Motorhome News from North America 19

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Motorhome News from North America 19 29th July - 9th August 2006
In search of Puffins and Remote Corners of Newfoundland

It seems ages since we left PEI; across the long bridge in bright morning sunlight, out through the narrow edge of New Brunswick and into Nova Scotia, stopping briefly in Oxford, to check out the ‘wild blueberry’ capital of Canada and sample just a small slice of their rather special pie at the visitor centre.

Nova Scotia, ‘New Scotland’ by any other Latin name, carries the flag of St Andrews; a blue cross on a white background - with a gold lion in the centre. It is easy to guess why. Driving the road southwards across the centre the ground rises to glacially-rounded sweeping hills, forested from high horizons down to the sea, so reminiscent of much of Scotland. Perhaps that was the basis for James I’s decision to grant land rights to Scottish noblemen, and the change of name from the French, ‘New France’ to Nova Scotia. For the moment, we were passing through, via Halifax along the southern shoreline, into Cape Breton and up to the ferry terminal at North Sydney, for our 6am departure to Newfoundland in a couple of days. We’re hoping to be there before the puffins leave with their young to winter on the open sea.

Renewing our Arizona motor tax, due on the 31st July, has been a somewhat traumatic experience. Though paid for via the internet in early June, instructions for forwarding to Tom in Ontario have so far failed on two occasions. Our last chance was a contact address in Halifax, Nova Scotia, where Tom’s sister Anne lives with her husband, Don, on the edge of parkland to the north of town. We were invited to dinner. Janice navigated us to Anne’s in the early evening through the maze of traffic and highway junctions surrounding Halifax. Much to our relief, the new licence stickers had arrived. We’re now legal to July 2007, though we’ll doubtless be home before then. Travelling as we do, the pleasure of company, of new friends and lively conversation is immense. Dinner was rather a special event too, prepared by son and super-chef, Gregory, in our honour. We came away replete and smiling - with a selection of videos for our onboard TV/Video player and a fistful of interesting books to read on a rainy day.

A brief sojourn into town revealed a mature port of some stature, many early timbered houses in classical colours on leafy streets with grassy verges - and a free downtown bus called Fred. The town was the gateway to Canada for many immigrants. A million people arrived here at Pier 21 between 1928 and 1971 when it finally closed. Today, it’s a historic site, a reminder to all Canadians that their young nation is founded on positive hopes and willing hands of all colours and creeds. Immigrants arrived here from Great Britain and France seeking a new life, from Eastern Europe fleeing ahead of the Soviet Army, some from religious persecution, and many from across the world travelled in anticipation of opportunity and freedom. 1,000 evacuee children came to avoid London’s bombing and, after 1945, War brides came, some with their children, to join their husbands. Today, like Britain, this country is entering an era of nervous tension, awaiting the consequences of more recent immigration policies and multicultural stresses.

Halifax seemed to us to be the ideal place to organise the spare parts for our toilet. As you might recall, the foot-pedal broke a while back and we strapped it up temporarily with good old Duct Tape. The cables are not a stock item and will have to be ordered from a dealer, but we’ll pass this way again on our way back from Newfoundland by which time the spares may have arrived from the manufacturers. Fraserway RV was our first choice, directly on our route, but the guy in their spares department was not prepared to get off his butt to check out what the problem was and the service manager said ‘it wasn’t his job to order parts’. They’re obviously too interested in hiring motorhomes to German tourists to be interested in a couple of Brits like us with a toilet problem, so we’ll do the thing all normal people do when they get bad service, and tell all our friends. I don’t know about you, but nothing winds me up more than poor customer care. A few miles along the road we went to see Dave Billard at Adventure Sports RV Centre in Dartmouth. He fell over backwards to help us and we’ll be back there in a few weeks to have the work done. Don’t let us down, Dave!

We shall return to Nova Scotia in a month or so, but first we must set sail across the short stretch of Atlantic to the northeast, for there lies Newfoundland. Through the mist of dreams we could hear the call of barren landscapes, sheltered bays and windswept trees, wild remote moorland, angry clouds over secluded beaches, fiddle players - and that special ingredient, island people. In recent weeks we have read much of the history of Newfoundland, telling us of its foundations, politics and character. It’s a long ferry ride, 14 hours, and we plan to be there for the whole of August. Let’s hope that’s time enough for all of those dreams to come true.
Our boat was due to depart at 6am from North Sydney Harbour, a long drive along the easterly coast through Cape Breton on the most awful roads imaginable, patched, potholed and rolling, sending Winnie reeling along as though riding a camel over a field of marbles. The Ferry Company agreed to let us book in that night at 11.30pm and stay on the dockside ready for loading at 5am. Our alarm was set for 4.30 to give us time for a little sleep and a shower before loading, but it proved unnecessary. A car alarm went off in the middle of the night nearby and then forty snorting Harley Davidsons arrived with the almighty roar of forty lions at 4am on their way home to Newfoundland after a HOG Rally. It would be a day or two before we completely recovered! Needless to say, the ferry left two hours late and we eventually arrived in Argentia at 10.30pm. Too late to start looking for campsites, we stayed in the car park of the Tourist Office overnight with one or two others of like mind.

