Landscapes

Once upon a time in Twillingate

The Hull at Twillingate.

In the soft salt air of Newfoundland’s rugged coast, a weathered fishing dory rests—its bow forever angled toward the sea it once knew so well. Time has worn its boards to silver-grey, peeling paint and splintered ribs quietly marking the end of a life of labour.

This long-abandoned hull, cradled now in grass and wildflowers, speaks without sound. Though its purpose has passed, it holds a quiet dignity—each scar a whisper of stormy voyages, heavy hauls, and hands once calloused by rope and salt.

The scene is peaceful, but layered with memory. You sense that if you stood beside it long enough, you might hear laughter carried on the wind, the creak of the oars, the distant calls of gulls that followed it home.

It is both monument and mystery—an ode to a way of life slipping into history, and a reminder that even in decay, there is grace, beauty, and the soft murmur of untold stories.