The current path, however, is not the same as the path that the Acadians had to cross; some time since the river's route was changed.
But back then, where it narrowed, there was a little bridge across it built by a guy named Roger Buot. It became the only way to take the land route from Shebuktou (now Halifax) to Quebec. So it offered a terrific opportunity for an Irish guy named Joseph Casey to open a tavern.
Now his wife, Marie, went to a fortune teller who told her that her husband (who had become known as Joseph Caisse) would fool around on her. So he did.
Anyway, I digress.
The tavern lasted for decades under various proprietors, until the time when the English were on one side of the river and the French on the other. Both had garrisons of young thirsty men, and (the best I can figure) the owner at the time a Monsieur Cyr had two daughters.
So, it was a popular maybe even roaring hot spot.
There came a period, about 1952 to 1954 or so, when there wasn't a lot of military action. France and England weren't at war. In the summer, it was likely a great place to spend one's meagre earnings.
So, legend has it, the French and English soldiers would commonly convene there; tell stories as young men do.
Eventually the French built a little fort on their side.
I've walked around there, and chatted with Don Colpitts, Ron Trueman and Colin Mackinnon who have dug around and found bits and pieces of live from the time; pipe stems, buttons, musket balls, etc.