Atlantic Canada Part 4

Yesterday when I left the ferry I headed south, mostly on motorways as I was heading for Halifax and didn’t want to arrive too late. I had it in my mind that I ought to see Halifax again. My one visit was several years ago when we were holidaying in the Bay of Fundy and we did a day trip to Halifax, it was raining and I have a vague recollection of an interesting bridge that we crossed to get to the downtown area. I’m not entirely sure why I had this desire to see more of the city and in any event getting acquainted with a city takes a bit more time than I have available, so I’m not left with real impression, other than there is still an interesting bridge, and the part of the downtown that I saw is less interesting and a bit grubbier than I like. Perhaps the problem is due to Uber, or the lack thereof. I had found cheap lodgings (as I am want to do) a few kilometres from the city centre, got myself cleaned up and summonsed an Uber to take me downtown. Rather attempted to summons an Uber, guess what, Uber does not operate in Halifax. The motel gave me the number of a cab company, but they were not into answering their phone, so I got kitted up and rode into town – over the interesting bridge – parked the bike and wandered around for half-an-hour, but my desire to ‘hang out’ had left me. I rode back, stopped at a supermarket and got some ham and cheese for supper, which I ate in my room, oh lonesome me.

Part of the reason for the Halifax stop was to ride Highway 7, and that at least justified the decision. As I right this I have a really super day of riding under the belt. It was about 10 a.m. when I pulled away, I had waited for a light rain to stop before packing the bike. It was misty, but pleasantly cool, I have struggled a little with the heat and humidity, so this was a nice break, but I knew that it would rob me of some of the great views I had hoped for. Nonetheless, the mist added some extra magic and riding through the forestry bits and hills was something I won’t easily forget. One thing I can say about Halifax that even only a few kilometers out from the center you are already in the countryside, so I doubt that too many people have a really horrible commute. If I were to work in Halifax, then somewhere around Highway 7 about 10 Km out would be the pace to live. Highway 7 morphs into a motorway, the 107, but offers the option of turning off and carrying on with Highway 7, which I do. The road is wet from the mist and I know from bitter experience that this is when a road is at it’s most slippery, it’s really greasy, so I am riding with care. Mist notwithstanding, and some bad patches of blacktop, this is a great motorcycling road. Lovely sweeping curves and fabulous scenery. The road is following the coast line, which is not long even beaches, but is broken with dozens of narrow inlets, which makes for some spectacular sights that even the mist is unable to hide from me.

I make a stop at Sheet Harbour, by now I’m reasonably hungry and need to make use of the facilities. I spot this ‘Information Centre’ and turn off. What a little treasure, old fashioned, but spotless toilet, a neat picnic area, the information center is manned by two youths (one male and one female, but I will still say ‘manned’), neatly dressed including fancy tartan ties - wish I had taken a picture – and they really know their stuff. There is also a museum of sorts with a higgledy-piggeldy collection which makes for a fascinating fifteen minutes. I eat my packed lunch, left overs from last night’s supper, and carry on. The mist starts to lift and I can pick up the pace a tad, it’s just such an awesome ride, I’d recommend to anyone to try this one. There are a few motorcycles out and quite by chance three of us end up riding as a group. It’s nice, we stick together for almost 30 Km then all stop at Sherbrooke for gas, where we get to meet and chat. Highway 7 leaves the coast at this point and goes inland, but there is an option to carry on with a road that follows the coast. The lassie at the information center told me that the coast road is quite bad, and the clouds seem to be threatening rain that way, so I take the inland route, I should get to the starting point of the Cabot Trail by 4.30 at the latest. As it turns out I decide to stop about 20 km shy of the starting point for the Cabot Trail.

