Simply said, we loved St. John’s. That may be because it plays hard to get (to) and, after getting there, we had no choice. Otherwise, we’d have been idiots for spending all that time, money, and sitting pain for the potentials of a mediocre affair. But I think it’s more.
The center of the city is filled with wooden houses somewhat resembling styles of northern Europe. Many date from the 1800s, most of them colorfully and often brightly painted, all huddled together against the cold and icy winter winds.
The center of the city is built on hills and ridges that rapidly drop down to the harbor. Like Juneau, where everything is also either up or down, walking to the corner store is a workout.
The skyline is dominated by the provincial museum and galleries known as “The Rooms” and standing close by are the twin spires of the Basilica of St. Mary. In the Presentation Convent house beside the Basilica, we viewed The Veiled Virgin, a marble sculpture by the Italian Giovanni Strazza (1818-1875). From there, we walked to the Anglican Cathedral of St. John the Baptist for a half hour organ concert by the cathedral organist.
We wandered George Street and its concentration of now mostly empty, post-tourist season pubs to sit at Kelly’s with locals and three tourists from Alberta and listen to a variety of Irish, Newfoundland, and old rock songs by a gifted local guitarist and singer.
What closed the deal for us was the hike up to Signal Hill from which we peered down on the beautiful harbor with its narrow inlet and the sea beyond. From the Cahill Point Lighthouse at the mouth of the harbor to the towering Rooms and Basilica, the setting is pure beauty. Even as we stood in drizzle that periodically turned to outright rain, the beauty never went away.
We found those who live there frequently willing to take the time to give advice and direction as we walked (our volkswalk directions were a bit dated and behind on road and building construction, missing street signs, and changed traffic flows). At one point we found ourselves in a conversation with a pedestrian and a man in a pick up three cars back about how best to find Job street.
We asked locals with accents about theirs, hoping for the origins of the Newfoundland accent and phrases. Given the many who settled here, Irish shows up frequently and probably is part of the Newfoundland brogue. But as a waiter in a pub told us, “That’s just Irish.” She also told us that, being from Labrador, she hasn’t a clue about some of the local language. So we found ourselves eavesdropping on conversations, particularly those we couldn’t understand.
As one born to the North Dakota prairies, I early developed an appreciation for weather that is less than idyllic. The good people of St. John’s live through winters of heavy snows that usually melt quickly, ice that doesn’t, and wind.
St. John’s is surrounded by a sparsely populated island of trees, rocks, moose, lakes, and bears. Hop the St. Lawrence and head over to Labrador, and it doesn’t really get that much easier.
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