The Old Sentinel had seen many changes in his day, but when he heard our webmaster suggest that I name the painting The Old Sentinel, his joy knew no bounds.

“Well, now,” he said in his deep, raspy voice, “I’ve been watching you pretty closely as you’ve mixed paints and changed this and changed that.  I could tell you loved to sit on the rock now and then and view pretty Norris Point.  For a while, I was sure you would title this Norris Point Overlook.

Then I watched you bring the bake apple blossoms to life.  I knew you loved them, and that you were trying to find out if they had a fragrance of their own.

Right from the beginning, I understood that the old pines and aspens meant a lot to you, too.

I overheard you say that you still have some touching up to do on the painting as a whole, but that you had settled on its title.  I don’t rightly know how to say this, Ms.,” stammered The Old Sentinel, as a tear or two fell onto the tiny vines in his ‘pouch,’ “but, well, calling your painting The Old Sentinel is, well, oh my, I just can’t express my joy!!”

“Why, I do declare!” cried the old sentinel, as he surveyed with admiration the patch of bake apple blossoms (or cloud apples) that burst into bloom right across from him.

“They may be short-stemmed beauties now, but once their stamens turn into bumpy, orange berries, the bed and breakfast hostesses will be trotting down this path to pick them!”

The Guardian of the Path spoke up.  “They take such pride in serving their guests bake apple jam for their homemade breads and waffles.  To hear them talk, you would think this was the only place on the face of the earth where they grow.”

“Oh, I know,” said Ms. Aspen.  “We wouldn’t want to deflate those good ladies for all the tea in China, but the truth is, bake apples grow in England, Scotland, the Nordic countries, Europe, southeast Asia, northern Russia, parts of Germany, Alaska, northern Minnesota, New Hampshire and Maine.”  She was almost out of breath, rhyming off the names of all the countries where bake apples are found.

“Our B&B hostesses have every right to be proud of the bake apples.  I’ll vouch for that,” said the old sentinel.  “Why, they’re so rich in Vitamin C that they can protect a body against scurvy.  Some brew a tea from the leaves to help cure infections of the urinary tract.”

“And some make wine from the bake apples,” added Ms. Aspen, “and some make a special syrup that they serve warm over ice cream!”

I was thoroughly impressed by this time, and put down my brush.

“May I ask you something?  When my husband and I were here a few years ago, we were trying to cram in as much sightseeing as possible, clicking pictures of this and that, and hurrying from here to there.  I’m ashamed to admit it, but I never stopped to pick a bake apple blossom!  Tell me, are their blossoms fragrant?”

For once, none of the trees had an answer.  Not one.  Perhaps you can help me out, as I am very curious about this.  Do send me an email.

I did some heavy lifting this week.  The boulder perch had to be moved further down the path.  Now, that took some doing, and I’m still huffing and puffing.  The Guardian of the Path was put out at first, but I assured him that the perch was still within ear shot.  He would still be able to eavesdrop on any conversations of the folks who rested on the rock.

As I began to wash in the bake apple blossoms, all of the trees brightened up, even the old sentinel.  How they loved the arrival of the bake apples.  Bake apples meant that spring was here, their favourite season of the whole year!

And do you know what they began arguing about?  Which one of them would host a robin’s nest!

Ms. Aspen and the Guardian of the Path declared rather nastily that they had never heard of a robin nesting in a pine tree, which seemed to make them feel all the more important.

From the background, the spruce trees piped up:

“Never mind the robins.  It’s the mourning doves who will nest in our cradles.  You just wait and see.”

Then the old sentinel cleared his throat and declared in his deep bass voice:

“One year I played host to the cutest family of baby coons in the whole of Newfoundland!  As soon as the moon came up, their shenanigans began.  Why, I hardly got any sleep at all that spring.”

I’m not sure how long I sat on the rock perch enjoying the peaceful waters of Bonne Bay and the picturesque settlement of Norris Point.  The weathered sentinel across from me seemed to read my very thoughts.

“Don’t mind me, ma’am, but you’re probably wanting to know a little of the history of Norris Point.”

“Why, yes,” I stammered in amazement.

