Reflections 2013
Series 14
August 7
Atlantic Isles IX e: Revisiting Saint John's

 

"Always Traveling"   I was recently amused when several people told me I'm away from home "all the time", when actually I'm at home in New York most of the time, plus at home in Tampa for one month a year. The last two trips I took were of a length that's very average. Saguenay/Ottawa/Québec lasted 11 nights last September and Newfoundland and Labrador lasted 10 nights in June. True, Atlantic Isles (Azores to Greenland) last summer lasted six weeks, and the upcoming China trip will take four, but that's still not "all the time". Then I realized what gave the false impression. The writeups, which usually start during the trip, often take a lot longer afterwards to complete. There was so much to tell about the Atlantic Isles that it lasted through the end of the year (including an insertion about Hurricane Sandy) which postponed the first Canadian writeup into a January-to-June time slot. The Newfoundland trip writeup did start while I was there in June, but this is the last episode, and here it is August. This posting will shortly abut pre-China writeups. But China at 4 weeks and NL at 1.5 leaves the rest of the year writing from home!

 
 

Revisiting Saint John's   I've developed an affection for Saint John's. We probably didn't give it enough of a chance in 1984, when it seemed lackluster, except for the bergy bit (tiny iceberg) floating in the harbor like the last ice cube in a punchbowl, or in 2000, when the Deutschland stopped into the harbor for part of a day. I've stated in the past that I have great faith in the Michelin Green Guide to guide me (although I sometimes disagree with the number of stars they give a given sight). I mentioned recently that my Michelin Canada, which is a few years old now, gives either one (interesting) or two (worth a detour) stars to everything it describes in NL, but not three (worth a trip). I've also seen that a very new regional guide, Michelin Atlantic Canada, raises Saint John's (only) from 2 to 3 stars. While I think anyone visiting NL and Saint John's would enjoy it, I will only grudgingly agree that it's worth 3. Still, in the context of the island, it IS the major sight. Anyway, I enjoyed myself there this time a lot.

 
 

The Name   Would you believe the name is Portuguese? We said recently that the Portuguese named Trinity, Trinity Bay, and Conception Bay, and they also named Saint John's, and as we'll see later, Cape Spear. It was named in Portuguese São João and later translated into English. If you want to attempt a pronunciation, try a very nasal SOW ZHWOW (ZH + WOW) and you'll come close.

 
 

There are so many cities and towns named for saints, such as Saint Louis MO and Saint Paul MN, but it's unusual to have them in the possessive case for no apparent reason. (For instance, the Saint John's River in Florida does have a reason, showing what's possessed). The only other one that comes to mind right now is the recently discussed Saint George's, Bermuda. However, the capital of Antigua and Barbuda is also Saint John's. On the other hand, there are plenty of cities named simply Saint John, and there's one in particular that's easy to confuse with this one. That's Saint John, New Brunswick, right across the gulf. It's odd that Atlantic Canada should have two capitals so similarly named. I'm sure there are lots of mixups.

 
 

Distinctive Characteristics   What did I notice now that made Saint John's so distinctive? It wasn't its size. The population of its metropolitan area, including Mount Pearl and Conception Bay South (CBS), hit 200,000 in 2012. That placed it 20th in Canada. Yet it should also be noted that locally, it's by far the big boy on the block, since that population is ten times the size of its nearest competitor within NL, Corner Brook, making it a large urban area in a province of small towns, villages, and outports. But the very day I arrived this time two distinctive characteristics popped out at me: ● its highly unique cityscape ● its jellybean houses To explain the cityscape first—and we'll look at a map and a picture in a moment that will illustrate it—we have to understand the glacial forces that created its unique harbor.

 
 

Avalon Glaciation   We first mentioned the Laurentide Ice Sheet in 2010/25. It reached its maximum only 18,000 years ago and covered much of the northern part of the Earth, including Canada and the upper US. Actually, the Laurentide covered MOST of Canada, including Labrador, but only reached Newfoundland at the Top of the Rock, the very tip of the Great Northern Peninsula. The rest of the island was covered by its own independent ice sheets that started in the uplands and spread out towards the coast. As with all ice sheets, in time this ice caused great amounts of erosion. Glaciers carved out the landscape, flattening out wide areas, carving valleys, and eroding lake basins. Along the coast, these valleys and basins were later flooded by the sea, in some cases, creating fjords, such as in Gros Morne NP.

 
 

We've noted that the Avalon peninsula (Map by Jcmurphy) has four sub-peninsulas, all connected by a narrow isthmus to the rest of the island. Separate from the Laurentide Ice Sheet, Newfoundland's principal ice sheet reached to the isthmus, including the two additional peninsulas north of the isthmus, the Bonavista to the north and the Burin to the south. Its face edged up to the two bays, Trinity Bay and Placentia Bay. I think it can be assumed that this main island ice sheet was responsible for sculpting these two peninsulas and the two bays that it faced.

 
 

But Avalon (the Avalon Peninsula) was unique even in the Ice Age, as it had its own local ice sheet, whose erosion determined Avalon's large bays, notably Conception Bay and Saint Mary's Bay and four unique sub-peninsulas, including the St John's Peninsula, the most petite of the four (or six).

 
 
 For a vicinity map, open a separate window, then copy-and-paste this link: http://24timezones.com/mapa/st._johns_ca_-_nf.php
 
 

The map first appears set at 12 bars down from the plus sign. First hit the minus sign to zoom out two bars to 14 to confirm the location of Avalon and Saint John's. Then, dragging Saint John's to the center, hit the plus sign twice to zoom in back to 12 to review the size of the metropolitan area, including Mount Pearl and Conception Bay South. Trace the driving route to the bays of our previous posting, leaving via CBS and Holyrood, and returning via the Trans-Canada Highway. We'll now concentrate entirely on the Atlantic Coast.

 
 

Zoom in one more bar to 11 and look to the north, up to Cape Saint Francis (unnamed). Locate Logy Bay, Torbay, Pouch Cove. Now swing down below town, where you can't miss Cape Spear (unnamed) reaching the furthest out into the Atlantic. One more bar in to 10 and you'll find Petty Harbour right to the south of the Cape. Now move into town and zoom in one more bar to 9. You will now see the two most interesting coastal features in the area. Saint John's Harbour cuts deeply inland through the entrance, appropriately called the Narrows. To me, the harbor seems shaped like a foot, with the ankle at the Narrows, the heel at the neighborhood called the Battery (not named), the sole running along downtown (note Water Street), and the toe at the far end, where a small stream called the Waterford River (not named) enters from the southwest. Note how both sides of the hilly Narrows, as well as the hilly south side of the harbor, have little development. Actually, much of the developed side is sloped, too, for which reason I describe the entire harbor area as being shaped like an elongated bathtub.

 
 

Before we leave this, note what I consider to be the harbor's almost-twin, just a bit to the north, Quidi Vidi Lake. But it is a lake, not a harbor, and a cascade trickles down a bit to sea level and becomes the tiny, and charming Quidi Vidi Harbour. We'll discuss all of these places in a moment. Back to the geology.

 
 

Geologic evidence shows that the ice of the local Avalon Ice Sheet flowed from west to northeast, and finally to the east, glacially eroding the most distinctive of the coastal indentations facing the Atlantic that we've just referred to. The ice eroded Saint John's Harbour and the Narrows, and the northeast, then east, direction of the ice accounts for the angle of the harbor itself, and then the different angle of the Narrows. The ice carved out Quidi Vidi Lake and Harbour, Logy Bay to the north, and Petty Harbour to the south, as well as other local coastal indentations. The settling of the coast caused coastal flooding, which would then have helped further define these areas.

 
 

The Unique Cityscape   Thus it's to the glaciers that we owe what I consider the first distinctive characteristic of Saint John's, its unique cityscape. Now that we've seen what the harbor is shaped like, let's look at some overviews. The highest point in town was once Fort Townshend, but is now the location of an excellent museum called The Rooms (more later).

