Reggie Thomson's Diary

On walking to the local supermarket to pick up my pasta and tuna, I stumbled across the beginnings of a parade, with fire engines, floats, period cars and pipers. I returned to the hostel to fetch the camera, and went out to take some snaps. The roads were lined with onlookers. I marched all the way to the school, but didn’t stay for the afternoon festivities. There was a lot of litter by the side of the road, but I don’t like to work too publicly.

I started work on the diaries. It’s over a week since I set off, and I’m already forgetting what I saw, or who I met.

The evening’s ceilidh would be in the sports centre, I discovered. It was just beginning to rain. “Surely a true Scotsman wouldn’t be put off by a little rain,” chided Gordon, a white-bearded gentleman staying a few days at the hostel. I took the umbrella out of its case for the first time. Perhaps I don’t really need an umbrella. The rain lashed down.

Arriving at the sports hall, I asked about the ceilidh. This was the place, all right, but lightning had just struck a power cable, and there was no electricity. I hung around in the light of the emergency exit signs, chatting to one gentleman. By half-ten, there was still no sign of the power being restored, and the downpour had ceased. I was paying for a good night’s sleep, so headed back to the hostel.

I drifted off, but was rudely awoken when another occupant switched the light on at 1.30 a.m. Worse, he then went to play his violin while someone else hammered on the ivories of a piano in the dining area. I gave up sleeping, and took the computer out to get some work done. They didn’t finish their unsociable fiddling until 3.30. There was once a time when hostels had rules about lights out and no noise after 11.00 p.m. I guess rules have gone out of favour.

It was an early start, to catch that window of sunlight before the clouds came over. Then, after breakfast, I went to the Whale watching boat. Sadly, the weather was too windy to permit any sailings today.

The first hitch of the day was with an American, who had just spent six months in a nearby monastery trying to figure out what to do next. He thinks he will go to Japan to teach English for a year. I’m sure he would quite enjoy the experience. He let me out at the scenic spots, and I got a few more snaps for the homepage.

Chétticamp, which everyone had raved about, didn’t seem so impressive to me. Like all towns, the houses are spacious, with lots of open ground around them. I wasn’t quite sure where the “town centre” was. I bought some more bread in the Co-op, skipped the museum, and even decided against visiting the lighthouse on the peninsula opposite.

Some locals gave me a hitch to Margaree. I walked over the bridge. What worries me, is that one can always see the stumps of an older bridge nearby. Don’t they build bridges to last?

I had taken some pictures of the church, and was trying to get another angle on the leading lights for the harbour, when Don started chatting. He was interested to hear of my exploits, and since he was going to Inverness to pick up a prescription, offered to give me a lift.

On the way, I explained in basic terms, about digital cameras, and how I could take lots of photographs. I think he is originally from America, but had moved up here some time ago. It seems his son had been lost in a tragedy on the Appelachian trail.

The drugstore wouldn’t give him the prescription, because it had been written in America. So, we drove round to the nearby hospital. Fortunately, the doctor was willing to countersign it for him. Then he took me to Sight Point, the start of the trail across the Mabou Highlands. The road was very bumpy. Last time he had come here, he had seen an eagle, followed by whales off the coast. If I’m lucky, I thought, I’ll see whales without going out in a noisy boat. I understand that whales communicate by sound, and the oceans have become exceedingly noisy. John, whom I’d met in Bay St. Lawrence, had written to his senator (Hillary Clinton) about the U.S. use of low frequency sounds to communicate with submarines.

I noticed that my UV filter was broken, before I set off. The clip on my shoulder-strap had come loose and the bag had dropped near the pharmacy. I cleaned it out before setting off.

The walk in the woods was excellent. I didn’t have a map, but took a photocopy (literally) of the trail guide at the start. Apparently, one of Don’s friends had made the trails through the woods. I followed the MacKinnon’s brook trail. There were only a few other people on the tracks. From one group, I asked to take a copy of their map. Let’s hope I don’t run out of batteries!

