Not a Ferry Good Day.

Tide you over: the Hopewell Rocks, at low tide.

Calais, ME – Actually, it wasn’t that bad.

Here’s a pro tip, though: when travelling through time zones, be sure to change the clock in your car, lest you err on the timing of something important.

Like a ferry schedule. (Bonus points: especially after a long day of driving.)

Having just driven through mountains cloaked in fog, we pulled onto the ferry at l’Etete, NB. We had planned to catch the next ferry to Campobello Island after the half-hour trip to Deer Island – while hopefully seeing some whales and seals along the way.

As we settled in between a truck and a bus, we were told the last ferry was to leave at 7 p.m. – a couple hours earlier than anticipated.  The clock on the dashboard flashed 6:30.

The keen reader, of course, will have already figured out it was really an hour later locally.

Thankfully, the ferry back to L’Etete was free – but we saw no whales or seals.

As waves of ink spilled across the sky and bright sparks forked to Earth, we finally pulled into the border town of Calais, ME. Pathetic fallacy, methinks. The Calais Motor Inn seems stuck in a 1950s time warp – and that may also be the last time the floor was cleaned, too. But, it's home for the night.

Despite the later setbacks, however, our morning flowed with the timing of a tidal schedule. Literally.

Several hours after leaving our home base in New Ross, we stopped at the Hopewell Rocks and its distinctive flowerpot rock formations. As with other sites along the Bay of Fundy, the region is home to the world’s highest tides, leaving miles of red clay-filled mud flats stretching out in front of you. Six hours later, they are covered by more than 50 feet of water each day.

It was a day filled with good times, just not always accurate ones.

Trying Not to be a (Tidal) Bore.

Home on a hill at Hall's Harbour.

Wolfville, NS – This evening has been all about family. Well, that and a substantial lobster feed.

A basket filled with 28 lobsters, bowls of various sides and a table surrounded by family that does not get together all that often made for a wonderful time to say the least. I am grateful.

Throughout the day, we made our way to various spots around the Bay of Fundy, where we experienced its famous tides. Hall’s Harbour was overcast, but quiet as fishing boats leaned against the wharf, their hulls resting in mud.

We continued to the Blomidon Lookoff, which offered a really neat perspective as we looked down on a storm that had formed over the Bay. From there, we finished at Cape Split, wandering out onto the red clay and finding the remains of a very old wooden structure several hundred feet out into the muck.

It was definitely the scenic route to my aunt and uncle’s orchard.

Miss Direction.

Like in my brain, fog fell fast in Halifax.

New Ross, NS – Sometimes, the GPS lies.

After breakfast at Becky’s Diner in Portland, we set our course and marvelled that there were fewer hours to go than anticipated.

On second look, I noted the GPS had us crossing the Bay of Fundy. While this may indeed have been the shortest route, there were no ferries to be found and I had not set the directions for an amphibious vehicle. I shook my head and recalculated. Somehow, we still made it.

Climbing into New Brunswick, I kept my eye out for the ever-elusive (to me) moose. At a distance would be fine. A blurry vision of a head poking out of the trees would do. Alas, my quest to see one of these big, dumb animals in the wild remains unfulfilled.

Thankfully, though, the coastal air has finally cleared the allergies that plagued me for most of the drive. We’re still so exhausted, though, it feels like the fog that rolled in over Halifax harbour tonight has settled into my brain.

I will, at least, use that as an excuse for my confusion at the toll bridge leading into the city. It turns out that when you seek change from the attendant, you will actually receive the full amount back – just in smaller denominations. I had not realized I was still required to drop the toll into the bucket.

As I pulled forward, the bar bounced in the breeze, but remained lowered authoritatively across my path – as though it were wagging a finger at me. The lane was too narrow to open my door and run back, and I eyed the motorcycle cop idling behind me.

The bar finally rose in a shrug.

I blame the GPS.