 
 

This view taken from The Rooms over Saint John's Harbour (Photo by Shipguy) shows initially why the British built Fort Townshend here in the first place, since it commands a view of just about everything. You can certainly see the foot-shape of the harbor. The "toe" is to the right, the "sole" is the downtown in the foreground, the "heel" is the Battery clinging to the hillside on the left, right at the Narrows, which is the "ankle". You can see that everything is hilly, on all sides, creating a "bathtub" shape. The hills on the far side of the harbor crowd the road below them. Prominent to the left of the Narrows is Signal Hill, with the Cabot Tower at the top. The hill got its name before modern communication, when signals were given to the town, not only on military matters, but commercial ones, to let town merchants that ships were arriving. But possibly most distinctive for the cityscape is that the downtown area in the foreground is all on a slope as well, meaning that a person strolling along any street leading away from the harbor will be walking uphill—with improving views—and downhill going back.

 
 

Now let's reverse our standpoint. This is the view from Signal Hill over Saint John's Harbour. You are looking right at downtown; click to enlarge (slightly) to try to find above other buildings, the beige one with a peaked red roof, which is The Rooms. To the left can be seen how the hills constrict the narrow road on that side, which leads out to the lighthouse and the former Fort Amherst on the south side of the Narrows. In the right foreground, some of the buildings in the Battery can be seen, also clinging to the hillside, with the harbor facilities beyond.

 
 

The last panorama we'll look at is of downtown (click to enlarge). It's very easy to spot The Rooms, beige with peaked red roof up in the heights. You can see that all streets leading inland go uphill. The central area of town is much longer than deep, with Water Street, one block in from the harbor and parallel to it, being the only one that really has any length to speak of, since the one or two others parallel to it are limited by the hills. You can also see one other unfortunate thing in this panorama, how the city is cut off from its harbor by there being far too many harbor facilities. You can see more of the harbor from higher streets a couple of blocks inland than you can from Water Street, which is a shame. Follow the busy waterfront to the right, up to a bright red boat. To the left of this boat, and of the large brick building is Harbourfront Park, a very pleasant location, but unfortunately, the only spot you'll see where people can get to the water.

 
 

Immediately to the right of that bright red boat and large brick building is Cochrane Street, which runs uphill five short blocks to a park area on Military Road. The last house on the right would be the Rendell-Shea Manor, my bed-and-breakfast for my four nights here.

 
 

The Jellybean Houses   San Francisco has its "Painted Ladies", charming Victorian houses that from the beginning were painted in a palette of somewhat sedate colors to enhance their architecture. Other cities have similar structures. Saint John's seems to follow in their footsteps, except that the colors here are usually brighter, and rows of houses have a variety of striking colors. These houses are called jellybean houses, and any cluster of them can be called Jellybean Row, and they brighten up Saint John's to the extent that they're a distinctive characteristic. Earl Norman, one of the owners of the B&B, pointed out to me that this is not an old tradition but a relatively new phenomenon in Saint John's of recent decades. Further research based on his comment shows that up until the 1970's, suburban flight had taken place and the center city was in decline. Its houses were painted in drab colors of little distinction. It was the newly-formed Saint John's Heritage Foundation that wanted to revitalize downtown, and in 1977-1978, houses on both sides of a block of streets were painted in jellybean colors, and from there, the movement grew to what it is today. This also resulted in the housing stock being refurbished, and today, most of downtown is a historic district.

 
 

There's another difference from San Francisco beyond the timeline. The Painted Ladies are usually distinguished homes, in classical styles, and, although close to each other, are usually freestanding structures. The architecture of Saint John's had a humbler style to begin with, since it started as a fishing outpost for European fishermen, and the wooden buildings over time consisted of fishermen's homes, sheds and storage shacks. While much of that is gone due to fires, the heritage architectural style of the city remains a vernacular one, with many simpler, everyday structures, many of which are attached row houses. There are, of course, more classical Victorian houses as well. So while once, most of these buildings presented muted tones to the eye, those that have been painted in bright, jellybean colors present a really striking effect. Every time I'd walk past a cluster of them I'd have to smile. Let's take a look.

 
 

Go back to what I called the vicinity map of the area, which you still should have in a separate window set at bar 9, and now let's make it a Saint John's map. Center it on the left side of the harbor and zoom down to 6, and you'll have much of the center city, encircled by Military Road and Queens Road. Other than the more modern addition of Harbour Drive, you'll see Water Street one block in, which is rather lengthy, followed by Duckworth Street, which disappears into Queen's Road. Next is Gower Street, which disappears the same way, and finally you're at Military Road, which we're using as our border. Now find the aforementioned Cochrane Street and zoom in one bar closer, to 5. You'll find a boat docked again just beyond Harbourfront Park. Finally, find Pilot's Hill Road, a typical, short, two-block street that runs only between Gower and Duckworth. These are jellybean houses on Pilot's Hill Road (Photo by Plismo). Once your mind registers that you're really seeing such bright colors, note the modest, vernacular style of the buildings. It also should not be missed that here, at just 2 ½ blocks in from the harbor, we are this much higher than the water with a better view, and the houses have to be stepped. But you can't miss spotting colors like these, so smile.

 
 

Since we're almost up to Gower Street, let's look there. It's a longer street, so I don't know just where these jellybeans (Photo by Emmanuel Milou) are, nor these (Photo by Tango7174). Note that in this latter picture, despite the hill, the row houses are able to maintain straight rooflines.

 
 

Finally, let's go from one to many. I don't know what street this rowhouse is on (Photo by Kenny Louie), but the color scheme couldn't be more exuberant. Click to enlarge, so you can look at the mailbox. (!) That's one, and here are many, in this view across Harbourfront Park (Photo by Kenny Louie), which you might recognize by now, squeezed in to its tight space. Click to enlarge for further inspection. This picture sums up the city's two main characteristics as I see them, the basin of hills around the "bathtub" and the jellybean houses.

 
 

If you still can't believe how many jellybeans there are, watch this 3:07 YouTube video. It was a wonderful restoration idea that brought the center city back to life. How often can you say that a bucket of paint did that?

 
 

The Great Fire of 1892   We've said the houses are wooden, and we've already referred to fires—plural. There were no fewer than five. They were in the 19C, and they destroyed the whole city again and again, although some were worse than others. They occurred in 1816, 1817, 1819 (that was some trio of years!), 1846, and finally the Great Fire of 1892, which was the most extensive.

 
 

Go back to our map. Zoom out two bars to 7, and follow Military Road to Harvey Road (which today runs in front of The Rooms) to Freshwater Road, at its intersection with Pennywell Road in the Carters Hill area. Late in the afternoon of 8 July that year, someone dropped a pipe in a stable at the top of Carters Hill and started a fire. It hadn't rained in a month, so it was dry, and windy, and the fire spread quickly. To make things worse, work was being done on the water mains. It was finished shortly before the fire, but not enough water pressure had built up yet to bring water to these higher sections of the city where the fire had started. In the mistaken belief that stone buildings were safe, many people rushed their valuables to them, including filling the nave and transepts of the Anglican Cathedral. But the building caught fire, and the roof fell in, ruining everything. The Anglican Cathedral suffered so much devastation that it took ten years to restore.

 
 

The fire worked its way down to Duckworth and Water Streets, and destroyed all the businesses along them, including warehouses filled with goods, such as thousands of barrels of flour. As ships fled to the center of the harbor, the wharves along the harbor's edge were consumed one by one.

 
 

People fled—literally—to the hills, as the fire burned through the night. They camped out in the park area across Military Road, and on the grounds of the Roman Catholic Cathedral, which was one of the few major buildings that did not burn. After the smoke cleared the next day, people realized the extent of the destruction, which totaled 1700 buildings, major and minor, with 11,000 homeless and three deaths. A little more than a third of the financial losses were covered by insurance, and financial aid was received from Canada—still a foreign country at that point--Britain, and the United States. The destruction of its capital city put all of Newfoundland into economic decline.

 
 

Reconstruction of so many houses in the center city was done hastily, which explains why little effort was given to fancy trim and decoration. It was a part of the "jellybean revolution" that many houses had trim and decoration added at this stage, as the bright colors were added.