Great little Information Center - Sheet Harbour 

Nova Scotia, New Scotland, sometimes even more Scots than the old one, especially here where I have stopped for the night in Cape Breton. I’m staying in a village with the unpronounceable name, for me anyway, of Whycocomagh, which seems to be part of a larger municipality of Inverness. I don’t think it gets more Scottish than that, I have seen signposts in English and Celtic, and the local supermarket has some signs in English and Celtic. Apparently this branch of Celtic is called Canadian Gaelic, and is spoken as a native tongue by 300 people and total speakers is about 2500, according to Wikipedia anyway, so it’s not about to become the lingua franca, and I don’t have to learn the three key words needed to get by, hullo, please and thank you. Nova Scotians have a distinctive accent, it’s sort of standard North American with added Scots. I have passed a sign that read, ‘If it’s not Scottish, it’s crap’. Not sure what that referred to, but it does illustrate the point. It’s a bit like the English speakers in the Natal Midlands in South Africa that used to refer to England as ‘home’ but some of them had never set foot there.

I can’t say it has been a tough ride today, pleasant and interesting. Looking forward to the Cabot Trail.

Bald Eagle I spotted in the tree, then it flew off

Atlantic Canada Part 3

It’s damn tough to try to keep the blog posts current, so I hope my few readers do appreciate the efforts. Please leave comments, it would be nice to answer any comments or questions that you may have. 

New Brunswick is underrated and utterly beautiful. I hear so little about New Brunswick, (is there an old one, other than the one in Ohio?). Instead of dashing through this province I think I should have decided to spend the entire trip here. There are mountains, forests, lakes and oceans and without a doubt fabulous biking roads, I am putting a trip to thoroughly explore New Brunswick on the bucket list. Unfortunately, today I am just riding through, I suspect that is what most people do, pass through to get to the coast. Which takes me to my first complaint, I’m riding on the Trans Canada Highway, through the most gorgeous countryside, yet this province has provided ZERO, and I mean ZERO places where one can stop and rest and take in the view. No rest stops, no scenic outlook points, nothing. WTF, this is perhaps the loveliest province to drive through and the only places to stop for a rest are god-awful gas stations without a single tree to break the horror of the tarmac. Really, a leaf out of Quebec’s book is called for, actually the cousins down south do this really well. I am sure that I am not asking for billions from the provincial budget, just some creative thinking, a place to stop that has a view, with a picnic table and a chemical toilet would be a great start…and a few employees that travel around and tidy-up after the idiots that are unable to.   

So I ride through New Brunswick and stick to the Trans Canada, it’s not overly busy and the blacktop is in reasonable shape. New Brunswick is a really bilingual province, so everything is signposted in both languages, it’s nice, the rest of Canada should make more effort, guess me included. The other nice thing is a slightly more sensible speed limit, 110 km/h on the motorway, makes me more inclined to obey it. Actually as the day goes on and it gets hotter and hotter I find myself slowing down a bit and riding between 100 and 110, in sympathy with the KLR’s overworked 650 cc motor. It’s not really designed to be hammered at 125 in boiling heat all day long, so far it’s given me everything I have ever asked it for, but perhaps I am asking too much today. I’m also getting into a rhythm of stopping about every 100 km, even if it is only to stretch the legs for a few minutes and have a drink of water or Red Bull, the bony old backside is managing better this way, but as already complained about, all stopping has been at gas stations.

Finally, I reach Moncton and traffic is quite busy, the road to the PEI bridge is very busy and has some pretty rough patches. I am tired and the last stretch has me counting down the kilometers. I resolve to find a place to stay immediately upon crossing the bridge into PEI. For the benefit of my non-Canadian readers that stands for Prince Edward Island. It is a province of Canada, and an island in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, it has a population less than twice that of the town of Newmarket where I live, so I guess the provincial status is historical rather than practical.

Confederation Bridge

The bridge that connects PEI to New Brunswick called the ‘Confederation Bridge’ it’s about 13 Km long, impressive, but a mere plank across a puddle compared to the Danyang–Kunshan Grand Bridge in China which is almost 165 Km long. I must admit that one of the reasons for including PEI on the agenda was to ride over this bridge. It was fun, but honestly, not something I’d bother with again. Now that one in China… except it’s a rail bridge only. The ride today has been just north of 700 Km, and frankly I am done for, I find the nearest and dearest motel (it’s not too dear, but a lot for the basics that it provides) and get done for the night.

