on the cliff.

Another section of the North coast.

We stopped at the small harbour in Tracadie. Bill had a wander round and got very excited when he came across hundreds of migrating birds. He just had to get out the camera with the telephoto lens.

The harbour.

Plovers. But which species? After very long deliberation the decision was “Black-bellied” rather than the rarer “American Golden”.

The large birds with red beaks are Caspian Terns. The others are one of the sandpiper species, which all look very similar in eclipse plumage.

Scores of sandpipers.

A Great Blue Heron flies low and unhurriedly on its way South.

Further along the coast we saw three men in wetsuits assembling para-boarding gear. (That may not be the correct expression.) The wind was blowing strongly not quite directly onshore. “They'll never get anywhere against that wind” predicted Bill. But he was wrong.

When they really got going they 'jumped' off the water.

We enjoyed our short time on PEI. We didn't drive all the tourist trails, but we followed them for a fair few kilometres before paying our exit tax ($45 – ouch) and leaving via the Confederation Bridge. This is one of the world's longest bridges at 12.9km, and also the longest that crosses ice-covered water. And it's sufficiently high that acrophobic Bill was never going to look down.

Only another 12.8km before we are safely back on terra firma.

The Confederation Bridge from New Brunswick.

The dates of the following pictures place them on Prince Edward Island, but we cannot remember exactly where they were taken.

Shiny, black berries on an unidentified plant.  If you know what it is, please leave a comment with the information,

Wild rose hips.

Quite a small spider seen close up, clinging to its web.

Nova Scotia

The ferry that plies between Newfoundland and Nova Scotia is heavily laden with brochures to inform the visitor to Newfoundland, but it was completely bereft of information about Nova Scotia. Never mind, there is sure to be a visitor information centre as we drive off the ferry.

There wasn't.

We did have some ideas about the best places to see from travellers we had met along the way. And Google Maps compensated in some degree for the lack of a paper map of the province.

The first recommendation was the Cabot Trail. We knew that, in broad general terms, we should turn right after leaving the ferry. Malcolm-Edgar found a hotel with Cabot in its name somewhere in his memory so we crossed our fingers and followed that hopeful lead. Success! We very soon passed the first of many signs that confirmed we were truly on the Cabot Trail.

In case you missed all the road signs, this store also reminds you that you are on the Cabot Trail. We didn't try the lobster sandwiches. At the time we thought that putting lobster in a sandwich was rather naff. We have since modified that opinion.

The Cabot Trail is a scenic drive round the Cape Breton Peninsula in the North of Nova Scotia. It is very pleasant to simply drive the whole way, but there are plenty of places to stop and enjoy the scenery, read information on the history of the area or go for a ramble. Our lunch stop was in a tiny rest area by the sea, where we foolishly forgot to take any photographs.

Much of the peninsula is steep and covered in lush forest.

We didn't attempt any of the more arduous trails, but we did immerse ourselves in the forest a couple of times.

Inside the forest.

A short trail led to a picturesque waterfall. Along the trail we met and chatted to a nice American couple. When we returned to our vehicle we found they had left a note under the windscreen wiper inviting us to have a meal with them when we got to Washington. And so we did.

Our last stop was the most interesting. It was the French Mountain Bog. The trail is almost entirely a level boardwalk, and there are many information boards to explain what the visitor is looking at and how the plants and animals have adapted to the moist conditions. The stars of the bog are the carnivorous plants, which are more numerous there than at any other location we have visited.

An open pool in the bog.

The crimson sprays mixed in with the moss are the sticky, fly-catching parts of sundew plants.

A pitcher plant's pitchers.

A pitcher plant's flower.

Eve was particularly taken with the local architecture. She photographed many buildings as we drove by. Despite the difficulties of being in a moving vehicle with mirrors and wipers and what-have-you to intrude into the picture, and the unpredictable reflections in the windscreen, she managed to take some portraits that are a lot more than just personal mementos.

We completed the Cabot Trail, but were still on the Cape Breton Peninsula, when we stopped for the night at the Judique Picnic Area.

Our next destination was not from the any guide book. Rosie and Keith Hare live in Newport and had generously invited us to stay. We hurried on from Judique so as not to miss the local garlic festival. Garlic is the main crop from our little farm and we were keen to see what we could learn from the Nova Scotian growers. We did have some friendly conversations with them, but what we mainly learned was that the festival was held at a small winery, whose output had to be tasted. It was found to be very palatable.

