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thescribblingtourist · 1 year

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Nova Scotia: Passage to Rogue's Roost and Mahone Bay

A rookie sailor endures fog, dangerous rocks and a dinghy mishap on a birthday cruise along Nova Scotia’s south shore.

Originally published in Canadian Yachting and Halifax Chronicle Herald

“Guys, come and look at this. We’ve got company – BIG company!”

Skipper David Burke, owner of Angeleah, a well-kept Pearson 303 sailboat, points to the blinking mass on the radar screen. “Whatever it is, it’s coming in past Mauger’s Beach. Likely a car carrier headed for the Autoport at Eastern Passage.” David motions up through the companionway. “Let’s keep a good lookout. She’ll be to port, and I doubt we have 20 metres visibility in this soup.”

The fog hasn’t budged since we slipped Angeleah’s berth at Armdale Yacht Club at 0630. Our destination is Rogue’s Roost, one of Nova Scotia’s favoured south shore anchorages, tucked into the granite coast near the fishing community of Prospect.

With time at a premium for this Canada Day weekend cruise, we’ll leave the mainsail tucked in its kelly green sailbag, relying on the deep throbbing inboard diesel to punch us through the chop of Halifax harbour, around Chebucto Head and along the coast. At an average speed of four to five knots, we expect to make Hearn Island and Roost Island by early afternoon. We’ll anchor for the night and continue in the morning past Chester to Mahone Bay, further along the south shore.

David has arranged to rent a mooring for the summer, and when he invited me to crew on this trip, my family chased me out the door, saying a cruise would be the perfect way to celebrate my birthday. And they’re right. Here I am, on a solid, comfortable boat with a competent skipper and two new friends.

The hulking carrier passes without incident. I’m now glad to be on a boat fitted with all the modern amenities: auto helm, radar, GPS, depth sounder, VHF, dual batteries and a CD player that puts my home stereo to shame.

As we head offshore, the water darkens, but there is nothing to see. The diesel hums as Angeleah’s bow points to 180 degrees magnetic through one of the busiest commercial shipping lanes in North America.

“Gotta be real careful through here,” says David. “You can get some big freighters clipping through here and the navy pretty much owns this place. You might think you have right-of-way, but they rule the channel. Further out, it’s the fishing fleets we need to stay clear of. They’ll show up as clusters on the radar.”

I’m already impressed with this guy. His last boat was a Tanzer 26, and he’s sailed throughout eastern Canada. He’s taken his 6-tonne Pearson from Sydney to Halifax along the eastern shore and into the sailor’s paradise known as the Bras d’Or Lakes, a huge body of salt water cut into the middle of Cape Breton. It’s a secluded sailing ground with consistent winds and very little tidal action, a far cry from where we are this Saturday morning, motoring against the prevailing winds. And with this much fog, we’re relying on electronic (ie: ready-to-fail-at-the-first-hint-of-trouble) equipment to keep us off the steep granite cliffs to starboard. I can’t see the cliffs, but if the chart says that’s where they are, we need to pay very close attention.

This is when I regret my fascination with maritime history. I’ve ready too many stories of the wayward ships that have slammed into the coast or foundered on shoals after an ocean crossing. Looking at the chart, we’re not too far from the site of one of the worst disasters in the Halifax area – Thrumcap Shoal, south of McNab’s Island, where HMS La Tribune was caught in a winter gale in November 1797. Helpless bystanders stood on bluffs in nearby Herring Cove as the sea showed no mercy toward the sailors on the British frigate.

As morning broke, a 13-year old orphan from Herring Cove named Joe Cracker launched a dory into the frightening swell and saved two crewmen. Prompted by the youngster’s bravery, older men joined in to rescue another ten sailors from certain death. The loss of the Tribune took 238 lives. Angeleah’s hull has just passed by Tribune Rock, named in memory of that terrible night.

Now is not the time to think about people dying at sea, I tell myself. Pay attention. Keep your eyes scanning across the bow. Check the compass. Heading offshore, keep green buoys to starboard, red buoys to port. Don’t get sick. I really should have taken Gravol before we left.

The other two crew, Lang and Johnny, have both taken their anti-seasick medication. They’ve sailed with David before in pretty rough seas. Lang is a policy analyst with the provincial tourism department. Johnny works in construction. Both are friendly guys who are true Maritimers – never at a loss for a good story. There’ll be no shortage of conversation or humour on this trip. The few moments of boredom are broken by lame jokes about Swedish women in search of hardy Canadian sailors. Ahar, maties!

I hop below and grab the chart bag and find CHS #4237 so I can visualize where we’re heading. When David invited me along, I jumped at the chance to learn all I could about coastal piloting. My only previous sailing experience was limited to Laser racing on Wascana Lake in Regina, where I ended up turtling and sticking my mast into six feet of the thickest, stinkiest muck on the planet (they’ve since dredged and deepened the lake) so cruising into the Atlantic is pretty heady stuff.

The GPS shows we have passed Herring Cove and Ketch Harbour and are on course toward famous Chebucto Head, where untold thousands of ocean-going vessels have made landfall after their Atlantic crossings. The chart tells us that along with radio signals and lights, there’s a fog horn that signals twice every minute. As we approach the point, wrapped in fog, we’re all straining to hear the deep ‘Woooomp, Woooomp’ from the shore. Then, the eery but welcome sound penetrates the fog and reassures us that David’s navigation is right on the money.

