8-11 NovaScotia

I smiled. We’ve all heard that one; motorcyclists
are the masters of braggadocio, and at one time or
another, we’ve all staked our claim to the “world’s
greatest riding road.” But Bob Scott’s not a motor-
cyclist, just an innkeeper and distiller who claimed to
host riders of the Cabot Trail regularly. Bob said that,
without fail, these bikers were either one of two
things: blown away by what they’d just experienced,
or giddy with the prospect of tomorrow’s ride. From
where he sat, Bob said, it was a short trip north to the
tip of Cape Breton Island, where the forest meets the
sea and the road that hugs those cliffs provides jaw-
dropping views of Highlands National Park and the
Atlantic Ocean. The scenery, Bob insisted he could
certainly vouch for. As for the ride? “Oh, I have no
idea. Why don’t you come up and find out?”
Drunk with anticipation, I took him up on his dare.
That summer, my wife, Colleen, and I set out from
New York City on the adventure of a lifetime. Little
did we know we wouldn’t be making that trip alone.
BY JON LANGSTON
PHOTOS BY COLLEEN LANGSTON
T
he words flow off the tongue, lyri-
cal and ethereal: Nova Scotia.
Ignore for a moment that the name
translates (quite literally) to New
Scotland; to a kid from California,
the name sounds so exotic it may as well refer to a
sector of the Martian landscape. So when I got the
chance to visit the gem of the Canadian
Maritimes, I wasn’t going to let the opportunity
slip through my fingers.
Like a lot of things in life, that opportunity came
because of fine whisky. No, not as the result of a
drunken brainstorm; rather, I was chatting with a
guy who operates the only single-malt distillery in
North America, Glenora Inn & Distillery in
Glenville, Nova Scotia, when this gentleman posited
that one of the finest motorcycling roads in the
world was right in his backyard.
An Epic Search ForWhisky AndYouth

exotic Nova Scotia! Also, most signs here were in plain
English, cars drive on the right side of the road, and folks
seemed to have an aversion to horns and an affinity for smiles.
What a strange, marvelous place! More annoyed than disturbed
by the lack of foreign oddities, abundance of strip malls, and
frank commercialization (hello, Wal-Mart!) of Yarmouth, we
found our way to Canada 103 south, the highway to Halifax.
Within minutes, we were clear of the urban sprawl and, eager to
take in the local color, exited at Pubnico to join Route 3, aka the
Lighthouse Route.
Scenic Travelways
Nova Scotia is encircled by 11 touring routes, slower-paced
two-lane roads that lead around the entire province. Each sce-
nic travelway describes the culture, history, and natural features
along the route, and is referenced within official Nova Scotia
tourism literature, with places to stay and things to do in each
area. It’s slow going, but also a fascinating, educational way
to fully experience the province.
The Lighthouse Route is an idyllic, winding
two-lane that hugs the southern shore, paral-
lel to the highway. Lonely lighthouses,
tiny hamlets, snug coves, chowder
shacks, and fishing boats
On To New Scotland
We were aboard a 2009 BMW 1600LT; the LT stands for luxury
touring, and that moniker applies in spades to this queen of the
highway. I loved the optional Garmin GPS, the user friendly
dash, and the four-speaker stereo system, while Colleen was
more appreciative of the heated seats and backrest (with sepa-
rate controls for rider and passenger) and the electronically
adjustable windshield, which I would dutifully raise once we
reached cruising speed.
From the US, a ride to Nova Scotia happens one of two
ways: you can either go up and around through New
Brunswick, or take the route we chose, via the CAT ferry from
Maine. We holed up our first night at a bed and breakfast in Bar
Harbor called the Seacroft Inn, a cozy establishment within
walking distance of this charming seaside town. The following
morning, we joined the line at the ferry terminal a mile or so
outside of Bar Harbor and boarded the CAT for Yarmouth.
(Note: In December, 2009, CAT ferry service between
Maine and Nova Scotia fell victim to the economy and was sus-
pended; as a result, details of our magnificent ferry ride have
regretfully been omitted from this story.)
