Wonder-full

As it does, time passes and holidays long in the planning are soon merely memories. So it is with this one. Our Canadian adventure is over, succeeded by a short trip to England, and we are now back home in Ohakune. As with all our holidays, I’m too busy seeing new sights and embedding myself in local culture to write more than a few scribbled sentences in a journal. When my body has recovered from the effects of twenty-four hours on a plane and a time difference of twelve hours, I leaf through pages marked with suncreamed fingerprints and the odd splash of condensation from the bottom of a cold bottle or glass, deciphering handwriting that is shaky at best, almost illegible here. Sitting at my desk I translate these incoherent ramblings into something vaguely readable, for this blog and my own satisfaction, reminding myself what a wonderful time we had, pestering Neil to provide photos to accompany the words. I hope you’ll enjoy them.

16-18^th July 2023

When planning our trip we thought about where to stay based on what we wanted to see, trying to avoid flitting about up and down the same roads, yet not moving on every day. Rather than an hour’s drive each way from Gander to visit the Kittiwake Coast we decided to move on and spend a few nights there, specifically Newtown. Thus serendipity landed us in one of the most beautiful places on earth. 

The coastline here differs from that of Bonavista, the road staying closer to sea level, skirting small bays edged by round boulders rather than jagged rocks. They protrude from ponds and the sea like hump-backed monsters frozen in time, their heads and limbs underwater, so much so that I expect a water-streaming head to suddenly appear. Clear blue water (helped by the perfect sky above) stands around them, often unmoving, mirroring the buildings and piers of towns much prettier than Bonavista’s. This is the Wonder Shore.

Many of the villages on this coast are on islands with a tickle – the Newfoundland word for a narrow inlet of water – between them, bridges and causeways providing access that originally was by boat only. We stay right on the edge of one of these tickles, a strip of lawn and a small pergola between the house and the water, smooth round boulders topped with a hat of grass on the other side. It’s the best view I’ve ever had from a bedroom window. The village has the archetypal multi-hued buildings, reflected in a calm evening sea, the sun streaking reds and oranges across the sky. It’s so beautiful I could look at it forever, peace settling on me, a feeling that I could happily do nothing but sit here and watch the light change.

Of course we don’t, heading to the picturesque town of Greenspond and an eponymous walking trail that leads from there around a small peninsula. A short but beautiful 6km or so, it undulates around the coast, crossing rocky ridges and bouncing across peaty soil. Nearer the town, roofed wooden structures house picnic tables and barbecue grills. Always the sea is to our side, neither crashing nor rippling, just rising and falling against rocks and into pebbled beaches in small coves, calm and unhurried, like the general feeling around here. Gullies sheltered from the wind house short trees and we pause in one for our picnic lunch, hiding from the cool sea breeze that counters the sun’s heat.

In Newtown we kayak around the tickles, gliding effortlessly through calm water, and out to an island a few km offshore, the water beneath us barely knee-deep in places. Out of the shelter of the harbour we bounce into small waves before grinding onto a wide beach where we wander and paddle. Now home only to seabirds, berry bushes, and a stiff breeze, it once had a thriving community. Decades ago people moved to the mainland from this and other islands farther out, often taking their houses with them. It’s a concept familiar to Kiwis (with a successful TV show about it) but I doubt it’s ever been done in New Zealand by chucking empty drums and barrels – oil, whiskey, anything – into the lowest level of a building and floating it across a body of water, or by stringing ropes around a house and recruiting a small army of neighbours and friends to drag it across the ice.  

Later we wander out to the wetland reserve, binoculars and guide to local birds in hand. In the distance I spot a sail, a yacht. It seems wrong, a splash of white just a little too bright. Through the binoculars it looks bent at the top, and wavy-edged rather than taut as a sail should be. With a gasp and an excited little flump in my stomach, I realise it’s an iceberg in the distance. The Wonder Shore lives up to its name. I’m going to miss it more than many places we’ve visited.