Back in Baddeck I had heard promising things about the Chanterelle Inn. Owner Earlene was so moved by the landscape and quality of life she upped sticks from the States and moved here to build the Inn on a hill overlooking the lake. I sit on the back deck for hours while Earlene plies me with home-made (and mostly home-grown) treats. Chief among these a divine sticky ink-coloured pie made from yesterday’s crop of wild blueberries. Never have I felt so welcome. Or full. After a few hours I drive away reluctantly, mentally rearranging my return route to see Earlene (and her pies) again.

A burst tyre soon breaks the revery. I consult my map and call the Halifax car rental company to see if they can replace it. They don't quite laugh at me, but I am clearly too remote to be taken seriously. I need to decide whether or not to take the risk of driving the trail on a spare. Empty roads could be dangerous if it happens again. Deflated I move onto Mabou, home to a local favourite for tunes and food – the Red Shoe pub. A simple white clapboard exterior frames the cosy one-room pub. I stop in to watch three young locals perform folk music and dine on fresh salmon and scallops. After dinner, high-spirited ceilidh dancing and a request for volunteers sends me scuttling off in search of the liquid variety of Scottish heritage – namely the Glenora Distillery, producers of the first single malt whisky in Northern America.

The distillery sits on a tragic tale. Bruce Jardine established the business in the 1980s deciding that the overwhelmingly Scottish ancestry of the region deserved a whisky of its own. He searched tirelessly for the right terrain, specifically the best source of water, and ended up with 900 acres of Glenville in Cape Breton's Highlands. But distilling single malt is a slow business: it takes only 72 hours to make but more than ten years to mature and Jardine never got to taste the final product; he died one year before the first batch was ready. But his children still live in a house behind the distillery and Glen Breton Rare is now an internationally recognised award-winner.

The sturdy stone distillery is all but concealed by a dense, damp mist when I arrive. The old pub, chalets and distillery set around a stone courtyard evoke a different time. It feels it would be more fitting to arrive on a horse than in a car. A large glassy pond mirrors the buildings and the surrounding fields are busy with wild purple hollyhocks, a common sight on our travels.

Head distiller Daniel MacLean shows me around the pristine facility explaining that despite the simple elements required to make the drink (barley, water, yeast and heat), a great deal of skill and experience goes into the process of ageing. Master distillers were brought over from Scotland to train the staff and Daniel’s job entails several tastings a day. “There are definitely worse ways to make a living,” he deadpans.

Daniel takes me to the old-school black-beamed bar for a tasting session. It begins with a highly technical explanation of whisky spider legs – which made sense until the fifth drink – and ends with me buying single malts for the young musicians I met earlier at the Red Shoe. One punter spins a great yarn about his cousin being hospitalised by a cat and four fellow barflies confess to being related to the victim.

The short courtyard stumble from bar to bed is suffused with rich smokey wood and whisky scents. Not a sound can be heard for miles except the squabbling brook. There is something wholly satisfying in being able to both hear the source of the whisky and smell the results. My room is simple but cosy and after a long day’s driving suits me just fine. But the road is the thing. After a solid whisky-induced sleep and vast artery congesting breakfast I waddle to the car determined to complete the Cabot Trail, spare tyre or no.

The journey is the destination on this trip and the destination is the Cabot Trail – 185 miles of road encircling Nova Scotia's northernmost island, Cape Breton. It is vaunted by a motorcyclist I meet on my way as "way too awesome to tell people about". The circuit can be driven in day, but it is best to allow around a week to stop and explore – although you could easily fill two. This route only opened to cars in the 1930s and it retains an undiscovered feel. Bissecting the richly forested Cape Breton Highlands in the north, hugging the Pacific Coast in the west and Atlantic to the east, it is a wild and dramatic drive. Many visitors travel clockwise around the route to keep safely on the inside lane but travelling anti-clockwise makes for exhilarating proximity to the sheer cliff drops as the road swoops along the coast.

You are never further than a few hours from the the sea in Cape Breton so, besides the vertiginous views, the seafood is wonderfully fresh and abundant. Instead of the usual road trip fare – stale triangles of doom from the petrol station – even my most fleeting snack stops yield fresh lobster sandwiches and strawberries. The most average of supermarkets I come across houses a tank four-deep in lobster with claws the size of my head. I even see a sign for a MacLobster drive-thru.

