Atlantic Canada Part 5

I have heard lots said about the Cabot Trail, so it was on the list of rides that need to be done on this trip. It really is something that anyone that can do it, should do. I few years ago I did some work in Cape Breton and heard about the trail from the folks I was working with, unhappily I just did not have the time. Perhaps happily as now I have the chance to do it for the first time, the best way to do it, on a motorcycle. The trail is really just a loop road that goes through national parks and private lands, and provides fantastic views of mountains, forests, lochs (they call lakes lochs here, of course) and ocean. It is all paved, and for the most part the blacktop is pretty decent, some stretches the road are a bit potholed, but for Canada, nothing out of the ordinary. There was a lot of construction which marred the experience slightly, but if roads here are not maintained then they soon become unusable. For my readers that live in warmer climes – it’s the moisture that seeps into any tiny cracks in the tarmac, then when the temperature drops and the water freezes and expands, so a tiny crack becomes a bigger one and it really doesn’t take may years before the road becomes very potholed. So we have two seasons here, winter and road construction.

the Not-so-Easy Rider on the Cabot Trail

From a purely biking point of view the Trail is worth while riding, thanks to great twisties, sweeping curves and tight cornering going up or down mountain passes. Add the fantastic views and lots of places to stop and take it all in... definitely one of the best biking experiences I have had. Of course if I was riding a more pavement capable bike, and had larger cojones carving through the twisties would be even better, but then that would perhaps be defeating the purpose, especially when going through the national park sections. Actually I did not see any bikers riding too fast, it’s one of those places that demand respect.

Just as I entered the first section that goes through a national park I encountered some black bears. The road was blocked by cars stopped to take pictures of what looked like two small cubs and a teenager playing next to the road. It was great to see, but I was nervous, it stuck me that mamma bear must be somewhere close and unlike the people inside cars, I am a little exposed. I have no desire to get acquainted with mamma bear, so I go around the cars, prudence is the better part of valour. I decided to go clockwise around the trail, taking the advice of another biker, so the first section is inland, great ride and the scenery is just awesome. It’s a little cloudy, but not misty like I had experienced from Halifax, when I reach the coastal section heading north and the clouds clear the views take my breath away. Note on clockwise around or anti-clockwise, I think ideally one should do both ways, as the view while riding would be different. There is some controversy over which is better, I wish I had time to do both.   

Of course Cape Breton, actually Novo Scotia as a whole, is steeped in history. I only know a tiny bit, and then only the history of the Europeans.  Sadly, this is the only history that is really visible. This part of the world saw much of the rivalry between the French and the English in the seventeenth and eighteenth century played out. It was not always a pretty thing. I come across a little town called Cheticamp where the Gaelic is replaced by French. This is a small Cajun enclave. The Cajun story is interesting and a shining example of the English sense of fair play and respect for human dignity… only kidding. The original settlers in Nova Scotia were French (ok it wasn’t called Nova Scotia then) and due to the loveliness and bounty of the area they called it Acadia, a land from ancient Greek culture, the home of Pan and a beautiful unspoiled wilderness. Of course then the winter set in and no doubt they were calling a different tune, I have been here in winter and it is god awful, but I guess the name had stuck, so they became the Acadians, which morphed into Cajuns. After the so called French and Indian war of 1756 to 1763 and the French conceded all their North American possessions to the English, the English demanded that the former French subjects, who had been fighting against them, immediately swear allegiance to the English crown.

Church built by the Cajuns

The Cajuns were naturally a little reluctant, and for their troubles were dispossessed of their land and property and deported to other parts of the British empire, mostly to Louisiana, but not exclusively. Many Cajuns died during this process of enforced sudden poverty, communities and even families were split up. When the English practice a bit of social engineering they don’t muck about, a bit of genocide is not something that they were above. If you think this is an isolated incident in history, ask the Irish, Afrikaans and Kikuyu. Cajun cooking actually came out of this diaspora, it was a cuisine of poverty, created by desperate women in an attempt to provide tasty meals for their families (they were French after all) from the cheapest ingredients. Some of the Cajuns managed to find their way back and formed isolated communities, the village of Cheticamp is one.

It’s turned out to be an absolutely gorgeous day, blue skies and a pleasant breeze that takes the edge off the heat. There is something about places where mountains meet the sea, they are so beautiful it makes the heart ache to realize that you can’t stay there forever. Parts of Cape Town where I lived for a time has this and I realize with an extra sharp pain how much I miss this living in Ontario, thousands of miles from the sea and where some hills are called ‘the Highlands’. Don’t get me wrong, Ontario has its beauty, and I often have written about it, but the clarity of ocean, meeting sky and mountains is just natural beauty of a different order.

KLR on the Cabot Trail

When mountains meet the sea

All too soon the Cabot trail comes to an end and I turn left onto the (you guessed it), the ubiquitous Trans-Canada highway. My destination is North Sydney, where I’ll be catching the Ferry to Port aux Basques, Newfoundland. I manage to get the last room the Mac Neil's Motel. It’s early in the afternoon so I ask the proprietor about laundry facilities, chance to get some freshness in my wardrobe, the shirt I am wearing smelled positively ripe when I put it on this morning. The proprietor gave me the use of his washing machine and dryer and gave me some detergent, no charge. It turns out that the motel is really nice, the room is well equipped, recently renovated and spotless… and as a bonus the air conditioner works correctly and doesn’t make as much noise as a steam engine.

I had intended to ride to St John's, but a bit of belated looking at a map and realize that the distance from Port aux Basques to St. John's is 900 km. That means 1800 km there and back again, for me that’s three days riding and I’m starting to run short on time. I had thought of Newfoundland as a relatively small expanse of land, but it is actually a very sizable island in the same league as Ireland.  I make another executive decision and decide to keep to the western edge of the island, thereby cancel the mission to reach the most easterly point in Canada.