Entering any foreign country is a roll of the dice, because
one never knows what to expect at a border crossing (let alone
which line to stand in, how to respond to curt queries, etc.).
After showing our papers, turning in the Customs Declaration
card stating the purpose of our visit, and being waved off the
ferry ramp, imagine our distress when the first thing we saw
was a KFC sign. And look, there’s a Taco Bell! Welcome to
RoadBikeMag.com n RoadBike n August 2011 29

morning, we were sad to be packing up the bike and leaving
White Point Beach. Still, the sun was shining brightly, the ocean
air was crisp and clean, and if our first day was any indication of
how our Nova Scotia journey was going to play out, we were
thrilled about its prospects.
From Peggy To Pictou
The big LT quietly lumbered up the Lighthouse Route, and we
crept through the towns of Liverpool (not that one), Brooklyn
(nor that one), and West Berlin (ditto).Again, we found the going
to be ponderous along the coast. After nearly an hour of hushed
tooling, we rejoined the highway at Medway — just 14 miles up
the road. Our destination this day was Pictou Harbor on the
Northumberland Shore, just 200 or so miles away. But we first
wanted to swing by two recommended sights.
A 30-mile blast up 103 brought us to Bridgewater, where we
rejoined the Lighthouse Route and rode an hour south through a
smattering of suburbs to the historic port of Lunenberg. I’d like
to wax poetic about the quaint town; the tall ships were neat, and
the short harbor-front boulevard was bustling with gray-haired
tourists, but the whole scene was frankly not too far removed
from what you’d find in Maine. We had an ice cream, watched
some riggers amble around the masts of the ships — then
shrugged and saddled up. Unless you’re fervent about Canadian
maritime history, feel free to skip Lunenberg; it’s got charm, but
it’s a charm far more suited to the tour bus set than to motorcy-
clists. And besides, the mildly dull, stop-and-go ride here and
back ate up more than an hour in each direction.
Better, stay on 103 until you reach Upper Tantallon. Exit here
and take Route 333 south toward Peggy’s Cove — the place for
which the word picturesque was invented. Now this was the Nova
Scotia I’d pictured: small, vibrantly colored homes dotting
windswept bluffs, lonely dinghies moored in inlets, stacks of lob-
ster traps, weathered fishing shacks, and a solitary red-and-white
lighthouse standing majestic guard on a rocky promontory.
of all colors and sizes line the road. Tractors occasionally lum-
bered across, mutts often in tow, leaving hazardous chunks of
mud in their wake. Thick fog rolled in and out, and the temper-
ature fluctuated wildly, depending on sunshine. As the day plod-
ded on, though, the novelty soon wore off, and so after a couple
of dawdling hours and a fine bowl of chowder, we decided to
reconnect with 103 at Shelburne. Twenty minutes later, we exited
the freeway — narrow, sweeping, and a pleasure to ride — and
pulled up to our first night’s destination, the White Point
Beach Resort.
A sucker for a rustic lodge, my wife was delighted to find
that the White Point Beach Resort looks and feels like someone
placed a mountain chalet on a long stretch of sandy beach. It
featured split-log construction with exposed timber and stone,
vaulted ceilings, and roaring fireplaces — and that’s just the
main lodge. Our private cabin had all those features and a pri-
vate porch. Established in 1928, the resort today includes a surf
shop, golf course, spa, and ample facilities for business confer-
ences, family vacations, and romantic getaways. We took a long
walk along the beach at dusk, fed crumbs to the ubiquitous
bunnies, and after a delicious dinner in the restaurant had a few
drinks in the Founder’s Lounge, where friendly guests and staff
regaled us with tales of Ivy, the inn’s resident ghost. Black and
white photos, remnants of summers past, adorn the walls of the
main lodge, and it was clear from the wistful nostalgia — not
only of the lodge’s décor but of the people we encountered there
— that White Point Beach Resort is a treasured Nova Scotian
institution. I enjoyed my first pour of Glen Breton Rare, the
whisky that I’d come for, and it was as I’d imagined it would be:
smooth and succulent, and without the peaty
muskiness that characterizes most Scotch single
malts. Instead, I found it light, drinkable —
faintly fruity, even — and my glass was empty
in a few savory quaffs. With tomorrow’s ride
in mind, though, I stopped myself at just-the-
one and reverted back to Alexander Keith’s
India Pale Ale.
