Product of Newfoundland

The Story of Jiggs’ Dinner: Newfoundland’s Traditional Boiled Meal

Fri, 10 Apr 2026 11:13:59 -0230

Turnip, potatoes, cabbage and salt meat (beef)

There are few meals that feel as authentically ‘Newfoundland’ as Jiggs’ dinner. It’s been on tables here for generations and, despite warnings from dieticians, it’s probably not going anywhere soon. It’s beloved.

The funny thing is, despite its cultural importance there’s nothing particularly local about it.

Not the ‘recipe’. Not even the name.

What Is Jiggs’ Dinner?

Jiggs’ dinner is a one-pot meal of salt beef and vegetables — usually potatoes, cabbage, carrots, and turnip. Depending on preference and availability it might also include onions, parsnips and turnip greens. All ingredients are boiled together in a single pot, often alongside a bag of pease pudding.

Salt beef (aka salt meat) is, perhaps, the key ingredient. It is the chief protein and provides flavour and seasoning to the vegetables.

People can be a bit persnickety when it comes to Jiggs’ dinner. Everyone seems to have firm ideas about what counts — and what doesn’t. Purists will tell you that the moment you add anything extra — roast beef, chicken, turkey, even gravy — it stops being Jiggs’ dinner altogether. At that point, they’d probably prefer to call it a “cooked dinner” or maybe, depending on the calendar, “Sunday dinner.”

A Taste Of Tough Times

Root Cellar, Winterton, NL

Jiggs’ dinner is often considered a treat these days but it wasn’t always. It was once a meal of convenience.

Not so long ago, food security was a much bigger concern in Newfoundland than it is today. Winters were long and isolating. It was impossible to ship food to many tiny settlements.

Many families kept vegetable gardens and grew much of what they needed themselves, favouring hardy crops like potatoes, carrots, turnips, and cabbage— things that would last through the winter. To keep them, they relied on root cellars — structures built into the earth that held a steady temperature and humidity, preventing the vegetables from freezing.

Stacks of salt pork an salt beef buckets.

Fresh meats were rare, too.

Instead, families relied on salt-preserved beef, stored in brine and able to last for months. This was sometimes called corned beef — “corned” referring to the coarse grains of salt used in the curing process. Even after refrigeration became common salt beef held on, largely for its taste.

Over time, a distinction emerged. What we now think of as corned beef and Newfoundland salt beef aren’t quite the same thing, though the terms were once used almost interchangeably. Modern Newfoundland salt beef is heavily brined, quite fatty, and distinctly pink — even after it’s been cooked.

Root cellar vegetables and salt meat were the food that could be depended upon through the winter, and they became the backbone of Jiggs’ dinner. People cooked with what they had — what would keep — and turned it into something filling and reliable.

And it wasn’t just happening in Newfoundland.

Boiled Beef

Across the northeast United States, people were eating a nearly identical meal known as New England Boiled Dinner — corned beef with cabbage, potatoes, and other root vegetables.

At the same time, Irish Americans had their own version in corned beef and cabbage, while in England, boiled beef — often brined and served with potatoes and carrots — was a staple among the working classes. All of them are clear culinary cousins of what we now call a Newfoundland-style Jiggs’ dinner.

For a bit of fun, check out the song Boiled Beef and Carrots by Harry Champion. Written in 1909, it’s a whimsical tribute to the humble, hearty meal:

Why Call It Jiggs’ Dinner?

Jig is a weirdly important word in Newfoundland and Labrador; not only does it describe a meal, it is the word for a traditional style of dance and a method of fishing.

It would be easy to believe either of these activities might, somehow, have loaned their name to the meal but that isn’t the case.

Headline, Evening Telegram, Dec 16, 1919

The term Jiggs’ Dinner was inspired by the American comicstrip Bringing Up Father by George McManus. The strip began in 1913 and was a wildly successful in the early part of the 20th century. It told the story of Jiggs and Maggie — Irish immigrants to the US who won money in the lottery. Humour came from the friction between Maggie’s desire to embrace the social status that came with their new-found wealth and Jiggs desire to maintain his connections to his humble roots.

One of Jiggs favourite things was to sneak away to Dinty Moore’s Tavern for his favourite meal — corned beef and cabbage.

Jiggs, corned beef and cabbage from Bringing Up Father, George McManus

Bringing Up Father was so popular it wasn’t long before people began referring to a meal of corned beef and cabbage as Jiggs’ dinner.

The following clip came from the Evening Telegram (St. John’s, NL) in November 1922, and while it doesn’t specifically use the phrase Jiggs’ Dinner, it illustrates the growing influence of the comicstrip.

Ad appearing in the November 7, 1922 edition of the Evening Telegram, St. John’s, NL

Five years later, in 1927 a piece in the Western Star (Corner Brook) about a dinner in Port aux Basque, illustrates that the phrase Jiggs’ dinner had entered the local lexicon (and does so while also mentioning Maggie of Bringing Up Father).

Old Toy Trains is one of those songs that feels like it’s always been around. It’s hard to believe it was written in the late 1960s (by Roger Miller).

Maybe it’s the train imagery that does it — in Newfoundland, references to trains tend to feel instantly historical, as if they belong to another time entirely.

I’ve always had a soft spot for the song, and this new version by The Once, from their brand-new EP Fallen Tree (Side B), only enhances that feeling.

It’s a beautiful, simple rendition that lets the song breathe.

Oh, and if you’re suddenly searching for Fallen Tree Side A — don’t worry, you haven’t missed anything. It’s not out yet. The band promises Side A will arrive next year.

It’s kind of nice to have something on the 2026 Christmas list to look forward to already.

Give ‘Old Toy Trains’ a listen.

Paddy Kelly and the Christmas Cat

Tue, 23 Dec 2025 08:19:00 -0330

Newfoundland has its share of strange Christmas stories — but not too many involve hand-to-hand combat with a supernatural house cat.

There’s only one I can think of, and it comes from the shores of Bonavista Bay. In this tale one late night traveller finds out that not every creature stirring on Christmas Eve comes bearing gifts; some come looking for a fight.

Paddy Kelly & the Christmas Cat

In Bonavista Bay, the winter nights are long and cold — perhaps never more so than at Christmas, when the sun is fleeting, the world is still, and strange things are said to stir.

It was on such a night in 1726 — on Christmas Eve, we are told — that Paddy Kelly set out from King’s Cove, bound for his home in Keels.

It was late.

The snow lay deep, his boots crunched steadily as he made his way along the narrow, winding road.

He should have been home hours ago, but one end-of-work drink had turned into two, and two into four. Now he could barely stand straight without leaning on his favourite dogberry walking stick. It took all his focus to keep from drifting off the path.

Above him, a near-full moon lit the snowdrifts with a pale white glow. On either side, dark spruce trees pressed in close, their branches heavy with snow.

The air was motionless. It was almost too quiet.

Paddy extended his stick and tapped a thick spruce trunk. Snow came cascading down, some of it spilling over his head.

“Not smart, Paddy,” he chuckled to himself as he brushed the snow from his old clothes.

That was when he heard it — a faint sound behind him. It sounded like someone else was on the trail; like maybe someone was following him.

It was unlikely — who else would be on this lonely stretch of road on Christmas Eve?

He stopped.

Nothing. The woods were completely silent.

He held his breath and waited. Still nothing.

Perhaps it had only been the echo of his stick against the tree. Or the creak of an ice-laden branch. Maybe it was the long night — or the jug of rum — playing tricks.

He sighed.

As he started walking, the sound returned.

Soon it began to resemble footsteps, crunching softly in the snow, keeping time with his own. When he moved, they moved. When he stopped, they stopped.

He turned and peered down the trail, leaning heavily on his stick. There was nothing behind him but snow and empty road.

“A fox,” he wondered, “or maybe a hare?”

He went on — and once again the mysterious footsteps followed.

A cold prickling crept up the back of his neck. It felt, for all the world, like he was being watched. As if something behind him, something invisible were stalking him.

He glanced behind, and this time he saw it.

Just for a moment — two sharp points of light, low in the trees, glinted in the darkness.

Eyes.

And unless he was mistaken, they belonged to a cat.

But the colour was wrong.

They glowed red in the moonlight.

In the darkness he could barely make out the animal’s shape. It looked as though it were crouched at the edge of the woods. He’s barely glimpsed it before Its tail flicked and it slipped into the shadows.

“Just some stray,” he scoffed.

Still, having seen the animal; knowing it was a cat brought no comfort.

There was something in the way it had watched him — something in colour of those eyes — that set his nerves on edge.

He quickened his pace.

He could still hear it, moving through the frozen goowiddy at the base of the trees. It seemed closer now and somehow heavier; iIts steps crunching louder, as if it were sinking deeper into the snow.

It didn't sound like the lithe movements of a housecat, it sounded, disturbingly, like something walking on two feet.

Paddy broke into a run, boots slipping as he pushed through the drifts — he wanted as much distance between himself and this cat as possible, but the animal kept pace.

He glanced over his shoulder. It bounded between the tree trunks, then burst into a clearing.

In the moonlight he saw it clearly. What once looked like a stray house cat was now far larger — too big for any pet, too big even for a lynx. Its fur was coal black from nose to tail, save for a snow-white patch on its chest.

Its eyes seemed to be burning brighter than before.

It couldn’t be; this animal couldn’t be real.

He was tired, that was all. And drunk. Too many Christmas Eve sociables. Too many turns at the jug.

This was no cat. It was just a rum-soaked trick of the night. It had to be.

He fixed his eyes on the road ahead and pressed on, fear fuelling every step.

And still, in the trees, the creature was keeping pace.

Old stories stirred in his memory — tales of things that followed travellers through the winter woods.

His heart hammered louder and louder, the blood rushed in his ears.

Then, near St. Croix, where the road forked and curved, the footsteps fell silent.

He turned.

Nothing. No movement. No eyes.

He had barely taken another step when he saw it — crouched on the path ahead, it had gotten ahead of him, and now it was blocking the road.

Its black fur bristled. Its eyes blazed. White clouds of breath spilled from its mouth and curled into the cold air.

It looked furious.

And then — it began to grow.

Before Paddy’s eyes, its shoulders broadened, its frame thickening with every breath. From the size of a cat, to a dog, to a wolf — until it stood as large as a foal.

But no foal ever looked so fierce.

The beast arched its back, fur standing on end.

Paddy swallowed hard. His fingers tightened around his walking stick —it was his only defence — though the slender dogberry pole suddenly felt pitifully light.

“Go on now, cat,” he whispered, “shoo!”

The animal answered with a sound no cat should ever make — something half hiss and half derisive laugh.

And then it lunged.

Its weight knocked Paddy flat on his back. He swung wildly, the stick thudding against flesh. The creature shrieked and struck back with its powerful paws.

Round and round they struggled, man and beast.

With every blow Paddy landed, the creature grew wilder — and then he noticed it. Each strike seemed to sap some of its power, it almost seemed as if it were getting smaller.

At first the change was slight. Then unmistakable.

He fought on, striking again and again. The beast shrank from foal to wolf, from wolf to dog. Before long it was no bigger than a young crackie.

Then with one final whack, the dark, fire-eyed spirit collapsed into the snow — no larger than a barn kitten. The fierce red glow in its eyes had faded to the colour of a dying ember.

Paddy didn’t wait to see if it would rise again. He ran; ran until the houses of Keels surrounded him.

Rijksmuseum, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

He burst into his neighbour’s lamplit kitchen, a crowd of men were gathered around the table.

“What’s gotten into you, Paddy?” they cried.

And so he told them — the footsteps, the eyes, the fight on the road.

They answered with laughter.

“The only dark spirit you met tonight,” one neighbour chuckled, “came out of a bottle. Too much rum again, Paddy. Too much”

But Paddy swore it was true.

By morning, he convinced a few men to walk back with him to the bend in the road near St. Croix.

A fresh layer of snow had hidden any tracks.

But there, amid the icy white, sat a strange, steaming lump of black froth — no bigger than a jug.

No one could explain it. No one tried.

And for generations afterward, people in Keels could point to the very spot where Paddy Kelly met something on Christmas Eve — something that followed him through the dark.

And whether it was some unearthly creature, or just the drink playing tricks on a tired man — well, that depends who’s telling the story.

Either way, folks agreed: if you’re walking the shores of Bonavista Bay on a winter night, it’s best carry you a good stick — and mind the spirits, bottled or otherwise.

Notes

The inspiration for this story came from a short piece in the 1926 Christmas edition of the Trinitarian — I figured, after 99 years, the cat deserved to live out another of its nine lives.