 

Morning arrives and I’m faced with some choices, tour around the island or move on. I decide to ride towards Wood Islands, where the ferry to Nova Scotia departs, and make up my mind along the way. I can’t say that I’m disappointed in PEI, because I really had no expectations, if I was to do a tour of Atlantic Canada, then that had to include PEI, right? It’s nice enough, and would be a great place to rent a cottage on the beach and chill out for a couple of weeks with friends or family, but from a motorcycling perspective, it’s ok, just not spectacular. Very rural, bits of forest left here and there, but mostly farming, and then mostly potatoes. Interesting, the spoil is red, just like the farming areas around where I grew up in the (then) Transvaal Highvelt. The rich red soil, lots of iron oxide. I decide to head for the ferry, potato fields are indeed a spectacle, but there are just so many that one needs to see.

I just manage to miss a ferry, so have a couple of hours to kill before the next one. There is a couple, about my age, they are riding on a Harley and we get chatting.

The couple from Saskatchewan 

It’s amazing the ice breaker that motorcycles are. Its also notable that it’s mostly my generation that are touring around on motorcycles, sure I see lots of young people riding, but it’s mostly sports bikes, naked bikes and café racers, short distance bikes that they favour, it takes an old geezer to want to ride 6000 km. The couple are from Saskatchewan, now that is a damn loooong ride. They are heading more or less in the same direction I am, so I may bump into them again, nice people. Another old guy on a big BMW GS, (like the one Ewan MacGregor rode) arrives, I met him earlier at the motel, he’s from North Carolina. He advises me to do the Cabot Trail, that definitely is on the list, weather depending, start Sunday or Monday. He says it’s best to go clockwise, so I’ll give that a try.  

Bikers chatting, waiting to board ferry

Not so Easy Rider with Bike tied don

View from ferry  

Live music.. he was actually quite a decent musician

Arriving in Nova Scotia

The ferry ride is nice. I like ferries as much as I like bridges, maybe more. This one has something I’ve not encountered before, live music. It’s awesome.  

Atlantic Canada Part 2

I didn’t want to own up to the diesel episode, but as it might save someone similar or worse, I thought I’d share. Late Wednesday afternoon the rain lets up and I decided to fill up the gas tank in the interest of getting away early in the morning. The gas station is on the quaint old fashioned side, with gas pumps that look a little like refrigerators, and a convenience store called ‘Quickie’. I don’t know about you, but I’ve always thought of a ‘quickie’ as something entirely different… anyway, they had two pumps, one has ‘regular’ on both ends, and the other has ‘premium’ on one and ‘diesel’ on the other. The KLR operates perfectly fine on regular, I know this, but still I always use premium in the hope that it keeps the engine cleaner and gets me that extra 2% of performance. So I pull up to the second pump... and reach for the yellow hose. Five litres in and it dawns on me that yellow is for diesel and red is for premium gasoline… shit, fuck, bugger. It could be worse, like I fill up and don’t notice, but it is not good. The lady on the cash tells me that she saw me reach for the diesel pump and thought that she had never seen a diesel bike before. Well me neither! Anyway she phones someone that has a workshop and ‘Dave’ agrees to come to my assistance. Dave smelled a buck to be made, but my choices are to dump the fuel out on the road and risk prosecution, call CAA and wait three hours or go with Dave. In the meantime, I get cracking with removing the gas tank, that starts with the silly plastic side panels, then the seat, only then can the tank be unbolted and lifted off, after removing the fuel pipes. The KLR comes with a small tool kit, when I work on the bike I don’t use it as my socket set is better to work with, but the toolkit actually has all the spanners that you need to do just about anything on the bike. When Dave arrives I am about to unbolt the gas tank, so it’s a matter of moments before he disappears with the tank, back to his workshop. One of the yokels, an old guy with a wife beater on and tattoos, keeps me company, he knows a lot about bikes and gives me a rundown on dirt bikes, road bikes and crossovers like mine, it’s nice, I learn a thing or two. Soon Dave returns with the empty tank and I can start to put it all back together. Dave asked for $40 for his trip to the workshop and back, and gets to keep the diesel gasoline mix, no doubt it’s useful as a cleaning agent or possibly he can cut it with more gas and use it, there were at least 15 litres of gas in the tank before the diesel.  As I said, could have been worse.