“Well, I was here long before any living soul ever set foot down there.  It was named after Neddy Norris, who came to the area with his wife and children around 1789.  I was sure disappointed that those good folks didn’t stay.

Back then, I was in my prime, yes, Sir, and literally clapped my long boughs together with joy when William and Charlotte Humber from Dorset, England, settled here in 1833!  Pretty brave folks they were.  No other families joined them for twenty-five long years.  Imagine that!  How I loved to see the blue smoke curl up from the chimney of their log cabin.  Kind of took the lonesomeness off somehow.

In the spring of 1858, a fishing vessel was caught in a storm, and its occupants sought shelter in the area, and soon built their log cabins at Norris Point.  Things started to hum around here!

Say, did anyone inform you that Norris Point was actually a Tidy Town winner in 2005 for its clean and well maintained properties and streets?”

Before I could tell the sentinel that I had read that in a tourist brochure somewhere, he hurried on.

“I’m getting ahead of my story.  I’m sure you’ll believe me, though, that it’s hard for folks to live anywhere else once they’ve been to Norris Point.”

I nodded in agreement.

“Well, other folks came from England, Ireland and Scotland, mainly because of the fall herring fishery and lobster catch.  Like the others, they found Bonne Bay to be a dandy place from which to fish the coastal waters of Labrador. Fur trapping also gave them a bit  more income.

A trading post had been built here around 1800 by Joseph Bird, an English merchant. Later, fur trading became pretty important at the post. The local families would exchange fish and fur for supplies, foodstuffs and clothing.  Why, Norris Point’s trading post became so popular that labourers, servants and apprentices were brought over from southwestern England during the summer to support it.  Mind you, their accents were so thick that I could hardly understand a word they said!

Anyway, in the early 1900s, a ferry service was set up, and the population in 1921 had risen to 372.  Around that time, residents also began fishing for cod and salmon.  Oh, these waters around here are rich, let me tell you!

By 2001, the population of Norris Point reached almost 800.

By the way, you mustn’t forget to stop at Neddies Harbour Inn whenever you get a hankering for some top-notch dining.  You know, I’m glad to see the inn people had the good sense to preserve the name of Norris Point’s original discoverers, even if they haven’t spelled it exactly right.

Oh dear. I’ve been talking your ear off.”

“Not at all.  I can’t thank you enough for sharing all that you’ve seen over the years.

“Our whole conversation came about with me guessing what you were wondering about, now didn’t it?  Bet you can’t guess what I’ve been wondering about,” declared the handsome old sentinel.

“No, not in a hundred years,” I replied.

“It’s none of my business, but what are you going to call this painting when you get it finished?”

“Springtime in Gros Morne,” I replied.

“I like that title, yes, I do.” .

“Thank you!  It will look more springish when I get the bake apples painted in around the rock, and along the edge of the path.”

“More power to ye,” said the sentinel, with a bit of a creak.  “You know, I’ve never had my portrait painted before.  It makes me right proud that after more than 200 years, someone thinks I’m still beautiful . . . holes and cracks and all!”

“Now, that’s what I call a right good perch,” said Ms. Guardian of the Path.  “I’ll enjoy having folks sit near me as they view Norris Point.  I must say, it feels mighty fine to see that one of my suggestions was taken seriously, and that you changed the rock into a perch.”

Before I could thank her again for having made that suggestion, she rattled on:

“And I don’t mind telling you that I intend to eavesdrop!  Why, I might even find out where people are from!  It’s amazing what comes out when folks have a chance to get off their feet and rest.  I know that a lot of Canadians haven’t been to visit Newfoundland.  Maybe your painting will change that when they see how beautiful our island really is.”

“I do hope so,” I replied.  “Somehow all the talk of ‘The Rock’ made a negative impression on me.  I’m so glad my husband and I came to Newfoundland and saw its beauty for ourselves.  Five days wasn’t half enough time, though.”

Ms. Guardian of the Path was in such a pleasant frame of mind that she didn’t even notice that the tracery of her finery hadn’t been added to the path yet.  Whew!  I think I’ll just sit on the perch awhile myself.