I time the signal on my watch. “Yep, twice a minute,” I advise my mates. “Must be Chebucto Head.” It dawns on me that they know perfectly well where we are, but they’re too nice to make me feel like a real greenhorn, a far cry from the old salt Captain Joshua Slocum, who sailed by this very point more than a century ago on his epic journey around the world. He was the first person to do it alone. In his book ‘Sailing Alone Around the World’, Captain Slocum noted in his log for July 3, 1895:

“6:45 p.m., close under Chebucto Head light near Halifax Harbour, watching light after light sink astern as I sailed into the unbounded sea.” Two days later: “about midnight, the fog shut down again denser than before. One could almost stand on it. I felt myself drifting into loneliness.”

At the base of Chebucto Head, there are some nasty rocks that would chew up the ¼ inch-thick skin of a fiberglass boat. Our skipper is steering from the cabin, and every now and again he touches the plus or minus button on the auto helm to nudge us a bit left to make sure there’s plenty of room between us and the aids to navigation that he has programmed as waypoints. I’m fascinated at the technology. Steering without a wheel or tiller. Cool.

While David steers from below, Johnny is asleep on the port cockpit locker nursing a mild hangover, unaware of the water dripping from the boom onto his PFD, then his pant leg. Lang and I are trying to see through the curtain of fog, as the ocean swells play with Angeleah. We decide that Johnny needs the sleep more than he needs dry jeans, so we let him be.

When we reach red buoy ‘AM 58’ near Shannon Island, David focuses totally on his radar and GPS. This is serious stuff, conning Angeleah through a narrow channel, in total fog, between Hearn and Roost Islands, and thenonto a 100 degree magnetic course toward the anchorage. I was at the wheel as we passed green buoy ‘AN 52’.

“Dave, should I be to the left or right of the green can?” “What? Right, always right. Where are we?”

He jumps into the cockpit, sees the green buoy passing on the wrong side of the boat and grabs the wheel, cranking hard to starboard. “Everything left of that buoy is shallow water and nothing but rock. We’re fine now.”

Fifteen minutes later, we anchor in 10 or 11 feet of water, well behind a group of power boaters who had rafted together for the night. As dusk falls, we gather around the cabin table munching on chips and dip, washing it down with rum.

“What’ll it be boys, light, dark or mystery?” asks our host. I ask for half an inch of the light, sissy stuff topped up with cola all the way to the rim. B.B. King’s blues classic ‘The Thrill is Gone’ is groovin’ out of the CD player. We talk and joke long enough to hear the CD repeat three or four times. I’m not much of a rum drinker, but damn, this is fun. So this is why people get hooked on cruising!

It reminds me of the chorus in ‘The Bosun’s Alphabet’, a sailor’s song popular among square-riggers during the late 1800s:

“Merrily, so merrily, so merrily sail we, There’s no mortal on earth like a sailor at sea, Blow high or blow low! As the ship rolls along, Give a sailor his grog, And there’s nothing goes wrong.”

Around midnight, at anchor in Rogue’s Roost, we settle into our sleeping bags. Skipper is in the V-berth forward, Johnny and I take the settees in the cabin, while Lang, the shortest of the crew, scampers into the quarter-berth next to the diesel engine and below the cockpit. It’s a tight squeeze.

A light breeze tickles the halyards against the mast. Not enough noise to keep me from a deep, long sleep. Even the party boys on the raft have turned in for the night.

Morning brings brilliant sunshine, perfect weather to ease out from the rocks toward Prospect. We’ll get to see what we sailed through in yesterday’s fog. We weigh anchor after a filling breakfast of eggs, fried tomatoes, toast, juice and coffee. As we pass the village of Prospect to our starboard, white crashing rollers slam the rocks. Nose into the wind, it’s on to Peggy’s Cove, Ironbound Island, past St. Margaret’s Bay, Tancook Island and into the gentle waters of Mahone Bay.

A few minutes after leaving the Peggy’s Cove lighthouse to starboard, we pass what appears to be a wounded seal or small whale. We can only see what appears to be either a dorsal fin or a flipper. Whatever it is, it turns slowly and is unable to dive. Not much we can do.

Now we’re almost directly above the final resting place of Swissair Flight 111. On Sept. 1, 1998, 229 people died here. I was a television reporter with CBC, and spent that night at CFB Shearwater. Cameras rolling, we watched as ambulances streamed onto the base, lights flashing, only to leave when it was apparent there would be no one to rescue. The disaster has been chronicled in books and on television, and now, here on the water 150 feet above the sea floor, a sadness comes over me. I move forward to sit on the deck at the bow. The warm breeze and sun and gentle motion make it easy to close my eyes and fall into a half-sleep.

Not long into the protected waters of Mahone Bay, David decides we’ll head to the town’s anchorage. We’ll pick up our mooring and go ashore, where our first priority is a shower, then dinner. The temperature has climbed all day, and the thought of a cold beer washing down a plate of fish and chips seems like a grand idea.

