There’s a Ship Lying Waiting in the Harbour……..

July 5 – 7, 2006

So long! Farewell! Goodbye Newfoundland – forever in our hearts.The ferry left right on time at 8am and we immediately adjusted our watches that silly half hour. Sunny when we left, the fog descended so we stayed inside most of the journey, snoozing and reading.

We were on the road by 1:30 wanting to make a bit of distance. It’s amazing what a difference two weeks makes when summer holidays start in the middle of it. The RV traffic had increased ten fold heading north as we aimed south. It reinforced that we made the right decision in timing. Not able to find a rest area or pullout for over a hundred miles, we finally pulled in to a trucking company lot with the intention of a little lunch and a rest. But Fernie was exhausted and I took a walk back through the gravel yard full of tractors and trailers, up to the work bays where I could see some workmen tinkering with truck tires.

It was very difficult for me to encroach on to such an area and I felt nervous and out of my realm but fought it and confidently said “Hi guys!” (I tossed up using Hi fellas – nah, too old-fashioned; or Hello gentlemen but that was ludicrous) They looked up at me blankly, dirty and sweaty in their big blue overalls and skullcaps.
“Do you think it would be ok if we parked our motorhome in your lot overnight?” I croaked.
The older of the two answered “Can’t say there’d be a problem, but we’d better ask the boss man”. He beckoned me to follow him through the shop and into the office where he called over the owner and said “The lady has a question for you”.
Once more I nervously choked out the request.
“Sure, why not. You can pull in anywhere you want but around the back of the building, you could even plug in to electricity”. I was overwhelmed and thanked him profusely, excited to tell Fernie that he didn’t have to move on. But Fernie wasn’t happy. He said it wasn’t’ safe with all the gravel and trucks in and out all night. They’d spin gravel up and chip Maggie. He appeared to have found some new energy because he said “We’re moving out of here”. I was a trifle aggravated to say the least.

I phoned the Walmart in Amherst, Nova Scotia near the New Brunswick border and they said it was ok to park overnight. It turned out to be a five star Walmart – large, level lot with grassy verges, trees and a herd of llama across the road.

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We’d picked up another chip in our windshield along the way, so the first order of the day was to get that fixed. Speedy Glass took us in right away and only charged $40. While it was being repaired, we looked around Amherst, a Victorian town with many heritage buildings and some of the most beautiful old mansions restored to their original beauty.

Fernie discovered that his gas cap was missing when we fuelled up. Déjà vu! That meant a stop at the local Ford dealer. They didn’t have the part in stock, but they called Moncton (40 miles down the road) and asked them to hold one for us. I was a bit ‘cranky’ that he’d left the cap behind and compounded things by dropping my Visa card at the gas pump – that’s what happens when you let your emotions loose. It was 24 hours later that I discovered it missing and luckily, a stranger picked it up and phoned Visa who immediately cancelled the card.

Hopewell Rocks, are tide eroded cliffs situated at the top end of the Bay of Fundy. Over time, they’ve been fashioned into strange shapes and when the tide is out you can ‘walk on the ocean floor’. It is eerie with the seaweed-encrusted rocks, the red mud of the tidal basin and the fairy story shapes of the towering rocks. It was low tide and I asked a young park ranger if we could walk the length of the beach and not have to retrace our steps. She said ‘It’s possible but there’s a piece in the middle with a lot of rocks. When you get past them it’s just beach until you reach another trail back up to the top. We’d left Caesar in the motorhome, which left us free to really explore the area. We ambled along, picking up stones and inspecting little crabs passing through rocks that were fashioned into tunnels.

When we started, there were hordes of people, but it got quieter further on. We reached the rocky area the ranger had mentioned and there was what looked like an impassable mass of boulders but we thought we’d try and get over them. There was a lot of huffing and puffing and hanging on as we clambered over the immense rocks and I got quite afraid that I’d never make it. We were surprised that nobody else was climbing over the boulders but figured we’d see a bunch of people the other side but we saw no one the remaining hike along the beach or along the long trail back up to the top. I guess not too many try it. Exhaustion set in half way up the hill and we were so relieved to get back to Maggie and Caesar.

The Walmart in St. John turned us down when I phoned them, so we headed for Fredericton – they said ‘Sure thing’. It wasn’t the best though because the lot was full of paving equipment and where they suggested we park was right beside the main road. It was extremely noisy overnight with trucks using their engine brakes all night long.

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We awoke to bedlam! The construction crew had started and it was noisy and dusty. We had intended on staying an extra night but Fernie found a notice on our windshield from the shopping centre management asking that we not stay overnight again – a direct contradiction from the Walmart staff. However, we were quite happy to vacate – it wasn’t up to our five star standards.

We mooched around Fredericton in the morning. It’s the capital of New Brunswick, a historical area, and there was seemingly no industry, which made for an attractive city. Then we tootled on down to St. John – an hour south on the Bay of Fundy. We parked Maggie in an abandoned gas station on the outskirts so we could have a look around in the Honda. It’s famous for the ‘Reversing Falls’ caused by the sudden high tide that swoops up the narrow channel but it’s now become a paying tourist attraction. When I was there in 1970, it was free and I was totally unimpressed. We stopped at a shady park in the centre of town and lounged and strolled around with Caesar who totally enjoyed meeting the local dogs in person or in scent. A statue of Samuel Champlain puzzled us – it was inscribed with the dates 1604 – 1904. He really lived to be an old chap!

This was it – the last day of our Cross Canada sojourn. Sixty-nine days packed with culture, history, geography, wildlife, family visits, bad weather and good weather. We were always stimulated and never bored. We found we could live together 24/7 in a small area without killing each other – actually seldom aggravating each other. We love our country more than ever before. In its vastness, Canada is still full of patriotism, bonding us from Newfoundland to British Columbia and almost all in between.

Hooterville!

July 4, 2006
Our boondocking pad in Stephenville was the best ever. We woke lazily to the pounding of the surf and the distant shrieking of the gulls on their early morning fishing foray. Caesar, in his new short fur coat, slept soundly – the night was much cooler too beside the ocean with the windows wide open.

It was Maggie maintenance day. Fernie lubes the jacks and slides every couple of weeks and today was the day. The fog of yesterday had diminished to a thin mist that the sun easily pierced through. While Fernie worked, Caesar and I went walking (well part walking and part my carrying him) along the shore. Small airplanes took off over our heads, circled and banked and roared out over the bay, like huge seabirds revelling in the freedom of flying.

We were in no hurry to leave Stephenville, as we couldn't line up until midnight for our 8am ferry the next day and Port aux Basques was only 100 miles south. The Port au Port Peninsula, due west of Stephenville is reached by the French Ancestors' Route. The further along the peninsula we got, the more French it became and when we reached Cap Ste. Georges, at the tip, it was 100% Francais. The golden rays of warm sunshine bathed us as we lounged around the cape. Miraculously, there was no wind. Red rock cliffs, crashing surf, swirling sea birds, azure pools, sun glinted ocean, whales spouting just offshore, the tuckamore (trees permanently windswept) on the cliff tops – all the ingredients to make us thrilled to be alive. Some may find the Caribbean islands or Hawaii to be their Utopia, but a day such as this in a place such as this and I've reached my Nirvana.

Leaving Cap Ste. George to circle the peninsula, the highway climbs high to the top of the tabletop mountain, glides along the plateau and then swoops down towards the north coast. A sudden panorama enfolded way down below, the ocean Kelly green, white sand beaches and towns scattered haphazardly along the coast, their white houses glowing in the sunshine.