After breakfast at the lodge the next
30 August 2011n RoadBike n RoadBikeMag.com

we checked into our nicely appointed, paneled room, we barely
had time for a shower before rushing over to the restaurant for the
last call. I enjoyed quite possibly the best prime rib I’ve ever had
in front of a roaring fireplace — and, of course, one more wee
dram of the Glen Breton Rare for dessert. But just the one.
TheYellow Brick Road
After a long walk on a deserted beach (and a rip-roaring game
of life-size checkers), it was almost noon by the time we were
back on the Trans-Canada heading east. Now, the highway signs
began appearing in two languages: English and — wait for it! –
Canadian Gaelic. That’s right; we were getting deeper into New
Scotland, approaching the highlands of Cape Breton Island, and
increasingly, the road signs had Gaelic subtitles. New Glasgow
became Glaschu Nuadh; Antigonish was Am Baile Mór. Did
you know that more Gaelic is spoken in Nova Scotia than in
Scotland? That the Antigonish Highland Games are the oldest in
North America? That nearly two percent of the population of
Cape Breton Island speaks Gaelic exclusively?Yeah, me neither.
But the French influence was not to be squelched; we passed
exits for the towns of Tracadie and Havre Boucher, and clearly
we were at the collision of three distinct cultures — four, if you
count the influence of the native Mi’kmaq people.
We descended a long hill on approach to the Canso
Round hills of granite, perfect for strolling, hiking, and boulder-
hopping, make for ethereal terra firma. Numerous craters pock
the smooth surface, and deep clefts and fissures ensure that you
watch your step. There’s naught to do at Peggy’s Cove but fill up
your memory card — and fight déjà-vu. But here, the view is
enough. For two solid hours it felt like Colleen and I were hang-
ing around on the cover of a coffee table book.
Peggy’s Cove is by far the number-one tourist attraction in
Nova Scotia, but it somehow manages to still feel like an
authentic fishing village, in large part because people actually
do live in the colorful homes perched on its hills. It is no doubt
the best day trip from Halifax — meaning that there are plenty
of other sightseers to contend with. There are a couple of tea
houses/gift shops, but there’s only one real restaurant, the
Sou’Wester, and it’s the quintessential tourist trap. I recommend
beating the tour bus crowd to the appropriately-overpriced-but-
surprisingly-not-half-bad Sou’Wester, or waiting until the mass-
es begin clearing out before asking for a table; only problem is,
another busload arrives every few minutes. Either time your
hunger appropriately or just have lunch elsewhere.
The sun was now starting to sink in the west. We would have
loved to stay and watch the sunset at stunning Peggy’s Cove —
we could have sat on those rocks for a week — but because we
still had a two-hour ride to Pictou and had burned so much day-
light getting in and out of Lunenberg, we said goodbye to
Peggy and her cove, and headed inland.
The freeways of Nova Scotia are great; unsnarled by traffic,
with nice wide lanes and plain signage that’s easy to compre-
hend. We made good time as we skirted Halifax and cut due
north on Veteran’s Memorial Highway, Route 102, bisecting the
big island. Colleen remarked in my ear that the rural countryside
of Nova Scotia reminded her of the Midwest, and I couldn’t dis-
agree. A bit more windswept, perhaps. Near the city of Truro,
we caught Nova Scotia’s section of the Trans-Canada Highway,
Route 104, and raced the sunset for another 45 minutes or so
until just before New Glasgow, where we merged onto Route 106
and headed 20 or so miles north to Pictou Harbour.
