Our day in Fishing Point Park has made up for all the frustrations and doubts we racked up in the long drive to the north tip of Newfoundland. It’s a fantastic setting, made perfectly accessible by a network of gravel and boardwalk trails, which radiate out from the parking lot. Foaming waves lunging at the cliffs and rocky shores overwhelmed imagination from the moment we stepped out of the Realta. I got so excited capturing photos and composing descriptions of the scene in my head, that I lagged behind while Diana marched on, so we were separated for most of the time.
After taking in the sea level view, I trudged up the 476 steps to the top of a cliff overlooking Saint Anthony harbour. What a view! The thrashing coastline stretched on for kilometres beyond the tiered houses and buildings of Saint Anthony. Instead of soaring overhead gulls wheeled and glided below me. I texted Diana, Daniel and Ian a picture of the panorama, and a message saying ‘Don’t know if I’m ever coming down.’
Eventually I did, and Diana and I went for lunch at the Lightkeepers Seafood Restaurant, which I would highly recommend to anyone looking for an off-the-boat fresh meal.
North Sydney to Port aux Basques is a cultural transit
Getting lost and finding a new perspective at Flat Bay, NF
A frustrating first full day in Newfoundland. We decided to get off the Trans Canada, and go along the coast as much as possible, our first destinations, Stephenville, then Corner Brook. We kept getting lost, though. First we came to a dead end down Route 403, which takes you into Flat Bay.
Even our navigational errors have lessons to teach, however. At the T-intersection, where the road branches east and west into the Flat Bay reserve, we came to a church and graveyard. Attracted by the flowers placed at just about every headstone, we stopped to get a closer look. It was like no other cemetery we had seen. These were not the graves of the forgotten! Shrines to relatives and ancestors, they were adorned with bunches of flowers, statuettes, solar lanterns, and words of remembrance.
We drove into the community, talking about the differences between this First Nation burial ground and what we’re accustomed to as European descendants. The graveyard reminded me how much we Europeans have to learn from aboriginal peoples about what it means to be a member of a community – a tribe. Indigenous cultures have ‘elders’, those who are the living repositories of the tribe’s wisdom and its honoured advisors; we shuffle our old folks into homes and, as often as not, forget about or belittle them even before their last rites have been pronounced.
The evolution of European society through the industrial revolution and its precedents, has atomized citizens, breaking down the tight social bonds that continue to hold together indigenous communities.
Is one path better to the other? It’s pointless to answer in those terms. I believe European and First Nations cultures can learn from one another, but that the benefits of sharing perspectives can only be realized in respectful, caring relationships. The genocide that took place in North America during the colonial era was justified by a dehumanization of indigenous peoples. That was a lost opportunity as well as an immoral blunder, which will require generations of work at Truth and Reconciliation heal.
You can never, whatever you do Set foot in the same brook twice. All that you see is new, Another roll of the dice.
When I was a kid we spent every summer vacation in Sydney, Nova Scotia. Two dogs, four kids, Mum, Dad and all the gear we’d need for camping, packed into our Ford station wagon for three days on the road.
Until yesterday it had been more than five decades since I visited 99 South Bentick Street, the paternal seat of our branch of the Spence clan in North America. So I suppose it’s not surprising things have changed.
What did surprise me though was how much my memories of things that haven’t changed all that much in all that time were so distorted.
The scene of our childhood adventures, a brook that ran through a ravine where South Bentick dead ended, isn’t much more than a ditch. And all the ghosts have fled the cemetery farther up the ravine, the spooky setting of our horror stories.
Some of the change is real, however. The address of my grandparents’ house is no longer 99 South Bentick… to anyone but me that is, and probably my siblings. I won’t go into the complex details, but the ancestral mansion is now in the 400 block. And it’s no longer clad in green shingles with white trim; it’s siding is vinyl, like most other houses on the street.
