newfoundlanders aren't friendly

An 'old friend' turns up in Gander

The road to St. John's is full of long climbs and long descents. Highway 1 is the big road cutting through huge landscapes swathed in forest.  We skirt the coastline and are then drawn inland again. Some days we motor and some days are stop, start, stop.  Generally the weather is good and this becomes more obvious when we get hit by rainy days - we are such fair-weather cyclists that if there is shelter we are usually tempted to take it.  This is when the visitor centres become special.  
 

a civilised dinner before squatting someone's garden

We enjoy some cheeky camping: on the edge of a sportsfield behind a school in Gander, in the overgrown garden of a baptist chapel in Glovertown, on the immaculate lawn of a visitor centre in Goobies.  This latter one is shared with Keigo, a 21 year-old Japanese man who we meet on the way into Clarenville where we are refuelling and resupplying.  We don't know what Keigo does in the town because the next day he seems to have no food.  We wonder if he has camped much on his Trans-Canada journey - he seems quite inept and we feel sorry for him.  But not sorry enough to look after him.  Gayle asks him what was his favourite part the journey across Canada. "Saskatchewan."  Why?  "Because someone saved my life there."

sodden but still laughing

In Goobies it rains heavily all evening and night and in the morning Keigo is soaked in his clothes.  He drags his sleeping bag out and literally squeezes the water out of it.  And then in a final pitiful show picks up his 'festival' tent and pours the water out of it.  He remains incredibly cheerful and upbeat. "Tonight motel" he beams. We ride together to the next visitor centre at a road junction,  Whitbourne, where we spend a day and a half using the internet and dodging more rain.  Keigo finds his motel.  We have a night in a lousy pitch down a steep embankment only for me to discover a wonderful grassy spot the next morning.  Ah well.

Before we bumped into Keigo we'd had a night in a cabin in Port Blandford, a small village on an inlet.  We've got soft after staying with Mike and Laura.  But from Whitbourne we wave goodbye to Keigo and take a small road back to the coast at a community called Holyrood.  We don't intend to reach the village but the downhill to the coast draws us onwards.  We decide to camp near to some houses and, just to be polite, we decide to ask the neighbours.  The man we speak to invites us to camp in his garden.  It seems rude not to - and it's grassy - but he doesn't invite us in to use 'the facilities' so I hope he doesn't mind me peeing in his bushes.  It's another rainy night - I'm sure he doesn't mind.  We meet him the next day down the road at work.  He's one of the village grounds keepers.  And we chat with him and his colleague, an English immigrant.  
 

with Keigo

Our night before reaching St. John's is spent at the beach on the west coast of the  peninsula.  We cook our tea at Topsail beach and are invited by a couple to visit them in Halifax, Nova Scotia.  We camp away from the beach but return for breakfast and a youngman with a now-familiar Irish accent asks us where we're heading.  He chats away with us all very friendly-like.  Lots of Canadians had told us how friendly everyone is on Newfoundland and it seems true.
 

Topsail beach

and sunset

St.John's has a great setting - an oval bay almost completely closed off by cliffs to keep out the North Atlantic weather - a perfectly sheltered natural harbour.  There are brightly painted wooden clapperboard houses lining the streets that sweep down to the harbourfront and town centre.  Here the traditional wooden housing gives way to concrete eyesores that mar the picture, but hey ho.  We are using Air b'n'b for the first time and staying with Jody.  Except Jody isn't staying with us it seems.  He isn't at home.  Gayle rummages in the letterbox and finds a key and lets herself in.  Is this burglary?  We find the wifi password in a bedroom and get online.  Gayle's hunch plays out - our host is not here and we are to let ourselves in and make ourselves at home. There's a lot of information about the house and the town.  At the end of his note it reads "Remember: Newfoundlanders aren't friendly, they're just bored."

Grooving Newfoundlanders Ahead

serendipidity #5

It's a cool Sunday morning.  You've got out of the house for your usual morning walk - up past the highway and over to the strip mall where your current favourite coffee shop is.  The coffee isn't so special but the walk is good exercise.  When you pay for your drink you give the cashier enough for the next person too.  Paying it forward.  On the way home you look across the town and up at the sky.  Those black clouds have edged closer.  You can almost smell the rain.  

