While Newfoundland is known for its rugged coastlines, desolate but breathtaking barrens, and magnificent mountains, anyone “from away” who has visited this beautiful land will tell you it’s the warmth and friendliness of the people who make Newfoundland such a special place. In the 1960’s, the provincial government even adopted the tagline, “the Happy Province” for Newfoundland. Every local had a story. Here are some of my favourite tales from the Rock.
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“Arya here fordasquid?” We had just walked through the front door of Parkers Blue Water Inn in Triton when a friendly bustling woman with a broom in her hand greeted us in a strange tongue.
“Pardon,” I said, thinking she was speaking a foreign language.
“Are ya here for da squid?” she said, pointing to a plastic bag on the floor.
I still didn’t have a clue what she was saying, but luckily she gleaned we weren’t there for the squid, but to stay for the night. She explained her husband was a squid fisherman and there was a lady coming by that morning to pick up an order of squid. We watched some local fishermen fish for squid in the bay as we ate our supper that night. It’s been one of the best squid fishing years in Newfoundland with the lads sometimes hauling in a catch of $5,000 a day. “Are ya here for da squid” became our mantra for the trip.
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We had stopped to see the exhibit at the Gander airport, once the largest airport in the world. With the 25th anniversary of 911 coming up, the stories and images of the 38 planes and 7,000 passengers stranded in Gander when the US shut down its airspace was especially poignant.
I heard one Come from Away story a few days later as I was standing in the Brigus tunnel. A gentleman told me he was a Search and Rescue pilot based out of Gander when the 38 planes were rerouted and landed in Gander. He was a critical member of the team during those first few chaotic days when they were trying to get people and dogs and monkeys and cargo off the planes.
He and a buddy had been told to help unload one plane from Antwerp which had a bunch of sealed bags in the hold. They didn’t know what to do with the bags, so they carried them to the back of one of the hangars and stored them behind a stairwell. A few days later, the RCMP, special security and Belgian officials started interviewing airport personnel about where the bags had gone. Nobody seemed to know what had happened to the bags.
They finally asked him, and he said, “Right, sure, I know where they are,” and led them to the staircase. They opened the bags to ensure nothing had gone missing. The one RCMP officer said to him, “Did you know what was in the bags?” When he said no, the officer told him there had been $6 billion in bonds and notes.
He later told me, “I know they were looking for Come from Away stories. I probably should have shared that story.”
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On a rainy afternoon in St. John’s, we took refuge at the Newfoundland Embassy pub. I sat next to Fred who was elegantly sipping a glass of port while listening to traditional Irish session players. Fred looked like Captain Ahab from Moby Dick. He had a long white beard and twinkly eyes and the gift of the gab and was only missing the yellow sailor’s hat. I commented that his drink choice was very sophisticated and he asked the waitress to get the bottle down from the top shelf, then proceeded to tell me the story of Newman’s Port.
In the 1600 and 1700’s, Portuguese port was one of the favourite spirits of the British artistocracy. Bottles of port were shipped to London each year. In 1679, in what can only be considered a serendipitous act of fate, one of the vessels carrying the precious cargo was targeted by privateers and beset by a fierce storm forcing the ship off course and across the ocean to St. John’s where it became stranded over the harsh winter.
When spring arrived, the ship continued on its voyage to England. When it finally landed, they noticed something extraordinary: the port that had spent the freezing winter in Canada tasted significantly smoother and richer. They didn’t know whether it was the humidity or temperature, but the wine aged in Newfoundland was superior. The company started aging all its port in Newfoundland, and if you find an older bottle today, it will say “Matured in Newfoundland” on it.
The practice stopped in 1997 when the Portuguese government decreed that all port must be bottled in Portugal. Fred entertained me with his stories and one liners, like “There are no volcanoes in the Avalon peninsula. Do ye know why?” I took a sip of beer as I shook my head no. “Because there is no lava there.” (Avalon backwards spells ‘no lava’.)
