I smiled. We’ve all heard that one; motorcyclistsare the masters of braggadocio, and at one time oranother, we’ve all staked our claim to the “world’sgreatest riding road.” But Bob Scott’s not a motor-cyclist, just an innkeeper and distiller who claimed tohost riders of the Cabot Trail regularly. Bob said that,without fail, these bikers were either one of twothings: blown away by what they’d just experienced,or giddy with the prospect of tomorrow’s ride. Fromwhere he sat, Bob said, it was a short trip north to thetip of Cape Breton Island, where the forest meets thesea and the road that hugs those cliffs provides jaw-dropping views of Highlands National Park and theAtlantic Ocean. The scenery, Bob insisted he couldcertainly vouch for. As for the ride? “Oh, I have noidea. 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 fromNew York City on the adventure of a lifetime. Littledid we know we wouldn’t be making that trip alone.

BY JON LANGSTONPHOTOS BY COLLEEN LANGSTON

The words flow off the tongue, lyri-cal and ethereal: Nova Scotia.Ignore for a moment that the nametranslates (quite literally) to NewScotland; to a kid from California,

the name sounds so exotic it may as well refer to asector of the Martian landscape. So when I got thechance to visit the gem of the CanadianMaritimes, I wasn’t going to let the opportunityslip through my fingers.

Like a lot of things in life, that opportunity camebecause of fine whisky. No, not as the result of adrunken brainstorm; rather, I was chatting with aguy who operates the only single-malt distillery inNorth America, Glenora Inn & Distillery inGlenville, Nova Scotia, when this gentleman positedthat one of the finest motorcycling roads in theworld was right in his backyard.

An Epic Search For Whisky And Youth

exotic Nova Scotia! Also, most signs here were in plainEnglish, cars drive on the right side of the road, and folksseemed to have an aversion to horns and an affinity for smiles.What a strange, marvelous place! More annoyed than disturbedby the lack of foreign oddities, abundance of strip malls, andfrank commercialization (hello, Wal-Mart!) of Yarmouth, wefound our way to Canada 103 south, the highway to Halifax.Within minutes, we were clear of the urban sprawl and, eager totake in the local color, exited at Pubnico to join Route 3, aka theLighthouse Route.

Scenic TravelwaysNova Scotia is encircled by 11 touring routes, slower-pacedtwo-lane roads that lead around the entire province. Each sce-nic travelway describes the culture, history, and natural featuresalong the route, and is referenced within official Nova Scotiatourism literature, with places to stay and things to do in eacharea. It’s slow going, but also a fascinating, educational wayto fully experience the province.

The Lighthouse Route is an idyllic, windingtwo-lane that hugs the southern shore, paral-lel to the highway. Lonely lighthouses,tiny hamlets, snug coves, chowdershacks, and fishing boats

On To New ScotlandWe were aboard a 2009 BMW 1600LT; the LT stands for luxurytouring, and that moniker applies in spades to this queen of thehighway. I loved the optional Garmin GPS, the user friendlydash, and the four-speaker stereo system, while Colleen wasmore appreciative of the heated seats and backrest (with sepa-rate controls for rider and passenger) and the electronicallyadjustable windshield, which I would dutifully raise once wereached cruising speed.

From the US, a ride to Nova Scotia happens one of twoways: you can either go up and around through NewBrunswick, or take the route we chose, via the CAT ferry fromMaine. We holed up our first night at a bed and breakfast in BarHarbor called the Seacroft Inn, a cozy establishment withinwalking distance of this charming seaside town. The followingmorning, we joined the line at the ferry terminal a mile or sooutside of Bar Harbor and boarded the CAT for Yarmouth.

(Note: In December, 2009, CAT ferry service betweenMaine and Nova Scotia fell victim to the economy and was sus-pended; as a result, details of our magnificent ferry ride haveregretfully been omitted from this story.)

