St. Pierre & Miquelon

Not far off the coast of Newfoundland is a group of islands. The biggest is Miquelon, but most of the population is on the island of St. Pierre, which is also the name of the town. There are many French place names in Canada, and a large percentage of Canadians still use French as their first language. But this island group is not part of Canada. It is legally French soil, the currency is euros and a telephone call from Canada to the islands is the same sky-high price as one to Paris.

It is an anomaly, and there is something compelling about such an anomaly. When the English and the French disputed control of Canada the English won and Canada is part of the Commonwealth. Why the English did not include St. Pierre and Miquelon in their conqueror's booty was not a detail that we came across in the tourist literature. If you know, please enlighten us via a comment.

After overdosing on gannets at Cape St Mary's we had to obtain information about ferries. Ferries between Newfoundland and St. Pierre, and ferries between Newfoundland and Nova Scotia.

• There are 2 or 3 ferries per day to St. Pierre, but only on a Wednesday is it possible to return on the same day and avoid the very expensive accommodation on French soil. They leave from a small town with the delightful name, Fortune.
• Ferries to Nova Scotia depart from Port Aux Basque and Argentia, both routes arriving in Nova Scotia at North Sydney. The Argentia route is longer, 16 hours versus 7, and more expensive, but we were already in Southeast Newfoundland, near Argentia. Driving to Port Aux Basque would require a lot more time and significantly more fuel. It was cheaper for us to take the 16-hour overnight ferry from Argentia. When does it sail? “It's near the end of the season. This week is the last Thursday sailing, then there are boats on the next two Saturdays. That's all.”

It was now Monday afternoon. A day and a bit was ample time to drive to Fortune. We established that if we went to St. Pierre on Wednesday we would have most of Thursday to reach Argentia, since check-in was 3:30pm for the 5:30pm sailing time. That was not difficult if we did not dawdle.

The way to Fortune took us along a tourist highway with a most appropriate name.

Very basic eateries may be found in quite odd places. This one was alongside Highway 210 (the Heritage Run) and still open despite apparently doing no business at all. We decided to treat ourselves to a night without cooking and braved Doreen's all-fried menu. The food was OK, and Doreen was very friendly. When we asked if she knew somewhere nearby where we could park for the night she pointed at the large, empty space beside a neighbouring automotive repair shop. “They won't mind.” And they didn't.

Tuesday's drive to Fortune was very easy. We stopped in Grand Bank because it had a library where, as is usual in Canada, we could access free wi-fi and keep in touch with the world. The librarian also put us on to a very nice cafe for lunch. The route to the cafe took us past the Grand Bank Post Office and some overdue posting of cards and presents was done. And to complete our chores for the day there was a thrift shop in the same building as the library. The Salvation Army was pleased to accept our excess cutlery (Gregory was provided with 17 dinner knives, for example), a coffee-making machine we never used even if we had mains power and a mirror that was constantly slipping off its brackets.

The ferry ticketing office was closed when we arrived in Fortune on Tuesday afternoon. They had a large, empty car park and we were about to be customers so we parked for the night. We bought our tickets as soon as there was evidence of activity on Wednesday morning.

Clutching our tickets, we walked to the port through a drizzly, blustery wind and queued at passport control. This was an international voyage, remember. The customs officers processed us courteously and we went aboard the ferry. It left near enough on time and eased its way out of the harbour.

The bay was initially sheltered, but as the land dropped away the wind made itself felt. The sea wasn't exactly rough, but it was irregular enough to make the boat lurch now and then. The crew were ready with cold, wet paper towels as the motion got to some of the passengers. Rain hammered against the windows. For some, it was not a happy crossing.

In St. Pierre Bill's New Zealand passport got a stamp. Eve's UK one did not. Presumably that will change after Brexit. We had our waterproofs on, and by George we needed them. French rain poured down. St. Pierre has some fame on account of its bakeries. We sought shelter in one. The prices were very high, but the coffee was good and the sandwiches, in lengths of really crusty baguette, were excellent. We were served by a native of Papua New Guinea, who spoke only a modest amount of French but fluent English. Her husband is a British marine biologist doing research in St. Pierre.

The bakery – Les Delices de Josephine.

We had been warned that all shops, except those serving food, closed for 2 hours at lunch time. It was true. We squelched through the town.

The streets of St. Pierre.

The same sort of rubbish boxes as we had seen in Labrador and Newfoundland, but with the addition of a green, recycling bin.

Truly civilised. They have a rugby school!

A splash of colour in this garden.

A retailer's hours of business. We learned later that even the supermarket and petrol station close for lunch.