We also met some of our hosts' other friends, amongst whom was a John, who inspected the scratches suffered when Gregory scraped the concrete block in Newfoundland and reckoned he could fix them. Thank you, John. You did a great job.

Rosie and Keith hang out bird feeders. The hummingbirds had flown South, but the resident avians were enthusiastically helping themselves to the free seeds.

The dominant species is the Blue Jay. They are the biggest and bossiest and have first go at the feeder.

An American Goldfinch waits for his chance.

Our hosts' house, built in the local style.

After leaving Rosie and Keith we did a rough anticlockwise circuit of the Southern part of the province. The key places were:

Windsor.

If we had done all the things recommended by the lady in the information centre we would still be in Nova Scotia. We did taste the produce of a local winery, which has earned some justified praise for its blueberry wine. We also visited a fromagerie, but that was a disappointment.

Annapolis Royal.

The fort built by the early French settlers has been reconstructed.

Some of the Parks Canada staff are in period costume to add to the history.

There is also a well regarded botanical garden in the town, but we didn't go in. It was raining too hard even for Eve to be tempted.

Kejimkujik National Park.

Rosie recommended a beach in the park, but the road was not paved and the potholes became too numerous for safe travel. We did stop at a wharf, though, and the views were worth the drive.

Carters Beach

This was accessible, although there was not much room to turn Gregory round.

Acres of pale sand.

A stream makes its way down to the sea.

A flock of Sanderlings displaying typical feeding behaviour. They run down the beach as a wave recedes, picking up morsels dropped on the sand, and then scamper back up the beach as the next wave chases them.

Some nice asters growing just beyond the high tide line.

Lunenburg.

We were recommended to take the slower, but more scenic coast road and the LaHave ferry. The route was indeed scenic, but the ferry was out of commission for a week so we had to keep on driving.

As we drove to Lunenburg we spotted this sign. A shortcut home?

This port town is well known for its colourful buildings.  Many of them feature the famous “Lunenburg bump”, a large dormer popular in the late 19^thcentury.

A particularly nice example of the Lunenburg bump.

And some nice boats.

We'll have 2 Kalaharis and an Atacama.

An eye-catching spraxia.

Peggys Cove.

Yes, there should be an apostrophe. Write to the council about it. (We didn't.)

Tourists are urged to admire and photograph lighthouses all along the Atlantic coast. There's something about the one at Peggys Cove that particularly pleases the eye. We concede that this one is worth the time. Maybe it's the bare, almost-white rocks it's perched on.

The classic shot.

While we were there the sky was competing with the lighthouse for our attention.

We found space in a car park to stay the night. We got into conversation with a Ukranian-Canadian who was preparing to sleep in his car, and Ievgen stayed for dinner; the first time we had hosted a guest for a meal in Gregory.

The next morning we set off for the ferry to Prince Edward Island.

The lakes near Peggys Cove were 'steaming' attractively as we drove by.

St. Pierre & Miquelon

Not far off the coast of Newfoundland is a group of islands. The biggest is Miquelon, but most of the population is on the island of St. Pierre, which is also the name of the town. There are many French place names in Canada, and a large percentage of Canadians still use French as their first language. But this island group is not part of Canada. It is legally French soil, the currency is euros and a telephone call from Canada to the islands is the same sky-high price as one to Paris.

It is an anomaly, and there is something compelling about such an anomaly. When the English and the French disputed control of Canada the English won and Canada is part of the Commonwealth. Why the English did not include St. Pierre and Miquelon in their conqueror's booty was not a detail that we came across in the tourist literature. If you know, please enlighten us via a comment.

After overdosing on gannets at Cape St Mary's we had to obtain information about ferries. Ferries between Newfoundland and St. Pierre, and ferries between Newfoundland and Nova Scotia.

• There are 2 or 3 ferries per day to St. Pierre, but only on a Wednesday is it possible to return on the same day and avoid the very expensive accommodation on French soil. They leave from a small town with the delightful name, Fortune.
• Ferries to Nova Scotia depart from Port Aux Basque and Argentia, both routes arriving in Nova Scotia at North Sydney. The Argentia route is longer, 16 hours versus 7, and more expensive, but we were already in Southeast Newfoundland, near Argentia. Driving to Port Aux Basque would require a lot more time and significantly more fuel. It was cheaper for us to take the 16-hour overnight ferry from Argentia. When does it sail? “It's near the end of the season. This week is the last Thursday sailing, then there are boats on the next two Saturdays. That's all.”

It was now Monday afternoon. A day and a bit was ample time to drive to Fortune. We established that if we went to St. Pierre on Wednesday we would have most of Thursday to reach Argentia, since check-in was 3:30pm for the 5:30pm sailing time. That was not difficult if we did not dawdle.

