While there were places around Trepassey that I wanted to see – the Rex Murphy article had more influence than I had thought – there were places that the gannet loving Wisconsinite would like to see – well one place – Cape St. Mary’s that great bird tenement overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.
And a beautiful day for it, sunny, warm.
I was going to take the more scenic – and longer – way the Placentia Bay route. The Placentia Bay route as to not duplicate a road, so that I could see more ocean and to pass through the home town of the only NBA player from Newfoundland. All I had to do is get to Whitbourne Junction on the Trans Canada – a road that is losing its mythic appeal.
Stopping for gasoline, just after entering the TCH, a motor cyclist, seeing my camera as I was satisfying my Irving Mainway gasbar fetish – so iconic only North Atlantics come near and they are a distant second.
We talk about film – where I’ve been where he has been. He states that the road up to St. Anthony is much better than the TCH. He is heading down the road to Bay D’espoir ( pronounced despair remember?) one of the routes that I wanted to take as there is a long road with nothing until the end 609km away only 80 short of the distance to Corner Brook.
Envy swells,
He has travelled the great road from coast to coast – meaning BC not Port-aux-Basques – talked about the lying down Suzuki type to the Gold Wing type which I took as being a slight on my age – I was thinking more in the lines of Harleys –bad on the back he said.
The lure of the open road was killed when a Ford Escort type pulled up and what seemed to be is partner and son wanted to know if he wanted them to wait. He seemed to want them to push on.
Travelling now on the Avalon is a mixture of checklist – to see what is still there and new things as all the superficial stuff has been seen. In this case the giant ball and bat in Dunville – still there but the name of the park painted out – as well as the ball park itself.
Pit stop at the Agentia tourist office in which everyone ran back inside stubbing out their ciggies and assumed their positions. They must not get a lot of people through any of these places as this was happening a great deal.
Felt bad as all I wanted to do is used the facilities and here they were turning on their displays and standing at attention just in case a question was asked.
Questioned were asked back and forth, Anita and Megan brought out brochures, the Wisconsinite wanted to take a poster than no seems to have. I made photographs and cringed when one display started playing the Star Spangled Banner
I complain and hum the Ode.
Route 100 is a good driving road. It looks straight on the map but it dips and curves and rises. The villages are more isolated, usually in valleys quite compact but with no conveniences. It looks like everyone depends on either Placentia or St. Bride’s for their needs.
Stop twice not really sure where along the way but I wanted to photograph a boat on the wrong side of the road and some graffiti.
Stop again in St Bride’s due to a letter box and a wood pile.
Turning east on the last leg of the outward bound part of the outing, it’s mauzy. Just like that I cannot see the road and the temperature has dropped. By the time we hit Cape St. Mary’s we are severely underdressed and the sky has closed so much that I can barely see the Interpretive Centre.
Wisconsinite rents rain gear to keep warm. I remind myself that this in not the winter and I am almost in my winter clothing – a sweatshirt.
The iidea was to picnic on the egg mayonnaises and then head out to the birds but the gale force winds ended that idea. Instead a traditional British picnic eating in the machine.
Guide in the centre jokes about staying on the path as there are two people out there from two days ago.
This bringis back memories of my stroll on the Yorkshire Moors to Top Withins and Hawarth in the fog and a man at the pub in Haworth imploring me not to go out on the moors as if I were going to meet the hound of death. It was the same camera being drenched that day also.
Everyone was apologising for the weather and while there is a different feel bright sun this seemed fitting not only because we were on the Avalon but for the other senses needed. The seabirds with their mocking laugh, the rocks that turned into sheep. The birds that would appear and disappear in the mauze.
I was more interested in the land around the place than the birds but did like looking at the tourists and their handling of the fog and wind. They seemed to have had as much of a pecking order in where to stand as the birds in choosing their nesting place. Most seemed to take the place as a stop to check off on their round the rock tour then head out to someplace else.
Racing through Branch where I made a quick snap a couple of years ago, I saw something interesting and made a quick u-turn. It was a ship on land – there seems to be a lot of them this trip.
I headed for town, she headed for the ocean, not so much for the formal but for the objects and places. I am curious – nervous to see how these play in the mist.
Then down to the beach for me as it seems that I am the official photographer of anything dead, where I sacrificed my lens cap to the whims of Iemanjá.
Another companion joined in the fun as a dog wanted to play hard to get fetch. I throw a piece of driftwood he retrieves it and places it in some pile.
That is until we get set to leave then he wants to play in earnest. Coming to the machine actually bringing back the sticks etc.
A photograph of the owner of the convenience in Branch before heading back the long – and more interesting – way to the flat via St. Vincent’s.
I had brought along the photograph of Patricia in case we were in Portugal Cove South – the idea was to lessen the time between the making and receiving of the image.
Whales – along with dive bombing gannets – happened yet again in St. Vincent’s so video aimed at the sky and sea, camera aimed at the capelin slaughter and things left. fog and time of day had me fearing sharpness due to camera shake – another problem with point and shoot digitals – and I was correct a lot didn’t make it. but then again a lot were made as I almost filled the card and exhausted two batteries.
A race to Peter’s River, following the gannets but too late both in light and birds.
Duckish now and with the fog, visibility was down to almost nothing. Couple this with the fear of errant moose and roads with no verges and it made for a tense trip up route 10. The 120 or so kilometres – roughly ninety minutes – took three hours.
Trash bags animated, rocks became suspicious, fox dashes out then back. Code word for animal on the road was “stop”
No comments:
Post a Comment