Under a purple sky and a brilliant moon we maneuvered a
dirt road up to Pictou Lodge Resort, a sprawling assemblage of
split-log cabins that more than lived up to its rustic moniker. As
TAKE YOUR TIME
If there’s an important lesson I learned on this 10-day,
2,129-mile journey, it was that in trying to do too much, you
sometimes don’t do enough. Thanks to the kind folks at Nova
Scotia Tourism, we received assistance with our predetermined
hotel reservations — which means Colleen and I had fixed desti-
nations and mandatory arrival dates/times. But with reservations
made in advance, on several occasions I found myself rushing to
get to our destination by nightfall, passing up attractions and
declining respites for lack of time — and that’s the worst possible
reason for not seeing or doing something you may never have the
chance to see or do again.
Next time, I’ll leave my plans open-ended — or maybe make
multiple reservations, cancelling the ones I can’t keep. From the
seat of a motorcycle, the world’s too big to follow a schedule. n

area of Glenora’s restaurant, and then an impromptu ceilidh
(look it up) manifested itself. I stayed up late, time and again
toasting dancers, singers, players, drinkers, those who could
stand on one leg and juggle— ultimately, anything in my bleary
view became worthy of a rousing toast. Colleen stuck with
soda, knowing, I suppose, that I’d need some prodding in the
morning. It was a memorable night of supping straight from the
source. Our hosts were gracious, the split-level chalet gor-
geous, and for the third morning in a row we wished we didn’t
have to leave. After a tour of the facilities, I began packing up
the BMW. Colleen, meanwhile, snuck into the gift shop and
came out with a present for me — a fifth of the fine, fine stuff.
Truly, this was above and beyond the call of a photographer’s
duties. I tried to make room in the Beemer’s saddlebags for my
potable souvenir. No luck. I tried the top case, too — but our
gear had simply maxed out the LT’s luggage space. For me, the
solution was obvious: I opened my saddlebag, took out four or
five pairs of socks, and, shrugging, chucked them into a nearby
trash can. The bottle fit nicely.
On The Trail
A few miles down the road, the hangover really kicked in.
Between the bright, hot August morning and the constriction of
my riding gear, I was in no condition to be in the saddle. By
now, 19 ran alongside the shoreline. We had just passed a des-
Causeway, which connects 104 on mainland Nova Scotia and
105 on Cape Breton Island. It supports two lanes of vehicle
traffic, as well as the single-track mainline of the Cape Breton
and Central Nova Scotia Railway; a swing bridge allows ship
traffic to pass. From its opening in 1955, the causeway charged
a toll to motorists; however, in the early ’90s the Canadian
government, in a charming (and frankly, enviable) gesture, dis-
continued the toll after the $23 million construction cost was
finally paid off. Riding up the Cape Breton Island side, we had
two choices: stay on the Trans-Canada, or hang a left onto the
coastal route. Remembering the pace of the poky Lighthouse
Route, I opted for the highway. After all, our next destination
was Glenville, home of Glenora Inn & Distillery, which, to me,
might as well have been the Emerald City. So I didn’t want to
spend any more time on the yellow brick road than was neces-
sary, for tonight was the one occasion on this tour where I
might be inclined to have a wee bit more than just-the-one.
After an hour or so, we turned left onto Route 395 at
Whycocomagh and made for the northern shore, making first a left
onto Route 252, then a right onto Canada 19. We made it to the
gates of Glenora while the sun was still in the sky. With the antic-
ipation on my palette, I disregarded the precarious gravel driveway
and guided the big tourer expertly up the hill (the trick is to main-
tain momentum, after all) to our chalet overlooking the valley.
That evening, we enjoyed an excellent dinner in the pub

moment’s notice. So be alert and mind your lines.
Shortly, we rapidly descended a winding drop with numer-
ous turnouts that boasted breathtaking, exhilarating views. (If
Peggy’s Cove spawned the word picturesque, as I suspect,
then the Cabot Trail begat the term jaw-dropping.) Shortly we
pulled into the town of Pleasant Bay. It was only just after
noon, but Pleasant Bay was our scheduled stop, and, frankly,
after several full days aboard the BMW, my photographer and
I were rather looking forward to a respite. We easily found the
Highland Breeze Bed & Breakfast, where our host Annie was
kind and welcoming — and made delicious pastries! We spent
the afternoon lounging by the pool, and, in the morning, went
whale watching from the marina just down the road. I have lit-
tle doubt that I’ll forever remember the sensation of being a
half-mile out in the Atlantic Ocean in a 14' Zodiac, with hun-
dreds of migrating pilot whales all around and underneath us,
bumping and thumping against the Zodiac’s hard-shell hull
and inflatable raft-like sides, as if trying to
coax us into joining their voyage. Some
flapped tails, others launched themselves
fully out of the water, but all seemed harmless
and playful. They ranged in size from 4' to
20', and while they weren’t the “giants of the
sea” you see on TV, they were so numerous
just beneath the surface that I imagined I
could step out onto their backs and simply
walk to shore.
