In Search of My Canada:
Canada's Nova Scotia
(Part 18 of 18, 1992)
Truro, Nova Scotia, is like the hub of a transportation wheel. Six major highway systems radiate outwards from it. On one of these arteries, Route 201, we pointed “Old Betsy” east the short 100 km to Halifax. It was now mid-September and the mornings had been cool. Autumn was in the air and it seemed that everyone and everything was getting ready for another bout with Old Man Winter. In a way, autumn signaled an end to our quest for Canada and what it means to be a “Canadian”. Perhaps the turning of the leaves, and the chill blasts that caused them to swirl around us, focused our attention inwards rather than outwards. A time for reflection and one of contemplation.
Halifax sits astride the Inner Harbour and Bedford Basin. A natural wonder, Halifax’s harbour is guarded by islands at its mouth, opening gradually in a series of stages into a huge basin. Developed originally as a military counterpoint to French Louisbourg to the north, Halifax, in time, and especially after the defeat of the French at Louisbourg and Quebec City, became an important naval base for the growing British Navy. Sheltered from Atlantic storms, ice-free because of the warm gulf stream current, Halifax grew into a mighty colossus guarded by the impregnable Citadel.
The Citadel was constructed in the 1750’s by British engineers. Star-shaped, surrounded by two dry moats, the Citadel commanded every approach to the Harbour. Fashioned from over two million granite blocks, the walls rise over the Lower City like an impending tidal wave. Today, the gun batteries are silent as tourists by the millions pour through its narrow gateway. Over the past twenty years, the Citadel’s granite blocks have been numbered and removed. New modern mortar now replaces the old decaying, salt-laced line that the British used, in their ignorance. Although never having fired a shot in anger, the Citadel was witness to the mightiest non-nuclear explosion of all time. On a cold winter’s morning, a freighter loaded with tons of explosives collided with another freighter. The subsequent fire and explosion levelled the city and killed over 2,000 people. It was 1917, and the whole world was at war. This tragedy was photographed and can still be seen today in the Citadel’s museum. Today, the harbour and town have recovered and scenes of bustling activity along the waterfront characterize this area, especially the old waterfront directly below the Citadel. It is here that the real heart of Halifax beats, and at its heart is the legendary schooner, Bluenose II.
At the time of our visit in 1992, the Bluenose II was nowhere to be found. A copy of the original Bluenose that foundered off Jamaica in 1946, today’s version is also being replaced, God forbid, by an aluminum version. They say that’s progress. Apparently, the “new” version will last a lifetime. I disagree. I believe that only memories last a lifetime, and the memory of a wooden-hulled Bluenose racing through the waters with a “Bone” in its teeth will outlive any attempt at aluminum immortality. Like everything else, change is inevitable.
Many older buildings of historical values in downtown Halifax are being replaced by more efficient structures. Looking upwards from the scars of parking lots, one can see the outline of the vanished building impressed along the upper facade of its endangered neighbour. There is a groundswell of opposition in Halifax to the destruction of historical buildings. Perhaps someone in authority will come to his/her senses before it’s too late.
Leaving Halifax behind, we headed down the winding coastal road to Peggy’s Cove. Located at the tip of a rock-strewn peninsula, Peggy’s Cove was named after the sole survivor of a long ago shipwreck, a little girl named Peggy. Populated by 50 permanent residences, the Cove is alive with the sound of tourists. Quaint, very picturesque, the Cove’s population lives off the sea. The cove is a cleft in the barren granite rocks that were smoothed into pillow-like softness by ancient glaciers. Thrusting its Cyclopean eye 120 feet above the pounding surf, Peggy’s Cove Lighthouse houses the world’s smallest post office, and the only one located inside a lighthouse.
Peggy’s Cove suffers the tourists for a few months every year. The gift shops make a lot of money and everyone seems happy until the residents complain about the rising property taxes; errant tourists climbing over fences trying to get that “classic” photo opportunity; and the parking problems. Indian Harbour, just down the road, is just as pretty as Peggy’s Cove and probably very thankful that it is virtually unknown.
Bypassing Lunenburg, Shelburne and Bridgewater, Highway 103 points like an arrow for Yarmouth, at the southern tip of the Scotia peninsula. Constructed a few years ago, this modern highway bypasses the undulating ribbon of coastal highway that snakes along the Atlantic Coast for 190 miles between Halifax and Yarmouth.
Yarmouth sits astride a natural riverine harbour. Discovered by Champlain in 1604, Yarmouth today is an important fishing centre. The Yarmouth Light at Cape Forchu is one of a handful of manned lighthouses still operating. It’s manned because of its complex computer system. Yarmouth Harbour throbs with the incessant beat of seiners, draggers, lobster boats unloading fish and taking on ice. Two ferry routes, one from Bar Harbour, Maine (USA), and the other from Portland, Maine, converge on the downtown waterfront. Yarmouth is also the site of the only Firefighter’s Museum in Canada. Chock full of gleaming brass and red engines, the Museum is a “must see” item. For all its scenic beauty, the city of Yarmouth and the farming countryside around it pales in comparison to its peoples.
The peoples of Yarmouth and the surrounding villages, such as Clare, are of predominately Acadian stock. Acadia, before 1755, was an area bordering both sides of the Bay of Fundy. Gentle, French-speaking people, the Acadians were skilled at draining vast areas of low-lying land and reclaiming it from the sea. Through the skillful use of dikes and drains, thousands of acres of rich farmland emerged from the sea. Prosperous and hard working, the Acadians carved a fruitful life for themselves from the forests, land, and sea. They were unwilling, however, to pledge allegiance to Britain and, in 1755, Governor Lawrence from Halifax sent in British troops to deport the Acadians overseas. Their farms were torched, families separated, and all their stock confiscated. Some ended up in Louisiana where today they are known as “Cajuns”.
In these Acadians today, I found a warm-hearted, friendly, and generous group of Canadians. Yes, their ancestors were mistreated but they trickled back and many reclaimed their farms. They built up their culture where today Acadian festivals abound and their children can go to Acadian schools by choice. A gracious people, the Acadians treasure their traditions but they have forgiven the past and look forward to the future. They are proud to be Canadians. It seems strange that these maligned peoples of the past hold no grudges, whereas in Quebec, whose peoples were allowed to retain their farms, culture, traditions, church, language, civil laws, and seigniorial system (until 1854), want to separate from the Canadian mainstream.
Yes, Sharon and I had travelled nearly 7,000 miles to find what it meant to be a Canadian. The Acadians had shown me the answer through their example. They were Canadian as much as I because they loved the land we both know as Canada. They loved it unconditionally without strings attached. They forgave the past and worked to build a better future for all Canadians. Their strength lay in sticking together, working together for common goals. Putting themselves and their needs second to the needs of their country. Relying on each other to overcome obstacles peacefully, sharing a common purpose. Yes, they know who they are ... we know who we are ... we are Canadian and damn proud of it.
This series is dedicated to Sharon’s dad, Roy Moore, who passed away April 7, 1992, at the beginning of our Cross-Canada trip, and to my dad, Anthony Carter, who passed away September 17, 1992.