I’ve been to King’s Cove and Keels many times but I didn’t know where St. Croix was. A story in the text The Devine Brothers of King’s Cove told me it was to the east, or maybe the eastern part of, Keels. (Update: I’ve found a map that seems to confirm that.)

The book relates an incident between the people of Keels and St. Croix regarding the location of their school. Not being able to come to a satisfactory resolution, they decided the best thing to do was saw the building in half, allowing each party to put their piece of the school in the place they thought best.

I don’t know.

1. Bonavista South, The Trinitarian, December 21, 1926
2. The Devine Brothers of King’s Cove, J.W. McGrath
3. The Tangled Lore of Dogberries, Product of Newfoundland

Doug White’s Christmas Time Once More

Mon, 22 Dec 2025 14:39:00 -0330

For the second time this season, Doug White is popping up on my NL Music Advent Calendar — and I’m more than happy to make room.

Get more Christmas music from Newfoundland and Labrador! And check out the whole 2025 Advent Calendar.

Earlier this month, his collaboration with Kathy Stock, Hope at Christmas, featured during the first week. Now White is back with Christmas Time Once More, a 2024 release that leans comfortably into folk territory and celebrates the quieter, simpler pleasures of the holiday season.

The song has an interesting origin story. White explains that it came together when his band was invited to take part in the Health Care Foundation’s Making Spirits Bright broadcast. Rather than navigate the maze of permissions required when covering Christmas songs, he decided to write something original instead.

“It turned out alright,” White says — a bit of an understatement.

Christmas Time Once More feels sincere and joyful. It’s the kind of song that sits comfortably in my holiday playlists.

You can find Christmas Time Once More wherever you stream your music.

Winter Solstice Night by Matthew Hender

Sun, 21 Dec 2025 08:12:00 -0330

Last year, musician and singer-songwriter Matthew Hender released Winter Solstice, a five-track winter and holiday-themed album that feels right at home in the long, cold stretch of a Newfoundland winter. The record blends traditional carols with original songs inspired by the season — its perfect listening for those quiet December nights when winter seems like it has settled in for good.

Get more Christmas music from Newfoundland and Labrador! And check out the whole 2025 Advent Calendar.

One of the standouts is “Winter Solstice Nights,” an original that plays like a meditation on winter, change, and the steady turning of the years.

Hender sings: “And the grey cold days they thaw away / It won’t be long ’til it melts away / And the wind and the snow, oh it blows!”

It’s hard to tell whether he’s encouraging the listener to look ahead to warmer, more comfortable days, or simply reminding us that winter —and everything else— moves in cycles.

Maybe it’s both.

Winter Solstice is available now on physical release and across digital platforms. If you’re looking for something to soundtrack a quiet winter evening, it’s well worth your time — check it out.

Please Come Home For Christmas by Josh Janes

Sat, 20 Dec 2025 07:17:00 -0330

Cape Breton–based but originally from Newfoundland and Labrador, Josh Janes is an up-and-coming country singer-songwriter.

His latest release, a two-track Christmas single, is an easy one to get excited about. It features his original holiday song ‘Comeback for Christmas’, alongside Charles Brown’s ‘Please Come Home for Christmas’ — a tune that brings me back to Bon Jovi’s A Very Special Christmas 2 version, released in the early ’90s.

Janes is quickly making a name for himself as one of Atlantic Canada’s most promising country voices, blending modern country sounds with a sense of timeless musicality. His 2023 debut album, Seasons Change, is available wherever you get your music.

He’s also got a Tibb’s Eve show coming up in Labrador City.

Check him out.

Last Christmas by Jerry Stamp with King Nancy

Fri, 19 Dec 2025 06:31:00 -0330

Get more Christmas music from Newfoundland and Labrador! And check out the whole 2025 Advent Calendar.

A bit of a throwback — but that’s the magic of Christmas songs. They’re evergreen, and the best ones get wrapped up in nostalgia. Wham’s Last Christmas is one of those tracks that’s felt like a holiday staple since the day it was released.

Lately, though, it’s no longer my go-to. I’ve been hooked on the Jerry Stamp cover featuring King Nancy, from Stamp’s 2009 I, Noel album. It leans into a rockier sound than the original, and that edge really works.

Check it out.

River by Clare Follett

Thu, 18 Dec 2025 06:47:00 -0330

If you’ve been reading these Nl Christmas Music Advent Calendars for a while, you’ll know Joni Mitchell’s ‘River’ has always been one of my favourite “anti-Christmas” songs. I think it beautifully captures the bittersweet feelings of sadness that the holiday season can bring.

I’ve been a Joni Mitchell fan for years and, with few exceptions, I don’t tend to like covers of her music. I do like Clare Follett’s version of ‘River’. She’s recorded a version of the song that is faithful to Mitchell’s but new and fresh at the same time. Her delivery is powerful but subtle… and captivating.

Get more Christmas music from Newfoundland and Labrador! And check out the whole 2025 Advent Calendar.

In all seriousness, this may be my favourite version of the song.

Follett brings a wealth of experience to the track — she debuted her self-produced solo album ‘Neck Deep’ at age 15, returned with her self-produced ‘Reclamation’ album at 18. She’s worked as a producer and/or recording engineer on projects for Rosemary Lawton, Kelly McMichael, Quote the Raven, Kelsey Arsenault, Kellie Loder, Jenny Mallard, and many more. Over the course of her solo career, she has received multiple MusicNL nominations (and wins) MusicNL awards, and several Newfoundland and Labrador Arts & Letters awards for her songwriting.

Follett’s version of ‘River’ appeared on A Trinity Hall Christmas a couple of years ago, and was released as a single in time for Christmas 2024. You can get it everywhere now.

The True Story of Newfoundland’s Christmas Whales

Wed, 17 Dec 2025 12:18:00 -0330

If you want to see whales, Newfoundland and Labrador is the place to go.

More than 20 species routinely pass through our waters, and the world’s largest population of humpback whales —numbering about 10,000 animals — spends the summer months feeding off our shores.

A humpback whale seen near Eliston, NL in July.

When fall arrives, most — but not all — begin a long journey south. A small number of whales linger into late autumn, and a few brave souls stay through the winter.

In Newfoundland, these holdouts have earned a fun nickname: Christmas whales.

In 1978, a small group of these Christmas whales — some humpbacks and a lone narwhal — came face-to-face with the harsh realities of a Newfoundland winter.

But they didn’t have to face it alone.

What transpired was a lesson in the good that comes when a community cares.

The Christmas Whales

It was January 1978 and winter had set in.

The bays of Newfoundland’s northeastern coast were still teeming with herring — and where the herring lingered, so did the whales. The food supply was too good to abandon, so as long as the fish remained plentiful, the whales seemed content to stay.

Hundreds of whales were reported. They were so numerous that one newspaper said they were “cluttering up” Triton Harbour, frightening the daylights out of fishermen.

Lucky in Loon Bay

On January 9, near Loon Bay, a dozen pothead whales found themselves in serious trouble. As they fed, the weather turned frosty, and ice closed in around them.

By the time anyone noticed, nearly five kilometres of solid ice lay between their position and the open sea.

They were trapped.

Whales, like people, need air. So it’s dangerous for them to swim under an ice sheet — there may be nowhere to surface and breathe; they might drown.

When people first spotted the whales, they were crowded into an acre-sized patch of open water. It wasn’t open by chance — it stayed because of the whales. As they surfaced to breathe, they’d break any newly-formed, thin ice. They were fighting against Mother Nature and, eventually, they would lose.

Word of the trapped whales spread quickly.

Calls went out to the Department of Fisheries and plans were made. But before any rescue could get underway, the Newfoundland weather did what it often does: it changed. A sudden January thaw melted enough ice that the whales escaped to the open sea on their own.

It was a lucky break, one that wouldn’t be duplicated everywhere.

Stuck in Springdale

Springdale, NL sits nearly 20 kilometres from the open ocean, deep inside Halls Bay — a long, narrow arm of saltwater.

In the fall of 1977, whales were lingering just as they had been along the shores of Loon Bay.

Residents watched as, day after day, humpback whales surfaced, dived, and fed.

All through the fall, residents awoke expecting to find the whales had moved along but each morning they were surprised — the whales were still there.

As Christmas came, surprise turned into concern. The saltwater was starting to turn icy. First a thin skim of ice appeared, then patches of slush, finally great white sheets of ice began to appear.

Listen to the story on the Strange Truths and Tall Tales podcast.

By January most of Halls Bay was covered in a thick layer of ice. Kilometres of open water vanished. The whales that had decided to spend the autumn feeding there, were no longer staying by choice. With ice covering the arm, they couldn’t reach the open sea if they tried. There was nowhere to surface; nowhere to breathe.

Before long, only a single opening in the ice remained, just off the shores of Springdale — just as in Loon Bay, the hole in the ice was being kept alive by the whales themselves as they surfaced for air.

It was a desperate situation.

Winter still had months to run, and the whales’ entire existence depended on one shrinking patch of water.

Then, one February morning, it happened: the last breathing hole seemed to be frozen over.

A humpback whale near Eliston, NL in July

Saving The Whales

Cyril Pelley, a Springdale resident and former Second World War pilot, owned a small plane. When he heard the news, he took to the air to see for himself. What he saw confirmed everyone’s worst fears: the bay looked like solid ice. There was no open water anywhere.

If nothing changed, the whales would drown.

Pelley landed, went straight to the wharf, and set out in his schooner, The Willing Lass. He sailed into the harbour, forcing the bow through the ice until he reached the spot where the whales had been surfacing. There he began to circle — again and again— crushing the ice.

Five humpback whales rose beside the vessel annd exhaled warm clouds of air. The animals were so close the crew could smell their breath — and close enough that the crew could see the damage the ice had done.

Not only were the animals struggling to find air, they were tearing up their bodies doing it. The skin across their heads and backs was in rough shape. It had been cut and scraped by weeks of breaking through the jagged ice.

Left to keep the breathing hole open under their own power, the whales would tear themselves to shreds.

So Pelley made sure they didn’t face the task alone.

Day after day, for weeks, The Willing Lass returned to that same spot, breaking ice and keeping the breathing hole open. Until, at last, an unseasonable warm spell set in and opened the harbour.

The bay was still frozen, but at least the whale’s breathing hole was safe and the 40-tonne animals had some measure of comfort.

But the respite didn’t last.

The brief thaw gave way to bitter cold, and the harbour froze over once again.

NOAA United States. National Marine Fisheries Service, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Four of the humpbacks — now joined by an unexpected companion, a lone narwhal — were trapped in a single breathing hole roughly two kilometres from town. One of the humpbacks had disappeared. No one knew, what happened. Maybe it made it to open sea but there was little reason to be optimistic — it had probably drowned.

At the new site things were again getting rough. The cold was so bad that the opening shrank to almost nothing. There was barely room for one whale, the animals had to take turns surfacing for air.

By this point, the ice was too thick for The Willing Lass, so locals dragged an aluminum boat across the ice to whale’s breathing hole and from that small vessel kept the breathing hole open. It was gruelling work.

Not too far away, another humpback was spotted near Port Anson and Miles Cove. All alone, it fared much worse.

Finally, one morning a heavy upwelling of ice was spotted near its breathing hole. It looked as if the whale had tried to break through from below but just couldn’t do it.

Days later its body washed ashore at Port Anson.

Nobody wanted the same fate for the Springdale whales.

In late February, an icebreaker was sent into the bay to cut a channel to open water, but the whales wouldn’t follow it. Perhaps they were afraid to stray too far from the one place they knew they could breathe.

So they stayed, circling the same small patch of icy water.

A New Concern

Everyone wanted to see the whales.

People walked out to the edge of the breathing hole to watch them surface. They were able to get close enough to hear their breath and feel the ice shift beneath their feet as the whales came close. Before long, the crowds grew so large that police strung up ropes to keep people back.

But curiosity soon gave way to concern. As onlookers watched, a new fear set in: were these giant animals starving in front of everyone’s eyes? The whales were confined into a single pa

Jingles the Christmas Cat By Rum Ragged

Wed, 17 Dec 2025 06:41:00 -0330

I was really looking forward to seeing Rum Ragged’s Christmas show this year. I’m completely loving with their new album, All The Bells and Wassails.

Get more Christmas music from Newfoundland and Labrador! And check out the whole 2025 Advent Calendar.

Sadly, it wasn’t meant to be. The weather had other ideas and their Gander show was cancelled. What can you do? Weather’s going to weather—usually at the worst possible time.

One track I was especially hoping to hear live was their take on Gerald Hamilton’s ‘Jingles the Christmas Cat’ —a charming little story about a cat doing his best to get into the holiday spirit.

