I’m writing this at 5 ish—I’m exhausted (or, perhaps just caffeine deprived…) and taking a wee break. Today was primarily a driving day again—each day, it seems we head out planning to find a hike but find the open road so addicting that our hiking plans come to naught: every corner, every hill seems to bring a new surprise and an in unison “wow.” Yesterday we did about a third of the Irish Loop. We stopped just past Ferryland where the Colony of Avalon is; it is the first successful colony in Newfoundland, established in 1621. It is also the setting of Wayne Johnston’s Baltimore’s Mansion. Today, intrigued by the guide book’s mention of being able to see whales from the shore near St. Vincent, we headed the other way down the Irish Loop. It’s still a bit early for the whales and we didn’t really look for very long since we were mesmerized by the vibrant blue of the ocean and the open skies around us. Right now, I’ve got a small handful of perfect oval stones I picked up off the beach at St. Vincent beside me—they’re warm green, purple, and blue and the smoothest surface imaginable. South and west of there, is Cape Race where the Titanic sunk. After St. Vincents, we headed back up and over to Brigus—an amazingly picturesque town.
While on the Trans Canada highway, I read some of the Newfoundland history in my guidebook and found out some things that I’m sure everyone already knows. I bet I wasn’t paying attention that day in school. For example, Newfoundland was an independent British colony until 1949 with their own currency and postage. And, that the vote to join Canada was very close: 51% supporting and 49% opposing. And I also know why my Mum laughed so hard when I asked “how old is he?!” after hearing Joey Smallwood referred to as the only living Father of Confederation. I do remember mentally scanning that famous painting looking for a toddler and calculating that even if he were two at the time of confederation, Smallwood would be at least… well, it’s too embarrassing to tell you how old I thought he was since you could then calculate how old I was when I thought that. I’ll just say, I was old enough to have known better.
We’re both quite taken with how quickly the landscape changes. Sometimes it looks like central Alberta, other times it looks like Maine, other times it looks like Algonquin Park, and sometimes it looks like Colorado. More often than not, it looks like nothing else we’ve seen before: each cove and town have their own distinct look and feel. But, as I mentioned, there was a fair bit of the terrain that looked like western central Alberta and, with the open skies, I was thinking a lot about Alberta. It’s not hard to do since Alberta has come up almost everyplace we go and we’re not the ones who bring it up. At the play we went to, people were talking about moving to Alberta; a bartender lived in Sherwood Park, another group of people somewhere else were talking about someone who moved to Alberta and the B&B owner knows someone working in Edmonton. Around St. Vincent, we stopped at one of the few little stores around there and bought a pineapple Crush (never had one before). While there, we talked with the lady who has run the shop for 23 years. Her daughter left Newfoundland at 19 to go work in Alberta and it was obvious she misses her horribly. But, as she said, there’s no work here and so her daughter set out to Alberta where she knew not a soul. A few hours later, we had lunch at a café and one of the people just moved back to Newfoundland from living in Edmonton for 23 years (she too worked in West Edmonton Mall near the dolphin show). I’ve probably met more people who have lived in Edmonton in the past three days than I have in the past twelve years. There’s a strong sense of loss that people seem to have when they talk about the friends and family who have gone west but also a resignation that you need to go where the work is. I certainly understand this since Dale and I went to the US and then to Ontario following work opportunities and my brother Paul and his family are in the US now too. But, as my dad reminded me a while ago, we are descended from people who have followed work across oceans, countries and provinces. Still, I wonder if there’s a Newfoundlander looking out over the expanse of grain fields in Alberta and thinking of oceans just as I’m looking out over the ocean and thinking about fields of wheat.
Postscript: 10PM we went out for dinner and saw some other interesting things. First of all, lest the hipness of St Johnsonians ever be questioned, get this: on a patch of new cement, one local didn’t just sign his or her name—he or she immortalized their homepage’s url in a piece of downtown sidewalk. Also, as if this city isn’t cool enough, they have statues of the Labrador Retriever and the Newfoundland right downtown. They also have a plaque with Lord Byron’s poem about his dearly departed Newf , Boatswain. I mistakenly assumed we were alone in the town square and was caught saying, “ohh….who’s the cute Newf??’ as I scratched the Newf sculpture’s chin and patted his head. Dale, bless him, takes these things in stride and acts like they’re everyday occurrences; well, I guess, they are everyday occurrences. Our evening, I think, was topped off at dinner when our waitress tentatively approached our table and said with great solemnity, “just to let you know, there’s no moose tonight.” I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore and, you know, I’m ok with that.
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