There weren’t any whales or eagles. I chased the squirrels, who were curious enough to hang around looking at me while they chirped. Probably, they were agitated, and were warning their neighbours about dangerous preditors.

The disadvantage of a digital map is that one doesn’t consult it frequently. I missed the turning after the gate, and went a long way down the wrong road. Adrenalin keeps one going, where enery is flagging. Eventually I found a place for my cheese sandwiches.

I hitched to the youth hostel with the four folks I’d met on the trails. The mosquitos were terrible (Swat!); there seemed to be a hundred of them against five of us (Slap!).

I caught up on some computing, but then discovered that there would be a ceilidh at St. Joseph’s. I enquired at a local shop. There isn’t a St. Joseph’s in town. Maybe it’s in Margaree, about one hour’s drive from here. Perhaps I won’t dance tonight. I’ll wash my clothes instead.

Margarit had asked if I would look after the campsite until Sunday. They were going to a memorial in Halifax, and would otherwise have to close the site down. I would get free accommodation. It seemed like a good bargain, and I would be able to catch up on all my computer work.

The weather was too good for computing. I borrowed an undersized bicycle, and set off for Meat Cove. I had to walk up the hills, but it was pleasant to cruise down the other sides. Meat Cove is little more than a campsite with a few other houses and a harbour. I ate my cheese sandwiches on a bench in the campsite, then peddled home.

I decided against looking after the campsite. I would lose too many photography days. It was quite a walk out of town before I got a lift. The sky seemed to get cloudier the further south I went. Maybe I had made the wrong choice.

The second car was going all the way to Chéticamp. They stopped to meet a horse on the way, and then joined another car. They were from Capstick, a village between Bay St. Lawrence and Meat Cove, and knew Fred, since they were in the fishing business. We stopped at all the tourist laybys so that I could take a snap. There isn’t time to read the signs, so I just take a snap of them, too. The camera has a built-in zoom on playback mode, allowing me to read the text at a later stage. Hmm. One valley is reputed to be the continuation of the Great Glen in Scotland (or is that just wishful thinking on behalf of Nova Scotians?)

I was taken to Pleasant Bay, where there is a whale information centre, that I was recommended to visit. It wasn’t expensive, so I wandered round, reading the captions and watching the videos. The whale sounds were fascinating. Pleasant Bay claims to have almost 100% success with whale watching.

The lady on the information desk allowed me to leave my rucksack there, while I went down to the harbour, trying to catch the sunlight on the small lighthouse. I then set off for the main road to recommence the hitching. Nobody stopped.

Suddenly I noticed that the sun was about to peer out of the clouds. Grabbing my backpack, I ran down the road to the harbour again. The sunset was fantastic. I really wanted to catch a seagull flying past, but sadly they wouldn’t cooperate.

Well, perhaps I’m supposed to stay here and go whaling tomorrow, I thought. I initially made my bed in the dugout by the seashore, but it had a gravel base that was uncomfortable. I picked up my bivvy bag, and went to the Whale Centre, to sleep in the doorway.

I was typing away on my computer from early morning. There’s always something to catch up on. I haven’t even started my diary – and that takes ages. I think the database is now capable of accepting photos and creating albums. However, I haven’t decided what to do about the main albums – for Canada, Cambridge and my Travels through Asia. I started to code for an album of albums, but that would be very complicated. Maybe it will be easier if I just make a fixed homepage for each country – after all, only Canada is going to change

By ten, I was thinking of having breakfast. Fred, the campsite owner, thought he heard a bald eagle – two by the sound of it. I grabbed my camera and headed over to the cliffs. Indeed, there were two eagles, perched together on a crag. One flew away, the moment I approached. The other remained just long enough for me to get a zoomed photograph. As soon as I stood up, it took off. A dedicated photographer might have crawled along the ground to get to a better spot. I have a long way to go.

