Cape Breton Island

The Canso Causeway connects mainland Nova Scotia to the island of Cape Breton. As we motor-homed across the span on a crisp autumn day, the ebb tide was pulling westward, hard through the Canso Strait. We stopped at Port Hastings visitor’s centre where a pleasant woman bid us welcome and told us we were in luck, “You’re just in time for the Celtic Colours.”

Being an observant fellow, I had already noted the changing season – the brilliant oranges and reds of the Maritimes’ fall foliage. And I told her so. “Oh, no,” she laughed, “Celtic Colours isn’t about the leaves. It’s our annual autumn festival.”

For nine days every October the entire island hops with a chorus of Cape Breton traditions: ceilidhs, live music, spoken word and dance performances, all celebrating the island’s rich history and culture. (celtic-colours.com)

But before we sat and listened, it was exploration time. Cape Breton is a marvel of twisting vistas, glorious hikes, great food – and friendly people. En route to the world-renowned Cabot Trail in Cape Breton Highlands National Park we took a circuitous route, skirting Bras D’Or Lake (not really a lake, more a brackish inland sea). Along the lakeshore near Big Pond we stopped and paid homage to Rita McNeil at the late singer’s eponymous Tea Room.

When we finally arrived at Ingonish Beach Campground on the National Park’s southeast border, it was late. We ate and hit the hay. There was a big hike planned for the morning: Franey Trail, a long steep climb to a panoramic viewpoint from which one looks down on the Clyburn River canyon spilling into the Atlantic Ocean. Admiring the view at the summit, we chatted quietly with a young local couple who were proud to tell us the history of the region, their Scottish heritage and the hard lives their ancestors had endured on land – and at sea.

That evening we dined luxuriously at the historic Keltic Lodge and later, over a digestif in the leathery lounge, struck up conversation with a European tourist. “Don’t you think Cape Bretoners are the friendliest people on earth?” I asked. We had been overwhelmed by Maritime hospitality. Looking puzzled, he answered dryly, in a thick accent, “I have had only a matter of weeks here, so I am not yet able to make this conclusion.” Tough crowd.

When we awoke the air was cool, crisp and clear, a perfect day for an autumn drive on the Cabot Trail, which loops for 298km around the northern tip of Cape Breton. We cruised counterclockwise from Ingonish. Our first stop was White Point where the harsh Atlantic batters stony cliffs along the island’s unprotected north shore.

Then we began a twisting ascent through lush Acadian forest to Cape Breton’s central highlands.

The display of foliage was magical. Maple, beech and birch all boasted their brightest fall colours: hues of red, orange and yellow. And, as if frozen in the windless air, the trees had yet to drop a single leaf. It was a palette of autumn perfection. I pulled the motorhome into a serene overlook. Florence and I sat in silence, gazing through the windshield at the crimson and gold majesty.

Suddenly, and before I could exit the vehicle to snap a picture, three vanloads of tourists pulled in, sprung from their seats and began frantically taking photos. Abandoning the hope of any verdant solitude, I instead jumped into the cacophonous human fray and started taking shots of tourists taking pictures.

We set up camp that evening at quiet MacIntosh Brook near Lone Shieling, where 350 year-old sugar maple trees stand sentinel over a long-abandoned Scottish crofter’s hut. Despite the quiet, I didn’t sleep well that night, for there was a menacing giant lurking in my future: Cabot Cliffs golf links.

You may have read my charming story about golf in Ireland – and how the Irish courses were the most beautifully humiliating I had ever encountered. Well, Cape Breton Island has retained its Celtic tradition not only in music and dance but also in its fondness for brutal but alluring links golf. Cabot Cliffs (cabotlinks.com) is equal to the best of its turf cousins across the sea. Florence and I were fortunate to secure a tee time – and a private caddy – to enjoy this spectacular course. That evening I slept like a baby, having tamed the giant – NOT!

After the golf interlude, we re-dedicated ourselves to exploration by foot with a last hike, on the Skyline Trail on Cape Breton’s west coast. Although crowded, the traipse was enjoyable and the ocean views breathtaking. On a clear day (which we enjoyed) one can see the white cliffs of Quebec’s Magdalen Islands shining distantly in the Gulf of St Lawrence.

With tired feet – and badly in need of being fed and watered – we arrived late at Cheticamp Campground. I noticed a sign announcing that the Harbour Restaurant in the quaint Acadian village of Cheticamp offered a free shuttle for patrons. I phoned, booked a reservation and requested a ride. 15 minutes later a car pulled up to our campsite and a pleasant lady with a French-Canadian accent said, “Hop in.” It was Lorraine LeBlanc, the restaurant owner (baywindsuites.com).

And after a great chow down on Morue en Cabane (slow-cooked cod, chives and pork scraps) and Lorraine’s famous Apple Garden cake, she dropped us back off at our campsite. Now that’s Cape Breton hospitality. Despite my inherent thriftiness, I left a generous tip.

Our time in the Highlands was coming to an end and still there was the Celtic Colours to enjoy. The festival venues are island-wide but many artists bunk each night at the Gaelic College in St Ann’s near Baddeck (Alexander Graham Bell’s summer stomping grounds). Widely scattered venues result in a long, dark drive on narrow roads back to St Ann’s after a day of performing. But for the musicians the party carries on – with impromptu jam sessions lasting well into the wee hours.

We arrived in St Ann’s on the last night of the Festival. We boon-docked in the Gaelic College parking lot. The Celtic Colours finale was scheduled to begin very late – past our bedtime so, after a parking lot BBQ, we lay down for a disco nap, awaking near midnight to the sound of instruments being tuned.

It was a raucous evening, hosted by the effervescent humour of singer-songwriter Buddy MacDonald. It was past 4 am when the last fiddle was packed unwillingly into its case.

We trundled off to bed… and enjoyed a well-deserved Celtic sleep in.

Gerry