We reached the picturesque seaside village of Cheticamp, a place proud of its Acadian origins, where French is spoken as commonly as English, and found our little B&B (one of the few places with a room because of the holiday and festival – we also needed to move accommodation to stay a second night). That night we went to a local Acadian restaurant for a feast of crabs legs while entertained by one of the local Cape Breton fiddlers.

It was an accidental piece of good timing to be here for this music and cultural festival. My planned timing, however, was not as good for the season was late and the expected peak of autumn colour had not yet arrived – no dazzling expanses of red to greet us, just a general paling of the green with the odd splashes of yellow, orange and red. It was pretty, but a little disappointing (perhaps a case of unreal expectations) - not as disappointing though as the sound of the first raindrops on the roof of our B&B in the early hours of the morning. Our first hike had been planned for that day.

As we sat eating our breakfast in Cheticamp, the rain started bucketing down and for a while looked like never stopping. However, by 11am it did and, with patches of blue sky appearing out to sea, we decided to hurry out and do at least one walk in the Cape Breton National Park. The walk we chose was the Skyline Trail, the signature walk of the park. We drove quickly out along the Cabot Trail, winding around the steep cliffs and slopes above the St Lawrence Gulf, before climbing up the Jumping Brook Valley to the trailhead carpark. Several other cars were already there, as other people also took advantage of the improvement in weather.

We set out from the car, following a wide gravel vehicle track through the conifers. It seemed more like a promenade than a hike, even when we finally took to a footpath - still smooth, still gravel. Still, the sun was finally shining and we were out walking in the crisp fresh air of the Cape Breton highlands. The bronzed foliage of the bracken beneath the dark green of the conifers provided a touch of autumn colour, even if it was somewhat the reverse of what we expected.

Passing through an area of boggy dense conifer thickets, we crossed a clearing that had been created by moose over-browsing young birch trees and killing them. Moose are very abundant in the park and hikers always harbour the hope of spotting one. We were lucky as, a little further on, we saw some people peering into the trees ahead – a moose was browsing only a few metres from the path.

Then it was time to climb the 280 steps back up to the plateau. This time we left the smooth gravel path to follow a long loop on more classic walking trail – single file, a bit of mud after the rain, a few exposed roots – it was much more like hiking here, though the terrain was flat and easy. Many people chose to walk back along the gravel boulevard, so this was a quieter route.

The loop rejoined the smooth gravel walkers' boulevard and we followed it back to the car park and the end of the Skyline Trail. The park was now completely full of cars - people were on the move again on this holiday weekend, seeking the open air, and it was clear to see that the Skyline Trail is high on everyone's list.

It it is a very easy track – the kind that you could wheel a pram along, as we saw people do – and this is the case with many of the walks in the Park. It is both good and bad – good because it offers an opportunity for all to experience the landscapes and natural beauty of the park, bad because it does not really offer any challenges for the more serious hiker. In the end, the Skyline Trail left me feeling a little flat, but this may be because it was impossible not to compare it with the other Skyline Trail that we walked near Jasper in the Rockies, and that was grossly unfair.

Cape Breton National Park has several very short walks. The Lone Shieling is one such walk, but it is in an area of the Grande Anse Valley where the forest has remained untouched by humans. The chance to stroll amongst 350 year old sugar maples cannot be refused, even if it is for less than a kilometre and the day is bleak and wet. The forest here was more open than regrowth forest and with a forest floor covered in seedling maples waiting to push skywards should any gap appear in the shady canopy.

Meat Cove is the end of the road (and a pot-holey gravel one at that) as far as Cape Breton Island is concerned. I like such places and this did not disappoint me. Set in a deep wedge of a valley, facing the wild Atlantic Ocean, Meat Cove has a fantastic sense of isolation. We checked in to our hostel, the Meat Cove Lodge, and again were not at all disappointed.

This quirky, charming wooden lodge, filled with character and an eclectic collection of memorabilia and country craft would make any hobbit feel at home – it certainly made these two hobbits from the southern hemisphere feel so. We had a good chat with our host, Catherine, a 5th generation Scot, as she fired up the wood stove. By then it was 2.30pm and the rain had stopped – it was time to get out and walk before the day disappeared.

The track took us by a beautiful little pondage, bordered by trees of scarlet and orange and then a bit later another larger body of water, aptly named Big Pond. The sun broke through to light it up as we passed, before hiding once again behind the clouds.

Just beyond Big Pond, we crossed French Brook to reach the edge of the escarpment, with views out over the lowland forest to the white-caps troubling the leaden waters of the Atlantic Ocean – there was a strong wind out there that we in the forest were well sheltered from.

The old cart track now descended steeply down the escarpment on a stony surface to resume its route through the lowland forest in the direction of the cape. The last section was quite smooth and grassy and led us out to the green grass-covered cliff-tops of the cape itself.

As soon as we were out of the tree cover, the wind hit – the fierce gusts of cold air making it difficult to stand and I had to prop firmly to take any photos near the cliff edge. However, the sun had broken out of its dark grey prison and the sea to the west gleamed silver beneath the line of low cliffs and their bright green carpet of grass. To the east, the cliffs were higher, reddish brown rocks dropping to a dark sea striped with wind-whipped waves. It was beautiful and the negative ion count must have been huge – refreshment for mind and body.

After taking in the views and fighting the force of the wind, the fair Nello and I took shelter behind the low ruined walls of some old light-house building, having a snack and listening to the wind rattling the metal frame of the new solar-powered lighthouse. Time was pushing on and, if we were to be back by dark, we would have to leave. It was a pity that we didn't have time for our original plan to continue up the coast to return via the inland route, but rain, wind and moose-hunters had put paid to that.

We backtracked along our outward route, still as pleasant as before, but with the increasingly strong wind now rushing through the tree-tops above us. Reaching the ponds, we met up with some more moose hunters, this time dressed in camouflage gear (run, moose, run!). Actually, the fair Nello met them first and warned them that I was coming up the track behind and that I was not a moose (both were true).