Motorhome News from North America 20

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Motorhome News from North America 20. 10th August - 20th August 2006

NewfoundLAND - as it is properly pronounced here.

John Cabot had been at sea for five weeks, his brave crew expecting to fall off the edge of the earth at any moment, when the shout came from the crow’s nest, “Land ahoy!” Cabot rubbed his weary eyes in disbelief and raised his eyeglass. “O buena vista!” (Oh beautiful sight!) he cried. The name, Cape Bonavista, has stuck since that historic day in 1497.

Cabot’s boat, the 19 metre Matthew, was built in Bristol. He sailed across the Atlantic into the harbour at Bonavista in five weeks, claiming the land and the surrounding sea ‘so full of fish you can pull it up in barrels’, for Britain. A full size replica of the Matthew, also built in Bristol, sailed across the Atlantic in 1997 to celebrate the 500th anniversary of Cabot’s arrival on these shores. Henry VII funded the expedition back then in the hope of establishing a direct route to the east for valuable spices and silks. Queen Elizabeth II went one better when she actually came here to join in the celebrations in 1997, but I guess she flew. The locals on this new-founde-lande built a further full size replica of the caravel Matthew in Bonavista in ’97 to commemorate the event. That one is now moored on the quay and we wandered down to the dock for a quick tour. Our guide, a teacher, or ‘educator’ as he liked to be known, told us he had bought a boat when he retired two years ago to carry tourists across the bay on iceberg-watching trips. That year the icebergs passed the coast in big numbers between May and September. Last year, there were few to be seen within the inshore waters for most of the season - and the boat had to be sold. It’s the same story this year they tell us; the icebergs have passed way out in the Atlantic, but nobody has thought to take the iceberg brochures off the shelves and trips are still advertised. So much for the impact of global warming. The boat owners must be feeling the pinch - and the visitors sick as pigs, having arrived expecting to watch a re-enactment of the sinking of the Titanic at the very least. Luckily, there are still plenty of whales.

We had heard many strange tales of the generosity of the island people. You probably won’t know Bill Pritchard, but I was photographing the prettily painted wheelbarrow in his front garden when he leapt up from his perch behind the curtains and nabbed me before I could escape. “I made that, and the other one over there,” he told us with a proud smile. “And those bird boxes in the trees.” Bill had worked in the stores at Gander Airport for KLM and Sabena before moving to Goose Bay in Labrador to do the same job for the US Air Force. He still lives just across the water in Labrador, but comes back to this, his ‘real’ home in Brigus each summer to paint it. He waved his hand in a welcoming gesture. “Come on in for coffee,” he said. What a lovely gentleman. On any other occasion we would surely have accepted, but we had lunch of cod chowder and partridgeberry pie at the local café on our minds and the midday clock was ticking away! Many houses have animals, figures or other ornaments in their gardens in this area. They’re easier to maintain than flowers in these island conditions.

The population of Newfoundland was 620,000 when they last counted; that’s around 2 people per square mile. Our population in Great Britain is 100 times that, and believe it or not, Newfoundland is larger by far than Great Britain, around 320 miles square. Once upon a time, there were others on the island. The Beothuk aborigine Indians were hunting and fishing as seasons came and went, long before the Europeans arrived. It was the Beothuk people who painted their bodies with red ochre and became known as ‘Red Indians’. For that, at least, they shall be remembered. However, sickness and persecution at the hands of the new settlers wrote the final chapter of their existence when the last one died of tuberculosis in 1829. By the grace of God, Adolph Hitler was less successful. We may shed few tears for the demise of the Beothuks, but we mourn the passing of the Dodo and the Great Auk.

Newfoundland’s main artery, the TransCanada Highway, reaches from the ‘short’ ferry port of Port aux Basque in the southwest way out to St John’s on the Atlantic coast. It meanders 560miles across the tree-covered landscape, stretching its fingers to the very fringes of long peninsulas like spilled ink on a polished desk. Newfoundland is known to many as, ‘The Rock’- for a rock it is, with but a thin layer of peat or soil to support the stunted black spruce and fir that covers much of the land. There is little sign of agriculture here, a few sheep and cattle, a meadow or a small field of corn. But their heart is not in it and the land unfriendly. There is so little soil the homes have no gardens, mere patches of unkempt grass. But there are tiny fenced patches of vegetables (mostly potatoes) in remote places beside the road where a foot or two of soil has collected and been nurtured over the generations. The power and telegraph poles stand upright along the roadside supported by wooden boxes filled with rocks and Churches vie for the highest piece of land with a patch of soil on which to plant a few bodies and crosses.

