Sunday, May 2nd
Staying Put
Through many dangers, toils and snares
I have already come;
‘Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far
and Grace will lead me home.— John Newton. Amazing Grace
Avis’ offices in St. John’s are closed over the weekend and Monday the first opportunity to get a rental. Thus the official start of the road trip gets delayed a bit further.
As I step out of the hotel at around 9, I quickly realize that I underestimated the cold. It is around four degrees Celsius and windy and I would need both sweater and a coat. I decide to abandon my plan to find breakfast somewhere and instead opt for the hotel restaurant which serves the purpose just fine. Afterwards, now properly equipped, I try again.
St. John’s feels a lot like Tromsø. The same slightly bleak but practical northerly architecture. The same wide, forlorn streets. A similar harbour with city on one side and mountains on the other. And, it appears, the same open, weather-hardened, happy-for-distraction people. George Street is possibly the street with the most pubs in the world, unless there is another street somewhere with only pubs (assuming you include the triple x establishments at the doggy end). Two more notable differences between Tromsø and St. John’s: the latter is a lot more hilly and has a lot more churches. Both I discover on the stroll back to the hotel. The largest church, also the most elevated, is the Catholic basilica of St. John the Baptist. Once upon a time, it was the largest church in North America (or so the sign claims). It features a clock on each of its two towers, which differ by about five minutes. Unfortunately, I forget to check whether at least one of the was right.
In the harbour lies HMCS Fredericton of the Canadian navy with preparations going on for some sort of official act. Flags, microphones, a tent and seats for the honoraries, that sort of thing. Strolling around, I also stumble across a small parade of navy people.
The city’s most important tourist attraction is Signal Hill. According to Wikipedia, it is being visited by 97% of all visitors. (Shouldn’t these kinds of statistics have 83%?) It is not hard to see why. The hill looms over the city with an overbearing presence, forming one side of the small passage into the harbour. The only time it and the tower on its top cannot be seen is, when it is foggy. Which presumably it is quite often, even this morning. But the clouds are being blown away and I start the half-hour stroll up. You take the road to a visitor center (closed) and then can walk a trail along the cliff’s edge up to Cabot Tower.
The tower was built early in the 20th century to mark the 400th anniversary of John Cabot sailing into the harbour and replaces various barracks and hospitals that stood here before. There is a lot more history about the place, of which you can read in Wikipedia, if you are so inclined. Instead, I follow a path to Lady’s Lookout (there probably is a lovely story around the name) and then down towards a village called Quidi Vidi. The trail leads through a curios landscape of seven foot high bushes or possibly trees. They are quite a bit away from leafing yet so all is gray and brown and muddy. Add to that the grey of the skies and the cry of the seagull. Rather Hitchcockian. Still a most lovely walk.
Quidi Vidi is described variably as quaint or picturesque in the guide books. However, the needle on my idyll-o-meter isn’t even trembling. Granted, the town has a tiny protected harbour surrounded by either high cliffs or lush hills with buildings and roads strewn in for good measure. But it doesn’t strike my as quite as lovely as other places. Maybe it’s the season and if I came back in summer with ample green it would all be a lot more satisfying. Or it is just the goddamn guide books and the anticipation they build.
I walk back along Quidi Vidi lake, apparently a hotbed of all sorts of sports. For one, it features a 3.8 km trail around it which makes for a really nice running track: good length and no inclines. Circle the lake eleven times and you have yourself a nice marathon.
Back at the hotel around two, I decide to try a rule of travel that Pete McCarthy established: When you are new to a place, go get a newspaper and a drink. So I venture to YellowBelly, a relatively new brewpub, opened only in 2008. Along the way, I re-check the navy’s festivities, but I appear to be to late. The ship is being cleaned up already. At the pub, I get a pint of their Fighting Irish Red Ale. Since it is Sunday, they don’t have a regular newspaper, only the local version of Time Out (the name of which eludes me at the moment), which last long enough to also try their Pale Ale.
An hour later, it appears that finally the sun has come out, so I leave. As I walk along Harbour Street, the sound of bagpipes playing Amazing Grace drifts across. HMCS Fredericton has left by now and is steaming away. It appears that the ceremony was some crew change of sorts, as there are many people left behind watching their sons and possibly daughters disappear out into the Atlantic. Now, it may only be two pints of fine ale, a lone piper and a mother making pictures of a leaving man o’ war speaking, but here is a thought: Where exactly lies the progress in that we are now also sending our daughters to die for their country?
I walk back to the hotel to avail myself to the powers of the Internet. The paper I was reading at the pub mentioned a bookstore named The Bookery at Signal Hill which should be close, given that the Signal Hill Road starts about three hundred meters beyond the hotel. A search on Google Maps earlier revealed only one store of new books not of the Christian bible supply variety and that was at the Avalon Mall half a day’s walking away. Which proves two points: Google Maps is crap at replacing the yellow pages. And Pete was absolutely right. (So always follow his other rule, too: Whenever you see a bar that has your name, go in and have a drink. Great man, indeed)
The Bookery is a bookstore and clock shop also featuring, according to their website “sweet treats, organic fair trade coffee, loose leaf teas, and drinking chocolate”. It also lives in the city’s oldest surviving building. That it was build in 1804 sounds more impressing, if you know that St. John’s had not one but two Great Fires. Staff is most helpful when you search for some travel guides. Moon’s guide for Atlantic Canada was chosen solely on not being as hopeless as Frommer’s (first impression from a quick looks seems to confirm). My suggestion, that I would also be happy to buy some travel literature and go from there, led to a most excellent recommendation: David W. McFadden’s ‘An Innocent in Newfoundland.’ Very poetic and very funny. I can say that already because on the way back from the bookstore, I stopped at O’Briens Park at the start of Signal Hill Road on account of the sun being out and there being some nice benches.
Dinner at the Duke of Duckworth. Not so much for the food but because they seem to be having a good beer selection and, rare for a pub in St John’s, no live music. I settle at the bar, order fish and chips and a Storm Irish Red. The former comes with a huge portion of excellent chips, the latter tastes surprisingly creamy. You know you are in Canada when The Northern Pikes play in a pub. Continue reading McFadden, switching to Duke’s Own (a medium brown ale), as a fellow comes to the bar ordering a Keith’s ale and something that is being served in a soda glass with ice and a straw. Which makes me realize that you got to love a country where woman are happily drinking beer.
A bit later, a bloke comes to the bar, takes a seat next to me, and proceeds to get his iPod out, overpowering the pub’s stereo. That seems to be my sign to go back to the hotel. On the way, I am passed by the Party Limo Bus. Now, that can’t be good.
Beer of the day: YellowBelly’s Fighting Irish Red Ale, YellowBelly Pale Ale, Storm Irish Red, The Duke’s Own (Yes, that may be a bit much. But I foresee rather disappointing day’s ahead. Plus, I could stop anytime if I wanted to.)