All over Newfoundland, we'd noticed the predilection for making the plain – ornate. As if the terrain, the wildflowers, and the seascapes weren't beautiful enough, the village people decorated and gilded their yards with everything imaginable – way beyond the usual 'garden gnome décor'. There were:
· Tires sliced in half and filled with artificial flowers
· A row of wooden curly-haired girls with parasols, bonnets and baskets of flowers
· Little black boys in straw hat holding fishing poles
· Rows of flags
· Airplanes with spinning propellers and other whirligigs
· Animals of all kinds' some wooden, some wrought iron, some ceramic, some plush. In front of one home was a giant plush white polar bear held up with wires as if he soared over the scores of other little creatures below
· Waterfalls and ponds with wooden caricatures and more little fishing black boys – they were the favourite.
· Golden shiny lions with broad grins
· A score of wooden lighthouses from 6 inches to 20 feet tall
This bric-a-brac amused and entertained us as we toured Newfoundland but the award for the epitome of tacky décor has to go the folks in Mainland on the Port-au-Port Peninsula. A mass of white painted rocks structured into abstract lighthouses with some rocks painted scarlet, interspersed with truly abstract designs in the same colour scheme. It would probably glow in the dark because on a sunny day, it's blinding.

We did a double take when we noticed a huge new house overlooking the spectacular St. Georges Bay and it had 'NO' windows. We pondered whether they couldn't afford to add windows and if in the future they'd cut them out as they could afford them. I can't imagine living in a house without windows. Many of the houses had unaligned, mismatched windows – some square, some octagonal as if they put them in as the acquired them.

Most of the houses in Newfoundland are painted white other than the pastel row houses in St. John. So when a colourful house appears, it really stands out as did the stark black structure just around the corner; it had no trim to break up the black and it had antlers across the front of it – gloomy and ominous. I believe the windows were even painted black.

Arriving back in Stephenville, we decided to see if our Newfoundland amis, George and Madeline who had welcomed us two weeks previously, were at home. We wanted to say goodbye. Madeline squealed with delight and called out to George in the back yard "Go on back" she said to Fernie.
"Yuh came back?" George slapped Fernie on the shoulder "Yuh came back!" as if he couldn't believe it.
"I said I would" Fernie answered.
"Jeez, I gotta show you my strawberries – come on"
As I approached, he grabbed me in a huge bear hug "Now youse had a Newfoundland hug" and he picked me a big red juicy strawberry.
The two of them pranced gleefully around us like little elves, chattering away on top of each other.
"I gotta show you pictures of Stephenville years ago," said George dragging us into the house. It was a humble abode, floors slanting, and furniture old and shabby but it was a clean and happy environment. They proudly showed us photos on the walls of their parents, grandparents, children, grandchildren and of themselves as a young couple. Then they pulled out the albums to show us how their house, now across from the Walmart shopping centre in the middle of town, used to be surrounded by fields.
"Next time yuh come, I'm gonna take you and your rig up in the mountains behind Hooterville and I'm gonna show you how many mooses we have here" said George " I'll take my rig (pointing to his old motorhome) and we'll have a time".
We finally extricated ourselves knowing it was time to head down to Port aux Basques. I can still see their smiling faces, as they waved us off – still there as we rounded the corner.

Fernie was craving seafood ever since lunchtime so we looked for a fish café in Port aux Basques with no luck. However, while touring east along the south coast on Highway 470, we found "The Seashore Bar & Restaurant" in the little town of Margaree – population 610. An old-fashioned establishment with oilcloths on the tables, it was run by a young couple – husband the cook; wife the server. It was very busy – full of locals. Fernie said, "That's a good sign". I replied, "There isn't anywhere else to choose from".

The menu astounded us – prices from thirty years ago. The Tuesday special was two pieces of chicken and fries for $2.50. Beer by the bottle $2.75 so was a glass of wine or a liquor. Our dinner, fish of course, was delicious and we were persuaded to have rhubarb cobbler and ice cream for dessert. The bill including wine and beer and tax was $23.31. Fernie told them "You're not charging enough". I hope the locals didn't hear him.

We weren't permitted to park in the ferry terminal until the midnight boat left but we found a pull-off beside the road overlooking the ferry dock where we stayed in the interim, catching a couple of hours sleep there before transferring to the dock.

Oh Canada………Glorious and Free!

July 1-3, 2006
We hauled out our 6” Maple Leaf flag and stuck it in a cup holder. We’ve had a two-month introduction to so many facets of this fabulous country that we’re feeling more patriotic than ever before. Newfoundland has been the cherry on the top of the sundae – it’s a microcosm of Canadian society thirty years ago

Joey Smallwood, the first premier of Newfoundland who stayed in office from their entry into Confederation in 1949 until 1972 was born in the little town of Gambo just east of Gander. He’s still remembered and there’s a lookout on the highway not far from town called ‘Joey’s Lookout’. A Newfoundland couple that we met along the way, Doug and Mary referred to him with scorn as a charismatic little Hitler.

Gander, a town where our son David was stranded at fourteen years old in1981 (or was it Goose Bay, Labrador?) was developed around the English air base built in the 1930’s. The airport was subsequently used as a refuelling stop for trans-Atlantic flights. This site was chosen because the area gets very little fog. It’s a quiet town with a brand new Walmart that has a freshly paved parking lot, new grass and trees and was closed on Canada Day, so we had it all to ourselves. What more could we want? A wifi signal only a quarter block away was just what I needed to catch up banking and other business. Unfortunately, the town Laundromat was closed – it would have been the perfect time to do the wash.

You’re probably wondering why a 14 year old would be stranded alone in Gander. He was joining his uncle, a seabird biologist with the Canada Wildlife Service on a two-month scientific expedition using Zodiacs to navigate the Labrador coast to Cape Chidley at the top end. His uncle was delayed and David had to stay in barracks for several days waiting for him. Forlorn and lonely, he was also ill with a touch of what might have been food poisoning. I just found out that it wasn’t Gander; it was Goose Bay. So this story is irrelevant.

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Sunday morning on a long weekend and the roads were very quiet. The weather was cooperative as we slid out of Gander but about twenty miles west we encountered a dark ominous sky laying dead ahead. It was like a dark curtain coming down on us as we approached the gloom. Sudden jagged lightning, driving sheets of rain propelled by hurricane force gales his us harshly from the side. Visibility was about zero, so Fernie slowed to about 20mph and fought to keep Maggie on the road. It was really frightening but about five minutes later it was all over. We were shaken at the intensity and so thankful that we could see a patch of blue sky ahead.

An otherwise uneventful journey took us to Corner Brook where we happily found a Laundromat. The Walmart accommodated several RV’s when we arrived and the Canadian Tire alongside had a free RV dump station. Such hospitality!

Corner Brook is the second largest city in Newfoundland with a population of only 25,000. It has a beautiful harbour and in certain positions along the docks, I thought I was in Vancouver with the mountains in the background. We took a drive down Humber Arm to Blow Me Down and the Bay of Islands but it was foggy and therefore not too scenic.

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Caesar had another bad night. These episodes are coming more often now - breathless, panting and restless but with his hip he can’t walk. In the morning, we were exhausted but Caesar settled down to a good sleep. He’s ok for now.