 
 

We present three pictures of the fire's aftermath. This is a view from closer to the source of the fire in the West End, looking toward the harbor, which is easier to see with the buildings in between destroyed. Most striking are the ruins of the Anglican Cathedral. Note the masted sailing ships of the period. This is from the West End, looking away from the harbor (click). That is supposedly the far end of Duckworth Street running diagonally in the center, but most striking amid the devastation are the towers of the untouched Catholic Cathedral up on the hill. Lastly, we have the reverse view, from the East End, the area where I stayed. With the harbor on the left, Water Street comes next, and we're standing on Duckworth, and that might be Gower parallel to them on the right. Again the untouched Catholic Cathedral contrasts to the ruins of these major streets.

 
 

Rendell-Shea Manor B&B   There's good reason why I included the details of the fire, other than that it's of interest. When I had been searching for a bed-and-breakfast, I found an unusually large number of them in Saint John's, including quite a few in the West End, and many in the East End. I was drawn to the Rendell-Shea Manor because it looked like a beautiful mansion to stay in, but also because of two distinctions that it held: ● the first mayor connection ● the fire survivor connection

 
 

The First Mayor At the end of the 19C, Saint John's was run first by a council, then by a commission, neither of which ever included a mayor. But in 1902, new legislation called for a mayor-council combination to be established. George Shea, who had been managing partner of Shea & Co, a shipping company, was elected the first mayor, and served until 1906. His second wife was Margaret Rendell. Their elegant, comfortable home, with beautiful architectural detail, was at the upper-right end of Cochrane Street, at Military Road, and across from the park area that included government buildings. The Lieutenant-Governor (of the colony at the time, after 1907 of the Dominion, after 1949 of the Province) lived right across Military Road in the park in Government House. I enjoyed staying in Ottawa a few months earlier in McGee's Inn, the former home of John McGee, Clerk of the Privy Council of Canada, so why wouldn't I enjoy being in the home of George Shea, former (first) mayor of Saint John's?

 
 

The Fire Survivor But it's more exciting than that. The Shea house escaped the Great Fire of 1892, and, as a survivor, by default is the oldest home in the area. Any older homes would have to be in outlying areas, well beyond the fire's reach.

 
 

But it wasn't by chance that the house survived. And don't think that there would have been a mayoral connection to saving the house, because Shea wouldn't become mayor until exactly a decade AFTER the fire. Knowing what we now know about the fire, let's picture the evening and night of 8 July 1892. The fire had reached the East End, as we saw in the last of the three pictures, and many people had fled uphill into the park around Government House. The fire began coming up the few short blocks of Cochrane Street, destroying houses in its path. On the right side of the street, where the Shea house stood on the corner, it finally reached the house next door, which burst into flame.

 
 

It was at this point that a decision was made. It was felt certain that, if the Shea house burned, it would set fire to the trees in the park across Military Road. That in turn would threaten Government House and other official buildings, and most likely as well, the people who had sought refuge in the park. Therefore, to prevent Shea's, the last house on the block, from burning, the neighboring house, already on fire anyway, was pulled down to serve as a firebreak. This maneuver was obviously successful, and the Rendell-Shea Manor, now a B&B, stands today, a Fire Survivor.

 
 

Arrival in Saint John's   I had spent the morning writing at the B&B in Forteau, then drove from Labrador back into Québec to return the car and catch my plane, which left in the early afternoon (NL time). After a quick stop in Saint Anthony, we proceeded to Saint John's, arriving at 4 PM to beautifully sunny weather, in contrast to the rain I had seen earlier coming up from New York. I picked up my third car of the trip and drove the 15 minutes into town, driving around the park and onto Military Road, then parked on Cochrane Street. You may recall that my arrival at the Forteau B&B was do-it-yourself, plus take-off-your-shoes, and that repeated itself here.

 
 

But with a slight difference. Earl, and his spouse Gary, were away on this pleasant Sunday afternoon, and there was a telephone discretely located on the wall next to the entry door. Picking it up dialed Earl's mobile phone, and he greeted me, gave me the combination to the pushbutton lock before me, told me to register inside, said he'd give me in the morning the mandatory street-parking tag to hang on my mirror (like a handicapped tag), and confirmed my room number. I picked up my shoes, checked out the downstairs, and unpacked.

 
 

Take a look at the Rendell-Shea website. The exterior picture on the home page is rather impressionistic. In reality, it's a very sedate, pale yellow with white trim. The bay window to the left of the center entrance is the dining room, the right one is the parlo(u)r, and the extension barely visible on the right is the sunporch, my favored spot. The upper floor has the lush rooms with antiques, but I opted for one of the three less-expensive rooms on the uppermost floor, presumably converted servants' quarters. It was very comfortable, and all rooms had private baths (or, in British/Canadian terminology, ensuite baths).

 
 

Click on "Contact" for a picture of the dining (breakfast) room with its original marble fireplace. Click on "About Rendell-Shea" to see the entry hall, the dining room again, and the table in the sunporch, which became a favored place of mine for tea and (packaged) cookies. "Accommodations" will show the fancier rooms, but not mine. Earl and Gary also have another B&B next door on Military Road, the 1894 Elizabeth Manor, plus other real estate interests, including rental apartments.

 
 

Saint John's, Day One   With the late arrival, Day One's walk in the beautiful weather was short, but very productive. Let's take it again, together. Go back to our map, which we left at the start of the fire, and move it over down Military Road to Cochrane Street, and zoom in to 4 bars to see the Shea house on the right of the intersection.

 
 

Park and Historic Buildings You'll immediately see the park and Government House, but first let's turn left and enter the park at an angle, on a curved path that passes a church and then moves behind Commissariat House. I looked around this historic building, but it was closed on a Sunday, and decided to come back a couple of days later. But what I learned that intrigued me was about that curved path, called The Mall. Picture the area before any other roads were here, or any buildings but Commissariat House, started in 1818, and located way out here in what was the boondocks. The Mall was the only road that led from town this far out, and now it's disused, and relegated to a pedestrian path in the park, used for parking for Commissariat House. Sic transit.

 
 

Now let's backtrack along the park and enter it to see the other two buildings, which frankly only interest me inasmuch as they saved the Shea house. First is the 1831 Government House, the official residence o the Lieutenant-Governor of NL, and, across Bannerman Road, is the Colonial Building (Photo by Jcmurphy), which was the home of the Newfoundland government and its legislature from 1850 to 1959, both of which are now located further out of town in the new Confederation Building.

 
 

Harbourfront Park But the park and its buildings weren't my primary goal. I was dying to see the Gilbert plaque at the National War Memorial, so let's take Bannerman Road and zigzag down Gower Street and Pilot's Hill Road, reveling in their jellybean houses, to the waterfront. (We'll come back straight up Cochrane.) This is where serendipity paid off. I was unaware that the two things I wanted to see faced Harbourfront Park, so I happily got more than I bargained for. On the map, to the left of the boat (zoom in) you'll see the entire park area from Duckworth via Water to the two wharves.

 
 

This is the view of Saint John's Harbourfront Park (Photo by BihnX), with the memorial in the background. It's a beautiful spot, and it's such a shame that it's so narrow, and has so little waterfront space. Saint John's used to have many small wharves all along this waterfront, but in the 1960's the federal government removed them and modernized the docking facilities, in the process cutting the city off from its natural harbor. It's very unfortunate. Anyway, on the picture, click to enlarge it, and start with the jellybeans, which are on Duckworth, behind the memorial. The blue car further down is on Water Street, which bisects this area, and is also blocking the view of the Gilbert plaque. Harbourfront Park proper is then in the foreground, this side of Water Street, descending the gentle slope.

 
 

Let's start by looking more closely at the National War Memorial (Photo by Jcmurphy), with the Gilbert plaque now visible in the foreground, on Water Street. It's a WWI memorial, like many others, but to me the most interesting thing about it is its name. What "nation" does the name refer to? Canada? Britain?