Some people are calling you.  Well, what have we got here?  A couple on bicycles.  With a lot of stuff on their bikes.  They're saying hello.  They want to know what?  Where the nearest supermarket is?   You give them your big smile.  Well, you're almost there - and there's plenty of choice too.  Where're you from?  England, huh?  And heading where?  Mexico?  Well, ain't that something.

You head homewards and think about those crazy folk riding bikes here in Newfoundland.  You mention it to Laura your wife when you get in and then you wonder if they maybe needed a shower or a chance to wash.  So you put your hat back on and get in the car and drive back to the strip mall.



The sky is black.  We are loading the shopping into our panniers and one of the staff is having a cigarette in the 'smoking zone'.  We get chatting and he seems to know the local hotels.  "They'll gouge you" he almost spat. "It's high season."  We'd seen a motel on the way into Grand Falls-Windsor and we decide to head back there when the man we'd asked for directions reappears.  He's almost apologetic in explaining that he only thought afterwards whether we would like a shower.  Now it's our turn to apologise while we thank him for the kind offer - but we really want a break off the bikes and we'd thought we'd take a room at a motel.  He looks concerned.  "Let me speak to the boss."  He gets on his phone and then asks us if we'd like to come and stay with him and his wife. "My name's Mike - you can follow my car."

two wonderful new friends Mike and Laura

Well, how to make friends quickly.  Laura and Mike are both musicians and play together in two local bands - one fun (community orchestra) and one serious (jazz group).  Actually, the 'serious' one sounds like the most fun.  Laura also does a Sunday gig on the organ at the Catholic cathedral in Windsor.  Mike's hearing has been affected by a brain tumour he is being treated for - it means playing the trombone and directing the community orchestra has become difficult.  Later they call their daughters (one near, one far) and tell them they've taken in two stray cyclists from England.  "Awesome!" replies the nearer.  "Can you trust 'em?" asks the further.  

Laura on her fabulous porch

It's a rainy day but Laura, who grew up here, gves us a tour of her town while Mike drives.  Grand Falls was built around a large paper mill set on the river.  Only the mill workers were allowed to live in Grand Falls.  All the people in service jobs for the town had to live on the other side of the tracks, in Windsor.  There is still a feeling of a socio-economic divide, although the two towns have now merged into one.  The mill closed fairly recently with the fall in newsprit demand and the entire mill has been demolished.  It's but a memory.  The town still has a pulse and many young workers have made their fortunes working in Canada's oilfields, returning here to build silly big houses.  

Laura is involved at the local Arts Centre.  Mike has retired from teaching at a school in the nearby Bishop's Falls.  We visit the next morning to see some of the murals painted by an artist friend.  It's a lovely sunny day and our hosts have offered to take us up to Twillingate - a place also recommended by Flavienne - up on a peninsula on the north coast.  Once we get off the main highway it's clear to see that a lot of the life in Newfoundland is dotted around the coast in a series of fishing villages.  Cod fishing was a big draw here until overfishing with supertrawlers decimated the fish stocks.  The government's sudden fishing ban stunned the island communities in the early 1990's.  Now crab and lobster fishing are the main fishing haul.

We spend a really lovely day out with our new friends.  Twillingate is in a pretty location and there are a fair few tourists about.  The local Masonic Lodge has an art exhibition.  Opposite, the Orange Lodge looks a bit dusty and unloved.  The buildings tell the tale of migration to these shores.  The island also has an unofficial flag - a fetching pink white and green number with resemblance to the Irish flag. It's origins are from Catholic groups on the island, but it became the flag uniting locals opposed to joining the confederation of Canada.  Newfoundland finally joined up in 1948.

"This has made my summer."  Mike is visibly tickled by events.  "It's made ours too", I tell him.  They have never done anything like this before - just invited total strangers in off the street.  We feel really lucky to have met Laura and Mike.  We are quiet and reflective when we ride away the next day.  These are special moments on our journey.

pushing on

headwind

ˈhɛdwɪnd/

noun

noun: headwind; plural noun: headwinds

1. a wind blowing from directly in front, opposing forward motion.

