The Mist Clears

11-14^th August 2023

In St John’s the mist finally dissipates, the wind so strong I think little would be able to stand in its way. On Signal Hill small trees struggle to hold onto their roots and I struggle to hold onto my balance. (Later, it will take me ten minutes of tugging to comb the knots from my pony-tailed hair.) Still, I’d rather have the wind than the fog and the air is fresh and invigorating after a few days of haze and light rain. The site is where Marconi first received a transatlantic signal, although its name stems not from that but from its original use as a military and naval signal point.

Signal Hill overlooks The Narrows, the entrance to St John’s’ harbour. Looking down from above it seems too narrow for any ship to pass through, let alone the large cruise ships we are told dock here. Thankfully there are none in the harbour today, a few fishing ships the only ones docked. At sea level The Narrows seems much wider, the lump of land that is Signal Hill appearing farther away than this point did when we were up there.

At Cape Spear the ubiquitous rocks of the coastline are more rounded than we’ve seen on most of the island, a fact I initially attribute to waves, then realise those higher up are too, so presume it’s either geological or the wind and rain at this exposed point. Certainly the sea rolls into land with some force here, blue-green boiling into gaps in the cliffs, exploding into bright white fountains against the dark rock, showers of droplets wind-blown onto land. The fountains subside to recoil underwater, turning pale green, then dusky jade before merging back into the sea. I think of my mother, who loved a wild sea and would have watched this for hours, as could I.

I find the city of St John’s unprepossessing. We can find no signs for the famed Jellybean houses, noted in all promotional material for the town as ‘must-see’, and resort to asking in a café. Turns out this is a generic term and such a place doesn’t exist. We wander to an area where we should find some and do, rows of bright colours somewhat spoiled by thick strings of cables and unkempt weed-strewn pavements. I wonder at the pressure of keeping a place so spotless and pristine looking; Neil wonders if those who choose a dull colour are asked to move away!

Downtown is livelier than it was on our first visit, a Sunday when it seemed nothing was open and tourists wandered aimlessly around, but even so boarded up shops sit alongside those selling souvenirs. It appears this is so throughout the city, both places we’ve stayed in being on fairly tidy streets but to access them we have to walk through much less salubrious areas. Neil is convinced we are staying on the edge of the red light district this time and we certainly feel a little uncomfortable walking back from dinner in the dark, especially as the wind has died and the fog re-appeared.

As we cram the last things into our suitcases the next morning I’m ready to move on. We’ve definitely ‘done’ Newfoundland and, although there are some places I’d happily re-visit, we are unlikely to return. We’ve seen all we wanted to see and don’t feel we’ve missed anything. It’s with some sadness that we drop off the hire car and our bags, walking through the small airport to the departure gate. I watch the colourful houses of St John’s recede below me, the fog claiming them before the height does. The highways of Toronto are stacked with rush hour traffic that would be a culture shock if we arrived from New Zealand let alone after five weeks in Newfoundland. Thankfully we don’t have to negotiate them, our stop brief and restricted to the airport terminal. In amazement I realise that in less than twelve hours we’ll be faced with similar traffic on the M25. Already I miss the slower pace of life we’ve just left on a tiny island in the North Atlantic.