Mahone Bay is a must for cruisers along the south shore. Home of the annual Wooden Boat Festival, the town attracts talented craftspeople and city folk who scratch their rural itch by visiting on weekends. Shutterbugs come here to photograph the three beautiful churches (United, Lutheran, Anglican) perched together at the head of the harbour.

One of the enduring stories is about Mahone Bay’s role in the war of 1812. An American privateer named the Young Teazer was chased into the bay by a British warship. One of the privateer’s crew was a British deserter, who was at his wit’s end to avoid capture and harsh punishment. He set fire to the Young Teazer’s ammunition stores. The ship blew up, killing 28 sailors. A local gift shop carries the Teazer name to this day.

Our dinner and copious amounts of brew behind us, the three crew foolishly decide to row the tender out to Angeleah. Johnny forgot the rule about the importance of keeping a low centre of gravity in a small boat, so over we went, gear and all, into the drink. Locals on the wharf seemed to enjoy the entertainment. Red-faced but happy as clams, we made it back to the boat to catch a wonderful sunset.

Monday morning dawns clear with a light mist hanging above the water. Another huge breakfast, then all four of us use mops and buckets to wash the deck from stem to stern.

The morning fog is burned off by the sun poking up over the eastern horizon. My first offshore cruise will end when my sons Matt and Adam drive out from Halifax to pick me up at the wharf.

“That was awesome, man,” is about all I can say to thank our gracious skipper for the invitation, and for guiding us here safely.

“We’ll do it again,” says David.

After farewell handshakes, my sons and I head out on Highway 103 toward Halifax. I’ve already made up my mind to someday buy a boat of my own. In the words of Captain Slocum:

“To young men contemplating a voyage I would say go. The tales of rough usage are for the most part exaggerations, as also are the stories of sea danger the days passed happily with me wherever my ship sailed.”

#nova scotia #travel #tourism #sailing #mahone bay

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thescribblingtourist · 1 year

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Bayfield, Nova Scotia: Where the eagles soar

“Is that an eagle?” Shelley asked, pointing upward as we enjoyed the quiet of a deserted Parish Beach in Bayfield, Nova Scotia. I shielded my eyes from the sun and looked up. Sure enough, a large, powerful bald-headed eagle was soaring in wide circles in a clockwise direction. What a view it must be from up there, I thought. Wait, there are two of them.

The second bird was flying at a lower altitude, but remained directly beneath the larger one, even while flying in the opposite counter-clockwise direction. And as the higher eagle moved more to the east, the second followed. Their wings hardly moved as they prescribed their slow circles above the bright blue waters of St. Georges Bay.

In some religions, high-soaring eagles are believed to touch the face of God. Oral histories passed on by the Aztec culture in Mexico suggest that these awesome creatures inspired the location for their capital of Tenochtitlan because it was where the locals saw an eagle perched on a cactus eating a snake. This place is now Mexico City.

Eagles can see much better than humans. According to the National Eagle Center, they can spot something the size of a rabbit running at three miles away. They can see straight ahead and to the side simultaneously. (Boy, wouldn’t that come in handy.) When bald eagles dive for prey, they can reach speeds of 100 miles per hour; golden eagles up to 150 mph.

I knew none of this as we sat there mesmerized by the graceful flight of these amazing creatures. It was enough just to watch. To see those massive wings generate lift, slowly pulling them even higher as they headed out over deeper water. It wasn’t too long before our searching eyes lost them in the sun.

I don’t know that there are any great lessons from those brief moments on a lonely beach. It was enough just to remain still and watch nature reveal its magic. To lose ourselves and our present-day worries as two eagles, ancient and modern symbols of strength and power, graced us with their mastery of the sky.

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thescribblingtourist · 1 year

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PEI: The Little House at 83 Reuben's Lane

There’s a small white house for sale on top of a bluff overlooking the Baltic River in Darnley, PEI. The owner is asking $249,900. Now before you plunk down a cool quarter of a million dollars, or something close to it, why don’t we go back in time…to 1956.

My mother’s cousin, Hazel Wall and her husband Reuben, bought what was then a tiny house converted from an old shed for $400. Reuben was fishing lobster and also farming on his father’s land in the Baltic at the time. He came home one day and said he had a notion to move to Darnley, and he had heard that Forbes Thompson had this small place for sale. At the time it was used by the night watchman, who kept the fires burning in the lobster factory. So the young Wall couple plunked down their $400 and went to work.

They had someone dig out the basement using a horse that pulled out dirt one slow bucket at a time. They poured a small foundation and moved into their new home in 1957.

While Reuben made lobster traps in the basement, Hazel was in the attic hammering nails into rough boards over two-by-fours to make a floor, all the while hunched over and crawling on her hands and knees. The only place she could stand up was the exact centre of the house.

The shed’s windows had been insulated with old jeans and rags, so Hazel yanked those out. She also used a fork to claw out the seaweed used to insulate the walls. Over time, it had dried out to the brittleness of potato chips. She hauled out mounds of it and tossed it over the bank. The old seaweed didn’t fall quite far enough to meet the outgoing tide, so remained there for years.

