CAPE BRETON.
_Not until the waters...._
Not until the waters of the Gut of Canso sweep into the line of one’s
vision, does the fact that Cape Breton is an island have any special
meaning for the traveller by train from Halifax to North Sydney. But
when you feel your car actually quitting the land for the deck of a
steamer, then the insularity of Cape Breton becomes something personal.
The “Gut of Canso” is--“The Grand Canal of the Maritime Provinces”, one
of the clearest, bluest, most beautiful strips of water in the world.
It is, as anyone can see, the short cut from the Atlantic to the Gulf of
Saint Lawrence. But it is not until you cast off upon its waters
yourself that you realize how constant is the stream of vessels using
this ocean highway! That material galore for picture and story hourly
runs to waste here, is not the fault of the Grand Canal.
Cross this water-street when you will, schooners, “two”,
“three-masters”, with big mildewed mainsails still hoisted, wait at
anchor off Port Hawkesbury for a fair wind to carry them through, the
while fleet-winged schooners from the Gulf, like the “Birds of Passage”
that they are, take it, literally, “on the run”. One wonders, watching
them on-coming “wing and wing”, if ever migratory birds strung out in a
fairer perspective?
Your sea-adventuring train deigns after awhile to come ashore on the
“Island”, and after that it keeps to the straight and narrow path etched
by the land, wherein trains may run, but it never seems just an ordinary
train to you after its sea-going fling. And so you are quite prepared
for the way it skims across the Bras D’Or at “The Narrows” and sets you
down there to a “fish supper” in a little restaurant, and waits while
you eat.
At Iona, it stops again, and sets down the passengers for Baddeck. And
after that it hugs the lakeshore, till North Sydney reminds one that
“business is business” and that one has arrived in the heart of it.
To speak of North Sydney is to think of coal. Yet, unless you undertake
“the mines”, look them up, because you have a fancy to from the
viewpoint of Romance, they are not only not intrusive but they actually
lend a hand in adding to the “figures” in the harbour. There the
picturesque, black-hulled, red-bottomed steamers at anchor, are
“colliers” awaiting their turn to load. These steamers make just the
contrast needed to set off the fish-schooners riding at anchor, amid
dancing reflections, when the setting sun of a calm evening mirrors
every spar, rope and sail in the silvery waters of the harbour.
At Sydney the outlook is easterly. New elements creep into the
atmosphere. “Over there,” is Newfoundland. These waters that lap at your
feet bring Europe within hail. That little, weather-worn steamer lying
there by the wharf-side will to-morrow morning hitch to the Quai in
Saint Pierre et Miquelon.
The “colliers” that came in yesterday, in a day or two may be nosing up
the Saint Lawrence in the wake of palatial ocean liners to Quebec.
Sydney stands for the extended hand of Canada; extended to Newfoundland
as a link in transportation; extended in invitation to the British Isles
and to Old Europe to send more settlers of the hardy type of Hieland
folk and Breton sailor, who, in the early dawn of her history, stepped
into Canada through these portals.
The interesting fact about Cape Breton is that it has preserved all the
characteristics, the language, the customs of its Gallic and Gaelic
settlers. Geographically, as well as ethnologically, there is a Gaelic
Cape Breton in the North and a Breton Cape Breton in the south. They
divide the land between them, and live in the same friendly fashion as
did Scotland and France in the days of the Stuarts. Stepping into the
northern part of Cape Breton is like adventuring in the Highlands of
Auld Scotia. Stepping to the South is an adventure in Brittany.
There are three main ways of entering the “Highlands”. Finding one’s
self in Sydney, take that “character” among coastal traders, the little
S.S. “Aspey”. The “Aspey” makes all the harbours between North Sydney
and Cape North. Make her acquaintance and she will introduce you to
“Who’s Who”, for she knows all the folk who are worth knowing, from
Englishtown to Ingonish and from Ingonish to Nail’s Harbour and
Dingwall.
The second way to reach “the land of the Macs” is to take a train of the
Inverness Railroad at Port Hawkesbury. By this road, which follows the
shore-line of the Gulf side of the Island, you come immediately into the
Scotch atmosphere. Scotch place-names stand out bravely from the
name-boards of the railroad stations. The very scenery is
Highland--mountains and mists
[Illustration:
ON THE “GALLERY”.]
