Along the southern shore of the Avalon Peninsula, flamboyantly named towns such as Bay Bulls, Tors Cove and Ferryland offer a stunning panorama, especially during the early weeks of summer.

The Avalon could be described as geographically bizarre. Although it includes an urban and suburban core in the northeast that comprises half of the province’s population, St. John’s and environs are only a small part of the distinctly odd mishmash of geography.

Travelling south from the city, the land remains flat for about 20 minutes of driving — past a Volkswagen repair shop old enough to be an historical relic and the city’s main freshwater reservoir — until Bay Bulls comes into view. It’s a wild ride for the next 80 kilometres: steep hills, plunging valleys, hairpin turns — but the view!

Take Tors Cove, for instance: several scoured, flat islands rest majestically in the bay — home to thousands of seabirds. Between them, dotting the ocean like an array of pearls, is a clutch of icebergs — gleaming giants calved from the Greenland ice shelf, and carved into Dali-esque shapes by the warming waters of the Gulf Stream.

This is a good year for icebergs, perhaps the island’s biggest draw for tourists. By early last month, more than 900 had been spotted, with the province predicting that the season will be the best in a decade; most years, the total number is less than 1,000. That’s good news for tourism, especially in a year of soaring airfares. Perhaps the icebergs’ lure will attract more of the summer visitors that so many local hotels and restaurants depend upon.

Some seasons, the winds are not favourable and there are barely enough accessible chunks of ice for the province’s iceberg water and distillery companies. By the way, if you are fortunate enough to taste iceberg ice, you’ll not soon forget it — the sensation on the tongue is like cold satin and the melting water feels so fresh it must be medicinal.

The world’s largest and smallest creatures follow icebergs like trained puppies. Plankton feed on the rich minerals that have built up within the bergs, while herds of humpback and fin whales trot along behind and live off the plankton.

Here, an entire industry depends on the whales showing up on cue, but there are no Captain Ahabs to steal the scene. It pays to keep the Moby Dicks alive and satisfied, and the numerous whale-tour companies that operate along the southern shore make a healthy living from the legions of tourists who long to hear and see whales putting in a nine-to-five day at work.

For most visitors, the whales, icebergs and seabirds are enough, and they’ll take these happy memories home. But there is more to the Avalon Peninsula than ocean exotics. Farther south is Ferryland, a 500-year-old settlement that has yielded a treasure trove of artifacts. The Ferryland lighthouse is a pleasant walk from the archeological dig and offers yet another visual feast.

But the terrain changes dramatically as you approach the Avalon’s southernmost community, Trepassey. The forests begin to thin out, until they disappear altogether. You find yourself in a replica of the Arctic tundra called the Avalon Wilderness Area.

For dozens of kilometres, the only signs of humanity besides the ribbon of highway are a few cabins built for hunters and family outings. Wind whips the frequent fog across the barrens like a bedsheet in a snow squall.

Trepassey is a welcome sight. Once dependent on fish processing, it is a faltering community with little left to keep its children from bolting to St. John’s or Alberta. But there must be hope for Trepassey and its neighbours along the southern shore. After all, with the magic and mystery that surrounds them, how can they fail? IE