Even the rubbish box is purple.

The good ship pinball wizard.

Bill had an idea. Maybe the museum is open. We found the way using a map that was so wet it was falling apart. The museum does indeed shun 2-hour lunch breaks. It only closes for 90 minutes. We gave up and sought refuge in the Tourist Information Office. The staff were eating, but at least the doors aren't shut and we were invited to sit down. On another chair was a lady from the ferry. She had been sea-sick on the way over, and was still pasty-faced and feeling ill.

There was a bus tour of the island leaving at 2pm. At least we would be dry inside the bus. We rested our legs until it was time to leave, and braced ourselves against the elements. What's this? The rain had not quite stopped, but it was close. And the wind had dropped.

Probably the best part of the tour was the history and other information that came out in the commentary. The guide was in his final year of high school and, because there is no tertiary education on the island he and his mates will have to go to France or Canada.

Since the cod fishery collapsed the island has to rely on tourism and government support. A very high percentage of the population is employed by the government – do they really need 35 policemen? - at salaries that are 30-40% higher than they would be in France proper because the cost of living is so high. There is enough farming, mainly on Miquelon, to feed the locals, but almost everything else has to be imported.

Most streets in the town are one-way and parking allowed on one side only – if at all.

An unusual garden ornament.

A small sample of the St. Pierre coast.

By the time the tour was over the weather had changed to weak sunshine in a mostly blue sky. We promenaded the shoreline with anther couple from the morning ferry.

Our ferry's sister ship leaves St. Pierre.

The colourful boat sheds along the shingly beach.

Tourists are invited to visit lighthouses all over the Atlantic coast.

By the time our return ferry left port the sea was so flat you could hardly tell you were afloat. Even the very seasick lady was able to return to Fortune without further distress.

Rather than spend another night in Fortune, which isn't especially attractive, we drove a few kilometers up the coast to a small rest area near Frenchman's Cove. There was a beach and a nice sea view.

Because we had almost all of the following day to get to Argentia, retracing much of our journey from Cape St. Mary's, we decided to indulge in a couple of detours.

We were already on the minor road to Frenchman's Cove and Garnish, so we followed it until it looped back and rejoined the highway.

A few houses in Garnish

A grander house in or near Garnish.

We were delighted to see that we were close to a village named Come By Chance.

You are already familiar with Gregory, our motor home. Let us now introduce you to Malcolm-Edgar. He is our Tomtom GPS and an invaluable member of the team, although he has been known to issue totally confusing instructions on rare occasions. How he came by this name is a long story and probably of no interest to anyone but ourselves.

Someone – we have forgotten who – had recommended that we visit Burin. The area is known as the Burin Peninsula, so it is probably an old-established town. We set Malcolm-Edgar to take us there. He did give directions and the paper map confirmed that we were in Burin, but there was no town. There were certainly houses and occasional businesses along the road, but nothing that could be called a town centre.

Never mind the lack of sightseeing, we were very low on gasoline and had been counting on finding fuel in Burin. Gregory has a very large fuel tank, and we have a range of more than 600km (almost 400 miles). Normally we fill when the gauge is at about ⅜ full, but we carry an Ultramar loyalty card, which gives a useful discount at the pump, and it's worth waiting until we find the right brand.

Now we were at the stage of taking any brand at any price. Aha. Malcolm-Edgar knows where gas stations are. Let's ask him to find the nearest one. The wretched machine suggested a station on Highway 1, 140km away. You could almost hear him snigger. We certainly wouldn't make it that far. Hang on – do the residents of Burin drive 140km to get fuel? Of course not. Didn't we see a gas station in Maryville two days ago? We have to go that way anyway. Over the crest of the 2^nd hill, even before we got into Maryville, there were TWO gas stations, both advertising the same low price. One of them was an Ultramar station, and on Thursdays they give double discount! Whew.

With the fuel tank full all we had to do was drive to Argentia. We didn't need Malcolm-Edgar, but we had him on anyway. The biggest figure on his screen is the distance to the next instruction – usually the place we leave the road we are currently driving on. Driving North along Highway 210 the next turn was where we joined Highway 1. Occasionally there was a road sign that gave the same information. It was comforting to see that they tallied. Except they didn't always. When the road sign indicated 104km Malcolm-Edgar said 108km. Huh? Let's check again at the next signpost, where Malcolm-Edgar was down to 103 or 104km. The road sign told us 109km. We've got 5km further away???

Who put the signs up in the wrong places, then?