The way to Fortune took us along a tourist highway with a most appropriate name.

Very basic eateries may be found in quite odd places. This one was alongside Highway 210 (the Heritage Run) and still open despite apparently doing no business at all. We decided to treat ourselves to a night without cooking and braved Doreen's all-fried menu. The food was OK, and Doreen was very friendly. When we asked if she knew somewhere nearby where we could park for the night she pointed at the large, empty space beside a neighbouring automotive repair shop. “They won't mind.” And they didn't.

Tuesday's drive to Fortune was very easy. We stopped in Grand Bank because it had a library where, as is usual in Canada, we could access free wi-fi and keep in touch with the world. The librarian also put us on to a very nice cafe for lunch. The route to the cafe took us past the Grand Bank Post Office and some overdue posting of cards and presents was done. And to complete our chores for the day there was a thrift shop in the same building as the library. The Salvation Army was pleased to accept our excess cutlery (Gregory was provided with 17 dinner knives, for example), a coffee-making machine we never used even if we had mains power and a mirror that was constantly slipping off its brackets.

The ferry ticketing office was closed when we arrived in Fortune on Tuesday afternoon. They had a large, empty car park and we were about to be customers so we parked for the night. We bought our tickets as soon as there was evidence of activity on Wednesday morning.

Clutching our tickets, we walked to the port through a drizzly, blustery wind and queued at passport control. This was an international voyage, remember. The customs officers processed us courteously and we went aboard the ferry. It left near enough on time and eased its way out of the harbour.

The bay was initially sheltered, but as the land dropped away the wind made itself felt. The sea wasn't exactly rough, but it was irregular enough to make the boat lurch now and then. The crew were ready with cold, wet paper towels as the motion got to some of the passengers. Rain hammered against the windows. For some, it was not a happy crossing.

In St. Pierre Bill's New Zealand passport got a stamp. Eve's UK one did not. Presumably that will change after Brexit. We had our waterproofs on, and by George we needed them. French rain poured down. St. Pierre has some fame on account of its bakeries. We sought shelter in one. The prices were very high, but the coffee was good and the sandwiches, in lengths of really crusty baguette, were excellent. We were served by a native of Papua New Guinea, who spoke only a modest amount of French but fluent English. Her husband is a British marine biologist doing research in St. Pierre.

The bakery – Les Delices de Josephine.

We had been warned that all shops, except those serving food, closed for 2 hours at lunch time. It was true. We squelched through the town.

The streets of St. Pierre.

The same sort of rubbish boxes as we had seen in Labrador and Newfoundland, but with the addition of a green, recycling bin.

Truly civilised. They have a rugby school!

A splash of colour in this garden.

A retailer's hours of business. We learned later that even the supermarket and petrol station close for lunch.

Even the rubbish box is purple.

The good ship pinball wizard.

Bill had an idea. Maybe the museum is open. We found the way using a map that was so wet it was falling apart. The museum does indeed shun 2-hour lunch breaks. It only closes for 90 minutes. We gave up and sought refuge in the Tourist Information Office. The staff were eating, but at least the doors aren't shut and we were invited to sit down. On another chair was a lady from the ferry. She had been sea-sick on the way over, and was still pasty-faced and feeling ill.

There was a bus tour of the island leaving at 2pm. At least we would be dry inside the bus. We rested our legs until it was time to leave, and braced ourselves against the elements. What's this? The rain had not quite stopped, but it was close. And the wind had dropped.

Probably the best part of the tour was the history and other information that came out in the commentary. The guide was in his final year of high school and, because there is no tertiary education on the island he and his mates will have to go to France or Canada.

Since the cod fishery collapsed the island has to rely on tourism and government support. A very high percentage of the population is employed by the government – do they really need 35 policemen? - at salaries that are 30-40% higher than they would be in France proper because the cost of living is so high. There is enough farming, mainly on Miquelon, to feed the locals, but almost everything else has to be imported.

Most streets in the town are one-way and parking allowed on one side only – if at all.

An unusual garden ornament.

A small sample of the St. Pierre coast.

By the time the tour was over the weather had changed to weak sunshine in a mostly blue sky. We promenaded the shoreline with anther couple from the morning ferry.

Our ferry's sister ship leaves St. Pierre.

The colourful boat sheds along the shingly beach.

Tourists are invited to visit lighthouses all over the Atlantic coast.