Off The Trail
Shortly after leaving Pleasant Bay, we reen-
tered the national park boundaries and turned
inland, ascending rapidly. When we reached
the summit of MacKenzie Mountain, strong,
cold gusts began pushing the big Beemer to
and fro in its lane, and despite the bright sun the air tempera-
ture was considerably lower. On this wide plateau, a surreal
view: a vast forest of tiny trees, no more than 5' tall, stood
windswept and stunted as far as the eye could see. I could make
out beige ground between them. Once again, Nova Scotia had
presented an eerie, ethereal face; it was as if we were riding on
the top of the world.
The road was now cutting the tip off Cape Breton Island.
Just when I thought that perhaps we’d seen the best of what the
olate beach with an empty parking lot, so I did what any self-
respecting motorcyclist should do when not at his best: I spun
around, pulled in, killed the motor, stripped off my gear, and
charged headlong into the cold, clear ocean before Colleen
could even unbuckle her chinstrap.
An hour later, we rolled through the town of Belle Cote. A
large sign indicated we had reached our ultimate destination: we
had hit the Cabot Trail, regarded by many as the prettiest drive in
North America and by some as the finest ride a motorcyclist can
take. For the next 20 or so miles, we passed through a series of
small towns: Terre Noire, Cap du Moine, Belle Marche. At the
last one, Cheticamp, I gassed up the LT, and I’m glad I did,
because within minutes I didn’t want to stop for anything. Bob
Scott was right, after all; this is where our motorcycle tour of
Nova Scotia transitioned from very pretty to drop-dead gorgeous.
The Cabot Trail was named for sailor and navigator John
Cabot, who explored these shores in 1497. On this, the north-
western side of Cape Breton Island, the road
clings precariously into the side of the 1,000'-
high cliff. On our left, hundreds of feet below,
was the vast blue ocean; on our right, pine trees
stretched high overhead. Again, déjà vu over-
took me, as if we were still living in that picture
book; this stretch of road seemed strangely
familiar, and it was only later that I realized that
this very scene adorned a book jacket I was car-
rying in my saddlebag. It’s reminiscent of
California’s Pacific Coast Highway, on the
Central Coast near Big Sur; for sheer beauty,
that’s the only road I’ve ever been on (in a car or
motorcycle) that comes close to rivaling this
stretch. Between the panoramic vista and the
tortuous path, it was difficult to concentrate.
By now, we were deep inside Cape Breton
Highlands National Park, and I should note that, much like the
national parks in the US, the speed limit here is conspicuously
posted and strictly enforced. The Cabot Trail is swarming with
troopers — in no small part, I’m sure, due to the astonishing
amount of motorcycles slicing its lanes. It’s also important to
point out that despite what we motorcyclists like to think, this
area was not created strictly for our enjoyment; campgrounds
and trailheads are abundant, minivans and RVs clog the
turnouts, and hikers (and their dogs) can cross the road at a

Big City Nights
Halifax is vibrant with energy and full of museums, restaurants,
universities, public gardens, and mass transit. Navigating down-
town was easy, and I felt comfortable piloting the big Bavarian
touring machine around town. The first thing that struck us as we
wheeled into the drive of the Lord Nelson was the young people.