Give it a listen. All The Bells and Wassails is available wherever you get your music, and Rum Ragged still have more live dates coming up around the province — check them out, if the weather cooperates!

Winter Wonderland by Beep Bop (feat. Laura Taylor)

Tue, 16 Dec 2025 06:10:00 -0330

Formed in 2022, Beep Bop has quickly built a reputation for fun jazz interpretations, and this year they’ve turned their attention to the holidays. A Beep Bop Christmas is a full collection of jazz-infused Christmas music.

I recently added their “White Christmas” (feat. Ana Luísa Ramos) to my playlist, and today I’m turning my attention to “Winter Wonderland” (feat. Laura Taylor). It’s a strong track — sophisticated, sultry, and full of the relaxed, jazzy charm you want on a winter evening. The song captures the feel of a romantic winter stroll, and Laura Taylor’s vocals are amazing — warm, confident, and full of emotion.

Get more Christmas music from Newfoundland and Labrador! And check out the whole 2025 Advent Calendar.

Beep Bop’s knack for blending smooth jazz with playful energy a lot of fun. It makes these tracks more than just seasonal filler — they’re songs I think I’ll return to year after year.

If you like the vocals — and I’m sure you will — check out Laura Taylor. She grew up in Goose Bay, also performs with the Laura Taylor Quartet (and has released her own solo album By Chance).

A Beep Bop Christmas is streaming now

Let It Snow by Clint Curtis and the Reflectors

Mon, 15 Dec 2025 07:24:00 -0330

Oh, the weather outside is doing what it does best — snowing and blowing.

The drifts are piling up, the wind is shaking the walls, and absolutely nothing makes me want to venture through the door. I could get mad but, instead of shaking my fist at the sky, I’m going to lean into it. Let it snow!

Get more Christmas music from Newfoundland and Labrador! And check out the whole 2025 Advent Calendar.

If you want to join me, throw on “Let It Snow” by Clint Curtis & The Reflectors. It appeared on their 2017 holiday release Rock and Roll Christmas. It’s an upbeat, rock-edged take on the song that feels more like appropriate fuel for a stormy winter day than a cozy-evening-by-the-fire. It’s energetic, fun, and just rocky enough to keep things interesting.

Don’t stop at one track, either—the full album is a festive good time, packed with holiday tunes that actually have some kick to them. Clint Curtis, a Newfoundland-based producer, multi-instrumentalist, and longtime studio pro, knows his way around a recording, and it shows. This is Christmas music with a bit of volume behind it.

Rock and Roll Christmas is out there waiting for you—perfect for snow days, storm days, or any day you want to turn up the holiday energy.

Good King Wenceslas by Herriott and Harkness

Sun, 14 Dec 2025 07:00:13 -0330

H2 is a musical collaboration between multi-talented flugelhorn and trumpet player Mike Herriott—who spent his formative years in St. John’s—and guitarist Sean Harkness. In 2011, the duo released Home for the Holidays, a jazzy, understated take on classic Christmas songs that trades the usual seasonal tropes for warmth, space, and style.

Get more Christmas music from Newfoundland and Labrador! And check out the whole 2025 Advent Calendar.

They take melodies everyone knows by heart and quietly reshape them, keeping the spirit intact while giving the music room to breathe. Nothing here feels overdone — they are relaxed and confident renditions that lets the songs speak for themselves.

It’s sophisticated holiday music that fits just as comfortably with a quiet cup of tea as it does with a glass of something stronger.

I’ve been enjoying the album front to back, but if you want a quick entry point, start with “Good King Wenceslas.” That’s where their approach really shines.

You can find Home for the Holidays wherever you get your music.

Christmas Ain’t The Same By Ken Tizzard and Music For Goats

Sat, 13 Dec 2025 07:00:00 -0330

If you like your Christmas music with a little edge — something that delivers some humour and honesty — Ken Tizzard and Music For Goats deliver in spades.

According to their bio, “Ken Tizzard and Music For Goats is the product of Newfoundland musician Ken Tizzard as he returns to his roots, combining his passion for folk, bluegrass, punk, and country.” Tizzard is well-known as the bassist for The Watchmen. He is the co-founder of ’90s rock band Thornley, and closer to home, played with Ron Hynes.

Get more Christmas music from Newfoundland and Labrador! And check out the whole 2025 Advent Calendar.

Tizzard and Music for Goats 2020 EP Sketches of Christmas has quickly become a favourite of mine, especially the country/folk gem “Christmas Ain’t The Same.” It brings a welcome change of pace to the usual Christmas fare. I mean, it’s not every day you find a Christmas tune that slips in references to falling in the tree, ex-wives, and secret pregnancy — and still manages to be catchy.

But as the song implies, Christmas changes.

The EP is available now, and while you’re at it, give their newest release a listen — a fantastic version of Generation X’s “Kiss Me Deadly.”

Dreaming of a Lo-Fi Christmas by Wade Tarling

Fri, 12 Dec 2025 07:00:00 -0330

Local pianist, educator, and composer Wade Tarling has a talent for creating atmosphere and this Christmas he’s turned his attention to the world of lo-fi. His latest release, Dreaming of a Lo-Fi Christmas, is a two-track EP featuring cool, cozy takes on “White Christmas” and “I’ll Be Home for Christmas”. Both tracks bring warmth: he delivers a gentle jazz influence, and an easy nostalgia that makes me want a full album in this style.

Get more Christmas music from Newfoundland and Labrador! And check out the whole 2025 Advent Calendar.

I’m not surprised — Tarling’s already proved he knows his way around festive music. His 2019 instrumental album Winter Songs remains one of my seasonal favourites, full of calm, candlelight-appropriate arrangements that hold up year after year.

And once the holiday lights come down, Tarling’s recent release Shoreline Sounds is well worth exploring. Inspired by eight different Newfoundland and Labrador locations, it transforms the province’s landscapes into vivid, drifting soundscapes—a musical road trip across NL.

You can find his music on bandcamp, and wherever you stream your music.

A Christmas Time by The Ennis Sisters

Thu, 11 Dec 2025 07:00:00 -0330

Nobody — with the possible exception of Bud Davidge of Simani — has a stronger claim to the Newfoundland Christmas music crown than The Ennis Sisters. For years, their voices have signalled the arrival of the season — they’re on the radio, danced to in Santa Claus parades, and filling seats in sold out shows. Now, with their brand-new 2-track EP A Christmas Time (released November 2025), they’re cementing their ties to the season.

Get more Christmas music from Newfoundland and Labrador! And check out the whole 2025 Advent Calendar.

The title track is warm, bright, and instantly comforting. It’s just the kind of song you want a Christmas time — nostalgic, happy and festive.

I also love the local wordplay in the title and chorus — inviting you to get lost in a Christmastime (the season itself) while also hinting at a Christmas time, the kind of rollicking party going on in the kitchen or community hall.

For over 25 years, Maureen, Karen, and Teresa have been delivering world-class harmonies, Celtic-folk charm, and that unmistakable Newfoundland heart. They’ve got a JUNO, a stack of awards, and 14 studio albums to prove it — and they’re currently on a Christmas tour with lots of Newfoundland stops coming up — there’s bound to be a show near you.

Even if you can’t make it to a show, be sure to add “A Christmas Time” to your holiday playlists

Santa Never Brings Me A Banjo by the Irish Descendants

Wed, 10 Dec 2025 07:00:00 -0330

The Irish Descendants’ latest Christmas single, “Santa Never Brings Me a Banjo,” is fun, energetic, and catchy—perfect for the holiday season. Written by New Brunswick’s David Myles, the song tells the story of a kid who never seems to get the one Christmas gift he wants most—a banjo—and can’t understand why.

Get more Christmas music from Newfoundland and Labrador! And check out the whole 2025 Advent Calendar.

The Irish Descendants put their own spin on the song, bringing their signature energy and charm to make it unmistakably theirs. The single was released as an early gift for fans, just in time for the band’s Christmas tour, which runs across five provinces and includes 23 shows.

For more than 35 years, the Irish Descendants have been winning fans across the country. Led by Con O’Brien, they’ve played over 8,000 shows across North America and built a reputation for strong vocals, skilled playing, and storytelling rooted in Irish heritage and Newfoundland and Labrador culture.

Give ”Santa Never Brings Me a Banjo” a listen — it’s a fun addition to any Christmas playlist.

Mackenzie Critch’s Little Drummer Boy feat. Darcy Scott

Tue, 09 Dec 2025 06:35:00 -0330

Mackenzie Critch and fellow Newfoundland artist Darcy Scott are bringing some serious sparkle to a holiday classic. Their brand-new rendition of Little Drummer Boy is bold, exciting, and wonderfully dynamic. I’m sure in no small part to the production of Daniel Adams (check out his work with Kellie Loder, Rachel Cousins and many others.)

Fresh, full of heart, and rooted in spirit!

Critch and Scott each bring a their own vocal styles to the track and they complement each other beautifully, and when Critch decides to let her powerhouse vocals go, she really lets them go — soaring to some genuinely impressive vocal heights.

The track delivers exactly the kind of Christmas energy I want on a Friday in December. It’s fresh, full of heart, and rooted in the spirit of what Critch says the song means to her: “When you don’t have the funds, showing up and giving your time is the best gift of all.”

Get more Christmas music from Newfoundland and Labrador! And check out the whole 2025 Advent Calendar.

Critch has quickly become one of Newfoundland and Labrador’s standout rising artists. The Paradise-born singer-songwriter is a former MusicNL NewFound Talent winner, a multi-time MusicNL nominee, and has even opened two sold-out Christmas shows for Boney M — so the fact she’s creating her own holiday classics should come as no surprise!

In May 2025 Critch released her first studio record, Just Having Fun.

Darcy Scott brings his own indie-folk credentials to the track. He won the 2019 NewFound Talent Contest, later earned a MusicNL Folk/Roots Artist of the Year award, and signed with CYMBA Music Publishing in 2024. He’s currently working on his debut full-length album, due in 2026.

Their take on Little Drummer Boy is available now — and it absolutely deserves a spot on your holiday playlists.

Fatal Affection of a Newfoundland Dog

Tue, 09 Dec 2025 05:45:00 -0330

The longer I live, the more convinced I am that dogs are superior to people in almost every way—and nothing in this story challenges my belief in the slightest.

The following account appeared in the Evening Telegram on December 22, 1882. It tells of a dog and a horse whose lives ended far too soon, in a way that will be upsetting for many people.

If that’s not the kind of story you’re up for today, feel free to skip this post.

In the Days of Dogs and Horses

Horse, N1111, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

Not so long ago, horses were everywhere in Newfoundland. By the early 1900s, more than 16,000 lived on the island. They first took hold in St. John’s and the northeast Avalon, where the earliest roads made them essential for hauling carriages, goods, and people—at least until motor vehicles arrived.

Outport life was different. With most travel happening by boat, horses were slower to catch on. When muscle was needed on land, people relied instead on dogs to pull lumber, carts, and sleds with steady determination.

These were working animals, not pets — though many were surely loved.

Loyalty

Whether from age, illness, or injury, every working animal eventually reached a point where it simply couldn’t do its job anymore. When that happened, a responsible owner had a difficult choice to make. Keeping an animal that could no longer work was expensive, and in many cases, the only viable option was euthanasia.

A humane owner would insure death was quick and as painless as possible, but sadly not every owner was humane. Some people, when their horses were no longer suitable for work, simply turned them out, leaving them to fend for themselves. In many cases those animals starved.

According to accounts, one such horse in St. John’s found its way to Quidi Vidi Road and somehow made its way into Hospital Field — which was gated. No one could understand how the animal had gotten into the field but it turns out he had a friend.

A Newfoundland Dog, Carl Reichert, Wikimedia

A Newfoundland dog, owned by the same man, followed him everywhere.

The dog was so devoted that he wandered with the starving animal day and night, even managing—somehow—to lift the gate latch with his paw to let his hungry companion inside in search of food.

But the dog’s loyalty couldn’t save him.

The horse was eventually found dead on Forest Road, and the Newfoundland dog was still at his side, refusing to be moved. He fought every attempt to pull him away. He was so fiercely protective of his fallen friend that, in order to remove the horse’s body, the dog was shot.

Both animals deserved far better.

Shames & Disgraces

An 1882 newspaper wrote of the dog: “His noble fidelity to a brother brute doubly shames and disgraces the humanity of the man… We desire to bring the matter to the special attention of the Police with a hope that such barbarity may be arrested and vigorously repressed.”

