(Halifax airport to Charlos Cove – 234 miles, 1 – 5 June 2024)

‘Are you going far?’

I hesitate a moment. I’ve already realised, only a few days in, that I can choose how to answer this. I could just mention my next stop that night, or I could disclose the full nature of my trip. I’m in the car park of Foodland, packing supplies into my panniers in a small town called Sheet Harbour which I’ve spent the last half hour of cycling entertaining myself by imagining it was named by a disgruntled French sailor (solo cycle touring can become more than a little solipsistic. I’ve already replayed my own joke at least a dozen times, and it hasn’t stopped being funny).

‘Around the world,’ I reply, immediately berating myself for making such a claim when I’ve only cycled about 125 miles, and my gear still looks suspiciously shiny.

A nearby elderly woman pauses from opening her car door, turns round and asks ‘really?’ I nod, and she drives off chuckling.

The man who had asked the question responds by telling me he cycles 15km every day.

I smile. ‘That’s awesome.’ And I mean it.

‘So what’s your favourite thing so far about Nova Scotia?’

I don’t need to hesitate about this one. ‘The people. The incredible friendliness of the people.’

The honest truth is that I’ve been blown away these first few days by the welcome from the Nova Scotians. I got a puncture on the outskirts of Halifax and a young bloke stopped and asked if I was ok (not in any sexist way – he just wanted to help out). I stopped another time to stretch and a guy came out of his garden to check ‘all was good in the hood?’ Everyone I pass waves or says hello or gives a thumbs up. And I’ve already got the overwhelming sense that Nova Scotia is in a happier way than the UK, which strikes me, with the benefit of distance, as fairly miserable, run-down and more than a little bit broken. Of course, I’m only scratching the surface of the place, but one gets a vibe.

It’s 6^th June and I’m writing from a fairly remote but perfectly formed Airbnb in Charlos Cove, Guysborough province, which I booked in order to present a talk via Zoom to a conference in Dublin this morning. So, the smart top I have brought with me has at least been worn once – they weren’t to know that I was wearing joggers underneath (retro lockdown style. It will come back around. You heard it first here). When I landed in Halifax International Airport last Saturday (1^st June), I was amazed by the relaxed nature of security, and how unfazed everyone seemed by me rebuilding my bike in the airport concourse. As one airport employee said to me, ‘you’re not the first person we’ve seen rebuild a bike!’ But but but…this wasn’t just any bike. Or any trip. Couldn’t he tell? I was off around the world! The world, mate, the world! On this occasion, having so far cycled zero miles, I kept this to myself.

The cycling app Komoot is renowned for its ‘interesting’ route choices if you choose ‘bike touring’ as your means of travel, not infrequently sending you off down paths which are far from passable with a road bike and full panniers. But having checked Google satellite before leaving, I decided to trust the track which cut ten miles off my route to Dartmouth (just outside Halifax), and was repaid with no traffic for a good half of the distance, only a few hundred metres where I had to push, and no carrying. Lucky that, since there is no chance in hell of my carrying my load without unpacking. When I first packed, my panniers weighed 16kg, but it’s certainly more like 23kg now. I’d like to think I might rationalise as I realise what I need and don’t – bearing in mind how I’m a keen photographer, I’m surprised that I’ve not really used my proper camera yet. In transit, it’s just far easier to use my phone. But for a potentially 18 month trip I do feel the need for more stuff than the minimum with which I usually tour. The most convincing weight I will lose is off myself after all, which will doubtless amount to more than the weight of a discarded t-shirt (all the new clothes I’ve bought are deliberately a little bit too small after my experience of trousers falling off me on my last long cycle tour). The relationship between my digestive system and trail meals may yet speed this along.

My first night was spent in the house of a Warmshowers host in Dartmouth, a fairly hipster suburb of Halifax. As badly named as it might be, Warmshowers is a wonderful thing – a network of cycle tourists the world over who reciprocally offer a free bed or space to camp to fellow cyclists. My hosts weren’t even at home, yet trusted their lovely little house to me in their absence, and while it was a shame not to meet, it was good to land and find my feet (down there, I discovered, relieved) without needing to socialise. Perhaps we’ll meet when I return to Halifax in a week or so. I’d like that.