Joseph Roberts Smallwood was born in Gambo, a small town on the broad river that bears its name, in 1900. He came to be Premier of Newfoundland and Labrador and led his Nation into Confederation with Canada in 1949. Premier for 22 years, Smallwood will be remembered for his many successes as much as his seemingly numerous questionable errors. Loved by many and criticised by some who still believe that Confederation with Canada was not the best option, the mere mention of his name raises eyebrows and smiles alike. But the island could never really have survived for long on its own. The decline of the staple industry, cod fishing, and a slowly ageing population could not hope to fund the basic needs of education, health, security and infrastructure from such a small labour force, though oil and mineral resources they extract from the rocky earth today might go some way to help. The railway died back in the ‘60’s and the roads are appallingly badly maintained - though there were none at all to speak of as recently as 1950. Despondency in the dying fishing communities and the daily erosion of youth moving to the towns and far off lands for work has left the island’s coastal string of contented communities in need of strong leadership and a fresh spirit of enterprise sufficient to generate new and worthwhile industry. Who knows where this spectacular province would have been without Joe Smallwood? It might just have been worse.

Fishing ‘flakes’, flat platforms for drying cod, stand eight feet from the ground on wooden poles as epitaphs to lost livelihoods, all but redundant now, dried cod a thing of the past here. There were one or two flakes at English Harbour beside the last of the fishing huts on the shore. An elderly man was bringing his boat ashore on a line secured to a rusting winch when we arrived early one damp morning. It was a somewhat depressing sight, a few decrepit huts and a pile of crab nets and lobster pots amongst a knotted tangle of ropes. The white-capped waves were grey and oppressive under a sheet of black clouds sweeping by on the stiff fresh breeze. “In the 1950’s the beach was crowded with fishing huts - now just one man fishes out of English Harbour, but it’s hard to say if he makes a living,” the old man told us as he lit up his cigarette in cupped hands against the wind. He retired from the Coastguard Service a few years back, but still lives for the sea. “I’m allowed to catch just five fish each day for every person in my boat now,” he said. It has taken man 500 years to realise the sea is not a bottomless pit.

We walked along the shore nearby at low tide, through windblown grasses bearing to the lea, bright red bunchberries on a carpet of green beneath stunted fir, a few white clouds etched on a deep blue sky and strands of golden seaweed on wave-washed rocks - the forlorn locks of mermaids past. The northerly coast is sculpted with long narrow fjords and flooded marshes, rugged rocky shores and shallow cliffs.
Bakeapple berries grow here on boggy ground, those luscious orange raspberry shaped fruits picked ripe for preserves. Strange as it may seem, these berries are only found here and in Norway, where they’re called cloudberries. Now, how did that come about? We can find the plants here, but search as we might, we have not found any berries. We’re either too early or too late for them, depending on whom you talk to! I’ll see if we can find you a picture for you from Norway where we feasted free on cloudberries for many a day.

Caribou can also be seen here as in Norway, though they roam freely here and are not herded. They say there are as many as 150,000 moose roaming about on Newfoundland. One enormous beast the size of a horse, more than six feet at the shoulder, stepped nonchalantly out of the trees into the road in front of us when Janice was driving. With a cry of “Oh, dear!” (or something similar) she slammed on the brakes. My first thought was that they would have to do a moose recount - ‘149,999 as of today, Friday 18th August 2006’. Fortunately for us - and Mr Moose, we missed. If you have ever driven a motorhome, you will have some idea of the consequences of emergency braking. Before we could say ‘boo to the moose’, the doors under the sink at the back flew open and the trash bin arrived, upturned, between the front seats - followed in close pursuit by tins of soup, washing-up liquid, maple syrup, the vacuum cleaner and a plastic box full of groceries!

Black bears are to be found on Newfoundland but we have not sighted them yet. Polar bears have been known to show up over the winter, crossing the ice from Labrador in search of seals. As you know, we have our own bears on board: Todd, the brown bear, and Sue, his blonde floozie. We photograph them occasionally in remote outposts with the intention of relating Todd’s travels around the continent to Janice’s old school. Well, I have to tell you, we have been outdone - but I think you will appreciate the humour of this. Ron and Dixie-Lee, (you might recall we met them in New Brunswick) have with them a garden gnome. Yes, a garden gnome. It’s not really theirs; it belongs to their neighbours - they stole it before they left B.C and they too photograph him in strange places. They plan to show their neighbours the photos when they get back!

There is a TV programme here called Coronation Street. You might have heard of it. We don’t watch television, but by all accounts it’s pretty popular across Canada, particularly amongst the ladies. For the life of me, I can’t imagine why. There are many things to remind us of home; Weetabix, Maxwell House, I can’t believe it’s not Butter, Campbell’s soup, PG Tips and Quaker Oats. There are towns called St Alban’s, Dover, Maidstone and Sandringham (and others with delightful names, like, Come by Chance, Blow Me Down, Snakes Bight, Bald Head, Paradise, Hibbs Cove, Jerrys Nose, Tickle Harbour, Ha Ha Bay and Strawberry Marsh). Then there’s the portrait of The Queen (at age 35 in a pretty frock) on the back wall of the Post Office.