Whether the owner was ever held accountable, I don’t know. Records from that year show only two prosecutions in St. John’s for cruelty to animals.

Did This Really Happen?

The story appeared in local newspapers as fact — and really, it’s hard to imagine anyone inventing something so bleak and unsatisfying. Still, I have my doubts.

I mean, if people noticed the dog opening the gate to let the starving horse into Hospital Field, why didn’t someone step in? Why wait until both animals were dead and only then write a moralizing newspaper piece about it?

The editors of the Harbor Grace Standard seem to have shared my concerns. They wrote: “Strange that this inhuman conduct should have been practised so long without someone calling the attention of the authorities to it: stranger still, if now it remains unpunished.”

Legacy

Doubts aside, the story pushed the Standard to issue a clear call: “What is much needed here is the establishment of Societies for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.”

Five years later, in 1887, that call was finally answered. The Society for the Protection of Animals was founded in St. John’s, marking the beginning of organized animal welfare in Newfoundland.

And if nothing else, perhaps the story of one loyal Newfoundland dog — and the needless loss of two animals — helped spark the change that would protect countless others.

1. Fatal Affection of a Newfoundland Dog, Evening Telegram, Dec 22, 1882
2. Horses, Encyclopedia of Newfoundland & Labrador
3. SPCA, Encyclopedia of Newfoundland & Labrador
4. Criminal Statistics, Evening Mercury, Jan 25, 1883
5. “We published to-day…” Harbor Grace Standard, Dec 30, 1882
6. “We have from time to time…” Evening Mercury, Dec 22, 1882

Noël Noël by Adrian House

Mon, 08 Dec 2025 07:00:00 -0330

If you need a blast of pure joy — and a little musical throwback — look no further than “Noël Noël” by St. John’s-based singer-songwriter Adrian House.

Sung in French, it brings a joyful energy that’s impossible to resist—bright, bubbly, and completely infectious. It’s one of those songs that lifts your spirits the moment the chorus kicks in.

A blast of pure joy

If it sounds familiar, it might be because the track grew out of Nana Mouskouri’s “Soleil Soleil.” It’s been given new lyrics (by House) and a fun holiday spirit with the help of his friends in St. John’s Franco-music community.

Get more Christmas music from Newfoundland and Labrador! And check out the whole 2025 Advent Calendar.

It’s impossible to resist. I already know it’s going to live on my Christmas playlists for years to come.

House is building quite a musical repertoire. He moves easily between folk, jazz, and country, and between English and French. In recent years he’s broken ground in major French-language song competitions, released the album Pêcheur de rêves, and was named MusicNL’s 2024 Jazz Artist of the Year.

So, when you’re done singing “Noël Noël” there’s a lot more music in House’s catalogue to explore.

“Noël Noël” is available now wherever you get your music.

How Christmas Used To Be by Big Jib

Sun, 07 Dec 2025 07:55:12 -0330

Get more Christmas music from Newfoundland and Labrador! And check out the whole 2025 Advent Calendar.

Big Jib is a four-piece band out of Clarenville blending traditional Irish/NL sounds with classic country and classic rock. Influenced by Steve Earle, John Fogerty, and Shanneyganock, they mix well-loved favourites with original songs that carry all those influences.

The band began as a father–son duo, Curt and Joseph Blackmore of George’s Brook–Milton, who built a strong local following during lockdown through their Facebook live shows. Big Jib later expanded with the addition of Jeremy Pardy and Jonathan Peach, and in April 2025 they released their album I Should Have Been a Sailor.

This month, they’ve shared a new original Christmas single, “How Christmas Used to Be.” It’s nostalgic—but warm and upbeat—a look back at old holiday traditions and the small details that made the season special. It’s a solid track that fits perfectly into the Newfoundland holiday mix.

And the chorus is a bit of an ear worm… I’ve found myself humming "The 12 days of Christmas we honour them all, and mummers were something we’d see…” on a bit of a loop!

Check it out — you can find the song (and the album) wherever you stream your music.

Season’s Beatings

Wed, 03 Dec 2025 12:45:00 -0330

There’s a Newfoundland Christmas tradition of yesteryear you won’t find on any holiday postcard — it was the annual business of deciding the strongman of the community.

Long before I came along, in the part of Bonavista Bay where I grew up, young men celebrated the holiday season by doing what young men have too often done when left unsupervised: they fought each other.

good dust-up in the snow might be the most faithful Newfoundland Christmas tradition of all

In this particular case, they were not fighting out of anger. They were fighting to earn the title of the community strongman.

It worked like this:

Sometime during the Christmas season, someone would drag a coat behind him along the road. That was the invitation. If another fellow felt like testing his strength—or maybe just had something to prove—he’d step on the coat, and the challenge was on.

The rules were straightforward: bare knuckles, and three knockdowns earned a win.

Most of the fights were more friendly than fierce, and many ended after the first clean hit. Among buddies, one good shot was enough to settle the question of who’d earned bragging rights for the year.

And that’s probably just as well. These young men must have been capable of packing quite a punch — they spent their days rowing boats, hauling fish, and cutting firewood by hand. One good punch was likely plenty.

One of my favourite stories of the old custom comes from Harold Squires’ A Newfoundland Outport in the Making. He recalls a man named Rogers, who earned the title “Champion of Salvage.”

The Champion of Salvage

Salvage, Newfoundland and Labrador

Titles like that seemed to matter because when word hit town that some young fellow across the bay in King’s Cove was calling himself the “Champion of Bonavista Bay,” Rogers — and the whole of Salvage — felt slighted.

How could this man decide he was the champion of the bay when he hadn’t faced down the best Salvage had to offer?

The situation called for action.

So, Rogers gathered a few friends and set off for King’s Cove — rowing across Bonavista Bay in the dead of winter.

When they reached King’s Cove, they found the self-proclaimed champion, and Rogers did as the game required: he dropped his coat on the ground and began to drag it.

The challenger came forth and, according to the account, Rogers “left ’im straightened out on the road. All six feet of ’im.”

And that was that. The title was corrected and Salvage earned itself the bragging rights.

I’m sure it’s the kind of story that grows a little with each retelling, especially when told over a glass of Christmas rum.

And while I wouldn’t suggest we resurrect the tradition, it does stand as a fun slice of old Newfoundland holiday culture with equal parts toughness, pride, and good humour.

King’s Cove, Newfoundland and Labrador

The Mummer’s Swab

Truthfully, it’s not so different from some aspects of mummering. Mummers sometimes carried a swab — a sort of stick— with which they’d ‘playfully’ hit people. Sometimes play turned into a brawl.

The following is an excerpt from a piece Calle Rambling Thoughts About Christmas in Newfoundland Years Ago written by William Whittle and published in the Evening Telegram in 1885:

“The reign of the Mummers, like that of the ‘ fools ‘ was put an end to, owing to a street row between them and the spectators, in which the latter received the worst of it. ‘ For, as I have said, both the ‘ fools ‘ and mummers were composed of the ‘bone and sinew ‘ of the town. Many a time I have seen a ‘ fool ‘ whom the mob tried to ‘ run,’ pull off his cap, take the handle of his ‘ swab ‘ and clean out some two or three hundred persons.”

— William Whittle, 1885

And, as I’ve written elsewhere, the anonymity of mummer’s disguises sometimes offered an opportunity to settle scores with a diminished threat of retribution. In one unfortunate incident, it even ended in murder.

In The End

Peace, joy, and goodwill may make a fine carol—but back in the day, Christmas in Newfoundland often came with a side of fisticuffs.

Turns out a good dust-up in the snow might be the most faithful Newfoundland Christmas tradition of all.

1. A Newfoundland Outport in the Making, Harold Squires
2. Many Mummers of Newfoundland, Product of Newfoundland
3. Rambling Thoughts About Christmas in Newfoundland Years Ago, William Whittle, Evening Telegram Christmas Number, 1885

The Tangled Lore of Dogberries

Mon, 24 Nov 2025 19:41:00 -0330

Dogberries in Gander, NL

Dogberry trees may be common in Newfoundland, but there’s nothing ordinary about them.

They burst into white blossom in spring, and by fall they glow with brilliant red-orange berries that manage to hang on well into the darkest days of winter. It’s no wonder they’ve worked their way into Newfoundland folklore — a tree as dramatic as the dogberry was bound to pick up a few stories along the way.

What is a dogberry tree?

A pine grosbeak (aka Mope) eating dogberries

It’s a rare Newfoundlander that won’t recognize a dogberry tree. It’s a deciduous tree that is common across Newfoundland, and many of the cool regions of the Northern Hemisphere. It’s a member of the genus Sorbus. Outside Newfoundland it is more commonly called the Mountain Ash or Rowen.

It’s easily recognizable by its compound, almost feather-shaped leaves and the large clusters of bright red berries it carries in the fall and winter. These berries make the tree a favourite stop for birds who appreciate the abundance of fresh fruit.

Newfoundlanders once appreciated the fruit of the dogberry, too.

Kitchens, Christmas and Cures

Thought it largely seems to have fallen out of favour, Newfoundlanders once included dogberries on the menu.

It may have been more a case of making do with what the land provided rather than a genuine appreciation for the fruit because,

by nearly all accounts, dogberries are not particularly palatable —or safe to eat — especially in their raw state. Many suggest the quality of berries varies by time and tree; it’s said they are better after the first frost and that not all trees are equal. Some dogberry trees produce better fruit than others.

I have never eaten dogberries but they are often described as astringent. On top of that they contain toxins. The toxins in the fruit are made safer for consumption by cooking but the seeds should not be eaten as they contain compounds that can turn to hydrogen cyanide during digestion. All recipes that include dogberries call for the removal of the seeds.

The two most common kitchen uses of dogberries were wine and jelly.

Dogberry wine was made with a mixture of dogberries, boiling water, and sugar or molasses. The concoction was left to ferment for a few weeks, strained and bottled.

Fresh snow on dogberries

It was a divisive drink. For some, it was a Christmas favourite, for others it was best reserved for use as a disinfectant, paint thinner, and rust remover.

Speaking of Christmas, it’s not hard to find references to Newfoundlanders using dogberries to bring festive colour to the Christmas season. They are an obvious choice — the bright red berries, which survive well into the winter season, make a perfect holiday companion for evergreen boughs.

Dogberry jelly was made with dogberries, sugar and often an additional fruit (many recipes I’ve read called for crabapples). Even with the sugar the jelly was still often described as bitter and seemed often to have been consumed as a condiment alongside meats.

If you’re curious, Bonita Hussey of Bonita’s Kitchen has a video demonstrating how she makes dogberry jelly. Her recipe includes ginger and oranges and sounds quite tasty.

Beyond the kitchen table, dogberries were relied upon as medication. It was believed that…

The stranger side of dogberries

Dogberries and moonlight

And while all of that is interesting, the real story of the dogberry tree is tangled up in superstition. From warnings of hard winters to tales of curses and magic, they are trees with their roots deep in the strange and the unusual.

Let’s start with a well-known superstition.

Weather

Most Newfoundlanders have probably heard it said that a bumper crop of dogberries foretells a hard winter to come. I’ve never been clear exactly what a hard winter means. I don’t know of that means especially snowy, unusually cold or insufferably long.

Perhaps it’s all three.

In any case, according to some storytellers the superstition comes from a faith in a benevolent universe — the idea that an abundance of berries is nature’s way of stocking the shelves, ensuring the birds have enough to survive a harsher-than-usual winter.

I don’t know. In my experience nature is neither that kind nor well-ordered.

I don’t think the superstition is backed by the evidence. I daresay the number of dogberries says a lot more about the weather during the growing season than it does about the conditions of the following winter.

It’s also worth noting that, for some, the superstition worked a little differently: few dogberries by winter meant a hard season ahead, as described by W. J. Caroll:

“Last year in October a couple of trees were bending down with dogberries. We intended cutting them for Christmas, but one day dozens of robins appeared and appropriated the fruit and we watched them clean up the berries from two or three trees. Next morning there was scarcely a berry left. It is said that the scarcity of dogberries denotes a hard winter. ”

— W.J. Caroll

The belief that dogberries can forecast the winter isn’t unique to Newfoundland. In Europe, the rowan (aka dogberry) tree was wrapped in weather lore and much more besides. It was said to shield homes from witches, protect livestock, and guard families from harm. When settlers came across the Atlantic, those old-world beliefs came with them, and the dogberry quickly grew into a tree of protection here too.

Protection

Dogberries in Trinity, NL

In Newfoundland the dogberry was seen as having the power to avert the ‘evil-eye’ and even stop disease.