 
 

It's the sort of thing that's so easy to forget, now that Anglo-French North America consists of just the US and Canada, but from 1907 to 1949 there was the third entity, the Dominion of Newfoundland. You'll recall that at the Tickle Inn David regularly presented the Ode to Newfoundland, which was the National Anthem and is now the Provincial Anthem. The "nation" referred to in the name of the National War Memorial is Newfoundland, which erected it. We'll also see some Newfoundland (not Canadian) postage stamps shortly.

 
 

Now let's look at the Gilbert plaque on Water Street (Photo by SMaloney). We referred to Sir Humphrey Gilbert making this declaration in 1583 in 2013/12, and it would have taken place somewhere along here on the waterfront. It strikes me as a momentous event, the founding (beyond Ireland, the first colony) of the British Empire.

 
 

While we said that Saint John's wasn't established promptly as a city in 1583 (that happened c1620), there is no doubt that Water Street was already a commercial trading outpost at that early date used by Basques, French, Spanish, Portuguese, and English. On that basis, Water Street, of considerable length downtown, is referred to as the oldest street in North America. However, based on what we recently said about "oldest", we should modify that to be the oldest street in Anglo-French North America.

 
 

Let's cross Water Street and stroll through Harbourfront Park up to the dock (Photo by BihnX), where we can sit and look across the harbor over to Signal Hill next to the Narrows, with Cabot Tower on top and the Battery squeezed next to the cliff wall below it.

 
 

The Dog Statues Turning back from the dock, it's a surprise to see two statues of dogs in the park, at 1.5 times life size. Any guess as to what dogs Newfoundland and Labrador would erect statues to?

 
 

Why, the Newfoundland and the Labrador, of course (Photo by Nilfanion). Can you tell which statue is which? Further research has also informed me that there was also a dog named after Saint John's, so let's briefly discuss all three, and see what we can identify.

 
 

The Saint John's water dog (here in a c1856 photo) was a naturally occurring dog breed from Newfoundland that was probably a blend of old English, Irish, and Portuguese working dogs. It was the ancestor of the Newfoundland dog, and of all modern retrievers, including the Labrador (retriever). It eventually became extinct due to cross-breeding and other factors. The last two survived into the 1980's in a remote area, but both were male, and the breed died out.

 
 

The Newfoundland (Photo by DanDee Shots) was originally bred to be a working dog for Newfoundland fishermen. It can be black, brown, or black-and-white, and is large, strong, loyal, and calm, and excel at water rescue. I understand that the Newfoundland dog has the distinction of being the first animal of any sort whatsoever to have been commemorated on a stamp by any country, anywhere. That was when Newfoundland in 1894 (still a colony) issued a half-cent stamp in black, red, or in orange with the dog's head in a circle facing slightly right. It issued another stamp in 1930, during the Dominion years, for 14 cents, with a full-body shot of the Newfoundland dog.

 
 

The Labrador (Photo by Djmirko). or Labrador Retriever, is so familiar to English speakers that its name is frequently shortened to Lab. As a retriever, it's a hunting dog, and, because of its good temper, is often used as an assistance and therapy dog. It is the most popular dog, by number of registered owners, in Australia, New Zealand, Canada, the US, and the UK. Labs are recognized in three colors (Photo by Erikeltic): chocolate (medium to dark brown), black, and yellow (varying from a white to reddish).

 
 

From this canine review, it would seem that the left statue is the Labrador and the right one the Newfoundland.

 
 

Saint John's, Day Two   Breakfasts at Shea were excellent and complete (partridgeberry jam available, as usual), and there was good conversation every day. It was at breakfast the first day that Earl stopped by to say hello to all at the table, with me the newbie. We kidded a bit, and it's just one of those things—it's easy to tell when you're meeting an interesting person. After some repartee, I mentioned I'd like to sit down and talk with him a bit, which developed later into two pleasant afternoon sessions.

 
 

If Day One was a walking day, Day Two was a driving day, since the to-do list I'd prepared, based on Michelin suggestions, supplemented by a number of my own ideas, went to all corners of the city, although still not too far away.

 
 

Water and Duckworth Streets Check the map again and set it at 6 bars, enough to see more of downtown. We'll take the car down Cochrane to the waterfront, and drive along both Water Street (Photo by Jcmurphy) and Duckworth Street (Photo by Aconcagua), particularly further into the downtown area, where they become more commercial, noticing jellybeans all the way, and how the architecture is so often consistently vernacular.

 
 

George Street We'll reach a point where Water Street plows on and on valiantly, as is its lot in life, but Duckworth gives up and merges into New Gower Street. Center on that intersection and zoom in to 4 and you'll see the name of George Street appear. The so-called George Street Entertainment District runs for just a couple of blocks, including a bend toward the harbor. I'd heard about it, including from that customs agent in Toronto who admitted he came here to go to the nightlife of George Street. It seems unusual for this city, which to me has a different character than the atmosphere here, and I was really quite uninterested. It's a pedestrian street 20 hours a day, but I had by chance hit the morning four hours where traffic is allowed for deliveries, so I drove its short length. It's supposed to have the most pubs per square foot of any street in North America, which is possible, since it has nothing but bars, pubs, and restaurants, some of a questionable nature. As it turns out, that same evening I went to a restaurant on adjacent Water Street that I'd found out about online, the Gypsy Tea Room, for a great meal, and had a chance then to walk over a block to George Street, but it was still only dinnertime, and bright daylight in June, and things were still not swinging. I don't find that a loss.

 
 

At this point, zoom out back to 6 and you'll see we're very close to the area where the 1892 fire started, so with difficulty, I zigged and zagged uphill for a quick drive-past look at both cathedrals, and made my way to The Rooms, with the large red roofs lying between Harvey and Bonaventure.

 
 

The Rooms The Rooms (Photo by Mo Laidlaw) is a cultural facility that opened in 2005. Its unusual name is a reference to the "fishing rooms" for preparing a catch, rooms that used to be so common at the waterline in Newfoundland fishing villages. They were simple gable-roofed sheds, and the building's architecture tries to reflect that as well. As mentioned earlier, it was built on the site of Fort Townshend, the highest point in town. We saw the magnificent view of the Harbour and Narrows from outside The Rooms earlier, and this is the same view from inside its atrium (Photo by Kenny Louie).

 
 

Although it's one building, the atrium seems to connect several buildings, and indeed, the building brings together three facilities, the Provincial Archive, Provincial Art Gallery, and Provincial (History) Museum. The Archive is mainly of scholarly interest, although the pictures of the Great Fire of 1892 are from the Archive. The Art Museum was very enjoyable, and there was a major exhibit by the Canadian painter Mary Pratt, who is in her 80's and lives in Saint John's. Her forte involves having a sharply focused lens on deceptively simple household subjects, and her style shows a powerful realism, so much so that she's referred to as a photorealist painter, a term that describes best what I loved about her work. Many of her paintings are of the simplest, everyday things, a casserole in the oven, jelly glasses, light reflecting off creased aluminum foil.

 
 

The few reproductions of her work I've found don't show adequately the uniqueness of the work, and I won't use them. However, I have a YouTube video of both her and her husband, artist Christopher Pratt. His pictures are in the last half of the video if you wish to see them, and are similar, and quite good, but I recommend to you the work of Mary Pratt during the first two minutes. Many of these very pictures were on display at her special retrospective at the Art Gallery in The Rooms.

 
 

I was also delighted with the History Museum, and will point out three things that impressed me. The moment I walked in, at the very entrance, was nothing other than a reproduction of the Anse Amour Burial Site that I'd just seen in Labrador three days earlier! I was also surprised that they were praising its importance, given that in reality it's location is just almost casually on the side of the road, almost as an afterthought, next to a wooden viewing platform. In other words, they were making a lot more fuss over this reproduction than was made at the actual site, but then I suppose a lot more people see the reproduction than go up to Labrador.

 
 

The second impressive exhibit dealt with the Roaring Twenties, and included film clips of the era. Most impressive was a large collection of dozens of Art Deco women's shoes. Although that area looked like a flapper shoe salon, the Art Deco style of the footwear carried the day.

