Peggy's Cove

Legend has it that a young girl was on her way to meet her fiancé when her boat ran aground on  rocks near the cove. Local fishing folk rescued the girl, who (according to one version of the legend) was too young to remember her name, so people called her Peggy. She later married a local, and became known as Peggy of the Cove. The little fishing village, which originally began with in 1811 with six families of German origin, eventually adopted the name of its most famous resident as its own.

Today, Peggy's Cove is one of the most photographed and visited sights of Canada. Situated on an outcrop of rock braving the roaring Atlantic, the contrast between the ferocious energy and brute might of the ocean and the tranquil village could not be starker. The village is also home to a Peggy's Point Lighthouse, which is an iconic red and white structure with a beacon that warns ships of the treacherous rocks lurking beneath closer to shore. A dozen or so wooden house dot the harbour area, the paint worn and peeling from constant exposure to the bare  elements. Despite being exposed the hostile weather conditions, and hordes of tourists that crowd the area during peak season, the sixty or so villagers who live in Peggy's Cove are known for their down-to-earth friendliness and good nature.

The wind, the brute force of the wind, was almost unbearable, yet standing there on the hard granite rock, I felt invigorated by the wind. Waves crashed against the coast, sending white foam flying like confetti in all directions onto the rocky surface. Islands in the sea looked like lost whales surfacing. In the momentary stillness between onslaught and retreat of the waves, the water was blue. A dark, dark kind of blue dyed with a hint of aquamarine that coated the depths below in a shroud of mystery. It was this very ocean that brought people from the Old World to the  discovery and riches of the New World. It was this very ocean that ruthlessly devoured ships and planes whole, including the supposed unsinkable Titanic, and more recent Swissair Flight111. In the murky depths hide the souls and hidden treasures of the past.  Centuries later, nestled next to lush forests, are villages populated by descendants of those brave sailors, explorers
and settlers who risked their lives in search of a more fertile land.

I breathed in deeply, sucking in the salted air and letting it fill up my lungs. I breathed out slowly, allowing the warm air to gradually escape and mix with the confused and whirling currents of cold wind blowing all around me. The landscape laid out before me, greyish and cratered, in formations of rock that resembled discarded old mattresses piled on top of one another. Here and there were still pools of water, perhaps collected from the frequent downpour of rain, or perhaps formed by sea water that had before been violently thrust into the crevices in the rocks to be temporarily trapped and tamed. In the still pools of water, at moments when the wind suddenly died or refused to blow, I could see my own wavering face and figure.

This is a wild landscape, raw and untamed, yet natural and filled with beauty. The voice of the wind, the echoes of the splashing waves,  the postures of giant boulders resting on the rocky shores, the flight of seagulls against the strong currents. Everything  seems to come together and paint a picture of a landscape that is barren and isolated. Yet in the barrenness and isolation, a few brave souls have for generations lived off of the land and the sea, even if the land and the sea at times take away their lives.

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