He hadn’t been to a groomer since he left Vancouver and his fur was long and thick. We expected that Newfoundland would be cold so didn’t want to get him trimmed until after we left. We were so wrong – out of twelve days here so far, we’ve only had one or two cool days otherwise it’s been hot. So maybe these panting nights would be relieved if he got rid of his fur coat. We were apprehensive about taking him to a groomer with his painful hip and thought maybe we should buy some clippers and do it ourselves.

We pulled into Stephenville on Monday, which was a stat holiday, and as fate would have it, right on the main street was a little ‘doggie parlour’ and surprisingly, it was open for business. It was a combination pet supply shop and grooming salon. I spoke to Florrie, a tough, heavy-set, heart-of-gold type young woman who loved dogs – she had four of her own and spoke of them with such adoration. When I told her about Caesar and his problems, she was so sympathetic and convinced the owner to fit him in right away. They told me that to keep his ‘Westie cut’ with the skirt and hairy legs would cause him much more discomfort than just shaving his hair down short all over. At this point, his comfort is worth more than his beauty, so I agreed as long as they kept his Westie head.

Two hours later, we picked up a new dog – smelling sweet with a lean little body. There was a litter of 7-week-old puppies running around, the owner’s little yorkie and a huge blue and yellow uncaged parrot eyeing us up from his perch. When they put Caesar down, he paid no attention to us but immediately limped over to the dogs, tail wagging madly. I think he enjoyed his afternoon at the doggie spa.

While waiting to pick up Caesar, we wanted to keep busy so we vacuumed out the Honda, found a free wifi signal and checked email, found the post office to mail some important letters and did some maintenance on Maggie.

We parked Maggie at an abandoned airstrip right beside the ocean – a great cement pad with a stupendous view of St. George’s Bay and the waves crashing on the beach. There was a free RV dump station at the top end and so we did a cleanup. An artesian spring at the top end of town supplies the locals with their drinking water. We figured we could fill up Maggie’s water tank there but the lineup of cars waiting to fill their jugs and the large pipe that the water gushed out of (that we couldn’t connect our hose to) convinced us otherwise. We had a couple of 10 litre water bottles in the car though and we filled them up. Hmmmm…where could we get water for Maggie? We asked at a couple of service stations and they didn’t have hose bibs and had no idea where we could fill up. Finally, just as we were about to give up, we stopped at an auto body shop near where we parked Maggie and the proprietor told us to pull her up and use his faucet. Nice guy!

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We were watching the local Vancouver news and they were doing a piece on how vandalism is out of control. We haven’t even see graffiti in Newfoundland. I’m sure they have their problems, but it’s a protected society of small towns and they seem to police themselves. They are family oriented and we’ve seen so many well-behaved and polite children. Yesterday in the grocery store, we overheard a small boy of about four years old say to his mother “That’s really nice of you Mommy to buy me some jelly beans. Thank you!”. We were so impressed and commented to the mother who smiled and said proudly “Yes, he’s a good little boy”.

Another time, we were having dinner in a restaurant and across from us was a young family – parents and two little boys about 6 and 7 years old. The parents talked to the boys over dinner and the boys chatted but they sat perfectly, never spoke loudly and had beautiful manners. As we left, I went up to their table and told the parents that we were so impressed with the lovely job they’ve done with their children and commended them. They were delighted.

We have seen no farms in Newfoundland; the rocky soil can’t be fertile enough. I’m surprised their produce isn’t more expensive when it has to be transported in by land and sea. Their prices are much like ours in Vancouver but I’m sure the wages are much lower here. We haven’t seen a dairy farm either nor have there been any cattle grazing other than maybe a half a dozen here and there.

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Westward Ho!

June 30, 2006
.We’ve reached the end of the line, two months after leaving Vancouver; we’re turning around – we can’t go any further east. Our St. John’s Walmart was one kilometre from the end of the Trans Canada Highway and Cape Spear was the most easterly point in North America. So from today, all roads lead towards home.

I loved the old-world charm of St. John’s, it’s pretty pastel houses, its hidden protected harbour, its little pockets of history but I won’t miss the windClarenville, a modern town was our choice for the night because of its proximity to the Bonavista Peninsula. Its Walmart holds the title of ‘the smallest Walmart in N. America’ but there was plenty of room for us to park. Several other RVs joined us for the night.


On the road to Bonavista, we noticed sequential signs proclaiming ‘Chip Truck ‘n More’; the signs were every kilometre for five kilometres giving us lots of time to discuss ‘do we want chips? Or not?’. It was good marketing. We stopped and shared a heaping dish of those evil, deep-fried, artery clogging, calorie laden, scrumptious sprinkled with malt vinegar chips (aka French Fries). The whole Chip Truck family were there – a rather portly group, relaxing in their lounge chairs. There were Grandma and Grandpa who manned the kitchen, a young couple with their 15-month-old baby, Evan and a couple of teenagers. Mom and Evan stuck their heads into our car window to say ‘Hi’ and look at the ‘bow-wow’. Caesar was mildly impressed at the interruption.

I was driving the Honda in my usual fashion (as if I’m racing in the Indy 500), rounded a bend and had to slam on the brakes because there before us was Trinity. It was the most picture-perfect moment you could imagine – wildflowers of all colours in profusion framed the town below which was nestled in a cove with a mist veiled lighthouse in the background. The area was discovered by a Portuguese explorer, Real in 1499 and he named it for the day he landed there – Trinity Sunday. The town boasts dozens of heritage buildings and when we arrived in the bright sunshine, some remnants of mist swirled and curled around the harbour as we strolled through the twisty lanes.

A few miles further down the coast lies Bonaventure where they film a TV series that I’ve never seen or heard of – ‘Random Passage’. The locale was also used for the Kevin Spacey film ‘Shipping News’. While Trinity was in sunshine, Bonaventure only five miles away was shrouded in deep damp fog.

Cape Bonavista is at the tip of the peninsula and it was extremely clear and hot while we expected chilly fog. John Cabot – really Giovanni Caboto – landed there in 1497. Magnificent rock formations with frothy waves crashing, navy blue ocean, beautiful clear emerald green pools and birds circling noisily – I wonder if it was like that when he arrived. Caesar met McDuff, a 13 year old westie from Ottawa, on the cape and it revitalized him. His ears were perky and his little carrot tail waved jauntily as they did the ‘sniff and pee’ thing.

These long days of sightseeing are taking their toll. By the time we get back to Maggie, we’re so tired we can’t wait to get to bed. Gotta take a break – tomorrow.

The Summer Wind

June 28 – 29, 2006
The wind came up strongly in the middle of the night and we got up to put in the slides. There was a bit of rain too, but that was finished by the morning – the strong wind carried on. By talking to the locals, it seems that if it’s not windy, it’s foggy so they are quite happy with the blustery weather. It’s a very warm wind and folks greet you with “Another beautiful day, is’n it?”

The most easterly peninsula, south of St. John’s is circled by ‘The Irish Loop’ and we’d been told that if we talked to the locals in the little villages, we’d think we were in Ireland. How true that is. Some of the accents are as broad as the Irish. Signs proclaimed O’Brien, O’Callaghan, Doyle, Walsh, etc. We made lots of stops at what they call interpretative sites (actually just information on the history of the area) and took back roads to isolated lighthouses and coves. Fog rolled in and out as we drove, one minute blue sky, next in deep sea mist. A rookery on the south coast was home to a puffin colony but the fog was too thick to see them.