When they could afford real insulation for the attic, up went Hazel again. She remembers one day when her knee poked through the thin plywood floor, damaging their bedroom ceiling. To hide the blemish, they covered the hole with stucco. Lanterns fuelled with naptha gas provided light until electricity came a few years later.

I remember childhood visits to 83 Reuben’s Lane in the mid-1960s. We were always intrigued that they had a Radio Shack VHF radio on the shelf above their bed. They kept it on 24 hours a day to listen for fishermen who might be in trouble, weather bulletins and the occasional police radio traffic. To this day, Hazel has that same radio in her Kensington home. She says it hasn’t been turned off since the day they bought it…more than 50 years ago.

The house is just up the hill from where the old lobster plant stood, which had been owned by the McNutts of Malpeque and the Murphy family of Seaview. For a time, coal was hauled there and stored. My mother remembers working at the fish plant one summer when she was 14. Today the building is gone.

Reuben passed away in 1994 and Hazel stayed in the little house for another ten years. In 2004, a realtor suggested that she list it for the grand sum of $14,000. But no one wanted it. Not even to haul away to another property. Not even to get the acre of land and its panoramic view of the water.

So she gave the house to her family. A grand-daughter lived there for a short time. As did her son. It sold eventually, and in the years since, owners have added a door, laid new shingles, renovated the interior and built long, railed steps to both doors. It makes the 968-square foot house look much bigger than it is.

Now here we are in 2016, looking at the Internet ad for a house from our past.

The small white bungalow at 83 Reuben’s Lane – that was once an old shed, was bought for $400, whose basement was dug by horse and bucket, was insulated by old rags and seaweed, the house no one wanted – can now be yours for a paltry $249,900.

The ad describes it as ‘a unique waterfront home located on a stunning inlet in Darnley, sitting on a large 1.2 acre lot’.

Over the telephone, Hazel chuckles as she recalls the home’s humble beginnings. As she puts it, “Oh I suppose some fool with money will come along and take it.”

In 1956, to a young Island couple just starting out, it was a place to call home and start a family. And how do you put a price on that?

#PEI #Prince Edward Island #Darnley #travel #farming #lobster

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thescribblingtourist · 1 year

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Prince Edward Island: Riding the Red Roads

Prince Edward Island on two wheels is a thrill.

Point the bike west from Antigonish, gas up and deal with the first question: ferry or bridge? When it comes to making decisions, I have trouble deciding which cereal to eat for breakfast, so the brain cramps at logistical quagmires like this. I’ll wait until I approach Exit 22 to Pictou and Caribou. Then it’s fish or cut bait.

Summer traffic is fast on the TransCanada; I’m being passed constantly. Speedometer reads 115km/h, plenty fast enough for me. On a Saturday in August, can we really be in that of a hurry? To go where?

Two huge logging trucks, fully loaded, pass me. Glad the bike is 800+ pounds, and cuts through the buffeting, breath-sucking blasts of wind like it’s not even there. Monster trucks make me nervous. And truckers would rather bikers give them a wide berth. They can’t see us half the time. Dumb bikers who dart behind and in front of the big rigs are trying to cash cheques their bodies can’t cash. I like to keep the shiny side up, so I don’t mess with trucks.

Onto the Cobequid Pass. At the toll booth the woman with a snarl on her face says “Do you have a pass, where’s your pass?” No, I have a five though. “This is the pass lane only. You’re supposed to be over there.” She snapped the five out of my leather glove and handed me a loonie. I love the Pass, with its long sweeping curves, New Brunswick dead ahead, PEI over to the right. On a clear day, as you crest the highest hill, if your eyes are good, you can see the Confederation Bridge off in the distance.

Quick gas stop in Amherst, then the short ride to the bridge. Gear down, speed limit is 80 km/h. I’ve been busted here before. Mountie pulled over our little Dodge Neon on our first day of vacation years back. Even pulled a U-ball on the bridge to get me. Not this time, as I join a steady stream of cars, 5th wheels and motorhomes heading to the Island.

The Strait is shimmering blue. A few fishing boats chugging along and Led Zeppelin’s Kashmir pumps out of the speakers:

‘Oh let the sun beat down upon my face, stars to fill my dream. I am a traveler of both time and space, to be where I have been. To sit with elders of the gentle race, this world has seldom seen. They talk of days for which they sit and wait and all will be revealed.’

Fantastic scenery and very little traffic along Route 20 on the Island’s north shore.

Life is good. Riding now past potato blossoms on one side of the highway as far as the eye can see. Hay on the other side. The mammoth McCains french fry plant is shuttered, up for sale. Yard sale signs abound. I can smell the warm Island breeze. My lower legs are starting to feel very warm from the heat of the engine. Still, no regrets about wearing leather chaps. Safety first.

Into Kensington, where locals and tourists set out chairs for the annual parade. Buy six mouth-watering cinnamon buns at Mary’s Bakery, guzzle a cold bottle of water. Find motorcycle-only parking spots next to the old train station (in the shade – bonus!) and order a Sir John A draft from the Island Stone Pub. Feeling sorry for the PEI couple that ended up as listening posts for two wealthy Americans who want anyone in hearing range to hear how lovely their retirement has been since selling their own multi-million dollar farm in Arkansas. “I keep tellin’ Merle, really honey, do y’all still need to be buyin’ another combine?” The young bartender rolls her eyes.