Entering any foreign country is a roll of the dice, becauseone never knows what to expect at a border crossing (let alonewhich line to stand in, how to respond to curt queries, etc.).After showing our papers, turning in the Customs Declarationcard stating the purpose of our visit, and being waved off theferry ramp, imagine our distress when the first thing we sawwas a KFC sign. And look, there’s a Taco Bell! Welcome to

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morning, we were sad to be packing up the bike and leavingWhite Point Beach. Still, the sun was shining brightly, the oceanair was crisp and clean, and if our first day was any indication ofhow our Nova Scotia journey was going to play out, we werethrilled about its prospects.

From Peggy To PictouThe big LT quietly lumbered up the Lighthouse Route, and wecrept through the towns of Liverpool (not that one), Brooklyn(nor that one), and West Berlin (ditto). Again, we found the goingto be ponderous along the coast. After nearly an hour of hushedtooling, we rejoined the highway at Medway — just 14 miles upthe road. Our destination this day was Pictou Harbor on theNorthumberland Shore, just 200 or so miles away. But we firstwanted to swing by two recommended sights.

A 30-mile blast up 103 brought us to Bridgewater, where werejoined the Lighthouse Route and rode an hour south through asmattering of suburbs to the historic port of Lunenberg. I’d liketo wax poetic about the quaint town; the tall ships were neat, andthe short harbor-front boulevard was bustling with gray-hairedtourists, but the whole scene was frankly not too far removedfrom what you’d find in Maine. We had an ice cream, watchedsome riggers amble around the masts of the ships — thenshrugged and saddled up. Unless you’re fervent about Canadianmaritime history, feel free to skip Lunenberg; it’s got charm, butit’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 andback ate up more than an hour in each direction.

Better, stay on 103 until you reach Upper Tantallon. Exit hereand take Route 333 south toward Peggy’s Cove — the place forwhich the word picturesque was invented. Now this was the NovaScotia I’d pictured: small, vibrantly colored homes dottingwindswept bluffs, lonely dinghies moored in inlets, stacks of lob-ster traps, weathered fishing shacks, and a solitary red-and-whitelighthouse 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 ofmud 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 coupleof dawdling hours and a fine bowl of chowder, we decided toreconnect with 103 at Shelburne. Twenty minutes later, we exitedthe freeway — narrow, sweeping, and a pleasure to ride — andpulled up to our first night’s destination, the White PointBeach Resort.

A sucker for a rustic lodge, my wife was delighted to findthat the White Point Beach Resort looks and feels like someoneplaced a mountain chalet on a long stretch of sandy beach. Itfeatured split-log construction with exposed timber and stone,vaulted ceilings, and roaring fireplaces — and that’s just themain lodge. Our private cabin had all those features and a pri-vate porch. Established in 1928, the resort today includes a surfshop, golf course, spa, and ample facilities for business confer-ences, family vacations, and romantic getaways. We took a longwalk along the beach at dusk, fed crumbs to the ubiquitousbunnies, and after a delicious dinner in the restaurant had a fewdrinks in the Founder’s Lounge, where friendly guests and staffregaled us with tales of Ivy, the inn’s resident ghost. Black andwhite photos, remnants of summers past, adorn the walls of themain lodge, and it was clear from the wistful nostalgia — notonly of the lodge’s décor but of the people we encountered there— that White Point Beach Resort is a treasured Nova Scotianinstitution. I enjoyed my first pour of Glen Breton Rare, thewhisky that I’d come for, and it was as I’d imagined it would be:

smooth and succulent, and without the peatymuskiness that characterizes most Scotch singlemalts. Instead, I found it light, drinkable —faintly fruity, even — and my glass was emptyin a few savory quaffs. With tomorrow’s ridein mind, though, I stopped myself at just-the-one and reverted back to Alexander Keith’sIndia Pale Ale.

After breakfast at the lodge the next

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we checked into our nicely appointed, paneled room, we barelyhad time for a shower before rushing over to the restaurant for thelast call. I enjoyed quite possibly the best prime rib I’ve ever hadin front of a roaring fireplace — and, of course, one more weedram of the Glen Breton Rare for dessert. But just the one.

