Nova Scotia thrift, New Brunswick stone, (part one,

Did you know we were east last week? Christine, myself and our young ladies flew into a late-night Halifax to immediately drive out the following morning across Nova Scotia and into New Brunswick, towards the Confederation Bridge, and destination: Prince Edward Island. There was a certain amount of (our usual) chaos, given a late afternoon cab to Ottawa's train station, train from Ottawa to Dorval (Montreal) for a flight that managed a bit of a delay, only landing into our near-airport Halifax hotel and our beds well after 2am (the children bickered for at least half an hour before settling, not wishing to share a bed). Did we have these problems with our young ladies in Winnipeg? Parc Oméga? Picton? Calgary? No. Certainly not in Ireland, as they didn't even share a room. Perhaps they were overtired. I mean, I know we were (but we're way old).

Tuesday, August 18, 2026: First thing in the morning (well, eventually), we managed our 11am rental car and noon check-out (grudgingly, achingly, slow) and began heading out, catching two different locations for Guy's Frenchys, an infamous clothing thrift store chain [we'd been through prior, but I seem not to have mentioned it]. I mean, we had to make the trip bearable for our young ladies, didn't we? Rose loves her thrifting. Bins upon bins upon bins of second-hand clothes, as our young ladies took turns clogging the stores' dressing rooms. 

I didn't find much interesting for myself in either location, but I did pick up a book that intrigued (the books were spare, random, but there was this one, at least), especially given my genealogical links (recently realized, via birth mother) to some of those locations [I wrote about some of that here and here]. What else might there be to discover? Probably lots. Anything relevant? Impossible to know, as of yet. It was good, at least, to begin to catch a better flavour of this American trail that links, somehow, to my individual self. Our young ladies filled bags of thrifting, and were pleased enough.

Driving. There were rolling hills and clouds, train tracks and highways, a smattering of rain. Perpetual rain. Perhaps there was always rain. Perhaps there had never been a point where there wasn't rain. I can only see rain. En route to the bridge (with a coffee/donut run in there somewhere, also), at Christine's further suggestion, we ended up at the Joggins Fossil Cliffs, managing the gift shop fifteen minutes prior to closing (postcards, stones, other items), and the water already at high tide. I'd wondered about gathering a fossil, perhaps, for J.R. Carpenter, referencing their recent (second) above/ground press title, but between the water level and the fact that one wasn't allowed to leave with anything, it just wasn't possible. Not even a photograph of a fossil to hold onto, although the view, the space itself, set along the Bay of Fundy, was remarkable.

I even managed a panorama, and was quite amused that Aoife, without realizing, moved a bit during capture and managed to get into the same photograph twice. Aoife ran up and down the steps, Rose more meditative, distracted; requested Christine take pictures of her with the water backdrop [she has requested to not have her photographs included in these notes], and the plentiful flower bushes were populated by an army of bees. There was a spot on the beach we could see further down but not access (some folk wandering through, their car parked well above), but hadn't the time ourselves to walk back up, drive over, and walk down the other side (we were aiming for a 4pm landing at where we'd be staying on Prince Edward Island, and this was already well after 5pm). Once back out on our way, we even drove by Parrsboro [where we stayed with a very wee Rose, moons back]. Christine couldn't remember, so I looked it up.

And then to the open road again, which led us to a small gas station for the sake of a pit stop. By the washrooms, this particular display case of vintage items, most likely the same vintage of my late parents.

We'd originally hoped that this trip could have been a drive from home, but we hadn't the time for such a thing, and even what drive we had was rather condensed, having to pack in as much as we could in short spaces, skipping over whole swaths (and a handful of potential social visits with writers along the way). We crossed the Confederation Bridge and kept driving, driving. It was 9pm or so before we were safe in our space in North Rustico, overlooking the water. The young ladies, settling down into their (individual beds) as Christine and I sat on the front porch, local wine at the ready.

next up: the potato museum, Prince Edward Island + Cows,