One of my favourite superstitions involves passing a baby through a fork in the trunk of a dogberry tree. Doing so was thought to protect the child from measles, smallpox, croup, whooping-cough, and other childhood diseases. There is a tale of ‘Uncle Joe Tiller’s Dogberry’ in New-Wes-Valley that was considered especially potent. I’m not sure what made his tree better than the rest.

Dogberries didn’t have to be alive to be lucky. In an account from Bay St. George on the island’s west coast, mariners preferred boat tillers to be made of dogberry wood because it would bring safe travels to the boat.

Sable Chief was a mascot of the Royal Newfoundland Regiment during the First World War but, as anyone who served with him would have told you, he was far more than that.

He marched when they marched, lifted their spirits when nothing else could, and made them feel a little closer to home.

And when he died, it broke their hearts.

This is his story.

The Story of Sable Chief

By 1917 the men of the Royal Newfoundland Regiment were scattered across the Europe, fighting in the First World War.

Some were serving on the front lines in Flanders. Others were recovering in hospitals in England. More were training in Scotland — learning to march in step, bury their homesickness, and become the soldiers they knew they needed to be.

It was terrible time.

What they didn’t know was that a dog was about to do for them what no officer, drill sergeant, or chaplain could. He was going to bring comfort without question, loyalty without judgment, and remind them — in the softest way possible — of the world they were missing.

An Unexpected Gift

He arrived as a gift in the spring of 1917 — a massive, black Newfoundland dog, presented to the 2nd Battalion of the Royal Newfoundland Regiment at their camp in Ayr, Scotland. The gesture had been arranged through the efforts of Sir Edgar Bowring, and carried out by Captain C.W. Firebrace, a Canadian officer serving overseas.

Sable Chief with his handler, Private Hazen Fraser. Photographer unknown

The dog was barely more than a puppy, really — but already massive. Weighing well over 150 pounds, he was heavier than many of the boys in the Regiment. He could easily rest his front paws on their shoulders, look them in the eyes and give them a big, wet lick on the cheek.

They called him Sable Chief, and he was to be their mascot.

Sable Chief took the role seriously. He went where they went, and did what they did.

On the parade square, he moved with the soldiers — marching beside them, head high, tail proud. And when the anthem played, he would rise to his feet and stand perfectly still until the final note faded.

As if he understood.

And in time, the men understood — that Sable Chief didn’t just stand for them, he stood with them. He may have started as a symbol of the Regiment — but by then, he wasn’t a symbol at all. He was one of them.

“Everybody loved Sable, and he looked a Chief indeed as he marched along…”

Off duty, his good nature brought some much-needed light to the camp. He’d roughhouse with the boys, sprawl in the shade outside the orderly room, or curl up beside the barracks.

He brought the kind of comfort only a dog can — quiet companionship, offered with a gentle heart, and free of any conditions.

Years after the war, one soldier remembered him fondly, “Everybody loved Sable, and he looked a Chief indeed as he marched along…”

A Moment of Glory

Officers and men of the Newfoundland Regiment, Circa 1918. Library of Scotland, via Flickr. No known copyright restrictions.

That summer, the Regiment band was sent on tour playing in London, Liverpool, Sheffield, and visiting hospitals filled with wounded men.

And wherever the band went, Sable Chief marched too — led by his young handler, Private Hazen Fraser. Sable always carried a collection box round his neck to raise money for the Red Cross Prisoners of War Fund.

At His Majesty’s Theatre, he helped fill the hall and donations swelled. At Wandsworth Hospital, soldiers cheered just to see him again. He became a story in the papers, and a sensation wherever he went.

“The women crowded around good, patient Sable Chief,” one journalist reported, “until Mr. Worthington [the band master] had to beg them, "Don't suffocate the dog!”

At another stop eager parents tried to sit their children on Sable Chief’s back. Time and time again Sable Chief shook them off, until he finally barked as if saying he was a “no sitter,” one London paper joked.

“Sable Chief receives so much adulation,” came another report, “that he takes it all with philosophic calm.”

He had long since captured the hearts of his Regiment. Now, it seemed, the rest of England was following suit.

A Dark Day

By early 1918, the war still dragged on. The Regiment had moved to Hazeley Down Camp near Winchester.

And Sable Chief was there, too — striding through camp like he owned the place.

Until, suddenly, he was gone.

A driver wasn’t playing attention and just like that, the dog who had carried their morale of the Newfoundland troops was killed by a military transport.

The Regiment was heartbroken.

He’d been with them little more than a year and a half and the loss hit hard, and all due to “The stupidity of a lorry-driver,” as one soldier described it, years later.

Still Standing

Sable Chief may never have fought in battle, but he was important part of the war effort all the same.

He stood on parade grounds and theatre stages. He stood beside the wounded, the homesick, the grieving. And when the anthem played, he showed them how to stand still — how to hold fast in a world where everything else seemed to be falling apart.

After he died, his body was sent to a taxidermist in the hope of preserving him — but the result disappointed many who had known him in life.

“Sable Chief deserved better,” one soldier wrote.

He did.

Today, what remains of Sable Chief is at The Rooms in St. John’s — restored and preserved. But I’m sure those who knew him would tell you: the real Sable Chief isn’t there.

You can’t preserve loyalty. You can’t stuff what made him matter.

He marched with the boys of the Regiment. He gave them comfort, lifted their hearts, and stood beside them when they needed it most.

He was a ‘good boy’ in the Great War — and he died far too soon.

1. The Royal Newfoundland Regiment Scrapbook (book 1), MUN Digital Archives
2. Harvey M. Skirving Scrapbook 2, MUN Digital Archives
3. The Fighting Newfoundlander : A History of the Royal Newfoundland Regiment, Gerald W. L. Nicholson, 1964
4. Newfoundland Dog Regiment’s Mascot, The Evening Telegram, November 8, 1975
5. The Re-Discovery of Newfoundland, The Evening Herald, November 1, 1917
6. Sable Chief, The Newfoundland Club of America
7. The Searchlight, The St. John’s Daily Star, May 23, 1919
8. Sable Chief - A Comforting Mascot, Veterans Affairs, Canada
9. Ruby Ayre Photograph Album, MUN Digital Archives
10. Sable Chief and Pte. Hazen Fraser, The Royal Newfoundland Regiment Museum
11. Reminiscences of the Second (Reserve) Battalion by No. 142, The Veteran Magazine, July 1923
12. Sable Chief in Plastic, Atlantic Guardian, vol. 07, no. 07 (July 1950)
13. Artifacts of The Royal Newfoundland Regiment, Canadian Geographic, July 6, 2016

Hero in Plush and Plastic

If you find yourself at The Rooms in St. John’s and feel the tug of nostalgia, you can bring home a 12-inch plush version of Sable Chief — exclusive to the gift shop. He’s soft, well-behaved, and probably won’t shed much.

The first attempt to immortalize him came much earlier. In the late 1940s, Bonavista war veteran H. J. Fisher captured the famous dog in “plastic stone” — a collectible ornament showing Sable Chief in a relaxed pose, black with grey eyes and a pink tongue, resting on an eight-inch grey base. Each one came wrapped in Cellophane, boxed up with a short write-up on his life and legacy.

I’m not sure how many were made, but they seemed to hit store shelves in fall 1949.

If you happen to own one — or find one tucked away on a shelf somewhere — I’d love to see it. Snap a photo and tag @productofnfld.

Sable Chief deserves his moment in the spotlight. Again.

The Black Barque: Newfoundland’s Ship of the Dead

Thu, 30 Oct 2025 19:46:00 -0230

Newfoundlanders know their share of ghost stories.

Every bay has tales of phantom lights or strange ships that vanish in the mist. Most of them, I can shrug off without a second thought, but there’s one story I can’t shake. It’s the tale of a black-sailed ship, said to haunt the waters off St. John’s.

She’s been called the Black Barque. She’s been called the Black Frigate. But names don’t matter.

What matters is this: you best pray you never see her.

The Black Barque

It started in 1875, according to the old sailor who shared the tale. He was aboard a cargo ship, returning to Newfoundland from Spain.

By his recollection, it was a calm summer night, the kind of night that should have promised safe, uneventful passage. The sea was quiet and the air, cool and still. As they neared the Avalon, thin ghostly fingers of fog appeared on the horizon.

For most of the sailors, who were used to the Grand Banks, the fog was hardly worth mentioning. Still, something about the shifting grey mist of sowed a sense of unease — most of all, for the man on watch.

The Watchman

The watchman’s job was clear enough: catch sight of what others might miss — drifting debris, ships, and all other manner of peril.

Fog didn’t make the job easier; and this fog in particular was challenging: it was almost alive. Where ever he looked it seemed to thicken, hiding the horizon. It moved with him, anticipating his gaze, seeming to block the very spot he needed to see. In all his years of sailing he’d never seen anything like it.

He felt his heart quicken.

Overhead the stars still sparkled. To either side of the boat the horizon was clear. But forward — forward there was nothing. The line between sea and sky had been swallowed whole by this twisting grey void.

He strained to pierce it, but the harder he looked, the more the fog seemed to press back.

Soon even the sounds were gone — the waves, the wind, the creak of the timbers were all smothered by the thundering of his heart.

Something was out there, ahead of them. He was sure of it.

And whatever it was, it was staring back.

The Visions

Suddenly the fog seemed to erupt.

It was as if it had decided that if he wanted to see what lay ahead, it would show him.

Instead of open sea, he saw a world in flames.

Houses and churches collapsed in fire. Figures ran in the ominous glow, their mouths open in silent screams. Then they became hollow-eyed shapes, drifting through burnt streets.

Then all dissolved into white, endless snow.

Men trudged across the ice, bent with exhaustion. One by one they faltered. One by one they fell. One by one they were buried where they lay, their eyes staring upward until the snow sealed them in.

Then flashes of fire again. Not of hearth or home — something greater, something cruel. Young men torn apart in smoke and flame. Their bodies falling into darkness before he could make sense of what he was seeing.

The watchman crumpled to the deck.

It was as if he had lived a thousand lifetimes in the span of a single breath. There had been no chance to turn away. No moment to steel himself. The visions struck like the blows of a hammer. Merciless. Unrelenting.

He knew only one thing: every fire, every frozen corpse, everything he’d seen — lay in their path.

The Ship Dead Ahead

Clutching the rail, he dragged himself upright. His legs buckled, but his eyes stayed fixed forward. And there it was — a shadow, cutting through the fog.

A ship, black as night, was bearing down on them.

The mist closed around it again.

He lunged for the bell and struck it with all the strength he had. The clang rang out, jolting the crew from their bunks.

The watchman pointed frantically. “There! Dead ahead! A boat!”

For a long, breathless moment, the crew stared into the mist. The watchman’s voice cracked with terror, as begged them to see. But no matter how hard they looked, the sea ahead lay blank and shifting. No lights, no masts, and no sign of any boat at all.

As strange as the night had been, the watchman knew what he’d seen.

The crew muttered under their breath. Some cursed the watchman for rousing them, for the panic. Then someone laughed, and soon relief began to spread — enough that a few turned back toward their bunks.

And then, then the mist shuddered.

At first, it was only grey shifting within grey. Then the lines hardened — angles, height, and the impossible bulk of a huge hull appeared. In a heartbeat, it was upon them: a black barque. Towering and terrible.

It looked as if it were dragged from the ocean floor. Her timbers were eaten by rot. Her masts rose like jagged spikes that seemed to claw at the sky. What remained of her black sails hung in tatters.

Still, she glided forward.

Beneath the bowsprit, a figurehead emerged — a grotesque skeleton, its jaw hanging wide in a silent scream. In one fleshless hand, a spear was raised to the sky, as though a victory had been claimed.

Even the most hardened sailors staggered back.

It was like nothing they’d ever seen, and worse was yet to come.

As the barque drew close, shadows seemed to stir at midship. Figures crawled across the rigging, moving like flies on a corpse. Whatever they were, they were no longer of this world.

As they came into focus, it was more horrible still.

In front of them appeared skeletons; bones wrapped in parchment-thin skin. Their joints bent at unnatural angles. Despite their condition, they worked — hauling lines, turning winches, moving across the deck in a steady rhythm, like some sort of machine.

They made no sound. But one by one, their decaying faces turned toward the watchman. Empty eye sockets fixed on him. Their jaws worked in a slow rhythm, as though they were laughing.

And then — just as quietly as they appeared — they were gone.

The Black Barque had slipped back into the mist.

Back in St. John’s

The watchman was never the same. By the time they made port in St. John’s, he’d fallen into silence. Within days, he was gone. Dead. They buried him beneath a small wooden cross on the Southside of the harbour.