The Yellow Brick RoadAfter a long walk on a deserted beach (and a rip-roaring gameof life-size checkers), it was almost noon by the time we wereback on the Trans-Canada heading east. Now, the highway signsbegan appearing in two languages: English and — wait for it! –Canadian Gaelic. That’s right; we were getting deeper into NewScotland, approaching the highlands of Cape Breton Island, andincreasingly, the road signs had Gaelic subtitles. New Glasgowbecame Glaschu Nuadh; Antigonish was Am Baile Mór. Didyou know that more Gaelic is spoken in Nova Scotia than inScotland? That the Antigonish Highland Games are the oldest inNorth America? That nearly two percent of the population ofCape Breton Island speaks Gaelic exclusively? Yeah, me neither.But the French influence was not to be squelched; we passedexits for the towns of Tracadie and Havre Boucher, and clearlywe were at the collision of three distinct cultures — four, if youcount 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 pockthe smooth surface, and deep clefts and fissures ensure that youwatch your step. There’s naught to do at Peggy’s Cove but fill upyour memory card — and fight déjà-vu. But here, the view isenough. 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 inNova Scotia, but it somehow manages to still feel like anauthentic fishing village, in large part because people actuallydo live in the colorful homes perched on its hills. It is no doubtthe best day trip from Halifax — meaning that there are plentyof other sightseers to contend with. There are a couple of teahouses/gift shops, but there’s only one real restaurant, theSou’Wester, and it’s the quintessential tourist trap. I recommendbeating 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 yourhunger appropriately or just have lunch elsewhere.

The sun was now starting to sink in the west. We would haveloved to stay and watch the sunset at stunning Peggy’s Cove —we could have sat on those rocks for a week — but because westill had a two-hour ride to Pictou and had burned so much day-light getting in and out of Lunenberg, we said goodbye toPeggy 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 duenorth on Veteran’s Memorial Highway, Route 102, bisecting thebig island. Colleen remarked in my ear that the rural countrysideof 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 sountil just before New Glasgow, where we merged onto Route 106and headed 20 or so miles north to Pictou Harbour.

Under a purple sky and a brilliant moon we maneuvered adirt road up to Pictou Lodge Resort, a sprawling assemblage ofsplit-log cabins that more than lived up to its rustic moniker. As

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TAKE YOUR TIMEI f there’s an important lesson I learned on this 10-day,

2,129-mile journey, it was that in trying to do too much, yousometimes don’t do enough. Thanks to the kind folks at NovaScotia Tourism, we received assistance with our predeterminedhotel reservations — which means Colleen and I had fixed desti-nations and mandatory arrival dates/times. But with reservationsmade in advance, on several occasions I found myself rushing toget to our destination by nightfall, passing up attractions anddeclining respites for lack of time — and that’s the worst possiblereason for not seeing or doing something you may never have thechance to see or do again.

Next time, I’ll leave my plans open-ended — or maybe makemultiple reservations, cancelling the ones I can’t keep. From theseat 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 againtoasting dancers, singers, players, drinkers, those who couldstand on one leg and juggle— ultimately, anything in my blearyview became worthy of a rousing toast. Colleen stuck withsoda, knowing, I suppose, that I’d need some prodding in themorning. It was a memorable night of supping straight from thesource. Our hosts were gracious, the split-level chalet gor-geous, and for the third morning in a row we wished we didn’thave to leave. After a tour of the facilities, I began packing upthe BMW. Colleen, meanwhile, snuck into the gift shop andcame out with a present for me — a fifth of the fine, fine stuff.Truly, this was above and beyond the call of a photographer’sduties. I tried to make room in the Beemer’s saddlebags for mypotable souvenir. No luck. I tried the top case, too — but ourgear had simply maxed out the LT’s luggage space. For me, thesolution was obvious: I opened my saddlebag, took out four orfive pairs of socks, and, shrugging, chucked them into a nearbytrash can. The bottle fit nicely.

