Reassuringly, I wake up in the same place I fell asleep – opposite the yacht club. I smile gratefully at no-one other than myself that the house I’m in didn’t fall down or get blown over overnight or otherwise sink down to the depths of the ocean, to Davy Jones’s Locker, if only for the fact that those yacht club members don’t get to see me in my nautical sleepwear – a pirate onesie.
Happy with this turn of events, I nevertheless eat my maple syrup porridge breakfast in semi-darkness, surrounded by the décor and paraphernalia of someone who’s no longer here. And the ghostly parrot has long since flown the nest, more’s the pity.
Outside, bright light, blue skies – which I only discover when I pull open the musty floral-print curtains. A cloud of dust accompanies this daybreak curtain-raiser.
Thankfully, this isn’t quite the end of the line which I was nervous about last night, but a fresh start: a new day and a new beginning, in a new province – Nova Scotia.
I say farewell and thanks to my host, before leaving – something which I am genuinely pleased to be doing.
Up the road, two stoney-faced lions are sitting guard outside of the stone slab tower, overlooking the picturesque horseshoe bay and the hidden cove.
The tower is empty and seems to serve no purpose whatsoever, other than to say – hey! we’re great we can build a great big stone tower and get other provinces to sponsor it and pay for it. And Ireland!
I climb up the hundred steps or so to the very top, to see a spectacular view out of the square window, where I’m met by a gentle sea breeze which suddenly whips up into an almighty gale, and on stepping out to the platform I find myself briefly caught in the violent headwind, forcing a quick retreat.
The turbulence appears to carry in yet more blue sky (if that’s possible), framing from above the sparkling blue water which the white boats bob about in, semi-confused; which way to look?
I fly with the breeze down the coast to Peggy’s Cove, arriving at precisely the same time as a thousand lighthouse enthusiasts who seemingly have never actually seen a lighthouse, arriving here on day-tripper tourist coaches. To be fair, there are warning signs everywhere.
Everyone piles out of buses and rental cars, modern-day smartphone warriors barging each other out of the way for the killer shot of the lighthouse, of the crashing waves over the smirking rocks.
Minutes later the results will be liberally shared on social media.
Of course, I crawl over the rocks doing the very same, being careful not to get washed away. Especially since I left my armbands back in the UK.
In the early afternoon heat, an ice cream van is a welcome site – it shouts ‘I can give you what you want!’ … until I realise it’s selling bloody lobster. What a life! We’re all brought up as kids in England to run out excitedly whenever we hear Mr Whippy meandering down the road in his decrepit Bedford van, whereas the offspring here are listening out for the frickin’ luxury lobster truck cruising on by, blaring out Chopin or Beethoven.
I take a rain check on a crustacean lunch … I have a cheese sandwich to work through, a regular arrangement.
Prospect is a better prospect – it has a better prospect – and perhaps more importantly has no tourist masses to spoil my day, mainly because the oversized coaches can’t make it down the narrow twisting road to the harbour here.
A Canadian flag flies proudly at the end of the village road, a dead-end, where life briefly pauses. It’s a mighty agreeable outlook, enjoying some welcome calm and solitude after the overcrowded mania of Peggy’s Cove.
When I press play again, I end up on the other side of the province, in a smart cottage near Annapolis Royal with a ridiculous view.
Busy grazing next door, a cow called Party Girl. It’s a good job there isn’t room in the hot tub for her, where I take my early evening beer … that would be a little awkward.
At the private beach at the end of the long sloping garden, it’s easy to find a seat on a rock to enjoy another Canadian, although before long I’m nearly getting washed away.
A few short hours later and the whole beach and the huge boulders are completely underwater, thinking things over.
The day today reflects the effects of the Fundy tide, I figure – going from the lowest of lows to the highest of highs within mere hours.
For now, I’m working like a captain, playing like a pirate, surveying the maritime scene from up in my crow’s nest … I’m all shiver me timbers, grog on, onesie on.
An Outside World 