Breathtaking Newfoundland!

The young woman thought that today perhaps she ought to share some of the hidden beauties of her new abode. First, the majesty of the brilliant ocean on a warm, sunny, windy day, with the coastline along the base of Signal Hill.

Last weekend she had ventured to Ferryland, on the Rock's Southshore. It was nearly forlorn when she had hiked up the little trail to the lighthouse with one of her new friends from work. They had stopped to gaze at the rocky islets in the midst of the ocean on one side, giant windmills turning on the other, above coniferous forest that stretched on, untouched, unscathed all around and below.

It had been a bit of a grey day, but with sunlight and blue peeping out from time to time, as though they couldn't make up their minds. Typical temperamental Newfoundland. Mark Twain wouldn's have dared comment on New England weather if he'd have known what it was like out here.

Not like today though. She had gone back for the Shamrock music festival. Only for a couple of hours, but it was another place. Teeming with out-of-province license plates, foreign accents, funny-looking trucks and carts. Rainbow pebble ice cream. Guitar, banjo and fiddle. Dry green and brown burned grass. Lawn chairs. Couples, toddlers, grands. Teenagers trying to sneak a drink. Motorboats slicing up and foaming the bluest ocean water. Jigs and airs. Surely the usual fare for this small town's annual festival. Well-worth the 90-minute drive with her three colleagues.

She held an arm over her forehead for shade, taking long sips from a sweating can of Mountain Dew in her other hand. More  friends with wives and babies. Apparently an elderly woman had passed out a few feet from where the young physicians stood, oblivious, taking in the novelty. A moment of guilt.

I guess we really do go on holiday, or maybe it's proof that we're not quite ready to be real doctors yet, thought the young woman. A sigh. And soon it was time to go back.

No, those were not hand-crafted puppet dolls that she passed as they left the festival grounds. Instruments. The noise-making part made of bottle caps, tinkled and rang like little bells when rustled by the rod. The craftswoman gestured to the lot of them. It's called an "ugly stick".

These were the views as the young woman and one of the others kept looking back the whole walk to the car, stopping to snap away on iPhone cameras, then running to catch up with the other two. The photos didn't at all do them justice. They never did.


Rocked gently into a light doze in the back seat of the little blue Suzuki. So many stories to tell. Memories rolled forward as she again marvelled at the beauty of this place. When the young woman had first come to Newfoundland in April, after the 24-hour flit in January, she and her parents hand toured around a little. Beautiful pebbly beaches -pristine and non-touristed. Mostly because the water was so freezing cold here. They had worn winter jackets as they had strolled alongside the waves. But they had also seen icebergs!



From Signal Hill, and all the way up the northeast coast of the Rock... through Logy Bay and "the coves" -Middle Cove, Pooch Cove, and finally the spectacular, very large and near iceberg at Biscayan Cove -the northeastern most point of North America.

She realized that this was a very delayed virtual recounting of what she had so far seen of Newfoundland. But better late than not.



And now, so much to do here. Much more to think about. Lunch before had been yum -famous fish & chips at the Duke of Duckworth in St. John's. French fries the Newfie way, with "dressing" and gravy. "Dressing" was basically "stuffing" -bread crumbs, savoury, onion, salt, pepper and butter.

The taste and aromas came wafting back in recall, as they drove past foresty hills, tall grasses, pond upon pond, looking a lot more like lakes, pink lupins, ice cream shops and ATM stands, back towards the city. This was one of the most beautiful places in the world, she was sure. Often understated. But it would turn anyone who graced it with a visit into a poet... or at the very least, a romantic.