Have you ever heard of Gander? No? Then you’re probably not old enough. There’s an airport at Gander. Built just before the Second World War, it provided a much-needed bridge across the Atlantic for military aircraft. A US Air Force base, RAF Transport Command flew from here during the war when it became an important supply route. The Americans had Constellations, Stratocruisers, B24’s and B29’s here amongst others. (We had two B29’s on my squadron at RAF Watton in the 1950’s!) In my years in the aircraft industry, many major airlines stopped over here to refuel en route from Europe to The States. You might remember also that Allcock and Brown were the first to cross the Atlantic non-stop in 1919, flying from St John’s, Newfoundland, to Ireland where they crash-landed in a bog. The museum was rather dated and Janice was bored out of her mind, but I loved it - boy’s toys and all that.
Further west, we ventured to Twillingate, ‘The ‘Iceberg Capital of the World’ (though not this year - or last, but don’t tell the tourists!), with its winding streets, white painted houses planted higgledy-piggledy and fisherman’s huts rising from the water on wooden stilts - hanging precariously over the rising tide on fragile jetties. This picturesque town provided wonderful walking to viewpoints on the peninsulas at either end of the bay, a warm breeze off the sea sweeping fluffy clouds across the summer sky. There’s a touch of West Country in the English accent in Twillingate. “We’re all of English stock here,” Ross, the campground owner told us. He called across the office. “Where are us Anstey’s from, Bert?” Many settlers came here from the southwest of England, their dialect today reflecting hundreds of years of isolation without roads.

A long index finger of land points northwards along the Gulf of St Lawrence, its backbone, the Long Range Mountains stretching to the top of the Peninsula through 200 miles of wild inaccessible country 40 miles across with one long road on its western edge. To break the long journey, we camped at Port au Choix, set on an exposed headland sticking out into the Gulf; a landscape of limestone buffeted on all sides by stiff winds. Our walk there was spectacular for its diversity, from the bland grey rock and tiny plants on the windward edges, to lush green vegetation; mosses and ferns on damp rocky crevices, bright with leaves of maple and lichen encrusted black spruce.

At Burnt Cape, they laid on a spectacular guided tour of the Ecological Reserve on the lunar limestone headland right at the north of the island. It’s only when we join an expert botanist that we realise how little we know about the subject and how much we miss whilst out walking as a result. There were so many very rare plants and unusual trees there, all hiding their heads from the fierce winter winds in shallow frost depressions: prostrate trees two hundred years old hug the ground, harebells grow to but an inch high, fairy slipper and small round-leaf orchids flourish against the odds, Burnt Cape cinquefoil glows bright yellow, and dwarf Hawk’s beard and Fernald’s braya flower for a few brief days each summer. This is known as ‘flatbelly land’ where the world’s keenest botanists lay their prayer mats - along with some photographers. {Excuse me a moment. “Janice! There’s a huge moose tramping its way across the tundra bog straight at our motorhome.”} Okay, it’s gone - our neighbours in the tent are screaming their heads off! Now, where was I? Oh yes, walking. There is so much to see here, so many places to go, so much history - and so much of it new to us. The coast of Labrador can be seen from there, a few miles across the St Lawrence and the Strait of Belle Isle, but we saw little purpose in travelling the ferry to a land with few surfaced roads and no form of transport if we left Winnie on the dock.

Here, on this northern tip of Newfoundland, the weekly washing clings frantically to stout lines, flapping horizontally in a vain attempt to escape to another land, whilst singing out the ubiquitous coastguard signal - GALE Force Winds! It was strong winds that blew the Vikings here all the way from Greenland 1,000 years ago. Leif Eriksson, (the son of Erik the Red) is thought to have brought a Viking expedition from Greenland to L’Anse aux Meadows, the first known Viking Site in North America, where they settled for several years. We followed the Vikings on our journey from Norway a year ago; across to Shetland and Faroe and were aware of the written record of the Icelandic sagas. It was these sagas that provided the first indications of Vikings in this area. The pieces all fall into place as we travel - and learn. Some days we’re learned out! If we get much more of this, I shall need a bigger head to store all the information.

The island highlight for many is Gros Morne National Park on the west coast, its mountains and fjords a welcome sight to us lovers of high places. We’ll be there sometime tomorrow after the long drive south, to learn a little, or perhaps a lot, about geology.



David and Janice. The grey-haired-nomads

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Photos

The Matthew
The local replica of John Cabot's ship

Garden ornaments
Yes, they're really models!

The Vegetable Garden
A fertile plot beside the road

Joe Smallwood
A monument to the 'Father of Confederation'

Bonavista
Fishing 'flakes' for drying cod

Bakeapples
Known as cloudberries in Norway

Todd and his floosie Sue
Clearly enjoying themselves in Newfoundland

The Aircraft Museum at Gander
A 1938 Lockheed Hudson MkII
'Chocks Away!'

Twillingate Harbour
A lovely spot

Botany at Burnt Cape
Janice with our guide, Elizabeth, Sally and Larry

Burnt Cape
A 200 year-old tree, less than an inch from the ground and two feet from trunk to top

Burnt Cape
Limestone cliffs

Labrador
A few miles across the Strait of Belle Isle

Coast Guard's warning
Gale!

L'Anse aux Meadows
The Vikings are coming!