In Paul Theroux’s Latest Travelogue, Finding Another Side of Canada in Newfoundland

The colossal Ala’suinu, a name resonating with the ancestral Mi’kmaw spirit of journeying, serves as a vital artery connecting mainland Canada to the rugged island of Newfoundland. Operated by Marine Atlantic, a Crown corporation, this impressive vessel, capable of carrying hundreds of passengers and vehicles, embodies more than just a means of transport; it represents a lifeline for communities, a conduit for commerce, and a gateway for intrepid explorers. On this particular evening, under a shroud of dense clouds and amidst a persistent rain and biting wind, the ferry’s departure from North Sydney, a bustling port town in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, felt less like a leisurely cruise and more like a determined venture into the raw embrace of the North Atlantic. The 110-mile passage across the Cabot Strait, the broad entrance to the Gulf of St. Lawrence, is a testament to both the sea’s power and humanity’s resolve to traverse it, linking the relatively sheltered shores of Nova Scotia to the stark, granite-faced coast of Port-aux-Basques, Newfoundland.

For the seasoned traveler, the allure of Newfoundland has long beckoned. The island, an immense and dramatically shaped landmass, deeply carved by ancient glaciers and riddled with countless bays and inlets, has always occupied a special place in the imagination. Its northernmost tip, L’Anse aux Meadows, holds the distinction of being the only authenticated Norse settlement in North America, a thousand-year-old testament to Viking exploration that predates Columbus by centuries. This historical beacon, coupled with Newfoundland’s reputation for rugged beauty, a vibrant oral tradition rich in ghosts and folktales, a quirky eccentricity, abundant fish, and an unparalleled friendliness, made it an irresistible destination. My own ambition was to traverse its entire length, ideally with my own vehicle, to truly immerse myself in its vastness and discover its hidden corners.

Yet, despite its unique appeal, Newfoundland often remains an enigma to many Canadians. During my travels through New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, conversations with locals frequently turned to my upcoming journey to the island. The response was almost universally consistent: “Never,” they’d declare when asked if they’d visited. This was often followed by a telling counter-question: “What about Florida?” To which, the reply was overwhelmingly, “Many times.” This anecdotal observation highlights a broader trend in Canadian tourism, where the exoticism of warmer, often American, destinations frequently overshadows the distinct charm and rugged adventure offered within the country’s own borders, particularly its easternmost province. The familiarity of well-trodden paths to Florida’s beaches or Caribbean resorts often takes precedence over the untamed beauty and cultural richness of places like Newfoundland, perceived perhaps as more challenging or less conventional.

The logistical dance of securing a ferry ticket for myself and my car in the clammy back streets of North Sydney, with its scruffy bars and battered storefronts, was a stark reminder of travel’s less glamorous side. The delays and bureaucratic hurdles evoked a sense of tedium reminiscent of journeys in other parts of the world, where hassle often overshadowed the adventure itself. These were the kinds of experiences — the maddening queues, the inexplicable obstructions, the occasional necessity for a bribe — that were as boring to recount as they were to endure. Mercifully, such inconveniences were a rarity in Canada. Throughout my travels across this vast nation, I had seldom felt inconvenienced, menaced, or plagued by uncertainty. There were no armed youths, no risky detours demanding caution, no frustrating official roadblocks, and almost always, a genuine welcome. This consistent sense of safety and ease of passage truly made Canada a traveler’s dream, a refreshing contrast to many international experiences.

The Ala’suinu was scheduled to depart late, at quarter past eleven at night, and early check-in was not an option. Having arrived in daylight, I found myself with six hours to occupy. I adopted a strategy common among Canadians in similar predicaments: I sought refuge in the nearest Tim Hortons. Amidst a tableau of yawning idlers and the pervasive aroma of coffee, I found a corner table and settled in, sipping my beverage and observing the quiet rhythms of small-town life. Around nine o’clock, I drove to the ferry port, where the process of vehicle check-in was surprisingly efficient. I was greeted with professionalism, assigned a place in the queue, and directed to wait in the terminal until my turn to drive up the expansive ramp into the cavernous vehicle decks of the ferry.

This particular overnight crossing offered no private berths or cabins, a common arrangement for shorter, functional routes. For a modest sum of $23, I secured a reclining seat in one of the communal saloon sections. As departure time approached, the ferry’s deep horn resonated through the night, a melancholic call signaling our imminent departure. The vessel then smoothly glided into the inky blackness, the sky above us completely obscured by dense clouds. The experience was almost disorienting; with nothing visible beyond the ship’s own running lights, we might have been traversing an alien void. Inside the sealed saloon, a microcosm of humanity settled in for the journey: children nestled against parents, dogs curled at their owners’ feet, and the gentle symphony of snores punctuated the quiet hum of the ship. The air, heavy with the communal scent of weary travelers and the faint odor of unshoed feet, underscored the utilitarian nature of this voyage. It was here that the local Nova Scotian reticence to visit Newfoundland became clearer; this was travel in the old, laborious way, prioritizing necessity over luxury. A glance at the vehicles below decks confirmed this observation: alongside a few tourist cars, there was a predominant presence of big rig trucks and workmen’s vans, indicative of the ferry’s crucial role in commercial and labor transport. A chart on an upper deck, depicting the straight line of our route, highlighted the strategic importance of the Cabot Strait, which effectively forms the mouth — the vast, gaping estuary — of the Saint Lawrence River. On this map, Newfoundland appeared almost detached, a colossal landmass seemingly drifting into the open ocean.

