South Shore

Cute, cute, cute.

We spent the last day or two driving around Nova Scotia's winding south shore where tiny towns -- some prosperous, others not as much -- dot a sandy coastal highway. We spent the night in Lunenburg, an old ship-building town with well-preserved architecture, a work-a-day wharf, grandly decorated guest houses, seafood grills, a lot of overpriced art galleries showcasing Maritime-themed prints, beaches, steeply-graded streets, and a handful of amazing restaurants.

To my extreme delight, we happened upon the Lunenburg Farmer's Market when we drove into town, and discovered cold rhubarb punch, Stutz Hard Cider, hot crepes, balsamic and green onion hummus, fat chocolate chip muffins, and wild blackberries picked just that morning. After stocking our little cooler, we asked around town for directions to the closest beach (turned out to be Hirtles) and spent the afternoon trying to warm up to waves that were cold enough to make our feet ache. But the sun was hot and the sand very fine. Very fine, indeed.

We spent the night at the cute and tchotchked Pelham House Bed and Breakfast, where Bill and Ben (two ginger tabbies) and Drum the Dog kept us company. Our room was on the first floor of an up-and-down classic Lunenburg family home with a private patio and squeaky wooden gate just for us. After a night of camping, I was ready for a soft, king-sized bed and free Wi Fi and we both really enjoyed our breakfast of fruit salad and thick slabs of potato and Swiss frittata.

We took our time on the drive to Halifax, stopping in Mahone Bay for a long lunch and dipping our toes into the water at the much warmer Queensland Beach. We tried our best to keep from making plans of any kind and the reward was a slow, meandering afternoon during which we laughed at each others' jokes and remembered to hold hands from time to time.

Oven Caves Part II

Oven Caves

Before leaving Moncton, we decided to cut our driving time in half by heading to Oven Caves Natural Park on Nova Scotia's South Shore instead of going to Kejimkujik National Park. The quick change in plans was a bit of a gamble, as we were going only on Oven Caves' website, but the payoff was huge.

Oven Caves is a massive, privately-owned campground that's a bit rundown these days, but still quite phenomenal. It extends out from a long, craggy shoreline, which is dotted at the northern end with dark, dripping caves. On the short hike out to the last cave, you can see, before you hear, the waves crashing magnificently through the small opening in the rock and hitting the far wall of the cave, producing a sound not unlike a sea monster, we imagined.

Later on, we created our own natural wonder: fire. Adam put his Scouting skills to good use at our campsite, building a bobbing little campfire, hammering tent pegs into the ground, and teaching me how to light our tiny stove. Meanwhile, I made myself busy gathering kindling and roasting pork sausages with baked apples in the fire.

There has never been a lot of love lost between the great outdoors and I, but Oven Caves is exactly how I want to camp if I ever do it again.

Comment Contest

The Comment Contest on! The person who leaves the best comment on any post related to this trip will win a Maritime-themed prize.

So far, Jeremiah is in the lead.

I picked up the prize today in LUNENBURG, NOVA SCOTIA and it's a good one.

Maritimer

"I guess I'm a Maritimer after all."

This was Adam's conclusion earlier today.

For him, there are few places on earth where he feels more at home than near the ocean. We just spent three days at Emery Legere Beach, a smallish quiet beach near Shediac that's just behind a long bank of grassy dunes. There are no provincially-owned amenities and there's no entrance fee. You just park along a long road lined with cottages and trailers and tents and walk towards the water, which is just past a few empty properties, grown-over with blue-green sea grass and white clusters of Queen Anne's Lace.

Exactly the kind of beach we needed. Calm water and beautiful, soft sand. And our visits were made all the more special because Adam's best friend -- one of those rare people who is funny and thoughtful and quiet and complicated and easy to be with -- was with us the entire time.

