The next day, we rose fairly early and packed up and headed for the Digby area planning to go whale watching one last time then catch the ferry back to either Saint John or Maine.

We had expected to find a provincial campground here-our preference—but the map appears to indicate campgrounds only, not just provincial ones. We circled back, then resumed our drive to Digby and decided to check out Smith’s Cove, where a campsite was indicated. We chose this over Bear Cove (?) because it was on the bay, rather than on a river.

We found a camp ground on Smith’s Cove, privately owned and dominated by RV’s, but reasonably nice. It is located on a bay which is drained by the tides twice a day. The camp sites were nicely spaced, if open, and the view of the bay was pleasant. There are showers and a mini-golf course (which we played in the evening).

After setting up camp and having a coffee, we drove into Digby to check out the town and look for information on both whale watching and the ferries. We had decided long ago that, if we could, we would go out with one of the zodiac boat crews, and we found the company which operates out of Tivertonm, Ocean Explorations, and booked reservations with the 8:45 excursion. According to this operation, the early morning excursion is less likely to encounter strong winds, and thus choppy water, than the ones later in the day. Everyone we talked to about whale-watching mentions the possibility of rough weather, sea-sickness, and so on. We understand that you are less likely to get sick on a zodiac boat, but that remains to be confirmed.

After making the reservations, we went to the Captain’s Chest, a restaurant in Digby, for our lobster dinner. We ordered two lobsters and everyone else had pork chops or fish and chips or haddock or something. Paul and I got the lobsters. It was interesting to dissect the little critter on your plate, crack his claws for the meat inside, and pull off his legs and suck the meat out. The taste is still like fish as far as I’m concerned and it was good to experience but I won’t order one again soon. Especially not at $17.00 a plate.

Digby is an interesting little town, mostly devoted to fishing. Apparently all the great swimming places are on the other side of Nova Scotia, but we have missed them and don’t have time to check out Bridgewater. Digby is full of fishing vessels and little fish packing plants, most of which don’t appear to be in operation. In the evening, as the tide went out, we saw many people going out to dig clams, which they usually make into a soup here. The waiter at the Captain’s Chest told us that not many people here eat a lot of fish: they get sick of it. He himself didn’t have any special fondness for lobster, but he gave us very good detailed instructions for eating it. He also informed us that there is a poisonous part of the lobster that you shouldn’t eat, but that the chef had removed it in the kitchen.

According to the whale watching guy, we have to leave Digby by 7:30 tomorrow morning to make the 8:30 ferry to Tiverton. We should use the washroom on the ferry, as we could be out for up to 4 hours. They will wait for us if we make that ferry. We have to get up at 6:55 to be on time. We will eat bagels in the car on the way. The guy in the site next to ours got chatty and said that he is going down to Brier Isle tomorrow also to go whale-watching, but in the afternoon. He was also concerned about the rough water. He told us that there is a beautiful beach in Bridgewater that is miles long and can be reached by car, by driving right out onto the beach. He is from the Annapolis Valley area. He raved about an area of Nova Scotia we will have neither the time nor opportunity to see on this trip.

As usual, today was sunny and mostly clear, aside from a little rainfall in the morning as we were driving. The forecast for tomorrow is lighter winds, some cloudy periods, but mostly clear.

Full moon again tonight. The temperatures are brisk, about 15 degrees I’d guess. This campground appears at least to be quieter than Dollar Lake, which had a lot of kids around. Nobody swims on this side because the water is so cold, but Bridgewater is supposed to have a beach that is like "bath water".

When I went to bed, the friendly guy at the next campsite was tucking his kids in. The kids—two girls, I think—asked for a ghost story. He told one, which he swore was true, about a former class mate of his, Gary Smith, a full-blooded Indian—he didn’t know which tribe—who was in his school as an exchange student from the Yukon. Gary was a superb story teller. When he told stories, his high school friends shut up and listened, because they were so good. He told one story around a campfire one night about how the old chiefs of his tribe used to maintain respect for their authority. They had many ways of doing this, and he would demonstrate one way. He asked the guy to blow on his hand. When he did that, a column of fire 30 feet high rose from the campfire into the air. There was no heat: only flame, and it was tall as a telephone pole.

"Is that true daddy," said one of the little voices.

"It’s absolutely true, I’m not making a thing up."

"How did he do it?"

"I don’t know. I know it wasn’t a chemical or anything like that. I still don’t know how he did it."

"Did the other people see it?"

"Everyone saw it."

"Where?"

"You remember that place where I took you on the motorbike? Where I told you I used to camp when I was a little boy? Remember? You were scared to go down the hill."

"Really? There?"