Heading north now on the Irishtown Road, just in time to pull up behind a long line of tractors that were in the parade. They’re clearly in no hurry. The first one I pass is vintage 1940. The old guy at the wheel is dressed up as…can it be…yes, like Anna from Frozen. That warrants a blast from my horn.

Grandson Emmett geared up for the road.

In Seaview I find son Adam and the Pickering family on the beach on one of those days that make you want to move here for good.Grandson Emmett looks pretty good on two wheels.

A quick dip in the ocean and on to surprise my sister who is staying with a lifelong friend at the Twin Shores campground. My mother’s Uncle Lloyd sold this land in the early 1960s. It’s a goldmine now. There are so many families with kids here, that they celebrate Christmas in July, and tonight it’s Halloween. Kids know that trailers showing off balloons offer treats.

Impromptu camping at Twin Shores with sister Charlene

Our agenda for the evening is simple: laugh, drink coolers, switch to Bud Light when the coolers run out, laugh some more, eat fried wieners and potatoes, more Bud, campfire with fart jokes until midnight and then into the tent with my sister. Sister Charlene and I prepare to bunk for the night. Or was this the morning after? The sun sets over Twin Shores.

Morning brings toast, farewell hugs with our hosts Paul and Noella Richard, and a splendid ride home. The Goldwing has found her sweet spot – 105 km/h at 3,200 rpm and the wheels are floating on air.

The big touring bike purrs as we turn into the driveway. Odometer reads 805.2 kilometres since yesterday. Ignition off, I tap one of the hot cylinder heads as a gesture of thanks. When can we do this again, I wonder? September is just around the corner.

#PEI #Prince Edward Island #honda #goldwing #motorcycle #tourism

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thescribblingtourist · 1 year

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My Zoom H5 digital audio recorder has a new wig! This mini ‘dead cat’ is ideal for rebuffing wind noises. Perfect for beach walks and capturing the night sounds of whistling frogs in Barbados. #audio #barbados #BIM

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thescribblingtourist · 1 year

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A Career in Clay

Meet Hamilton Wiltshire, Master Potter of Barbados

Written By Richard Perry

“I thought clay must feel happy in the good potter’s hand.” — Janet Fitch, White Oleander

On our third trip to Barbados, my wife decided that to celebrate her birthday she would like to meet the man behind the popular Hamilton’s Pottery brand. The trouble was, no one, including our cab driver (and his dispatcher), had any idea where to find the shop.

The glossy tourist brochures make no mention. All we knew was that it was somewhere in the St. Thomas parish, far removed from the commercial districts in Bridgetown or Holetown. A Google search advised that we were to ‘turn at Little Jerusalem junction.’

So, we headed inland toward Welchman Hall Gully and Misery Hill until a blue roundabout sign confirmed we were on the right track. Up we climbed, past rickety farm houses, past a lone foraging goat, past a tall sugar cane crop until a bumpy Allan View Road – more a pathway than a road – took us to a non-descript grey building with a sign confirming that we’d arrived.

“You’re a hard man to find,” said my wife as we entered the shaded workspace. “I’m the Shelley who sent you the email from Canada.”

“Oh yes, I remember,” said Mr. Hamilton Wiltshire, greeting us with a wide smile as he placed a handle on another clay mug being readied for the kiln. “Hello Ms. Shelley. Pleased to meet you and welcome to Barbados!”

Shelley told him how we had received gifts of his pottery in recent years. She began her shopping while I chatted with this amiable Bajan craftsman. Turns out he has been turning Barbadian clay into pottery now for more than four decades.

“I began when I was a teenager and heard a radio spot promoting government pottery training right out of high school,” he said. “From there I took further training, including study in Italy, and started my business selling Indigenous pottery.”

In fact, Wiltshire used Indigenous Potteries as a business name, until a customer wandered into the shop one day and asked if this was ‘Hamilton’s Pottery’. After another visitor asked the same question, he decided to personalize his brand. A wise decision.

Today, Hamilton runs the countryside business with the help of his wife, sister and cousin. Their son lives abroad in the UK.

“I hope that maybe someday he will come home and work with us,” he said. “I am hoping to find a younger person, someone with the right attitude, to be trained to work with me.”

Wiltshire produces a range of stunning ceramic products, many of which are sold through retail outlets such as the popular Cave Shepherd chain of eight stores and the Best of Barbados shops. He also sells from a tent during the popular Holetown Festival in mid- February each year.

“The festival keeps me up until 2 a.m., but I love it,” he adds, while setting the latest mug onto a shelf to dry before being baked in the kiln.

His pottery is made with red clay sourced in nearby St. Andrews. The end products include functional and traditional pots – monkey jars, table ware and vases – along with decorative candle shades, flying fish wall art, chimes and spoon ladles.

During our brief visit, his cousin was inserting individual plugs of clay onto a mould press, which produced a ready-to-bake spoon ladle. As each item was retrieved from the mould, he trimmed the excess clay by hand. All of the colourful glazes that are baked onto Wiltshire’s creations are environmentally safe.