The southern end of the cape, referred to as The Barrens is reminiscent of a Daphne Du Maurier novel with the rambling foggy moors. It’s remote, isolated and extremely gloomy when the fog rolls in. Here and there were dotted tiny cabins with no electricity or running water; outhouses nearby. I wondered if they were squatters. Chance Cove, a provincial park even allows free camping. I guess it’s so remote that not many visit there.

We stopped in St. Mary’s at the Harbour View Pub/Restaurant. It was run by a young married couple. She cooked and served the meals while he looked after the pub. I asked her where she came from because her accent was so different from her husband’s. She said she came from Trepassey, a town just thirty miles south on the same highway and her husband was born right there in St. Mary’s. “Just go down the road 10 miles and they’ll have a different accent” she said.

She brought our lunch and drinks and Fernie asked her what ‘tongues’ were. They were on the menu. “You never tasted tongues?” she asked. “They’re cod tongues and they’re pretty popular ‘round here – I’m going back in the kitchen and cook you up a couple to try”. She was off before we could argue. Her husband walked through and remarked “Oy, there’s nuttin’ like a heap o’ tongues – when I was a lad and I ain’t old now – jus’ 34 – you could get 12 tongues for a dollar, now it’s 6 for $5. I really luv em but me wife - not so much”. His wife reappeared with four fried tongues on a plate. “Now, you won’t have t’ say you never tasted tongues” she said with a smile and off she went to the kitchen.

So, what did we think of tongues? They’re pretty mild in flavour, not unpleasant, but the texture is a bit chewy. Not something I’d choose. But we were overwhelmed by her kindness and friendliness, as we seem to be with every encounter in Newfoundland.

Arriving back in St. John’s, we took a drive over to Cape Spear, the easternmost point in North America and it’s just a bit south of Signal Hill. The original lighthouse still exists and it’s been made into a showcase of what an 1830 lighthouse was like. It was a combination house / lighthouse and families lived in it with no outside access except by boat. There’s a new lighthouse now and these days, they’re automated. No need for lighthouse keepers anymore. The high winds were a blessing even though it was really hard walking and climbing. There’s a beautiful view of the entrance to St. John’s harbour and Signal Hill but it’s hardly ever visible because it’s usually in the fog.

We were dead tired when we got back and struggled to go out and do a bit of necessary shopping (we were out of vodka ;-) ). The winds were higher than ever but it was so very warm that people were in shorts and as always walking everywhere.

* * * * * * * * * *

The wind howled and shook Maggie all night long but the rocking motion put me to sleep quite soundly. I’m amazed at the temperatures in St. John’s – we had expected cold, rainy weather and here it is 30 degrees C in the daytime and only going down to 19 degrees C overnight. If only they could eradicate the wind but I’m sure if they did, it would be socked in with fog all the time.

As we drove to Castle Hill Bastion near the town of Placentia and the Argentia ferry to Nova Scotia, the fog cycled in and out sometimes getting dark and thick only to be replaced with bright blue sky minutes later. It was a good steep hike around the mountaintop fortress that the French held against the British – again. And again, the British kicked them out and they moved to Louisbourg, Nova Scotia only to be expelled from there by the British. Historically, it seems the French and British never got along…….Fernie and I are proving that it is possible for the two cultures to merge and prosper.
The tiny town of Cupid on the western shore of Conception Bay, claims that it was the first town in Canada settled by the British in about 1612. Just a few miles down the road is Brigus, which was settled soon after. It has retained its British colonial façade and a man by the name of ‘Captain Bob’ Bartlett hailed from Brigus. His family home has been restored and taken over by the National Historic Sites. Cap’n Bob led Peary in his expeditions to the North Pole but as I read about him and toured his home, I found I disliked him intently. He was a ‘man’s man’ in the pattern of Ernest Hemingway – whom I also abhor. There were photos of him trapping polar bears and walrus(es) -( what is the plural of walrus? Walri?) and restraining them cruelly. He was brought up in an area that supported the seal hunt – the towns subsisted on cod fishing and seal clubbing. They must have been a blood-thirsty bunch. Anyway, that’s not a discussion that I’ll pursue on this blog – I feel too passionate about it.

Caesar patiently waits in the car while we tour the sites. We try to take him to grassy spots as often as possible to get a little exercise, but he’s still not walking well and after five or ten minutes, he just sits down and waits to be carried. We leave the car windows wide open as do many others without fear of theft. It’s a society that doesn’t lock their doors when they leave their houses. Caesar’s highlights today were meeting a Yorkshire terrier and sharing Fernie’s ice cream cone. Poor ol’ geezer!

This Land is Your Land; This Land is My Land, From Bonavista ……….

June 27, 2006
Our sleep was fitful – waking to the truckers using Jake brakes on city streets and the Walmart night staff piping their music over the intercom all night long.

We expected Newfoundland to be cold and rainy but it’s been quite hot and humid at times and we’ve only seen a few spots of rain. We woke to another glorious day. We were on the road by 8am, not wanting to spend another minute in Grand Falls/Windsor. The Trans Canada Hwy #1 wound through Terra Nova Park and past the Bonavista Peninsula (now I know where Bonavista is) and we ended the day in St. John’s – the final destination in our easterly journey…..It’s all west now.

It was sunny and hot when we arrived in St. John’s – and everybody was out walking; it’s a Newfoundland tradition. Up the hills, down the steps, over the mountains, through the town – old ones, young ones, fat ones, thin ones – everyone was walking. I had a preconceived idea of what St. John’s would look like, having seen many photos but it’s far more picturesque and quaint than I expected. There were lots of big trees, the terrain very green, beautiful big mansions as well as the colourful row houses that I expected.

Now we’re back to the standard of Walmart that we like. Pristine conditions, lush green grass, lots of trees and level clean parking. Gee, you’d think we were comparing 5* hotels or at least you’d think we were paying customers. Near the airport, the Walmart was in an area of brand new big box stores but it was less than ten minutes to get right downtown.

St. John’s is one of the oldest cities in North America and it seems more European in layout than Canadian. There’s no grid system here just windy, narrow and steep roads. We accidentally found the quaint little village of Quidi Vidi just on the north side of Signal Hill and were amazed at its narrow streets – barely room to get my car through them. I spied a couple of men in a lane, leaning on their shovels and chatting; I asked them how to find the entrance to Signal Hill. They smiled not minding my interruption at all and started with “We just hauled us up a noice sof’ rock to sit on” and continued “Well now, you cun climb up there to that there trail but it’s a long walk o’er the mountain or you cun go back down the hill, around the corner, follow the curvy road that winds around and if yer lucky, you’ll find the road up Signal Hill”. They both slapped their thighs with mirth and bid me “Good luck lass!”

So I drove back down the hill, and around the corner and I followed the curvy road that winds around the mountain and I found it. Signal Hill, where Marconi sent his first wireless signal across the Atlantic (as opposed to the voice signal? in Cape Breton), stands sentinel over the narrow harbour opening from the Atlantic. Atop the hill stands Cabot Tower and the view of the city and the ocean from up there is breathtaking. The walkers were everywhere, crawling across the innumerable trails like ants. I saw the same people miles apart, still walking.

Waiting at a traffic light in St. John’s, we could hear loud Irish pipe music (Lord of the Dance style) and noticed a young man in the car ahead of us bopping so madly to the tune that his car was rocking. It was his CD turned loud that we could hear…….we found it so funny – where else would young fellows groove to locally cultural music - ‘Only In Newfoundland’

* * * * * * * * * *

The Rock!