It was also the weekend of New Brunswick's annual celebration of Acadian culture. Such a fête exists? I had no idea. But there were Acadian flags flying everywhere, and again, I was reminded that these are supposed to be my people. Yet, again I was reminded that I can't speak what should have been my native language, and so, I remain mostly on the outside.

But by the end of our time in Moncton, I'd thrown myself headlong into the Franco-Maritime culture, pausing with my book at Cafe Clementine, gaily sifting through vintage clothing and antiques on St. George Street, and eating croissants and cheese for breakfast, instead of my usual straight-laced bowl of oatmeal. Gone, for those days, was the clutching sense of anxiety that has moved into my life since migrating to Ontario. Gradually, I watched Adam become more at ease too, aided no doubt by his joy at eating a big old lobster when we went to dinner with his parents in the seriously outdated, but charming, Le Chateau a Pape.

I still don't think I'd ever 'move home,' but there's something to be said for coming back for a visit. The ease of being near my roots feels, at least for this summer, unmistakably comfortable.

Home and Not Home

Our long drive from Ontario to New Brunswick was cleverly broken up with a stop in Quebec City on Friday night. QC is a friendly, easy place to visit with the iconic cobblestone streets winding up and down the old city. The outdoor fireplace at our hotel, friendly Francophone tour guides, beautiful corner creperies, the saxophone player wailing away on the terrace beside Chateau Frontenac, strangely added up to a sense of feeling right at home. "These are my people in a way," I remember thinking, but knowing, at the same time, that I would always be on the outside.

Never mind because we made quick time to New Brunswick where the two people who will always be my people -- my parents -- awaited our arrival with great anticipation, preparing a literal feast for dinner: fat grilled pork chops, potatoes and beets from my father's garden, sliced cucumber, and cornbread with wild blueberries. My parents live in a one and a half bedroom 1970s trailer at the edge of a six-acre property. There is no air conditioning, doors that don't shut quite right, and dark clouds of black flies that swarm you when you step outside. But there is also a warmth and easiness that comes from my parents' interminable hospitality and a sense of belonging that exists for me only where my parents make home.

Of course, we didn't stop for long. The next morning, we headed off to meet Luke and Mary in Fredericton, leaving behind the rolling hills of the Saint John river valley and parking our car right downtown under the shade of one of Fredericton's century-old trees. The Boyce Farmer's Market was as amazing as I remembered, but the foods Adam and I used to love -- chicken souvlaki, barbecued buffalo burgers, and sugar-glazed Delfter sticks -- seemed like paler versions of their former selves. I know the food hasn't changed, but our tastes have, apparently. This was disappointing, but I found a new addiction among the market stalls: the salty sweet popcorn made outside in a giant cauldron by, as Adam pointed out, a man with enough girth to wield the over-sized stirring spoon and 20 pound bags of sugar.

On our way out of town, we drove through the UNB campus. Both of us looking at it through a lens that is six years older and a heck of a lot more appreciative. UNB is one of Canada's oldest university campuses and the period stone buildings show its age off in good form. My favorite among them is a former one-room ice house, tucked behind the Old Arts Building in a little dip beside the infamously steep knoll. Now, the ice house is used only for poetry workshops, taught by the amiable Dr. Ross Leckie. Looking at it again, I realized just how far I -- if not my poetry -- have come in the last ten years.

Moncton

Homeward Bound

I Spy P.S.

I don't think anyone's noticed who is hiding in the Patagonia bag...it's hard to see, but somebody's in there!

So...same as Patagonia wetsuits, Christina: good on the outside, fuzzy on the inside. ;-)

FAR EAST

Adam and I are heading to the Far East this morning. Well, the East Coast. Our first stop is Quebec City and then it's onto Florenceville, Fredericton, Moncton, Shediac, Sackville, Kejimkujik National Park, Lunenburg, Halifax, and then back to Florenceville.

Follow our adventures at www.rivasoucie.com.

And...since I always miss everyone while I'm away, I'll be awarding an East Coast-themed prize to the person who leaves the best comment on any post about our vacation!