On The TrailA few miles down the road, the hangover really kicked in.Between the bright, hot August morning and the constriction ofmy riding gear, I was in no condition to be in the saddle. Bynow, 19 ran alongside the shoreline. We had just passed a des-

Causeway, which connects 104 on mainland Nova Scotia and105 on Cape Breton Island. It supports two lanes of vehicletraffic, as well as the single-track mainline of the Cape Bretonand Central Nova Scotia Railway; a swing bridge allows shiptraffic to pass. From its opening in 1955, the causeway chargeda toll to motorists; however, in the early ’90s the Canadiangovernment, in a charming (and frankly, enviable) gesture, dis-continued the toll after the $23 million construction cost wasfinally paid off. Riding up the Cape Breton Island side, we hadtwo choices: stay on the Trans-Canada, or hang a left onto thecoastal route. Remembering the pace of the poky LighthouseRoute, I opted for the highway. After all, our next destinationwas Glenville, home of Glenora Inn & Distillery, which, to me,might as well have been the Emerald City. So I didn’t want tospend any more time on the yellow brick road than was neces-sary, for tonight was the one occasion on this tour where Imight be inclined to have a wee bit more than just-the-one.

After an hour or so, we turned left onto Route 395 atWhycocomagh and made for the northern shore, making first a leftonto Route 252, then a right onto Canada 19. We made it to thegates of Glenora while the sun was still in the sky. With the antic-ipation on my palette, I disregarded the precarious gravel drivewayand 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

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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. (IfPeggy’s Cove spawned the word picturesque, as I suspect,then the Cabot Trail begat the term jaw-dropping.) Shortly wepulled into the town of Pleasant Bay. It was only just afternoon, but Pleasant Bay was our scheduled stop, and, frankly,after several full days aboard the BMW, my photographer andI were rather looking forward to a respite. We easily found theHighland Breeze Bed & Breakfast, where our host Annie waskind and welcoming — and made delicious pastries! We spentthe afternoon lounging by the pool, and, in the morning, wentwhale watching from the marina just down the road. I have lit-tle doubt that I’ll forever remember the sensation of being ahalf-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 tocoax us into joining their voyage. Someflapped tails, others launched themselvesfully out of the water, but all seemed harmlessand playful. They ranged in size from 4' to20', and while they weren’t the “giants of thesea” you see on TV, they were so numerousjust beneath the surface that I imagined Icould step out onto their backs and simplywalk to shore.

Off The TrailShortly after leaving Pleasant Bay, we reen-tered the national park boundaries and turnedinland, ascending rapidly. When we reachedthe 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 surrealview: a vast forest of tiny trees, no more than 5' tall, stoodwindswept and stunted as far as the eye could see. I could makeout beige ground between them. Once again, Nova Scotia hadpresented an eerie, ethereal face; it was as if we were riding onthe 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 spunaround, pulled in, killed the motor, stripped off my gear, andcharged headlong into the cold, clear ocean before Colleencould even unbuckle her chinstrap.

An hour later, we rolled through the town of Belle Cote. Alarge sign indicated we had reached our ultimate destination: wehad hit the Cabot Trail, regarded by many as the prettiest drive inNorth America and by some as the finest ride a motorcyclist cantake. For the next 20 or so miles, we passed through a series ofsmall towns: Terre Noire, Cap du Moine, Belle Marche. At thelast one, Cheticamp, I gassed up the LT, and I’m glad I did,because within minutes I didn’t want to stop for anything. BobScott was right, after all; this is where our motorcycle tour ofNova Scotia transitioned from very pretty to drop-dead gorgeous.

The Cabot Trail was named for sailor and navigator JohnCabot, who explored these shores in 1497. On this, the north-western side of Cape Breton Island, the roadclings 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 treesstretched high overhead. Again, déjà vu over-took me, as if we were still living in that picturebook; this stretch of road seemed strangelyfamiliar, and it was only later that I realized thatthis very scene adorned a book jacket I was car-rying in my saddlebag. It’s reminiscent ofCalifornia’s Pacific Coast Highway, on theCentral Coast near Big Sur; for sheer beauty,that’s the only road I’ve ever been on (in a car ormotorcycle) that comes close to rivaling thisstretch. Between the panoramic vista and thetortuous path, it was difficult to concentrate.