But what he saw that night did not die with him.

Seventeen years later, the first of his visions came to pass. The Great Fire of 1892 — the city’s houses and churches collapsed in flame, just as he’d seen.

And there were whispers of a black-sailed ship, drifting outside the harbour just before it happened.

Years later, another vision struck true. In 1914 the men of S.S. Newfoundland were stranded on the open ice in blizzard conditions for two days and without any shelter. 77 men froze to death. Some citizens of St. John’s swore the Back Barque had been outside the narrows as the Newfoundland departed.

Again and again: before disaster befalls Newfoundlanders, the ship has been seen, and the story is told. Many more times, no doubt, she’s been glimpsed and dismissed — and her connection to a wreck, a storm or disaster goes unrecorded.

But those who’ve seen her have no doubt. The horrible sinking feeling she leaves in here wake is not easy to forget. She is out there, always. And will forever be. She sails the tides and time leaving nothing but destruction in her wake.

The Watchman

As for the watchman… well most believe he stared too hard into her darkness.

And now she’s claimed him as one of her own. He sails aboard the Barque, his boney-hands gripping the rail, watching from the fog and waiting.

So when the sun sets and the shadows grow long, think twice about gazing out to sea, you may find someone looking back

And if his eyes meet yours, well… it’s best not to think about it.

1. Olde St. John's : stories from a seaport city, Frank Galgay & Michael McCarthy, Flanker Press, 2001
2. Some superstitions and traditions of Newfoundland : a collection of superstitions, traditions, folk-lore, ghost stories, etc., P.J. Kinsella, 1919

A Trinity Bay X-File

Tue, 28 Oct 2025 19:00:00 -0230

Fort Point Light House, Trinity, NL

"Perhaps the most modern mystery of the spirit world is taking place here in Trinity at the present time."

—W. White, Evening Telegram, December 1925

White was referring to a brilliant and unexplained light that began appearing several miles outside Trinity Harbour around 1916.

When it was first spotted, people assumed it was an approaching ship. On one occasion, according to local legend, the keeper of the Fort Point light was so certain it was the S.S. Prospero coming in to port that he rowed across the harbour to meet her—only to find there was no ship anywhere in sight.

Word of the strange light spread quickly, and before long, others began seeing it too. The light appeared with uncanny regularity, most often between 9 and 11 p.m.

Given the timing—during the First World War—some feared it might be a sign of enemy activity in the bay. There were rumours that someone might be tampering with the undersea telegraph cable that ran from Valentia Island, Ireland, to Heart’s Content, Newfoundland.

One fisherman claimed he saw the light just after dark while out on the grounds. He estimated it was a few hundred yards ahead of his boat, so he rowed toward it. But before he could get close—it vanished.

Soon, talk turned to the supernatural. Yarns were told of ghost ships trying to make port, their doomed captains forever chasing the harbour lights.

More pragmatic souls were sure there was a simpler explanation. The leading theory? That the mysterious glow was actually the headlight of a train from the newly extended railway line between Carbonear and Grates Cove–Bay de Verde, completed in 1915. That extension was shut down by 1930… around the same time the light reportedly stopped appearing.

Of course, Trinity Bay isn’t the only place to report such sightings. Strange lights over the water are a common tale around Newfoundland’s coasts—sometimes called “weather lights”—believed to warn of coming storms or ill fortune.

As for the Phantom Light of Trinity, no explanation ever satisfied everyone. Personally, I’m inclined to give a little credence to the railway theory.

Either way, these days both the light —and the railway— seem to belong to the past. When I recently asked a few longtime Trinity residents about it, not only had they never seen the light… they’d never even heard the story.

It’s one more reminder of how easily stories disappear — one generation forgets, and an exciting mystery that once lit up a whole harbour goes dark.

1. Ghosts and Phantom Lights, Evening Telegram, Dec 24, 1925
2. Ghosts and Oddities, Jack Fitzgerald, 2005
3. A Strange Light at Lawn, Product of Newfoundland
4. Jacky Lanterns, Product of Newfoundland
5. Railway: The Branch Lines, HeritageNL

The Charles Haskell and The Ghostly Fishermen

Wed, 22 Oct 2025 20:47:00 -0230

The Charles Haskell was a New England fishing schooner — designed to survive the unforgiving waters of the North Atlantic. Despite her solid construction, her fishing career was short-lived. They say she ended her days hauling cargo in Nova Scotia, but the Charles Haskell is remembered for something else entirely — a deadly accident, and a story of drowned men that wouldn’t stay dead.

They say the Charles Haskell is, perhaps, the most haunted ship ever to sail the North Atlantic.

And it all began with a storm…

The Storm

It was March 6, 1869.

The Charles Haskell, under the command of Captain Clifford Curtis, was fishing George’s Bank alongside more than a hundred other schooners when the weather turned. What began as a rough sea quickly descended into the kind of storm few had ever seen.

The captain, a seasoned mariner, knew things were about to get dangerous. He ordered everything on deck secured and dropped the anchor. They were going to try to hold their position.

By 11 p.m. the wind was howling, tearing across the deck. Hail and snow pelted the crew, work was treacherous. Two men were set on watch — one with an axe in hand, ready to cut the anchor if the storm brought another vessel too close.

All around them, the lights of oil lamps from other ships danced in the storm as waves tossed schooners high and low.

Soon, what everyone feared came to pass.

Schooners all around broke free of their moorings and ships careened through the darkness.

Out of nowhere, a vessel riding high on a wave was bearing down on the Haskell. In seconds it would be thrown atop them. Just as the captain had instructed, the watchman slammed his axe against the anchor ropes. The Haskell, broke free of her mooring, and was tossed out of the path of the oncoming ship.

It was a near miracle, they had escaped collision — but now there was a new problem, the Haskell herself was adrift.

Captain Curtis lashed himself to the wheel. Controlling the ship was nearly impossible — the sea was too strong and the storm was blinding. All around them in the darkness were ships. The crew scanned the night.

When the warning came, little could be done.

Another schooner, the Andrew Jackson was dead ahead. No matter how the captain pulled the wheel, he couldn’t change course. The Haskell was on a direct course.

Out of nowhere, a swell lifted her, holding her high on the crest. The Andrew Jackson dipped and rolled into the trough.

Then, as if in slow motion, it happened.

The entire weight of the Haskell slammed into the Jackson, her keel ripping into the deck. Wooden planks twisted and tore, beams snapped, and water poured below deck. The Jackson was mortally wounded, but somehow the Haskell had survived.

The momentum of the wave carried them free of the wreck.

The crew of the Haskell stared in horror as the Jackson capsized in front of them. They watched as the desperate crew climbed onto the sinking hull, trying — and failing — to hold on against the power of the storm.

In seconds they were gone — all of them washed away.

On the Haskell, the damage was severe. Her bowsprit, jib, and mainsail were wrecked. The deck had been stripped clean and her dories washed away.

But somehow they’d managed to stay afloat.

Coming Ashore

When the sun rose over the Banks, the scope of the devastation became apparent. Ships all around were damaged, or worse.

For the Charles Haskell, the fishing trip was over. As battered as the Haskell was the toll on the crew was worse. Their ship — the very one that had kept them alive through the storm — had been responsible for drowning the crew of the Andrew Jackson. They were changed men.

It had been a horrible accident.

Thought there was nothing they could have done to prevent it, the guilt was overwhelming and it seemed to grow worse with every breath.

The Haskell began her slow limp to port. Some say she came to St. John’s, others to New England. Regardless, she was patched up — and by the next spring, she was back on the Banks.

That’s when the tragedy turned to terror.

Back on the Banks

Roughly a week into the voyage, the Charles Haskell was at anchor, not far from the site of the terrible storm. But this was a very different night — the sea was perfectly calm.

It was a beautiful evening. The watchman leaned on the rail, listening to the slow creak of the rigging and the gentle lap of water against the hull.

The moon illuminated the water, and off the starboard side he could see something moving in the water. It was hard to say what it was — it didn’t look like any poppies or fish he’d ever seen.

He raised the watchglass to his eye.

To his horror, the motion snapped into clear focus.

It was men, or the remains of them.

All around the Charles Haskell decaying bodies seemed to be rising from the depths, their heads breaking the surface.

In the moonlight, their pale, torn skin seemed to glow.

Slowly they seemed to turn, orienting themselves until some two dozen corpses fixed their cloudy eyes on the Haskell.

They began to move toward the vessel.

Three times, the watchman tried to call for the crew, and three times the words caught in his throat.

All the while, the corpses drew closer.

By the time he raised the alarm, the corpses were nearly at the boat.

Then, from the waterline came a sound — a slow, wet scrape. It was the sound of bone on wood as the dead men began a slow climb up the side of the schooner.

One by one, the figures hauled themselves over the rails — they were covered in torn oilskins and seaweed. Water poured from their bodies and pooled on the deck.

Whatever these corpses were now, it was clear that once upon a time, they had been Banks fishermen — and in death, they had not forgotten their trade.

They took positions at the rail, each one returning to a task he’d done in life. They baited hooks, set lines, and all through the night pantomimed the motions of hauling catch from the sea.

The crew of the Haskell huddled together, their hearts racing. There was no earthly explanation for what they were seeing — for what was happening before them.

The ghostly sailors didn’t seem to notice, or care about, the living crew. They went on with their work until just before dawn, when they slipped over the side of the Haskell, and sank beneath the waves.

As the sun rose, no one wanted to speak of what they’d seen. But every man aboard thought of the Andrew Jackson, and the men who’d drowned near that very spot, just a season ago.

A Funeral March

Listen to the story of the Charles Haskell on the Strange Truths and Tall Tales podcast.

As the sun sank below the horizon, the crew grew uneasy. Thoughts of the ghostly fisherman, pushed any thought of sleep from their minds.

Then around midnight, the call rang out again: movement to starboard.

Just as before, the dead men rose and boarded the boat, And all through the night they fished, hauling their ghostly lines over the rails.

When the pale light of dawn broke, the ghostly crew stopped their work and turned in unison, their eyes fixed on the western horizon. One by one, they climbed over the rail, down the side of the boat, and out onto the water.

The waves held them as they began to walk — with the slow, solemn rhythm of a funeral march.

The crew of the Haskell watched as the spectral procession faded into daylight.

The master gave the order without discussion — the anchor was raised, and they left the Banks that very hour, the ghostly figures burned into their memories.

Never Again

Haunted by what they had witnessed, the crew refused to set foot on the Haskell again.

Over and over, new recruits doubted the superstitions but returned to shore believers. Eventually, the ship was left idle.

James Gillespie of Fortune Harbour, Notre Dame Bay remembered seeing the Haskell moored and abandoned in St. John’s Harbour:

"They hove the sails off her and let her rot at the wharf in St. John’s Harbour, because they could never get a crew to sign on her, after the trip when the spirits was seen."

They say she was sold to a man in Digby, Nova Scotia, and spent her remaining days as a cargo ship.

But her haunted voyages to the fishing banks were never completely forgotten.

Almost to the Last

In December 1920, the last surviving member of the Charles Haskell’s fishing crew died at the age of 82. According to newspaper reports, John Winters repeated the tale of his ghostly encounter on the Banks “almost to the last.”

A Story Set To Song

The story of the haunting of the Charles Haskell outlived any of her crew and spread far and wide.

"I have believed in spirits from that day unto this."

It inspired The Ghostly Sailors — a popular folk song up and down the east coast of North America, with multiple versions (under varying titles) collected in New England, Nova Scotia, and Newfoundland.
Elisabeth Greenleaf recorded a version in Newfoundland and published it in Ballads and Sea Songs of Newfoundland under the title Spirit Song of George’s Bank.
The Folk Songs of Atlantic Canada from the collections of MacEdward Leach contains four variants (under the title The Ghostly Fisherman) collected from Newfoundland and Labrador, available as audio recordings.
Below is a rendition by Alan Mills, based on a variant collected in the Canadian Maritimes.

Fact And Fiction

How much of the legend is true?

Maine Farmer, March 20, 1869

Well, according to newspapers of the day, there was a schooner called the Charles Haskell that reportedly collided with an unknown vessel on George’s Bank in March 1869.

By 1892, a vessel built in Massachusetts in 1869 called Charles Haskell, was sailing from Digby, Nova Scotia, under the ownership of John Wooster Snow.

In subsequent years, it appears she was still used for fishing, in some capacity.

Beyond that, little is clear.

Many who tell this story suggest the Haskell spent time in St. John’s, but little evidence backs that up (beyond the assertion of James Gillespie mentioned above.)

