Just a Scotia

Day 36

The rain continues. It's not a pouring, soaking rain, though, so we can function fairly well. Our morning is spent writing and doing motorcycle repair. The Pirate is working on his saddle bag today which, in his words, 'gapes open like Oscar the Grouch's trash can'. It's cute, he has a needle and thread out and everything.

Our campground is poised over a dramatic bay facing northeast. Imagine the mountains of WNC, like, maybe Black Mountain. Image that right where the Ingles is, there is a beautiful bay. That's what it looks like here. Without the ocean, it looks so much like our familiar hills that is eases a certain homesickness that sticks with a traveler.

Soon we are starving and need to find a grocery store, so we head south to Neil's Harbor. We drive through a tad more of the conifer lined roads of the national forest before turning in to the village proper. Neil's Harbor is a small fishing village with a marina, a lighthouse, small homes and a grocery. It's dingy, and real. There are no brightly colored sandblasted signs, t-shirt shops or novelty buses. All of Cape Breton Island has been rather 'real' so far, actually. That, too, reminds us of home. There is an air of redneckery here, unkempt houses with trash and stuff in the yard, old rusty cars, meth-heads. It's unapologetic.

The Pirate and I sit for a long time at the marina and look at boats; a shared favorite pastime. The water here is perfectly clear, so we can see all the rocks, anchors, seaweed and boat bottoms. We wander up to the old lighthouse that now has ice cream, and sample some as we gaze out at the gray sea. We shop for groceries down the street at the Co-op, which bears absolutely no similarity to any tofu stocked co-op I am familiar with. It's small, it sells lottery tickets, booze, a little produce, a little meat and, in this case, yarn.

We take a different route home, one that guides us out to White Point. It's incredibly beautiful, more so than the delineated Cabot Trail . The road is in disrepair, which probably prevents RV's and the like from traveling it. On a wet day like this, we are alone. There is a tiny beach, another harbor with fishing boats, and dramatic plunging cliffs.

Back at camp, we feast and then decide to take a walk. We end up by the Aspy River, where we sit quietly while it drizzles. We here ducks calling to one another. Tiny birds flit through the marsh grass. Crabs move around under the clear river water. A bald eagle flies silently up river toward us, then veers off into the forest. It's lovely, and I love that we can sit with each other like this; in silence or whispering, so as not to disturb the bigger picture.