Entry #5
Shrouded in mystic we toured the shores of the southeast coast of the Avalon Peninsula. As we headed south the skies descended and unleashed a torrent of rain.
Spilling over their banks the brooks were flush with the rush of fresh water, tinted brown from the tannins of the forest roots they had just permeated.
As the road continued the rain tailed off and the fog moved in. Thick as cold molasses transforming everything it enveloped into grey scale. The distant tree lines on cascading ridges becoming just a lighter silhouette than the one before.
It was here that I first saw the raw power of the North Atlantic Ocean as it pounded upon the cobbled beaches of St. Vincent. Under the mysterious mask of the dense fog a tremendous shore break of angry blue frothy surf continuously bashed against the stones. The unmistakable sound of the clacking rocks as the waves receded put a smile on my face as I found myself inside this incredible ambiance.
There is nothing sweeter than discovering a brand new beach, especially when you have no idea what it looks like on a clear day. Nothing but imagination to fill in the spaces beyond.
Gord Downie once sang about how he always wanted to go to a place called Mistaken Point, Newfoundland. As it turns this all happened just around the corner. I guess today I got to go.
