From New England to Old Canada

July 21, 2025
by Amy

Arriving in Newfoundland, I was dumbstruck by the immense beauty of the landscape. I’d forgotten how thoroughly enchanting this island is – like a storybook wonderland, where gnomes and magical creatures romp through moss covered rocky hills extending as far as the eye can see. I haven’t seen any fairies yet, but I’m sure they’re here. We are looking forward to slowing down our pace to enjoy the south coast of the “Rock” (as the locals say) for the next 5 weeks or so. But let me go back…

Island hopping from Block Island, RI, to to Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket was a treat. We hit them before heavy tourist season, so we didn’t have crowds to fight. One never thinks of oneself as a tourist, but a savvy traveler/sailor who finds the “typical tourist” a hindrance to one’s enjoyment of a place. (How pretentious!) In Block Island, we made three attempts to pay for our mooring, but no one ever came to collect, so it turned out to be free! We walked from the mooring field in the Great Salt Pond past charming, shingle-style homes to the little town of New Shoreham, revisiting some of our favorite restaurants and catching bits and pieces of the French Open tennis when possible. There was a film festival on but the outdoor venue with folding chairs was so unsuitable and uncomfortable, that we begged off. I felt sorry for any filmmakers who may have been sucked in, as it appeared to be a bit of a sham.

It had been years (2007) since we last visited Martha’s Vineyard, and this time we anchored near Edgartown, a beautiful village and historically a major whaling hub. Renting fast electric bikes we pedaled effortlessly to Vineyard Haven and Oak Bluffs taking in the plethora of Victorian houses surrounding the Methodist retreat center. For lunch we got sucked into a bit of a tourist trap with loud music and a mediocre Mediterranean sampler. The view, however, overlooking Oak Bluffs harbor was nice as was our Bulgarian waiter. The bike riding was invigorating and gave us healthy appetites, so back in Edgartown we enjoyed more restaurants where we watched some more of the French Open. I used to hate the idea of TV monitors in bars and restaurants, but now I see their appeal. Nothing like consuming alcohol and watching other people run around chasing a ball.

Nantucket still looks like the old whaling port that it was. Having recently read the book about the sinking of the Essex by a whale, (Moby Dick’s inspiration) we felt the ghosts of the old whalers hovering close by. We visited the whaling museum and learned more about those bygone years of brutal slaughter in the seas. One of the old whaling magnate’s houses, is a museum so we visited that as well. Some of the descendants of the Starbuck family (prominent whalers) still own some of the grand mansions that grace the island. Once again we rented electric bikes to explore further. Bike paths along the roads meant we didn’t have to compete with cars. Though not yet the height of tourist season, we arrived on a weekend, so there were plenty of people about. The wealthy folks who visit and summer there, wear exclusively blue and white, usually with stripes. Everything is very expensive. We met one local at a bar who was very unhappy about the direction things had taken with all the tourism and prices going through the roof. He was a third generation Nantucketer who went to school with many of the descendants of the old whaling families, though he came from modest means. He said his sons would never be able to afford to continue living on the island, the cost of living being what it is. A firefighter by profession, he told us some scary stories about fires caused by lithium batteries. After ten years the batts become quite unstable and even the little ones in vape pens can cause a serious house fire. Maybe electric cars are not the answer. Why not bio fuel? People have been driving cars for years powered by vegetable oil! It’s not just for cooking.

We learned that ICE, had recently passed through Nantucket, Martha’s Vineyard and Block Island causing work stoppages on construction projects and personnel shortages in hotels and restaurants. I didn’t think they’d gotten as far as those islands, but nothing escapes them. So sad.

A few days later we found ourselves anchored off of Provincetown, MA at the tip of Cape Cod. Such a delightfully, gay place and I mean that in every sense of the word. It’s lovely to see same sex couples so happy and free and openly affectionate. It made us happy. We rented electric bikes and cruised out to the dunes and took in Dina Martina’s latest show. Dina’s a drag comedian and her one-woman show is hilarious and unlike anything we’ve ever seen; a rambling insane monologue interspersed with spontaneous songs and videos. The first time we saw her was in 2009 and we always hoped our cruising schedule would coincide with her performances in P-town. This year we got lucky.

Next stop up the coast was Gloucester, MA, where we met up with Raffi and Lisa aboard the Windfall (site of our nautical nuptials). My sister and brother-in-law happened to be in town on a bicycle trip and swung by to have lunch with us. We happened to be there on June 14, “No Kings Day” so we participated in the local protest march. It was inspiring and comforting to see such a large turnout of concerned citizens.

