St. John's Journal

Beyond the Distant Shores of St. John’s

Crossing the vast Pacific and the North American continent, with layovers in Calgary and Montreal, I arrived at St. John’s, Newfoundland. The July air carried the cool breath of the sea, the temperature hovering around seventeen degrees. This island, drifting on the edges of time, felt slow and serene. My lodging was at the Memorial University of Newfoundland, where my window overlooked a campus awash in morning light. Wandering the university grounds, I stumbled upon azaleas just beginning to bloom—out of place in the season, awakening in this delayed spring. On the roads, drivers paused, waiting in stillness as wild ducks crossed unhurriedly. And I could not help but wonder: in Taiwan, do pedestrians hold fewer rights than these wandering ducks?

Afternoon brought familiarity with the city’s contours. The stone walls of the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist radiated the warmth of history, solemn and tranquil. Pushing open its heavy wooden doors, I stepped inside the Gothic sanctuary, where dim light gave way to silence. Stained glass cast shifting hues upon aged pews and the altar. I sat quietly, listening to the wind threading through window cracks, whispering like echoes of the past.

At the port of St. John’s, the National War Memorial stood in silent testimony to Newfoundland’s sacrifices. This land had paid a heavy price, many young lives never returning, their names carved in stone. Locals, passing by, would pause—hats removed, heads bowed—honoring the memory. Here, history had not faded into forgetfulness.

The buildings, painted in a riot of colors, were called “Jellybean Row,” their vivid facades dancing against the gray-blue ocean. Seated by the wharf, I watched fishing boats sway, gulls call, waves kiss the stones. The sea moved like time itself—soft, patient, and ceaseless.

Day Two: Walking Among Cliffs and Wind

At dawn, I set out to capture the moment when birds wake, walking eastward through a city still caught in slumber. My path led me toward Blackhead, where the entrance to the East Coast Trail—Deadman’s Bay Path—beckoned. The ocean wind, thick with salt and moss, carried the scent of unseen tides. Fog drifted over the horizon, veiling and unveiling the cliffs and the restless sea below.

The trail undulated over the land, my steps tracing stones worn smooth by centuries. Dust and moss cloaked the remnants of time. Unlike the level sidewalks of the city, every step here demanded awareness, each footfall a careful communion with rock and soil. Along the way, I encountered great black-backed gulls, their wings slicing the low clouds, their cries carried far by the wind. Occasionally, they dove, emerging with silver-scaled fish gleaming in their beaks, vanishing once more into the shifting mist.

I paused, watching a bald eagle. It circled in solemn silence, guardian of the land and sea, gazing into the depths of the ocean. Its wings spanned the sky with unyielding grace, a sovereign force in the wild. In its eyes, the wisdom of the elements, the memory of storms yet to come.

Hours later, I arrived at Cape Spear Lighthouse, the easternmost point of North America. The lighthouse stood defiant against the wind, a sentinel at the continent’s edge. Here, the boundary of the world blurred, and the sea sang in deep, resonant tones that echoed within my chest. I sat for a long time, watching the clouds roll in, folding over the entrance to St. John’s harbor. A traveler among landscapes, I pondered the rhythm between land and wanderer. This place did not measure time in minutes or hours, but in tides and the flight of migrating birds.

By afternoon, I had made my way to Signal Hill. From its heights, St. John’s unfolded below—a tableau of rooftops, docks, lighthouses, and winding streets. The ruins of Fort Amherst stood in mute witness to a history shaped by conflict and the tides of war. The wind, steeped in the scent of the ocean, carried thoughts of bygone sailors and explorers who had once set forth from this very place, venturing into the unknown.

Day Three: Above the Mist, in Search of Puffins

This day was for the sea, for seeking out the winged symbols of Newfoundland—the puffins.

Morning broke under a shroud of fog, swallowing the horizon. Aboard the Iceberg Quest tour, we ventured into a world where visibility stretched only a few meters. The ship’s bow cut through the still waters, droplets of mist clinging to its frame. Aboard, we searched the veiled sea, seeking life amid the vast obscurity.

For a time, there was only the quiet, the rhythmic break of waves against the hull. I wondered if the birds could be found in such ghostly weather. But then—through a thinning veil of fog—dark shapes emerged, skimming just above the water’s surface. Puffins!

With their stout bodies and vibrant beaks, they flapped hurriedly yet moved with surprising grace over the sea. Some carried tiny fish in their beaks, trophies from their dives. Their black and white feathers, tinged with orange, seemed to hold the very essence of this place—bold, untamed, alive. I pressed the shutter, preserving the fleeting moment of encounter. This was why I had come to Newfoundland, for this dance between sea and sky, for this communion with the spirit of the land.

Returning to shore, I was drawn to a bright orange sign at the harbor—offering the famed fish and chips. The scent alone carried promises of crisp batter and ocean-fresh cod. A squeeze of lemon over the golden fillets, a taste of tangy onion sauce—each bite was a marriage of flavors, disproving the rumors of British cuisine’s blandness.

Day Four: Traces of Time, and Farewell

On my final day, I wandered among the city’s old churches, weaving through the threshold of history and present. Stone walls, steadfast against the passage of time, stood as testimony to endurance. Once more, I climbed Signal Hill, gazing down upon the city. Across the bay, the lighthouse of Fort Amherst stood solitary, a beacon against the restless sea.

In St. John’s, time flowed differently—slower, deeper. Here, people and nature were not in opposition but woven together in quiet harmony. The wind, a storyteller; the tide, a keeper of memory.

As the afternoon waned, I made my way to the airport, preparing to leave this land behind. The plane ascended, and from my window, I watched as mist wrapped itself around the coast, a soft net bridging past and future.