Earlier in his career Wiltshire was encouraged to ship products to overseas markets, but the huge demand on his time took away from what he loved most – the craft itself.

“I had to ask myself the question: Am I a potter or a packer?” He eventually cut back from ten staff to three. He will, however, still produce some custom orders.

Hamilton rung up our purchases and helped wrap them, offering a generous discount on top of the already reasonable wholesale price. It was a huge saving over the retail markups found elsewhere.

On our return to Holetown, our cab driver Dwight tells us his real passion is cooking. He has studied in the US and UK and is considering taking a course in fine cuisine in Montreal, Canada. So, it was no surprise to me that my kind wife added something special as we paid our fare – one of Wiltshire’s specialty kitchen items – a ceramic spoon ladle glazed in beautiful Caribbean blues and greens.

“Something to remember our trip by,” she said. “And now you’ll always know where to bring your passengers if they’re looking for Hamilton’s shop.”

Weeks later back in Canada, it is a chilly winter’s morning, a far cry from the 28-degree Celsius climate in Barbados. We reach for our coffee mugs. Smiling, we remember our search for the happy Bajan potter who has pleased thousands of customers throughout the Caribbean and overseas.

Turning the mug over, we read the inscription on the bottom: Hamilton’s Pottery, Barbados. A pleasant reminder of the day we met this extraordinary craftsman and gentleman. -30-

To find Hamilton’s Pottery of Barbados:

By car: From Holetown, drive 9.7 km east for 13-15 minutes via Highways 1A and 1. Turn at Little Jerusalem Junction, following the blue arrow sign for Hamilton’s Pottery.

Address: Lot 4 (Allan View Road), Sturges, St. Thomas, Barbados.

Tel: +1 246-242-7176

Email: [email protected]

Hours: Mon to Fri – 9am to 5pm and Saturday – 9am to 1pm

Closed Sunday.

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thescribblingtourist · 1 year

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Bluenosers in Barbados

Mar 2, 2018

Written By Richard Perry

Keith meets Shelley. An instant connection.

The man was sitting alone at the end of a bench inside the Speightstown, Barbados bus terminal. Behind him some teenagers were hanging out at the FLOW cellphone booth. The cool, shaded terminal was a welcome respite from a burning sun.

He appeared to be nodding off, so I hesitated before deciding to approach him.

“Pardon me, sir. Hello?”

He stirred.

“Can you tell me if the bus to Animal Flower Cave leaves from Gate 5?”

He lifted his head and looked at me with drowsy eyes. “You going to the Cave? Now?”

“Yes, my wife and I were told to look for the Connell Town bus. Is this the right gate?”

He stood up and pointed to the bench.

Searching for the right bus at the Speightstown terminal.

“You sit right here. Is that your wife? Go get her. You sit right here. I’ll show you. I live where the bus stops.”

He spreads his hands on the bench to show how close he lives to the bus stop.

We sat down and struck up a conversation with Mr. Keith Michael Vancooten.

“Vancooten,” I say. “That sounds like a Dutch name.

“Yes, my father was a Dutchman.”

Like most Bajans we’ve met in our two trips to this eastern Caribbean paradise, our new friend jumped at the chance to help us. He had a pleasant demeanour, but grew agitated at my repeated queries about gate numbers and departure times.

“Don’t worry ’bout that,” he’d snap. “You sit here. Come with me on the bus.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout that. You come with me.”

“But what time does…”

“Just sit by me. I’ll take you to my house.”

“But how long until…”

“You relax. Don’t worry ’bout that.”

Clearly, my North American anxiety over punctuality and schedules was starting to piss him off.

“So have you lived in Barbados your whole life?” asked Shelley.

“Yes, my whole life. Except for working the boats after the war. And I turn 93 in September.”

Sensing our disbelief (we both had him pegged for maybe 70 or 75) he produced his government ID.

We needed proof that Keith is actually 93!

“That’s me, see? Born 29-09-1925. It says so right here.”

I did the math. Yup. 93 in September.

“You must lead a clean life and eat really well,” I suggested. You don’t look your age.”

“Yes, I eat good, but not the last few weeks,” he said, patting his stomach. “Not feeling good here, but getting better… yes, much better.”

A lady in a tight pink skirt walks by, glances at Keith and offers a wide smile. He nods back with a grin. “I know her from church.”

We asked him about his career and family. He was a bus mechanic for more than 40 years, but before then, at the end of the war, he sailed around the world as a ship’s engineer. “Freight and passengers. We carried both.”

Because he didn’t volunteer any information about his family, we sensed it might not be wise, or polite, to dig any deeper.

Fifteen minutes later, a blue transit bus spewing diesel fumes lurched into Gate 5, and Keith jumped up. “Let’s go, you sit by me. Here we go, follow me.”

Our ride north to the Animal Flower Cave.

No longer in the shade, another woman in the queue scrambled in her purse for the $2 bus fare as her ice cream cone dropped blobs of vanilla onto her arm and the concrete.

Half an hour later, after the noisy, kidney-pounding trip to the northern tip of Barbados, our spry Bajan guide prompts us off the bus.

