Category: Stories

A quiet story about an island community, the families who carried it with them, and the memories still held close around Trinity Bay.

The island that came along

“Easy now, b’ys. This is one of them stories you don’t rush through.”

Kite looked across the water toward Ireland’s Eye, in Trinity Bay. From shore, the island sat quiet beneath the sky. But Kite knew a quiet place could hold a mighty lot of life.

People were living on Ireland’s Eye as early as 1675. It was a fishing place, close to the sea that fed the families there. Over the years, homes and boats gathered around the harbour. There was a church, a school, and neighbours who knew one another’s voices. In 1911, the population reached 157.

“Can you imagine all those voices carrying over the water?” Kite said softly. “The boats coming in. The children heading to school. The sound of the church bell telling everyone the day was moving along.”

But the fishery began to decline, and getting to a road meant a long journey across the water and land. The nearest road connection was at New Bonaventure, about thirteen kilometres away. In 1959, families began moving under the government’s resettlement programme. By 1966, just sixteen people remained on the island. Many went to New Bonaventure, Trinity, and the Clarenville area.

Kite watched the waves for a moment.

“Leaving a place doesn’t mean leaving it behind,” he said. “You bring the stories with you. You bring the sound of home, and the names of the people who made it home.”

Ireland’s Eye’s church had been part of that community’s life. When the families moved, the church’s windows went to L’Anse-au-Loup, and its bell went to Dover. The island’s people had scattered, but pieces of the place travelled on—finding new homes where they could ring and shine for others.

Kite tucked his wings close.

“Some people have Ireland’s Eye in their hearts because their family came from there. Some remember the island from stories told at the kitchen table. And some have made the crossing themselves. However it lives with you, it deserves to be remembered with care.”

He gave the water a little nod.

“So that’s Ireland’s Eye, b’ys. An island community shaped by the fishery, and carried forward by the people who remember it. I’ll be quiet now and let the stories have their turn.”

History credits

The history in Kite’s tale is based on Memorial University’s Maritime History Archive and Heritage Newfoundland and Labrador’s account of centralization and resettlement.

Sources: Memorial University: Ireland’s Eye · Heritage Newfoundland and Labrador: Centralization, the Smallwood Years

Kite takes a look around the Baie Verte Peninsula and discovers the story of a little cove with a big mining past.

Copper in the hills

“Right b’ys, I was out having a look around the Baie Verte Peninsula, and I found a place with a story that could fill a whole logbook. Tilt Cove! Now, don’t let the quiet fool ya. That little cove once had more going on than I could keep up with—and I’m hard to keep up with.”

Copper was discovered there in 1857. By 1864, the mine was at work, and people began arriving from near and far. The rocky cove filled with miners, families, shops, and all the busy sounds of a growing town. By 1869, nearly 800 people were living there. Later, Tilt Cove had more than 1,000 people, with a doctor, a teacher, a blacksmith, and even a telegraph operator.

“Imagine that!” said Kite. “A place tucked between the hills, with messages flying out over the wires. I can barely keep a paper in my wings.”

The mine brought work, but life there could be dangerous. On March 11, 1912, an avalanche struck Tilt Cove. Five people were killed and five more injured. It was a terrible day for the community, and one we ought to remember with care.

The first mining era ended in 1917, when the mine closed. The quiet that followed lasted for years. Then, in 1957, the mine reopened. Tilt Cove came alive with work again—new ore, new hopes, and a fresh chapter for the town. But mining could only continue while the ore lasted. In 1967, the mine closed for the final time.

Kite looked out toward the water. “A town can get quieter, b’ys, but that doesn’t mean its story disappears. The people who worked there, raised their families, and made a life in that rocky cove are still part of Newfoundland’s story.”

And Tilt Cove wasn’t alone. Nearby Round Harbour had its own story, shaped by fishing and the sea. The two communities stood close together, each with a different kind of work, and each leaving its mark on the coast.

“So there you have it,” said Kite. “Copper in the hills, boats on the water, and a whole lot of history packed into one small corner of the coast. Me nerves—I thought I was only going for a look!”

History credits

This story draws on the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador’s history of the 1912 Tilt Cove avalanche, Memorial University’s account of Round Harbour, and Heritage Newfoundland and Labrador’s overview of mining in the province.

Sources: Government of Newfoundland and Labrador: Tilt Cove avalanche · Heritage Newfoundland and Labrador: Land-based industries and mining · Memorial University: Round Harbour · Government of Newfoundland and Labrador: Tilt Cove mine history

A Newfoundland harbour remembers more than the buildings left behind. It remembers the work, the weather, and the people who made a life there.

Where the harbour kept the people

On the Cape Shore of the Baie Verte Peninsula, about five kilometres southwest of Tilt Cove, Round Harbour opens like a quiet pocket in the coast. The land closes around the water. A waterfall comes down the hillside. For generations, the harbour was a place to fish, to work, and to make a home close to the sea.

The written record reaches back to the early nineteenth century. A salmon fishery was operating here by the turn of the century, and a fisherman named Humphrey Cole was recorded at Round Harbour in 1829. When Newfoundland counted its people in 1836, three families lived here: eighteen people in all. Small on a page, perhaps—but every number meant a table, a roof, a boat pulled above the tide.

By 1884, Round Harbour had a resident merchant and a Church of England school and chapel. The days would have been measured by the sea and by what the small community could provide for itself. Most services were easier to reach at Tilt Cove, but home was here, tucked into the harbour’s shelter.

The nearby mine at Tilt Cove closed in 1917. Round Harbour’s inshore fishery carried on, and Memorial University’s history records a renewed strength in the fishery during the Second World War. In 1951, the community reached its recorded peak of 114 people. Imagine the harbour then: boats coming and going, neighbours crossing paths, and the familiar sounds of a working place carried over the water.

But a beautiful harbour could not make the distance disappear. In the 1960s, isolation drew many residents toward larger centres such as Baie Verte and La Scie. With fewer families, keeping a local school became difficult; winter travel made everyday life harder still. By 1991, fewer than twenty people remained through the winter.

Time changed the harbour, but it did not erase it. The provincial government formally declared Round Harbour a vacated community in 2016. Today, the old buildings and quiet shoreline invite us to look closely—and to remember that these were not simply ruins. They were homes, workplaces, and the centre of a whole community’s world.

Perhaps that is the time capsule Round Harbour leaves behind: not one hidden object, but the evidence of lives built patiently beside the sea. A place can grow quiet and still have plenty to say. If we listen, the harbour is still telling its story.

A note on the history

This story is based on the documented history of Round Harbour on the Cape Shore of the Baie Verte Peninsula. The historical dates and population details come from Memorial University’s Maritime History Archive; the 2016 vacated-community order is published by the Newfoundland and Labrador Legislature.

Sources: Memorial University, “Round Harbour” · Newfoundland and Labrador Regulation 62/16