The Last of the Ferries

Morning brought the timely arrival of the ferry and we set out on the boat ride that would take us further west to Rose Blanche, a town that actually has roads, and more importantly, a road that leads out of it. Each one of us had battled seasickness at some point on these small ferries, and on this particular voyage, it was Nick's turn.

It was a long and relatively gentle ride, but the battle was quick and decisive. Like a shadow in the night, the sickness came, rose up and struck, leaving naught but a spattering of chunks on the side of the boat. Compared to the drawn out torture that motion sickness usually is, this was actually quite painless. Nick thanked his ferry godmother for this coup de grâce (of sorts), then debarked, cheerful and ready to ride.

We were all ready to ride, but a certain red and white bike, equipped with a new axle, was not. It was here that Nick suffered the series of perplexing and patience-testing flats previously alluded to, so we didn't actually get much riding done that day. Instead, we hitched a ride the remaining 15 or 20 miles into Port aux Basques, where we could contemplate the problem with the security of purchased tickets, and the ferry to Nova Scotia within bike-pushing distance.

Goodbye Newfoundland

Due to ferry schedules, we would leave Newfoundland much the way we arrived—in the middle of the night. We had the rest of the day to fritter away and that we did. We lay in the park, listened to live music, and fed ourselves. When night fell, we played pool at a bar and drank some Black Horse beer. None of us particularly care for beer, but it was our last chance to drink authentic Newfoundland beer while still on the island Newfoundland. When in Rome...

The bartender soon called our attention to another drink: the Newfie Bullet. This was a reference to the now defunct train line of the same name. Slicing through the desolate mainland during even rougher times than now, the train was notoriously late, and the name must certainly have been given with a sense of irony.

The drink has an interesting history of its own. The primary ingredient is a substance called screech. In the olden days, screech was made from a combination of rum and molasses. Old wooden barrels that carried rum and molasses (on separate trips, that is) back and forth across the ocean were rarely cleaned out, and they developed a sort of scummy combination of the two on the bottom. This was boiled out with water and then fermented, or else combined with some other alcohol to make the lovely drink known as screech. We can only imagine where this name came from... That was the olden days. Today screech is simply the cheapest version possible of an already vile drink: Jamaican rum.

With Newfie Bullet shot glasses in front of us, we feared the drink was as ironically named as its forebear, but when the other ingredients were added, the name seemed apt. Enough Kahlua and Bailey's will make anything taste good.

A Pieful Send-Off

Given that our first ferry ride had been so well complimented with pizza, we decided to do it again. This time, times 3. And this time, we arrived early to the boat with 3 pizzas, boarded well before the cars and soon found ourselves belowdecks, quite content with ourselves and our purchase.


Coupled with the realization that our trip was fast winding down, we knew the departure from Newfoundland would be bittersweet, emphasis on the bitter. The best way to combat bitter, however, is with sweet, and of this we were acutely aware. So before tucking ourselves into the plush seats of the ferry for some shuteye, we topped off our tastebuds with one last tribute: partridgeberry pie.

We said goodbye to Newfoundland and awaited the arrival of Cape Breton, which would bring the last leg of our journey.