“See what I mean? Look, there’s my house! You go walk to the Cave, down that road. When you come back, you come sit on my porch, right there, not in the sun. The bus will get you then, okay?”

“But what time does the next bus…”

“Don’t you worry. Just come sit on my porch. I’ll be here.”

Animal Flower Cave view – with crashing Atlantic surf.

We spend the new two and a half hours at the Animal Flower Cave buying gifts and marvelling at the pounding surf where the Atlantic Ocean meets the Caribbean Sea. We ordered salads and drinks at the cliff-side restaurant and then toured the underground cave. The group of teenagers ahead of us cooled off in a small pool and then posed for pictures in front of a frothy, roiling sea.

At this point, I start to worry that we might miss the last public bus back to Speightstown, so we make our way under the hot sun up the dusty road to Keith’s house. Sure enough, he’s sitting on his porch, smiling and waving us forward.

“You come and sit. Here, look at all the pictures of people who came here.”

Keith has fans the world over. This letter is from Oshawa, Ontario.

He opens a shopping bag full of photos and letters sent to him from Cave visitors over the years. He likes to point to himself in each picture. “You see, that’s me, sitting right here, right in this same chair.”

I try again. “Keith, what time do you think the next bus…”

“Relax, sit there. Only problem is, the last bus at 3pm goes and gets the school students.

“Did you say the LAST bus? Keith, it’s five past three.”

“It might come here. Might not. No problem. A van will come (an infamous ‘ZR’ van, that will gladly stuff 15 passengers into a space more suitable for nine.)

A white van pulsing with reggae music suddenly screams by, going in the opposite direction.

“No worries. He’ll come back. He’ll look at me, I’ll wave and yell ‘stop’ and he’ll stop and get you. Just relax.”

So with some extra time on his hands, Keith decides to show us his house. It becomes clear that he must be living on a very small pension. He has a few pressed shirts hanging in a closet; a tiny kitchen features a very tired refrigerator, lined with a thin black film of what looks to be mould. His tiny kitchen and bedroom open to the rear yard, where he also keeps a large trap.

Shelley asks him about it. “The monkeys destroy everything,” he says. “Look at those trees. They eat all the plants. I catch them and sell them to the wildlife reserve.”

“Keith,” I ask, “In this heat, you must like a cold Banks beer from time to time.”

“I used to, but then I joined the 7th Day Adventists. No more Banks.”

On our way back to the porch, we cross under a string clothesline hanging across his living room. It holds faded cards celebrating past Father’s Days and Christmases. Before we have time to ask him anything family-related, he’s back on the porch, eyes peeled for the white van, which, as he predicted, pulled to a stop.

“See? Go, run,” he barks. With no time for a proper goodbye, I clumsily press the last of our Bajan currency into his hand.

Our last selfie on Keith’s porch before our ZR van arrived.

“Thank you, Keith,” Shelley says as we sprint to our ride.

That evening, as we unwound from our long day in rural northern Barbados, we agreed that the real magic of discovering this island isn’t in the malls or the air-conditioned Massy grocery stores or on luxurious catamarans.

It’s hitting the road to small out-of-the-way places far from the crush of tourists. It’s trusting that serendipity will put you in front of the most amazing people when you least expect it.

#Barbados #animal flower cave #speightstown #holetown #travelwriter

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thescribblingtourist · 1 year

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#Barbados #Wasn'tMe #catamaran #cruise #CaptainRon

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thescribblingtourist · 1 year

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From Chester to Cattlewash

Meet George and Barbara Wilson – unofficial Canadian ambassadors to idyllic Barbados.

Written By Richard Perry

Nova Scotia natives George and Barbara Wilson have made 27 trips to Barbados.

Driving north on the Ermy Bourne Highway it was becoming harder to keep our eyes on the road. To our right, three thousand miles of uninterrupted Atlantic swells were breaking on the beach. To our left, the sloping green hills of eastern Barbados displayed lush vegetation and the swaying leaves of breadfruit and coconut trees.

But as we passed giant Round Rock (an Instagram favourite), we saw the smiling Barbara Wilson, waving from her lawn in front of the big green cottage she had told us to look for “just across from the rock.”

We’d arrived in Cattlewash, named years ago when farmers walked their cattle down to the beach so saltwater could provide some relief to fly bites. These days it is a tiny rural neighbourhood serving two ends of the age spectrum: retirees looking to get away from it all and hipster surfers from around the world who ride giant waves in international competitions.

“Welcome to Cattlewash. Come on in.” said George. “May I offer you a drink…rum punch perhaps?”

The Wilsons have lived in several Maritime communities during their careers, but now make their home in Chester, Nova Scotia.

George is a tall, boyishly handsome 84-year old, a former head of sales for Kraft/General Foods in Atlantic Canada. With his velvety smooth, measured voice he could pass for a diplomat, well-suited to moving in high circles.

Barbara, now 80, was a nurse and wound care specialist who trained at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Montreal. More than once she’s had to treat friends on the island for everything from heat stroke to burns from a leaking gas stove.

Like her husband, Barbara has fallen in love with the Bajan people and their lifestyle.

“On some level, we equate it to the openness and friendliness of Newfoundland, which we both love,” she said. In their sailing days, they cruised the southwest coast, visiting outports and making friends with locals who helped tie up their boat. One couple invited them to their wedding.

