19 June

Limber up to limbo down – if only I could switch the lights on.

This is a life stopped, or at least on pause. Although at least the dense fog has lifted.

At 7am, no electricity, no hot water.

I feel myself around the shadowy hotel corridors, crawling along in the dark, and all I can think is – I’m glad I wasn’t doing this last night with Randy and Mel and their collection of Dildo souvenirs.

Breakfast doesn’t come easy when a third of the island has had a powercut.

Each one of us is a phoney, it’s clear to see, because here we are being found out – in the mile-long queue at the Tim Horton’s drive-thru.

I can only speculate that this guy Tim generates his own power. Certainly seems to generate a large amount of instant coffee sheep / caffeine disciples in this country.

I’m having no part of this, I speed past that queue, waving as I go. Optimistically hoping that someone might throw me a frickin’ bone to gnaw on, in the absence of anything else nutritious.

As I drive north along the TCH, it takes a good hour before I stumble across anything looking remotely like a food stop.

The roadside cafe I arrive at is in the middle of nowhere, yet I pull in excitedly … breakfast, finally!

Being a truck stop, there is acres of room to park up, so much space.

Despite this, I decide to park up in amongst the other cars, promptly reversing my Jetta into a Jeep, just so that I can have a crutch waved at me by a one-legged man in a bandana.

The good news is, I figure this guy must have eaten, as otherwise he’d be a little more pissed about this than he is right now. Either that, or he’s even more legless than he appears.

Yet the thought does very briefly cross my mind … maybe he was so hungry, he ate his … hmm. no. that can’t be right. There must be hot food here, surely!

We inspect the bumpers on both vehicles, quickly realising there’s no damage to either. As my Crash Bandicoot friend clambers into his off-roader, he waves a friendly crutch at me. Or maybe it’s an angry crutch, I’m unsure … walking aid etiquette passed me by. All I know is that I’m damn hungry.

Inside the building, a dark restaurant, filled with gloomy people staring into space. There are no conversations to be had; everyone is waiting for someone to switch the lights on, and more importantly the goddamn fryer.

It’s a weird scene – everyone in this bleak diner looks half-dead. Or stoned.

Resisting the urge to sit in darkness with this assortment of xerox ghouls, in the vain hope I might get a hot sandwich or a plate of eggs, I exit back through the souvenir shop, picking up an oversized banana muffin and a shit cup of tea on the way to the counter.

I’m met there by film clichés – the grizzled trucker in the John Deere cap and lumberjack shirt, mumbling incoherently; the counter clerk, biro perched on left ear, chewing gum, bored; splitting the difference, the bright ‘n’ breezy Gen Y girl in the polka dot dress and oversize shades, stocking up on cookies and Skittles and general munchies.

Not for the first time, I feel like I’ve walked into a movie scene that’s not yet been scripted, or shot.

In the parking lot, I make that banana muffin disappear in world record time, and in peace, uninterrupted by any arm or leg waving.

Continuing up north and around the mountain curves of Corner Brook, to Cape Blow Me Down – is this Cook’s joke?

“WSW and SW winds blow here sometimes with great Violence. Occasioned by the nature of the land, there being a Valley of low land between this Harbour and Coal River [Serpentine River] which is bounded on each side with high hills, this causeth these winds to blow very strong over the low land” (Cook, 1767)

There’s no westerlies blowing me down today, it’s the stillest of calm days. So I take Cook’s words on Violence with a pinch of salt, and a grab bag of chips, as I ponder what on earth I’m doing here.

Minutes later, I meander on down the Copper Mine Falls Trail, to a fully collapsed path and a ragged rope railing on which to hang my life, temporarily, before arriving at the vertical falls intact – just about.

A hopscotch over the rocks, beneath waterfall mist drifting silently away from the noisy waterfall itself, disowning it.

Back along the partially-shredded rope barrier and through the trees to the Blow Me Down Trail, on the lookout for the scenic lookoffs.