My plan is to set-out at the crack of dawn and cover 800 km to get inside New Brunswick. Ho, ho, ho, of mice and men. I manage to sleep like a baby, waking up crying every couple of hours. Ok, no crying, just waking up, so I set the alarm an hour later to compensate. For some reason it takes me forever to get myself towards myself and the bike packed and on the go. Today is not about scenic rides and nice twisters, I need to get across Quebec to start the adventures in Atlantic Canada, this means highway riding, tough all day, balls-to-the-wall riding. Just to set the record straight, I normally love riding in Quebec, it has some truly awesome biking roads. I also love travelling in Quebec period, it’s like travelling through a foreign country without the inconvenience of travelling in a foreign country. All this BS about the Quebecois making life tough for Anglophones, never experienced it. I can’t say my French is terrible, it’s completely non-existent, sadly, but I have always found the Quebecois to be friendly and helpful. Perhaps I can’t understand when they call me an ass-hole, but that’s ok, what the mind can’t conceive the heart does not grieve. I am not entirely a monoglot, my second language is Afrikaans, in which I am almost fluent, but it seems that my language learning years are in the past, I have tried to learn French, and failed miserably. The other thing I like about travelling in Quebec is the chance to say the few French words I do know, with my best French accent, bonjour, s'il vous plait and merci. In that order, with some English bits thrown in, for example ‘Bonjour, tin of diet Coke s'il vous plait…merci. Gets me whatever I need in Quebec.

Getting past Montreal is an ordeal and it seems that the greater Montreal area goes on forever, of course it does, Montreal was the biggest city in Canada until relatively recently when Toronto overtook it. It is a great city to visit, but not the sprawling industrial/warehousing bits I’m riding through. Actually a lot of southern Quebec, the St. Lawrence Valley is like this - populous, fertile farmlands and industrial. I’m on the Trans Canadian Highway again and I can’t say that it is a load of fun, lots of travaux, still I’m racking up the miles and the KLR is not faltering. Quebec City looms. I’m exhausted and my backside is shouting, ‘uncle’. I stop at a roadside stop area just outside Quebec City. I have passed many of these, it’s nice that Quebec provides for the traveler, better than Ontario, I may add. Short note on the backside, usually I am able to change the way I am sitting, moving back and forward on the seat helps, but now with all the luggage I basically have only in one place that I can sit in, right up against the gas tank. The ass numbing effect is extreme, believe me, 200 km is the upper limit before a stop is mandated.

Quebec City has been left behind quite some time ago. The odd glimpse of the St. Lawrence is of a steadily widening expanse of water, it is now more ocean than river.

View across the St.Lawrence  

The highway is mostly cutting through forest and I can see mountains in the distance, the Appalachians start here. At close to 600 km for the day I am running out of steam really fast, and there is rain coming in, the turnoff for St. Jean-Port-Joli appears, so I take it. Excellent choice as it turns out, nice little place. I find a motel, book in and get supper from the local supermarket, cheese, ham and pate, actually enough for breakfast and lunch as well. Across the road from the motel is a park, so I take an after dinner stroll there, which turns out to be a wonderful experience, they have a sculpture exhibit, with some interesting and rather suggestive examples. The view across the St. Lawrence is wonderful and the town has created a lovely little walkway with intelligence rather than heaps of cash, it is just so nice.  

Sculptures in the park  

Nice walkway

Anyway, tomorrow I will be up and away at the fart of sparrow, well so says the plan, I’m aiming to sleep on Prince Edward Island tomorrow night, and that is 700 km plus away.   

Atlantic Canada - Part 1

So I’m finally setting off on the much planned and thought about road trip. Ok to be honest, more thought about than actually planned, as the plan is relatively simple. Head east through Quebec into New Brunswick, cross over the causeway to PEI, go around PEI, ferry back to mainland, go around Nova Scotia, ferry to Newfoundland from Sydney, tour around NF, ferry to Labrador, loop around into Northern Quebec, past Lac Manicouagan, that funny eyeball/sphincter of a lake, then home. I honestly don’t know if I’m going to manage the entire thing, but as I have nought to prove, I’ll cut out whatever I feel seems necessary. As it is I am two days late with setting off, and I have a suspicion that progress over the next two days will not be spectacular, thanks to the weather, my trip has coincided with hot dry weather turning into hot wet weather, I have no clue how far I will get.

