Monday, 28 June 2010
St John’s, Canada
Even the blue sky doesn’t make St John’s less grim and grotty than Grimsby. It does allow a walk out of town and up to the top of Signal Hill though.
Signal Hill being famous for being the place where Marconi received the first transatlantic signal in Cabot Tower. Which sits atop. Originally a defensive fort protecting the entrance to the natural harbour that is St John’s. And used for flag mast signalling.
Technology advanced beyond flags on 12 December 1901. When Marconi received a Morse code signal from Cornwall in the UK. Using an antenna suspended by a kite.
The first communication was the letter S. In Morse Code.
Dot. Dot. Dot.
The enormity of this technological advancement came to the fore a few years later when the Titanic sinks to the south of St John’s. And Harold Cottam, whose granddaughter I know (see Quebec City post), received the SOS signal in his Marconi signal room aboard the Cunard liner, the Carpathia.
Walking around the headland and looking out to sea, realise the next land mass east is home. England. Actually closer to the UK here than Vancouver in the west. That’s how big Canada is.
Only one more day of magnificent meanderings. Sit on a rock looking out to sea contemplating what I’ve achieved. It’s been an awesome trip.
Footpath becomes quite treacherous in places as I round the headland back to the narrow gorge forming the entrance to the natural harbour. Necessitates clinging to a chain fastened to the rockface in parts. Sheer drop to the sea below. Scale of the cliffs either side of the narrows exacerbated by the small white lighthouse at the mouth of the narrows.
Entering the town from the cliff path are remnants of storm damage. Many of the wooden buildings have been crushed by the might of the ocean and left to slowly decay. Perfect location for the view. But clearly a risky location for protection from the elements.
Late afternoon as I walk back through town. It’s grim. Have nothing nice to say about St John’s. It’s a dump. One particular road is lined with bars. Hearing live music emanating from one requires investigation. An Irish bar. Obviously. After a brisk walk, a pint of Guinness wouldn’t go amiss. Clientele has much to be desired. Grotty pub. Grotty people. Grotty street. The late afternoon sun streams in through the windows highlighting the dust and grime on the tables.
Not a bad pint of Guinness and were it Fagans in Dublin or Gibneys in Malahide, I’d be settling in for the night.
But.
It’s not.
So I don’t.
Having asked hotel reception for a restaurant recommendation am directed to a pub well known for its fish and chips. Walk towards it and a group of teenage lads on the opposite side of the road I’m keeping an eye on, ‘cos it’s that sort of town, suddenly find a couple of bricks on the pavement and promptly throw them through the window of a disused building.
Told you it was that sort of town.
There’s definitely an undercurrent of something sinister in St John’s.
Eventually find the fish and chip pub. Down a back street. Couple of tattooed thugs stand outside the entrance. Smoking. It’s not endearing me to walk in. And it looks grotty.
An about turn and return to ‘Blue on Water’. The scene of last night’s antics. For something finer than fish and chips. Fillet steak and a glass of decent red.
Return to hotel and reception catch me. To give me a green glo-stick. As the power in the bedrooms is going off soon to enable some electrical work to be carried out. The glo-stick is to be used if you need emergency light.
Nightcap required. Order a drink at the bar. And pay. And walk off. To enjoy in the comfort of my own room.
Oh. Dear. God.
It’s as though I’ve just murdered someone. Have broken Canada’s stupid alcohol laws. It’s not allowed. An argument ensues.
Make out that I’ll sit in the bar to drink it.
With gazelle like speed I leap up and escape the bar with drink once barman’s back is turned.
And retire to room.
But.
That glo-stick is just looking at me wanting to be snapped and ‘let off’. Not played with a glo-stick before.
So.
There I am.
Drinking Jameson’s in the garish green glow.
Little things, dear reader, little things.