If you look at a map of Newfoundland you will see that there aren't many roads. The main highway running across the island goes from St. John's on the east coast and curves in a big arc across the north and down to the south west corner to Port Aux Basques.  You might also see that there are plenty of settlements all around the coastline.  The island is a little smaller than England but has less than 1% of the population.  We are heading towards St. John's and setting off from Deer Lake we are now on that main highway.  It is a long and very straight and fairly flat road.  It is hell.  We are riding into a headwind.  We are frustrated.  Today we thought we'd knock off a big chunk of the kilometres we need to ride.  There are only 635, according to the road sign on the way out of town.  But after an exhausting hour we have cycled only 9.  We take a break behind one of those mobile phone huts that are plonked beside the road with every mast.

We're not team cyclists - we don't ride in a co-ordinated way, wheel-to-wheel, like professional cyclists.  We're not even sure we are cyclists.  We think we're travellers on bikes.  But today we will have to be cyclists.  We agree to ride together in our battle with the wind.  It's a long day.

there's trees in them thar hills

Happily by mid-afternoon the road gets a kink in it and we are suddenly riding with the wind on our backs.  We cruise past some large lakes and some very large caravan parks.  The road is built for the big trucks that pass by, with long gentle climbs and swooping descents.  All day we are surrounded by fir trees.  It looks like primeval forest.  At the end of the day we are in the middle of nowhere and end up camping on a rise above the road, right on the forest edge.  We are not in any drivers' sightlines up here so we don't worry that we may be spotted.  Everyone is just cruising that big road to somewhere else.
In the night we hear a crashing noise coming from the forest.  There is one large mammal heading towards us.  It is not creeping stealthily, it is literally crashing through the trees.  We put our headtorches on and make a bit of noise.  Is it a bear?  Or is it a moose?  After a while we hear nothing.  And then a blast from a truck's air horn. A prolonged blast of the airhorn.  We imagine a moose caught on the road.  But we don't look.  Satisfied nothing is coming to get our chocolate stash, we nod off.

who's watching who?

It's greatly disappointing to discover the town we have been aiming for, for lunch, turns out to be off on a side road.  Well off - too far off.  So instead we settle for a garage and a little visitor centre with a bench on the porch.  The visitor centres across Newfoundland turn out to be safe havens for us.  They're nearly always on the main road and provide us with the three w's: water, wi-fi and washing.  

Newfoundland is famous for it's lousy weather

Further down the road we get to South Brook, a deceptively small place.  We have almost passed through this hamlet when we decide to stop for water for cooking later on.  Happily we knock on a door and a woman can fill our 4-litre bag.  That 4 kilo bag then hangs off my bike as we start an endless uphill section that brings us to a highpoint with a view of the hilltop Gaff Topsail.  The hill is on the rail trail we forewent - a reminder of the shortcut that never was.  We end the day after riding along what feels like a high plateau full of small lakes.  It's a Saturday afternoon and we pass another caravan park that's funfair noisy.  Out of earshot we find some cleared land up for sale and we camp behind bushes.  Just ahead is the town of Badger.  

"Look as if you're having fun" Gayle shouts

 I tie our food up away from the tent for the first time.  We've only been in Canada seven weeks. It's about time we started doing this wild camping thing properly.

lots of water in these parts

serendipidity #4

"Where're ya heading?" The man shouts out of the window of his car.  
"Mexico" I shout back, grinning.  No-one expects this answer.
"Ya kidding?"  He nearly falls out of his car in disbelief, but quickly recovers to shake my hand.  Gayle is pulling into the lay-by as his wife comes over to join us.
"Isn't it beautiful!" Gayle is smiling - probably because the skies are starting to clear and the rain is behind us.  In front of us is a glorious view of the hills surrounding the lake.

 

Ken and Angela are from Toronto.  Ken tells me he used to cycle until he had a problem with his knee.  He stopped cycling and gained weight.  But last year he discovered e-bikes and now he's cycling again.  They insist on giving us their egg butties.  I want to refuse, we have some lunch, but they insist and Gayle is happy to accept.  They also give us some fruit and, while I'm not looking, Angela slips Gayle a pack of vegetables.  While we're standing there chatting the two lads from Montreal cycle past.  I notice they're wearing Viking helmets.  Gallic humour.

