28 June

Marble is the mountain which will not be transcended – there’s no snow in summer (d’oh!), so no Newfoundland moguls to navigate around.

I take my hot porridge breakfast on my hardwood veranda overlooking the peak, watched on by Angry Birds (glued to a tree, still pissed), contemplating a solo hike instead.

I decide to catch up with Captain Cook, before heading onwards for an elevated constitutional later, close to my destination today – the most westerly point on the rock.

Through a suburban housing estate is where I find James Cook, and somewhat unexpectedly an entirely different set of moguls – the media: Radio Canada, arrived here in a van … and, slightly bizarrely, with a cameraman.

(I don’t question this)

They’ve come from St John’s – seven hours away – to stand here with me, at a semi-circular viewpoint … small wonder that Captain Cook looks a bit blank and mystified.

The lead anchor asks me if a very large building on the mountainside to our right is the city hospital.

Without thought, I say “I guess so”, even though I’m way more clueless than they are.

My words are enough to take this as confirmation, and they proceed to film a piece about the hospital, with the very large building in the background.

I secretly hope this very large building is in fact a very large grocery store or a very large office block or even better the very large municipal council offices.

I’ll be long gone before anyone finds out.

In front of me, Captain Cook is striking a pose … he can pout with the best of them; in buckled winkle-pickers as well – the daring of it!

I’m more interested in the panoramic view over his shoulder, a few degrees more spectacular … even if the paper mill is trying to own the scene.

The escape from Corner Brook is like navigating a Möbius strip expressway; narrowing at certain points, at others a helter-skelter ride around the 3D scenery.

It’s a good place for me to learn how to drive, before I somehow find the on-ramp onto Highway 1, heading south-west with the sun, leading the way directly overhead.

After a few hours jostling with semis and RVs and overly-fast locals in oversized trucks, I land at the turn-off for Cape Ray, parking up beneath a very large roadside sign.

My guidebook tells me a trail starts directly opposite – yet facing the exit is a thick scrub of bush and no sign of any path.

Takes me a good half-hour to realise the unsigned trail is down what looks like someone’s driveway, over the road from the excavated clearing.

I start out on the gravel trail, almost immediately to be approached by two hikers, and between the three of us we cannot hide our disappointment that we’ve encountered each other. They even say as much.

Listen, I’m trying to climb a mountain here!

I follow the series of telegraph poles and radio antannae which conveniently guide my way to the summit.

The steep incline is hard work in the afternoon heat, and I’m glad there’s no-one around to see me panting like a dog.

Why is there an inaccessible house up here on the open moorland, why are there still pockets of snow up here, how high do I need to get … all questions best left unanswered.

Panoramic views of earth, air and water features are where it’s at – from up here, I can see for miles.

Trekking onwards along the rocky outcrop, a collapsing headland, falling into a horizontal tree-blanketed shelf which leads to the ribbon of tarmac of the Trans Canada Highway, snaking along the coastline down below. Beyond that, sea merging into sky, in a neighbourly collaboration full of goodwill.

This is a view worthy of a sit-down, a reflection on life itself.

I stay here, perched on the edge of the escarpment, for a good twenty minutes, motionless, in silent awe of the nature in front of me.

Likely you might be brought to tears if you stayed long enough. To the dark of the night, say.

I’m shown the way down by gangs of flies, constantly interrupting me on my mountain descent with nips and bites.

As if doing my best not to twist an ankle on the rocky trail down isn’t enough, I also have to contend with a phalanx of tiny airborne admirers, desperate to make a show of their affections on me.

I figure that descending successfully from this here plateau, without having fallen head over heels, and without any requirement for first aid and / or hospital treatment, is a damn good result.

I’m sure pleased to see my car, having practically fallen down the mountain with legs and feet twisting this way and that – diagonal / horizontal / vertical … sometimes all at the same time.

It’s all I can do stop my aerial suitors from following me into the motor; persistent bugs, these.

Driving through villages to reach the Cape Anguille Lighthouse, taking the unkempt road to the end, or somewhere very close to the end.

Down the unpaved track by the tractors, abandoned in the shadow of the mountain, ploughing days long-since over.

I’ve taken a step back in time, into the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, the sole resident and no dinner.

Those divebombing gannets have the right idea – maybe I should join them.

Then I realise I could be many steps ahead – in a submarine.

At the deserted lighthouse tonight, an illegal roast, a beer on the rocks, down the coastal path to a dead end, a disused cave.

Sunset arrives in bits, occasionally appearing in reconstructions from behind a bruise of clouds.

I escape the stiff coastal breeze, heading indoors to eavesdrop the shipping forecast and sink a tin, flares on.