They say no other sense recalls the memory like the sense of smell. There is a lovely woman in my office who wears the same perfume my grandmother once wore. Each time I pass her in the hallway I am transported back in time to a childhood full of big hugs, cherry blossoms, Mars bars, Siamese cats and Sunday roasts of beef. Tonight, it's the smell of campfire that's brought me back in time. We're in Bay Bulls on the Avalon Peninsula visiting our friends formerly from Yellowknife, Sean and Carol-Anne Glavine (and yes they miss Yellowknife dearly BTW). After watching the Giants lose their 6th in a row, Sean and I retreated to the shed and then to the fire pit with a glass of Irish whisky and a cigar (bad idea). Fires in Newfoundland are different. It must be the salty moisture locked for generations in the wood, but camp fires here CRACKLE and SNAP like nowhere else. The smoke smells thick and musky. "Inky" I like to call it. You can feel it as much as smell it. You can get lost in the coals and the sounds and the smell of campfires here like nowhere else I've experienced. Too bad Glavine abandoned me to the wilds of rural Newfoundland just as the blaze really kicked up! Deb and I decided on the spot to drive east to St. John's for the weekend. We gave the girls the option to join us but they elected to stay with their grandparents in Kippens. The drive across the Island was awesome with beautiful fall colours and ideal driving conditions. We read out loud the names of each town, bay and inlet as we drove past. Black Duck Siding, South Brook, Buchans, Gambo, Witless Bay, Come By Chance, Hearts Content, Fogo, Morton's Harbour, Badger and, yes, Dildo. Our old Yellowknife friends welcomed us with open arms and treated us to fresh cod (jigged by Sean himself), a carbon copy Serena Henderson's homemade drumstick desert, wine, whisky and hearty craic. How wonderful to simply show up at the doorstep and pick up where we left off months ago. Sean and I were both hurtin' units the next morning, but I could roll over and go back to bed. He had to load up at 8:00 am and drive 5 hours to get his moose. Poor b******. I felt bad for him for about three minutes before I fell back to sleep with visions of one bloody interception after another dancing through my tortured head. Sorry we didn't get up to cook you breakfast Carol Anne. This morning we drove through Conception Bay South and visited the graves of my great grand-parents in Upper Gullies, Conception Bay South. I remember well attending their funerals in the early 1980s and was able to navigate through the maze of headstones, most marked with the names of my long ago relatives, to their final resting place by uploading 35 year old memories. CBS is now just an extension of St. John's whereas in my great grand-parents day, it was way out in the country or "the bay" as it were. If anyone knows of a more fun place to spend a Friday night in Canada than downtown St. John's, even on a grey drizzly evening, I want to hear about it. After strolling the old city's streets in search of a bed and breakfast, we headed out for a meal in one of St. John's awesome restaurants. Gone are the days of drab Water Street diners serving only fishermans' brews and baloney sandwiches. This is a cosmopolitan city with something to offer ever taste and budget. We settled on a lovely spot called Get Stuffed. I had the cod and Deb the lamb. The only thing better than the food was the excellent, genuine and unpretentious service. We giggled as we overheard the waiter telling the table next door where they could pick up a bottle of the wine they'd had for dinner for 15 bucks downtown. "Its wicked isn't it b'y? Yes I drinks dat all d'time." Earlier in the evening the lovely owners of our B and B told us to help ourselves to a bottle of wine from the kitchen. When we told them to add it to our bill they responded "Go on love, just drop into the liquor store and pick up something you think might be nice to replace it if you gets a chance." The music streams from the bars of Water and George street like steam from under the door of a hot kitchen on a freezing winter night. On every corner you can hear the fiddles and the 'cardines and the whistles gently luring you on and in. Music is in the very fabric of the place. It seeps from the clap board siding and the asphalt sidewalks. Live performances lurk in every doorway, the first set starting at 8:00 pm and the last at 1:00 am going till 3 or 4. No matter where you hail from, when the band takes the stage you're a Newfoundlander. Not a "Newfie" but a true and proud Newfoundlander with the inner Irish that lies in all of us jumping to the surface. "Where ya from?" the musician asks one of the visitors. "Were glad you're here," he responds with sincerity. Even in the middle of October, George Street is alive with activity. We headed home at 1:30 am after dancing our feet off to find the third or fourth wave just on their way downtown. "Sure noting really gets started down here till 1 or so b'y, " our waitress told us as we paid the bill. We strolled home in the chilly North Atlantic mist humming the last tune the band played and dreaming about how awesome it would be to live in a place so fundamentally alive as this. Tomorrow we'll sleep in and get ourselves back on track with a hike up Signal Hill and a visit to "the Rooms" before heading over to the Duke of Duckworth, of Republic of Doyle fame, for the best fish and chips in St. John's. Cant wait. This is not your father's St. John's. This, the oldest city in North America, is cool to the bone. Put it on your list of must visits before the genuine good nature of the place falls prey to the inevitable watering down of Sweet spots. Ahhhhh shag it. If they haven't messed the place up in 500 years, it's probably safe for a spell yet. The next time we lay eyes on this part of the Atlantic it will be from across "the Pond" in seven or eight months. Lots to do before now and then however. Stay tuned.