The ferry from Nova Scotia to Newfoundland
I had looked up the ferry website for sailing times etc., and decided that the arrival time of 7-30pm would suit me fine. It would give me time to find the campsite at Port aux Basques in Newfoundland for the first night before I rode north firstly to Gros Morne National Park then to Le Anse aux Meadows to see the Viking settlement right at the northern tip of Newfoundland. The day was bright and sunny as I rode out to find the ferry terminal, perfect for a days sailing. The signage to the ferry was good and so it did not take long before I pulled up to the kiosk where a plump smiling lady ask to see my reservation. I told her I was here on spec., and hoped to purchase a ticket here at the port. She frowned.
"That's not a good idea," she said, especially this week because it's 'Homecoming Week'."
I guessed that meant hordes of 'Newfees' were travelling back to their native communities to renew old relationships where they grew up.
"But this afternoons sailing still has room." she continued.
I accepted that with a shrug and took my ticket. She was still smiling as she directed me to the terminal, but I could tell that 'on spec.,' was not part of her normal vocabulary.
I grinned at this as I made my way to the terminal area, then frowned as I realised that the afternoon sailing would get me to Newfoundland at about 11-30pm, it's a 9 hour voyage.
There was a long row of cars and camper vans queued up on the terminals black tarmac plane with it's white lined lanes neatly marked out. I went into the terminal building and bought a coffee, then returned to sit on the floor next to my bike. A few yards in front of me two peaked capped officials were talking and when they had finished one walked over to me and asked to see my boarding ticket.
"If you want to board this next sailing line up over there." he said pointing to the head of the queue where several motorcycles stood a little ahead of the cars and camper vans. "Always room for 'bikes on the ferry." he said with a grin, "I'll adjust the manifest so just go ahead, but we are running late, there is a thick sea fog off Port aux Basques."
Coming from a seaside town I knew that often thick sea fogs, 'harrs' or 'frets' we called them locally, could blow in off the sea on a hot summer day. You could watch the thermometer falling like a descending elevator, but knew that a couple of miles inland it would remain hot and sunny. So I joined the front of the queue. What a lucky break.
The ferry to Newfoundland
There were a group of motorcyclists waiting, about half a dozen or so, all middle aged, all with expensive Honda Goldwings with the Queenie Seat, all to wrapped up in their own importance to notice me, or if they did they ignored me. Soon enough we were told to board and there were those moments of tension as I drove over the polished steel plates of the loading ramp. Once aboard we were directed to the front of the ship and here there were rings welded to the deck, and hanging on hooks nearby were cargo straps, the sort the winch tight with a ratchet buckle. for me it was easy, put the bike on the centre stand, one strap on each of the engine crash bars, one each on the pannier frames and it was done. Follow all the car drivers up to the lounges and find a seat.
The air had a slight chill to it which made sitting out on the deck uncomfortable after fifteen minutes or so, and at first the scenery was interesting, passing as we were Breton Island, the coast of which I had rode down a day or two before. Looking out for whales also seemed popular, although we only saw three or four seals, their black heads bobbing amongst the waves in the distance. I went down to the restaurant and had a meal, then found a seat and tried to watch the movie, but I was restless and soon found myself back on deck again.
We seemed to be passing through patches of very cold air every now and then, and with the land disappearing behind us, all that was in front of us was a murky horizon where sky blended into the sea via a brownish tinge of mist. Soon the horizon disappeared all around us as we slowed speed and ploughed through a cold mist that turned into a very cold fog. The tannoy announced that we would be berthing late due to the bad weather conditions, although how late I had yet to realise.
As we glided silently through the fog the dark shape of an island appeared to one side of us, and then on the other a low cliff top on which were perched timber bungalows. One or two orange street lamps had come on early due to the fog. The call came for us to rejoin our machines and soon the lashings were off and I was once more ready for the road. My plan was to keep an eye on the camper vans and follow them until things became clear to me. With luck the campsite would have a 'late arrivales' area that I could pitch on. One of the things with motorbikes and Roll-On, Roll-Off ferries is you get to be first on, and therefore first off; great, except I wanted to follow someone as I had no idea which way to go. All I knew was that the Trans-Canada Highway went up the west coast until it bent east and I would carry on north, but that branch was a full days drive away. I slowed and pulled over letting the first 50 or so vehicles pass before tucking in behind some cars and camper vans. As we drove through the fog I saw a sign saying 'TCH East', well I didn't want east, I wanted west and took the next right ramp along with many of the vehicles I was following.
The sign I misinterpreted
We came to a 'T' junction and I dutifully followed to find my self in a 'Tim Horton's' car park. (Tim Horton's is a chain of Canadian Coffee shops that serve good coffee, sandwiches and light meals!) Not what I wanted. By now the fog was thinning somewhat and a dull moon appeared and disappeared through the fog over the sea. I'm not sure how many times I went round the lack luster town of Port aux Basques, 3 or 4 I think, but could I locate the route for TCH West? Could I hell! I found the start of Highway 1 (the Trans-Canada Hwy) in a little cul-de-sac near the cliffs. I kid you not on this, there was the sign on a lamp post, but as soon as I moved off the route signs disappeared.
Typical street in Port aux Basques
One sign I did see was 'Visitor Centre', so now, tired and annoyed, I decided to see if I might find a coffee machine and toilet there.
Of course, it now being midnight, it was closed. I parked my 'bike in the corner of the car park, peed in the hedge, got my stove out and made a cup of coffee. The cold mist rolled in from the sea making everything damp with dew. In the end I got out my 'emergency sleeping bag'; just a big black plastic sack really, climbed into a nearby ditch out of the wind and to the accompanying strains of a seal honking somewhere from the rocks below, went to sleep.
The Visitors Centre, Port aux Basques
Miles today =12
Miles Covered so far = 584mls
Tomorrow: The girl with no shoes
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