Setting off again along the lake shore we finally begin to climb.  It's a long straight drag up the hill and out of the national park.  We pass some roadworkers at a false summit.  Looking up to the next summit Gayle asks one of them "Is that it?" He grins and nods, yes.   Before we descend down the other side we come to a view point with a couple of picnic benches and pit toilets.  We stop for lunch and gaze across to the southern hills of the park. Over there is the strange geological feature of the park - a plateau of barren rock that has been pushed up out of the earth's crust.  We can't see it.  But we get a great view anyway.

The onward ride is fast for us - a long downhill that throws us out on the main highway at Deer Lake.  It's a service town.  We do some laundry at the Visitor Centre and load up on supplies before heading out along the rail trail that cuts directly east across the middle of the island.  This trail will save us a huge amount of kilometres on the highway and take us close to the highest point in Newfoundland.  Except the trail has been bombed.  Or at least it looks like it has.  It's rocky and pitted and really bad to cycle. Also, there's nowhere to camp.  So we pull off it and find some wasteland on the edge of town to camp.  We decide to take the highway instead.  I'm really dsappointed but in hindsight it turns out to be the right decision.  We later read a cyclist's account of his TransCanadian ride and one day where he rides only 25km, on this very same stretch of rail trail.  He describes it as his worst day in the whole ride.

the Viking trail

Everyone knows that Christopher Colombus discovered America, don't they?  That's why they celebrate Colombus Day in the U.S., right?  Except Colombus never reached north America, let alone 'discovered' it.  As all good historians know, the man now given credit where credit is due is Leif Eriksson, an Icelander who came to explore west of Greenland in the early 11th century.  It's believed he landed with his men somewhere around the St. Lawrence gulf and as a Viking settlement has been identified at the northern tip of Newfoundland, this has UNESCO world heritage status as a possible first European settlement. The Vikings called the area Vinland because they found grapes growing here.  Can you imagine that?  

We can't as we pedal southwards along the western coast of the northern peninsula.  We go from fishing village to fishing village.  Lots of crab pots and lobster pots are stacked up on the shoreline.  In a small shop we tell the shopkeeper that we're cycling to St. John's, the provincial capital on the east coast.  "That be quite a ride, that be" she coos in understatement.  There's a definite hint of Irish accent in the voices of the Newfoundlanders we meet.  It seems to have prevailed across the years since Irish, Scots and English settled here to fish.  On our second day it rains.  We take a long lunch in a visitor centre and then push on, finally stopping for a cheeky camp in a village on some land cleared for building.  Continuing southwards the next day we have glorious sunshine and inglorious headwinds that sometimes kill us dead in our tracks.  It's exhausting but we just have to plod on.  In the distance we can see the mountains of the Gros Morne National Park rising up from the coast.  The tops are flat and the sides are steep. 

looking out on the St. Lawrence Seaway and back across to Quebec

 We want to stop and camp but have run out of water.  We turn off into the village of Portland Creek to fill up, only to be told by the dour shopkeeper that the village has no water but she can sell us some bottled. She points to a collection of small plastic bottles.  I wonder how many we'd need to fill our big bottles and the Ortlieb water carrier we also use each evening.  So here we are - up Portland Creek without a paddle.  Down the road we cross a stream but there's a very bad smell around.  Blood stains on the road indicate some sort of roadkill incident and we assume the carcass is not far off.  Happily, there's another stream further along, so we fill up there and filter it just to be safe.  Our campsite this evening is in a field full of wild flowers behind a hedge of trees.  It's perfect.

The Gros Morne national park is on our left as we continue along the coast.  Passing through Cow Head village we're chased by a silent rottweiler who starts lolloping after us along the road.  A neighbour calls him away from us and it takes me a good hour to get the adrenaline out of my system.  I'm scared of dogs but I'm really scared of big dogs that don't bark.  They cannot have friendly intentions, can they?  

We stop at one of the access points to the park and Gayle goes for a long walk to take photos while I sit with the bikes in an over-flowing carpark and read.  There's a non-stop trail of visitors walking in or out of the park, along a boardwalk over the boggy approaches to reach the shore of the rather dramatic Western Pond.  There you can take a boat tour of the lake which reaches into the surrounding mountains.  It looks like a thriving business.  Only four people look like they are kitted up for an overnight stay in the park and I reflect on how the visitors seem to 'consume' the park's attractions.  It reminds me of Windermere in the English Lake District and it amuses and depresses me in equal measure.  But hey, the sun is shining and not everyone wants to rough it out in the woods. 

