After miles of forest and farms, shots of the bay began to leach through the trees. Where water was expected, mud flats oozed away into a distant rivulet that would be a full flown bay in a matter of hours. Fishing boats sat on blocks, far below docks, waiting for the tide roll in. Awed by this massive tidal range, we followed the bay through the Fundy National Park.
At Hopewell, we leaned over towering rocks far below, watching people muck in the mud, standing in the bay. As the wind and the fog swirled around us, I said thank you to my boots that they were not the hiking type. Here, I was revisiting a recurrent nightmare when I am trapped against cliffs as the tide advances. This could happen here ... I think!
Up the Peititcodiac River, we stopped to picnic at Riverview and watched the tide roll in. Moncton, a larger city loomed in the distance as we longed for the lonely. But it was time to scoot, so we headed down the highway toward Truro.
Through small towns, we have seen perfectly kept gardens, rioting with midsummer color, grow gladly in this pleasant atmosphere, for the one or two months that they are allowed. Their beauty lies in their youth. They will never grow old, but will be stopped short in their glory by an August frost. The lesson learned here is that you must tend your golden moments carefully, no matter how short they may be.
Ending in Halifax for the night, my naive mindset that this would be the small and rugged fishing village of the novels I have read was dashed. A major city, complete with skyscrapers and numerous exits from the highway, kept us hovered in the suburbs, listening to sirens, not seagulls.
We are in the knot of the bow tie - Nova Scotia is the tie, Halifax is the knot. Tomorrow, we will try to unravel as we head down the South Shore.
Lowest tide
Waiting for the tide
Going nowhere
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