In Camden, ME, we got in touch with with cruising friends, Gretchen and Michael, whom we’d met in Guatemala. Gretchen was performing in a choral ensemble, so naturally we had to go. It was an outstanding concert. We learned that night that Gretchen is a descendant of Walter Piston, a famous American composer, a contemporary and friend to Aaron Copeland. So no wonder Gretchen is a fine songstress!

In Acadia National Park we ventured a hike on the hottest day of the year. We chose an easy trail, because of the heat and it was so crowded we aborted early and doubled back to Jordan Pond House for lunch including their famous popovers. Hiking schmiking!

On June 26th, my 62nd birthday, we sailed away from Maine toward Canada and made landfall in Shelburne, Nova Scotia the following afternoon. The wind was negligible so we motored the whole way and enjoyed favorable currents for the majority of the trip. A cute fluffy little bird landed in the cockpit while Kenny was on watch during the early morning hours. This often happens on overnight passages, but after one to eight hours the birds usually fly away. This bird was so tired and cold that he buried his head completely into himself. He stood motionless on the wire of our VHF radio for a couple of hours and then hopped off onto the seat and lay down. “Maybe he’s sick,” I offered. Eventually he fell from the seat to the cockpit floor. The poor bird had died. We were glad to have provided a final resting place, but it made us sad. Kenny said, “That was my favorite bird.” A short time later we performed a burial at sea.

Arriving in Nova Scotia felt like stepping out of the gloom into a ray of sunlight. The sweet scent of pines drifts across the water and the people are kind, helpful, thoughtful and generous. Not that Maine and all the other places we’d stopped weren’t lovely, but our political climate casts a bit of a pall over everything.

We checked into Canadian customs and border patrol over the phone at the Shelburne Yacht Club, then lay down for much needed naps, as we’d not slept much the previous night underway. Not long after drifting into slumber, we heard someone outside the boat calling out for us. I went out into the cockpit to find two police officers in a zodiac. They weren’t dressed like the old RCMPs, but were clad in black with bullet proof vests. One of them politely asked to come aboard. “Sure.” He sat in the cockpit asking the questions one usually gets from customs and immigration – passports, itinerary, had we been there before, when did we arrive…He was Quebecois so we spoke a little French. He wanted to know if we also traveled south. “Yes, in the winter, we go south.” It became evident after awhile that they were looking for cocaine traffickers. Sometimes people who go south come back with loads of cocaine. I said, “Maybe no one ever asked us to deliver anything, because we’re too old.” “You’d be surprised,” he said. I asked if he thought delivery captains sometimes unwittingly transported drugs. “No. If they’re offered a large sum of money for a delivery, they know. And large quantities of cocaine smells like chlorine.” I didn’t know that. I guess that’s why he came aboard. To have a sniff. But he didn’t get a whiff of anything, so didn’t bother to come below and he and his colleague departed to politely knock on other hulls.

Dinner our first night in Shelburne was a delicious, five-course affair at a very tiny, casual restaurant called Charlotte Lane. We’d not dined there on previous visits and were blown away by its excellence and reasonable price. We were lucky to get a table on a Friday night. The following day we ventured into town again and visited a brewery, which we hadn’t noticed on previous visits. A young worker from the Yacht Club who’d helped us at the fuel dock was there with a friend. I stopped to chat and they filled me in on what it was like growing up in Shelburne. Like most twenty year-olds in a small town, they found it a little dull. That evening, Kenny and I went to a hotel for a change of scenery – a birthday gift from Sister Molly. We enjoyed watching Canadian TV and saw an excellent documentary about AI. The next morning Kenny awoke with a tickle in his throat. It developed into a cold which lasted almost two weeks. We continued sailing northeast along the coast, and I made solo forays ashore when Kenny wasn’t feeling up to snuff.

July 1st, Canada Day, we were anchored off of Liverpool, a town we’d never visited. I went ashore expecting to find lots going on, but there was just one group playing children’s music under a tent. No parades or any other activities. There would be other musical groups and fireworks in the evening. I walked through a residential neighborhood and stopped in a sub shop for a sandwich. I’d passed a brewery earlier and returned to check it out. I ordered a brew at the counter and headed outside where groups of people sipped beers at picnic tables. All the tables were taken, so I scoped out the situation and asked a couple if they’d mind sharing their space with a stranger. “Sure. Have a seat.” We proceeded to have the most agreeable time and chatted away like old friends for the next hour and a half. Melanie and David were both teachers from Halifax enjoying their first day of summer vacation at their new summer cottage in Liverpool. Teachers in Canada can afford things like a second home. They were interested in the cruising life, so I talked about some of the places we’d been. Like me, they were horrified by Trump, so we discussed that mess for awhile and how it was affecting Canada. I told them I was making a video about Canadians’ take on Trump and asked if they’d be interested in participating. David offered to say something on camera and proceeded to describe Trump as a bully-toddler in a sandbox who needed to grow up. I then got a sound byte from the owner of the brewery, who I’d overheard complaining about the tariffs. It was effecting the cost of the cans she bought for beers sold “to go.” When it was time to return to Nancy J, Melanie and David walked me to the dinghy and we exchanged contact info so we can get together in Halifax when we sail south again at the end of summer.