I sorted out some more photos. Margrit (the campsite owner) wanted to know if I could stay until Sunday and look after the campsite while they were away. I was worried about slowing down my journey, and not getting any photographs. The free accommodation was a tempting offer, though

After lunch, Fred, Margrit’s husband, was going to check his lobster pots. John had already agreed to be a helper, and I was brought along as “the official photographer”. So, I took lots of snaps of the event. John gets sea-sick easily, but he managed to hold on while we were out. There were about four or five lobsters in each pot, but most had to be thrown back into the sea. They were either too small, or were females with eggs. In the end, we only had four large enough. I hope I caught enough photos to make a story.

I was hoping to see the eagles again, so proceeded along the cliff edge in the direction they were last seen flying. I walked along the cliff for a while, though didn’t see any signs of them. I picked up several bags of rubbish. Even the smallest, uninhabited roads can gather junk.

We were invited to dine on the proceeds of the fishing. John had purchased four more lobsters, and Fred cooked them. Margrit was in Sydney for the day, so there were just the three of us for dinner. It was my first lobster (though I’ve had crab before). They were very tasty, though I was at first wary of the green gunge inside. I took a quick snap, but as I was being hurried along, I didn’t rearrange the legs to make it look like a proper lobster. Presentation is not considered part of the meal for most Western cultures.

Half-way through my second, I realised we had a brilliant sunset. Rushing outdoors, I captured something of the mood of the evening on disk. John agreed to pose for me, though I still didn’t rearrange everything exactly as it should have been – the photo is lopsided, and too dark at the base.

John drove Steve, Dawn and myself up the mountain to watch the remainder of the sunset. It was great to get some more photos.

I had just managed to get my photos onto the homepage format in the computer, so I gave a very brief slide show. It takes well over an hour to sort out, compress and update the MySQL database for a day’s photographs.

Jerry’s son was returned to his mother’s house, while we went off to Sydney, stopping at a Tim Houton’s for a cup of tea. Apparently, Tim Houton was a famous hockey player, who set up a chain of drive-thru restaurants.

The gentleman who gave me a ride into Louisbourg said he was an animator. I imagined that he drew cartoons for a television company, but it turned out he dressed up and acted the part of a courtier in the fortress. He informed me that the fortress, built by the French, had been captured several times by the British, and finally blown up.

I’m glad I hadn’t rushed straight over here yesterday. Apparently, it was windy and wet until about 4 p.m. The weather can be very local in Cape Breton. As everyone will tell you, if you don’t like the weather, just wait five minutes. I was dropped at the bottom of the park, and walked up to the visitors centre. On the way, I spotted some interesting flowers in a marshy area, but since I didn’t know when the bus to the fortress would leave, I pressed on. In fact, I was early. The centre wouldn’t open until 9.30. That gave me half an hour to see if I could get a snap from a distant shore.

I carried my rucksack part of the way, depositing it by the entrance kiosk. Then I ran down to the sea shore. My pedometer normally lives in a small pocket in my trousers, but I wanted to check the time regularly, so transferred it to my shirt pocket. Down by the rocks, the sun was glinting off the sea across to a lighthouse. Getting close and low, I stooped over to take my photo. The pedometer slipped out, and floated away on a wave. I thought it washed back in again, ending up between some rocks. Putting the camera in a safe location, I hunted round for a while, to no avail. Perhaps Canada doesn’t want me to keep track of time.

I abandonned the search and jogged back to the visitor’s centre, in time to catch the first bus. My rucksack was safely stowed in a locker. Most of the tourists went straight into the first hut, a fishing property. Thus I had the chance to take some snaps by the shore. For the snap on the internet, I even waded into the freezing sea.

The weather was perfect. I rushed from place to place, shooting everything in sight. One visitor remarked that it was splendid. I agreed, but began to think about its origins. You sail in, plant a flag marking your newly “owned” territory, and build a fortress for immigration control. Provided your cannons are more powerful and numerous than your enemies’, the land is yours to keep. Would-be immigrants are murdered before they have any chance to submit an application for dominion.

The “animators” were excellent, all dressed up in regalia, and informing us of their purpose or history. While I took over a hundred photos, I’m not really sure I have captured the essence of the place. For lunch, I sampled some molasses cookies.