We felt like old hands when we drew up at the ferry terminal. We gave our booking number and were directed to a numbered line, with a short queue of vehicles in it. A smiling young lady approached us. “Do you have any potatoes, other root vegetables or onions on board?” We were used to questions like that at the New Zealand border, but we are not leaving Canada on this voyage. It turns out that there is an organism in Newfoundland soil that the rest of Canada does not want. We were allowed to keep our onion if we cut it up so it could not be planted later, but the potatoes were confiscated.

The route to the ferry then went through a shed, where two more ladies were enthusiastically spraying high pressure water over each vehicle. Gregory is, of course, kept scrupulously clean by a regime of leaving him outside whenever it rains. However, we are sure he enjoyed this shower bath, which included a good blast underneath at all those hard-to-get-at places.

Waiting to be loaded onto a ferry is always tedious. This veteran car attracted a fair bit of attention from drivers wandering around the lines of queuing vehicles.

If it were allowed, we would have self-catered and slept in our motor home, but once you have left your vehicle you are not allowed back on the garage decks until the ship has docked again.

We could have had a private cabin for the overnight journey for a little matter of $200. We have sat up overnight in trains, trains that become buses (see I dreamed of the Orient Express in August 2015) and aircraft so we kept our money. For we cheapskates there were large, comfortable chairs that reclined like those in an aircraft. There was a little more leg room than Air New Zealand cattle class, but not much. However, there was much more room to walk about, a bar and two eating places on the ship, so overall it was much more pleasant than flying. The more modest of the eateries offered a buffet dinner and breakfast at a reasonable tariff. There was even a shower, but we didn't know that in advance so we didn't have towels with us.

And on the Friday morning we drove off the ferry onto Nova Scotian soil.

New York

This post was supposed to be about our trip to St. Pierre & Miquelon and departure from Newfoundland, but NewYork demanded to be written about.

We had a very frustrating time trying to make arrangements to see New York City, and twice decided to miss the Big Apple entirely.

Driving Gregory into the city area was never an option. Based on our experiences in Toronto, we decided to find somewhere to park him, then use public transport and Airbnb accommodation. There are several commuter train lines that feed into the city and we aimed for Newburgh, which has an RV-friendly Walmart and lies between two rail lines.

There was no problem about spending a night at Walmart, but trying to find somewhere safe to leave him after that was hugely frustrating. The stations have parking, but that is intended for commuters and the parking company was not willing to allow overnight parking. We telephoned several storage businesses, but they were either full (most people have put their motor homes and trailers into storage for the winter) or would levy a minimum charge for a month! There were few RV parks in the area. One would accept our vehicle but only on a regular site and asked for a “special” rate of $63 per night. That is very high even if we were using the campground's power and other facilities. On top of all that there would be taxi fares from the parking spot to/from the station, the cost of accommodation and 3 days of eating out instead of self-catering. That was when we decided that seeing New York was going to be just too expensive, and gave up the idea.

So we started driving to give the built-up area a wide berth. There was a National Recreation Area not far away which promised to be a pleasant drive. On the way Eve started making a list of the little things in the vehicle that wanted fixing. Nothing critical, but annoying, like the coat hooks that have come away and the screw holes are too worn to re-use. She came up with a promising idea. “If we leave Gregory with an RV service place, we could visit NYC while the work is done and there would be no storage fee.”

As we came off the interstate highway at Port Jervis we saw a big area full of RVs. We took a look. Yes, they did servicing, but they were booked up until November “winterising” vehicles. Although this is well South of Canada, they still get plenty of snow. But the company did give us two other names. One didn’t answer the ‘phone, and the other one was similarly too busy. But he did have some constructive suggestions. There was a campground very near Port Jervis, and the town is the far end of one of the commuter lines. They might have a more reasonable attitude to an unused vehicle, and it would be a very modest taxi fare to the station.

So we drove to the campground and asked. Face to face gets a better response than a telephone call. The ladies in the office were very pleasant and would let us stay, but had to refer to the manager. The manager had a harsher attitude. There was nowhere to park a vehicle except on a site so we would be charged $41 for that night, while we were on board and $30 per night while we were away. This still seemed very steep. There *were* quite a few sites occupied, but the campground was definitely not full and not likely to be in October. The office ladies disloyally suggested we ask at a new storage facility just down the road. We had seen it on our way, and the yard was almost empty. They’d be keen for some extra cash.

The young man in the storage office, understood our situation, approved of our plan, but was a mere functionary. He, too, had only by-the-month rates and the owner required a signed lease for EVERY storage.

