Ah, Newfoundland—wild, windswept, and steeped in stories. The land itself hums with the echoes of those who lived and loved here, their voices carried by the restless Atlantic wind. As I stood on a rocky bluff, watching the waves crash below, I couldn’t help but feel that this place is more than earth and sea. It’s a memory itself—alive, beautiful, and unforgotten.
Today, I invite you to step with me into the world of Newfoundland’s resettled communities—once-thriving outports abandoned during a painful chapter in the island’s history. These lost communities are more than just names on a map; they serve as windows into the essence of Newfoundland.
Resettlement was supposed to be progress. Once Newfoundland became a part of Canada in 1949, the government was confronted with a harsh reality: delivering modern infrastructure to hundreds of isolated fishing villages along the rugged coast was an almost unattainable goal. Schools, healthcare, roads—the costs were astronomical. And so, the resettlement program was born, designed to move families to centralized hubs where services could be delivered.
Between the 1950s and 1970s, over 300 communities were emptied. Families received financial incentives to leave behind homes built by hand, ancestral graveyards, and the rhythms of an ancient way of life. For some, resettlement was a promise of opportunity—a new start in a larger town. For others, it was a devastating severance from their identity.
Imagine watching your entire house towed across the water like a phantom. A surreal parade of drifting homes, heading toward a new shore—yet leaving behind something irreplaceable.
Among the most poignant stories of resettlement is Bragg’s Island, now a lonely outcrop in Bonavista Bay. Once, it was home to a close-knit fishing community that braved the ocean for their daily catch. Children raced along the docks, their laughter mingling with the cry of gulls, while families came together in the evenings to share stories over stews thick with salt cod.
But by the 1960s, life on Bragg’s Island grew harder. The fisheries dwindled, and resettlement whispers became government directives. The islanders fought the decision as long as they could, but when the time came, they left their homes behind like ghosts vacating a familiar haunt.
Reaching Bragg’s Island is an adventure filled with anticipation. You’ll need a private boat or charter, setting off from one of the coastal towns like Greenspond or Bonavista. The trip itself is breathtaking, as you cut across sparkling blue waters, passing clusters of tiny islands that seem to rise like sentinels from the waves. We shot an episode of Adventures Unknown that saw us land on Braggs Island. Wow. It really was spectacular. We were with a first-generation Braggs Island resident who was actually born on Bragg’s Island. His stories were spectacular. It was during cod fishing season, and the island was alive and busy, and it was hard to believe that this was a resettled place.
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We took a boat out to Bragg’s Island one fog-laden morning, the air thick with sea salt and silence. The skeletal remains of old homes loomed like tombstones in the mist, but what surprised me most were the houses that stood strong, freshly painted with curtains in the windows. Some former residents and their descendants return each summer, using these homes as a way to step back into time, preserving their family’s stories in wood and stone. Seeing beds neatly made and firewood stacked for a season of memory felt surreal.
The juxtaposition of abandoned ruins and lovingly maintained homes was striking, as if the island itself struggled to choose between being a museum or a haunting tale. Walking among the mix of decay and preservation, I felt as though the island was breathing out both sorrow and resilience.
Stories persist that on quiet nights, when the wind is just right, you can still hear echoes of life—a child’s laughter or the faint creak of a fishing dory. A place may be empty, but memories have their own stubborn afterlife.
Little Bay Islands—a place that resisted the pull of time for as long as it could. It wasn’t until 2019 that its last residents voted to leave. In an age of Wi-Fi and iPhones, an entire town chose to say goodbye to its way of life. I had to see it for myself.
The journey to Little Bay Islands is as much a part of the story as the destination itself. A ferry ride from Shoal Arm takes you across tranquil waters to the abandoned shores. The trip feels almost ceremonial, the hum of the engine accompanying you like a hymn.
As I stepped ashore, I was struck by the stillness. The houses appeared to have stood still, with the kitchen curtains in place and family photos resting on the mantelsThe houses appeared to have paused in time, with the kitchen curtains still in place and family photos resting on the mantels. It felt as though the residents had simply slipped out the back door, expecting to return.
Once, 500 people called this place home, sustained by the sea and each other. Now, the harbor was empty, save for the ghostly silhouettes of abandoned boats. I peered through a cracked window of the old general store. Shelves still held tins of forgotten goods, dust-covered and waiting for a customer who would never come. There’s an ache to the quiet here, a reminder of lives uprooted but not forgotten.
