I packed up my things and walked down Barrington to get another round of pancakes for breakfast. I hauled my bike out of the backyard and through the hostel, loading it up by the steps. (I couldn't help but notice how stinky my gloves, shoes and helmet are. Must of been the two whole nights of being clean that made me aware.) Then I was off through town, the sun and humidity making it quite warm. My ride out wasn't much fun: my route was Highway 2, and to get there I had to navigate through busy, multilane streets with impatient drivers. I felt a bit sad, thanks in part to the after-effects of the alcohol and the fact that I liked it in Halifax. I found myself cursing the cars under my breath. With furrowed forehead and grim determination I cycled slowly, a pace I kept throughout the day, using as little energy as possible.

Swimming, anyone?

It was early afternoon when I pulled into the campground—about the only one in these parts. It cost me $20.70 for an unserviced site in the back woods. At least there are trees. (Tomorrow I'm staying in the hostel in Pictou—$14.00 for non-members, $10.00 for students. I can't help but feel camping has been a general rip-off.) In front in the field there are the usual perma-trailers, some with portable sattelite dishes on the lawn. (Why anyone would want to camp where there's no lake, river or ocean in the vicinity is beyond me.) Since it was early in the afternoon I killed the day by napping, reading, cooking dinner and pipe smoking.

Around the campsite are these big boards with quotes carved in them and painted black. Here's an example:

Love is infallible; it makes no errors, for all errors are a want of love...

At first glance the quotes seem profound, but after a bit of thought I came up with two scenarios: Best case, they're trite clichés. Worst case, they're mindless drivel that not only make no genuine sense, but aren't even true (like, "Money is the root of all evil.").

As I was settling in the tent for the night three people walked by from the next site (incidentally, the only other people in this whole area). They invited me over to their campfire for a drink, so I went over. They'd been drinking rum and 7-Up and offered me one, so I poured myself a weak concoction. They're all from a small town near Amherst. They were a bit upset that I was missing their section of the province—the best part by their accounts. We chatted for a while and I was pressured into having another drink, which I made even weaker than the first under cover of darkness. I enjoyed chatting with them (although one was a little too drunk to speak very intelligently) and they insisted I join them for breakfast tomorrow...

Every now and then when a train goes by (and believe me, the tracks aren't far off) the silence is shattered by the blaring of the horns.

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