The very small village of Gillard's Cove is on the dirt road just off the island causeway to the furthest end of Twillingate; itself a smaller island.  And there Jim Gillard's mother cooked and kept for us during August Mont'; when the tickle and the waters around were all flat calm.  There was a huge and onerous iceberg foundering upon the bottom of the bay and all around its blue water, filled with giant blue-fin tuna and blue sky.

All seven houses were the homes of Gillards.  Some had fishing shacks upon the rocky shore and wire around the stakes that held them up above what one suspects would be the height of tide.  Inside each fishing shack the nets and gear were hung.  In here, the fish were cleaned and guts thrown down through an opening in the floor onto the rocks below ... where pigs ate up their fill from spring 'til autumn.

So, in appreciation of the hospitality of Mrs. Gillard, I purchased a seascape oil from the local artist, wrote this little ditty and had it inscribed upon the canvas for her.