My last weeks in the UK ended up being fairly fraught and busy, so it didn’t surprise me to realise the next morning that I’d already messed up my early plans. The conference paper which I was due to deliver later that week was on Thursday, not Friday, so I had one day less to reach my destination. Out went the fairly gentle first few days of mileage. In came cracking on with it. An easy first day in Halifax was also out – I needed to sort out some admin, head downtown in Halifax to pick up some bear spray and trail meals, and get on the road! I’ve a tradition of getting a puncture on the first day of cycle tours. I could have happily scrapped that tradition as I became further delayed in the outskirts of town. My spare tube was at the bottom of my bags. It was raining… There is good reason why I don’t really cycle tour, or at least not camping-tour, in Scotland these days. I’m not sure why I imagined that the Nova Scotian weather would be much better. The wind was as persistent as the rain, and the thermometer reached a heady 13 degrees. Small wins – at least there weren’t midges.

My companion out of town was the insistent voice of Mrs Komoot, who on this occasion led me down the most amazing cycle paths that I would never otherwise have known about. I hesitated initially at the line of the route – straight across the middle of the bay – but the perfectly surfaced greenway cut right across the saltflats. I even had my first sight of a Canadian beaver, shuffling off the path like an out-of-puff old man, who seemed just as pissed off about the rain as I was, which seemed a bit out of character for an amphibian creature. I saw a hare. Some seagulls. Mallard ducks – how bloody ordinary. Had they flown all the way from Rochdale canal, just like me? Probably.

Since my first night camping, hidden behind some greenery at the side of an estuary off a side road, I’ve notched up a further 184 miles over the last three days. Night two under canvas in the most remarkable situation behind Taylor’s Park beach (not entirely allowable, admittedly, but by the time I got there I was committed, and enjoyed the moment.) Night three in a meadow just outside the small town of Sherbrooke, which is at least half 19^th century museum town I realised as I accidentally walked in the ‘back door’ and had to reverse manoeuvre through the entrance gate. And then last night the shock of a massive bed in the Airbnb, and other home comforts. To feel clean isn’t over-rated.

I can’t possibly write about Nova Scotia (and I am sure Canada more generally) without mentioning the trees. Always trees – I felt some relief as I cycled over more exposed headlands yesterday and the landscape opened up slightly, even if the mixed woodlands are also fascinating. Last year I read How to Read a Tree by Tristan Gooley, and I enjoyed tracing the story of who was winning, losing, thriving, surviving amongst the verge-side species as I passed by. The turtle kinds of tree. The hares. The pioneers. The survivors.

There is also lots of water – not just the Atlantic, a stunning coastline, and estuary and cove one after another. Rivers. Lakes (which they should surely call lochs, no)? I’ve already taken a ferry across an inlet at County Harbour, and got into a great chat with the ferryman. He has the second best job in the world. Not sailing the boat. Not navigating. Not even letting down the ramp. Not taking money (it’s free). Simply chatting to passengers and pointing vehicles in the right direction off the ferry, as if there were many other attractive options! (the best job is held by the traffic attendant in Tarbert, Harris, who one time I visited seemed to be stopping the traffic to speak to his friends for want of any work to do). Yet amidst so much water it has felt particularly frustrating trying to work out how to source enough for me to drink. It’s not like Spain, where every village has a fountain. I’m yet to figure out my water filtration system, and constantly having to buy and transport it in large quantities isn’t ideal. The supermarket café refused to refill my bottles, in a rare moment of unhelpfulness. And someone will probably catch me out eventually refilling them from the reverse osmosis water fillers in supermarkets, especially since I’ve now been reliably informed that this isn’t a lovely courtesy but is meant to be paid for. Bugger. Innocence (naivete, stupidity) can be a bonus. It had seemed too good to be true.

So yes, all is good in the hood, thank you. I’ve felt very safe and welcome. The chest infection that has plagued me over recent months has cleared up, and I have got my puff back. I’ve not met one other cycle tourist, which at least makes me feel special. I’ve managed to flip my brain into academic mode this morning to write and deliver my paper. My clothes are washed and drying. Thanks to the generosity of a friend, I’m heading out tonight to eat lobster for dinner in an inn (The Seawind Landing) which comes on the high recommendation of my new ferryman friend. And my muscles are poised for a far more hilly next 6 days in Cape Breton than the rolling landscape I’ve cycled thus far. If the forecast is correct, I’ll be even more weather beaten and windblown by next time I check in. The thermometer might even reach 18 degrees! And hey, if the weather ever makes me start wondering whether I ever really left Scotland, I’ll know because we cut down our trees long ago, because of the wonderful local drawling accent, because they have turned our flag inside out and because nobody hereabouts has taken their ‘tap aff’ yet on those occasions the sun made its brief appearance.