The song The Ghostly Sailors does seem to have been relatively well known in Newfoundland and Labrador, and in most versions, the narrator mentions his time fishing herring off the Newfoundland coast.

As for the ghostly fishermen — were they real?

I’ll leave that to you to decide.

The Charles Haskell on the Strange Truths and Tall Tales Podcast

1. A Night of Terror on the Banks, The Evening Telegram, April 2, 1884
2. Nearly every corner of old St. John’s holds a ghostly tale—but perhaps none is as mysterious as the story of the haunting of J.W. Foran’s Atlantic Hotel.
  
  Ad for the Atlantic Hotel, The Colonist, October 22, 1887
  
  The Atlantic Hotel opened in 1885 and was once called “the most awesome building” in St. John’s. It was located between Duckworth and Water Streets, opposite King’s Road.
  When it opened in 1888, the hotel offered the height of modern comfort: steam heat, a passenger elevator, pneumatic bells, and speaking tubes that carried voices through the halls. Gaslight glowed in every room, hot and cold baths were on offer, and guests could take advantage of postal, telephone, hairdressing, and steam laundry services—luxuries that gave the place a hum of constant activity.
  The Atlantic Hotel, owner J. W. Foran promised, the hotel compared favourably, “with the best hotel in England or America.”
  It quickly became the place to be in St. John’s. Visitors praised its elegance, and the well-to-do kept its rooms busy.
  - On of the earliest written records of this story (P.J. Kinsella, 1919) suggests the incident happened in Foran’s Hotel on Water Street West, on the site that would be occupied by the Post Office building. Others before me have pointed out, there’s no record of a hotel run by Foran on that site.
    The most famous Foran-run hotel was The Atlantic, prior to that he ran the Toussaint’s Hotel opposite Holloway Street for a short while.
  But Foran’s Hotel was short-lived. The building was gutted by the Great Fire of 1892. In its brief existence, though, it left a mark on the city—partly because of a terrible tragedy in its elevator shaft, and partly because it became the setting for one of St. John’s most retold ghost stories: a haunting so strange it was said to have claimed a guest’s life.
  That story begins, as so many hauntings do, on what should have been an ordinary night.
  
  The First Night
  It was late. Hotel guests were in their rooms, when a strange sound broke the silence — a rapid knocking.
  Again and again, the noise rang out; up and down the corridors. It wasn’t the sound of a visitor knocking politely, but of something pounding from the wrong side of a door. Maybe something that wanted out of where ever it was.
  Guests in robes, spilled into the hallways to find hotel staff as mystified as they were.
  
  Listen to/watch the story on the Strange Truths and Tall Tales podcast
  
  They followed the noise to a room on the top floor—a room that was supposed to be empty.
  Hearts racing, they pushed the door open. Immediately, and without explanation, the knocking stopped.
  There was nothing amiss in the room. Inside there was nobody and nothing to explain the noise.
  With the knocking stopped and no evidence of anything wrong, the guests returned to their rooms, albeit somewhat uneasily. Every groan of the timbers and rattle of the wind sounded like the start of that awful knocking again. Some lay awake until dawn, waiting for a sound that never came.
  By breakfast, though, the spell had broken. In the bright, clear light of day, the mystery seemed almost laughable. Had they really been so frightened of some mystery sound? Surely there must be some mundane explanation… a loose shutter, maybe an unsecured door.
  But, if it were only a shutter or door, why had it gone silent the moment the room was opened?
  The Second Night
  The next night, the scene repeated itself. In the dead of night, a sharp, knock, knock, knock echoed through the halls until, once again, the door to the top-floor room was opened. And just like before, the moment the latch turned, the knocking ceased.
  No one could explain it. But this time, not a soul dared suggest it was only a shutter in the wind.
  The Third Night
  On the third night, it happened again—at exactly the same hour.
  This time the knocking was faster, louder, insistent. A desperate fist, slamming, pounding—demanding to be let in.
  And just as before, it stopped the moment the latch turned, as though the act of opening had satisfied it — or maybe warned whoever it was back into silence.
  Speculation and Schemes
  By the following morning the whispering had begun. Some guests were certain the hotel was haunted. They spoke of a ghost—or some other spirit— bound to that upstairs room. Fear turned quickly into resolve. Guests promised they would leave, vowing never to spend another night in Foran’s hotel.
  But not everyone was convinced. Among the guests were skeptics, loyal patrons who feared the stories would ruin the hotel’s reputation and force it to close.
  
  A chilling collection of Newfoundland ghost stories—where history, hauntings, and folklore come together
  
  A compromise was struck. Everyone would stay one final night, and a watch party would be formed to keep guard over the top floor.
  At the appointed hour, they took their posts. Hour after hour passed in tense silence. Nothing happened. When dawn broke, the halls were quiet, and the night had proved uneventful.
  “It must have been a prankster,” they decided. Someone among them had been behind the noise, too frightened to continue with so many eyes watching.
  Night after night, the room remained silent. Still, no one who’d heard the tale wanted to sleep in the top-floor room, so it remained vacant.
  The Stranger
  About six months after the mysterious knocking, a stranger arrived at the hotel, asking for a room.
  There were no vacancies — except for a top-floor room; the room at the centre of the strange disturbances.
  The man was new to St. John’s and knew nothing of the story — and the room had been silent for months — so the clerk handed him the key, with a nearly clean conscious.
  Then, around eleven o’clock, it happened.
  The noise ripped through the hotel, louder and more violent than ever before. To call it a “knock” would be far too gentle. It was a furious pounding—fists and feet hammering against a door, rattling the walls as though the very building might give way. It sounded desperate, insistent… as if something—or someone—was begging to be let in. Or perhaps, to be let out.
  
  Staff and guests rushed upstairs. The door hung slightly ajar. The instant they reached it, the pounding ceased. Silence fell like a weight: thick and suffocating.
  The stranger lay across his bed, fully dressed, but very much dead.
  Doctors were summoned. Upon investigation they declared the cause a violent hemorrhage.
  The man’s body was left in the room awaiting the undertaker, who would arrive in the morning.
  When the corpse was lifted the next day, the knocking returned—pounding through the hotel until the body was carried out. After that, it was never heard again.
  The stranger was never identified, though whispers claimed he had been an executioner, a hangman from Canada. He was buried in an unmarked grave, and the room on the top floor was sealed shut, never rented again.
  
  Spirit of Newfoundland statue on the National War Memorial, with Sir Humphrey Gilbert Building in the rear.
  
  Soon after, Foran’s Atlantic Hotel was lost in the Great Fire of 1892, along with much of downtown St. John’s.
  Today, the Sir Humphrey Gilbert Building stands on the site.
  In the years before his death in 1898, J.W. Foran was said to indulge requests to tell the tale, helping to weave it into the city’s folklore.
  For all the stories told, the truth of the knocking remains a mystery.
  Some say it was a summons from beyond, a call only the stranger could answer.
  Others believe it was no summons at all, but the sound of something waiting for the right soul to set it free. And if they’re right, then perhaps what was set loose that night still moves through the shadows of St. John’s to this day.

Newfoundland’s Summer of Sea Monsters

Thu, 25 Sep 2025 20:06:00 -0230

In the summer of 1953, the sea around Newfoundland was alive with mystery, and full of stories too big to ignore. For a little more than a month, boat loads of men on the Bell Island to Bonavista Bay found their fishing grounds playing host to creatures they had never seen before.

Shag Rock, Trinity Bay, NL

Baccalieu

It began, as best anyone can tell, at the end of July. On August 2, the Sunday Herald (which, admittedly, is hardly the paper of record) reported that two Bay de Verde fishermen—William Baker and Francis Sullivan—had a scare in Baccalieu Tickle. Something big and fast chased their boat—a sea monster, they said! It looked like a giant shark, twenty-five feet long, with a bullet-shaped nose.

Daily News Headline, August 13, 1953

Just two days later, and not far away, another report surfaced — this one from the Acadia, a chart ship near Baccalieu Island. Alton F. Dingee, an observer from Gagetown, New Brunswick, spotted something massive trailing behind the vessel. He estimated it was fifty feet long, with a bird-like head five feet across and an eighteen-foot tail. It floated on the surface for a few minutes before vanishing. Dingee described it as dinosaur-like.

Though they were close together the creatures described could hardly have been the same animal.

And the reports kept coming.

Bell Island

On August 13, the Daily News reported that a striped, green sea creature over forty feet long had been spotted off Bell Island near the iron ore pier—“disporting itself” in plain view of land.

Pool’s Island

Headline from The Evening Telegram Aug 22, 1953

On August 22, fishermen in Bonavista Bay, near Cabot Island and Change Rock, claimed they saw something strange leaping from the water. It had a head “something like a seal” and a great splashing tail. One man fired a shot at it before it swam off.

Trinity & Conception Bay

That same weekend, curious seamen aboard the Norma L. Conrad told the Daily News that a whale-like fish with a towering six-foot fin had followed their vessel along the east coast, swimming parallel to the hull near Trinity and Conception Bays. They said it was about forty feet long and uncomfortably close.

The sightings became so frequent that by September the Sunday Herald put out a standing offer: $100 for a photograph of any of the “various sea monsters now being seen around Newfoundland.” They added, dryly: “Persons who see pink elephants need not apply.”

Old Perlican

Then, on September 8, the Evening Telegram revealed that a strange creature had washed ashore near Old Perlican. People flocked to catch a glimpse of, what they thought, might be a real life sea monster. The so-called monster turned was actually a decaying pothead whale—bleached nearly white, torn by fish, and mistaken for something more mysterious.

And just about then, the month of monsters ended. What most people saw remains a mystery, but with newspapers running sensational headlines and offering cash rewards, people were primed to see strange things. And the ocean, with its shifting waves, large animals and mysterious depths has always been good at providing just enough to stir the imagination.

Harbour Breton fog, NL

That said, some point out that Newfoundland’s waters were warmer than usual in the 1950s. Warmer seas may have allowed some unfamiliar species to wander into local bays and harbours, where their odd shapes and behaviours might have caught people off guard.

And so it ended, as many things do on the Newfoundland coast — in the fog, with more questions than answers.

1. Sight Sea Monster, Evening Telegram, August 04, 1953
2. Another Sea Monster Sighted, Daily News, August 13, 1953
3. Bay de Verde Fisherman, Sunday Herald, August 2, 1953
4. Seamen Still Continue to Sight Strange Fish, Observer’s Weekly, August 25, 1953
5. $100.00 Reward, Sunday Herald, September 6, 1953
6. Sea Monster Seen in Bonavista Bay, August 22, 1953
7. Sea Monster is Battered Pothead, Evening Telegram, September 9, 1953
8. No, Definitely Not! Well…Maybe. Sea Monsters, Evening Telegram, August 13, 1953

Here Be Monsters

On Newfoundland’s foggy coast, not everything strange is imagined—and not everything real can be explained.

The Here Be Monsters series dives into historical sea monster sightings reported in Newfoundland’s headlines — real accounts from people who lived and worked on the water. These stories may not all point to undiscovered creatures, but they remind us that even in well-known harbours and fishing grounds, the sea still has its secrets. And those secrets can surprise, unsettle, and leave even the most seasoned mariners with more questions than answers.

John Clinch & The Trinity Vaccinations

Sun, 07 Sep 2025 12:30:00 -0230

Clinch Plaque at Trinity, NL

Just outside of St. Paul’s Anglican Church in Trinity there’s a small metal plaque bearing the name of John Clinch. It reads:

“Noted for bringing the Jenner vaccine to British North America.”

It’s an awfully short summary of a story that changed the lives of thousands of Newfoundlanders and Labradorians — and placed the small town of Trinity at the forefront of one of history’s greatest medical breakthroughs.

But how did it happen? How did Trinity become the first place in North America to practice smallpox vaccination? And why did it matter so much?

What Was Smallpox?

To understand the significance of Jenner and Clinch’s work, you need to understand the disease he was trying to fight.

Smallpox was one of the most feared diseases in human history. It spread easily, scarred survivors for life, and killed somewhere between 20 and 60% of people who contracted it. A third of those who survived went blind. Outbreaks tore through communities, leaving grief and devastation behind.

It was truly a terrible disease and it was ravaging Newfoundland communities.

In 1920 the Rev. Canon Smith, wrote a piece for a local newspaper recalling the death of his colleague Rev Charles Warren who was afflicted with smallpox after visitng a sick parishioner. Following is an excerpt of his article, I include it to paint a picture of just how serious smallpox was. If you have a particularly weak stomach, you may wish to jump past it.