Venturing farther afield I found myself in a town that mixes elements of things remembered with sights I never could have imagined. A gigantic cruise ship was docked in the harbour, where we sometimes ventured as children. And at the end of the boardwalk – which didn’t exist in our world – ‘the ‘world’s biggest fiddle’ awaits.
Diana and I took an immediate liking to our last stop in New Brunswick, Sackville. We have noticed at several points along the way – Sherbrooke QC for example, and more recently Wolfville, NS – that small university towns like Sackville make for a lively cultural mix.
The blend of academia and the day-to-day activities of the surrounding communities, plus the more youthful presence of students, adds to the town cores. Cafés, bookstores, and the choice of community events is influenced by a constant flow of newcomers to the scene, most of them young and looking for opportunities to gather and shop.
The tree lined streets of Sackville and it’s 19th and early 20th Century architecture made us feel very much at home. But the most amazing feature of the town for a tourist is its Wildfowl Sanctuary. Too bad we visited at the tail end of the season, when many birds had already passed through on their migrations. Even so, the kilometres of boardwalks and trails through this marshy habitat make for a marvellous, easygoing hike.
A fog horn, sounding from the north, warned that we would be socked in today, and when we awoke it was so thick we couldn’t see the houses across from Tim and Nadine’s cottage on Red Rock Road, where the Realta is parked. Grand Manan is a place I would love to live. About 30 km from tip to tip, the Island is a world unto itself and our hosts introduced us to some of its landmarks and attributes during our two day visit.
The first characteristic we noticed, Grand Manan shares with Mainland New Brunswick: friendliness. For example, when we were disembarking from the ferry one of the crew members tapped on the Realta’s window and returned my camera lens, which had popped off on the vehicle deck and got lost after we’d boarded. She’d gone up the line showing it to disembarking passengers until she found us.
We’ve encountered that kind of friendliness at just about every turn since entering New Brunswick. It’s a truly Maritime spirit.
But Tm and Nadine caution about another side to relations between born and bred Grand Mananers and those who come ‘from away’. They are slow to accept newcomers as true islanders, so their kindness is tempered somewhat. I can’t help believing though, that anyone who loves the place and gets involved in community activities, would be welcomed, even if as a foreigner.
Yesterday we hiked to Ashburton Head at the north end of the Island, a place named after one of the many shipwrecks that have occurred along Grand Manan’s coast. From there we marvelled at the prospect of the Bay of Fundy, looking down, way down on curious seals and gliding gulls.
Then we hiked a segment of Grand Manan’s west coast, which skirts the towering escarpments overlooking Grand Manan Channel and Dark Harbour, which we drove down to afterward. An isolated fishing enclave, its residents make do without power or running water, their cottages built on stilts, dories pulled up on the shore.
We ended up lounging on the beach at Long Pond Cove, absorbing the afternoon sunshine and the slow creep of a fog bank up the beach.
This morning we took a run down to Southwest Head, where once again we peered down at ocean, this time from towering basalt cliffs.
Now we’re aboard the Grand Manan Five, making for Blacks Harbour and St. John. Waiting for the boat, and embarking, we talked about the pros and cons of moving to Grand Manan Island. I’m tempted, inspired by the diversity and wonder so clearly defined by an island 30 x 7 kilometres in extent. Oddly, it exerts a sort of homing instinct on me, even though I’d never seen the Grand Manan before this visit!
Way back in June we had decided to postpone our Realta Road trip, feeling the COVID era was not quite over, and that we wanted to focus on a book we are publishing, Flibber T. Gibbet, A Chemainus Adventure on the Hermit’s Trail.
Then we got an email inviting us to the wedding of my brother Stewart and (now) sister-in-law Miao. The scale tipped, the wire was tripped, we loaded up and pointed the Realta east.
You have to know Stewart and Miao to know what greeted us in Knowlton QC August 19, the day before the BIG day. Chaos, improv, laughter, good food, great companionship, and a whole lot of wonderful experiences that proved our decision to have been of sound mind, even if it didn’t make sense.
