New Brunswick, Part 2

We’d gone South. We’d gone East. We headed North to Shediac and Bouctouche next, a much smaller focus than the prior days.

We took pictures of each other climbing Shediac’s giant lobster, walked around the wharf and then headed North along Kent County into Bouctouche, where we took a long stroll down the boardwalk and beach of the Irving Ecological Conservation Site. We did not walk its full length. The dunes are 12 km long, the boardwalk itself 2 km. And it was hot. There were no clouds. Bev walked about a quarter of the way while I ventured out further, probably about half way before turning around, returning to the more modest salt marsh. The beach along the boardwalk was deep and easily accessed by periodic steps leading down to it from the boardwalk. There were bathers and swimmers at each of these, the sand thick and clean, both warm and cool when digging one’s toes within. The surf rolled in again and again. Not crashing. Not high, certainly not suitable to surf, and not with any great strength, either, what with the parents and toddlers braving its breakings up to their ankles along the dune’s shore. We sat awhile, basking in the sun and finding the sand too hot for too lengthy a stay.

We weren’t thinking; we ought to have brought bathing suits and beach towels and spent the day there instead of returning to Moncton to shop a while. We shop too much on holiday. It eats up time and we buy stuff we could probably have picked up in Sudbury or Toronto without having to cart it back home in a suitcase.

We ought to have stayed. There’s enough to do there to occupy a day, judging by the number of people there when we arrived. There was a great deal of camp sites for those spending a more sensible stay. For those just popping in and out, like we were, there was ample parking at the Eco-Centre, or not enough, depending on your perspective; there was room when we arrived, far less when we left, but people were coming and going all the time.

The next day we headed South. We drove to Fredericton and had lunch in a coffeehouse, browsed some shops downtown, and checked out a craft show in the park. We did not venture further than the historic district around City Hall and what remained of the old fort. Neither of us bought anything. The stores were frightfully expensive, the men’s shops specializing in Hugo Boss and the like. We really didn’t do much in Fredericton but enjoyed seeing it. It’s a neat, well-kept grid, nestled in a bend of the Fredericton River, slightly lower to the ground than Charlottetown was. We ought to have toured the fort. We ought to have found out more about what the area had to offer, but we had it in mind to see much of New Brunswick’s south shore, so time was short, the drive long, and that did not make for much time anywhere. A pity. It cheats a vacation, driving too much, shopping too long, rushing from place to place and not actually experiencing any of them fully.

We jumped back in the car and followed the scenic highway form the Capital to St. John, following the St. John River through rolling hills, the road cut from the side of one. Radio was spotty, the satellite reception cutting out often. Much like most roads we toured, tall, treed cliffs rose to one side of us, deep steep cliffs plunged down to the river to the other side, both sides littered with homes and cottages and a few farms where space and grade allowed. From what we could see, the far bank was much the same as the one we followed.

St. John was taller than Fredericton, stories taller, far larger too from the look of it, and probably larger still once before, judging by the abundance of empty buildings and lack of upkeep we saw on the windows of the upper floors. A port, it looked like it might have had shipyards, once. It’s steep too, much like Halifax and San Francisco, its streets cut tiers on what looked an impossibly steep rise for buildings. I expected the buildings to begin to slide, crashing into one another on their race down into the Bay of Fundy. Aside from that, it reminded me of North Bay. Something like a shad fly had risen up from the waters to flit about and cover just about everything. The air was filled with them, if not thick with them. But we weren’t there at night, either.

We parked up the hill alongside King’s Park, walked down to the pier, then back up where we ate seafood and pasta at Billy’s Seafood Market, next to the park. I was thrilled to see a framed signed caricature on the wall by Ernie Coombes, Mr. Dress-up.

Leaving St. John was stressful. The day had grown short, the sun was sinking low to the horizon, the light a lustrous gold. The byways were a tangle of confusion to the uninitiated, twisting about like in Ottawa and Toronto. Should you miss your exit, it might take some navigating to find your way back the way you came or to the next outlet. We did not navigate well. It took some false starts before we stumbled on the right path and began our lengthy drive back to Moncton, most of it in the dark.
St. John appeared poor once we left the central hub. The buildings were in general disrepair and looked altogether slum-like. And the sun was failing. I had no wish to be lost in it when I could not see where I was going, the roads a confusion of streetlights and hard to read signs.

I exhaled a long sigh of relief when I found myself on a straight byway, multiple lanes guiding traffic north of the city. I was happier still when I saw my first sign informing me the distance to Moncton.
We had a flight the next day, and I was worried that we’d be driving round and round St. John for the better part on an hour before finding our way out.

It felt that way, but it couldn’t have been more than 15 or 20 minutes.

We arrived. We repacked. We finished what little alcohol we had left and went to bed, anticipating home.