By the time our return ferry left port the sea was so flat you could hardly tell you were afloat. Even the very seasick lady was able to return to Fortune without further distress.

Rather than spend another night in Fortune, which isn't especially attractive, we drove a few kilometers up the coast to a small rest area near Frenchman's Cove. There was a beach and a nice sea view.

Because we had almost all of the following day to get to Argentia, retracing much of our journey from Cape St. Mary's, we decided to indulge in a couple of detours.

We were already on the minor road to Frenchman's Cove and Garnish, so we followed it until it looped back and rejoined the highway.

A few houses in Garnish

A grander house in or near Garnish.

We were delighted to see that we were close to a village named Come By Chance.

You are already familiar with Gregory, our motor home. Let us now introduce you to Malcolm-Edgar. He is our Tomtom GPS and an invaluable member of the team, although he has been known to issue totally confusing instructions on rare occasions. How he came by this name is a long story and probably of no interest to anyone but ourselves.

Someone – we have forgotten who – had recommended that we visit Burin. The area is known as the Burin Peninsula, so it is probably an old-established town. We set Malcolm-Edgar to take us there. He did give directions and the paper map confirmed that we were in Burin, but there was no town. There were certainly houses and occasional businesses along the road, but nothing that could be called a town centre.

Never mind the lack of sightseeing, we were very low on gasoline and had been counting on finding fuel in Burin. Gregory has a very large fuel tank, and we have a range of more than 600km (almost 400 miles). Normally we fill when the gauge is at about ⅜ full, but we carry an Ultramar loyalty card, which gives a useful discount at the pump, and it's worth waiting until we find the right brand.

Now we were at the stage of taking any brand at any price. Aha. Malcolm-Edgar knows where gas stations are. Let's ask him to find the nearest one. The wretched machine suggested a station on Highway 1, 140km away. You could almost hear him snigger. We certainly wouldn't make it that far. Hang on – do the residents of Burin drive 140km to get fuel? Of course not. Didn't we see a gas station in Maryville two days ago? We have to go that way anyway. Over the crest of the 2^nd hill, even before we got into Maryville, there were TWO gas stations, both advertising the same low price. One of them was an Ultramar station, and on Thursdays they give double discount! Whew.

With the fuel tank full all we had to do was drive to Argentia. We didn't need Malcolm-Edgar, but we had him on anyway. The biggest figure on his screen is the distance to the next instruction – usually the place we leave the road we are currently driving on. Driving North along Highway 210 the next turn was where we joined Highway 1. Occasionally there was a road sign that gave the same information. It was comforting to see that they tallied. Except they didn't always. When the road sign indicated 104km Malcolm-Edgar said 108km. Huh? Let's check again at the next signpost, where Malcolm-Edgar was down to 103 or 104km. The road sign told us 109km. We've got 5km further away???

Who put the signs up in the wrong places, then?

We felt like old hands when we drew up at the ferry terminal. We gave our booking number and were directed to a numbered line, with a short queue of vehicles in it. A smiling young lady approached us. “Do you have any potatoes, other root vegetables or onions on board?” We were used to questions like that at the New Zealand border, but we are not leaving Canada on this voyage. It turns out that there is an organism in Newfoundland soil that the rest of Canada does not want. We were allowed to keep our onion if we cut it up so it could not be planted later, but the potatoes were confiscated.

The route to the ferry then went through a shed, where two more ladies were enthusiastically spraying high pressure water over each vehicle. Gregory is, of course, kept scrupulously clean by a regime of leaving him outside whenever it rains. However, we are sure he enjoyed this shower bath, which included a good blast underneath at all those hard-to-get-at places.

Waiting to be loaded onto a ferry is always tedious. This veteran car attracted a fair bit of attention from drivers wandering around the lines of queuing vehicles.

If it were allowed, we would have self-catered and slept in our motor home, but once you have left your vehicle you are not allowed back on the garage decks until the ship has docked again.

We could have had a private cabin for the overnight journey for a little matter of $200. We have sat up overnight in trains, trains that become buses (see I dreamed of the Orient Express in August 2015) and aircraft so we kept our money. For we cheapskates there were large, comfortable chairs that reclined like those in an aircraft. There was a little more leg room than Air New Zealand cattle class, but not much. However, there was much more room to walk about, a bar and two eating places on the ship, so overall it was much more pleasant than flying. The more modest of the eateries offered a buffet dinner and breakfast at a reasonable tariff. There was even a shower, but we didn't know that in advance so we didn't have towels with us.

And on the Friday morning we drove off the ferry onto Nova Scotian soil.