Some places are easy to leave. There is the dirty harbour with bad holding you’re pleased to see the back of, or the rolly anchorage that gives no rest and makes sleeping impossible. Shelburne is the polar opposite with its amazing sailing club, friendly locals and epic OCC port officers. Tearing ourselves away from Shelburne has not been easy. In the words of wartime Churchill ‘Never in the history of sailing, have so many, offered so much, to so few.’ And Ruffian is truly thankful to everyone in Shelburne for their kindness and help while Arthur reaped his havoc.

Even Mother Nature didn’t even want us to leave the safe surrounds of Shelburne and the local people had well deserved great Karma. Shelburne was in basking in bright sunshine as we ventured out to sea and then Mother Nature shrouded us in all encompassing fog. We are sure that the scenery en route to Lockeport would have been splendid, if we could have seen it, and the navigational markers useful, if we’d seen them and the crashing waves we could hear would have been less scary, if they hadn’t existed at all.

Foolishly we’d let our propane levels get seriously low. Running out of propane would mean that Fiona would have to do without her morning tea and that simply wouldn’t do. Alan, the OCC port officer, saved the day as he’d given us insider information of the location of propane in Lockeport, and within about 9 seconds of anchoring the gas was refilled so Fiona could breathe a sigh of relief.

Just like Alan & Jan had advised, Lockeport was a haven for fog. We couldn’t see the wharfs either side of Ruffian; all we could see was the thick fog billowing through the cockpit, condensing on anything cold (which was everything) and then soaking everything through. We mused just how hot and sunny it would be in La Coruna, just like we had joked last year.

Lockeport, when we could see it, proved to be charming and we were lucky enough to glean local knowledge around the town on it’s walking tour. We were given the lowdown on the historic houses, the fishing industry, the ancestry and just how hard as nails the Nova Scotian fishermen are. They only go lobstering in the winter when all other soft individuals are wrapped up in duvets in front of their fires.

The lobstermen are not the only hardy individuals found in Lockeport. The ticks are also hard as nails. After romping through fields we found ourselves in the well appointed tourist office. Iain flicked a few ticks off his legs and gave them a good stomp on the hard clinically white floor. Thinking he’d done everyone a favour by dispatching the little critters, he was somewhat embarrassed (if that’s possible) when he spotted one of the critters still jumping about and he had to admit to his lack of social graces.

With Lockeport being a haven for fog we put on our brave heads and pushed out into it once again. We had the same thoughts about scenery, navigational markers and crashing waves, but to add to the misery the temperature had also plummeted. We could hardly believe that in the middle of July, in the ‘heat’ of the day, we were dressed like Michelin men as we donned every piece of kit we owned.

Nearing our destination the fog cleared in an instant. It felt like we’d entered a different world and we were back in the Bahamas. Clothes were shed quicker than those of a teenager on a promise after a Friday night out. The water was blue and the beaches pure white. Such contrast to the sensory depravation the fog had given us.

Ashore we quickly realised we were still in Nova Scotia. The water was blue and as soon as our feet touched it so were they. Cold hardly goes anywhere to describe just how cold the water was. The only benefit to this cold water was that you felt alive and invigorated when you got out of it, because if you were still in it you’d be far from alive.

After the scare of the hurricane that was alleviated by those friendly souls at SHYC, the worry about propane resolved at Lockeport and the fear of freezing assuaged by the hot sun on the beach it’s been a rollercoaster of a ride on Ruffian since we arrived in Nova Scotia.

Goodbye Shelburne. You’ve been good to us.


Brrrrrr. Who’d believe it was July?


Ruffian mixes it up with the fishing fleet.


Yo. Selfie. We’re so ‘down with the yoof’.


It must have been windy for the channel marker to end up here.


It’s a boat eat fish type world.


As usual Iain is confused.


Fog glorious fog. Nothing feels quite like it.


Sunny onshore. Foggy offshore.


Ruffian could be in the Bahamas.


Fiona braves the COLD water.


While Iain plays the kid role.


The perfect crescent at Carters Beach.


Wow. Bare feet and sand. Just don’t put them in the water.


You only get sunsets this great in the north.


Which way is up?