NEW BRUNSWICK: Just past Maine, time slows down and the tides speed up.

Time and Tides

Three days later, back on the mainland, we are again marveling at the tide, but this time it's not booming so much as attacking us. We're at Hopewell Rocks, a state park about five hours up the coast from the Maine border. On the way up we had detoured through Saint John, New Brunswick's largest city -- an amiable, Old World city in the Annapolis mold -- and the vast maritime forests of Fundy National Park. But we're spending an entire day at Hopewell Cape, the epicenter of the world's highest tides.

When we arrived, these gravel flats were under a few billion tons of seawater. Kayakers had been paddling around the groves of oddly shaped pillars, towering stone mushrooms carved by eons of rushing tides. Now the kelp forests are all draped limply over the rocks and tourists pick their way between the pillars and over the exposed floor of the bay.

We're beginning to pick a little nervously, though, because the phenomenal Bay of Fundy tide has bottomed out, turned and is beginning its rapid climb back up, rising five stories in about six hours. Twice a day, the bay is flushed by the most powerful tides on the planet, rushing in and out at the rate of 25 million cubic meters per second, equivalent to the combined flow of all the rivers in the world, according to the breathless promotional brochures. At spots around the bay, the tidal bores and riptides are so strong you can ride them in motorized rafts like whitewater rapids. It's common, every 12 hours, to see whole fishing fleets stranded in the mud as the water retreats hundreds of yards away from the shore.

Now it's on the way back, and we scamper over the rocks and through the tidal caves with a little more urgency as the bay reclaims yard after yard of bottom. We climb up into the woods and turn to watch the tide's twice-daily rout of the lowlands. The flood complete, we head back to a lobster dinner at the Florentine Manor, a restored country inn set among the bayside farms.

Canadians by Choice

Our final stop takes us back to our earliest New Brunswick era: St. Andrews, a coastal village originally founded by British loyalists fleeing the American Revolution. In 1783, when colonists faithful to King George III realized the upstart Americans had actually carried off their rash rebellion, a few hundred of them from New England simply stepped across the St. Croix River and remained subjects of the crown.

In the centuries since, St. Andrews has evolved into a tri-cultural resort town. It's Canadian, of course, but with heavy English filigree -- portraits of the queen, Prince Charles and even Diana abound; streets are named for the children of George III. And finally, being just a dozen miles from Maine, it's the most American of Canadian villages. Bunched around a tight grid on Passamaquoddy Bay, St. Andrews is the doppelganger of many a quaint Yankee harbor town. Georgian, Federal and neoclassical homes sit on neat, broad lots between perfectly spaced streets. Some of the oldest frame houses along the waterfront -- now seafood restaurants, shops and galleries -- were actually disman- tled and moved here by barge from Maine during the unpleasantness of 1783.

This is four-star New Bruns-wick, a weekend and summer retreat of fine dining and upscale hotels in the way of Bar Harbor, Maine. It makes for a comfortable end to our Canadian week. We set up in the center of resort life, the venerable Algonquin Hotel, a sprawling Tudor behemoth stretching for blocks above the downtown. It's another time warp: The bellmen greet us in kilts, the infinite verandas are crowded with genteel folk in rocking chairs, and there is actually a wait for croquet on the front lawn.

Swimming in the chilly outdoor pool, touring the nearby historic houses and gardens, and lurking around the waterfront cafes and shops, it's easy to lose track of the hour. We find ourselves trotting down Edward Street in a mild panic that we'll miss our whale-watching cruise, the grand finale of our week. We're not wearing watches, but the spectacular steeple on the Greenock Church bears a clock.

According to that clock, it's nearly 8 on a bright sunny morning in the 21st century. But something about this town, and this province, suggests that it's much, much earlier.

Steve Hendrix will be online to discuss this story Monday at 2 p.m. during the Travel section's regular weekly chat on www.washingtonpost.com.

Details: New Brunswick

GETTING THERE: New Brunswick, Canada, is on Maine's northern border, about 900 miles from Washington. We drove, and took two nights to do it. (It was not only tolerable but fun, given our strategy of sightseeing along the way and stopping early at hotels with pools.) Air Canada flies from Dulles or BWI to Saint John, in the center of coastal New Brunswick, starting at about $285 round trip, via Montreal or Toronto. Proof of U.S. citizenship (passport or birth certificate) is required for travel to Canada.

GETTING AROUND: Tourism is largely concentrated along New Brunswick's eastern coast and the Bay of Fundy. Heading north from the Maine line, Highway 1 connects coastal villages, ferry connections to the Fundy islands, Saint John (the largest city), Fundy National Park and the maritime wonders of the upper bay near the Nova Scotia border. We started on Grand Manan Island, reachable by ferry from Blacks Harbour. There are up to four sailings a day in the spring, seven in the summer. Adult round-trip tickets are about $6.50, children $3, under 5 free; cars are $19. Details: 506-636-3922, www.coastaltran sport.ca.