Miramichi - Truro

Bright sunshine does not reveal the storm that raged here yesterday. Only the large puddles seen everywhere indicate this. This time I actually get breakfast - grab and go. A paper bag reveals the following: a carrot muffin, a granola bar, a peach yogurt, a pack of orange juice, and a margarine container. As they say in English - it's the thought that counts. I politely thank them for the key and learn that from October onwards, we can have breakfast together again. Enjoy your meal.

I drive down Highway 11 and then switch to the Trans-Canada Highway, which I already know from Newfoundland. It is the third longest road in the world with a length of 7000 km, leading from the far west (Graham Island) to St. John's on the mentioned island of Newfoundland, of course not continuously. And there are also many things here that remind me of this island, including the warning signs placed every few kilometers to watch out for moose. I didn't see any this time.

Because the weather is consistently so beautiful, I occasionally detour from the main road and take a ride along the coast. These coastal drives are everywhere here, and surprisingly, many of the houses here have a private beach that you are not allowed to enter. It is incredible how well maintained everything is, every lawn looks like Wembley. I now believe that there are many retirement homes here - not a bad idea. If only the harsh winters weren't there.

Behind Sackville (cool name), the province of Nova Scotia begins, and indeed you have to stop, as it is checked whether you have registered your entry. A young lady in her house looks at my email and driver's license, and I said that she couldn't see anything from a distance. Nevertheless, I hear a friendly 'You're good to go' and that was hopefully the final obstacle on my COVID-dominated journey.

I want to take a little detour and drive off the Highway 104, as it is now called, to refuel and then drive through the hinterland towards the coast. A fox is sitting by the roadside grooming itself, but it runs away when I try to take a photo. Shouldn't have disturbed it. After 20 km, the road turns into a gravel road, and I don't worry yet. Another 5 km later, the gravel road becomes narrower. According to the navigation system, this is the official route. Now that countless potholes have been added and the road finally resembles a forest path like ours, my courage leaves me. I might have done it alone with someone else, but I don't dare anymore on my own. A breakdown here and I would be a bit of a fool. I haven't seen any cars for a long time, and the navigation shows another 17 km to the next junction, and my phone has no reception. My instinct says: not a good idea.

So I go back and back to the highway, even though it annoys me a bit. In Nevada, I was lucky once when someone pulled me out of the sand - but you shouldn't overuse that luck. And so I drive comfortably to Truro, my destination for today. There are a lot of city names here that I know from Great Britain. Truro, Londonderry, Oxford, and I even saw Dorchester. And there is also Halifax in West Yorkshire.

I spend the rest of this sunny day in Victoria Park, a huge park in Truro. Google Maps directs me to a residential area for parking, and when I ask a resident how to get to the park, she tells me to walk through her neighbors' driveway and then go into the park from the back. I ask her what her neighbors think about that, and she laughs. They are used to it. Google sends many people here the wrong way. Well then. And indeed, when I come back 2 hours later and walk up the driveway, someone from a window waves to me friendly. If I did that in Germany, I would probably be insulted, and in the USA, I would probably be shot.

The hotel here is huge and the rooms are good, but unfortunately the restaurant is closed. But on the way, I saw a Taco Bell, and after not visiting one for a long time, I'm excited for these little pseudo-Mexican goodies. The place has merged with a KFC, and inside you can get both at the same counter. Not such a bad idea. I notice a young guy wearing a Bayern Munich mask and I talk to him. Mark emigrated here with his parents from Munich 21 years ago and has been living here ever since. I exchange a few words in German with him, and he responds in the broadest Bavarian dialect. Quickly, I switch back to English and point out his friend standing next to him, who wouldn't understand us otherwise. Good excuse. Who wants to hear Bavarian here anyway? Definitely not me.