We woke to a sunny morning, rested from our harrowing night time drive.
As usual, my morning starts with a cup of tea, then taking Chloe out for her morning pee and poop. We usually play for a while, letting her run about, taking in all of the new smells.
During this morning activity, a stranger walked past, made a fuss of Chloe, and invited us to camp on their large property. That’s what I love about people in Newfoundland – they are friendly and inviting.
They also offered us all sorts of travel tips, one of them being a scenic drive through Port au Port, and around the peninsula to Cape St George.
It’s shorter than the Cabot Trail with twice the scenery. I highly recommend the drive if you are travelling in Newfoundland.
The scenery varied from sandy or pebble beaches to stunning cliffs rising out of the sea, barren glacier scraped mountain tops, to colourful hamlets of cozy homes. Ground cover, clinging desperately to land, escaping the ever present wind. The scenery around every twist and turn is an opportunity to stop and take it all in.
We often take short side trips during our adventure, exploring the narrow roads less travelled. During one of these, we came across an information centre, where the hosts baked buns in a wood fired oven.
We sampled the bread, still hot from the oven, and when smeared with butter and molasses, brought back a flood of memories from my youth spent in a South African sugar milling village. It tasted divine.
During this stop, we chatted with the information centre staff, and learned about the location and its harsh winters. The relentless wind, stunting the trees, the driven snow blanketing the landscape for months until the spring thaw.
We also met Sam and Carley Tomlin, (flatouttreavellers) travelling full time with their converted bus called Ol George.
We left the peninsula, and continued our drive up to Corner Brook, then headed back towards the coast, exploring the Bay of Islands.
We drove the the end of three roads and looked around York Harbour, Lark Harbour, and Little Port. As usual, each small bay has some kind of quay, with an assortment of fishing vessels, and a small hamlet or f houses standing against the elements.
Instead of boondocking in the open, we camped in Blow Me Down Campground outside York Harbour. The name is obviously earned judging by the windswept trees in the area.
We turned in for the night, thankful for the forested campsites acting as a windbreak.