Journeying to Quidi Vidi, Newfoundland

After I landed in St. John’s in July 2014, settled into my bed and breakfast (called the Cabot House), and threw on my rain jacket, I knew there was one thing I had to do first: find a local spot that serves local beer. I read about a brew house located on the corner of Water and George Street called the Yellow Belly Brewery. It looked similar to a craft beer you’d find in downtown Toronto and the reviews online said that it was great, so I decided that would be the first place I went to in St. John’s.

I pulled out my iPhone, turned the GPS on and walked down the large Prescott Street hill towards Water Street. Mist covered my phone screen. My legs burned from the hills. After a few minutes of walking down Water Street, the sign for the Yellow Belly brewery appeared.

I stepped inside. A small bar rested on the right hand side, dim lights shadowed the tables and large beer vats churned behind a glass wall. I sat at the bar. One of my favorite things to do when I travel new places is check out the local craft beer scene. Toronto has a large market for craft beers, and some of those craft beers get exported to different cities across the country, but most micro-breweries around the world cater to their immediate area only, which makes the beer unique to the place. The Yellow Belly Brewery was an example of a beer company unique to the place.

The bar served a few different types of Yellow Belly beer, which are all brewed in-house. I had a Yellow Belly Pale Ale, ordered a burger and chatted with the bartender. While we chatted, the bar filled out. I drink another pale ale, and then another, and another. A man and a woman in their early thirties sat beside me at the bar.

“I’m Neil Crow,” the man said.

“And I’m Gina Sparrow,” the woman said.

I introduced myself, we all ordered around of beers, and chatted. Neil used to be a school teacher, but he and his fiancé had decided to sell their house, buy an RV, and tour around the continent so Neil could pursue a career in folk music. I told them that this was one hell of an enviable journey, and they in turn promised to show me their RV.

After a while, Neil, Gina, the bartender and I started chatting about the local beer scene. Neil mentioned that there was a small fishing town just outside of St. John’s called Quidi Vidi. The town was also known for its small micro-brewery called Quidi Vidi brewery. The brewery is situated right on a small inlet that leads to the Atlantic Ocean. Neil suggested that we meet up tomorrow, check out the RV, and then journey in it to Quidi Vidi. This seemed like a sketchy proposition considering I had just met Neil and Gina, but the idea of rolling around the coasts and cliffs of Newfoundland to a small fishing town known for its micro-brewery was too alluring to pass up. We crushed a few more beers, and then I left the Yellow Belly Brewery, waddled up the Prescott Street Hill, entered the Cabot House Bed and Breakfast, and fell asleep.

The next day while I was at the Rooms Museum, Neil texted me, asked if I wanted to come down to come down to the Ship Pub with him for a beer while he waited for Gina, and then told me we’d head to Quidi Vidi after that. I agreed, exited the museum and walked down towards the Ship. Rain poured on my hair, raincoat and Nike Frees. My legs tensed, as I stepped down the steep sidewalks.

I stared down a wet alleyway. A sign with an anchor jutted from the wall. It said the Ship on it. I walked down the steps into the alleyway, pulled the door open and walked inside. A small stage rested on the left hand side, a bar covered the back right hand corner, and folk music played through the speakers. Neil sat at the bar. I walked over to him, we shook hands, and he ordered me a Quidi Vidi 1892 beer.

When Gina arrived, we left the bar, exited the alleyway and walked down the street. A large RV protruded from the curb. I grinned.

“That it?” I asked.

“That’s it,” Neil said.I grinned, took a photo with Neil in front of the RV, and got in. I knew this was a sketchy idea, so I decided I would wait until after the trip to text my family the picture and tell them about the journey.

Gina drove Neil and I through the downtown streets of St. John’s, across the highway leading out of the city, and down the tight windy roads of the Newfoundland country side. Rain splattered on the windows. The RV bumped along the roads. Neil and I sat at a booth in the back of the RV, sipped on a drink and chatted. After a while, Neil pulled down a box from the rafter above the driver’s area. He asked me if I liked any comic books. I told him I wasn’t big into comics, but that I liked the Spiderman movies growing up. Neil sifted through the box, pulled out an old comic book wrapped in plastic, and slid it over to me. I stared at the Spiderman comic.

“It’s still in the original packaging,” he said.

I studied the comic. The RV rattled.

“Take it out of the package and have a look.”

I separated the tape from the plastic, pulled the comic book out of the package, and flipped through the pages. The colors popped from the page.

Neil told me that, in his spare time when he’s on the road, he stops by comic book conventions and sells them for extra cash. I gazed at the other ten boxes up in the RVs rafters, nodded and placed the comic book back in the package.

A little while later, the RV stopped. Its side screeched. Neil and I peered through the door. The RV sat between two cars, stuck halfway onto the street and rested against two petals. Needless to say, RVs are not the easiest thing to park, especially in the tiny streets of Newfoundland’s fishing towns.We stepped out of the car, walked down the damp street and gazed at the small inlet, fishing huts perched on stilts, and dark green shop that read Quidi Vidi Brewery on the side. The brewery rested at the end of the road, sat on stilts and hung over the still water. We entered the brewery.

The inside of the brewery housed Quidi Vidi t-shirts, bottle openers, post cards and six packs of their beer. I gazed around the room. There was no bar, however, in sight.

We spoke to the man behind the counter. He told us that the brewery did not actually have a liquor licence, so they couldn’t serve us any alcohol, but if we waited for an hour we could potentially sit in on a beer tasting in the event room upstairs. We pondered for a moment, and then decided that we’d just buy a six pack of the 1892 beer to take back to St. John’s.

Once Neil, Gina and I stepped outside of the brewery, we all discussed how disappointed we were that we couldn’t have a Quidi Vidi beer in the town of Quidi Vidi. Neil smirked. He pointed down the street.

“It looks like there’s a park at the end of the road overlooking the mouth of the inlet. We could have a beer there and look at the ocean. Then we’re technically having a beer in Quidi Vidi,” he said.

I nodded.

“I almost like that idea better than having a beer at the brewery.”

We walked to the park at the end of the road. Across the inlets, waves from the Atlantic crashed, crumpled and crumbled on the rocks that guarded the inlet. Neil popped the cap off of a few of the 1892 beers, handed one to Gina and I, and held his beer in the air. We clanked our bottles.

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