I positioned myself carefully for the ceremonial firing of the canon, but at the point of the blast, my camera dipped! Infidels having been despatched, there were no repeat shots.

I marched back to the bus.

Retrieving my rucksack, I initially wrote my sign for Sydney and Inglonish. It was lunchtime, though, so I changed to Louisbourg. If nobody stopped, I was going to hunt for my pedometer for a while. A kindly gentleman and his wife saved me from domination by the clock. Of course, I still have access to time on my camera, though for some reason, the date was out by one day until I spotted it in Glace Bay.

Bread and corned beef were on the menu. The harbour area didn’t look great for eating, so I wrote a new sign – for the Lighthouse. The gentleman who stopped, might be going to Japan with his company – Panasonic. I guessed he would go to Osaka, so recommended a few places of interest.

The waves crashed over the rocks, creating interesting waterfalls. The lighthouse itself is on the site of the earliest lighthouse in Canada, built by the French in 1734. It was pleasant to sit on the rocks eating corned beef sandwiches, perhaps symbolising the domination of “Les roast-beefs” who Earl of Sandwich needed a convenient way to feed his troops on the march.

Jen, from New York, made room for me in her large car. I seem to get a lot of lifts from Americans. She was going all the way to North Sydney, and teaches problem children in a remand school, I think. She would like to teach in Japan.

I learned a little about road making from the next gentleman. He had just given a lecture on nuclear vapour measurements and safety. We stopped at a few of the scenic spots for me to take snaps.

I was a unsure which would be the best way to hitch to the Highlands and Inglonish. I chose the route the locals would take – by the ferry at Englishtown. The couple who stopped were going all the way to Bay St. Lawrence. Consulting my pages from the Lonely Planet, it came highly recommended. I chose to go right to the north.

A moose strolled across the road, but by the time I had whipped the camera out of its case, switched on and waited for everything to warm up, it had disappeared into the woods. The motto is: “Be Prepared”. Next time round, I managed a distant photo.

There is a campsite right on the cliff at Bay St. Lawrence. I was shown to a lean-to with a bed. For fifteen dollars, it was within my 20 dollar budget. I set up my computer, sorted out some photos, and chatted for a while before retiring.

I don’t like being watched getting dressed in the morning. It’s very rude. After using my rucksack as a pillow, I have to unpack and repack everything. Soon, I was on the road again. There was a little more traffic, and it wasn’t too long before I was in the company of a Micmac Indian, on the way to Stewiake. As a native American, he has dual nationality. He was keen to tell me that the Micmac Indians taught (“them” – the British and French, I think) how to fight. And ownership of land doesn’t make sense. It’s a thorny issue: To whom does this world belong? I “own” a small plot of land in Cambridge. I wonder who the first person to sell it was? Probably most land sales were originally from people who stole or forced their way into possession. Perhaps every sale is perpetuating an earlier evil.

There was another lift to Truro, with a gentleman taking his father to the hospital. It was pouring with rain, and I was told that the best hitching spot was two exits further on. I walked along the side of the motorway, trying to hitch. At the next exit, I stopped in a garage to put my camera in the backpack. The rain seems to be seeping into the bottom of my raincover for the rucksack.

Jerry picked me up, going all the way to Cape Breton. He had just participated in a golf tournament, somewhere near Halifax, and came 136th out of about 150. Still, he had had a great time and met lots of interesting people.

We drove into Antigonish, a university town, in search of a T-shirt for his son. There didn’t seem to be any clothes shops along the route. Maybe I will stop by on the return journey.

Just over the causeway to the island, is a tourist information centre. Here we stopped, so that I could get a map and look at the postcards. I don’t buy postcards – just review them to get ideas for good places to go to. The tourist information officer pointed out a few spots on the map.

