The Rambles of Spring

It was a great day for a spring ramble in Southwestern Nova Scotia -- it dawned clear and sunny, and the road called out for wandering. The perfect song for the occasion was running through my head: The Rambles of Spring, written by Tommy Makem and performed by Makem and Clancy: "The days are on the mend and I'm on the road again."

As for which way to travel, the options are fairly limited in this part of the country: up the road or down the road. Thanks to the long, narrow shape of Nova Scotia, its southwest/northeast orientation, and the fact

that Shag Harbour is near its southernmost tip, "up" the road is roughly north and "down" the road is roughly east. This quirky geography is also responsible for the fact that the same stretch of coastline is the South Shore on one side of Halifax and the Eastern Shore on the other, the North Shore roughly parallels the Eastern Shore, and Western Shore is a community on the South Shore. Honest. So "up" it was -- through part of Shelburne County, Yarmouth County and into Digby County. This region of Nova Scotia is largely Acadian in heritage, predominantly

French-speaking and with a unique and vibrant culture. The landscape in this part of Nova Scotia consists of rolling hills covered in dense forest, with a broad coastal plain that's often made up of wetlands and saltmarsh. The communities of the Clare District, as it's known, follow the main road through the region, so Nova Scotia's Route 1 is sometimes referred to as the country's longest Main Street. Each community along the road boasts its own distinctive Roman Catholic church, including North America's largest wooden church at Church Point and an impressive stone structure at St. Bernard.

A visit to this area wouldn't be complete without a stop at the Roadside Grill in Belliveau's Cove, a tiny, unassuming place that serves up heaping portions of succulent deep-fried clams gathered on the local flats, burgers, turkey dinners and a delicious Acadian dish called Rappie Pie or Rapure that's made from grated potatoes and chicken, beef or clams. There's no pastry crust involved; the potatoes crisp on the edges to form a crispy shell. There are two schools of thought on this

delicacy -- I'm one of those who consider it a plateful of pure bliss, but there are others who run screaming into the night at the very mention of its name. The service at the Roadside Grill is friendly and efficient, and there's a real sense of neighbourhood here; the waitresses know most of the customers by name and sometimes don't even bring menus since the customers know the offering here as well as the staffers do. Next to the restaurant there is a tidy little row of tourist cabins that are available for rental, in a perfect 50s flashback. After a great, hearty meal at the Grill it was time to head for home. The day definitely qualified as a great spring ramble!

Herons in the Shallows

It won't be long before the herons are back. Ardea herodias is theoretically a year-round resident in Southwestern Nova Scotia, but it's very unusual to see them here in January or February. When spring arrives, though, so do the herons; we'll start to see them wading in the shallows, making quick lunges to catch small fish swimming past. Herons tend to be shy and are startled by loud noises or sudden movements -- they'll take to wing when frightened and their broad wings, spanning up to six feet, will carry them quickly away. It's often late autumn or early winter before we see the last of them, with ice forming along the shoreline and on pools in the marshes.

These birds can be found in Newfoundland as well, although the salt marsh that forms their principal habitat can be scarce there so herons are confined mostly to the southwestern area of the island. I'll be glad to see the herons return, since when they make an appearance in the shallows, spring can't be far behind.

Saltmarsh mornings

One of my favorite places to wait for a sunrise is the saltmarsh. The frosted grasses in winter, the rustling of birds and small animals, the hoofprints of deer come to test the salty tang of plants along the shore, the ever-changing tableau of seaweed or eelgrass arranged by the last tide; they all captivate me. There's a stillness here that overrides the noise from the traffic passing just a few yards away. A good pair of boots and a walking stick are essentials, and of course the camera has to come along as well, since the still water can provide a canvas for perfect reflections of a glorious sunrise. The scent of the marsh

is salty too, of course -- fresh seaweed left by the receding tide. Sound carries well over the water, so the cries of a pair of loons or a small flock of mergansers can be heard from the islands in the near distance. A heron's quick lunge for a passing fish makes a quiet splash, and a small stream tumbles over rounded granite rocks as it flows into the cove; a pair of muskrats dabble in the shallows by the brook. As spring approaches, the willet's distinctive "pill-will-willet" call is added to the soundscape. The sunrise seems somehow more accessible here -- not a distant event but an intimate one as the first rays of the sun peep through the trees and begin to cast their golden light

on the marsh grasses. It creeps slowly along, casting long shadows that enhance the delicate lines of the tide-swirled seaweed, sparkling off the frost or shining warmly on the mist that rises gently off the water. With the sun fully risen it's time to tread back across the muddy flats and head back to the house for the first sip of morning coffee, but the marsh will still be here tomorrow, constant, timeless, yet ever-changing and new.