August 30th, 2007 by antoine
For the longest time, you feel a little disappointed. You drive north from Gander looking for typical Newfoundland villages and are met with scrub trees, rock and slivers of ocean that look pretty much like Muskoka.
It’s lovely, but it’s not the postcard you’re expecting after travelling three hours by plane and then driving 500 kilometres from St. John’s.
Suddenly, it’s right in front of you: a large bay with white clapboard homes hugging the rocks.
Surf can be seen in the distance and fishing boats line the cove, complete with the requisite docks and lobster traps.

It’s terrific and exhilarating and exactly what you were hoping for. And when you take your first walk to drink in the magnificent scenery, a voice confirms everything you thought about Newfoundlanders.
“Go ahead out on the heath,” says a guy in a beat-up, red pickup.
“Pardon?”
“Just go ahead and go on out. Nobody minds.”
“Sorry, I thought it was someone’s backyard.”
The guy looks at you like you’re crazy, so you figure why not and wander past a car with Massachusetts licence plates and past a large, barking dog chained to a post.
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