That night we camp just below the road in a thicket of bushes that just about gives us cover from the road above.  We play hide and seek with passing cars when we need to move about the tent.  That's the only problem with light nights these days.

In the morning we find one of the park campsites to get water.  The campsite is perched on a clifftop and has basic facilities.  And it's busy.  People are arriving to camp early in order to grab a good spot when others set off.  It's nice to chat with other people but we're not tempted to stay.  Instead we continue to a village where we just about manage to stock up.  And as it's now raining we opt for a restaurant burger 'n' chips lunch.  In the afternoon we reach the main visitor centre for Gros Morne National Park.  It's busy with staff and visitors.  It seems that people planning on backpacking into the park get a briefing from staff first.  We just want to get some shelter from the rain, get online and maybe get a bit of laundry done.   At closing time we are cooking our dinner in the carpark and wondering where to camp.  Thankfully there are a series of trails cut into the forest leading to cross-country ski-routes for the winter.  We want to get away from the carpark for an undisturbed night so we head along the tracks and camp on hard ground surrounded by dark thick forest.  The sky is dark and threatening.  It all seems a little bit spooky.

It rains most of the night.  

At first light we return to the carpark where a few overnighting cars are parked.  There are also two other cyclists.  Their stuff is spread out in the carpark.  The two young men are from Montreal and when they turned up last night they chose a spot we had also looked at - a nice bit of grass behind a hedge.  What they hadn't realised was that the whole carpark drained into the grass.  At some point in the night they were flooded out and now they're trying to dry off.  They're very cheerful and cool guys and we do the usual exchange of stories - where we've been and where we're going.  Considering their crap night they laugh a lot.  Clearly they are quite mad.  We are sorry to say goodbye - it's been a while since we've met any cycle tourists.

cruising

loading the Bella Desgagnes

 Thankful that we don't have to pack up the tent, we rise at early o'clock, quickly load up and scuttle along to the town harbour where the supply ship is coming in to dock.  There are a few other passengers.  We look apprehensive when a container is unloaded and plonked down on the dock in front of us and a man in hard hat and high viz jacket tells us we can wheel our bikes into it.  We must look a bit dubious.  We knew this is how it is with the ship - all the supplies, cars and motorbikes too are loaded into containers and then stacked in neat piles in the open rear of the ship.  The ship has its own crane to move the loads around.  Inside the container is one of those cheap low bike racks where you just wheel the front wheel into it. There are a few bikes in the rack already but such racks are useless for loaded bikes with racks and panniers. In the end we're able to squeeze ours into a corner jammed up to the wall.

 

There's not much to the ship for passengers - a couple of lounges, a restaurant/cafe area and lots of cabins.  We've booked a seat only for the three day trip up the coast so we head up to the lounge with the best views and dump our bags.  The lounge is empty but for a family of Innu and three women on the far side who appear to be getting dressed.  This is Joan, Mary and Adrianne, three friends who decided to ride the ship's whole circuit, starting in Rimouski, coming all the way up to Blanc Sablon and then returning.  It takes about a week in total.  "Last night the ship was full" they tell us. "Not one empty seat".  We look around the almost-deserted room. "They all got off in the middle of the night".  Clearly these ladies are tripping.

three great travel companions

The ship's itinerary means that it calls into to several ports a day, for at least a couple of hours at each one.  Passengers can get off and wander round the villages.  Gayle is excited about Harrington Harbour.  This is an anglophone community settled by fisherman coming from New Foundland.  Last year we watched a light comedy set in the village - a story about the villagers conning a prospective doctor into staying in this remote spot.  The mainland looks much flatter now.  Still lots of trees, but also lots of small lakes.  The coastline is rocky with quite a few small barren islands offshore.

We spend two days and two nights working our way up the coast.   We get off at the villages if it's light and go for a wonder (and a wander).  In Harrington Harbour I'm in one of the two village stores when I hear a local walk in and chat to someone.  The accent is almost West Country......where does the accent come from? I keep listening.  Then the man lets out an "Aarrr" and I think "pirate!"  