Then came the wedding. It was a great day that blended humour with ceremony and too many memorable moments to describe here. Believe me, the video only tells a minuscule part of the story!
We’re trying to catch up to ourselves with posts from many of the places we have visited over the last couple of weeks, but with limited access to the internet, we’re falling behind. Right now we’re in Bangor Maine, cutting through the States to get to Grande Manan Island in New Brunswick, where we are looking forward to a visit with our friends – Islanders on two of Canada’s three coasts – Nadine and Tim.
It seem a long time ago we were paddling on Eagle Lake in Ontario with our niece Sarah and nephew Rowan. The memory is still with us, though. We had a wonderful time at their cottage and out on the water.
We’re parked in Jessie and Eric’s drive on L’ile Parrot near Montreal. We arrived here yesterday, and plan to leave this afternoon, heading for Knowlton and the wedding celebration of Stewart and Miao. Part of our trip will take us through the State of Maine in the US. We hadn’t planned on crossing the boarder, but would have to take a northward detour adding hundreds of kilometres to our trip otherwise.
We will be heading out from Snow Road this morning, saying goodbye to Jo and Peter and setting off for Montreal, where we will spend a day with Jessie and Eric. It’s been a pleasant couple of days. Jo has spoiled us with her fine cooking, we’ve spent a lot of time lounging on their deck or sitting down on Pete’s Beach by the river, or hiking.
Yesterday we walked the Palmerston Canonto Conservation Area Recreational Hiking Trail. Evidence of last May’s Derecho was everywhere to be seen, trees uprooted and blown over at every turn. The cataclysmic weather event is described in Wikipedia as:
…a high-impact derecho[5] event that affected the Quebec City-Windsor Corridor, Canada’s most densely populated region, on May 21, 2022. Described by meteorologists as an historic derecho and one of the most impactful thunderstorms in Canadian history,[6][7] winds up to 190 km/h (120 mph) as well as several tornadoes caused widespread and extensive damage along a path that extended for 1,000 kilometres (620 mi).
Eleven people were killed and an estimated $875 million was caused by the storm, rated as the sixth costliest disaster in Canadian history in terms of insurance claims. These kinds of events are becoming more and more frequent. The prairie provinces are bracing for a heat wave; BC is still coping with extremely hight temperatures; a forest fire is raging in Newfoundland.
Viewing Canonto and Palmerston lakes and the surrounding forest from the rocky, humped lookouts along the trails we were reminded yet again of the beauty of Ontario’s wilderness and rural areas. The landscape here is rolling and softened by its canopy deciduous trees, compared to the steep, spiny and somewhat darker profiles of our West Coast. I can see why people are attached to this region. But coastal Vancouver Island is my homeland and I don’t see myself living anywhere else.
We were docked in an unofficial pullover near Keys Provincial Park, east of Thunder Bay. All was calm, except for the muffled sound of traffic passing by on Highway 17, until one utility truck, then another and another, passed by the Realta, heading for a bigger cleared area behind us, where they parked in a row. At first we thought they might be workers preparing to do some maintenance on the nearby bridge, then – because of the methodical way they went about their business – that they might be a rescue crew, looking for some poor soul who had fallen into the adjacent ravine. We were confirmed in this guess by the sudden whump, whump, whump of a helicopter that landed in the clearing, one that had a basket on the side used for carrying stretchers.
Ever the reporter, I grabbed my camera, jumped out of the Realta, and started taking pictures.
Turns out the operation was not search and rescue, but a maintenance crew doing work on the nearby transmission lines. Fascinated, I recorded as best I could, as the chopper ferried workers and equipment up to the tower, edged up to the metal arms so the men could climb off, then lowered the materials and equipment they needed to effect repairs. It was an amazing operation, carried out with military teamwork and precision, and an exciting event on our Realta Road.
