I hadn't been looking forward to entering Truro. As I approached I decided that it was probably because the name reminded of Thurso—that stinky town in Quebec. As I entered the city, sure enough there was a stink of some kind. Fortunately, it didn't last long. I cruised through town, going more on instinct and the signs than my map. I thought about stopping for breakfast, but I didn't see anything that appealed to me. I followed the sign advertising the 311 North, the road that was to take me by the scenic (albeit longer) route to Pictou.

A lovely miscellaneous sunset.

The 311 was a lot nicer than the road of the previous day. Before long the farmland melted away and trees sprang up along the road, turning to forest. The land was only lightly rolling and the wind seemed to be helping me along. I was still feeling a bit dehydrated from the day before, but when I stopped by the side of the road in the trees to eat the rest of my cookies, use the, er—facilities—and drink some water, the black flies began to have a snack of their own. Wiping them off my arms and legs, I hopped back onto my bike and plowed out of there. The hills began to increase after a while and again the sweat was sliding down my face.

I had a nice, one kilometre, 60 km/h descent into the valley where I turned off onto another road: this one was even nicer than the other, with no traffic for a long time as it snaked it's way through the forest. That road broke out to the one leading to Pictou, where traffic began to increase. I glimpsed the TC Trail at one point and almost went on it, but decided against it since I had no idea where it would come out.

I entered downtown Pictou and cycled slowly through it. My brochure said the hostel check-in time was 5pm and it was only 2pm, so I had some time to kill. I stopped by a fish-n-chip stand and had a nice meal. (Surely fish and potatos must be healthy?) Afterwards I cycled down to the water and found my way along the wharf. I stood for a while looking down into the bay when a man approached me; he was from New Hampshire and spoke with me about my trip while his wife sat nearby looking impatient. After our chat I grabbed a picnic table and lied down for a nap.

I woke up a short while later feeling raindrops on my face. I quickly put my rain covers over the panniers and decided to see if I could check in at the hostel. I found it easily enough. Some workers were doing some renovations on the front. I put my bike in the back and saw a women come up the laneway. She said she was told that she wasn't to check anyone in, but I could wait for the lady's daughter. The daughter pulled in a short time later and seemed to have no idea if I could check in now. I decided I'd just kill some time and come back at 5:00pm to make life easier. Anne—the owner—works at the neaby post office until then.

I left my bike in the laneway and walked over to a pub by the water and ordered a Keith's and some garlic cheese bread and started reading about The Revenge of Mina Hubbard. By about 4:45pm I had finished the food and two more beers. (To my pleasant surprise the beers were only $2.08 each.) I used the pay phone to check my messages at home for the first time—mostly hang ups with one message from T.J. wishing me a happy birthday, apparently unaware of my trip. (I guess he'll know for sure when he gets the postcard.) I also made a reservation for the hostel in Charlottetown.

I wandered back to the hostel, admiring the old buildings in the area. No answer at the door. I settled on the porch and a moment later the door opened and Anne MacIsaac began talking about the house and the renovations and showed me around, talking the whole time. Apparently I'm the first guest in 9 days. The rooms are very nice. The house was built in 1848—it shows its age when you stand in the hall and notice how crooked things are. The main floor is for guests, and Anne and her daughter (and cats) live upstairs. Anne has done a lot of travelling and hostelling and thought she'd make a go of it. It feels like (a) home here, and I'm rather pleased to be staying here than in a tent in the rain. I also unplugged their phone and hooked up the Internet when no one was around.

I walked down to the laundromat where I talked for a little while with the girl who works there, leaving my clothes under her care. I went back to the hostel where I met Carl, who just came in. He's a plumber/electrician and is doing some contract work in the area and will be staying here the night. We talked for a while, and after I went back to get my laundry (the girl wanted to fold them for me lest they get wrinkled, but I told her there wouldn't be much point... they don't really wrinkle anyway) he offered me a beer from the six pack he had bought in town. We sat in our room, drank our beer and talked about every day stuff. He's from PEI, but had lived in Vancouver for a while, too. He gave me his number should I be in the area.

We had another beer. I had planned to go to the pub to get a meal, but it was getting late. Then Anne came back from an anniverary party. She sat down and Carl handed her a beer. She then proceeded to talk virtually non-stop for the next hour and a half. I did, however, manage to ask her if the guest book entry on May 17th from 'Terry' happened to be The Monk. It was. It felt nice to have come across his trail again. Although Anne is very nice, I couldn't help but wish I could just be alone—the conversation felt a trifle one-sided with her doing the talking and us doing the listening.

When the group finally broke up Carl went into the next room since we're the only two staying here. He headed to the pub for beer, but I opted out for some quiet time to read my email and write in my journal. I wrote some interesting thoughts in my email to Mary Kate, so I thought I'd just copy them over:

Definitely the toughest thing about this kind of travelling is being alone. When things (weather, hills, wind, etc.) go wrong you can commiserate if you have someone with you. On the other hand, it's led to some great opportunities I may have missed otherwise. Better yet, I'm learning a lot about myself, and most personal revelations are usually made alone. At this point—three weeks into my trip—everything is beginning to seem like second nature: sleeping somewhere different every night, urging myself on, planning meals, etc. I feel like I've hit that mode where I could just keep on going. My own company is actually quite welcome these days—I feel confident and at ease enough to enjoy it.

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