Up n around the Cabot Trail and stuff. 375 miles

Because mine is being able to cycle from Dunvegan to Inverness in under the hour!

Ok, not my best joke. Even my Dad said it wasn’t very funny, and he’s the master of unfunny jokes – he’s spent too much time in New Zealand to still find the naming of places after Scottish places, and the strange geographical juxtaposition of them, entertaining. But it kept me going for that hour at a point in time when my legs were struggling (the Scottish distance would be 128 miles, which would take me – what, say, two hours?!) Over the course of the last six days I have continued up the Eastern shore from Charlos Cove to the Canso Canal which separates Cape Breton from mainland Nova Scotia, up the Ceilidh Trail along the SW coast of Cape Breton, around the Cabot Trail which loops through the Highlands National park, up to Meat Cove at the far north of Cape Breton, and back down to Baddeck, 40 miles north of the Canso Canal. I’ve got limited time before I catch the Amtrak train in upstate New York, and I’m keen to leave enough time to cycle the scenic Route 100 in Vermont, so I’m now enjoying a rest day in a campsite here before catching the bus back to Halifax tomorrow. My first ‘cheat’ of the tour; I’m owning it!

My first day north along the eastern shore dragged somewhat; it was a bit like cycling just for the sake of cycling. The mist was thick, the drizzle persistent. Not even the word dreich covered it. This was wet drizzle, and my carefully planned campspot down a track beside a remote beach felt way too bleak in this weather, so I retraced my steps to a small opening in the trees not far off the road. The advantage of the lack of scenery was that my mind turned to poetry – a first draft response to Elizabeth Bishop’s poem ‘The Fish Houses’, of which I’ve passed many.

There is nobody here just now to talk to
so instead I write back through the past.
The air smells of our rottenness. Decades of it.
Centuries even. Going spare.

The fishing boats sit still. Tethered to the pier.
Their work for the day already done. Early starts ahead.
The light in the sky reminds me of apocalypse.
All of those we’ve lived through. And some beyond.

Earlier that evening I’d set to the lobster on my plate.
Pinker than nature. Cracking the husk of its back in two.
Ripping its limbs from its body, and scraping – sucking –
out the flesh within. To salivate. It was delicious.

My words have an air of rottenness.
Are you even listening?

I wouldn’t listen if I were you.
I’m only passing through here.
Whose world to speak of. Whose home.
And depths of water. Simply. Everywhere.

I make myself sound super virtuous. Yes of course I think in verse when I’ve a spare moment. I’m a poet don’t you know? Don’t you? More truthfully, if you stopped me at any point in time while cycling I’d be more likely thinking about food than anything else. That I’ve just eaten. That I might soon eat. And Christmas dinner – the other day I found myself looking forward to Christmas dinner of all things! I’ve learned that if I ever find myself adopting a thousand yard stare then it means I need to eat. Soon. It’s only just over six months until Christmas dinner.

The next morning wasn’t much better weatherwise, but as I approached the Canso canal the rain began to ease; at one point it was raining on my right arm, but not my left! So what – I was a weather front now? Scarcely a superpower that would cut it with the kids either. It was only when I hit the main highway north at the canal that I realised how remote the places I’d been cycling through had been. Look look – a service station! Toilets! People on their holidays! And how busy the main highway was. Apparently most cycle tourists to Nova Scotia blast up this highway straight to Cape Breton and blast back- I’d rather have offered myself up for dinner to the mosquitos (of which there have been many). So perhaps that was exactly what I had done.

