I first learned about the only piece of France in North America the old-fashioned way: scouring a world map. Looking at Newfoundland, I observed a topographical finger that seemed to point straight at two small dots tucked neatly off the coast of Canada. These dots are Saint-Pierre and Miquelon, a French territorial archipelago roughly 15 miles off Newfoundland. As I would find out, low-tech is the right approach to these islands; schedules are merely suggestions, and traffic lights don’t exist.
Time itself seems like an afterthought here. The islands are on their own time zone, half an hour ahead of the mainland. Depending on where you stand, your phone may vacillate between a Canadian carrier and a French one, changing the clock with each bounce off a cell tower. This is only a problem at lunch and dinner, when everything shuts down except for restaurants, which open strictly from 12 p.m. to 2 p.m., then again after 7 p.m. (Make reservations.)
It’s all unmistakably France, but in a completely different landscape of rocky cape coastlines, peat bogs, wild orchids, and dune grasses. French is the prevailing language, of course, but you’ll occasionally find people who also speak English — more so in Saint-Pierre, the islands’ commercial center where roughly 5,000 people live within its 10 square miles. Neighboring Miquelon is only home to about 600 residents (and in summer, plenty of free-roaming horses and vacationers).
Cod fishing continued to attract more settlers in the 19th century, only to be stopped in the early 20th century once fish populations were decimated. Saint-Pierre found itself uniquely positioned as a French-governed outpost during Prohibition when alcohol storage and sales — especially to smugglers — made many islanders wealthy. (Al Capone was both a regular visitor and customer.) The museum’s collection of washed-up vintage crates and bottles paled in comparison to the relic downstairs: the only guillotine to have been used in North America, for an execution in Saint-Pierre in 1889.
After a stroll down the street to the wharf, I joined an enthusiastic guide, Eric Simon, on Le Petit Gravier, a quick 15-minute ferry that runs back and forth to to L’Île-aux-Marins (Sailors’ Island). A stack of wheelbarrows right off the dock underscored the fact that there are no roads or cars on this island, which was last inhabited in the 1960s. Today, abandoned settlements are mixed in with restored summer homes. We walked the pathways mowed out of knee-high grass and wildflowers while Simon took me on an hour-long journey through the island’s history.
Without a guide giving it context, the island would look like little more than a wild coastal ghost town. We passed large patches of rocks, once used for drying fish. Sounds of a folk music rehearsal drifted out of the church, down past a shrine and through the island’s seaside graveyard. Simon identified the oldest grave, a tipped and rusted iron cross with no markings, from 1876. We parted ways outside the Archipélitude Museum so I could peruse at my leisure. The museum is in the former island schoolhouse, now filled with every kind of antique and artifact related to L’Île-aux-Marins’ past. Outside, I followed the path to a quiet, rocky beach before returning to the ferry.
Breakfast the next morning at the family-owned Auberge Saint-Pierre was an assortment of pastries served in the inn’s kitchen. After a pain au chocolat, I headed back to the wharf to get the ferry to Miquelon. On the 90-minute journey, fog rolled across the coastline. There are three main roads on Miquelon, which is much quieter than its smaller neighbor. Even smaller is Langlade, home to free-grazing horses and seal colonies out on the Grand Barachois (best seen from a zodiac). Langlade used to be its own island, but now it’s connected by a sand isthmus.
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I met Francois Hoccry from Maison de la Nature et de l’Environnement (the island’s interpretive nature museum) for one of Miquelon’s premier activities: hiking. We set out for the Chemin des Boeufs, debating which way the fog would go. We were almost on the same latitude as Paris, but the landscape looked completely different. Because of the cold water Labrador Current in the north Atlantic Ocean, I was looking at the only place in France with boreal forests. Hoccry showed me four species of carnivorous plants, plus wild irises, orchids, daisies, buttercups, pitcher plants, and wildflowers. At a lookout, we watched birds and enjoyed Labrador tea made from leaves along the hike.
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