Gaelic translations on many road signs speak proudly of the island’s strong Scottish heritage, 80% of the population can trace their ancestry to the British Isles. Copycat place names: Inverness, The Highlands, Campbeltown alternate with Acadian French appelations, Cheticamp and Bras D’Or. Along with the fairytale-scale forests, these names contribute to a sense of being in a slightly made-up place.

In some ways the province feels more Scottish than Scotland, and it is debatable how much of it is exploited for tourism. But cultural education runs deep here and there are plenty of Gaelic speakers still around and a strong music tradition of ceilidhs and folk music dominate local entertainment.

I make it to Ingonish with all tyres in tact. The Keltic Lodge perches dramatically on a narrow peninsula with an extreme drop to the Atlantic on both sides. It has something of the Dirty Dancing holiday camp about it with small chalets and winding paths through the trees. Two weddings are in full swing and kilted Celts sway intermittently from the lodge for cigarettes as fiddles and cheers leak into the night. I am right at the base of the vast Highlands National Park in a wide, dark night. The lack of light pollution is thrilling and the ferocious cold fosters a bear-sized appetite. I’m too late for the dining room though. Beware, it is difficult to get fed after around 7pm on the Cabot Trail. So I make do with some leftover sandwiches and a nightcap of Glen Breton Rare. That night I dream of moose. Singing.

The location is extraordinary, a gateway to the wilder north, but the hotel itself lacks soul. A conference centre vibe pervades through the tartanry. There is a spa and an 18-hole championship Highlands Links golf course nearby. We are keen to get away to the Highlands National Park. One third of the Cabot Trail passes through the park and for most of that time I am the only car on the road. I am alone in the vast banks of conifers and the now-familiar nod of hollyhocks.

I am permitted free access to the Park by the two gleeful rangers and given a flag badge in celebration of Canada day. I park up at The Skyline Trail – one of many hiking options. Absolute silence greets me as I get stuck into the 7k track, hoping for some true solitude at last. I trek through dozens of tiny micro-climates, humid and still one minute, chilly streams of air the next. When the mist is low and visibility poor the total silence is a little unnerving. I keep a sharp eye out for moose but I don’t see another soul until we emerge from the forest onto a series of wooden clifftop platforms overlooking the Atlantic. Disappointingly there are just several groups of kagools clowning for the camera and I can’t see a thing through the fog.

I decide to wait out the weather to catch the view. The other hikers eventually leave but I am not alone. The mosquitoes here are as relentless as their Scottish cousins and I soon have to admit defeat. I weave back through a barcode of trunks to the car. Back on the rollercoaster road I push further into the highlands passing spiny ruffles of infinite firs. Red barns and white churches flash past in the wing-mirror. For hours I simply watch the world fly by. The bays are deserted and the beaches empty.

At a folksy craft shop stop the owner urges me to take a detour to the unfortunately named Meat Cove. It is well worth the diversion for what is unquestionably the best landscape of the trip. Finally, at the northernmost part of the island, I am entirely alone. I left the last car behind hours ago. Not a soul is to be seen. Gentle green fields roll down to a sheer, rocky descent; white swells lace the coast. Pods of humpbacks and harbour porpoises can be seen from the clifftop. Bright stacks of lobster pots dot the grass.

There is a wonderful sense of space, of room to breathe and stretch in Cape Breton. Houses are all spaced out with no fences to divide them. With a population of fewer than 200,000, there is quite enough space to spread out. In the full force of the Atlantic winds and knowing the next thing across the sea for miles is Greenland this is about as good as it gets for end of the world isolation.

I have to be cautious on my return drive south. I had wanted solitude but another flat tyre on the way back could leave me stranded for hours, possibly days. I’m distracted and make a series of wrong turns. There is no-one around to ask directions. The temperature dips discernibly and serendipity leads me to one of the last working lighthouses on the island. The solitary stone octagon pulses a warning through the gloom. The verdigris skeleton of an old pier juts from the irritable sea and reminds us of the harrowing journey many migrants made to their new home. Suddenly some company doesn't seem like such a bad idea.

Words: Jenni Doggett
Photography: Wynn Ruji + Jenni Doggett