We arrived at 7 a.m. at the Port of Sydney, Nova Scotia, located on the eastern end of Cape Breton Island. From our veranda, the old town still seemed to be asleep.
Before we left the ship, we couldn’t help but notice a giant fiddle on the dock, welcoming visitors to this intriguing town. At 60 feet tall, the largest fiddle in the world stands as a tribute to the island’s Celtic heritage and in reverence to its decades of fiddling.
We opted for a walking tour around the town over another long bus ride into the country. We were glad we did. We hardly lost sight of the Zuiderdam, which was fine with us.
Our morning stroll around Sydney was just that, very leisurely. Our guide was a character, dressed in period clothes, and unafraid to express his opinion. He was a hoot. With a name like John Bourgeois, did he have any other option? His surname gave away his personality.
John clearly loved his native town. His folklore stories of mysterious intrigue easily kept our attention. John knew the town’s history like the back of his hand. He should have. His family name went back generations, enabling him to interject personal ancestral history into his tantalizing tales. Perhaps some of them were true.
As we walked up hill from the dock, John took his time with his steps and his words. He knew himself and his town well.
John pointed out the Royal Bank Lion Monument, a symbol of power at the start of the prosperous steel mill days, now long defunct. He drew our attention to the now-abandoned church with an upside-down ship’s hull for a roof, the house where the ladies summoned the beleaguered sailors returning from a long voyage, and the community’s old firehouse, now a mustard-yellow painted two-story home with a bright blue door.
We enjoyed the flower gardens of lovely old two-story homes still occupied by long-term residents, and toured an old building that served as a residence and general store. It’s an impressive museum in its third life. We spied a Paul Bunyan-style mural of a hockey player that honored the beloved Canadian sport.
After giving John a generous tip for his honesty and folksy stories, I asked him for directions to a restaurant he recommended. He said it was just a little way straight ahead. A half-mile later, I found it, and the restaurant was closed. Apparently, I was as magnanimous as I thought.
We walked back to the Joan Harriss Cruise Pavilion, where we found a restaurant with lobster rolls. It was a relaxing way to end our walk around Sydney.
As our ship left the dock and headed out of the inlet, I realized that Sydney was much more than what we saw on our walking tour. The roofs of houses and church spires stretched far inland.
We passed the old coal tipple where ships loaded the once major export. Like the steel mills, the mines are now shuttered. Farther out along the peninsula, a forested backdrop highlighted impressive homes, rural stone churches, and a lighthouse where the harbor pilot boarded his boat for the ride home.
We enjoyed another musical performance after a nice dinner and called it a day. Halifax was our next highly anticipated destination.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2025
Roadkill Crossing 
You must be logged in to post a comment.