Before heading to St John’s, the island’s capital on the eastern seaboard, we drove south to Cape St Mary’s where a huge colony of gannets nests on the headland. Offshore, looking out beyond the stunted trees bearing hard against the prevailing wind, small rocky islands the shape of upturned suet puddings erupted from the sparkling sea, a perfect introduction to Newfoundland, a prelude to our symphony of dreams. Cape St Mary’s didn’t disappoint either. Paul, a young researcher, responded enthusiastically to Janice’s chat up line: “Are there any Thick-billed murres here?” He took us out to see the gannets, the black legged kittiwakes, razorbills, common murres (our guillemots) and found us just six thick-billed murres, sharing the nest site on the cliff-edge. A red-necked phalarope turned up on a tiny pond which excited him as much as us. Janice spotted a young bald eagle flying purposefully overhead, sending tens of thousands of murres out to sea in a great cloud of black and white specks as it swept recklessly into the cliff-face. The eagle took a young kittiwake from its nest on the cliff-face and flew off on leaden wings for a hearty lunch of feathers and bones. Here, at the very end of the peninsula, the euphorically remote mossy barrens and peatland bogs are constantly swept by the cool offshore winds from the northeast and heavy fog that arrives unannounced and uninvited. It is generally a few degrees cooler here than on the mainland and it rains on and off, and on and off, and on and off, as it does on Faroe, Shetland, Orkney and Skye we’ve found!

It was bright enough by the time we arrived in St John’s. The old town has the most glorious collection of joined-up three storey clapboard houses in a vast array of colours, dusted with age, the like of which we last saw in Co Kerry, Ireland, many years ago. Intricate porches with balustrades and stairways adorn the terraces on steep hills rising from the Port and the telephone and electricity cables form a web of tangled knitting wool in the sky. The timbered town has burned down a number of times in its short history, but the bustling main street set back from the harbour has the feel of a town much older, with rustic shops in long rows of faded paintwork and 50’s shop-fronts, swinging with Irish pubs, trendy restaurants, and ‘gifty’ shops with a true local flavour.

Early settlers here in the Avalon Peninsula were often under threat, either the British from the French or the French from the British depending on who had won the last skirmish. The British sought to protect the sheltered harbour with a marine lookout at its entrance. This spot is known as Signal Hill and it was here that the French were routed by the British in 1762. They re-enact some of the British military tactics from the 1800’s on the headland during the summer months in full regalia, muskets, mortars and canon blaring to the music of the Regimental Fife and Drum Band. Great fun, eh? Signal Hill, as you will doubtless already know, is the point where dear old Marconi sent the first Trans Atlantic signal back in 1901. We've come a long way since then.

The rocky shoreline and narrow channels make this coast amongst the most treacherous in the world and hundreds of white lighthouses dot the cliff-tops. Cape Spear Lighthouse, to the south of St John’s, marks the most westerly spot on the North American coast and the important entry to St John’s harbour. Now a historic monument, the original house is still there, furnished as it would have been in the 1820’s. Charles and Di (remember them?) came here in 1986, beating us by 20 years. Looking out to sea, it was hard to believe we were only 2,320miles from home! Did you see us wave? This landmark brings us full stretch across Canada, from west to east, from the Pacific shores of Vancouver Island to the Atlantic beaches of Newfoundland. The time has come to turn our backs on the Atlantic and head across this huge island to reach our ferry back to the mainland at Port-aux-Basques in the southwest corner in around three weeks.

Now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for. We had not seen a puffin since Nordkapp, way up above the Arctic Circle in Norway in July last year and Janice was getting withdrawal symptoms. There is a nesting site off the Newfoundland coast at Witless Bay where for a few shillings it’s possible to bribe a local boatman to take you out to the islands aboard the bobbing Molly Bawn. The puffins were still there, standing atop the cliffs looking out to sea with their heads held high like butlers announcing dinner. Now, at last, Janice will sleep at night.

