The face in the jar by the door.

August 13, 2006. SheIburne, N.S. Home of the only licenced cooper in all of Canada. In fact, our bed and breakfast was the renovated cooperage. The barrels are still made across the street. Waiting for us in our room when we checked in was a basket containing two wine glasses, a two-glass bottle of red wine, and a selection of biscuits and chocolates. I also prevailed upon the lady of the house to get me some milk so I could make a cup of tea from the supplies in our chamber (sadly, the only way to boil water was with the drip coffee maker, which didn't actually bring it to a rolling boil, so the tea was not very good). We took our refreshments outside and sat in the garden, a lovely arrangement of boardwalks and homemade patio furniture, herbs and edible flowers (some ended up in our breakfast the next day), read our books and enjoyed the sunshine and not being in the car. As we were sitting quietly, minding our own business, a small black critter came into the garden from one gate, drank at the goldfish pond, then came quite close, looked at me curiously, and headed out the other gate, never to be seen again. I have no idea what it was. It looked like a large ferret or a small weasel, but it didn't have the characteristic humped bum; and I forgot to ask my hosts what it might be.

The recital was at an arts/community centre with a small but mostly appreciative audience. Our B&B hostess was there, in fact, as her establishment had sponsored this particular concert. Afterwards my husband and the performers were swamped with people who loved the show, loved the new piece, and we walked home in the dark to the cooperage, my husband accidentally setting off the car horn alarm on our rental when he went to check that it was locked up for the night. The proprietress glared out the window at us (I don't know if she saw our faces, but really, she must have). Ironically, at 4:00 a.m., someone else's car horn woke us up.

Breakfast was incredible. We were first given orange juice, a basket of freshly-baked muffins and our choice of coffee or tea, and then handed a menu with the instructions to choose anything at all. I went with the French toast, Hubby had a cinnamon bun, they both came with fresh fruit and pansies. I couldn't finish everything (yes, I ate my flower).

Our hostess, however, had a "painted-on" smile. We couldn't figure it out. Either she was mad at us for the car horn incident (which is quite possible) or she absolutely hates new music (and this is also possible) and just didn't know what to say. She never congratulated Hubby after the concert, never, in fact, said a word about the performance at all. On the other hand, her husband, who is a carpenter and a gourmet chef, was an extremely nice guy. But sadly we had very little interaction with him.

We tried to get our hour's walk in before we got back in the car, but SheIburne is really tiny, and we lost interest pretty quickly in the place. The restaurant that had been highly recommended to us at the tourism desk at the airport was closed on Sundays and Mondays, exactly when we were there, so we could only walk by and look longingly at the posted menu.

Then we embarked on the long drive to our next stop, going around the end of the province, stopping in Yarm0uth to change highways and to find our way to the lighthouse where we were supposed to find a cafe for lunch. We ate at the tearoom, being joined by a whole busload of American tourists who had taken the ferry from Bar Harb0r, Maine. We climbed over the rocks at the point for a while before continuing our drive.

Next stop: Annap0Iis R0yaI, the oldest settlement in Canada (supposedly). Have strength, there are only two more of these installments to go.

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