 
 

Thirdly there was a celebration of Ireland and Irish Newfoundlanders, and particularly the connection between them. The narrowness of the Atlantic between the British Isles, particularly Ireland, and Newfoundland, has always impressed me—just picture the two points where the first transatlantic cable was laid. I was also very pleased when, in 2000, the Deutschland crossed the Atlantic in only three days between its stop in Waterford, way over on the southeast coast of Ireland, and Saint John's. Cork, with its harbor Cobh, which in emigration days was called Queenstown, is on the south central coast of Ireland, and I felt we sailed on the Deutschland more or less this short emigration route to North America, much shorter than the extended route continuing along the coast to reach Halifax, Boston, and New York.

 
 

But the first thing in the exhibit stopped one in one's tracks. It was four pairs of photographic portraits, the eight pictures covering all ages and both genders. Someone had gone to an incredible amount of trouble finding pairs of people with the same family name, one living in Ireland and one living in Newfoundland, and the facial resemblance between the pairs was incredible. I particularly remember a grandmotherly woman and a teenage boy, both with the same surname, one from each island, and looking almost alike. This one exhibit just blew you away.

 
 

Railway Coastal Museum Keeping our map at 6, let's zigzag down from The Rooms back to Water Street and move to destinations in the south. As we approach the innermost part of the harbor (the "toe"), as soon as we cross under a superhighway marked route 2 we turn left at Job Street and park. As indicated by the industrial area around the port, this was where the railroad used to enter the city, and the building at Water and Job is today the Railway Coastal Museum (Photo by GillesG27), housed in the still handsome 1903 passenger terminal, the Saint John's Station of the Newfoundland Railway.

 
 

The museum has exhibits dealing with all aspects of the railway's construction and demise, including the coastal shipping connections the railway had, hence the name of the museum. I was glad I went, but was of two minds. First, I already knew as much of the railway's background as I cared to know, and second, it was like attending a funeral, where one is cognizant of that which used to be, and is lost.

 
 

The Newfoundland Railway's main line ran in an arc between Saint John's and Port aux Basques (Map by Jkan997). It was a source of local pride, provided major employment, and provided the first overland link to the mainland, since it connected with a purpose-built ferry to North Sydney, Nova Scotia. It grew in sections from 1882 to 1897, and operated end-to-end from 1898 to 1988, a neatly exact 90 years. For reasons of economy, it was built as a 3.5 ft-(1067 mm-) narrow-gauge railway, and was the longest narrow-gauge system in North America.

 
 

Since it ran down the center of the island, and since so many communities were on the coast, a number of branch lines were built, particularly on the populous Avalon and Bonavista peninsulas, from 1915 to 1930. One went all the way out to Bonavista, one to Heart's Content, one via Brigus to Harbour Grace and beyond to the end of that peninsula. To the south, one went to Placentia, and one even went beyond Saint John's to the south, to the southernmost region of Newfoundland at Trepassey. The main line ran 882 km (548 mi); with all the branches, the system ran 1,458 km (906 mi), which was the total that gave it its North American record. As part of its contract, the railroad company was required to build a streetcar system for Saint John's, which ran from 1900 to 1948.

 
 

The passenger line was not known for its speed, and since WWII it had an affectionate, sarcastic nickname, the Newfie Bullet. The peak years for the system were 1915 to 1931, but there were troubles all along. For instance, such a long line in an area of low population required government subsidies, and the narrow gauge limited carrying capacity for freight. Some branch lines were curtailed during the Great Depression, but three operated until the 1980's.

 
 

While many factors served to kill the rail line, including complex changes in ownership toward the end, it's obvious when you look at the map that it was the construction of the Trans-Canada Highway (Map by Qyd), whose Newfoundland section was completed across the island in 1965, that put the nail in the coffin. Just compare the rail and road routes and you'll see why.

 
 

The first casualty was the passenger rail service, which was abandoned in 1969 in favor of buses. Today, there is only one cross-island bus route end-to-end with service just once a day, taking 13.5 hours with 25 stops. The railway was officially abandoned in 1988, on 1 September (my birthday!). As mentioned in the last posting in reference to CBS, Holyrood, and Brigus, the tracks are gone, and almost all of the roadbed of the main line and some branches is now a rail trail called by the cutesy name of the T'Railway Provincial Park. Only about 20% of the trail is resurfaced, with a few trestles and bridges repaired. However the bulk of the trestles and bridges are in a horrendous state of repair, and are not regularly inspected, so may not be used by hikers or bikers. The more I hear about it, the more depressing it gets. If they'd kept the tracks, maybe there'd be enough call nowadays for a tourist railway?

 
 

We have two more stamps, both put out by Newfoundland during the Dominion period. The one for two cents was put out in 1908 and shows the rail map. In 1928, the stamp for four cents came out with what was later called the Newfie Bullet.

 
 
 I remember reading in the newspaper of two similar events within a decade's time, on two large islands. In 1978, ten years before Newfoundland ceased ALL rail operations, Tasmania ceased all passenger rail operations, including the Tasman Limited, the only named train. Still, freight operations continue in Tasmania, connecting all major cities and towns, but the present owner of the rail system is the state government, through a company called TasRail. Subsidies continue to be needed. Tasmania has the same narrow gauge rail as Newfoundland had.

Tasmania is 63% the size of Newfoundland, or, Newfoundland is 159% the size of Tasmania. Tasmania's rail network is 845 km (525 mi) long but one-quarter of that is non-operational. Still, Tasmania kept its rail. The latest news I've heard is a push to restore some passenger service at least between the two main cities, Hobart and Launceston, which are now connected by the Midland Highway, also called the Heritage Highway. The Tassie government wants to four-lane this highway at great expense, while others are saying a passenger rail connection would be more appropriate. It may not happen, but at least the rails and right-of-way are still there, even if they'd have to be upgraded.
 
 

Southside Road to ex-Fort Amherst We now have three more destinations to the south. Back on our map still set at 6, we'll drive down Water Street about four blocks to where Leslie Street crosses, then becomes Blackhead Road, which we'll take in a moment. Instead, let's turn left on Southside Road. This is something I had long wanted to do, just from looking at maps. Southside, as its name says, it that road that squeezes in along the cliffside on the south side of the harbor, which, as everywhere, is largely blocked from view from the road, more's the pity. When it turns the bend along The Narrows, it becomes Fort Amherst Road, and about halfway up the Narrows, we come to a cluster of houses clinging to the cliffside (zoom in to 5), similar to the Battery across the way, and we're told to stop and park in a designated area. Only local traffic is allowed beyond this point, so we walk the rest of the way. Although this isn't the harbor proper, we finally get nice views of the water, and of the heights of Signal Hill, opposite. It's a wonderful place for a walk. Shortly we reach where Fort Amherst used to be, protecting the harbor entrance. Today, there are some ruins, and a small lighthouse from which Cape Spear is visible to the right, down the coast.

 
 

While I don't have a picture FROM here, I do have a great shot down from Signal Hill across the Narrows of the Fort Amherst site (Photo by Skeezix1000). First appreciate the view of the Narrows, and of the view down the coast to Cape Spear, jutting out to the east. Then click to enlarge to inspect the road we just walked on, the lighthousekeeper's house, the rather short lighthouse, and the remains of the fort's ruins down below. It's a wonderful spot, and I'm glad I thought to add it to the to-do list.

 
 

Cape Spear On our map zoom out to 7, and let's backtrack to Blackhead Road, which, because of the bathtub shape of the harbor area, rises slowly around a large hairpin curve up to Shea Heights (you know who he was). Follow this road past the town of Blackhead to Cape Spear, a National Historic Site, which we'd just been looking at from the Narrows. Zoom out to 9 to determine that this cape really protrudes well to the east, more than the Narrows area, although the cape actually points northeast. But then, center on Cape Spear come back down to Earth to 5 so you clearly see the parking lot, where we'll leave the car.