We’d been tipped off about the Wilsons by fellow Nova Scotian John Cavill, a retired Air Canada public relations executive and a current representative for Barbados Tourism Marketing, Inc. In a country that relies heavily on tourism dollars and foreign exchange revenue, loyal repeat vacationers like the Wilsons are routinely feted at glitzy events hosted by the Prime Minister. This year marked their 27th trip to ‘Little England.’

“At our reception, two children in their school uniforms opened our car door,” said Barbara. “They were so polite and engaging. Inside, we were met with steel pan drums and children singing Beautiful Barbados.”

Beautiful, beautiful Barbados Gem of the Caribbean Sea Come back to my island Barbados Come back to my island and me.

Please me come back where the night winds are blowing Come back to the surf and the sea You’ll find rest, you’ll find peace in Barbados Come back to my island and me.

“We shook hands with Prime Minister Stuart that night. I told him we’re from Nova Scotia, and that along with Newfoundland we’ve always had a wonderful history of trade with Barbados. I said ‘We always sent salt, fish and lumber. In return, you gave us rum and sugar. We got the better part of that deal!’”

The Prime Minister of Cattlewash

Not five minutes into our hors d’oevres and rum punch, it’s clear why this Canadian couple has no trouble filling the cottage with guests. They are gracious hosts and love to share stories. Their friendships with Bajan neighbours and other vacationers have led to some creative hijinx.

“We have had fun jokingly forming our own government at Cattlewash,” said George. “We had a prime minister who was from Montreal, a Dr. Doug Kinnear who was the doctor for the Montreal Canadiens. He and his wife Katie have been down for about ten or fifteen years, living near us. So we had our ‘government’ meetings'. Barb, as a former nurse, was going to be minister of health. I was minister or tourism or something along those lines.

“Unfortunately, Doug died just last year. So last night at our party we held our glasses up to honour Prime Minister Doug Kinnear of Cattlewash. He was a colourful character. He always had stories about the Habs.”

Dr. Doug Kinnear, the Prime Minister of Cattlewash, treats Habs captain Bob Gainey. Photo credit: Globe and Mail

I found an obituary of their friend. He led the Canadiens’ medical team from 1962 to 1999. During that time, they won an impressive 12 Stanley Cups.

All roads lead to rum

It’s said of Barbados that wherever you see a church, you’ll find at least one rum shack nearby. We checked. It’s true. There are said to be as many as 1,700 rum shacks – on an island only 21 miles long by 14 miles wide!

I was curious if our new friends were fans of the tried and true Bajan rum punch recipe of one part sour, two parts sweet, three parts strong and four parts weak. “Actually, we leave out the weak…the water or juice. Ice cubes are all you really need.”

Seated on their patio, with the ocean in full view and a noisy surf soundtrack, we got into some good stories. Like the time they showed up in the local church, the only whites in the congregation, and the pastor, Father Matthias, invited them to stand up and announce to the flock who they were and where they were from.

“We gave our names and where we’re from in Canada,” said George. “It was pretty quiet. I told them we came because of the warmth of the people, who are very special and then added that we also came for … the Bajan macaroni pie. That’s when they got excited and broke into applause.”

An inauspicious welcome

George still recalls their first day in Barbados back in the late sixties. “In all our excitement, in the darkness I rushed into the water and had no sooner stepped in when I told my friend Bill, a doctor, that I thought a shark had bitten my foot, the pain was that bad. I had stepped on sea urchins. I had 40 barbs in each foot. I spent two weeks with my feet in buckets trying to get them out.”

In Barbados, everything is close. At 432 square kilometres (166 square miles), the entire island covers roughly the same area as St. John’s, Newfoundland. One minute you’re facing the calmer waters on the west coast, where play is the order of the day. Pasty white tourists, mostly from the United Kingdom, Canada and the United States fill the beach chairs and restaurants.

The Wilsons’ front yard view, where the Ermy Bourne Highway skirts the Atlantic Ocean in eastern Barbados.

But head a few miles inland and the landscape changes dramatically. The terrain rises through sugar cane fields, past roadside neighbourhoods (with ubiquitous rum shops) past an occasional long-abandoned windmill. When you climb Cherry Tree Hill facing the wild east coast, the view is stunning – one of those stop and stare moments. It’s hard not to imagine the country’s colonial past and these very fields where slaves worked unbearable days in oppressive heat.

Soon, the twisty, bumpy roads wind down toward sea level and the untamed east coast where the Wilsons have found their Shangri-La, where it is quiet and scenic – just the way they like it.

George and Barbara point to where they like to go for walks. Cattlewash has a beautiful one mile stretch of unbroken beach – said to be among the longest in Barbados.

“We’ve stayed in Sunset Crest in Holetown, and we like to visit,” said Barbara. “and we’ve had a safari tour into places that are like jungles, so dense and gorgeous. But when we come over that hill and in view of the sea and feel the trade winds, ahhh…coming down the hill…everything falls off and it is so lovely seeing the sea.”

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#Barbados #AirCanada #bajan #travel #Bathsheba #MyBarbados

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