In St. Peter’s, we pulled over for a bite to eat in a restaurant. I was treated to some delicious scampi with a decent plate full of chips (French fries in local parlance). Jerry had noticed a lighthouse across the bay, so before the food arrived, I went to take some snaps. Perhaps the rain added to the mood, but I generally prefer the bright sunshine shots.

With the continuous rainfall, I decided it would be best to go to the university in Sydney rather than continue to Louisbourg. Jerry suggested I stay with him – in Glace Bay. Looks like Canada is coming out tops on the hitch-hiking charts – or perhaps equal with Japan.

Jerry thought he saw an eagle perched on the top of a tree in the forest. We bumped our way down a dirt track, but found only a clump on a tree-top. I took a zoomed snap, and checked it at higher magnification.

Beyond Sydney, Jerry pulled over whenever I wished to take a photo. He told me about the demise of the mining community, and of the problems of toxic waste around the old steel works. I don’t take photos of ugliness, though.

The small Marconi museum, on the site where Marconi set up his first trans-Atlantic (West to East) transmitter, was very interesting, especially since I had worked for GEC Marconi for a few years. It wasn’t particularly photogenic, thought. A nearby recreated mining village was better. I didn’t go round the mining museum. By now, the sun was shining in a bright blue sky. I almost changed my mind about Louisbourg. Jerry was very patient in Glace Bay harbour. I waited for seagulls to fly into my pictures, to add a little life.

Finally, we returned to his house. It’s somewhat delapitated, but as he says, he could spend a lot of money repairing it, but it wouldn’t improve the value. I put my photos on the computer, while Jerry went to fetch his son. He came with some friends, who were quite amused by the digital camera on my computer. It has a number of special effects, such as zigzag and swap faces!

Young boys, of course, have to be untaught all that they learn either directly from adults, or indirectly through their friends. There was a l ot of unteaching going on.

There was a beautiful sunset. We sat outside with a beer and pizza.

I tried telephoning Hugo in the morning, but he wasn’t yet up. His mother answered. I guess little babies can be quite tiring. After playing with Smokey for a while, I went into town to get some more snaps. By the quayside, I enquired about joining a whale-watching boat. It would leave at 1 p.m. and cost 38$ (all prices quoted are in Canadian Dollars) plus tax. I rushed back home, stopping to buy a frame for one of my personal postcards. I had to run back to the wharf to catch the boat – only it was postponed: there weren’t enough people.

Instead, I walked to the other side of the bay. I took more snaps, and picked up some litter, but it soon began raining. I took shelter by the tennis courts, where I began to eat my sandwiches. Two other folks joined me, and I started to show them my photos. However, it looked as though the sun would break through after the raincloud, so I was keen to see if I could get a rainbow. It didn’t occur to me that the sun was too high in the sky, but I rushed off anyway.

The sun didn’t appear, and there were no rainbows to brighten my mediocre shots. I was back by the boat at 2.30 p.m. but we were still one person short of the six needed to break even. Eventually, I gave up, and walked home. Chris and Kerri have free calls anywhere in Canada on Sundays, so I phoned Dawn in Dawson Creek. She gave me the internet connection numbers and passwords for her account, with which I eventually managed to get on the internet and collect my emails. The Juno account which I had downloaded in England, only permitted a US address to be entered.

I was driven back to the junction of the motorway, and soon was in a car going to Halifax. The American couple were looking for accommodation, but hadn’t found anything. I thought about suggesting they try the village of Prospect, but then realised they wouldn’t be able to take me to Halifax. They drove me all the way to the main bridge, where I thought I had seen a toll area from which I could hitch.

I walked over to the other side. It didn’t seem to be a good place to hitch from, and I wasn’t sure I was on the best road. After waiting a while, I walked on. In the end, I arrived at a slip-road onto the main dual-carriageway. It was a long wait, fortunately not wet. Finally, a former hitch-hiker dropped me at the junction of the road going up to the airport.

Since it was already dark, I hitched for a short while, then crossed over to look for a place to sleep. There was a large pile of wood-chippings by the foundations for some new houses. This time, the bivvy bag was put to use. Actually, it was quite hot. I tried zipping it up, but it was too steamy inside. Sleeping with my head outside was the more comfortable option.