We gave up a second time and drove on to Hackettstown. We parked gratis at Walmart and decided to assuage our disappointment by going out for a meal. We scorned the pizza and pasta establishments and went to a proper grill, with waitress service and metal cutlery. Very extravagant. We told our tale of frustrations to the waitress and also to the manager when she came round. “You can park on our property. I mean it.” She and her husband are also RVers, although they live a fair way outside Hackettstown. She gave us her contact details if we decided to accept.

Back in Gregory, warmed by an excellent meal and wine we decided to take up the offer. The grill was still open so we sent a text message to the friendly manager and hit the Airbnb web site. The first choice responded quickly with a few questions. And then some more. And then declined to host us. The second option was automatic acceptance, and our credit card was levied. We were all set. Until Mickey, the manager, called back. Unbeknownst to her, the neighbours had started some major construction project, and the shared driveway was blocked by the works. It was impossible to get Gregory onto the property.

We spent a restless night, and started again in the morning to find somewhere to park Gregory. We set off to examine the station car park, which Mickey believed had spaces for RVs. On the way we passed a farm shop with lots of parking in a field. We stopped and asked, “May we park here?” It would probably have been OK if we had collected before the end of the week, but they were extremely busy on Saturdays and needed all the space. “How about a truck stop?” Google located one only a few miles away. But we looked at the station in Hackettstown anyway. There weren’t many cars, but there was no provision for RVs and non-commuters would be towed! No go.

Getting out of the car park was a compulsory right turn when we wanted to turn left. But we could turn right and turn around just over there. “There” was a huge gravelled space. With a couple of trucks parked at the back. How about here? The land was owned by a livestock auction company. The office ladies were sympathetic - does this sound familiar - but this time the distant management said OK, for $50 for the 3 nights. Which is a better deal than anywhere else and no taxi required. We paid. We parked neatly. We got the train to Hoboken and a bus to the Airbnb in Jersey City. Whew.

The train. It was huge. I had imagined something like the London Metropolitan Line that goes out to Amersham. This was a giant diesel loco pushing a long line of substantial carriages. But Hackettstown is not a busy station. Only two coaches were 'open' at the start of the journey. Others were made available to passengers as we progressed towards Hoboken. Conductors were busy. After every station they hurried to collect the tickets of the new travellers and place a seat docket in a clip to show that the occupant was bona fide. If we changed seat we had to take the docket with us.

There were lots of stops, and the journey to Hoboken took just over 2 hours for just $5.45 each. Even without senior discount the fare was only $8-odd. Most of the line was through pleasant scenery.

The Hoboken Terminal station hall.

The Airbnb was in Jersey City, which is across the Hudson River from New York City proper, but definitely part of the New York conurbation. The accommodation was basic, but very clean and comfortable. We arrived on a warm day and were grateful that the air conditioning had been left on. We turned it straight off, though. It was a vintage unit that rattled terribly. While we were in the room we were cool enough with just the ceiling fan.

Down the street and turn right and you were in a local shopping area with many, very cheap eating houses. We could choose from Chinese, Mexican, Peruvian, Cuban and others we have forgotten. All our breakfasts were at Rumba's, a Cuban cafe that delivered bacon, eggs, toast, coffee and orange juice (Desayuno #1 – the establishment's first language is Spanish) to both of us for $10, including a generous tip. The waitresses were always smiling, the service was prompt, the bacon crispy and the portions generous. It is still the best coffee we have had in the USA.

To see New York City we decided on a hop-on hop-off bus tour. We selected City Sightseeing as the best deal with 3 bus routes and a boat tour on our 48-hour pass. If you are ever in New York, avoid this company! There was a detail on the web site that we wished to clarify. The 'live chat' box promised us we were first in the queue and would get a response within 3 minutes. “3 minutes” = “Never”. The call centre operator had no idea what offers were available on the web site and guessed at clarification. Luckily she was right. The Internet receipt had to be converted to a “ticket” at the office, where one lady tried valiantly to deal with a queue that stretched to the door while two positions went unstaffed.

The routes ensured that we saw the principal sights, and the company cannot be blamed for the horrible weather. At least they provided plastic ponchos so that the rain ran down our backs and pooled in the plastic seats, soaking our unprotected bottoms.

The live commentary in English was of very variable quality. After explaining the the Health Dept.'s A/B/C grading system of eating houses in New York City, the first guide appeared to know only one fact for the long ride up the West side of Central Park – John Lennon was shot outside Dakota House. We are still ignorant of which building is Dakota House.

A better informed guide getting just as wet as the passengers.

Another guide with a strong New York accent was easy to understand if he spoke directly to us, but over the poor audio system he became completely incomprehensible. We had to hop-off and wait for the next bus.