“The sick man died a few hours after Warren had visited him. He was waked for two whole days and two whole nights. As is the custom in the outports many people attended his wake. On the afternoon of the third day ... the bearers carried the coffin to the churchyard for interment, and it was followed there by the whole congregation. In view of this
it has always been a wonder to me that three-fourths of the people then living in Upper Island Cove were not attacked by smallpox. But God was merciful and not quite 50 of them were visited by smallpox of whom, if I recollect aright, not more than 25 or at the most 30 died.

But poor Charles Warren did not so escape, for about a week after the funeral he was stricken down by confluent smallpox, which is said to be the most virulent and fatal form that this dread disease assumes. It is called confluent because in it the pustules run together and form one large most painful and most repulsive sore. From this sore excedes matter the stench emanating therefrom being as horrible as that which comes from a rotting corpse. This stench is highly infectious and contagious. Charles Warren died after a six days...”

— Rev. Canon Smith, 1920

By order of the health officer, Rev. Warren was buried secretly the night he died. They wanted to discourage any mourners visiting so as to limit any further spread of the disease.

It was a terrifying time.

In Newfoundland and around the world, families lived with the fear that the next outbreak could take their children, their neighbours, or themselves.

John Clinch & Edward Jenner

Two Schoolboys, Elias Martin, Public domain via Wikimedia

John Clinch and Edward Jenner were both born in England in the mid-1700s. They attended school together and formed a lasting friendship. As teenagers, they even moved to London together to study medicine.

In 1775, after hearing about Newfoundland from merchant Benjamin Lester, Clinch crossed the Atlantic and began practicing in Bonavista. Eight years later he relocated to Trinity, where he married and settled.

Though separated by an ocean, Clinch and Jenner kept up their friendship through regular correspondence. That connection would eventually lead to the first smallpox vaccinations in Newfoundland.

Vaccination

Back in England, Jenner was engaged in the fight against smallpox. At the time, there were few tools available; one that helped was variolation.

Variolation was a method of inoculation that existed before vaccination. It involved taking material from someone recently infected with smallpox and introducing it into scratches on the skin of a healthy person, with the hope of producing only a mild infection. That mild infection, in turn, was thought to prepare the body to fight off smallpox if it was ever encountered again.

It wasn’t exactly safe — somewhere between 1 and 2 percent of those who underwent variolation developed smallpox and died. But, with smallpox devastating communities, it was a risk many people were willing to take.

At the same time, people noticed that infection with cowpox — a relatively mild disease — seemed to provide protection against smallpox.

Jenner theorized that if someone was deliberately exposed to cowpox, they could be made resistant to smallpox. In 1796, he set out to collect data to prove it.

In an experiment that would never pass an ethics board today, Jenner extracted material from cowpox pustules on the hands of a milkmaid and inoculated the eight-year-old son of his gardener. The boy developed a fever but no serious illness. Later, when he was deliberately exposed to smallpox through variolation, he showed no signs of infection.

Jenner repeated these tests, carefully documented his findings and was able to prove vaccination (using cowpox) was a safe, reliable way of conferring resistance to smallpox.

Jenner performing his first vaccination/ Ernest Board, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

“The word vaccine comes from the cowpox virus vaccinia, which itself traces back to the Latin word vacca, meaning cow.”

When he began experimenting with vaccination, he faced an uphill battle convincing others to try it. So he turned to one of his closest friends — John Clinch. Jenner sent Clinch a vial containing threads of cowpox material, and in 1798, following Jenner’s instructions, Clinch likely became the first person in North America to practice vaccination when he inoculated his wife’s nephew, Joseph Hart.

Once Clinch was satisfied the vaccination had worked, he went on to vaccinate hundreds more Newfoundlanders. He recorded his observations and shared them with Jenner, who reproduced them in the Medical and Physical Journal, May 1801:

an excerpt of Jenner’s letter in Medical and Physical Journal, May 1801.

Over time, the effectiveness of Jenner’s vaccination was widely recognized, and the risky practice of variolation was abandoned.

Why It Still Matters

John Clinch’s Gravestone, Trinity, NL

Vaccination changed the world for the better.

What began as a way to protect individuals from the ravages of smallpox eventually defeated the disease itself. By 1980, smallpox was declared eradicated — the first and only human disease wiped out entirely.

The small plaque outside St. Paul’s Anglican Church might seem modest, but the story behind it is anything but. It marks the work of a small-town doctor, a lifelong friendship, and a decision that saved lives across Newfoundland — and ultimately, across the globe.

John Clinch died in 1819. His grave is in St. Paul’s churchyard at Trinity, only a short stroll from the plaque that bears his name.

It’s a quiet reminder that some of the biggest stories can be found in the smallest of places.

Here Be Monsters: Robinsons

Sat, 06 Sep 2025 07:50:00 -0230

It was a typical day on the west coast of Newfoundland.

A fishermen from Robinson’s Head had no reason to expect anything unusual — certainly not a creature of monstrous proportions lurking beneath the waves — but that’s exactly what they were to encounter.

July 1907

In July 1907 George Gale of Robinsons, NL was fishing in about 20 fathoms of water when he came face-to-face with a sea creature that defied explanation.

Gale and several other men were fishing from their dories a mile and a half from shore when the calm was shattered — something massive broke the surface of the water, barely a hundred yards away.

What they saw was unlike any creature they had ever known. It was enormous — stretching nearly seventy feet in length, with the visible part of its body alone measuring close to twelve feet around.

Suddenly, the animal reared above the water, sending nearly fifteen feet of its body straight into the air before crashing back beneath the waves. The splash threw a plume of spray clear over Gale’s dory.

Again and again, the creature surfaced, each time revealing more of its massive form. Despite getting several good looks, the men had no idea what they were facing — or what it wanted. But they knew one thing: they didn’t dare stay to find out. Hauling in their lines, they rowed hard for shore.

I can’t say I blame them.

Whatever it was, it has never been explained — and who’s to say it isn’t still out there, waiting beneath the waves.

1. Scared by a Sea Serpent, Harbor Grace Standard, August 9, 1907
2. From out of the Musty Past, The Western Star, August 4, 1937

Here Be Monsters

On Newfoundland’s foggy coast, not everything strange is imagined—and not everything real can be explained.

Exploring the Trinity Train Loop

Tue, 26 Aug 2025 14:16:37 -0230

Trinity Train Loop Park, 2024

Tucked away near Trinity, on the Bonavista Peninsula, sits one of Newfoundland’s strangest relics.

At first glance, it looks like something out of a horror movie: an abandoned theme park with rusted rides, graffiti-scrawled buildings, and broken railway lines that once bustled with activity. It’s the site of the Trinity Train Loop, and while it may be the remnants of a theme park these days, it was once an engineering marvel — the only train loop of its kind in Newfoundland, and maybe in all of Canada.

The Beginning

The story of the Trinity Train Loop starts in 1910. The Reid Newfoundland Company was pushing the railway across the Bonavista Peninsula, but the land was not cooperating. The hills were too steep, too much for a train to climb. Engineers need to find an economical way to move from the elevation of the peninsula’s interior to the coastal community of Trinity. Engineer, J.P. Powell, came up with the perfect solution: build a loop.

His plan called for two kilometers of track to circle a pond in Goose Cove, just outside Trinity. It lowered trains by about 10 meters, but that small drop was enough to take the pressure off the engines and ease the climb. It was practical, but it also made for a spectacle. Imagine standing near the track and watching a train slowly curl around itself, the cars snaking through the trees like a living creature. The Trinity Loop wasn’t just a railway fix, it was a bit of a wonder.

For decades, trains rumbled round the loop but in the 1980s, the Newfoundland railway was shutdown. Across the island tracks were ripped up and sold. The loop would have suffered the same fate destined for the same fate except for retired railwayman Clayton Cook, who recognized its historic value and started a campaign to save it. With the help of some local politicians, the loop was saved — Terra Transport (who owned it at the time) turned it over to the Town of Trinity.

Trinity Train Loop Park, circa 1990

A New Life

Local businessman Francis Kelly purchased the property, restored it and turned it into an amusement park. The Trinity Train Loop park had rides, a concert stage, concessions, and a working train that allowed people to ’ride the loop’. In my recollection, the trees around the Loop Pond were filled with colourful cartoon character cutouts. I think there were pony rides and even accomodations for those who wanted to stay on site.

Families came in droves, piling into cars to spend the day in this odd fairground hidden among the spruce trees. The loop found a new life, filled with laughter, music, and the delicious smell of carnival food.

In 1989 the operation employed 22 people and boasted 36000 visitors but, by the early 2000s, the park shut its gates for good.

Trinity Train Loop Amusement Part, circa 1990

The AfTerlife

Years passed.

What was left behind became overgrown and eerie, almost the perfect setting for a horror movie. There’s a rusting, now fallen, Ferris wheel, paint peeling from crumbling buildings, and graffiti over everything. The forest has begun a slow reclamation of the land, leaving train cars among dense thickets of trees. Storms, notably Hurricane Igor which walloped the Bonavista Peninsula in 2010, have washed away pieces of the rail bed, leaving steel tracks suspended over chasms.

Despite the decay, much of the railway loop remains — you can still walk bits of the rail bed around the pond and appreciate the elegant, early 20th century engineering that made this stretch of the Bonavista railway line feasible.

The area still attracts hundreds, maybe even thousands of visitors each year — drawn by a strange mix of history, nostalgia, and what I think of as a sort of “beautiful decay.” But, if you plan on going, beware — it is full of danger. You’ll find broken glass, rusty metal and unmarked hazards throughout the site.

The Train Loop: Beautiful Decay?

Ferris Wheel, 2008 Graffiti Fresh Meat Rail Car Falling Tracks Red Bench

Product of Newfoundland

The Story of Jiggs’ Dinner: Newfoundland’s Traditional Boiled Meal

What Is Jiggs’ Dinner?

A Taste Of Tough Times

Boiled Beef

Why Call It Jiggs’ Dinner?

John Vincent: The Fisherman Who Painted The Pope

The Story of John Vincent

Getting Noticed

Portrait Painting

Painting Pope Pius XI

Where is The Portrait of Pius XI Today?

Sleeping in a Watery Grave

The Loss of Stephen Drodge

Contradictions

Sources & Further Reading

SPARKS by The Way East

The Way East? Think high-energy production, infectious hooks and anthemic choruses.

The Strange Case of Charlie Verge’s Miracle

It was quite a story: a brave attempt to save a ship, a struggle in the wild North Atlantic, and a mysterious glow that was nothing short of a miracle.

Dangerous Work

A Light In The Darkness

A Contradiction

Sailor Stories

"All the sailors got a story,some are true, and some are false."

Sources & Further Reading

Escape from Gull Island

Escape from Gull Island

A Storm

A Disaster

An Escape Plan

A Daring Attempt

Notes & Questions

Sources & Further Reading

Idling by Paper Tyger

Paper Tyger’s ep 1 is tight, moody and completely captivating.

I’ll Be There Christmas Eve by Bryan Adams and Alan Doyle

The Schoolmaster’s Christmas

The Schoolmaster’s Christmas

Notes & Thoughts

Shotguns & Bonfires

Never Seen Mummers

Sources & Further Reading

Paddy Kelly and the Christmas Cat

Paddy Kelly & the Christmas Cat

Notes

Sources & Further Reading

Doug White’s Christmas Time Once More

Winter Solstice Night by Matthew Hender

Please Come Home For Christmas by Josh Janes

Last Christmas by Jerry Stamp with King Nancy

River by Clare Follett

The True Story of Newfoundland’s Christmas Whales

The Christmas Whales

Lucky in Loon Bay

Stuck in Springdale

Saving The Whales

A New Concern

Jingles the Christmas Cat By Rum Ragged

Winter Wonderland by Beep Bop (feat. Laura Taylor)

Let It Snow by Clint Curtis and the Reflectors

Good King Wenceslas by Herriott and Harkness

Christmas Ain’t The Same By Ken Tizzard and Music For Goats

Dreaming of a Lo-Fi Christmas by Wade Tarling

A Christmas Time by The Ennis Sisters

Santa Never Brings Me A Banjo by the Irish Descendants

Mackenzie Critch’s Little Drummer Boy feat. Darcy Scott

Fresh, full of heart, and rooted in spirit!

Fatal Affection of a Newfoundland Dog

In the Days of Dogs and Horses

Loyalty

Shames & Disgraces

Did This Really Happen?

Legacy

Sources & Further Reading

Noël Noël by Adrian House

A blast of pure joy

How Christmas Used To Be by Big Jib

Season’s Beatings

good dust-up in the snow might be the most faithful Newfoundland Christmas tradition of all

"All the sailors got a story,
some are true, and some are false."