June 22 – 25, 2006
The ferry siren and the revving of the big semi-trailer tractors aroused us just before 6am. They were loading the boat for Argentia, which is on the eastern coast of Newfoundland. That ferry is a sixteen hour run as opposed to our five to 6 hour one to Port aux Basque on the west coast; hence our choice. We couldn’t imagine leaving Caesar down in the dungeon alone for sixteen hours.

Our boat, the Caribou – the flagship – was scheduled to sail at 8am but announcements advised a two-hour delay. At least it’s comfortable waiting in Maggie and the wifi signal was still available so I cleared up some of my forum email. We boarded at 9:30 and the ship sailed at 10:15. There was no fog just bright warm sunshine and after a Newfie breakfast aboard our ‘cruise ship’ we spent most of the 5 ½ hour journey up on deck.

The sky clear blue horizon to horizon, the deep royal blue of the ocean, the gentle warm breezes – all that was missing was a lounge chair and a cocktail. We read and snoozed and I wrote a bit. We watched the people and talked about them. The truckers in jeans and black t-shirts over their big bellies; the RVers who tend to congregate with other RVers and talk about their units (I guess we’re a bit different); the school field trip groups with lenient teachers and unruly kids (I told off a group of them for throwing food off the top deck at an elderly man below); the foreign tourists (Swiss and German I noticed) taking lots of photos; the elderly ladies (walk-ons) dressed in their best blouses, cardigans and slacks with snappy little sun hats and their purses across their chests to avert pickpocketers; the sun worshippers – doesn’t matter the shape of their bodies, they bare it all and stretch out across the long benches so no-one else can sit there; the smokers – there are very few spots outside where one can smoke but there you’ll see a circle puffing away.

Part way through the voyage, we were allowed to go to the car deck, escorted to see to Caesar and take him out on deck to do his duty. We should have just left him alone; he was fast asleep and without a tree or a pole, he didn’t have a clue what to do on deck. At the Purser’s Office, I noticed with amusement that there were two clocks – one on Atlantic Time and the other on Newfoundland time…..where else in the world has a half an hour time difference?

Gazing across the sea, I suddenly noticed a waterspout and Fernie grabbed his binoculars (what I call ‘spyglasses’ to his amusement), and with that the whale breeched. What a sight. The further north we travelled, the cooler it got. The Newfoundland shore appeared in the distance with a light band of mist separating it from the water. About a half hour before we docked, we were enfolded in the thick damp, cold fog and made a hasty retreat inside. But it was clear as a bell when we pulled in to Port aux Basques, a rocky fishing town. We had an easy exit from the ferry as we were placed in the centre lane and they cleared the side lanes first. The Trans Canada Highway smoothly funnels the traffic out of town. A mile up the hill, we stopped at the Newfoundland Welcome Centre for a tour book and map.

Newfoundland was new territory for me and it gave me a thrill venturing on to new land ready to explore every corner. The beautiful road rose through the green hills. The land was mostly tundra with occasional clusters of small and scrubby trees. Stephenville, one hundred miles north of the ferry was our home for the first night. I asked at the Walmart and the greeter said, “Well everyone does it dear and you’re surely welcome”.

I was whipping up an omelette for dinner, when I heard Fernie talking to someone outside. The conversation continued on for a while, so I shut off the stove and wandered out, nosy about who he was talking to.
“Ahhh, here’s yer better ‘alf” said a grinning gap-toothed woman with loose shoulder length grey hair.
Fernie was talking to George and Madeleine White (they changed it from LeBlanc for some reason), a sixtyish couple who lived on the main street across from the Walmart and went out walking every evening. It seemed the whole town was out walking; what a healthy bunch of folks.

George was almost unintelligible as he quipped and laughed in his strong Newfoundlander accent but we managed to understand enough. He’s a carpenter, who was born and bred in Stephenville. He remembers when the Americans built an air force base there and when they left in 1966. They were interested in us and where we were from and they told us about their life in Newfoundland.

They told us how the Abitibi mill closed a few months ago and how folks are leaving town now.
They told us how to pronounce Newfoundland
“It’s Nu-fun-lan,” said George (with the accent on the ‘Nu’) and he made Fernie say it after him.
They told us about Screech, the local alcoholic beverage.
“I dunna like it” said Madeleine “but I’m a tee-totaller”
They told us about Newfie steak “Bologna - - - fried Bologna” and they don’t pronounce it baloney.
We discovered that what we call lakes, they call ponds; what we call rivers, they call brooks.

“Come with us walkin’ all round town” said George
“Theys not had dinnr yet,” said Madeleine
“We’ll be back in ‘alf an hour for youse” said George chuckling while he lifted his ballcap and scratched his balding head.
They didn’t give us any choice so we had our omelettes quickly and were ready to go walkin’ when they returned.

We walked down the main street, through the fields, across the rickety bridge, beside the merging of Cold Brook and Warm Brook, alongside the airport, and down to the bay. They walked so fast we could hardly keep up to them. There was an abandoned section at the end of the airport, a large cement slab overlooking the ocean.
“You could park your motorhome here – lots of folks do,” said George and he took us up to show us where the dump station was only a 100 metres away.
They showed us the houses that were swept off their foundations last year in the floods.
“Them folks shoulda known not to build there,” said Madeleine unsympathetically.

Eventually, we arrived back on the main street and we were ushered into an elaborate yard. Carved wooden birds of all kinds decorated the trees. There were woodpeckers, ducks, geese, owls…….there were bird-feeders hanging from every branch or post. There was a large wishing well; an old 1940’s car with plants growing out of it, quite attractively; an 8 foot reindeer made of tinsel and strung with lights stood against the garden shed. “That goes out up front – at Xmas,” they said proudly. He had vegetables growing, strawberries, fruit trees, and a greenhouse that he built himself.
“He makes me anythin’ I want” smiled Madeleine “He even makes me omelettes”

“Now, you get the Royal Tour,” said George holding open the doors of the car for us.
“You go up front” he said to Fernie and Madeleine slid in beside me.
“I’ll take you up to the richy ‘ouses in section 13”
“Then I’ll show you the Mayor’s ‘ouse”
“Un, then we’ll go on down to lil’ Port Harmon”
“Un then I’ll take you all the way up to ‘Hooterville’ – you know it?” Guffawing by now. He was referring to an old TV show - “Green Acres”

There was an awful squeal from the rear end of his car as we pulled away. I asked them if they had a mouse in the trunk. “Nah, he just washed it today” said Madeleine. I’m not sure how that was supposed to cause such an awful squeal but I didn’t pursue it. We arrived up at Section 13 (sounds like a concentration camp) “Ain’t they beauts?” George said, pointing to the street of ordinary houses by Vancouver standards.

“Un that’s the new mayor’s ‘ouse – Tom O’Brien” It was pretty palatial and there was a quarter size replica of it in the back. “That’s fur his lil girl – it’s ‘er playhouse”. We asked how he made his money and he said “He owns the trucking company – O’Brien’s but he’s a nice fella”

Back down the hill, through the town, past the airport and the flat-as-a-board golf course, below the white cliffs that we’d seen from a distance, we veered in over a rough road in the midst of being torn up, past about 20 dumpy little cottages “Thas where the richy’s go on weekends” said George “See, they dredged that there pond out – and look they can see the mill from ‘ere”. The huge silent mill loomed quietly the other side of the pond – not exactly what I’d call a nice view. About a 100 metres further on, George pointed to a little harbour in the corner of the dredged out pond, with about a half a dozen little fishing boats “Thas lil Port Harmon” he said proudly “Ain’t it cute?”

