Early in our trip to Newfoundland in September, 2013 we took the ferry from Portugal Cove to Bell Island. Weather was wild, windy and wonderful as bestest buddy Joan and I wobbled around on the top deck while John and Judy stayed tucked in our rental car.
We then circled this pretty island and drove down to the water to view Sailors’ Monument. Before long, a car joined us, this local couple stopping to tell us the history of the site. Four buoys we hadn’t noticed until shown but which we could see bobbing despite the white caps, marked the position of ships sunk in Conception Bay during World War II. One of the more fortunate sailors was rescued by a wounded dog.
“I remember seeing that three-legged animal on my way to school,” the gentleman told us. While we loved the spot, we’d never have known its significance if this friendly couple, proud of their island, had not shared these stories.
I’m not sure exactly where we were when a taxi pulled up beside us as we were waffling about which direction to go next.
“Are you lost? Can I help?” he asked. For once we did not need directions, but John and I had been extremely grateful when a lady did the same thing on a busy road in Calgary.
In Clarenville several days later, we were seeking an elusive store where Joan hoped to find hiking poles. We’d been sent thither and yon, but we asked yet another person for we were stuck.
“How can I describe that?” this man now pondered. “Follow me,” he decided, “I have to go back to the shop anyway.”
We found it – but not the horn to say thanks as he headed away in the opposite direction.
Purposely, we hadn’t pre-planned overnight stops, except for beginnings and endings, so late each afternoon saw us searching for a place to stay. Twice in our first week, when none was available where we checked, landladies phoned around until something suitable for four seniors was found. The second gal, in Twillingate, even said (after many unsuccessful attempts), “I’ve two double beds in the basement you can use if all else fails.” They weren’t needed but….
Other hosts and hostesses at motels and cottages suggested local stops of interest for us to check out. Besides the famous lighthouse in Bonavista (clad in scaffolding) with John Cabot’s statue standing nearby, we went looking for puffins at the suggestion of our landlady. We had no sightings, but the walk out onto a rocky point, waves crashing below, was worth it.
While staying at Botwood, a jolly bloke asked us if we’d seen the gun emplacements at Phillip’s Head yet. We hadn’t and the promised map didn’t arrive. However, since it was our practice to drive “just a bit further”, we found these remnants of Canada’s protection during World War II easily. Trails led us upwards to old cement bunkers and more, all very well cared for. A man approached me as we returned to the car.
“Who looks after this?” I asked.
“We do, the whole town. We’re quite proud of it,” he replied with typical Newfie understatement.
Travelling onto yet another peninsula, we found a delightful home-away-from-home in Triton overlooking dark blue water topped with large white caps.
“Where can we hike?” Joan asked of the waitress delivering our fish’n’chips.
She directed to a trail in the next village, Brighton.
“It’s a pretty place, and the trail takes you upwards. You see views of the community, islands, and ocean. “You’ll like it!”
We did.
