Newfoundlanders call their island “The Rock”, and it really is very harsh. It’s such a hard environment, in fact, that it’s the only good explanation for why so much of it remains so untouched, even though it was the very first place in North America to be “discovered” by Europeans (and what turned out to be the second one as well).
In the middle of last century, it took a lot of perseverance by local fisherman at the north tip of the Northern Peninsula, as well as strong dedication on the part of two Norwegians who had faith in the legends of their ancestors, but eventually the rest of the world came on side.
Historians finally had to agree that Leif Erikson really did establish a settlement in Newfoundland, at what is now known as L’Anse aux Meadows (from the French L’Anse-aux-Méduses or “Jellyfish Cove”), just across the Strait of Belle Isle from Labrador. It was almost 500 years earlier than when that Italian fellow working on behalf of the Spanish supposedly discovered the New World.
But unfortunately for Leif and his Viking mates, Newfoundland (or as they called it Vinland – historians now believe it meant “pastureland”, rather than “vine land”) was not quite as hospitable as the Caribbean was for Columbus, and it was only a matter of a few harsh winters (and some unfriendly encounters with First Nations tribes the settlers called Skraelings) before they sailed away, back to the kinder climate (believe it or not) of Iceland.
And it was another itinerant Italian, this time working for the English, who was the next “first person” to visit North America by way of Newfoundland (although some people contend he landed in Cape Breton, Labrador, or even Maine).
The Canadians and English know him as John Cabot, but his real name was Giovanni Cabotto, and it is said he set eyes on the tip of one of the island’s northeastern peninsulas on June 24, 1497, at a time when Columbus had still not realised there was a rather large continent in the way of his hoped-for passage to the spice-laden East.
It must have been a fine morning that day, since Cabotto was reported to have cried out, “O bouna vista!” (Oh, happy sight!), a phrase that has now become the name (Bonavista) of both the peninsula and the tiny port town just below the point.
More importantly for England, however, and the development of what would become the northern-most colonies of North America, was that Cabotto and his crew noticed something in the water. Although “noticed” wasn’t quite the right word.
The sea was literally teeming with fish; so many, in fact, that they impeded the progress of their little ship through the water; so many that you could catch them by simply lowering a basket into the water and pulling it out again.
Cabotto turned his vessel around (a 78ft caravel), and with its twenty men sailed back to England in the almost unbelievably short time of three weeks. For having succeeded in something that no one in the English navy had even attempted before, and offering news of the discovery of the greatest fishery the world has ever known, he received a “thank you very much” from King Henry VII, and the somewhat less than princely sum of 10 pounds (the equivalent of two year’s wages for an ordinary craftsman).
ooOOoo
The fish was the Atlantic cod, a far cry from the fishes with the same name (but different species) that we know in New Zealand. These cod were long-lived and could grow as long as a man is tall.
They thrived in the Grand Banks, the area to the east and south of Newfoundland that is both very shallow (about 25 to 100m deep), and at the confluence of the cold, nutrient-rich currents from the north; the warmer currents of the Gulf Stream; and the outflow (through the Gulf of St Lawrence) of the massive body of fresh water called the Great Lakes.
Their presence was an economic bonanza, one that lasted for almost the next 500 years. But eventually, due to factors that are still not completely understood, they were more-or-less fished out.
But it certainly took a long while, and over that time the Basques, Portuguese, Spanish, French and English all reaped the benefits. Cod really did change the face (and stomachs) of Europe. Even the Catholic Church got in on the act, declaring “meatless Fridays” to help stimulate demand for the fish.
In the early days, Newfoundland was little more than a staging post. Fleets of boats and their fishermen sailors would arrive each spring, catch fish (with small, two-person dories pulling the fish out of the water, and rowing them back to the bigger sailing ships), and then take them to little harbours along the coast where the carcasses would be splayed out on flakes, salted and dried.
And this was the secret to the fishery’s success. The fish was especially suitable for this sort of preservation. If cured properly, the carcasses could be packed into drums, taken back home to Europe, and then sold right through the year.
ooOOoo
When the English gained ascendancy on the seas, and asserted their rights to the land discovered by the Italian everybody now honoured (after the fact) as the “properly English” Cabot, the king parcelled out rights to the fishing grounds.
The commander of the first vessel to reach an area each year became the all-powerful “fishing admiral” who controlled both the fishing commerce and the domiciles on the nearby shore.