The sun was down by now but George insisted that we had to up to Hooterville. About eight miles north of Stephenville, in the forested hills was Cold Brook and in the furthest corner was where his grandfather had been born. It was an isolated area at the end of a gravel road where people built their houses to escape, I guess. “Thas Hooterville” George repeated, just loving his analogy.

It was 11 o’clock when they dropped us off at our motorhome and we stifled our giggles until we got inside and then laughed about our four-hour introduction to Newfie hospitality.

* * * * * * * * * *

The weather report made us reconfigure our plans for our two-week exploration of The Rock. The west coast was supposed to be sunny for the next few days while the east was raining. So we elected to explore the Northern Peninsula on the west coast first.

Up through Corner Brook, picturesquely built on the hillsides, the second largest city on the island, we left the Trans Canada for highway 430, AKA The Viking Trail. We figured we’d start from the top and work our way down, seeing we’d have to retrace our steps anyway.

We entered the south end of Gros Morne National Park at one of its stunning fjords. The scenery was spectacular, somewhat reminiscent of British Columbia in the mountains. Early summer must be the best time to visit here, with the profusion of wildflowers blooming. Out of the mountains and down to the sea, the terrain changed to tundra with occasional patches of low wind-swept trees. It reminded me of the southern coasts of Chile and Argentina, and I almost expected to see a penguin colony. The beaches are most often rocky; sand is rare.

As we’d seen all across the country, a sign warned of ‘Moose’. A bit further, another sign announced that there’d been 15 moose / car accidents so far this year, so watch out. We just sneered after the dire warnings in northern Ontario that never turned into a single sighting. But Newfoundland is different. The Northern Peninsula is known as the “Moose Capital of the World” and moose are not even native; they were introduced in the early part of last century. Less than half an hour later, right beside the highway, contentedly chewing away a beautiful cow moose raised her cumbersome head in interest as we slowed down to get a better look. Driving Maggie, we were unable to pull in or get a photo but we were delighted.

We decided to stay in the historic town of Port au Choix, half way up the peninsula for a couple of days and take the Honda the rest of the way north for sightseeing. A little motel in the middle of town had 5 RV sites at the back overlooking a beautiful little bay. Electricity and water and free wifi made the $15/night tax inclusive price very cheap and we loved the beautiful view from our front windows of the waves crashing on the rocks.

* * * * * * * * * *

We were on the road by 8am; we knew it was going to be a long day. Our primary target was L’Anse aux Meadows – the site where Vikings made a settlement over 1000 years ago, the first Europeans to North America, but the journey through the tiny fishing villages and the highway hugging the shore was such a delight.

We fuelled up before leaving Port Aux Choix and a young man coming out as I was going in held the door for me, gave me a goofy smile and said
“G’ morning – it’s a noice un. Any day it’s not rainin’, it’s a noice un.”

Wherever we went, beside the roads far out in the country as well as near the towns were piles of firewood neatly cut and stacked and we wondered about a society where one could trust their fellow citizens enough to store it where it was cut. Interspersed were vegetable gardens fenced against moose – apparently the most fertile soil is beside the highways. They plant potatoes mostly but other veg too and nobody steals or vandalizes them. Isn’t that absolutely amazing in our current society. It made me feel sad that most of us live where this wouldn’t be possible.

We stopped at a sign that announced “Marjorie’s Bridge, boardwalk trail and thrombolites.” We had to find out what a thrombolite was – or were they pulling our leg? The sign said they were ‘primitive life forms weathering out of flat-lying dolostones’. Now what does that mean? We went looking anyway. I kept telling Fernie to watch for anything that was ‘bun-shaped’ but of course we didn’t find any.

The Vikings settled on the Northern Peninsula about 1,000 AD in L’Anse Aux Meadows (Cove of Meadows). It is thought that the ‘Vinland Tales’ written by Eric the Red or his son Leif Ericcson (not really sure who wrote them) of a far-flung land where wild grapes grew is about that very site. It’s now a national historic site and they’ve recreated the village exactly as the archaeologists found the traces of their existence. The sod covered huts are inhabited by actors in period costume and they demonstrated their methods of sewing, cooking, wielding and axe and so on while spinning tales of their lives. It’s a lovely setting protected by islands and bluffs, the meadows offering herbs and berries in profusion.

We stopped for lunch at a little family café on the waterfront in St. Lunaire, near L’Anse Aux Meadows. I’ve always been fairly experimental with food. I’ve eaten curries in little local restaurants in India, noodles with who knows what’s in them in China, sushi in Japan, goat in Kenya, Thai fish soup in Bankok, guinea pig in Peru – whatever the locals eat, we sample. So when we saw a typical Newfoundlander meal offered, we chose it – and it was the most horrible thing I’ve ever had to put in my mouth. Fernie had an emotional reaction to the meal and after one little forkful, he said he was ill and left the restaurant. I struggled to get part of it down because I didn’t want to offend them. The waitress told us it was delicious especially with the little bits of pork scrunchions on the top. YUCK and Double YUCK! Let me try to describe the meal – hard tack bread soaked in something really salty, mixed with salt cod and then topped with an awful concoction of fat pork in liquid slimy fat. It was white and white and then oily yellow on top. Not even nice to look at. It was even more disgusting than the guinea pig in Peru.

By the end of the day, we had driven 535 kilometres and had more than twenty moose sightings. Ohmygawd – moose! They’re everywhere. On a lonely stretch of the highway, we rounded a corner and started up a hill. At the crest of the hill stood the most majestic sight – a huge bull moose with his staggering rack of antlers standing on the road, silhouetted against the sky. As we approached, he slowly ambled off across the road as if to say “I’m not rushing for you”.

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The next day from our spot in Port aux Choix, we explored the many archaeological sites in the area. My head is reeling from the historical data we’ve gleaned about the Archaic Maritime Indians, the Palaeo Eskimos, the modern Indians, the Vikings, the French, the British……as we learn about their lives, easily imagined as we walk on their turf, we feel we’re back there.


Philip’s Garden in Port Aux Choix was home for many of the above civilizations – digs have uncovered relics from as far back as 5,000 years. It is on a wild peninsula and is one of the most beautiful walks I’ve ever taken. The fragrance and beauty of the myriad of wildflowers – purple, yellow, red, white in such profusion; the scent of the crashing ocean deep blue with white crested waves; herbs and berries and sheltered nooks; the scurrying of little animals; the varied birdsong; the wind through the grasses. This or a place much like it must be where the author Linda Auel got her inspiration for her series of books on ancient humans. We walked for so many miles unable to stop exploring, ourselves inspired and uplifted. We didn’t see another human during the hours we spent there.

I’m not sure if Newfoundland is the most thrilling place in Canada because it’s new territory to me…….but I am in love with this province. It is so changeable – from mountains to seashore to tundra; from thick fog to bright warm sunshine. But one thing remains the same, the charming people – their love of life, friendliness and the welcome they offer.

The fishing villages are just plunked down in their coves. The houses are higgledy-piggledy with no alignment to any other. The roads just weave through wherever there’s room. Doors open onto the streets. Fences don’t exist. People walk in and out of each other’s homes at whim.

