Yarmouth

Heading out to the Acadian Shores Music Festival in Pubnico feels a bit like wandering into someone's lively family reunion, only here everyone's cousin seems suspiciously skilled in fiddle-playing and oyster-shucking. Nestled in Nova Scotia's oldest Acadian settlement, Pubnico is the kind of town where folks still debate family histories going back to the 17th-century French settlers, between mouthfuls of buttery lobster rolls and rhythmic foot-tapping to traditional folk jams. Plan your visit on a summer afternoon-come hungry, slightly thirsty, and prepared to improvise dancing the rigodon with strangers who'll become honorary family by sundown. Tickets can be scooped up a month or two ahead, around 50 bucks will set you up comfortably, and as far as essentials go, sunscreen, cash (because you'll inevitably crave more seafood chowder), and some sturdy footwear for enthusiastic stomping are highly advised. Sure, you'll leave exhausted and possibly smelling of salt water, steamed clams, and local IPA-but adventures like this aren't meant to be neat. Besides, when else will you get to tell stories about accidentally joining a sea-shanty sing-along or impressing locals with your shocking aptitude for spoon percussion?

Perched deep in the unassuming hamlet of Quinan, the Deep Sky Observatory offers the kind of celestial spectacle that makes you feel simultaneously profound and hilariously insignificant. This isn't your backyard 'hold up an app and pretend to see constellations' exercise-no, this is industrial-strength astronomy beneath some of North America's darkest, clearest skies, where stars outnumber people by a gazillion to one. Come around midnight, when even the owls have decided it's past their bedtime and the Milky Way unfurls like cosmic graffiti splashed across the heavens. Book a few weeks ahead and bring $25 to $40 in small bills (and, for your own sake, a decent thermos of coffee and layers of clothing that would make Shackleton proud) because clear nights also mean bone-deep chills. Sure, you might lose feeling in your extremities, and you'll inevitably fumble trying to differentiate Cassiopeia from a cluster of dead pixels, but you'll come away with a fresh dose of humility-and at least one story beginning with, "That time I stared into the infinite abyss in rural Nova Scotia."

Paddling the Tusket River is the sort of peaceful, pastoral escape you'd recommend to your therapist-or your parole officer. Once the aquatic highway of indigenous Mi'kmaq navigators and later bootleggers ferrying rum barrels beneath moonlit skies, today's Tusket lazily twists through a postcard-worthy Nova Scotia backdrop of marshland grasses, whispering pine groves, and wildlife that's (mercifully) indifferent to your presence. Set out early, ideally just after sunrise-when mist hovers melodramatically over the water and moose wander groggily down for morning refreshments. No need to book months ahead; a spontaneous decision with one to two days' notice usually suffices. Budget around $50 CAD per person for a few leisurely hours, and pack plenty of snacks, water, bug spray, and sunscreen-trust me, sunscreen matters, unless you're going for that particularly Canadian shade of tourist red. But above all, bring a dry bag: because trust me, phones and car keys prefer not to swim. Even if your paddling skills are questionable and your kayak zigzags down the river like a mayfly on espresso, floating down Tusket River is worth every awkward splash-if not for the scenic serenity, then certainly for the bragging rights at your next dinner party (or bail hearing).

Mudflat golfing in Clare is exactly the kind of glorious absurdity you'd expect from a region where stubborn Acadian pride meets maritime mischief. Picture teeing off into an endless expanse of mud, the Bay of Fundy breathing in and out, revealing its gritty floor just long enough to mock your swing. Originating as a quirky pastime invented by resourceful locals who clearly decided regular golf courses lacked character (and mud in uncomfortable places), this muddy spectacle is as much a cultural rite as it is sport. Aim to show up a few hours before low tide-usually early mornings or late afternoons, depending on the whims of lunar gravity-and be sure to book a couple days ahead, especially during festival season when giddy locals and bewildered tourists flock to test their skill. Budget-wise, it's surprisingly forgiving-$20 will usually grant you access, communal clubs, and bragging rights-but do pack old shoes, clothes you never intend to wear again, and a sense of humor sturdier than your swing. Sure, you'll probably lose balls, dignity, or both-but trust me, the joy of squelching your way through a game steeped in mud and maritime folklore, played against the clock of the world's highest tides, is worth every muddy, magnificent minute-or at least a damn good story to tell at dinner parties.