Scott drove me to a convenient junction on the road to Peggy’s cove. The first lift was with a gentleman taking his son to a piano lesson in Prospect. I didn’t realise it, but this was the alternative to the over-touristy Peggy’s Cove. A second hitch, and I was dropped right in the heart of the village. It wasn’t as sunny as I would prefer, but I rushed round looking for unusual angles. I even tried a few candids. However, to get rid of people, I had to hide the bottom of the lighthouse. Instead, I tried putting in seagulls. There are lots of wild lupins everywhere, and this is the flowering season.

A police car stopped, but only chatted for a few minutes. The next lift was with an interesting lady. She seemed to believe that the “West” has exploited and continues to exploit the poorer Asian countries. I don’t know the situation with companies such as Nike, but basic economics shows that anything in abundance is going to be cheap. Countries with ever expanding populations will always have “cheap labour” for which their own cultural values of large families contributes directly to their plight. While it might well be possible for companies such as Nike to manufacture in Canada or the USA using ever complicated machinery, I doubt whether this would benefit the poorer countries.

Another ride and I was at a large supermarket next to the motorway going south. I stopped in for some bread. Then I was taken down to Mahone Bay in a truck. It was a bit of a squeeze. I was surprised at the condition of the motorway. Most of it would classify as only an ‘A’ Road in England – just two lanes with no central reservation. Finally, I was dropped right by Fisherman’s Wharf, in the centre of Lunenburg.

There are plenty of pleasant buildings in the town. Most of them are wooden, with small verandas. The veranda seems to be a common feature of houses in Canada, though it is rare to see anyone sitting in them. Five churches in the town centre must compete hard for the souls (or patronage) of the three or four thousand inhabitants. I sat in a large gazebo to avoid the rain while I ate my cheese sandwiches. Although it cleared up a little, I tried taking some of the photos on the black and white setting on the camera.

I asked directions from a shop, and then went to the Esso garage to hitch. It poured with rain. The overcoat, leggings, and cover for the rucksack are all essential parts of my kit. Even so, I decided to stay put until the deluge was over. One gentleman spotted my sign and informed me that I was standing on the wrong road. There was very little traffic, so I held my sign out, and started walking.

About half-an-hour later, Chris and Kerri stopped. They had spotted my sign in the dark and immediately pulled over. There was a friend of a friend providing live music at a pub in Mahone Bay, whom they were going to see. As usual, I let them choose a card from my collection. When they departed, I noticed that they had left the light on in the car. So, I entered the pub to inform them.

“Why don’t you join us for a drink?” Soon, I was enjoying a cool beer and live country music.

“Why don’t you stay with us for the night?” I have a theory that sometimes a place really wants me to take a good picture of it, and won’t let me go until I have one. That was how I came to meet Smokey, the cat who likes jumping into bags! Chris, Kerri and Smokey live on the top floor of an ancient house on the hill in Lunenburg.

Pasta can only be bought in packets of 500g minimum, which makes enough for between two to three meals. So, I had a hearty breakfast. Bidding farewell to Satoko, I set off, taking more snaps on the way. I found a stationery shop selling plastic sleeves for my hitching, and they were able to give me about twenty sheets of A4 from the photocopier waste basket. All set, I walked out of town, admiring the spacious wooden houses along the roadside.

Arriving at the first roundabout at the same time as another hitcher, I pitched a little higher up the road. He was gone in a minute, and I didn’t have to wait much longer. The day had started sunny, but by mid-afternoon it was clouding over. When Scott offered me a beer by the lakeside, I accepted. He lives in the bottom section of a large house, completely hidden in the trees, with a steep bank sweeping down to the lake. It was cool and pleasant, with a small bird whisling to us from the trees, and some children swimming from another hidden house round the corner.

Scott began arranging a barbaque for some friends, and invited me to join them. He had travelled quite a lot and told tales of having his rucksack stolen from his tent in Barcellona – losing nothing more that some dirty clothes! While Scott went back to the shops, I did a little more computer work.

