Light

Writing for this blog seems to have taken a back seat in my life recently and in a where-the-hell-did-those-months-go moment, I realised last week it’s almost a year since we visited Newfoundland. Maybe I’ll actually get this online before that year is up. (I did, along with a plethora of lighthouse pictures for you!)

A frequent question asked of us about any of our trips is: what was the highlight? I can never answer. Neil says: It’s like trying to pick your favourite child (he doesn’t have any). Before we visited Newfoundland I was most looking forward to Gros Morne, but I struggle to pick that as the best part. Not that it was disappointing – it lived up to all expectations – rather because so many other places amazed me and exceeded what I’d expected of them.

An acquaintance of Neil’s, Canadian by birth, asked why we chose Newfoundland: It’s just sea and trees with a road between them. To a certain extent he wasn’t wrong, but dotted along the edge of that sea are pretty villages with houses rising up soft green hills or clinging impossibly to rough rock. The trees hide shy wildlife and paths that invite feet onto them to discover ponds, still and silent, grass and reeds poking through the surface, wind-blown ripples on larger ones. The road dips into natural harbours, skirts forest edges, passes through small settlements. There is never nothing to see, or do, here.

The body of water around the island is rarely still. This sea meets land in amazing ways, only occasionally hissing onto soft sand, otherwise crashing into high cliffs, bubbling onto pebbled beaches, rushing into clefts and fissures in the ubiquitous rock to perform cartwheels and backflips. Rough, it bounces boats along and tears waves from within itself, their white tops spuming. Round a corner and it is becalmed in a sheltered bay, rippling with an inner movement, the muscles of a sinuous beast beneath a surface of skin, sunlight reflecting off its turquoise surface.

Beneath this sea are huge mammals that rise from the depths to breathe and astound anyone lucky enough to see them do it. Floating in this sea are huge chunks of ice broken from the northern continent as winter turns to summer, drifting south for our eyes to stare at in amazement. Flying over this sea are a myriad of birds, chief of which, the puffin, waddle briefly onto land to entertain us with their antics as they return to the same burrow they left the previous year, with the same mate they had then, to raise another clutch of chicks that will, as they do, spend ten months of the year on the rolling sea.

Alongside the roll of the sea is the rock of the land. Besides the stunning varieties at the shoreline, there are those that have pushed their way through the earth’s mantle to cool and solidify; there are those that were once at the bottom of the sea, their rising and the imprints upon them filling an evolutionary gap in our knowledge of our planet’s history. Boulders lie scattered amongst meadows, poke through the still waters of myriad ponds that fill any available depression in the land, perch precariously atop cliffs, tree roots wrapped around them. They are not grey or brown, they are vivid with orange, pink and cream, coloured green by moss and frilled white with lichen.  

Lighthouses abound, rising gracefully from hard and rough rock, blinking in warning. Most are now unmanned, buildings that were once living quarters restored and open as visitor centres, pictures and panels depicting those who, with their families, spent their lives ensuring safe travel for seafarers. Many were staffed by the same families for generations, son after son inheriting the responsibility of keeping the light going in all weathers. Ledgers kept by lightkeepers are important historical documents – long before any official records they recorded the names of local families, who visited them, what they traded before modern shops existed.

At Cape Spear, the easternmost point of land on Newfoundland, it’s a beautiful sunny day when we visit. A stiff breeze picks up the chill of the sea. I wouldn’t like to be here when that breeze becomes a winter gale howling around these walls when the temperature plummets to sub-zero. The island’s oldest remaining lighthouse, it is set up as it was in the 1930s and half a dozen teenagers in period dress hover around the entrance. Phone-handed and giggling, they smash my scepticism at their ability to impart useful information when they pocket their phones and almost vie for our attention, keen to share their knowledge and ensure we enjoy our experience. Inside, coats hang on hooks and patchwork quilts are thrown across beds; the table in the parlour is set for tea. A storeroom is full of barrels, their contents marked in black letters on their lids, supplies for humans and light, and, in the lighthousekeeper’s office, rolls of fabric stuffed into a wooden frame are the flags they will raise to signal to approaching vessels. It feels as though the family have just walked out for a while and will soon be returning to continue their lives here. It’s evocative and thought-provoking. Much like the whole of this amazing island.