Newfoundland place names are lyrical – brooks and ponds and coves of all kinds. Some of my favourites are: Noddy Harbour, Birchy Head, Toogood Arm, Tickle Harbour, Tickle Cove, Heart’s Delight, Heart’s Desire, Little Heart’s Ease, Heart’s Content, Dildo, Farewell, Blow Me Down, Tizzards, Come By Chance, Witless Point, Petty Harbour.

We decided to try a National Park campground instead of a private one, as there were no boondocking possibilities in Gros Morne National Park. Lomond campground is the nicest campsite we’ve ever had. A level gravel pad for Maggie beside which was a huge private mowed grassy space ringed with spruce, a fire pit and table and a view of the magnificent fjord below. We lay in our lounge chairs and after a vodka, a glass of wine and a beer and we watched the clouds as they started to appear across the clear blue sky. Just like we did when we were children, we watched the shapes unfold – there was Caesar with his pointy little ears; Caesar on his back with legs in the air; Caesar’s little carrot tail; I think we’re totally obsessed with Caesar.

There was no noise other than the natural – the breeze in the trees, the birds singing melodiously, what sounded like loons in the distance, the buzzing of an insect, Fernie sighing with contentment, Caesar snuffling in the long grass. Oh my gawd! I think I’ve reached Nirvana - - - or is that the vodka working its magic.

* * * * * * * * * *

Our life is a dream! We wake up every day to a new adventure unfolding. How can we be so lucky? I want time to stop – right now!

We work all our young lives, bringing up children, furthering our careers and dream one day of retirement and freedom. So many times I’ve heard stories how John or Mary retires and is so bored they want to return to work. Are they crazy? There’s a huge world out there just waiting to be explored.

* * * * * * * * * *


I’m getting paranoid – I woke up this morning with a swollen and soar ear lobe for the third time. It was an insect bite – on the same ear a week to 10 days apart. Why my ear? Why not Fernie’s? What kind of insect was it? I searched the bedroom, checking the bed but found nothing. However, later on I found I had about three more bites on my arm – could it have been those nasty disgusting black flies in the forest? But what is it about my ear that is so enticing. I think I’ll put some repellent on my ear every night before I go to bed.

As we were leaving our campground, we spied another moose just feet from the road. Now, I just want to spy a caribou. There is a huge herd in the park, but they did not make themselves apparent. We spent the morning investigating the south forks of Gros Morne. This park is a geologist’s dream – it holds proof of the continental shifts and divides – surprisingly, the Eastern side of Newfoundland used to be part of the African plate. The Tablelands, a range of barren brown mountains sit right beside the most lush and green hills. They are the residue from the ocean bottom and the rocks are most unusual appearing as if fish net was woven through them. They are infertile because of the minerals and metals in the rock and because of the high winds and cold temperature.

At the end of the road lies a little fishing town, Trout River which until recently was not accessible by road. It still seems to be a remote town. People walk in and out of each other’s houses, they gather along the roads to chat, they wave as we drive by and make their livelihood by fishing. A woman walking a beautiful chow, named Mala stopped to talk to us. She left Trout River when she was 28, moved to Ontario and returned to Trout River when she was 50, three years ago. She is so happy to be back “There’s nowhere else on earth like here” she said.

Now it’s time to shoot over to the east coast and meander around that side. The drive over to Grand Falls/Windsor was pretty boring. The centre of the province is not anywhere near as scenic even though there’s a pond or brook around every bend. Grand Falls/Windsor, a mill town is grubby and unkempt. The Walmart there is part of a mall and I had to go to the mall office for permission to stay.
“The office is closed m’dear,” said the lady at the Lotto booth beside it. “Cun I help yer?”
When I told her what I wanted, she replied, “I sees em there all the time”. So I took that as approval. It was the crumbiest Walmart lot we’d ever seen; we were a bit disgusted at the litter around, the huge potholes; the unpaved areas where big trucks kicked up choking dust; and it was noisy, from the Walmart intercom announcements to the cars peeling rubber. But it was late and it was convenient for shopping so we stayed and when we closed the blinds, we were in our private palace.

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Summertime……and the livin’ is easy

June 18 – 21, 2006
Nova Scotia has a Sunday closing law (for the time being anyway) so
Walmart was deserted as we moved on. Another beautiful day, but a sea mist was starting to encroach so we outran it.

Caesar’s leg seems to be improving. He puts a little weight on it now, to move along. We’re not going to allow him to chase waves on rocky beaches ever again.

My nephew, Matthew lives in New Glasgow about an hour and a half, northeast of Halifax. We were passing through on our way to Cape Breton, so we pulled in for lunch to a Walmart parking lot. Big signs warned that overnight parking was not allowed but we weren’t staying so it didn’t matter. I phoned Matt and he said that he’d really like to meet up. I assumed he had transportation and asked him to come and see us in the motorhome. It turned out his only mode of transportation is walking but he asked a friend to drive him over. He looks so much like his father, but different in disposition. We spent an hour or so getting to know each other – he’s a charming, friendly young man and I’m so happy to have made the connection. While we were talking, Matt said “Isn’t that a gopher?”. Sure enough an adorable round gopher was ambling across the vast empty parking lot towards Walmart. About a half an hour later, another huge motorhome pulled in and as he was driving across the lot, the sweet little gopher was making his way back down to the grassy ditch. Unbearable to think of it, but that awful big machine ran right over him and I don’t suppose they even noticed.

We drove Matt somewhere near his home in Maggie – we’re always careful because when we’re towing we don’t want to get stuck somewhere we can’t turn around. I felt a bit sad leaving him after I just got to know him but also elated at getting to know all three of them.

There were no boondocking possibilities in Cape Breton, so we went to a Passport America campground just outside Baddeck, Nova Scotia, which is at the foot of the Cabot Trail. It was extremely hot and humid but a lovely treed, cool and private campsite was ours to enjoy so we stayed there two nights.

* * * * * * * * * *

It’s unbelievable that we’ve lucked into absolutely perfect weather in a location that is known for clouds and rain. The circular Cabot Trail route is about 300km in total and the next morning we headed off early in the Honda so we could take our time stopping at almost every viewpoint and poking into blustery little coves.

Sliding around the twisty, turny, roller coaster of the Cape Breton Cabot Trail, Gordon Lightfoot was moaning “If You Could Read My Mind” on the CD player. The music and the locale eked enough young memories but when I glanced in the rear view mirror and spied a laughing young couple on a motorbike the nostalgia galloped. I was back in 1970 travelling with my then ‘amour’ completing our cross-Canada motorcycle expedition. I clung on tight as we swirled around the snakelike curves and thrilled at the majestic breathtaking views materializing around every corner. We pitched our pup tent along shady lanes overlooking the pounding surf and watched the sun go down. The sun was glorious then as it is today, thirty-six years later.

Now here we are, a happy couple in our sixties doing the same journey but with all the comforts of home. I was a little envious though seeing that young couple – where did the time go?

We made a stop for our requisite ‘chowder’ at a little café where we could see the car from our table and leave all the windows down for Caesar. Pleasant Bay is at the north west side of the trail just before it heads inland, a tiny town that seems to be there just for the tourists with ‘arts & crafts’, cafes, cabins and campsites.

