Marine Atlantic Waiting Room, North Sydney
Nearing 19:00 and evening is spreading. It will soon be dark. We arrived here about 22:30 yesterday after leaving Charlottetown at 07:45. Traveling by Acadian Coach, we jumped from our bus to another at Amherst and stopped for a five hour layover at Truro before the long ride here.
Truro was, of course, all new--a place we have never visited. Seeking advice from the Acadian station manager, we walked northwest down the hill toward (he said) downtown. A few blocks later, a fast-walking lady carrying a large framed piece of abstract art at the community college told us of a German bakery downtown.
We walked on, turning right at the third block and, sure enough, a few minutes later Pat exclaimed, “The bakery!” The interior was a plain large room with the usual things of a bakery cafe. We ordered, shared, and enjoyed a schnitzel topped with a fried egg. A few steps farther and we were at the Split Crow Pub where Pat ordered a glass of raspberry ale made in Moncton, and I a lager from Halifax.
Returning to the station, we sat, read, wrote, and napped a while longer and, at 17:15, boarded our nearly sold out bus, snarling at lone people in their seats pretending to be asleep or, in one case, telling prospective seat partners the seat was saved for a lady. She lied. I was waved into a back seat by a man who had successfully fended off a 350 pounder and a crazy lady. He was the perfect seat partner, thinner than I and as delighted with silence. The only thing he ever said was, “Good luck, pal,” as he got off an hour later which was when Pat’s elderly seat partner also left and we were reunited near the front of the bus.
Our coach continued to empty itself as we traveled and night firmly established its dominance. The last five of us got off at the ferry terminal here at North Sydney.
Along our lonely road, the moon, a day short of full, provided enough light in which to see the magnificent scenery we were missing.
A short taxi ride took us to Chambers Bed and Breakfast. A note taped to the door gave instructions to our room, #2, at the head of the stairs.
Like many B&Bs, ours was a room full of art, a full size bed, antique furniture, and a flowered spread. And a delightfully comfortable, warm bed it was. Hostel beds are typically made for tough and resilient young people. Our bodies had been suffering since Montreal. Longer if one adds the night we spent in coach en route to Montreal.
The breakfast began with a flavorful, strong coffee whose mere aroma cured any residual ennui. A side board contained plates of mini-muffins laced with broccoli, date bars, apple strudel, coffee cake, oat-bran muffins, and cherry tarts, all calling seductively. An adjoining room held a toaster and a basket of breads and bagels near a plate of pancakes with Cheryl’s home-made maple syrup, along with (on another table) an array of boxed cereals. A bowl of mixed fruit and a pitcher of yoghurt awaited us on the table among the splendid rose-patterned antique English dishes and bowls. As we finished our first go at the pastries, fruit, and cereal, a dish of scrambled eggs with cheese, chives, parsley, and (it tasted to me) a wee bit of horseradish arrived to crown the meal.
We ate, joined by an young Englishman with a modified mohawk, here to study the fine art of drilling for oil. Cheryl and her mother wandered in and out, checking, refilling, and being charmingly pleasant.
To provide the proper context for this feast, remember that a hostel breakfast, if one is provided at all, typically is much like a hostel bed: Barely adequate with a severe lack of aesthetic qualities.
The ferry waiting room here has a variety of people, but the majority seem to be hunters wearing camouflage on their way to big game hunting in Newfoundland-Labrador. Were Somali pirates to somehow have infiltrated beyond the St. Lawrence, I think I would feel quite safe in an attack. We have more fire-power on this ferry than they (or I) would ever imagine.
We left the B&B and walked the few blocks downtown to the ferry terminal. After shifting items between our daypacks and packs, we checked the luggage and set out to wander North Sydney.
We said to a low 40s couple who owned an outdoor store, “You have fewer pubs and breweries per capita than anywhere we’ve ever been in Canada except Athabasca.” They agreed and we posited there is a relationship between that ratio and the happiness and friendliness of a community. If we are right, St. John’s should be a right amiable place.
We ate lunch seated on a park bench by a duck pond: A heavy rye bread from the Charlottetown farmers’ market and smoked kielbasa and bulk cheddar cheese from the local meat market we passed down the block.
A stop at the library, a thinly veiled visit to use their washroom, led to various conversations, and more in the connected museum next door.
Supper was at Rollie’s on the water. We shared a plate of haddock fish and chips while sipping away at Keith’s beers from Halifax. The plate and glasses empty, we left by the back door to visit a nearby playground at an old dock area. I hoped to get some good ferry and town views. Instead, a young man on the beach showed a bag of colored, sand-tumbled glass pieces he was collecting from the beach. Pat needed some of her own.
And that is it; a day in North Sydney. We are an hour from boarding, three from sailing. Ten from arriving at Port-aux-Basques, and twelve from boarding the bus for the 900 km ride to St. John’s. And, to be desperately depressing, twenty-six hours from arriving at the City Hostel in St. John’s, NL. God have mercy.
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