 
 

This is a southward view of Cape Spear from a distance (Photo by Tango7174), and this is a detail with the lighthouse (Photo by Tango7174). You already get that "End of the Earth" feeling.

 
 

There are two destinations here. We climb up a long wooden staircase (the road doesn't really continue up the mountain) to take a quick look at the lighthouse here, as well as the historic older lighthouse. But to me, that's secondary. We come back down those stairs and take the five-minute walk towards the sea, first stopping at the WWII gun emplacements (Photo by Martin Durocher), here looking back at the lighthouse, and then (on the map) walking a few more steps to the viewpoint looking down over the cliffs. Nirvana.

 
 

And it was more special even than just being so far east, projecting into the sea. There was a cluster of people looking down, and I joined them, and ended up staying a good half-hour. Down below, right at the point, there were humpback whales surfacing, and also spouting, a sight that one doesn't want to leave. In addition, while I was at the cape, wisps of fog would roll in and out. Added to that was the occasional sounding of the foghorn, and the atmosphere was complete.

 
 

We come to two points regarding Cape Spear, the name and the superlative (such as we did with "oldest"). Once again, as with the two bays and the city, the name was first Portuguese, Cabo da Esperança, which very poignantly, means Cape Hope. You can picture sailors crossing the Atlantic, looking with hope to find Newfoundland. The name then, quite successfully, became French, Cap d'Espoir, which still meant Cape Hope. But as we saw with the French/French change in L'Anse Amour and the French/English change in L'Anse aux Meadows, the French/English change here was not successful, and folk etymology took over.

 
 

Rather surprisingly, English speakers usually have no trouble with French words used in English ending in –OIR, such as memoir, Renoir, boudoir, abattoir, film noir, peignoir, realizing that the ending is pronounced –WAHR. An exception to this is "reservoir", which some people pronounce like the others, but where some people leave out the W, saying RE.zer.var. [More on this in 2014/7.] I think that's what happened here. "Espoir" is e.SPWAHR. That first, weak, syllable died away immediately, but then the W was lost, leaving SPAHR. Not understanding what that could be, the thought process is something like: What's that? Did I hear it right? It doesn't mean anything. Wait. Maybe I heard Spear. The cape does jut out into the ocean like a spear. Maybe that's what I've been hearing. And so we have Cape Spear, through folk etymology, which is an inaccurate, subjective—yet amusing--change.

 
 

As for the superlative, click to read this sign (Photo by Martin Durocher) posted at Cape Spear, noting that even the French version yields to "Spear" and has long given up on "Espoir". Any problems with the superlative? A nearby sign stated the situation more accurately than this one. Let's look into it.

 
 

First let's get rid of a technical, hypercorrect answer as to where the easternmost point in North America is, the answer to which is in Alaska. North and South are finite terms, since you reach those points at the poles. East and West are infinite terms, since you keep going around the earth without an end destination. That's why the Earth's hemispheres were artificially created, with major cuts at 0° and 180°. Technically, the westernmost point in Europe is the line through Greenwich, while central London and points that side of the line are technically in the western hemisphere and are also the easternmost point in Europe! If you straddle the line at 0°, as Beverly and I did, you're at the same time at the easternmost and westernmost points of Europe. Of course, this is only technically true, and otherwise nonsense. Time zones are shifted, and the practical division is considered to be west of the British Isles.

 
 

It's the same at the 180° parallel, which slices through the tip of Russia and Alaska's Aleutian Islands. That way, the easternmost point of Eurasia is in Russia just west of 180°, and the westernmost point is not on the Baltic but that last bit of Russia facing Alaska. Similarly, the westernmost point in North America are the Aleutians closest to the mainland, and the easternmost point is those last few Aleutians closer to Asia. But that's why the International Date Line was drawn, zigzagging around these problems.

 
 

So, disregarding the furthest of the Aleutian Islands, where in the Atlantic is the easternmost point of North America? Is that sign right? Well, since Cape Spear is the easternmost point of Newfoundland, what that sign says is "traditionally" considered to be true, but it's nonsense. The easternmost point in North America—in the Atlantic--is on the east coast of Greenland. Some people try rewording the phrase, adding "excluding Greenland". But Newfoundland is also an island, so shouldn't you exclude it, too, leaving some point on the Labrador mainland as the easternmost point?

 
 

The more accurate nearby sign had the answer. Cape Spear, at 52°37'24"W, being the easternmost point in Newfoundland, is the easternmost point in Canada, and there you have it. It cannot claim all of North America. However, it would be worthwhile to include the US in that statement (which is what the North America claim was trying to do), so you could add that Cape Spear is the easternmost point in Anglo-French North America, a concept of mine that neatly excludes Greenland and anything below the Mexico-Cuba line we recently discussed.

 
 

Petty Harbour Get back into the car, and look at the map again, zooming outward to 9. We're going to visit the south side of Cape Spear. We'll backtrack just a little at first, to Maddox Cove Road, and cut down to Petty Harbour (don't zoom in too close, since the clouds get in the way).

 
 

Petty Harbour is now combined with Maddox Cove as one town, but it's the far older of the two. It's been a fishing village, but with the decline of the cod, it's concentrating on tourism, because of its quaintness at the end of a deep bay (Photo by BihnX). We had mentioned earlier that this bay was carved by glaciers in the same way Saint John's Harbour had been carved. Click to inspect the town and its harbor more closely, and here are some more boats in Petty Harbour (Photo by miguelb).

 
 

It's curious how both forms of the French word for "small" entered English, the masculine petit and the feminine petite. Petite is now an English word used to describe anything small, particularly in a cute way, but when petit entered, since the last T is not pronounced, it appeared as "petty", with a shift in stress from the last to first syllable. Now we can speak about a person being petty, or of a petty theft, petty larceny as opposed to grand larceny, or of Petty Harbour.

 
 

Anderson (Oldest) House Retrace our route back into town to the northern end of Water Street (at the "heel" of the harbor), and zoom in three down to 6. At this point I drove up to the Battery, but there was no parking area, and I decided not to walk, since the paths were a tangle, and I'd just seen something similar walking out to Fort Amherst. (As it turned out, I got to walk there a couple of days later.) Instead, find Signal Hill Road, and in a couple of blocks we have its intersection with tiny Powers Court. Right at the corner is the Anderson House (Photo by David P Janes), which is believed to be the oldest structure in Saint John's, and an excellent example of 19C homes, built c1804. It was originally built for James Anderson, a sergeant in the militia, although even after clicking, you can't read the petite (!) blue sign next to the door. This is an instance of a (much) older house at more of a distance from downtown that was not affected by the fire in 1892, and therefore older than the Shea house. I had collected this picture in advance, and expected to find a light blue house, but today, it's a purple jellybean.

 
 

Signal Hill We continue up to the top of Signal Hill. Zoom in one to 5 so you can find the parking lot, and we'll park. At its far end is the Cabot Tower. If you temporarily zoom in to a dizzying 3, the writing will move aside so you can see the tower. Then pull back again to 5.

 
 

This is a view from below of Signal Hill, with the Battery at its foot and Cabot Tower above. The cliffs are about 150 m (500 ft) high. This is the view from where we are now, down over the harbor (Photo by Jcmurphy), with Southside Road, where we just were, on the left, and downtown on the right.

 
 

Cabot Tower & Marconi The Cabot Tower (Photo by William Zimmerly), seen here from the Narrows side (city side), is a Gothic Revival structure that was begun in 1897 to commemorate two things, both Queen Victoria's Diamond (60th) Jubilee that same year and also the 400th anniversary of John Cabot's landfall in 1497.

 
 

However, the tower itself became part of history four years later when, on 12 December 1901, Guglielmo Marconi received the first WIRELESS transatlantic signal from his station in Cornwall, England, which is possibly the most important accomplishment in modern communications. He proved, to worldwide acclaim, that radio signals could be transmitted long distances, when he received the letter S in Morse code over a distance of 2700 km (1700 mi).