My original intention was to leave on Sunday morning, but Sunday morning arrived with no sun at all, it pissed down solidly from 7 a.m. without let-up for nearly the whole day. Now I have a philosophy about riding in the rain, I’ll do it if I need to, but not really a fan. Setting out on a long ride in the pouring rain is just not on the bucket list, you can call me a whoopsie if you want, but I postponed. Monday was dry, humid and hot, but at least dry, so I gathered all my stuff together and packed the bike, got all kitted up, got on the bike and turned the engine over... nothing beyond a choked eh, eh, eh. Fuck, I couldn’t believe it, my battery was as dead as a doornail. Casting my mind back, I realize that the symptoms of a dying battery had been evident a while ago, but I had ignored or perhaps not recognised the issue. Of course, frustrating though it was, it is way better to have the issue before you go on a trip than to get stuck in the middle of nowhere with the eh, eh, eh. So I unpacked the bike and got out of the gear, by then I was so soaked in sweat that I needed a complete change in clothes, underwear included. Got in the car and drove up to Canadian Tire where I waited the customary half hour at the battery counter for service. They had three options, the piece of shit that would last a few weeks, but very inexpensive, the fully sealed, fully charged ready to go, most expensive and the middle of the road option that required the addition of acid and a charge. In the interests of getting cracking I opted for the top of the range, but the one they thought was in stock wasn’t, and the nearest store that may have one was 40 km away, so I ended up with the middle of the road option, and another day postponement.

Packed and ready to go

So here I am, Tuesday morning, the bike is packed with luggage, toiletries, tent, self inflating mattress, sleeping bag, rain gear, water, stove, pots and pans, engine and chain oil, some emergency food, Red Bull and a few other bits and bobs. I’m wearing a back pack with a computer, chargers, sandals and slippers (yes, I have my moccasins, the most comfortable items of footwear known to man) and warm gloves. After a fond farewell to my wife, the dogs and even my neighbours. I turn the key and the KLR roars into life, maybe a muted roar, but none of the eh, eh, eh stuff and I pull away on my adventure. I feel just fantastic, I expect to run into some rain a bit later, but for now it’s dry, It’s hot, it’s so humid you can almost swim in it, the clouds are low and gun-metal blue, but so far no rain. I head east through the farmlands, the cornfields are head height, sure I know that they are just growing inputs to feedlots and chicken batteries, or worse bio-fuels, which are not in the least bit ‘green’, but it does look nice. This time of year the fecundity of the world is just so fantastic, it makes one forget about all the negatives that are going on in the natural world. Oops, gone off subject. Heading east to Port Perry, Lake Scugog and the Trans-Canadian Highway, this is the area where Neil Young grew up, second ugliest of the old time rockers, just beaten by Keith Richards, just. I’m free and the airflow has finally cooled me down, I find myself singing, badly of course, but who cares, there is only me inside this helmet.

The road is busy, but it isn’t too bad, traffic is moving above the speed limit and the road has enough double overtake sections that you don’t get too frustrated stuck behind trucks. Personally I don’t feel frustrated at all by even several kilometres of slow travel, I’m on holiday, taking in the sights, and Highway 7 has plenty to offer. Farmlands have been left behind, I am in the Canadian Shield, it’s forests, rocky cuttings and lakes, I have written previously about this road, it’s perhaps not the greatest motorcycle road, but if you want to get to the east quickly, without riding a motorway this is about all you have. I have lunch at Havelock, Tim Hortons chicken wrap in the interests of time, I guess there are a few of those in my future, small black coffee keeps the calories down. The clouds are now unmistakeably menacing, and I don the suit, in protest. I guess I could make a whole philosophical point about putting on the rain suit before it rains, but yes, put the fucking thing on before it starts to rain. That is the smart thing to do, and I have learned the hard way, but on a day like this it’s awful. It’s beyond hot, it’s wearing the Michelin man outfit in 30 degrees C, sweat runs down the back, and from the armpits and other unmentionable places, most unpleasant