Through openings which were made for me and for other layabouts, views of calm waters and glacial lands. A serenity which authorises me being here, as long as it’s temporary.

And yes, the chirping birds are in cahoots with the trees in all of this, as always. They see more than I do, this much is obvious. And I am mildly jealous.

The intense greens and blues of nature, a thin barely-there cloud wafting by overhead.

The open-air Blow Me Down Trail doesn’t exist today, although I can see why it might, sometimes.

I jump back on the road, where if I wasn’t moose alert before, I am now.

The turn-off to the Northern Peninsula is at Deer Lake, a collection of gas stations and non-locals and uncommonly large plastic deer. I take the opportunity to stock up on petrol and beer … just because.

I take the exit for this wagging finger peninsula, driving through scenery which is mostly seen on postcards and occasionally Instagram accounts.

When I run into the semi-deserted Welcome Centre at Gros Morne, of course I have the misfortune to run into the only people for miles around, who like to display their dawdling at the counter to anyone in a rush to get themselves to a beer with a view this evening.

I wait patiently, mild irritation in check, before I get my turn to quiz the park ranger on the best trails. Info on board, back on my way down the long hill and around the bends and along the mountains, still with their snow patches, and a slow decline into Norris Point.

If you don’t have a room with a view here, you’ve messed up, I figure.

The Tablelands over there, brought to the party by a glacial gang of blinding peaks and icy waters.

Just before I drive straight into the drink at Bonne Bay, my car hangs a left into the last driveway, where Marie is here to greet me and show me the ropes of modern living. And the view of Shag Cliff.

I get the full lowdown on the locality and, briefing complete, take a hike around the loop trail, which to me seems to be missing a critical part: a loop. The Shoreline Loop, the Saddle, the Hilltop Loop … it all goes a bit wrong. Maybe I’m doing it wrong.

Nevermind, there are quite ridiculous views from up here on Burnt Hill – Tablelands again, bigging it up over the fjords. It lives near Killdevil and Big Hill … yeah I figure that was some ice-age party, back in the day.

No surprise that there’s a perverted view of Shag Cliff from Sheep Path. And at this point, we all raise our glass to James Cook – we all need to stay healthy, to stave off the scurvy. Cook, you look guilty, sheepish even … My money says it was you who came up with all these take-the-piss names.

At the harbour, a classic Dodge convertible, lazily parading around.

I head to the pub, the Cat Stop, to drink everything in on the decking out the back, with a local brew – taken in the fading blaze of the evening sun and the calm fjordlike waters.

I could well be on the Best Coast, in the Only Place … so damn near perfect is all of this.

I’ll bring myself back to this exact spot, at this exact time, many times over in the future.

Everyone sat here on the pub pier tonight will do likewise – the scene stored forever in our internal memory banks (until such point that they’re switched off).

It bothers absolutely no-one, including me, that the craft ale here is served up in jam jars. This should be a furiously waved red flag; instead it’s a casual sunny wave to get involved, to get on board.

It’s the tourists disembarking the boat tour I feel sorry for – they don’t know what they’re missing, and they’ve doubtless paid over the odds for whatever it is they were doing.

We all have a view of Shag Cliff, and the Tickle, yet it’s us plebs in the boozer who can gaze out over all of this with a beer in a jam jar, ha!

When I’m practically booted out of the pub at closing time, at approximately 8pm, almost immediately I’m offered another beer, some moonshine on the harbour, by the folks living in the winnebago trailer, yards away.

Mark, sister Wendy and husband Jim, on tour from Ontario.

They are drinking in a vain attempt to understand how they’ve ended up living in an oversize luxury caravan trailer down by the water, in this the most tranquil of harbours.

I’m invited to join them for dinner, to see if I can assist them in their queries. I can’t, so instead we eat barbequed chicken and microwaved rice and drink more beer, and all the while we’re not towed away.

I seem to be on steady ground.