 
 

The museum in the tower explained—this is from my handwritten notes—that the station was to have been in Cape Cod, at South Wellfleet, the ruins of which I visited and reported on in 2009/27, and that did later become a relay station, but in the beginning, first the Cornwall station was ruined by a storm, then the same thing happened to the Cape Cod station. At that point, Marconi moved up from Cape Cod to Saint John's because it was closer to Britain and reception would be more likely. Still, Marconi had to raise an antenna on a kite for it to work, which reminds one of Benjamin Franklin.

 
 

Everyone had said it couldn't work, because radio waves traveled in a straight line, and would just shoot of tangentially from the Earth, but as it turned out, the ionosphere bounced back the signal and messages did go through. Thus wireless telegraphy was now possible, and Marconi's venture became a threat to the cable company's monopoly up in Heart's Content. To avoid the monopoly in Newfoundland, Marconi had to go to Nova Scotia, where he set up business charging ten cents a word, which was 60% lower than the cable rate. Finally, in 1933, he was able to move back to Newfoundland, and he set up a station, right in the Cabot Tower.

 
 

Two very interesting thoughts occur to me. First, because Avalon, with its Cape Spear, was the closest North American point to Europe (excluding much more inaccessible Greenland), it became a standard point of departure for ● Cyrus West Field's transatlantic telegraph cable, ● Guglielmo Marconi's transatlantic wireless telegraphy experiment, and ● Amelia Earhart's transatlantic solo flight. Second, we now know that that's particularly ironic, since geologically, Avalon is the part of Newfoundland that had once been physically part of Europe (or Africa). This is another way of looking at the fact that it's a small world.

 
 

Quidi Vidi Village Zooming out three bars to 8 will show how close Quidi Vidi Lake and Village are, since Signal Hill is actually the divider between Quidi Vidi Harbour and Saint John's Harbour. Then go back one bar to 7 and we'll backtrack down Signal Hill and cut over to Quidi Vidi Lake and to Quidi Vidi Village at its north end. The lake is somewhat above sea level, and a little cascade trickles down from its far end, regulated by a dam at the end of the lake. Zoom in two to 5 and take a look. The cascading stream enters Quidi Vidi Harbour right at the quaint Quidi Vidi Village, settled by the French in the early 1700's. Note how the waterway bends and twists, precluding any long-distance views, either along the waterway or out to sea. At one time, the British tried to eliminate the fishing village to prevent invasion of Saint John's through this "back door", which seems so remote but is so close. They fortunately failed to do so, and had to be satisfied by establishing a gun battery at the end of the road, facing out to sea, during the War of 1812.

 
 

It has to be one of the most unusual names in Newfoundland. That being the case, pronunciations vary, even among longtime residents. I can accept that, with one proviso. There are some people, my guess, the more humble and the less educated, who actually pronounce Quidi Vidi so that it rhymes with "quite a ride[r]", but with a V in the middle. I fortunately never heard that in real life, which is too off-the-wall for my taste. It reminds me when David told me that few people actually still say Lancey Meadows, although that pronunciation was once more widespread. Let's hope this one is dying out, too.

 
 

The most common pronunciation makes it sound like "Kiddy Viddy" (KI.di VI.di), which makes me think that you're filming a child and making a kiddy vide(o). That's the pronunciation I use, although you could also add a W and make it "Kwiddy Viddy" (KWI.di VI.di). If the derivation proves to be French or similar (remember there's NO W in Québec), then the first, common pronunciation would be accurate. If it proves to be Latin, which is far more likely in my mind, then the W would make sense. Since no on is really sure, although I like the W, I'll continue to leave it out.

 
 

We saw at Dildo that no one really knows why that town was named that, or where the word came from, and the situation here is similar. I've seen more nonsense online by people quoting local guides telling them, quite definitively, one bit of nonsense after another, showing that guides are not the know-it-alls some of them might profess to be. Caveat emptor / let the buyer beware, of guide services, that is. Someone else online said the phrase was "Latin with an error". It may be Latin, but I don't think they understood why or how that "error" occurred. The bottom line is that there is no definitive answer, but I'll sift through the debris and give an opinion.

 
 

● One thought is that it may be of French derivation, being a variation of the French family name Quédville or Quetteville. Even if people with that name lived locally, I find that too far-fetched.

 
 

● One guide told someone, who posted it online, that it comes from the Portuguese [porto] qui dividi, meaning "[port] that divides". First, despite the many names here of Portuguese derivation, that phrase is not Portuguese, but an attempt to make Portuguese look closer to the name of the village. It would be que divide, but that's what it would also be in Latin. If it were that Latin phrase, the explanation would be that some land grant border purportedly went through here, making it a "[port] that divides" one property from another. The concept is feasible, but I doubt that anyone would name a local fishing village after a mere fragment of a Latin phrase.

 
 

● What I've read, and like best, has an interesting maritime connection, which would be quite appropriate for the location. There is no proof that this is the answer, but it's by far the best one I've seen. Yes, it's based on a Latin phrase, and in order to see what that phrase is, you have to drop what someone called an error, an extra I, so that you have now uncovered the Latin phrase quid vidi.

 
 

We've all seen each of those words in other phrases. Quid appears in quid pro quo, where quo is merely a variation of quid, which means "what", so you're saying "what for what", implying "something for something", "one thing for another" or "this for that". A quid pro quo is when you do me a favor and I do you a favor in return, in other words, something for something. But the word means basically "what".

 
 

We also know that Caesar commented on his campaign in Britain veni, vidi, vici, or "I came, I saw, I conquered", and there we have vidi, or "I saw". So there we have it: quid vidi means "what I saw". But what does that have to do with anything?

 
 

As I have seen it suggested, mariners' logs used the phrase quid vidi, followed by what they saw while they were on watch, for the ship's record. However, I have not been able to find any more information about this.

 
 

It's even more problematic to understand why, despite the maritime reference of a fishing village, how this Latin phrase could be used as the name of the village. The only parallel that comes to mind is the city of Corpus Christi ("Body of Christ"), Texas, which was apparently discovered by the Spanish on the Catholic feast day of Corpus Christi. Still, beyond that, the phrase has nothing to do with the city, any more than Easter and Christmas are identifiable with Easter Island and Christmas Island, other than that they were discovered on those days. While that's not exactly the same thing, there is little else on a practical basis to connect that phrase sensibly to that Texas city. Perhaps it was similar with Quid Vidi.

 
 

But then there's that objection of an "error" that someone wrote up about online. I don't see any error. I would speculate that, as the name of the village, quid was playfully lengthened to Quidi to make it rhyme with Vidi, and it stuck. This could especially be the case as people no longer understood the foreign words. This sort of rhyme occurs frequently in English, resulting in phrases like "namby-pamby" or "willy-nilly". So why not Quidi Vidi?

 
 
 Once I wrote the above, I had to check further into these expressions. English poet Ambrose Phillips wrote sentimental poems dedicated to children of the nobility, and his mocking, satirical nickname was Namby Pamby. Since 1745, namby-pamby has meant "weakly sentimental".

Better still is the other phrase. Just as "will" and "not" combined to form "won't", there was an earlier version of "won't", where the negative "ne" combined with "will" to form "nill". In a similar manner to how we today say "will she, or won't she", in about 1600, positive-negative phrases of a similar meaning developed like "will I, nill I", or "will he, nill he", even "will ye, nill ye", all implying doubt as to what would happen. These phrases survive when we today say that something is being done "willy-nilly", meaning "haphazardly" or "carelessly".

A number of other phrases developed by reduplication (doubling) of a word, then changing the first vowel to I: "dally", became "dilly-dally" (to waste time); "wash", or "washy" (watery) became "wishy-washy" (ineffective); similar to "will" dealing with the future, "shall", or "shall I" became "shilly-shally" (to dawdle). So I say again, given this framework, why not Quidi Vidi?
 
