PORT JOLI, Nova Scotia  I AM at the world’s edge. Or so it seems as I stand tall on a cliff overlooking the Kejimkujik seaside on the southernmost shore of Nova Scotia. Mottled charcoal-and-white harbor seals are draped over prehistoric granite boulders, their bodies pummeled by breaking waves. The beach below, an expanse of sand and rock, dissolves into a bay of froth and shimmering blue. The wind swallows my breath as fast as I exhale.  Most of the tourists who prowl the jagged coastline in summer have gone. And when they go, the area’s natural rhythm returns. Locals are more relaxed. Animals frolic uninterrupted. And there is a final burst of color, as maples change to orange, red and yellow.  Unlike showier cousins on Cape Breton or Prince Edward Island, Nova Scotia’s southern beaches are enveloped in a workmen’s fog of fishing boats and lobster traps. Lusty pirates once patrolled this stretch, from Halifax to Yarmouth, which also harbored British loyalists after the American Revolution. During Prohibition fishermen turned rumrunners piloted boats headed to New York laden with contraband spirits.  But the towns that brighten the coast are as singular as the sand-polished stones that wash ashore with the waves. They vary from Lunenburg, with its whimsically painted homes and shops along the wharf, to the stark solitude of Cape Sable Island.  While it is tempting to travel by car, I decided to explore the area’s beaches and villages on foot.  My first hike was along Hirtle’s Beach to Gaff Point, a five-mile trek that hugged the fractured cliffs not far from Kingsburg, a small town settled by Germans in the mid-1700s. British colonists had encouraged sympathetic European settlers to move to the southern shore as part of an effort to drive out French Acadians who had lived there since the 1600s. That effort, known as the Great Expulsion, rid the British of a French political rival; at the same time the settlers gave the British a base of support, as new immigrants fished and settled towns.  Hirtle’s Beach is strictly for locals. Two-story homes built on the bluffs stand sentry over white sands scattered with huge rocks and broken shells.  After a mile walk down the beach, a trail led up to a wooded forest. Weather-worn pine trees loomed tall; the ground was covered in velvety moss and broad-leaf ferns. Hiking here is not for shufflers, as bulging tree roots lay in wait. Past the forest a dirt path along the cliff’s edge leads to a slippery outgrowth of shale and slate buckled from centuries of crashing waves.  Visits to small towns were a counterpoint to my morning hikes. Peggy’s Cove is a small fishing community perched on a barren, granite shelf formed 380 million years ago. There, car-size boulders balance like giant marbles in an empty field, the glow of the cove’s famous lighthouse warning sailors to steer clear. The mood was festive when I arrived. A musician played a bagpipe for coins. Strangers cheered after a groom kissed his bride at a wedding overlooking St. Margaret’s Bay.  Every town here has an interesting back story. (And haddock. Lots of haddock.) Shelburne was settled in 1783 by 10,000 British loyalists who fled America after the Revolution. During Prohibition some of the area’s fishermen became privateers and rumrunners, a more lucrative pursuit than trapping lobster. It was dangerous business, as pirates also trolled the shores. A shopkeeper told me that captured pirates used to be strapped to wooden posts, their bodies picked over by birds.  Today the settlers’ descendants heartily embrace their roots. British flags wave from the city’s streetlamps. (They are almost as ubiquitous as the colorful lines of hanging laundry.) Buildings along the wharf have been painstakingly restored, so much so that a crew was there to film a mini-series based on “Moby-Dick.”  Shelburne was a fierce boat-building rival of nearby Lunenburg, the shore’s crown jewel. Established in 1753, Lunenburg is a well-preserved example of how a British colonial settlement was organized. Bright clapboard buildings crowd the streets of the harbor area, where tourists line up to take cruises and fishing expeditions. There are scores of inns, a thriving art community and restaurants offering elegant fare.  In contrast Cape Sable Island  a two-hour drive southwest of Lunenburg  is remote and isolated. Fishing trumps tourism. Locals directed me to a popular hiking spot known as the Hawk. But I arrived two weeks after Hurricane Bill had passed, and the beach smelled of salt and rotten eggs and was cluttered with fish skeletons and rotting seaweed. That provided another lesson about hiking here: a storm can quickly ruin a trail.  I abandoned the walk and drove to Shag Harbour instead. There, at about 11 p.m. on Oct. 4, 1967, witnesses reported seeing a U.F.O. with flashing lights crash into the ocean and disappear, leaving a trail of yellow foam. To commemorate the sighting, a local group set up a U.F.O. museum. Housed in a sun-baked shack along the road, the museum is an assortment of historical records and other oddities. These include a tree stump shaped like an alien and an alien-theme collection of painted rocks inspired by the painter’s dreams.  Despite the weirdness of it all I was charmed by my guide’s guilelessness. She was thoughtful, even when I stumped her with a question about whether aliens were descendants of Adam and Eve.
The less-storied shore of Nova Scotia has a rocky coastline, fishing villages and colorful towns. (Ask about the U.F.O.)