“North America just outside your right window,” the pilot’s voice said as we began to land. “And the European Union is below us, to the left.”
I looked down at the waters swollen with humpback whales and suddenly, unexpectedly, I felt like I was at the very edge of Europe. Because you see, it’s entirely possible to fly from North America to France in less than an hour; And you won’t even need a hypersonic jet or a DeLorean time machine.
All you have to do is hop on a plane from St John’s, Newfoundland, on Canada’s east coast, as I did earlier this month. After just 45 minutes, you’ll be rewarded with reluctant Gallic charm and cuisine, all without another Englishman in sight. Aim? Saint Pierre and Miquelon is where everything you hear, see and taste is as French as it gets.
In black and white, Saint Pierre and Miquelon is a “self-governing regional overseas collectivity”, but for the 6,000-odd residents of the archipelago it is France, pure and simple. The colors of the bay in the capital Saint-Pierre some days resemble the Côte d’Azur; The dune-covered beaches of Miquelon are as golden as those of Ile de Ré.
But when I arrived the Atlantic was gray and moody, almost black and like Brittany or Normandy or the Basque Country, in fog and out of focus. Fittingly, the islands were settled in the early 17th century by cod fishermen from the same areas who came to make a fresh start to find their fortune on the Grand Banks. There is great pride in all of this today.
Residents of the archipelago often worry about being misrepresented, and this is hardly surprising. Simply put, despite geography, they are not Canadians, Newfoundlanders or Québécois, they are as French as Napoleon, and their island remains a pool of rock tradition. “That’s the way we like it,” my guide Agathe Olano said as we boarded the 90-minute ferry from the small port of Saint-Pierre to Miquelon on my first day. “Our distance from Paris breeds closeness and everyone knows everyone.”
Agathe filled me in on the details as our ferry sailed across the foaming Atlantic. The currency in Saint Pierre and Miquelon is the euro. Sending a letter to France is faster than sending it to Canada, which is only a dozen miles away. All materials arrive by sea or air, also mostly not from Canada. Shops adhere to the traditional French two-hour lunch break. Bastille Day is a public holiday. Everyone smokes. This is France.
There is even a guillotine in the collection at the L’Arche Museum and Archives in Saint-Pierre. Agathe told me, in a gruesome, albeit playful, Python-like moment, that the beheading device wasn’t sharp enough, so when it was used in North America in 1889, the executioner used a knife to finish the job. The galleries are currently closed because the building’s sail-shaped roof is leaking.
Speaking of pretty sharp knives, Summit Blinders It also led to an increase in Google searches for what remains of the French colony. Miquelon was heavily featured in the TV show’s sixth season storyline; The archipelago played an important role in alcohol smuggling efforts during America’s prohibition era. The names of gangsters such as Al Capone, who ran smuggling operations in Saint-Pierre, are now heard on rum smuggling tours during the summer months. As the story goes, thousands of whiskey bottles still lie on the seabed today.
It was just after 11 a.m. when we arrived at Miquelon, and the newly opened boulangerie (big news for parishioners) still had a line snaking out the door. It could have been a scene straight from the Marais district of Paris. Later, at the market, surrounded by shelves of wine, jars of confit de canard and foie gras made on the Miquelon farm, Agathe placed the imported cheese in her basket.
The feeling of being in the right place but on the wrong side of the world was much the same at lunch at Le Snack Bar-à-Choix. I paid the bill for my buckwheat galette and was met with a blank stare when I accidentally answered in English. It was a scene all too familiar from a thousand bistros, but like some parts of France, these islands don’t roll out the red carpet for anyone.
That afternoon we explored Miquelon and its southern neighbor Langlade, connected by tombolo beach, before catching the last ferry to Saint-Pierre. The interior is defined by peat bogs and mossy hills where horses are left to run free all summer long. Along the coast are dune-covered lagoons, wonderfully called “le macareux moine” in French, where seals and seagulls flock to nest each summer.
There is also a wooden Catholic church with a canon suspended above the pews; dory fishing boats and trawl traps; A shipwreck at the entrance of the village. It is always thought that local people anchored in the sea.
As Friday afternoon approached evening the ferry returned to Saint-Pierre. I disembarked and had dinner at Le Bar à Quai, located in a gunwale-filled, oceanfront area filled with bistros and bars. While everyone else was outside smoking, flirting, or chilling, the restaurant was nearly empty, and the clues to marine life—half-tangled ropes, a painting of a lighthouse, a loose fishing net on the ladder—felt like they had fallen straight from the pages of Jules. Verne’s novel.
The port was full of life and we had Chenin Blanc and crème brulée, as well as halibut and coquilles St Jacques for dinner. At that time, Agathe and her friends attended a birthday party and another bottle was opened. At Le Rustique next door, customers took to the streets. The danger of eating and drinking too much was felt like a threat in Saint-Pierre.
Another highlight was the morning walk around the Cap au Diable loop to Le Trépied at 207m. Views overlooking the Atlantic transported me to the highest peak on the island; I passed inky ponds and clumps of wintergreen bursting with sweet storm, sheep laurel and blackberries.
At one point, my hiking guide, Gilles Gloaguen of Escapade Insulaire, and I found ourselves stopping on a slice of the hillside to look for white-tailed deer. From the top we had a bird’s eye view of this entire French-speaking world. There was the scent of a stormy day at sea in the air. Looking at Newfoundland in the near distance, Gilles said, “This is our Mont Blanc.” It seemed so much further away.
Before my flight back to Canada, I spent my last morning from Saint-Pierre’s Point aux Canons Lighthouse, looking at the sun streaming across the horizon. Just 10 minutes out from the bay was the strip of L’Île-aux-Marins, a ghost island of ancient innocence since the fishing community was abandoned in the 1960s.
Later in the summer, tours were given to his crooked houses and church, but at that time he lay empty, lifeless and exhausted. Even the harbor around me trembled with silence. It was Saturday, and with no one else around, it was one last chance to enjoy France (or some version of it) completely alone and in a completely different way.
Fundamentals
Mike MacEacheran was a guest of Tourism Saint-Pierre and Miquelon (en.spm-tourisme.fr) and Legendary Coasts of Eastern Newfoundland (legendarycoasts.ca). Double rates at Auberge Quatre Temps start from £84, including breakfast (00 508 41 43 01; aubergequatretemps-spm.com). The ferry from Saint Pierre to Miquelon costs £20 return (spm-ferries.fr). Fly London Gatwick to St John’s with WestJet, £319 return (May to October only; westjet.com). Fly from St John’s to Saint Pierre with Air Saint-Pierre, £305 return (airsaintpierre.com).