While we waited we popped into a Lego shop. This is just one of the models on display. There is Duplo for the littlies to play with, and interactive games for ages 10-99.

All the guides punctuated their commentary with pleas for tips. Some were much worse than others. This became an irritation that successfully squashed any willingness to offer a gratuity.

We uncovered a major fraud that is being perpetrated by New York City. Times Square is not a square! It is an area of streets and avenues that intersect at right angles, just like the rest of Manhattan. When questioned about this, one of the guides reckoned that “Times Square” is bow-tie shaped.

The colourful illuminated advertisements of “Times Square” are what we expected.

Part of the route was along Broadway, but not the part with theatres on.

There are a few odd-shaped plots of land in Manhattan. The Flatiron Building is designed to fit the land Mr. Flatiron bought.

Most of the city statues are unpainted bronze. This is the exception. It's probably George Washington. Most of them are.

Day two was easier because (1) we had become familiar with the buses from our base in Jersey City and the Port Authority Terminus, and (2) we did not have to go to the office for “ticketing” again.

We re-rode the Downtown route to Battery Park and walked to one of the boat tour embarkation points. We ended up at the back of the queue, so we didn't get good seats. In the end we went up to the upper deck and stood in the middle. We saw the sights and took our photos.

In case anyone doubts it, we did see the Statue of Liberty.

It was a windy day. This yacht sailing in front of Ellis Island has taken in 2 reefs in the mainsail.

The Manhattan skyline from the water. There is always building going on as one structure is demolished to make way for an even higher one. If what the guides told us is true, some people pay extraordinary amounts to live in New York. We wouldn't live there if they paid us to.

Brooklyn Bridge and the orange Staten Island Ferry.

We left the boat at the Northern jetty, intending to get on the Downtown bus again to link up with the Brooklyn tour. Bad choice. It would probably have been 2 hours quicker to stay on the boat until it set off again, disembark at the Southern jetty and walk back to Battery Park. And at least an hour quicker to walk the whole way.

The traffic is always bad in Manhattan, and that afternoon it reached new heights. We missed the last Brooklyn tour. At least we had 20 interesting minutes in the National Museum of the American Indian.

You might not move for a long time, but you must be trying to. Parking is virtually illegal in Manhattan. This driver is one of thousands ticketed every day for a traffic offence.

Having seen first hand the New York traffic, I wouldn’t drive a golf cart in Manhattan, let alone a 28ft RV.

To get back to the bus station we took the subway. We managed to buy tickets unaided, but had to have help figuring out the route. There was a moment of concern when Bill marched onto the platform, and Eve's ticket was refused by the machine. Luckily there was an office with a human to listen to the tale and admit Eve to the trains. We had to change trains and, to Bill's delight, the second train was the 'A' line. Why was Bill delighted? There is a well-known jazz tune, Take the A Train.

There was more concern when we looked up the times of trains to take us back to our home on wheels. There were none on the Saturday. Or Sunday. Further research discovered that they start at Newark Broad Street and go no further than Dover at the weekend. The buses to Newark were not easy either. We ended up taking an Uber to Newark Broad Street, the train to Dover and another Uber to Hackettstown and Gregory. The cars were certainly not as cheap as the bus/train combination, but they were pretty reasonable.

Maybe the next post will complete our Newfoundland tales.

More bird pictures from Newfoundland

The Newfoundland post included quite a few pictures of birds, but we have so many more that it seems a pity not to use them.

Of course, if you aren't interested in birds, you will skip this post.

Witless Bay

1. On the Shore

A Sanderling in company with a Semipalmated Plover.

A portrait of the Sanderling.

A gull in flight. Probably a Herring Gull.

A Semipalmated Plover amongst the seaweed.

2. Out in the Bay

A Greater Black-backed Gull

Two Puffins with beaks full of Capelin after successful dives.

Take-off!

An airborne Puffin carries its load of Capelin over a foaming sea.

Puffins have to land on land to reach their burrow. But they are not very good at it.

If they miss the runway they have to go round and try again.

An adult Bald Eagle shows how to land properly.

A gull squawks at an immature Bald Eagle

The eagle takes no notice.

Cape St. Mary's

A good proportion of the gannet colony – as much as could be squeezed into one frame.

Gannets in flight:

Gannets on the ground:

Lit by the setting sun.

Parent and chick.

Strengthening the pair bond by tapping beaks …

… and mutual preening.

Room for just one more on this ledge.

Another parent and chick.

Argumentative neighbours.

“Feed me! Feed me!”

And there are species other than Gannets. This is a Savannah Sparrow.