From Liverpool we sailed to Lunenburg, possibly the most picturesque town on the Nova Scotian coast. Sailing into the harbor one sees colorful wooden homes and business packed onto the hillside facing the water. It was a shame Kenny wasn’t feeling well enough to come ashore, because it’s one of our favorite places and the maritime museum is excellent. When I went ashore, the first place I wandered into was the gallery at the Lunenburg Art School. The theme of the show was “Elbows Up,” a term which comes from Canadian hockey player Gordie Howe meaning to play aggressively and not take any crap. It has come to embody Canadians’ attitude toward the Trump administration’s aggressive maneuvers. Many of the pieces on display in the gallery were direct attacks on Trump, including a tapestry of the White House on fire. The woman managing the space suggested I use caution if posting a photo of that piece on social media, so I have refrained from doing so. She was very kind and gave me the Wi-Fi password while I was there and made phone calls for me re/ where I might purchase a Canadian SIM card which was one of my missions while ashore. She even agreed to participate in my “Canadians’ on Trump” video.

After taking a long unsuccessful walk in search of a SIM card, during which I tripped and fell ripping a hole in my pants, I landed in a micro-brewery (they seem to be sprouting up all over Nova Scotia) for refreshment. I talked to the bartender for awhile, and got up the courage to ask if he’d like to participate in my video. The tiny place was empty apart from one guy who was a friend of his. He politely declined, because he was working. That was the beginning of a long string of “nos” mostly due to fear. Folks are afraid they’ll be stopped at the border or worse. I understand. It was a warm evening, so I migrated outside with my beer, taking a seat next to a couple on vacation from Ontario. They were lovely and we hit it off just like with the couple in Liverpool. We talked about family, travel, politics… Everywhere I went I seemed to meet thoughtful, kind people. They too, declined to participate in the video.

The following day was a “First Friday” of the month art walk in Lunenburg with galleries and home studios staying open late, some offering hors d’oeuvres and drink. I saw a lot of really good oil paintings, photographs, graphic art and bronze sculptures and talked to several artists. I spent three hours doing the tour and learned about the late painter, Earl Bailly (1903-1977), who was stricken with polio at the age of two and learned to paint with a brush in his mouth. He gave and sold works to many famous people including Queen Elizabeth. His work was not just good for someone operating with a disability, but on a level with any truly accomplished artist. He brings the Lunenburg waterfront and surrounding areas to life. https://www.lunenburgartgallery.com/earl

I really hit it off with an artist named Chippie who creates stunning bronze sculptures at a foundry right in Lunenburg. Canadian by birth, she made a career as a fashion designer in New York. Upon retiring, she moved to Italy to study sculpture. She works in a classical style creating everything from human figures to waves. She ships her gorgeous pieces all over the world, but her only gallery is right there in Lunenburg. She has a place in Naples, FL too, and her kids all live in the states. Naturally, she had plenty to say on the subject of our president, but she declined the opportunity to speak on camera out of fear.

In Halifax, Kenny came ashore with me for a bit, and after doing a partial tour of the city’s murals (the annual mural festival was underway) we stopped for lunch and then fell into a pub to watch a bit of the Wimbledon Tennis Tournament which we quickly abandoned when we heard music coming from another room. We wandered in and listened for an hour to an outstanding guitar and fiddle duo cranking out foot-stomping Celtic tunes. I had some luck in Halifax with my video project! I got a sound bytes from two mural painters and the owner of a vintage clothing store.