It’s rather rare for us to arrive anywhere at the same time as they hold their festival, but this time we did get it right. This week was ‘The Newfoundland and Labrador 30th Folk Festival’ and we intended to get our share of the action. It stayed dry for our walk into town, but it rained throughout the performance on Saturday keeping the crowds away, but leaving a few brave souls (including us) to enjoy the fabulous music from under umbrellas or sheltering in the marquee. It was sufficiently good for us to return on Sunday for the evening performance. There’s a touch of Irish to much of the music; the lilt, the fiddle of course - and the dialect of the local Baymen, a rich mixture of Irish and Olde English, for many of the remote villages were settled by immigrants from the Emerald Isle and remained all but totally isolated until late last century. I so wish my sister Audrey, and her husband, George (himself a folk singer of some renown) could have been there to share it with us. The crowd was entertained well into the night with jigs, reels and story telling, great solo artists, step dancing and lilting. The Cavan Crowd were flown in from Ireland for the event - a lively lot to say the least! The star of the show, honoured by a standing ovation, was spellbinding storyteller and singer David Francey with his brilliant accompanist, Terry Tufts. Three thousand people stood at 11 o’clock for the grand finale and sang together, The Ode to Labrador, and The Ode to Newfoundland, in a wonderful display of patriotism. Hands up all of you out there in Britain who can sing the first chorus of ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ and I’ll count ‘em….. okay, I’ll give you another chance then; the first verse of ‘God Save The Queen’. “You count them that side, Janice.” I guess I knew the end was nigh when they stopped playing ‘The Queen’ at the end of cinema performances and we no longer sang ‘Hearts of Oak’ or ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ at school.


Many things represent good value here and indeed throughout most of Canada. Camping in St John’s cost us $90 (£45) for the five nights, about the cost of one night’s B & B, more than justifying our chosen means of travel. Entry to the Folk Festival was $6 for me, a qualified ‘senior’, but it was double that for Janice the junior! Teas and coffees cost around $1.25 (60p) and a good lunch of cod chowder and blueberry crisp can be had for $9.95 (less than a fiver), including coffee.

Heart’s Desire, Heart’s Delight and Heart’s Content are three little villages to the north of the Avalon Peninsula, all busy fishing harbours in their day. We could not resist the temptation to visit, particularly on the day before our Wedding Anniversary! There are few boats in the harbours these days; fishing quotas have made life tough for the local fishermen and earlier forms of employment have faded with time and technology. In 1886 the first Trans-Atlantic communications cable was laid, stretching from Valentia in Ireland to Heart’s Content - just a few years before Marconi had his great day and made the venture redundant. Change will never change will it? Technology is out of date before it’s invented. The cable company didn’t like Marconi's idea too much and created a bit of a fuss - so he packed his bag of tricks and headed off to Maine in the US in a huff to build his receivers there.
And so we came to Trinity East, its sheltered harbour a sparkling gem on the southern edge of the Bonavista Peninsula. The inspired people of Trinity have created a summer haven for residents and visitors with every standing building finely restored and in use. The town is a shadow of its former self with perhaps 200 well-preserved homes here, scattered wherever there’s a piece of flat ground - and a few newer ones built in traditional style at the insistance of the Historic Society, as summer homes for wealthy New Englanders. It had not previously occurred to us that wooden houses have a limited life, but once there were a thousand homes and business premises here. There is no sign of those lost; long deserted, their timbers rotted back to the rock where rough grass now grows, in less than 100 years. With the cod long gone and the crabs fast going the same way, the town’s youngster have also left to seek their fortunes on the mainland. There are few young children to be seen - or heard, in the villages anymore. Hungry for more music, we joined other visitors for an evening of storytelling and fiddling in the redundant but beautifully restored Catholic Church (there’s only one Catholic family left in the community). The performer, Kelly Russell, had played at the Festival in St John’s. We missed him there.

With rain forecast for the next few days it’s time perhaps to give a few hours to the mundane chore of completing my UK tax return before we head northwest to Bonavista, the town where Giovanni Caboto (aka. John Cabot) landed so many years ago, claiming this island for England and Henry VII, his sponsor.

We'll see you there,

David and Janice. The grey-haired-nomads

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Photos

Lovely Blueberries in Oxford
Truly scrumptious!

Roaring Harleys
At 4am on the dock!

Argentia
Suet puddings all at sea

Cape St Mary
Thousands of glorious Gannets off the cliffs

St John's
Coloured houses on the hill

Signal Hill, St John's
Ready - Aim- Fire!

Signal Hill
Are you receiving me, Mother? This is your son, Marconi!

Newfoundland and Labrador Folk Festival
The Cavan Crowd

Newfoundland and Labrador Folk Festival
The Grand Finale

Folk in the Catholic Church
Kelley Russell - a fine entertainer