Trip of the iceberg
With its icebergs and whales, Canada’s remote island of Newfoundland is full of natural beauty
As our boat unsteadily circled the giant chunk of ancient glacier I tried to take stock, and photos, of what I was witnessing. I’d never seen an iceberg before and neither words, nor wobbly pictures, could do it justice.
It was a towering multitude of textures, tones and colours, the light reflecting differently from every angle. Whites, blues, and greys. A green glow just above the waterline. It had to be one of the most striking sights I’d ever laid eyes on. Yet it was just one of hundreds of icebergs that float down the coast of Newfoundland every spring and summer on their death march from Greenland.
It was rather poignant too, watching something older than human civilisation disintegrating, knowing we are somewhat responsible. But I suppose there was some comfort in knowing the pieces that break off are harvested to make beer and vodka.
The Rock, as Newfoundland is aptly known, is a giant island cast off the eastern edge of Canada – 6,000 miles of fractured coastline pounded by the dark Atlantic. It’s cold, remote, dramatic. Most parts are further south than England, yet it feels more northern. Like Scotland. Or Scandinavia. Especially Iceland.
The population of half a million is sparse, but very friendly (though it can be difficult to decipher their accents). The weather is extreme. Even in June the winds were cold enough to make me squeal. You can experience all seasons in one day, and I found myself constantly removing, then re-applying layers. My hair was windblown. I needed sunglasses. The car could be baking, yet all would be chilled the moment I opened the windows. A dip in the sea won’t be on your agenda. When it comes to iceberg hunting, you have to be primed and ready to go. They can travel a nifty 2mph. Updates to their whereabouts are available online (icebergfinder. com) or via social media, and it’s best
if you rent a car to chase them down. For me, there was no real hunting: 2018 had got off to a slow start after a bumper year in 2017, and there was only one in the whole region, grounded off of Cape Bonavista a few hours north of the capital, St John’s.
St John’s is the most easterly city in North America. It’s tucked into a bay on the southeastern Avalon peninsula and contains about half of the island’s population.
The multicoloured houses that climb out of the harbour are rather pretty, as is the panoramic view from the steep Signal Hill that buffers the bay from the ocean.
The drive north from St John’s was great. Newfoundland’s long and empty roads make for perfect road trips. The mostly single lane Trans Canadian Highway rolls through endless spruce and fir forests, branching off to weather scarred roads that cling on to the craggy coast and navigate the deluge of inland lakes and ponds.
Cape Bonavista is at the end of a 53-mile long peninsula. It was raw, rugged, and windswept. Clouds churned the horizon, and I could see the iceberg out to sea beyond the old wooden houses scattered along the shore.
Within an hour, I was on a boat tour chugging out to the iceberg, local folk songs blaring all the way. The sea was calm and the sky was breaking blue.
The side of the iceberg reflecting the sunshine was surprisingly warm, yet the far side felt like a freezer. It was hard to believe the ice was between 10,00020,000 years old. And despite being more than 100ft high, 90 per cent of it was below water – similar in size to the iceberg that sank the Titanic about 400 miles from there.
After we’d done taking photos, our boat set off for another tourist activity – whale and puffin spotting.
The late spring/early summer iceberg season coincides with the arrival in the area of all the marine life that follows the migration of capelin fish upon which they feed.
I met several tourists who’d spotted a humpback, but that day we saw neither whale nor puffin.
Newfoundland was arguably England’s first overseas colony. It was claimed by Venetian explorer John Cabot in 1497 on behalf of Henry VII. Bonavista is believed to be the site of his first landing.
His yarns of seas so full of cod that you could almost walk on water quickly spread through Europe. The French, Basque, Spanish, Portuguese and Irish soon joined the frenzy to fish here. Unfortunately everybody fished so much that by 1992 stocks of cod were down to 1 per cent of their original levels and a ban was imposed. It still has no end in sight.
Newfoundland only became part of Canada in 1949, and most locals still seem to rue the decision and yearn for a return to independence. The island’s flag is proudly flown
everywhere. The red and white of the Maple Leaf is scarce.
What with the Scandinavian-style architecture, folk music pubs and fish and chips sold everywhere, I had trouble remembering I was in Canada.
Another spring/summertime activity is foraging. I joined an interesting tour along the wooded cliffs around Quidi Vidi bay in St John’s, and was shown which plants, mosses, and berries could be picked and eaten. Nearby was the Quidi Vidi Brewery, which makes beer from iceberg water. Tours of the former cod plant run all day. I preferred the local rum called screech, despite it being coarser than a fisherman’s jumper.
Sadly I didn’t get the chance to be screeched in – the ceremony to become an honorary Newfoundlander by kissing a cod, shooting rum, and reciting jovial, semi-comprehensible local vernacular.
But I did get chance for a different unique experience – tasting screech served over a hunk of iceberg. It melts far more slowly than regular ice and tastes oh-so pure.
Climate change? Turns out there are some positives.