Don, and on to Fogo Island

As our resolve to leave Cape Enrage and press on towards Hopewell Rocks hardens, we pass a weatherworn sign offering 'free camping'. Our heads swivel immediately to take in the, level and empty and free, field looking out onto a stunning salt water marsh full of beavers, ducks, geese and dozens of birds we could only guess at, settling in for the evening.
By now several seconds have passed and we have whizzed past the field. But it doesn't take us long to find a place to turn around.
Don's a fine chap who likes to share the view. As the light fades, the birdcalls are replaced by a wonderful and deafening chorus of frogs.
It's a captivating place to camp, and we struggle to leave by 9.00am. It's a good job low tide in Fundy Bay is soo looow — there will still be plenty to see at Hopewell Rocks.
And they are spectacular. Tall pillars of red sandstone, capped with trees, have become isolated from the cliffs by the powerful erosive tides. Their bases are covered with Bladderwrack kelp, and, narrowing with height, they again swell out above the high tide line.
Leaving Nouveau Brunswick we race on to Nova Scotia, hatching a plan en route to accelerate our arrival on Fogo Island, Newfoundland. We decide to drive across the north coast of Nova Scotia, straight to Sydney, to catch the ferry to Channel Port aux Basques, Newfoundland. It's a six hour crossing, then a seven hour drive to Farewell, then an hours ferry ride to Fogo Island.
We'll save the southern coast of Nova Scotia, and the Cape Breton Highlands for the return trip.
Highway 5 along the north coast is a beautiful ride, past inviting sandy beaches and big sturdy Victorian farmhouses.
The dogs frolic in a beachside park in Seafoam, and at the Dino Bar in Tatamagouche we enjoy some of the best scallops and fried fish we've ever had.
There is a midnight ferry to Newfoundland which sounds like perfect timing. We try to make a reservation online, scalping wireless service from an unsuspecting subscriber, but it's only possible to reserve online for the following day. So we try phoning, and after ten minutes of holding realize that we've now been stymied by technology for half an hour, and have to keep moving if we are to make the ferry. Keeping an eye out, but not literally, for Moose we press on, and arrive at the ferry ticket booth with only forty minutes to spare.
Unfortunately for us the afternoon ferry had limped in with only two of its four engines functioning, so there were now two ferries worth of cars and trucks waiting for a departure. We had no reservation and so were consigned to 'loser line number nine', along with some other unfortunates. Our outlook was not good — it was very unlikely we would get on the next ferry, whenever that was to leave, and would have to remain in line until the replacement ferry was in service for a 7pm departure the next evening. And the toilets in the terminal building have broken too.
What a lot of driving for not a lot of benefit we moan to ourselves. We put up the curtains, put in earplugs to drown out the drone of the idling trucks, and finally drift off to sleep.
At 2.30am we are awakened by a determined banging on the side of the van, the tone of which suggested it may have been going on for some time. We are confused and delighted to hear the ferry will be leaving with us on it, but only if we hurry up and drive onto it.
What a stroke of luck after all.
Lucky line number nine.
Above the vehicle decks we join the many other travelers wandering around bleary-eyed, clutching pillows as if they were life jackets.
Everybody seems to hate the Lief Erricson ferry, but we are happy to be on board, even if the small child behind us screams and writhes all night, which he does, with great effectiveness. Back in go the ear plugs.
We have a bizarre chat with a trucker about the different techniques for driving over a bear, versus a moose. And how each feels.
He tells us to watch for trucks coming past the historical McDougal's Wreck House, about forty kilometers up the highway. And to hope that we see lots. McDougal lived in a very windy place, and used to hoist a flag to warn trains in times of extreme wind danger.
Several trains were, literally, blown off the their tracks. The same winds now lift up the rear axels of the 'Big Rigs' — what a scary thought.
It feels great to be in Newfoundland again. The air is fresh, and the light bright like white salt against the blue sea. Darker, ochre freshwater ponds writhe with trout, and beaver dams. Rocks burst out of the land like boils.
We plan to catch the last ferry to Fogo Island, seven hours away. Our luck continues - as we arrive at the Farewell dock, the ferry is loading - five minutes later and we would have missed the boat. It was an earlier ferry, not on our, outdated, schedule. If we had dallied longer at the scenic outlook, or stopped just one more time to snap a picture, we could have photographed its' wake.
Instead we are the star attraction — a giant white iceberg on wheels backing onto the ferry.
All the other cars face us; we are the screen at a floating drive-in movie. At about nine and a half feet tall, even the cars at the back can watch us reversing on.
All three dogs have their noses pressed up against the rear windows for the exercise — presenting a daunting, and sebum smeared, show of solidarity, as the chest freezer on wheels, (thank you Dave F) quietly beeped its way up the ramp onto the prow of the ferry vessel. (If you recall I smothered the reversing beeper with reassuringly quiet spray foam)
Because of our ferry-catching luck, we arrive two days earlier than expected. Just how fabulous is that?
The sun is shining brightly and the brimstone rocks are warming up slowly.
Stark white patches of ice speckle the crouching juniper and red heather covered hillsides.
Vast pointy icebergs are visible, five miles or more offshore, drifting fast in the current.
Vivid green algae endures for centuries on a hard cold, wind-sculpted rock.
So we've been here several days now, and our departure date from Fogo Island moves further away with every day.
Nova Scotia just can't compete with this. It's so great to reconnect with friends here.
We amble daily around the island, exploring, visiting, walking trails, and turning heads with the height of the Sprinter.
Today we explored Change Islands, the sunshine saturating the deep red colors of the weathered Stages, and reflecting brightly off the white churches.
Returning home we back onto the ferry with confidence this time, casually snacking on some cold Quebec poutine, bouncing over the ramp, yelling at the Canines, and spinning the wheel with abandon. Yes, why not - take a good look at us! We are here for a while.
Roast Moose for dinner, cocktails clinking with pure iceberg ice, and the best company in the world keep us up till the early hours roll around.