By now, we were deep inside Cape BretonHighlands National Park, and I should note that, much like thenational parks in the US, the speed limit here is conspicuouslyposted and strictly enforced. The Cabot Trail is swarming withtroopers — in no small part, I’m sure, due to the astonishingamount of motorcycles slicing its lanes. It’s also important topoint out that despite what we motorcyclists like to think, thisarea was not created strictly for our enjoyment; campgroundsand trailheads are abundant, minivans and RVs clog theturnouts, and hikers (and their dogs) can cross the road at a

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Big City NightsHalifax 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 Bavariantouring machine around town. The first thing that struck us as wewheeled into the drive of the Lord Nelson was the young people.Consider our mystery solved: clearly, as soon as they’re oldenough to leave home every Nova Scotian under the age of 60packs up and heads for Halifax. They’re just as nice as their elders, brimming with smiling faces and copious cheer. After asolid week touring the country, it felt great to kick off the ridingboots 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 inManhattan. Music and raucous laughter poured from the opendoors of the bars and storefronts, smoking hipsters slouched onstreet corners, and nobody dawdled. We stopped for dinner at acafé/bar called Economy Shoe Shop on Argyle Street. The placewas funky and fun, and dinner was phenomenal. With full bellieswe declined dessert, but I ordered another IPA. My wife had tea,and it was over these after-dinner drinks that Colleen told mewhy she’d refrained from drinking thus far on the trip: we wereexpecting our first child. In a trip full of highlights, the rest ofthat 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 CapeBreton’s eastern shore. Here the Cabot Trail again followed thecoastline, hanging onto cliffs and providing still more stunningviews. Again, though, turnouts and recreational vehicles wereabundant, so it was impossible for me to take my eyes off theroad for too long.

We rode all day to reach our northeasternmost destination,one of the most northeasternmost destinations in NorthAmerica, to be exact: the town of Louisbourg, where we spenta nice night in a swank oceanfront condo at the Point of ViewSuites. While the newly constructed condo was gorgeous andits view superb, we found it odd that such a nice resort wouldhave a marginal, cafeteria-style restaurant. Oh, well. Also, it’snot 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 loomsimposing and magnificent across the bay.

By this point in our trip, Colleen and I were beating to deatha running joke about Nova Scotia youth — namely, where theheck were they? Not just children, mind you, but college-agekids and young families. We hadn’t even seen any yuppies! Thisis not hyperbole, but an honest estimate: fully 75 percent of thepeople we had encountered thus far had gray hair. Seriously. Sowhat do Nova Scotians do with their young? Do they offer themup to the gods in some kind of Logan’s Run-in-reverse sacri-fice? Clearly, we were excited about our lodgingfor this night: a deluxe room at the Lord Nelsonin downtown Halifax. Would the capital city bethe place where we’d finally encounter the elu-sive Nova Scotian creature known as the young-ster? We were determined (and, frankly, morethan a little desperate) to find out. I steered thebig Beemer inland on Route 12, and caught upwith Route 4 headed west, skirting the southernshore of Bras D’Or Lake, a freshwater sea thatmakes up much of Cape Breton Island. Anotherpretty, poky ride. A few hours of tooling aroundbrought us to the Canso Causeway once again;we caught Trans-Canada 104 headed west, and Igunned it for the city. In the morning, I’d saygoodbye to my wife and take her place as princi-pal photographer for the rest of the journey.

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decided to celebrate. Digby is world-renowned for its scallops,so I got an outdoor table at a restaurant on the waterfront andordered a plate. Delicious. Along with the daylight, the famous40' Bay of Fundy tide was receding by now, leaving fishingboats to rest for the night tilted on their sides, their colorfulhulls reflecting off the mud. I went to the hotel bar and toastedimpending fatherhood with some other rally stragglers and mynew best pal, Alexander Keith. The next day, I boarded a ferrybound for Saint John, New Brunswick.