But wow. Cape Breton. It was like even the sun knew that the place needed showing off. I spent most of that afternoon cycling along a coastal trail cycle path towards Mabou, where I’d hoped to stay with a warmshowers host. Two kids passed by on their motorbikes with their Mum. They must have been all of 3 years old and 5. The five year old dared to lift her hands off the handlebars to wave at me! Because that’s what the Nova Scotians do. Wave. Say hello. Ask if you’re going far. Even though  was in a more touristic part of the province, the friendliness didn’t let up. Unfortunately the warmshowers host wasn’t able to put me up after all since he needed to be up at 1am to work the boats. Yet I regret not following his suggestion of checking out some new wave celtic fiddle music just outside town. The write up of the musicians sounded incredible, and it would have been interesting to hear what Canadians make of Celtic music ( I’d passed a sign en route saying this was the ‘home’ of Celtic music – errmmmm!) The music barn allowed camping too, but the combined cost of camping and concert ticket would have blown my daily budget out the water. My campspot down by West Mabou beach was spectacular anyway, but it was good to note that sometimes I need to ignore my budget, and just enjoy the opportunities that present themselves. It’s all a learning experience in the process of getting into the swing of this, I guess.

Due north I continued, the sun holding, and me cycling as if it were my superpower through Dunvegan to Inverness and on to Cheticamp, an Acadian community which announced itself by a group of locals changing into speaking French from English as I approached! The last time that happened to me was in a bar in the Outer Hebrides, although of course on that occasion the locals had shifted into Gaelic. I hadn’t realised that the Cape Breton Highlands National Park charged a daily entry fee, and this posed a challenge to my plans to continue another ten miles into the park that evening. I spotted a nice area down by the river though, and headed that way, only to find out that the National Park authority had had the same thought and made a campsite there! Bugger. Nothing for it. I headed inside to ask how much it was per night. The poor lad at reception – he caught me at a time of day when I was tired and hungry.

‘I was wondering if you could tell me how much it is for the cheapest campspot per night?’ I asked. What struck me as a reasonable and fairly easy question, unless you’re stuck in the world of national park bureaucracy… In order to find this out he had to take my name, date of birth, home address, email address, phone number and bra size to register me on the system. I was already becoming frustrated. But eventually I got a price. $28 – three quarters of my daily budget (did they not do reduced fees for small bra sizes?) but hey ho. I did need a shower. He pointed out where the relevant pitches were on a map.

‘And is the price of showers included?’ I’d looked at another campsite where it was extra.

‘Oh, you want a spot by the toilet block – no problem!’

‘No, no, no, no, I just wanted to know whether this was extra!’ Having spent the last however many nights camped wild, the idea of the toilet block pitch horrified me.

No. Showers included.

‘And could I purchase a pass for tomorrow for the National Park please?’

‘Oh, you need one of them for the campsite too. That’s another $9.’

The campsite wasn’t even in the park. My hangriness won; I gave up and headed once more down to the local beach, not far from a wonderful Acadian bakery which I was glad of the following morning. A breakfast of blueberry scone with a cookie on the side and some mediocre coffee, which at least I hadn’t had to make, on a picnic bench. In the rain. But the bad weather didn’t last long as I embarked on the most remarkable following 42 miles through the National Park. Turned out the first 1600 foot climb at a 12% gradient was just the warm up. Down I swept to Pleasant Bay, which more than lived up to its name, and back up another 1600 foot climb at a steady 14%, kilometre after kilometre! Back home in Yorkshire, or the Lakes, 20 to 25% climbs aren’t that uncommon. But it’s something else fully loaded. There is nothing like the experience of cycling at 3.4 mph up a slope, blowing smoke from your bum, while the mosquitos and other biting bugs feast upon you, to make you feel less like a superhero than ever before. I would have been as fast walking – but I didn’t! And the thumbs ups from drivers kept me going. As did the prospect of the descent on the other side. The bonus of my luggage is the momentum you gain while going downhill. Family can stop reading here – I reached 44.3 mph at one point! I yelled out encouragement to the South Korean young man I saw cycling up the other side as I swept past. He probably called me something unsavoury.