The Alexander Graham Bell Museum and National Historic site is in Baddeck and as we have an annual pass, we stopped for an hour. Even though Bell was a proud ‘Citizen of the United States of America’ (this was on his tombstone), he took up residence in Baddeck and worked on flying machines, human-carrying kites and made the first hydrofoil. It’s a beautiful setting on the Bras d’Or Lakes, which seem to me to be inlets rather than lakes.

I was hoping for a lobster dinner but Fernie’s tummy was a little out of sorts. Perhaps it was my wild driving along the winding roads but I was a bit disappointed. I made myself a tuna sandwich instead – not a good replacement for lobster

* * * * * * * * * *

Thick fog and damp air caused a chill in the early morning, creeping in through our bedroom windows. It made it hard to get up early when it was so warm in bed. In spite of the chill, I pulled myself out knowing we’d need an early start in order to get a full day in at the fortress of Louisbourg. We drove Maggie over to another PA campground, five minutes from Louisbourg on the east coast of Cape Breton Island. None of the Walmarts permit overnight parking.



A National Historic Site, Louisbourg is a reconstruction of the town and fort as it was in 1744-45, while still held by the French. The town was levelled by the British but archaeologists have been excavating since the 1930’s and the accurate restoration followed and it opened in 1979. Only one quarter of the fortress has been rebuilt – the remaining ruins are still being ‘dug’ by archaeology students dressed in parkas, boots and gloves against the cold Atlantic wind.

The area is so vast that buses are used to transport visitors from the info centre to the town site. Every detail is authentic. Townsfolk in period costume roam the streets – soldiers, officers and servants. They tell tales of what their lives are like and re-enact behaviours. The buildings are mostly open for inspection from storehouses, a blacksmith shop, the elegant homes of the upper echelon, soldiers’ barracks, inns, cafes and bars.

A long walk along a narrow isthmus marked the sites of a convent, hospital, barracks, fishing buildings and more. The waves crashed violently on the rocky headland and the wind so high, we had to bend into it to walk. Tucked into the crevices of the rocks thrived miniature iris, wild sweet peas and an exotic little white flower I can’t identify.

After hours of traipsing around the marvellous village, we went for lunch in an authentic inn, which prepared meals as they did in 1745, dishes and utensils recreated in perfect detail. The meals were served in intimate little rooms. There were two choices – salmon or roast beef. I chose the salmon, Fernie the beef. First came a battered tin tureen of root vegetable soup and verbal instructions for Fernie to serve it.
Fresh hot rolls and butter accompanied the soup. A glass of red wine was served in what we would call a ‘martini glass’ – apparently authentic. Fernie had a hot buttered rum in a pewter tumbler. The delicieux entrées were served with rice and mixed root vegetables. I questioned the use of rice but was told that the upper class French of that era wouldn’t eat potatoes (peasant food, I guess) and imported rice instead. Completing the lunch, a small apple tart with cream and tea. A wonderful repast in an evoking environment, well priced at $15.95/each and the drinks $4/each.

It’s a good thing we waited until the end of the day to partake in the meal. We were stripped of energy and dragged ourselves through the streets, along the walls to the main gate and the last one hundred metres to the waiting bus.

Caesar had been alone all day so we went back to pick him up, returned to town with our laptop to clear up email then drove over to the lighthouse at the opposite side of the Louisbourg harbour. Canada’s first lighthouse was built there and replaced three times. This day the peninsula was shrouded in fog and the sad lonely sound of the foghorn echoed through the harbour. Much too windy to venture of our car, we pulled in for a while and watched the angry sea pounding at the rocks beneath the mist-veiled lighthouse.

Caesar isn’t doing as well today. His leg seems more tender and he won’t walk far. I popped him a quarter of an aspirin to control the inflammation. He’s very stoic though and patient through it all.

* * * * * * * * * *

The following morning, we had to get up at 6:30am because we had an appointment at 8am with a Honda dealer in Sydney to get our differential flushed (whatever that is). We woke to a drumming of rain on the roof and we didn’t want to get up but we had to. I couldn’t help but think how lucky we’d been weather wise the last couple of days. The Cabot Trail in the rain would not be good. And Louisbourg – fog’s ok, it created atmosphere but rain would have spoiled the day.

The car was finished by 10 o’clock. They had to do a ‘double flush’ because it was so dirty. I’ve found out a differential is a gizmo that sits between the rear wheels and does something to assist the four wheel drive. The brake fluid had to be replaced too. I’m sure the 7,000 kilometres it’s been towed through the muck and mire contributed to it. The rain had stopped by the time we left and the mist started to dissolve over the next few hours.

We left Maggie at Walmart for the day – it’s only overnight parking that’s banned. A drive south to St. Peters took us through the town of Big Pond on the shore of Bras D’Or Lake. A trivia question for all you readers:


What famous Canadian larger-than-life songstress hailed from Big Pond? (and swam in the big pond every morning) She opened a tearoom in an old school house in Big Pond and I’m a sucker for afternoon tea with fresh scones. The schoolhouse has been radically transformed into a lovely garden-like retreat with large comfy chintz armchairs, but it was dead quiet when we got there and a sign said ‘Not serving until July 1, but please help yourself to a nice cup of tea and a homemade cookie”. There’s a gift shop and a room of memorabilia – Gemini Awards, Genie Awards, gold records, platinum records, photos and a history of - have you guessed?…….Rita McNeil, the barefoot but red-hatted, muu-muu clad singer. I know our friends B&B got it because they brought us back some of Rita’s tea a couple of years ago.

One photo of Rita at 18 showed a svelte and serious young woman. The parish priest told Rita that her harelip would be a burden but that he knew she could overcome it – I’d say she did a good job. We poured ourselves a cup of tea, a delicious blend and munched on a cookie while we toured her museum and no-one bothered us.

St. Peters canal and its locks between Bras D’Or Lake and the Atlantic is a historic waterway built in the 19th century and it’s a lovely stroll along the tree-lined banks. Even Caesar, with his lumbering gait enjoyed it.
We stopped in town at “Chubby’s School Bus” for a takeout lunch and shared a $10 seafood platter that was enough for three, so Caesar shared it too – the clams anyway; no scallops or shrimp for him. St Peters is one of the oldest settlements in Canada first populated in the 1600’s but not much remains of historical significance – just a tiny one-room museum.

Glace Bay, fifteen miles northeast of Sydney was our next stop. I mentioned while driving there that my memory (from 1970) of it was a depressing and unkempt town. Wouldn’t you think it would have changed by now? But it was as dismal as ever; obvious extreme poverty, no pride in their sad little homes, no flowers or trees, boarded up businesses and all this in a beautiful location overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. But first a stop at Table Head where Marconi sent the first radio signal across the ocean to Cornwall, England in 1902 or thereabouts. Not much left but a presentation centre showed a video and explained his work.

The weather was glorious by late afternoon and at 6pm we moved over to the ferry terminal. However, the 6 o’clock boat was delayed and they told us to come back after it sailed which was about 8:45pm. We found a park just a quarter of a mile away that jutted out into the bay and we were able to watch the ferry’s progress while we had dinner. Arriving back there, we paid our $267 ($213 for Maggie and $27/each for us – one way) and settled in for the night – front of the line.

We had a strong free wifi signal and I (saint that I am) gave Fernie the computer for the rest of the evening to play online poker. He made $15 and really enjoyed it – it’s what he misses the most while travelling. Caesar and I snuck off to bed – I fell asleep on my book. It had been a long day.