Consider our mystery solved: clearly, as soon as they’re old
enough to leave home every Nova Scotian under the age of 60
packs up and heads for Halifax. They’re just as nice as their
elders, brimming with smiling faces and copious cheer. After a
solid week touring the country, it felt great to kick off the riding
boots and jeans, and walk the streets of a city, feeling the famil-
iar urban energy and joie de vivre we’re so used to back home in
Manhattan. Music and raucous laughter poured from the open
doors of the bars and storefronts, smoking hipsters slouched on
street corners, and nobody dawdled. We stopped for dinner at a
café/bar called Economy Shoe Shop on Argyle Street. The place
was funky and fun, and dinner was phenomenal. With full bellies
we declined dessert, but I ordered another IPA. My wife had tea,
and it was over these after-dinner drinks that Colleen told me
why she’d refrained from drinking thus far on the trip: we were
expecting our first child. In a trip full of highlights, the rest of
that night was surely the pinnacle.
Early the next morning, Colleen took a tearful taxi to the air-
port, while I explored downtown Halifax, walking 6' off the
Cabot Trail had to offer, we reached Neil’s Harbour on Cape
Breton’s eastern shore. Here the Cabot Trail again followed the
coastline, hanging onto cliffs and providing still more stunning
views. Again, though, turnouts and recreational vehicles were
abundant, so it was impossible for me to take my eyes off the
road for too long.
We rode all day to reach our northeasternmost destination,
one of the most northeasternmost destinations in North
America, to be exact: the town of Louisbourg, where we spent
a nice night in a swank oceanfront condo at the Point of View
Suites. While the newly constructed condo was gorgeous and
its view superb, we found it odd that such a nice resort would
have a marginal, cafeteria-style restaurant. Oh, well. Also, it’s
not moto-friendly; the long driveway is covered with large-
stone gravel — the kind thin motorcycle tires love to sink into.
The stone-and-steel 18th century Fortress of Louisbourg looms
imposing and magnificent across the bay.
By this point in our trip, Colleen and I were beating to death
a running joke about Nova Scotia youth — namely, where the
heck were they? Not just children, mind you, but college-age
kids and young families. We hadn’t even seen any yuppies! This
is not hyperbole, but an honest estimate: fully 75 percent of the
people we had encountered thus far had gray hair. Seriously. So
what do Nova Scotians do with their young? Do they offer them
up to the gods in some kind of Logan’s Run-in-reverse sacri-
fice? Clearly, we were excited about our lodging
for this night: a deluxe room at the Lord Nelson
in downtown Halifax. Would the capital city be
the place where we’d finally encounter the elu-
sive Nova Scotian creature known as the young-
ster? We were determined (and, frankly, more
than a little desperate) to find out. I steered the
big Beemer inland on Route 12, and caught up
with Route 4 headed west, skirting the southern
shore of Bras D’Or Lake, a freshwater sea that
makes up much of Cape Breton Island. Another
pretty, poky ride. A few hours of tooling around
brought us to the Canso Causeway once again;
we caught Trans-Canada 104 headed west, and I
gunned it for the city. In the morning, I’d say
goodbye to my wife and take her place as princi-
pal photographer for the rest of the journey.

decided to celebrate. Digby is world-renowned for its scallops,
so I got an outdoor table at a restaurant on the waterfront and
ordered a plate. Delicious. Along with the daylight, the famous
40' Bay of Fundy tide was receding by now, leaving fishing
boats to rest for the night tilted on their sides, their colorful
hulls reflecting off the mud. I went to the hotel bar and toasted
impending fatherhood with some other rally stragglers and my
new best pal, Alexander Keith. The next day, I boarded a ferry
bound for Saint John, New Brunswick.
I was anxious to get home to my family.
Epilogue
Certainly, the Cabot Trail is a beautiful ride. It climbs, it drops,
it swoops, it switches back, it stretches out — all the while
taunting you, boldly defying you to take your eyes off the pave-
ment for one tempting second to admire the view. It just plain
dares you to give it some gas and cut loose. But you can’t.
I can appreciate how the Cabot Trail is
considered one of the world’s finest driving
roads. But is it “the greatest motorcycling
road in the world”? With apologies to Bob
Scott, Rannie Gillis, and the guys from
Sydney I met at Glenora, the short answer
is no. If I’d tackled it at a different time of
day, or if I’d had a longer visit and could
ride it several times in either direction, per-
haps I might feel differently.
