Check out some of the recipes and stories shared by community members of Newfoundland
NL, Canada | Photo credit: Jan Hong Jin
Spring comes late in Newfoundland, but this makes the warm air even more appreciated. Once the snow melts and the warmer temperatures arrive, my friends and I camp on the East Coast Trail almost every weekend. The East Coast Trail boasts 336 kilometers of ocean side hiking trails, they range in difficulty and accessibility giving all who wants to access to crisp ocean air. The trails wrap around the coast on the shores surrounding St. John’s and down the Southern Coast, meaning there are lots of beautiful oceanside camping spots.
One weekend in particular stands out to me when I think about how much I appreciate the beauty that the ocean here can show me. My friends and I were camping on the East Coast Trail in early July this past summer. As we got to our spot, we were setting up our tents and starting a fire, there was a strange sound coming from around the cove. At first, it was jarring, a loud echoing sound that we couldn’t quite identify. After a few moments of speculation, I saw a splash from the corner of my eye. Then around the corner came a pod of humpback whales. A breathtaking sight that I will never forget. As the night progressed and we sat around the fire the whales stayed and fed near our sight for ours. Even after the sun went down and the moon came out, we could still hear them. It is one of my fondest memories of the ocean here in Newfoundland. I am so grateful of the East Coast Trail for providing so much access to our beautiful ocean.
Story submitted by Caitlyn Tobin
Holyrood, NL, Canada | Photo credit: Poppy Keogh
Edwin John Pratt (1882-1964) was born in Western Bay, Conception Bay. After leaving the province in 1907 to attend the University of Toronto, he published his first volume of poetry, Newfoundland Verse, in 1923
Here the tides flow,
And here they ebb;
Not with that dull, unsinewed tread of waters
Held under bonds to move
Around unpeopled shores—
Moon-driven through a timeless circuit
Of invasion and retreat;
But with a lusty stroke of life
Pounding at stubborn gates,
That they might run
Within the sluices of men’s hearts,
Leap under throb of pulse and nerve,
And teach the sea’s strong voice
To learn the harmonies of new floods,
The peal of cataract,
And the soft wash of currents
Against resilient banks,
Or the broken rhythms from old chords
Along dark passages
That once were pathways of authentic fires.
Red is the sea-kelp on the beach,
Red as the heart’s blood,
Nor is there power in tide or sun
To bleach its stain.
It lies there piled thick
Above the gulch-line.
It is rooted in the joints of rocks,
It is tangled around a spar,
It covers a broken rudder,
It is red as the heart’s blood,
And salt as tears.