Gallows Cove Road.

 

 

 

It has been over four decades since I lived in the house at the top and to the left of Gallows Cove Road in Torbay. 

The first, house to the right was bungalow owned by an older couple, the next across the road was a newer bungalow where I lived, and then further down to the right was a two-story cedar-covered house that was rented to a young couple from the US who were personal friends of mine at the time, he worked at the university in St. John’s, while his lady friend was an artist who lived at home. The fourth and last house was an old two-story Salt and Pepper style home occupied by two farmer brothers who were now retired and owned the land in front and around the house. This house was where they were born, grew up, and lived all their lives. They also owned the large garden running directly below the house which ran parallel to the road past their home for about another acre.

At the end of the brothers’ property the pavement stopped and the old cart road continued on for about another 1800 meters followed by a small path split off to the left joining up with the Father Troy Trail further up the hill, which ran from the Town of Flatrock following the coastline to Tappers Cove Wharf in Torbay. Just prior to where Gallows Cove Road joins the Father Troy Trail there was an old summer garden that a family from up the road used to maintain but had since let overgrow as it had gone to seed a few years prior.

It was a crisp winter evening when the incident occurred. The snow was falling lightly and blanketed the ground with a fresh layer of powder. Just like confectioners’ sugar falling from a sift spread over a freshly baked chocolate cake the snow laid untouched waiting to be enjoyed. Slipping on an extra pair of socks for warmth and then sliding on my skidoo boots, I felt like I was someone prepping for a deep sea dive. Turning, I removed my winter coat from the hook then before opening the door I pulled on my sheepskin hat and mitts.

Stepping outside into the frigid evening air I watched as my breath vaporized into a fine crystal mist, turning around he saw the leash in my hand, and he began running in circles with excitement. Baccalieu, my Newfoundland dog was now fully grown and loved running down the trail ahead of me when we went for our evening walk. One of his favourite tricks was rolling and playing in the fresh snow as he collected clumps of ice in his coat and paws. Tonight was to be no different.
Heading down the road I kept him on the leash until the pavement ended, then as normal we turned the corner and continued walking a little further down the path as his excitement grew, straining at the leash he obeyed my command to sit. When I unhooked the clip that attached the leash to his collar he rushed off ahead of me filled with pent-up energy.

The newly fallen snow crunched beneath my feet as I continued walking. The solitude and Baccalieu’s companionship were a welcome escape from the daily grind and the night air refreshing. Not a person or sound was to be heard, just my footsteps and the playfulness of my friend, running ahead only to return for assurance before taking off again Baccalieu was in his heaven. It was one of those crisp winter evenings when the west moon’s rays lit the way, blocked only by occasional wispy clouds as they moved across the sparkling sky. For over three hours the snow had been falling from the heavens laying a white blanket of fresh powder covering the landscape like a shroud, all was deathly calm.
As we turned the bend further down the path, just before the left-hand fork that headed up to the old Father Troy Trail, Baccalieu stopped his rumbustious play and stood looking ahead. As I came level to where he stood I felt a strange tingling running the length of my spine. Looking ahead I could see a set of small footprints in the newly fallen snow. They were no bigger than a child’s of around three years old. As I grew closer, I could see no other footprints anywhere. Baccalieu and I walked slowly along. He would not leave my side. On further inspection I could see the tiny set of footprints further along the Father Troy Trail; they had turned onto Gallows Cove Road, along the side of the summer garden, and then continued up the path.

Rather than taking the Father Troy Trail I decided to backtrack and follow the tiny footprints in the direction they were heading, back to the small side path. Now with my companion walking alongside me, we turned up the pathway and continued to approximately the mid-point where the footprints crisscrossed and appeared to turn in circles. Totally bewildered and with no sign of a living being or an adult's footprints anywhere, I turned with Baccalieu and walked back home wondering how the footprints got there, who they belonged to and why a child would be walking the path alone on a cold snowy night.

The incident slipped from my mind until a few weeks later when I was talking to the brothers who lived at the bottom of the road. It was when I was going for another walk with Baccalieu that I met the youngest of the brothers outside their property, and we began discussing the history of the area. The younger brother was telling me about his days growing up and about the families in the area. I in turn, asked about what appeared to be an old stone foundation to the side of the path between the Father Troy Trail and Gallows Cove Road, when his older brother joined the conversation, telling me about the family who lived there years before, and how in the meadow in Gallows Cove there is a mound that it was said to be the grave of a Phil Howlett. He and his family were buried there in consecrated land around the location of their house. The older brother also recounted how some locals to that day believed that members of the family haunted the lower part of Gallows Cove Road. 

He went on to tell me the story of how Phil the father was at home with his three-year-old daughter while his wife Ellen was out at the church to a mass. The home had a large open fireplace, and somehow, the child fell in was terribly burned, and died of her injuries within days. The locals at the time blamed Phil for the accident as it was his responsibility to look after his young daughter. Her death seen as his sin; therefore, he could not be buried in the churchyard. Instead the mournful father was interred in unconsecrated ground on his property at Gallows Cove. Tormented with grief, the spirit of Phil is said to wander the spot of his burial and the location of his daughter’s death. Then the older brother said how the old house foundations could still be seen from the small path that cuts up to Father Troy Trail. 

I never told the brothers about my experience with the footprints that I came across that evening three weeks earlier while walking my dog, but it often crosses my mind as to just what made the child’s footprints. Could it have been the footprints of the little Howlett daughter looking for a way home to her mother?