For me, the best roads are those that
envelop you, that fully soak you in, that you
become part of. But in my experience, the
Cabot Trail was too tightly patrolled to ride at a challenging
pace, sapping the fun factor. The truly beautiful stretches of the
Cabot are some of the prettiest I’ve seen from any road. But the
astonishing views are too fleeting to be able to ride and sight-
see simultaneously; I was forced to do one, or the other. And
the biggest drawback is the amount of time it takes to get there.
If I ever ride the Cabot Trail again, I’ll fly into Halifax and rent
a bike. And stop at Glenora on the way back. RB
(For info on Nova Scotia — the BMW K1600LT, the CAT Ferry,
the Glenora Inn & Distillery, whale watching videos, and much
more — see my Bonus Extras at www.RoadBikeMag.com)
ground with a smile as wide as Canada. It wasn’t until I received
a text message three hours later that I fired up the BMW. My wife
and child were safely on the ground at JFK. Me? I was motoring
on, headed across Nova Scotia to its northern shore on the Bay of
Fundy and then to Digby for the annual Wharf Rat Rally.
Beaming On The Beemer
It was one of those days where nothing could knock the smile
from my face — not that anything was trying to. The sun was
brilliant, and the traffic was light. I rode out of Halifax and made
a left on 101 toward Windsor. It was Sunday, and I was disap-
pointed to see a large number of motorcycles traveling the other
direction, toward Halifax — rallygoers heading home after a
weekend at the Wharf Rat apparently. I hurriedly checked in at
the Digby Pines Golf Resort and Spa and made my way into
town, but it was obvious I had missed the lion’s share of the fes-
tivities. Looking up and down the main drag of Digby, bikes were
parked down the center of the street,
folks strolled leisurely, vendors hawked
their wares, and a band played earnestly
— but the party could hardly be called a
raucous blowout. Most people looked
like they were blown out themselves.
I looked up Peter Robertson, one of
the Wharf Rat Rally’s organizers. I got a
good-natured ribbing from Peter and his
staff about being a typical “American
latecomer” and was regaled with stories
of the previous night’s revelry. Peter
guesstimated the previous day’s turnout
at “around 10,000.” I smirked politely, privately chalking that
number up to salesmanship. A few minutes later, strolling down
Water Street, I noticed the Halifax Sunday Herald displayed on a
newsstand. The front-page image plainly showed the same street
I now walked, but the shot was taken the afternoon before. Water
Street was a veritable sea of faces and chrome. The reporter esti-
mated Saturday’s attendance at “around 10,000.”
The Wharf Rat Rally is said to be Atlantic Canada’s largest,
and I was disappointed I’d missed the bulk of the party.
Regardless, I was still giddy from the news Colleen had given
me. After all, I was all alone in a charming seaside town on my
last night in Nova Scotia, and I was to be a daddy! — so I
THE SCOOP
Cape Breton Highlands
National Park
www.PC.GC.ca/PN-
NP/NS/CBreton/Index.aspx
Nova Scotia Tourism
800/565-0000,
www.NovaScotia.com
Wharf Rat Rally
www.WharfRatRally.com
THE SKINNY
Digby Pines Golf Resort and
Spa, Digby
800/667-4637,
www.DigbyPines.ca
Economy Shoe Shop, Halifax
902/423-8845,
www.EconomyShoeShop.ca
Glenora Inn & Distillery,
Glenville
800/839-0491,
www.GlenoraDistillery.com
Highland Breeze Bed &
Breakfast, Pleasant Bay
877/224-2974,
www.HighlandBreeze.com
Lord Nelson Hotel, Halifax
800/565-2020,
www.LordNelsonHotel.ca
Pictou Lodge Resort, Pictou
800/495-6343,
www.PictouLodge.com
Point of View Suites,
Louisbourg
888/374- 8439,
www.LouisbourgPointOfView.com
The Seacroft Inn,
Bar Harbor, ME
800/824-9694,
www.SeacroftInn.com
White Point Beach Resort,
White Point Beach
800/565-5068,
www.WhitePoint.com

8-11 NovaScotia

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