It was a great party, with some delicious beef and pork steaks. Thus, I got to meet Brian, Kelly and Terri. Brian had recently been acting in a movie that is being made locally, and though he is trying to give up smoking, the director had simply handed out lots of cigarettes. Perhaps someday it will be illegal for movie directors to promote drug addiction.

The sofa folded out into a futon, so I had an excellent night’s sleep.

5:30 a.m.! Some people really get up early! I was hoping no-one would appear until about seven. When people arrive, I tend to leave. The gentleman said hello on the way past – a pleasant sign. He even came round and chatted when I was all packed up.

The early start meant I caught some sunrise snaps of the Mar II, a schooner in port. I made my way along the harbour walkway, to the youth hostel. Though I couldn’t sign in at such an early hour, it was great to put the backpack in the locker room. I bought some pasta, tuna, tomato and sweetcorn at the local supermarket. Mayonnaise is only available in large packs, so I purchased organic sour cream instead. It went well with the bananas, too. Satoko, from Kobe, chatted. I hand out my namecard to the people I meet on the way.

In a camera shop near the youth hostel, I purchased two more batteries for the camera. They were about as pricy as in England, but I might be able to claim back the VAT on them (15%).

Back to the photography, I took a snap of the spire of St. Paul’s among the trees. Inside the church, which claims to be the oldest Protestant place of worship in Canada, it was much larger than I had expected. The guide showed me round, and when I gave him my namecard, suggested that I take a snap from the gallery, even though it is normally closed to visitors.

There are plenty of rubbish bins in Halifax. I took a plastic bag with me, and occasionally picked up a stray piece of litter, emptying my plastic bag in the nearest bin. I am not known in Halifax, and will not be here for long, hence it is easier to work in public without shame. Down by the Mar II schooner, my plastic bag broke free of its mooring in my pocket, and drifted into the water. Unwilling to leave such a blot on the beauty of the area, I asked a deck-hand if he could fish it out for me. It floated past the bow before he could catch it. Thinking it might beach on the rocks, I waited for a while, but it seemed to stop short. I decided to leave it, as a blemish on my conscience. Maybe I could fetch it out when the tide came in.

I’d seen a good photo of a gazebo, so walked to the public gardens the other side of the citadel. Sure enough, it was a pleasant spot in the sunlight. A kilted piper acted as a tour guide, leading his entourage on with a blast from “Scotland the Brave”. I wonder does anything like this happen in Scotland? Later, I snoozed on a park bench. I felt quite lethargic, so ate an early supper. Although only five p.m. my stomach was still on UK time – now 9 p.m. No wonder I was so hungry!

The snaps of the clock tower, a central feature of Halifax, weren’t as I wanted. In the early evening, I went out again, but still wasn’t satisfied. Returning by the harbour walkway, I took some pictures of the lighthouse on an island opposite. Lighthouses are for ships, so I tried to wait for a small sailing boat to get to the right position for a good snap. I was walking back to the hostel, when I noticed that the schooner was racing back to port. I sprinted back to the shore, but wasn’t at the right spot, and didn’t get the photo I wanted. I had to run to get a good photo of the lighthouse, and a separate one of the schooner. What a pity! I suppose I need to see photos before they appear, if I wish to become a good photographer.

Back at the hostel, I was very busy on the computer. Satoko introduced me to some other Japanese people, and also to Vincent, a French-speaking Canadian from New Brunswick. I showed them my photos on the computer, and even on the postcards, though other hostellers were inclined to pick them up without permission. Vincent wants me to visit his place in northern New Brunswick to take some photos. He’s in the advertising business, I think, but tells me that many people pass through the province without stopping – on their way to Nova Scotia. Well, maybe I would be able to call by.

The hostel room seemed quiet, but has an en-suite bathroom with a n oisy fan that woke me up every time it was switched on. Maybe we should just have left it on all night, as I think it disturbed everyone.