Day 4: Wednesday September 11th ~ Cheticamp

The predicted rain greeted us as we gathered in the Normaway Inn for another marvelous feast consisting of French toast, eggs a la Normaway, yoghurt, fresh blueberries and rhubarb sauce. The decision before us was whether to wait out the rain for the predicted window of opportunity around mid-day, or go after breakfast to avoid the thunderstorms predicted in mid-afternoon. We decided drizzle was better than lightning, so we got out our rain gear and set off for Cheticamp.

God was with us in a very Irish, perhaps even Scottish, way as the road to Cheticamp was gently rolling and we had a steady tail wind of about 20 miles per hour. So the wind was at our backs and the road that rose up to meet us was only damp as the rain abated. Stopping for more bananas and other biker necessities at one of the few grocery stores in the area, we were off to a good start.

We left the Margaree Valley and headed north up the western coast of Cape Breton. This is a lovely are of dunes and bluffs, which must have been reminiscent of Scotland to the early settlers. Even the distant hills looked as if lochs could be nestled amongst them.

Kirt in front of a faux loch

With the aforementioned tail wind freshening, we set a blistering pace up the coast for Cheticamp. But the photo ops abounded, even though the skies were glowering.

Peter and Tim. Peter is sporting the Nova Scotia flag

 

Our perfect ride was marred about 5 kilometers from Cheticamp, when we encountered road construction. The blacktop had been stripped, leaving a bone jarring washboard surface which is mildly annoying to cars, but is like riding a bucking bronco on a bike. We certainly had ample time being tossed around on this stretch to wonder why the Canadians didn't repave in smaller sections. Must have had a three day rental on the road stripping machine.

The vistas on the west coast are glorious. Moorland running into the sea, low craggy mountains in the distance. Cheticamp was a French fishing village long before the English took over and it is proud of its "Acadian" heritage. The primary language in this area is French.

The view from our lodging ~ the Pilot Whale Chalets

Our accommodations were fully equipped Chalets on a headland overlooking the St. Lawrence. We had been told that every Wednesday a fisherman appeared in town with fresh caught fish, so Curt ventured out, returning  with a mess of Halibut and instructions on how the locals prepare it: fried in an egg/flour/butter batter. To hell with worries about cholesterol and calories, we are biking the Cabot Trail and for a week at least, can convince ourselves that we deserve all the rich food and drink available. When the Kurts joined forces to fry it up, it slid down our gullets like greased lightning, and tasted like ambrosia. Never has a piece of fish received such accolades! We even prepared salad and fresh broccoli to make the meal a little more balanced.

The Plot Whale Chalets

 

Our gastronomic and calorie laden delights were not over. For breakfast, Kirt promised us his someday to be famous "Eggs Kirtland" , scrambled eggs made with mayonnaise, cheddar cheese and in our case onions. We had sides of fried ham and toasted bread from a local bakery. These also slid down our gullets like a greased pig. The fuel will be needed for the day ahead -  the road to Dingwall. Three hulking  mountains with average grades of 13% await us!

 

 

About to dig into Eggs Kirtland