26 June

At the breakfast table, a hostel crowd, and – bizarrely – Skipper Mike, the entertainer from the other night, here to watch me make pancakes, badly.

I wasn’t expecting an audience for this, judging me on my crepe prowess. Talk about turning the tables!

Quite rightly, he passes when I offer him some – and part of me wishes I’d passed on them myself.

Turns out Mike is here to collect another hostel intern, for a day-release trip to his recording studio on the other side of the archipelago.

He delivers this proposal to me also, in a lively Gaelic drawl that’s more Irish than the Irish, and liberally peppered with semi-obscure Newfoundland profanities (I think).

Me, I’ve no time for these island shenanigans – I have a polar bear to see!

Upstairs, I’m throwing what little weight I have around … swinging my bag over my shoulder in one clean manoeuvre, in the process damn well snapping my door key clean in two. Oops!

I never thought I’d be handing a room key back in pieces, yet that’s exactly what I find myself doing here this morning, while offering to cover the cost of a new one.

My host is exceptionally gracious given the circumstances … practically rolling about the floor in fits of laughter on my account of the events which led me here. Hey Skipper Mike … come back! I can be funny!

On the way around the bay, a calm harbour at Twillingate today, overseen by the mosaic mermaid, balancing on a rock and offering a hand up to the blue skies above … if only anyone was up there.

Fishing vessels and tourist boats coming and going at a rate of close to zero knots. The cargo on board will pay over the odds.

Red for danger in seating arrangements, boxed in by yellow; a primary colours warning to the sealife and the sneaky seagulls.

Over in Durrell Museum is a polar bear in a gift shop.

Arrived here after a trip into town went slightly awry, and ended up stuffed on a plinth, overlooking the souvenir section – poor guy.

I get precisely one minute to quietly take in the sad story of the ursus exhibit, before the place unexpectedly becomes overrun by a bus full of excitable schoolkids … just my luck.

Beyond the polar bear, a collection of motionless auks (plastic), stood beside displays of forgotten artefacts, household implements, radios, a cot, a rocking chair.

It’s all I can do to escape the now-crowded museum, to take in the fantastic panoramic view of Twillingate from up on the hillside outside.

Which I figure would be better enjoyed without the continuous rumble of a yellow schoolbus engine, and groups of children chasing each other around the picnic tables.

Maybe I should have taken that trip with Skipper Mike after all.

I vanish from town via the back road, the coast road, around to Bluff Head Cove for some peace and quiet.

A solitary walk around the inlet, dotted throughout with more bright colours, which only serve to attract the whole insect population towards me, for lunch.

Man is not an island; he is a feast for the ticks and mites, is what.

I re-emerge from this airborne picnic fiesta at the harbour, the path bringing me out next to an elegant house overlooking the bay.

In the garden, a sprightly man bounds over and introduces himself – Jack – quickly adding, “I’m 90 years old, you know!”

He’s delighted to hear where I’m from, which sends him into semi-rambling reminisces about his extended family back in the UK.

I ask him when he’ll be flying over there next to see his relatives, to which he replies he doesn’t think he will be again, given his age.

Just at that moment, an unseen bird lets out a loud mournful squawk; I’m sad for Jack, as is the bird.

I venture that his Pommie cousins can fly over here to see him, yet that’s also a non-starter by all accounts. Jack seems all very relaxed about this, and smiling all the while.

Yet I feel compelled not to leave on a downcast note, so cheerily remark on how impressive his garden looks, to say nothing of the outlook over the harbour. Jack’s grin blossoms … he knows he lives in the perfect place.

In the background of our garden conversation, Jack’s partner pours water over colourful plants and flowers, lined up alongside the walls of the house, like suspects, ocassionally pausing to glance over.

Suspicion, is my thought. Or impostorism. Those plants aren’t real!

I’m sent on my way with good wishes for the rest of my adventure, which are well received and bundled into my car, for the journey onwards.

I’m leaving the New World for now, waving goodbye to Captain Dave and Cod Jack and Skipper Mike and Pat the Beer Pusher and all of the high rollers, making an escape south to Highway 1.

Taking the scenic route to Gander, which in many places is a misnomer … it’s more often than not a drive through endless forest, occasionally breaking out at water’s edge.

I’ve no time for the St John’s crowd, I have a ferry to catch in two days … maybe I’ll return for that.

I’ve no time for a gander around Gander, either, so immediately head west on the Trans Canadian Highway, joining all of the daytime campervans and lorries and rental cars speeding along the freeway.

Summer can be found just beyond the off ramp, at Bishop’s Falls.

Where I’ve arrived in the middle of suburbia, with decking and deckchairs, some beers in the fridge (on the house), and neighbours cranking up the blues, as the temperatures rise.

We’ve all gone the full yard to get here, and yet we barely know our own names, nevermind each other.