Very peaceful here - just us and the seals. Behind me, out of the entrance and across the fjord, is the little fishing village of Harbour Breton.

We are anchored between the end of the shingle spit and the shipwrecked trawler. The graves in the foreground remain from the settlement that was here until the clearance in the sixties.

Wide expenses of peatland stretched as far as the eye could see for hours.

It's difficult to capture a good shot from a speeding minibus (!), but this gives a feel for the ponds and open ground.

Many of the pubs had live music; found these guys early in the evening. Toutons are eaten for breakfast!

In the city, the older houses still have their traditional wooden cladding, now painted in bright colours.

All lined up on the opposite side of the basin to us.

Supplies come in by the little ferry and residents each have their transport at hand to haul it from the jetty.

The fishermen built platforms out of pebbles from the beach on which to dry their catch. Some have been uncovered. The dried cod was shipped to France.

Of the few houses that are left, some are lived in, a few are museums. There used to be 2 rows of cottages with access at their backs to the sea and between them space to dry the cod.