 

OK, now we're ready to go into the village. Surprisingly, the lake, which hosts an annual regatta, is of little real attraction, certainly not compared to Quidi Vidi Village (Photo by Silverchemist) and its harbor. Click to enlarge to compare the buildings near the lake with the contrasting charm of the village buildings. While the dam at the end of the lake isn't visible, the beginning of the cascading brook can be seen to the right of the wider Quidi Vidi Village road. But in this view, the brook is then lost in the greenery, after which, it enters the harbor. The large red-roofed building is the new crafts center called Quidi Vidi Plantation. It was closed when I was there, and I went back two days later. The large green-sided building is the Quidi Vidi Brewery. Note the quaint little white shed across from the brewery. As happened earlier in the day because of narrow roads, I had to park at the brewery and continue walking around the bend to see out to the ocean.

 
 

This is Quidi Vidi Harbour from the crafts center, looking out towards the sea past the brewery, but with the exit view blocked by the bend in the cliffs. Local charm is evidenced by this detail of the little white shed we just saw, (Photo by Nilfanion) backed up to the cliffside. If you walk out far enough past the bend, you can finally see the through the harbor entrance and out to sea (Photo by Nilfanion), as this panorama shows. On the right (click), you can see the gun battery, and the green will identify the brewery, and the red roof the craft center. You can even see the little white shed at the cliffside. There is a great deal of charm concentrated into this tiny area.

 
 

This might seem like a busy day, but the area is compact. It was six minutes back to Rendell-Shea, and I was there by teatime. I was very pleased, having my tea, when Earl noted I'd come in, and stopped by, wanting to take me up on my offer of conversation. He produced two glasses of white wine, and we spoke for maybe an hour and a half. We learned of each other's backgrounds, and of the local real estate ventures Earl and Gary were, or had been, involved in. I confirmed that marriage equality had reached Canada in 2005, and by the oddest of chance, it was two days later, my last full day in town, that the US Supreme Court came out with two positive rulings on marriage equality, one of which let California's law stand. It was a relaxing and enjoyable end to the day.

 
 

Saint John's, Day Four   Of my 3 ½ days in town, you'll remember that one was taken up by the trip to Trinity & Conception Bays, which was Day Three, so my next and last day in town was Day Four. Much of it was a catch-up day for things I'd missed.

 
 

Commissariat House I drove across the street and into the park, leaving the car on The Mall, the pleasant disused street that used to dead-end here at the Commissariat House (Photo by Mo Laidlaw), started in 1818, and restored to the style of the 1830's. It was unusual in its time that it wasn't just the offices of the commissary, which provided supplies to the military, but was upstairs also the quarters of the officials. One starts in the former coach house, where to my delight, there was in the center of the room a very large model of Saint John's in the early 1800's. It was as much fun as the model of the Norse Historic Site I'd seen at L'Anse aux Meadows. By now I knew enough of the town to find Water and Duckworth, and quite a few other familiar areas, and to note areas where later streets had not yet appeared. It was a dream for anyone interested in urban geography, and I discussed the model with the guard, and she and I had some interesting talks. In the house, there were period offices downstairs, and upstairs, period rooms. I had another lengthy conversation with a guard upstairs, and I asked her why the dining table was set for so many people. Apparently the house now offered rather pricey candlelight dinners periodically, each hosted by different upscale local restaurants. They must be very atmospheric.

 
 

Marine Drive The only totally new thing of the day was to take a loop drive north, then west, then back to town. Go back to our map and set it at 9 bars over the Shea house area southwest of Quidi Vidi Lake, and let's take highway 30, Logy Bay Road, northbound. Right after we pass the very end of the Trans-Canada Highway, we turn off onto the Marine Drive, which takes us past sea views in some of the other coves that we read the glaciers had carved out, such as Logy Bay, Middle Cove, and Outer Cove, to Torbay. We're now on highway 20, and take it up to Pouch Cove. I parked there to enjoy the ocean view, and then decided I wanted to continue to the very end of the peninsula, at Cape Saint Francis. Highway 20 went there, right?

 
 

After a very short distance beyond Pouch Cove the road got narrower and hilly, and I came to a sign suggesting that only four-wheel drive vehicles go any further. Well, as the expression goes, my mother didn't raise any stupid children, so I turned back and continued west of Pouch Cove. That was as close to the end of the peninsula as I was going to get.

 
 

I continued down the west coast, along Conception Bay once again, as far as Highway 40, Portugal Cove Road, and took a look at Portugal Cove, whose name shows—well, you know what. Portugal Cove Road then passed the airport—it's how I'd arrived that first day and how I'd leave in the morning—and I was back into town, and swung back to Quidi Vidi for the second catch-up of the day.

 
 

Quidi Vidi Plantation The Quidi Vidi Plantation is a relatively new enterprise, and upstairs there are small rooms around the atrium for visitors to watch artisans at work and see what they've produced. There are at the moment seven artisans, working on textiles, pottery and ceramics, metal and glass, and weaving. However, only four or so were in residence that day, but my interest concentrated on the man doing woodcuts, Graham Blair (note his woodcut of fish below his picture). He was carving a block with animal designs, and on the wall were prints, I think on Japanese rice paper, if I recall correctly. They were all black-on-white, and I wondered if he ever did them in color. He discussed multi-color work that the Japanese do, but I said I meant doing one single color other than black, such as a maroon. Apparently, he prefers the black. I made sure I brought up Albrecht Dürer, the master of woodcuts.

 
 

While woodcuts to make pictures were what he does, what interested me goes back pre-Gutenberg, when woodcuts of writing were made of whole pages, until Gutenberg (2005/17) decided to cut a block up to make individual letters, and the art of moveable type was born. So while watching him carve an animal picture, I had in my mind both animals and text work.

 
 

The Battery, with Earl I thought I was then done for the day, and went back for my usual tea on the sunporch. But then Earl stopped by again, said he was going to walk the dog over at the Battery, as he usually does, and asked if I'd like to join him. He assured me it would take a half-hour. But the walk, the conversation, and the sights were so enjoyable, that it took two hours, and I loved every minute of it. It was unusual that, while I'd walked among the narrow streets and houses to Fort Amherst and in Quidi Vidi, it was at the Battery that I'd decided not to walk, so here was the perfect chance to complete the trifecta.

 
 

Go back to our map one last time, center on the "heel" of the harbor at about 6 bars, and take the walk with Earl and me, first down Cochrane, then along Duckworth, to where we enter Battery Road. It isn't far until we reach the limit for cars that had stopped me earlier. We zigzagged up and down tiny alleyways and staircases, some of which are private property, but have a public right-of-way. We went out far enough to look over diagonally at Fort Amherst (check it out), and Earl explained that you can continue on this road and climb to the top of Signal Hill the back way, but that was not of interest to me—the experience, views, and conversation were why I was there.

 
 

The Battery (Photo by Nilfanion) has been described as an outport within the city of Saint John's, and the crowded houses seem to show that. Click to inspect the many wooden staircases connecting the lanes. This is one of the wider streets there (Photo by Skookum1), and you'll understand the limitation on cars, although some local resident has managed to park his car over on the left. For one narrow staircase between buildings we had to push some branches to the side, and I know I wouldn't have seen as much if I weren't following Earl. Yes, there were plenty of jellybeans, and you can see a few if you click to enlarge this view back toward town (Photo by Frank Gaillard). This walk was a great end to the visit to Saint John's, and to Newfoundland and Labrador.

 
 

The flight back to New York the next day connected in Montréal, where I was unaware that I'd preclear US Customs while there. There was another security check, and after that it was a shambles. There was a huge hall with two small clusters of people waiting on line in the middle, with no explanation of which was which. There were posted directions to fill out a US Customs form and another one, but all the forms were gone, except for a US Customs declaration form in French. I filled that out, but someone who didn't speak French would be at a loss as to what he was signing. I finally found a woman who told me the other form was for non-US citizens. She would have left me standing there, except that I spoke up and told her I was making a connection between flights, so she ushered me to the smaller of the two unmarked groups waiting, and I finally cleared customs. I've been looking forward to when US Customs for rail connections moves up from the border to Montréal, but this experience did not bode well. Anyway, it was done and over, and the Newfoundland and Labrador visit was a great success.

 
 
 
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