We did our laundry in the morning, and got some advice from another patron. She turned out to be the superintendent of the local school (retired). Her son was an engineer and worked for Bombardier, but they wanted to move him to BC, so he bailed and decided to scratch out a living in Port Hawkesbury. She told us to make sure we find a caelidh. We looked at her funny, and she told us that caelidhs are like square dances in barns or restaurants. They host them regularly in most of the communities up here.
Naomi kept falling far behind, which as it turns out means she is tired. We pulled over and this happened:
After her nap, the GPS routed us to a gravel road. At the head of the gravel, one sign said dead end, and another had a milepost with distances to several towns. Naomi said go, so we tried it. Then the rain started. Then the gravel turned to dirt. Rivers emerged. The dirt turned to softball sized cobble. Mike turned around. Naomi followed, verrry slowly because she does not like to turn.
By the end of the day we were fairly wet and tired. We ended up in Margaree that night at the Normaway, as recommended. We got a cute cabin with a wood burning stove and a swing on the porch. There were three horses and a donkey in the pasture next to our cabin.
We washed off the grime, and headed to the lodge for dinner. After dinner, we headed to the barn for a caelidh. The barn was full of people, even in the rafters. It was a mix of locals and some tourists. There were two redheaded sisters playing fiddle, and one guy on a piano. The sisters had been playing and dancing in this area since they were about six. They looked like they are now in their early thirties.
This area is known for its music, but to hear these folks talk about it, it seems that its survival is by no means guaranteed. Apparently the older generation had been carrying the torch, and younger folks hadn't had much interest for a while. The pianist started a fiddle club at the local school a few years ago, and they all seemed really proud that there were now a handful of young fiddlers. The sisters were both involved with organizing the Celtic Colors festival, which was advertised all over, and the woman from the laundromat in Port Hawkesbury had mentioned with some real pride.
At 10pm they moved the chairs and it was time for the caelidh proper. An old guy named Bill had the microphone, and sat on stage calling out square dancing steps. We left a bit before 11, and the barn was still packed.