If there’s a place that feels like a secret waiting to be discovered, it’s Exploits Island. Nestled in Notre Dame Bay, this island was once home to a vibrant fishing community. Its strategic location made it an important waypoint, and the island was dotted with fishing stages, bustling docks, and family homes.
To reach Exploits Island, you’ll need to hire a private boat or join a local guided tour departing from the nearby town of Lewisporte. I was on Exploits to film an episode of Adventures Unknown, and it was just spectacular, peaceful, and an exercise in unplugged tranquility. The boat ride takes you through a tapestry of rugged inlets and calm bays, with seabirds circling overhead.
Setting foot on Exploits Island feels like stepping into a forgotten dream. The remnants of the settlement are scattered along the shoreline—weathered wooden frames of fishing stages and newly renovated homes by people who refuse to let the past drift away or are drawn by the solitary beauty of this gem where the silence is broken only by the soft lapping of waves.
I wandered up a narrow path toward the old cemetery. Moss-covered headstones told the stories of lives shaped by the sea—fathers lost to storms and children who never saw adulthood. Standing there, I felt the weight of history pressing down like the mist itself.
As evening fell, the island took on an otherworldly glow. Legend has it that ghostly lanterns bob along the water on foggy nights, guiding lost fishermen home. Whether truth or folklore, I can tell you this: the place hums with something unseen.
Little Bay Islands isn’t alone in its solitude. Newfoundland’s coast is studded with ghost villages—places where life was lived fully, only to be erased.
Once a thriving outport known for its fishery, Pushthrough was resettled in the 1960s. Now, the forest has begun to reclaim what remains. I found the crumbling foundation of a house, its walls long gone. Nearby, an old tricycle rusted in the grass, and a shattered plate lay half-buried in the earth—silent artifacts of a vanished life.
Great Harbour Deep’s story echoes through the early 2000s, making it one of the most recent communities to be abandoned before Little Bay Islands. The skeletons of homes and empty docks stand like lonely sentinels against the horizon—memories etched into the land itself.
Still clinging to existence, Gaultois remains an outport in slow decline, accessible only by ferry. Its once-bustling fish plant is long closed, and fewer than 100 residents remain. Wandering through its streets, I felt the inevitability of time weighing heavily, as though the town was holding its breath.
La Poile also withstands the current wave of transformation. Its remaining residents are fiercely proud, but the sense of fragility is unmistakable. Visiting La Poile feels like stepping into the heart of what once made Newfoundland’s outports so special—a blend of endurance, charm, and quiet defiance.
It’s said that ghosts don’t haunt places—memories do. And Newfoundland’s resettled villages have their share of stories.
In Pushthrough, locals swear that the toll of church bells rings across the bay on foggy nights—even though the church was dismantled long ago. Others speak of spectral fishing boats drifting silently, their lanterns flickering like echoes of lost journeys.
In Little Bay Islands, there’s a legend of a faint engine hum at twilight. No boats. No generators. Just the whisper of a time that refuses to die.
If you’re ready to trace the footsteps of the past, here are a few tips:
Resettlement wasn’t just a policy—it was a human story of resilience and loss. Visiting these communities isn’t just sightseeing; it’s a pilgrimage to honor the people who lived, laughed, and mourned here. The place they called home. The place where they belonged.
When I filmed on Bragg’s Island, I could almost feel the past brushing up against the present. I set up my camera near a restored family home where summer laughter still echoes. A family had returned for the season, their porch alive with music and conversation—a rare contrast to the empty remains of other homes nearby. They had just come back from cod fishing and had 2000 pounds of cod. The father was cleaning the fish while his sons filleted them. The experience was deeply moving, as if the island was presenting me with both sides of its story: one of departure and one of holding on.
Exploits Island was no different in its emotional impact. As the sun dipped toward the horizon and the wind whispered through the old cemetery, I found myself lowering the camera just to take it all in. The silence seemed sacred. Filming here felt less like documenting a place and more like preserving something intangible—a connection to lives shaped by the sea.
Newfoundland’s ghost villages may stand empty, but their stories live on—woven into the island’s cultural fabric and whispered by the waves that never forget.
So, what do you think? Would you brave the ferry ride to witness these echoes for yourself? Drop me a comment or message—I’d love to hear your thoughts.
Until next time, fellow adventurers, keep chasing the unknown. The past isn’t dead—it’s just waiting for someone willing to listen.
Thumbnail Idea: A split image of an abandoned house with a faint, ghostly figure in the window. Text: “Newfoundland’s Lost Villages: Ghosts of the Past.”