That night I experienced yet more Nova Scotian kindness. Back in Charlos Cove, the restaurant where I ate my lobster (The Seawind Landing) had not only served up the most delicious, incredibly well priced food, but looked after me so well. The host of the Airbnb where I was staying works there, and extended as warm a welcome as she had to her cabin by the lake (Ronnie’s Cabin), while the owners showed a genuine interest in my trip, as have the many cafes I’ve passed through (Main Street in Ingonish, the Clucking Hen en route to Baddeck). That evening it was the turn of the Hideaway campsite owners just outside Dingwall, who let me camp in their garden for free since the campsite wasn’t yet open for the season. And then outdoing them all, my current campsite (Baddeck Cabot Trail campground) who not only agreed to a reduced rate since I’m a solo cycling traveller, but also upgraded me to a cabin for two nights for free since (a) it was raining and (b) they like adventurers! The owners are German, but the Nova Scotian kindness has certainly rubbed off on them.

The  next morning I left my bags hidden amongst some wood piles for a beautifully sunny there and back ride to Meat Cove at the far north of the island. I expected to cycle super fast without the weight, but interestingly I went no faster – the momentum you can gain on a loaded bike once you get going really is something. And then back south to Ingonish, where I enjoyed a mighty burger in a roadside restaurant having messed up the times of local grocery stores (oh poor poor me). Another night by the beach, and a last (misty, rainy) 67 miles to just south of Baddeck. And here I am.

Tomorrow I will catch the bus from Wagmatcook, the oldest Mi’kmaq community in Nova Scotia, which is just down the road from here. I’ve been struck on my travels so far by how invisible indigenous culture has so far been, and how few First Nation peoples I’ve met until now, at least compared to New Zealand where Maori culture is so much more prominent. All of the local history signs are about the Scottish and French ‘pioneers’. The First nation population is admittedly small – 19,000 out of a total Nova Scotia population of 1 million. But it is sad, and feels rather wrong, that there is not more of a sense of their culture. More of a celebration of it. As a Scot, I’ve realised that I tend to blame the English for being the colonising power in the UK, but Nova Scotia is a good reminder of the role of the Scots in colonising parts of the world. It’s humbling. Hard not to feel a bit ashamed. Most of the place signs in Cape Breton are also translated into Gaelic – or French, depending whether you are cycling through a Scottish settled area or French (Acadian) one – although, strangely, they tend to only translate half of the French signs, so that Black Cove becomes Anse Black, as if the translator ran out of steam half way (je pense que je voudrais smoke a little Gauloise now merci please). But I’ve not seen one sign in Mi’kmawi’sink at all.

I’m aware that I make it sound like it’s all been a freewheel in the park. Of course, things have gone wrong too. I camped once amongst poison ivy, and didn’t realise until too late (thankfully my careful process of washing everything and not having been outside the tent much prevented me from the awful rash). I spilt my aeropress with almost boiling water in it over my ankle, which blistered nastily – fortunately I’ve brought along lots of first aid kit this time around, and the Savlon and gauze have prevented infection. And sometimes my legs and back have grumbled at me. But none of this is anything like the troubles I experienced back home in the last 6 months or so, in order to get here. I only received the right antibiotics for a nasty chest infection at the last gasp after several months of feeling constantly breathless.

But I won’t end on a negative note. I am so pleased that I chose to begin my cycle tour here. The alternative had been Alaska, and I’ve appreciated having a far easier start than the Alaskan wilds would have provided. Yes, there are black bears, but no grizzlies; round about here I’d have been really unlucky to have encountered a bear – or lucky, depending on your perspective. Unlucky not to have seen one in the distance. Outwith chasing distance. Lucky not to have one sidle up to camp and ask to share my roasted Edamame peas. Amongst the other wildlife I have seen there has been a coyote, red squirrels, chipmunks, and a bald headed eagle. Strangely, I haven’t seen a single seal. I’d have bet away my superpowers that I’d have seen lots of seals. But perhaps they received the memo about my lack of superpowers and decided that showing up wasn’t worth their effort.