After a short consultation at the information centre back at
Port aux Basques, we drove through the town for a quick peek. Ringed by rocks
and pounding surf, the town appeared to be prosperous enough, with well-kept
modest bungalows along streets that meandered around the rocky terrain. We saw
another huge ferry at the dock, but drove on past as we headed further south, out
of town.
The map shows a little tail of highway to the right of the
ferry landing point, while most traffic coming ashore heads left, or north.
Effie, at the information centre, told us about a stone lighthouse and a couple
of places where we could get some real Newfoundland food down that way.
Stunted pine trees and boggy vegetation covered the rolling
hills, reminding us of the tundra in the Yukon. There were lots of rocky
outcroppings and still, dark ponds of water, like mirrors, reflecting the
twisted pines along their edges.
We covered about 40 km before reaching Rose Blanche (rhymes
with ranch). Its stone lighthouse served the fishing community for many years
before it fell apart, leaving only its tower intact. In 1997 the townspeople
decided to gather and clean the scattered stones, and reassemble them. Their
labour of love has drawn many people since then, although we had the place to
ourselves today.
On the path to the lighthouse we encountered a clutch of
baby piping plovers and their anxious mother. The chicks were mere puffballs on
long, spindly legs, and they pelted along the path ahead of us, unable yet to
use their wings. Piping plovers are an endangered species here so we were lucky
to see them.
We learned that the town’s name actually referred to some
white rocks (“roches blanches”) at Diamond Cove that were visible from the
height of land, but locals changed the name to Rose from roches. I’m thinking
we will encounter many such unique pronunciations in our travels here.
Retracing our steps, we turned off at Isle aux Morts (“eye-la-morts”)
for a meal at Hairyman’s Safe Haven, a community centre offering Newfoundland
fare. Long tables inside awaited the summer crowds that have yet to appear, but
we enjoyed great slabs of fresh cod, lightly floured and panfried, as we sat at
a window overlooking the rocks and bush.
Hairyman refers to the Newfoundland dog that swam out into
the raging waves in 1828 with a rope so that 163 hapless passengers of a
wrecked ship could pull their way, hand over hand, to safety. 
When we got back to the camp-ground, we drove past our site
to have a look at the spectacular sandy beach that we had read about in the
literature. Again, we had it to ourselves, except for a bald eagle down the way
that was perched on a rock, tearing away at his catch as the roaring surf
rolled in. Such beauty!
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