The following day Kenny rested and I went into town to continue the mural tour and visit the Art Gallery of Nova Scotia, which houses the tiny home of folk artist Maud Lewis (1901-1970). Maud and her husband Everett lived in this diminutive structure (13.5′ x 12.5′) with no plumbing or electricity on a fairly busy highway near Digby, Nova Scotia. (There is a documentary as well as a heart breaking biopic about Maud Lewis on streaming services). Though terribly crippled by painful arthritis her whole life, Maud painted her heart out and people stopped at her house by the highway and bought her works, some for as little as $1.50. Maud painted the house fancifully inside and out; on the windows she rendered tulips. When she and then her husband, Everett, passed away, the house fell into disrepair. It was carefully dismantled then reassembled, restored and installed in the Art Gallery of Nova Scotia. A replica of the house was built where the original one once stood by the the highway. Such is the respect given to artists in Nova Scotia.

By the time we got to Liscombe Lodge, NS, Kenny was almost back to his old self. The lodge and grounds, formerly run by the Canadian government, have fallen into disrepair under private ownership. The pool and hot tub area were so filthy, we didn’t even bother. We did have a decent meal up at that lodge, but I felt sorry for the stressed-out servers. It is clearly understaffed. The best thing about the Lodge is Chester, who gives boat tours and takes your lines at the dock. Chester loaned us his car so we could visit the historic village (a la Williamsburg, VA) of Sherbrooke and do some shopping. We wandered through the historic structures (black smith’s, general store, post office, photo studio….) and chatted with folks in period costume. Sherbrooke was a thriving town in the mid 1800s exporting timber, mining gold and building ships. The lumber mill still operates as do some of the other businesses. They’re trying to make it a real, living historic village as much as possible. They love their history as much as their art in Nova Scotia.

We rather raced through Cape Breton and the Bras D’Or Lakes to get up to Newfoundland, before the summer ends. Hoping to spend a bit more time on the Lakes on our way south. It was from the picturesque little town of Dingwall near the northeastern tip of Cape Breton that we hopped over to Newfoundland. In Dingwall, we sensed the locals did not appreciate our presence. The fishermen would not wave back. Someone came to wake us in the anchorage with his jet ski. Later, as we dinghied past a house on the water a lone man on the porch turned his back as we motored by… Another fellow who sped by on a jet ski later, did stop when I gave a big friendly wave. He sat and talked for a bit. But I guess most folks, just considered us to be snotty yachties, not worth the time of day. Maybe we’ll skip it, when we head south. The one hotel there, however, has fantastic food, but it’s very pricey for the area and the locals probably hate it too.

Our crossing to Newfoundland was quick and painless, but windless, so we motored the whole way. No bird hitch-hikers on this leg but we were inundated with hundreds of migrating moths. Rather them than biting flies or mosquitoes. Chugging into Isle aux Morts, my jaw dropped as we moved through the storybook landscape. Cape Breton is dramatic with its mountains and cliffs, but Newfoundland is other worldly. We dropped the hook in Squid Hole and reveled in the beauty. In 2009 we sat out hurricane Bill at the town wharf in Isle aux Morts. People were very kind to us offering showers, and rides to get diesel fuel, and jars of pickled mackerel and moose meat. This time, one other boat was anchored in the hole with us, another on the outside, and a third one at the dock. This was about as many cruising boats as we’d seen on our entire trips in the past, when we almost never shared an anchorage. Things have changed.

At Barry’s lounge, the only restaurant in town, we learned from the cook/bartender that Tom Harvey, the man who’d invited us for showers and beers at his home in 2009 was in Halifax, because his daughter had died and he was helping his son-in-law take care of the children. The Harvey family has a long history in Isle aux Morts. Their ancestors rescued dozens of souls from ships that wrecked on the rocks along the shore. Many died. Thus the name, Isle aux Morts – Island of the Dead.

We enjoyed a lively sail from Isle aux Morts to Culotte Cove, where we anchored with two other boats. Now we find ourselves anchored off of the town of Burgeo. No one else is in this anchorage, but two other cruising boats are nearby – one anchored in a nearby cove, and the other from the Falkland Islands, at the town wharf. We spoke briefly with the Falklands couple yesterday when we went ashore to explore. They have quite the sturdy, steel vessel. Next summer they plan to sail to Ireland and eventually back to the Falklands. They’re not spring chickens either. Makes us look like a couple of wimps!

We visited Burgeo’s one room museum. It’s filled with antiques, ship models, various odds and ends (an old dentist’s chair), and photos of locals and accompanying stories. Then we dined on cod at Lisa’s Roadside Restaurant, the only game in town. It was small and all the tables filled up quickly. The one other joint in Burgeo, was temporarily closed on account of the cook cut her hand with a knife and had to go to the hospital.

Today (July 21) in Burgeo, it’s grey and rainy, so we’re staying below, cozy in Nancy J, planning the continuing adventure.

Love to all.