The thing about riding in rain, is that even a light rain is experienced by a motorcyclist as heavy, because you are riding into it at the speed you are travelling, so relative to the pedestrian the chap on the bike is encountering many more raindrops per second. Now it is possible that this issue influenced Einstein’s thinking (I doubt it), but you had better have your rain gear on even for a relatively light shower. With rain gear I include trousers, jacket and booties. The last of these, unless you have boots that are genuinely waterproof is important, it takes no time at all for your boots to become bags of water. For my part I have not found affordable boots that are comfortable, protective and waterproof. So my compromise is $20 pair of booties that cover the boots and are truly waterproof. Pain in the ass to put them on, nonetheless I leave Havelock with full rain gear on, including booties. It does not take long for the rain to justify my decision, so undaunted I ride on through the downpour to Perth. Nice little town, named after the Scottish town, not the Australian city, I imagine. It endeavours to have a connection to the Scottish town, I notice a few wool shops as I go through, it reminds me of the Scottish town of Moffat, where I bought woolen scarves and toffee a few years ago. Anyway I don’t stop at Perth, but do turn off the Trans-Canadian Highway, to follow highway 43, which follows a more direct route to Montreal. I have doubts that I’ll make it to Montreal today, but let’s see how far I get.

Rideau River

As it turns out, Merrickville on the Rideau River is where I decide to stop. I spot a place to stay, the Balderchin Inn and they have a room available.  The room is fine, bit on the baroque side, and the fake flowers above the bed are a little more than necessary, it’s respite from the rain and the internet connection totally sucks.

I am getting the KLR settled for the night when a few ladies come out of the pub to have a smoke, ‘I wouldn’t park there if I were you,’ one says, ‘transport trucks can’t make the corner, no one from Merrickville ever parks there.’ I move the bike a few spaces along, local knowledge is worth so much, thank you ladies of the cigarette.

Tucked in for the night

They sit in a car to stay dry while having a smoke. I too was once a dedicated smoker so I don’t judge, I’m just glad that one can now enjoy a meal in a public place without someone’s smoke ruining it. I see that Halifax is introducing a smoking ban on all municipal property including parks, roads and sidewalks. A bit harsh perhaps, but I must marvel at how the zeitgeist has changed, at least as far as smoking is concerned. A mere forty years ago people smoked about anywhere, aircraft included, I’m all for Halifax, might get rid of the cigarette butts that end up on the roads and sidewalks. I, who once tossed cigarette butts from the car window (yes I was an extreme asshole), have developed a hatred of cigarette butt litter.

Some pictures of the Merrickville:

The Balderchin Inn

The morning arrives and it’s raining steadily, not very hard, but no let-up, pretty much in line with the forecast, Montreal is expecting to have some heavy downpours and I’m not into encountering torrential rain while trying to make sense of the screwed up routes all signposted only in French, around the city.  I make an executive decision to stay here, Thursday, the weather report claims, will give me a clear run to New Brunswick. So I go back to bed, I must admit it is a pretty comfy one, and have a lie-in, why not, I’m on holiday. When I finally emerge I take my little fold up umbrella (purchased in Quebec City two years ago when I was attempting a similar ride and got rained out) and set-out to discover Merrickville. There are tons of antiques and arts and crafts shops and no shortage of cafes and restaurants, I assume it’s a bit of a tourist village, but with the rain they are staying away today. It’s a relatively old for Canada, established in 1793, a guy called Merrick, loyalist that left the USA during the War of Independence built a grist mill on the river and the village grew up around that. It’s a picturesque place. At the top end of the main business street there’s a small park called ‘Vimy’ park, dedicated to the soldiers that died at Vimy Ridge, a hundred-and-one years ago. The park also contained a WWII twenty-five-pound gun.

25 Pound Gun

I trained on this artillery piece, at the tender age of seventeen, and actually saw action on the (now) Namibian/Zambian border with it. It was an odd moment to see one standing in the park, instantly took me back to the misery of military life for a conscript. Those days I was tougher about doing things in the rain, or rather my sergeant was.