In Blanc Sablon we retrieve our bikes, load up and ride the short distance to the Labrador border for a photo.  We've been warned about the local small black fly but nothing quite prepares us for the dusk attack down on the beach where we have camped.  There's a glorious sky at sunset but it's marred by the midge hoods we have to wear.  Quebec is about five times the size of France with a population of just over 8 million.  There'd probably be more people if it wasn't for these flies.........

serendipidity #3

Our shopping ritual is generally always the same: park up at the supermarket, recite the list of items required, one of us goes in and shops, one of us stays outside with the bikes.  It rarely fails, although I have been known to forget the occasional essential item. Ahem.

We make it to Le Havre St.Pierre and finally find the shipping company office where we get our tickets for the supply ship that will take us up the Quebec shoreline to the Labrador border.  The town is not too big and we need a camping spot where we can pack up early for the 6am departure.  Happily, we spy a bit of grass tucked away behind the shipping office.  Everything is going to plan.  Now all we need is food for the boat journey.  It's Gayle's turn to shop.  She comes out after about three hours and tells me she can't find this and she can't decide on that.  So I go in to take some important decision on what kind of bread or which biscuits.  This takes me only two and a half hours, because I am waylaid looking for milk powder, which wasn't on our list in the first place.  

So, after all this time we are finally loading up our bikes in the carpark when a man approaches us.  Where are we from? Where are we heading?  Where are we camping tonight?  He's quick, he's direct.  We fire off the answers.  He responds by explaining that he has some cabins he rents out on the edge of town, but he has a small basic one that is empty tonight - we can have it for free tonight if we'd like?  We say yes, thank you very much.

Daniel with a photo of his grandfather

 Daniel left home when he was 16.  He worked away for years and returned years later to sell the family home on the shoreline and used the money to buy a smaller house and some land.  On this land he's built three luxury cabins for holidaymakers.  He has the air of a successful and benelovent business man. He tells us how lucky he is.  He has had help from others, great deals were struck, all to help realise his business dreams.  We are the beneficiaries of his largesse and we are really grateful - the small cabin is comfy and convenient.  It makes leaving in the morning so much simpler - and we have a nice evening in a room with furniture, rather than just lying in our tent.

After talking non-stop and showing us around for an hour he realises that we are fading fast.  He apologises - a bad habit of talking too much.  Before he departs, all Daniel asks is that we clean up in the morning. Such a nice guy.

the long, long road

arty shot

not an arty shot

 

bus stop?  on one hot day, around lunchtime we came across a picnic table in the trees

I'm looking out of the window at the Visitor Centre for the Manitou Falls - a spectacular waterfall by all accounts although I am not in the least bit tempted to head down the trail.  It is hammering down outside.  One of the women working at the centre looks out at the carpark with me.  We have already asked if it would be okay to camp here for the night and the two women readily agreed, out of pity, I suspect.  But now as we gaze out at a carpark that is now flooding with surface water she asks "Can you swim?"

a familiar scene

The North Shore is turning into an endurance event, albeit one that is not too tasking.  The trees have been driving me insane, driving me on.  Gayle seems quite unperturbed by them. The weather has been reliably good but today it starts raining and it doesn't want to stop.  At lunchtime we feel overjoyed to find this unexpected visitor centre here in the middle of nowhere.  Like an oasis in the desert.  We hurry inside with our flask and lunch.  It's a quiet day, unsurprisingly, at the visitors centre and we chat with the two women in a bit of French and a bit of English.  Thankfully by closing time the rain has stopped.  We put our tent up off to one side.

our hosts at the visitor centre

                 The road to Havre St. Pierre suddenly opens up.  The trees thin out, there are coastal views again.  We pass through several small communities.  One of them looks different - a little scruffy, new houses - and then we realise it's an Innu community.  There's a large wooden church in the village which we look into out of curiosity.  It's an eye-opener and reminds us of Catholic churches in the Chiapas region of Mexico.  The altar decoration and stained glass all reflect the indigenous community.  The indigenous community is supported by government grants, but the benefits only apply if the people stay in the community.  Fishing and hunting rights remain unrestricted, unlike for other Canadians, and regardless of stocks.

Our ride along the North Shore of the St. Lawrence Seaway ends in Havre St. Pierre.  Here we're picking up the supply boat that services the coastal settlements further up the Quebec coast.  We are both really excited about the boat trip - Gayle is looking forward to being on the water and another viewpoint of the coast and I'm looking forward to sleeping without having an ear open for bears.

do not camp here!

not your regular garden gnomes