[Illustration:
BOYHOOD DREAMS OF THE DAY WHEN
“THEIR TURN WILL COME”.]
along the shore side, while through the opposite windows of your car,
the waters of the Gulf, spread out, like a “loch”.
The third, and ideal way to make the acquaintance of Cape Breton, is to
hire an old horse and drive yourself, making leisurely trips in all
directions, lingering wherever Fancy dictates, and putting up each night
in any village, town or farmhouse which promises a comfortable night’s
lodging.
With your own horse you are at liberty to turn in at “gates” even though
no houses are in sight, and continue in faith along the road until one
appears. And, when the house--a “Crofter’s Cot” transplanted--is
reached, it is quite in keeping with the Highland atmosphere if only the
man of the family speaks English, the women being happy in “Gaelic
only”--Gaelic which they learned from mothers and grandmothers.
This difference in language makes no difference, however, in their
hospitality. And oh, the pictures sketched by these little cottages so
snugly tucked away in the glen!
The language of beauty which they speak is easily understood. Beauty
that belongs to simple architecture speaks from every line of door and
window and roof; speaks in every line of the great, whitewashed chimney,
which, never lacking fuel, proclaims in friendly smoke seen curling up
out of the glen--long before the cottage comes to view--that tea brews
on the hearth.
The people of this part of Cape Breton, striking inland, and across
country to Saint Ann’s Bay and Ingonish, are, in the main,
agriculturists. This is the farming section. So, in August and
September, in the tawny fields of oats and barley, the figures of the
reapers and gleaners, especially in the neighborhood of Ingonish,
proclaim that Breton-Canada no less than Breton-France affords many “a
Millet subject”.
But even the farmer of these parts turns fisherman in season. Alongshore
“Old man with lobster-pots” is a frequent “character”, from Mabou all
down the Gulf shore, doubling Cape North, and back along the south shore
of the peninsula to Point Aconi; and, of course, on the Atlantic side,
about Gabarouse and Saint Peter’s. One of the dominating physical
features of Cape Breton is Cape Smoky, towering a thousand feet above
the waters where the Atlantic and Saint Ann’s Bay meet. Smoky is a
personality. Because its stern, old brow is always softened by an
ever-moving fog-wreath, the English-speaking people call it “Smoky”; the
French folk “Enfumez”. It is worth travelling far to view Cape Smoky
after rain, especially in the afternoon when the westering sun turns the
shifting fog into rainbows, flitting, flashing, jewel-like bits of
colour, gone in a moment.
There is something unexplainably winning about Cape Smoky. Cape Breton
folk look to it as Nova Scotians to Blomidon. In speaking of it they
sometimes say “Dear Old ‘Smoky’,” as if they loved it.
“Sugar-Loaf,” near Dingwall, and “Cape North”, the Lands’ End of Canada,
are each distinctive in character, and “landmarks” of navigation.
A feature of the road familiar in these parts is the mail-carrier. With
an old wagon and his trusty horse, the road over Smoky presents no
difficulties to the Jehu of “His Majesty’s Mail”. And when you watch for
him to appear on the shingle at Ingonish from “Down North”, if he has no
passengers, it is an adventure to jump into his cart and ride over
Smoky, even if you have to walk the six miles back, as we once did.
The Bay at Ingonish is sheltered by Cape Smoky, and so this small
harbour has become a happy anchorage for fishing-schooners, and South
Ingonish a place where codfish dries on fish stages. There is a family
lobster cannery here, seldom boasting more than two big iron pots aboil
in a sheltered nook of the shingle, but creating a romantic atmosphere
with its driftwood fire.
Lads lend a hand with the fish-drying at Ingonish. It is from here,
watching the fishing schooners going out to meet the ocean swell around
Smoky, that, in dreams, they reach out to the day when their turn will
come to sail away in a fishing-schooner to “The Grand Banks”.
* * * * *
The MacDonalds, MacLeods, MacLeans, MacPhersons, and all the other
Scotch families of Cape Breton are greatly in evidence on Sundays. It is
then, driving over these roads, one encounters team after team on the
way to the Gaelic meeting-house, or church. The church service is
conducted in Gaelic and lasts practically all day.
[Illustration:
FIT SUBJECT FOR A
MILLET.]
[Illustration:
DUSK.
SOUTH BAY, INGONISH.]