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| Part of the drive that rocked. |
The steering wheel jerks each time I hit a flowing channel, threatening to have me hydroplane into the ditch. Driving in the middle of a road pitted by potholes carries its own risks.
As if there isn't enough to worry about on this isolated stretch of The Viking Trail.
With that, what was setting itself up as a top-five drive of all time through Gros Morne National Park fades into a distance I can no longer see. Throughout the morning, reflected clouds had melted into lakes in a stunning, but brooding, beauty.
Moving farther north, snow-scarred mountains flatten into caribou lands bathed in beige and grey. Short trees lean drunkenly, stripped and windswept into pompadours. It’s a geography borne of violence as continents split apart.
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| The tides have turned. |
But, by evening, we have calm and a clear view of the ocean. Our bed and breakfast backs right on to the shore, which is covered in perfectly cracked rocks. Our hosts have had to take the four-hour drive south to Cornerbrook and won't be back until late.
“The door is unlocked – just go in and make yourselves at home.”
Welcome to Newfoundland.
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