Sitting in the car as we left the airport, the snow floating gently to the, already white, ground, I knew I was going to like Nova Scotia. The randomly forested hills of deciduas trees would have looked forlorn and austere if it weren’t for the intermingled coniferous trees adding shades of green to what was a white canvas of a day. Being late winter, the snow had piled up and not had chance to melt, even the forest floors were covered as well as the trees themselves making for a rather fairytale setting. Turing off the highway and onto the Lighthouse route the roads became mostly covered in snow making progress slower and more dangerous but they were still passable and well worth it due to the magnificent scenery.

The woodland was now interspersed with delightful little clapperboard houses, shops and churches many of which were painted a myriad of psychedelic colours making the buildings almost shine in the endlessly white landscape. Each borderless house had its own post box at the end of the snow-covered drive; many vehicles were in fact surrounded and almost completely covered by the snow while other drives had been rigorously maintained. Huge yellow snowploughs sped down the main roads, taking up most of them as they went with their huge concave ploughs displacing everything in its track. The snow was thrown to the side of the road where it had piled high. Five, six, even seven feet of snow had accumulated fencing off the scenic trail from some side roads and tracks.

Anna’s father is quite the local historian despite only living in the area for 9 months and he filled the journey with bits of interesting history as we drove past places of historic importance. Although the history of Canada, and the new worlds in general, isn’t very long compared to our own, it is still fascinating with exploration, adventure and conquest including the all important endless battles between the British and the French, which we, of course, won. I can’t imagine a time when one could simply roll up to an area of land and claim it for ones King and country, ah the good old days.

The twisted, winding road kept passing small lakes and pools which were covered in thick ice and snow, I soon realised that any flat area with no trees or buildings on it must be a body of water. Passing the many bays and inlets fed by the Atlantic, I could imagine the many tall ships of the British or French naval fleet bobbing steadily as they coasted further inland in search of safety and occupation. Out on the water there was fog eerily hiding the many islands and outcrops of land that must have made navigating these unknown treacherous waters difficult. It was actually quite dramatic and, though it must be very different to Nova Scotia in the summer, it was still very pretty. Each small cluster of houses had its church, some even had two churches opposite or adjacent, and a little jetty with a small boat ready and waiting should it be needed. The lobster cages were piled high.

On the stony banks were large, surprisingly thick, sheets of ice that had managed to break free from the main body as the tide had gone down. These littered the shores like barbed wire on a prison gate making them seem beautifully hostile. As we followed the coast, islets would creep out of the mist as others lingered on the border. Some of these islands apparently play host to buried treasure from years ago when pirates and privateers needed secret and secluded places to store their loot.

We arrived at the large LaHave River where we were to catch the cable ferry across to LaHave proper. The river was frozen so the ferry had to continuously plough its way through the ice. We drove on with another car and got out to feel the bitter wind as we made our way across the water. After a few minutes we were at the other side and off the ferry, the house was just a couple of hundred metres down the road.