Despite the somewhat arduous conditions, a remarkable patience permeated the passenger lounge. There were no complaints, only a quiet acceptance among the rumpled figures: shaggy men, women in woolly hats, handsome boys, and lively girls. They seemed to form a great crowd of commuters, sailing off to work or returning home, a demographic truly reflective of the island’s economic and social fabric. Manual laborers, students heading to or from their studies, truckers transporting goods, and returning residents – farmers, fishermen, nurses – all shared this common passage. Eight hours later, as the first hints of gray daylight began to pierce the darkness, an announcement, delivered in both English and French, summoned us back to our vehicles. The ferry docked with practiced ease, and I drove off the ramp, directly into the early morning light of Port-aux-Basques, ready for breakfast and the start of my Newfoundland adventure.

Port-aux-Basques, the gateway to Newfoundland, bore the visible scars of recent trauma. "We lost a hundred and thirty houses to Fiona," Cathy Lomond explained at the Hotel Port aux Basques, her voice tinged with resilience as she described the ruinous appearance of parts of the town. Hurricane Fiona, a devastating Category 4 tropical storm, had battered the town in September 2022, carving a tragic place in Canadian meteorological history as the worst such storm ever to hit the nation. Its unprecedented ferocity had unleashed a storm surge that consumed homes, reshaped coastlines, and left a trail of destruction across Atlantic Canada. The town still presented a windswept and scoured appearance, its simple saltbox houses and white-framed bungalows exposed, a few shredded trees standing as defiant sentinels against the elements. The entire community seemed anchored to a headland of striated granite, a testament to the island’s geological permanence amidst ephemeral human structures.

"But we’re used to storms," Cathy asserted, a testament to the enduring spirit of Newfoundlanders. "That was a bad one, but we got through it. Port aux Basques has community spirit, we know how to rebuild." Cathy, the spirited and civic-minded owner and general manager of the hotel, embodied this resilience. Physically compact, she was, as she humorously noted, roughly the height of her upright .270 caliber Remington rifle. An energetic innkeeper, she was also a passionate hunter, annually applying for a Newfoundland and Labrador big game license, granted through a lottery system. Successful applicants were permitted to hunt black bears, caribou, and moose – a crucial part of the province’s wildlife management and a deep-rooted cultural tradition.

"Moose is delicious," Cathy declared, her eyes lighting up as she offered me a sample of slow-cooked moose meat in rich gravy. It was my first taste of the majestic animal, and I found myself wholeheartedly agreeing with Henry David Thoreau’s assessment, recorded in his Maine Woods writings: "It tasted like tender beef, with perhaps more flavor—sometimes like veal." This culinary experience underscored the profound connection between Newfoundlanders and their environment, where wild game provides sustenance and embodies a way of life passed down through generations.

Newfoundland, Cathy insisted, was truly unusual, set apart by its distinct culture. I noted that Prince Edward Islanders often made similar claims about their own unique identity. However, Newfoundland’s distinctiveness, Cathy argued, was forged in a crucible of profound isolation and hardship. Unlike PEI, a more gentle and pastoral landscape, Newfoundland’s rugged terrain and formidable seas had historically insulated its communities, fostering a culture unlike any other I would encounter in the rest of Canada. Newfoundlanders spoke with their own peculiar accents, varying significantly from district to district, a linguistic tapestry woven from centuries of relative separation. The province itself is relatively young within the Canadian confederation, having remained a British colony until it joined Canada in 1949. Many older residents vividly remembered British rule, some harboring resentment for its perceived imperiousness, others lamenting its absence, reflecting the complex layers of identity. This history contributed to its rich folklore, unique culinary traditions, and even its distinct ecology.

Cathy went on to elaborate on the island’s fascinating natural history. Raccoons, skunks, and porcupines, common across much of mainland Canada, are unknown here. While rattlesnakes and vipers populate other Canadian regions, Newfoundland is home only to the harmless garter snake. Red squirrels, affectionately dubbed "tree rats," were only introduced in the 1960s, a relatively recent addition to the ecosystem. Notably, there are no deer at all in Newfoundland, a stark contrast to other Canadian provinces where deer populations thrive. This unique faunal composition is largely due to Newfoundland’s island biogeography, where its separation from the mainland has limited species migration and fostered unique evolutionary paths.

"Newfies are special people," Cathy concluded, her voice full of pride. "The land is special too." Her words encapsulated the essence of Newfoundland: a place shaped by its formidable landscape, its resilient people, and a culture that remains profoundly distinct within the Canadian mosaic. My journey had just begun, but already, the promise of an extraordinary experience was palpable.

Excerpted from the book TRUE NORTH by Paul Theroux. Copyright © 2026 by Paul Theroux. From Mariner Books, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Reprinted by permission.