These were seasonal habitations, but over time some of the impoverished, often Irish crews decided the coast of this new world was preferable to going back home every year to the old. And so they jumped ship, establishing the first permanent European settlements on the island.
Eventually this led to a change on the part of the English administration. Newfoundland would be colonised, and by the mid-1800s there were hundreds of little villages all along the many inlets and bays of the 29,000km long coast.
But that’s where Newfoundland is different to so many other places that became part of the British Empire at the time – the coast is where it stopped. People “plundered” the cod fishery, and also went onto the ice to take seal pelts (the one occupation that still puts the world at odds with Newfoundlanders) for the very simple reason that that was all there was.
In a place like New Zealand, for instance, with its green grass, farm animals and horticultural blocks everywhere, this lack of development can be difficult to understand (after all, Newfoundland was discovered so much earlier, and was so much closer to the markets of the motherland).
However, when you experience the interior of this island, the rock and bog and cold, you realise that the coast was the only real place to live. And because there is so little soil, and a climate that doesn’t exactly lend itself to growing much of anything beyond potatoes and the odd cabbage, if you wanted to survive, you had to take from the sea whatever you could.
The fundamental type of Newfoundland settlement was known as an outport. They’re few and far between these days, and the habitations have been much improved by vinyl siding and new houses. So “come-from-away” hoping to find rustically-aged weather boards, and well-used dories floating in the tide, can be more-or-less out of luck. Every little bay and inlet certainly retains its villages, and fishing is still obviously very important, but your best bet is to set your camera lens on the work sheds.
These functional structures with low-peaked roofs that are often suspended (sometimes quite precariously) over the water on dozens of logs standing more-or-less upright on the rocky shore. You’ll also find skid-ways, again usually made out of logs, that are used to launch small boats, and bring them back onto shore, out of storm’s way.
One of the peculiarities of these small outports (and there are still many hundreds of them) is that they very seldom have any real commercial centre. There are few apparent public buildings apart from a community hall, a church or two (at least one Anglican and one Roman Catholic), and of course the standard government-issue post office.
The houses also aren’t set out in much of a grid. They’ve been built facing any sort of direction, amongst little streets that wind back off a main road that almost always hugs the coast. You very much get the feeling that the houses came first, and then the thoroughfares.
We wondered about all this for some time, and then we visited a great little fishing village that has decided to preserve a set of its buildings surrounded by the slightly bigger town of Newtown.
The spot is called Barbour’s Tickle, and contains the old sheds and stores, as well as several splendid houses owned by the Barbours, the family that was once the local merchant. When we worked our way through the displays, and heard the excellent commentary of the guides (at least one of whom is a member of the Barbour clan), all was revealed.
The surrounding village was really a cluster of independent or co-dependent people. And in the old days, before road transport, it was the merchant, rather than any sort of governmental authority, that ran the show. He bought the cod, took it to St. Johns, and back-loaded all the essentials. There was no commercial centre because he controlled the lot.
He set the prices, both for what was produced, and what was purchased. Locals obtained what they needed from him throughout the year on credit, and then hoped they harvested enough from the sea (and that the merchant was going to set a good enough price) so there would be at least a little left over for the next year.
The merchant, on the other hand, made his fortune, maybe retired to St. John’s or Britain, while the fisher-folk families just carried on. They really had very little choice.
In the case of the Barbours, there was also an interesting tale to tell. On one of their return journeys from St. John’s aboard their schooner the Neptune II, they lost their steering just out of the big port, and being struck by a series of gales drifted all the way across the Atlantic, putting down their anchor just in time before they ran onto the rocks off the coast of Scotland.
Thankfully the entire ship’s company of 10 men and one woman survived the ordeal, helped no doubt by all the provisions they had on board that they were bringing back to the tickle.
The good Scots of Tobermory, on the Isle of Mull, helped them repair their vessel, and installed a new-fangled Kelvin engine to give the Neptune II some motorised propulsion.
Then the owner, the appropriately named Job Barbour, hired an ocean-going skipper to deliver them back home (because of course none of the Newfoundlanders on board had any “proper” experience making cross-Atlantic passages).
When they returned home, however, along with the sobs and kisses, there was a silver lining (at least for the Barbour family). Job Barbour became the Newfoundland agent for the new-fangled engines, and he made a much bigger fortune than if he had remained at the tickle trading seal pelts and salted cod.
(Part two of a four-part series)
~first composed in August, 2012~