The East Coast Groove: Impressions on Returning to Newfoundland

On Monday, I set out on a red-eye flight from Canada’s west coast to its far east—Newfoundland. It’s a mere 7,486 km journey, or roughly 10 hours of travel if you’re flying, as I was. This marks my second time travelling to Newfoundland for an artist residency at the Pouch Cove Foundation—another chance to translate the rugged charm of this place to canvas. These are my first impressions on my return to Newfoundland.

Driving into the Cove, it felt like I was returning to an old friend. There’s a familiar comfort here—like slipping into your favourite sweater—and I’m grateful for that. I was greeted by the quintessential East Coast weather: rain, drizzle, and fog (or “RDF,” as the locals call it). But I was happy not to see snow. Having just left full-blown spring in Victoria—cherry blossoms in bloom and fields of daffodils waving in the breeze—it’s as if I’ve stepped back in time. Not just by season, but by pace and place.

The first couple of days were a blur of jet lag. With Newfoundland 4.5 hours ahead of Victoria, and having travelled through the night, it took a day to reset my internal clock. There was a jittery, underwater feeling at first—a nervous energy that had me rearranging furniture in my studio and hanging the prepped canvasses I brought with me. After a few naps and a solid night’s sleep, I’ve settled into my rhythm: painting during the day, punctuated by long walks and visual note-taking.

Newfoundland Impressions

My early walks began along the coastline, where the sea air is thick with salt and the waves slam against jagged rocks with a force that’s both energizing and humbling. The Atlantic here glows in deep jewel tones—Ultramarine, Payne’s Gray, even flashes of turquoise. It’s a ruggedly beautiful place, where the wind is always working and the soundtrack is nature in surround sound.

Wandering into the heart of Pouch Cove, I’m reminded that three things are always in ready supply here: graveyards, churches, and hockey nets. In one short hour-long walk, I passed three churches, four graveyards, and four hockey nets—tucked into driveways, backyards, and even beside the shoreline pond. In a town of just over 2,000 people, hockey is clearly part of the heartbeat. Pouch Cove is known for being the first place in Canada to see the sun rise—fitting, considering it’s a half-hour ahead of St. John’s, which is only a 30-minute drive away.

It’s been nearly two years since I was last here, and not much has changed—except the small convenience store is now closed, which makes the place feel even more remote. But while it may lack some conveniences, it more than makes up for it in natural beauty. And really, that’s the better trade.

This morning, I woke to snow spiralling in the wind. We’re expecting four days of accumulation, and I’m glad I packed my Canada Goose coat, toque, and gloves. My daily walk is on hold for now—waiting for a break in the snowfall when I can bring my camera out. It’s surreal to be back in this monochromatic world after leaving spring behind—cherry blossoms, double-digit temps, and emerald green lawns.

Inside the studio, though, it’s all vivid colour. The contrast between the snowy landscape outside and the saturated pigments on my canvas couldn’t be sharper—and I like it that way. Time to crank the music and dip my brush into some Naphthol Red. The East Coast groove is setting in.