I was anxious to get home to my family.

EpilogueCertainly, the Cabot Trail is a beautiful ride. It climbs, it drops,it swoops, it switches back, it stretches out — all the whiletaunting you, boldly defying you to take your eyes off the pave-ment for one tempting second to admire the view. It just plaindares you to give it some gas and cut loose. But you can’t.

I can appreciate how the Cabot Trail isconsidered one of the world’s finest drivingroads. But is it “the greatest motorcyclingroad in the world”? With apologies to BobScott, Rannie Gillis, and the guys fromSydney I met at Glenora, the short answeris no. If I’d tackled it at a different time ofday, or if I’d had a longer visit and couldride it several times in either direction, per-haps I might feel differently.

For me, the best roads are those thatenvelop you, that fully soak you in, that youbecome part of. But in my experience, the

Cabot Trail was too tightly patrolled to ride at a challengingpace, sapping the fun factor. The truly beautiful stretches of theCabot are some of the prettiest I’ve seen from any road. But theastonishing views are too fleeting to be able to ride and sight-see simultaneously; I was forced to do one, or the other. Andthe 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 renta 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 muchmore — see my Bonus Extras at www.RoadBikeMag.com)

ground with a smile as wide as Canada. It wasn’t until I receiveda text message three hours later that I fired up the BMW. My wifeand child were safely on the ground at JFK. Me? I was motoringon, headed across Nova Scotia to its northern shore on the Bay ofFundy and then to Digby for the annual Wharf Rat Rally.

Beaming On The BeemerIt was one of those days where nothing could knock the smilefrom my face — not that anything was trying to. The sun wasbrilliant, and the traffic was light. I rode out of Halifax and madea left on 101 toward Windsor. It was Sunday, and I was disap-pointed to see a large number of motorcycles traveling the otherdirection, toward Halifax — rallygoers heading home after aweekend at the Wharf Rat apparently. I hurriedly checked in atthe Digby Pines Golf Resort and Spa and made my way intotown, 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 wereparked down the center of the street,folks strolled leisurely, vendors hawkedtheir wares, and a band played earnestly— but the party could hardly be called araucous blowout. Most people lookedlike they were blown out themselves.

I looked up Peter Robertson, one ofthe Wharf Rat Rally’s organizers. I got agood-natured ribbing from Peter and hisstaff about being a typical “Americanlatecomer” and was regaled with storiesof the previous night’s revelry. Peterguesstimated the previous day’s turnoutat “around 10,000.” I smirked politely, privately chalking thatnumber up to salesmanship. A few minutes later, strolling downWater Street, I noticed the Halifax Sunday Herald displayed on anewsstand. The front-page image plainly showed the same streetI now walked, but the shot was taken the afternoon before. WaterStreet 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 givenme. After all, I was all alone in a charming seaside town on mylast night in Nova Scotia, and I was to be a daddy! — so I

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THE SCOOPCape Breton HighlandsNational Park www.PC.GC.ca/PN-NP/NS/CBreton/Index.aspx

Nova Scotia Tourism800/565-0000,www.NovaScotia.com

Wharf Rat Rallywww.WharfRatRally.com

THE SKINNYDigby Pines Golf Resort andSpa, Digby800/667-4637,www.DigbyPines.ca

Economy Shoe Shop, Halifax902/423-8845,www.EconomyShoeShop.ca

Glenora Inn & Distillery,Glenville800/839-0491,www.GlenoraDistillery.com

Highland Breeze Bed &Breakfast, Pleasant Bay877/224-2974,www.HighlandBreeze.com

Lord Nelson Hotel, Halifax800/565-2020,www.LordNelsonHotel.ca

Pictou Lodge Resort, Pictou800/495-6343,www.PictouLodge.com

Point of View Suites,Louisbourg888/374- 8439,www.LouisbourgPointOfView.com

The Seacroft Inn, Bar Harbor, ME800/824-9694,www.SeacroftInn.com

White Point Beach Resort,White Point Beach800/565-5068,www.WhitePoint.com