2/6 – The Cabot Trail – 21/22 April 2024

I left N Sydney at a good hour and in no time i was on the Cabot Trail. More roads winding through pine forests, but now with an occasional glimpse of coastline – cliffs and narrow beaches. I was too early; everywhere was closed, which made the decision on whether to stop at some of the multitudinous tourist attractions an easy one.

I did stop at one viewing point and here I met two Charming and beautiful girls from Germany who were on a road trip around eastern Canada. As it turned out we were staying at the same hostel that night, so we were to meet again. Hello to Nicola and Isabel, or Nicki(?) and Izzie (?).

My first mishap was to follow shortly after leaving them. A visit to White’s Point had been recommended to us by an old man – sounds funny that, as he was maybe only a few years older than I – at the viewpoint. I headed that way along a fairly narrow road – I would say here that the roads on the Trail were really in quite good condition; they were relatively wide, mostly smooth and best of all empty; they wee a joy to ride – and then came to a junction with a road heading to my right at 135º, i.e. to my right and backwards. I thought this might be the road to White’s Point so slowed down and turned in. Then, noticing how narrow and steep it was I decided to check my map first. I completed a u-turn in the junction and just as I was approaching the main road again, very slowly now, the camber of the verge caught me and the bike fell to my left; I tried to hold it, but failed and on letting it down got my foot caught underneath. I jerked my foot out and felt a horrible tug at the back of my thigh; I had pulled a hamstring! L he air turned blue – a dark, dark blue!

The immediate problem was to get the bike upright again. I frantically removed the tank bag and seat bag and attempted to lit it. No chance; the pull on my hamstring said “NO!”  in no uncertain terms. Fortunately, a car driver stopped and between us we easily righted the bike. I reloaded the bags, carefully got myself back on and made my way to my destination – Highlands Hostel in South Harbour at the top of the Cabot trail.

Here I was warmly and sympathetically received, shown to my lodging and informed I would be sharing the 11-bed room with two German girls! J  “I know,” I said.

Highlands Hostel is owned and run by a couple, Bricin and Patricia (and their two daughters), who moved from British Colombia seven years ago and converted an old church into this warm, well equipped and very comfortable hostel. Bricin is a large guy who used to do long-boarding – whatever that is. Now he helps organise events across the country, doing a lot of the promoting; he was designing the most complex busy advertising posters I think I have ever seen while sitting for hours in the front seat of his stretched limo. (It is used to take groups around the area).

Patricia kindly gave me a lift to the local store, where I bought some stuff for dinner; I treated myself to a bottle of wine – for medicinal purposes purely. Then after making a cup of tea, I spent the afternoon on my bed with some ice on my leg which I had also strapped.

The evening was spent very pleasantly with the girls as we cooked our respective dinners, sitting in front of a wood burner in the common area taking my medicine and watching ice hockey with the family, while Bricin talked on the phone to someone with a very strong Belfast accent – we’re everywhere, as you shall see!

Decided to move on; sunny but overcast by the time I left; cold and first serious rain; low cloud;

he rain,whilst heavy didn’t last too long, but it brought with it a marked drip in temperature, and by the time I reached Cheticamp, I was in the now familiar half-frozen state. I stopped for fuel and after a slow start had a very pleasant exchange with the guy n the shop. He advised me to be careful leaving the town, because ther was a sharp le hand bend where his own biking career ended many years ago with a bald broken leg.

I finished the Cabot Trail shortly afterwards.

So, what did I think of this renowned and universally – at least in N America – trail? Well firstly let em say that it was probably not the best time of year to visit; even though the weather was mostly kind, it was always windy, and nearly everywhere was closed. The upside of this was that the roads were virtually empty, which made the riding much more enjoyable. As for the scenery it was nothing out of the ordinary, I thought; it would probably look better with the trees in bloom, or even in leaf, or showing the spectacular autumn colours you see in photos.

So I would give it the same accolade given to the Giant’s causeway by the English traveller, Dr Samuel Johnson, “… worth seeing but not worth going to see.”

That said, while some might agree that the Causeway is not be worth going to see, the ride to get to and from it – the Antrim and North Antrim coast roads, taking in such places as the Glens of Antrim, Cushendun, Rathlin Island if you fancy a wee boat trip, Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge, Mussenden Temple, the world’s oldest licensed distillery at Bushmills if you’re thirsty, the Causeway itself, and the majestic sweep of White Park Bay to name a few – is most certainly the equal if not the better of the Cabot trail. And for many (most) reading this, its is a lot closer to home.

My ride for the day finished at Havre-Boucher, at the home of my new friend Simon, his delightful wife Miška and their two fine children, Mia and Max. I spent a very pleasant evening drinking wine and beer while eating barbecued fare – though we ate indoors as it was still a little chilly.

My visit prompted a very valid question from, “Who is this guy? Why are we having him here if we don’t know him?”  This moved me to ponder the origins of hospitality to passing stranger.

Hospitality’s Origins

Hospitality is a practice almost as old as time. According to various web sources, the earliest recorded instance dates back 15,000 years to the Lascaux caves in France which were used to host visiting tribes. Subsequently it seems to have developed across many cultures, often associated with ideas of religious gain, and pilgrims were the first to benefit; the host getting his spiritual reward from assisting those getting their rewards in a more arduous and potentially hazardous manner.

In Ancient Greece, both guest and host were expected to abide by a set of codified rules, and they even had a Goddess, Hestia. In prehistoric Celtic stories guests were not only hosted, but were also under the protection of their host.

 In Nepal and India there is the idea of Atithi Devo Bhava, meaning “the guest is God” and is related in many traditional stories where a guest turns out to be a God and rewards the host. In Islam, the practice of wishing well to everyone – Peace be upon you – is rooted in the teachings of Mohammed and extends to guests and even prisoners of war. The origin in Christianity lies in the Old Testament and in the New, Jesus aid that whoever welcomes a stranger welcomes Him. In Judaism the practice is Hachnasat Orchim (welcoming guests) and requires food, bed and entertainment as well as seeing the traveller well on his way.

In my own experience hospitality towards travellers is still a widespread practice in Africa, the Middle East and Asia, but not quite so much in more westernised countries. Interestingly, it is often in the poorest of settings that the welcome is warmest, and the hospitality most lavish – relative to the circumstances of the host.

Long may it continue!