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“Come here, it’s hidden, but it’s very interesting,” said Danny O’Brien at the top of Signal Hill in St. John’s. He wanted me to see the remains of the taproom built on the cliff of the battery to keep the soldiers away from civilians on George Street. At one time, the tap room and later barracks were a bustling concern, but the inhospitable weather on the hill drove the soldiers into town and the taproom was left to ruins.
I learned a lot about Danny in the short conversation we had standing on the hill overlooking the city. He spent the early part of his career working long days in construction, then suddenly found himself with time on his hands when he went to work as a facilities manager at Memorial University. He started running and was planning to run a half-marathon in October from Cape Spear to St. John’s. In his spare time, he picked up and drove hikers on the East Coast Trail to the next leg of the trail.
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Many of the stories we heard in Newfoundland were captured in song. At the Captain’s Pub in Twillingate, Mike Sixonate regaled us with a story for every song. Mike was also the guy who screeched me in. One of my favourite stories was about him saving up enough to buy a sailboat, then sailing it around the lighthouse to find a safe berth before a big storm.
His famous line was “your first trip to Newfoundland is a bit like a spank on the arse. You’re not sure if you like it, but it starts to grow on ya.” Mike’s coming to Ontario at the end of October to play a series of dates with Arthur O’Brien of The Navigators. You can find the list of his Ontario venues and dates here. Here’s Mike singing The Twillingate Tickle.
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At the Cozy Tea Room in Twillingate, we met Joyce, one of two sisters who ran the shop. Joyce was turning 80 next year and shared the same birthday as me but wasn’t sure how much longer she was going to keep the tea room open. When we expressed our surprise that some of the local restaurants and attractions were already closing down for the season, she said we had to go see the polar bear in the Durrell Museum and told us the story of the bear.
One day back in March 2000, she was having a cup of tea when she looked across the bay and saw a polar bear in her neighbour’s back yard. She called her neighbour on the phone and said, “Edith, you’re not going to believe this, but there’s a polar bear in your backyard!” The bear had made land on an ice flow and was wandering through the village. Due to safety risks, the authorities put the bear down, but the hide was returned to the town for the museum.
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At Gros Morne National Park, we got to know some of the people who work in the park and call it home. On our first night, we attended an Indigenous sharing circle at the Lobster Cove lighthouse and met Marcella, the park’s Indigenous interpreter. Sitting in a circle with people from around the globe, we learned about the Mi’kmaq peoples, their traditions and way of life. Marcella said we could ask her anything, and the session, which was supposed to be an hour, turned into a two and a half-hour intimate experience where we discussed residential schools, Truth and Reconciliation and the connection to the land we all live on.
Gros Morne’s Indigenous interpreter, Marcella, demonstrating the traditional Newfoundland ugly stick
We learned the connection to the park was strong for the people who worked there. Earlier that day, we had chatted with two of the crew members of the boat that took us up the Western Brook Pond fjord. They spent their winters in the park, hunting and snowmobiling and showed us pictures of the park blanketed in snow. Later that evening, we sat around the wood stove at one of the park’s comfort stations with three young guys who were taking their Masters in Physiotherapy at the University of Toronto and Walter, one of the park wardens. What started out as a quick stop to charge our phones quickly turned into an impromptu party, with the guys grabbing their smores and me our bottle of Cabot Maple Cream.
When Walter found out our new friends had forgotten to pack a pot with their gear, he loaned them one of his own he keeps as a stash to help campers in the park. He brought a load of wood and even built a fire for us and told us stories of moose hunting in the park. When hunters shoot a moose there, they have to take it out in chunks on their backs. One time, it took him and his friends eight hours to transport a huge bull they had shot. He had an impressive set of moose antlers he loaded into the truck to show us. What a great guy.
I’m grateful for all the wonderful people we met during our brief time in Newfoundland. Hopefully some day, I’ll be lucky enough to hear more tales from the Rock.
Happy Act 