It’s early. The mist hasn’t yet cleared from the hills and we’ve stopped for a bit just inside the New Brunswick border.
Flipped my watch over to Atlantic time. Not so early now.
We ditch some cars or something like that and off we go again. Rattle bonk squeak.
One older fellow laments at the lack of the “romantic clicking of the wheels you used to hear on trains.”
There are a few train buffs on here. One large gentlemen has been waiting to do this trip for two years. At 5:30am he was sitting in the front seat of the Park car, taking notes. I came back there because I could smell the coffee four cars away. Forgive the zoom – we were miles and miles away from this and I never noticed the windmills myself until I put my glasses on.
If you look closely you can see the windmills on a hill over a bay of something or other. I ought to come back here and put all the correct names in but I probably won’t. Back home in northumberland county, everyone’s got their knickers in a twist about the windmills. Well, half of them do, the other knickers are in a twist reading fifty shades or grey or something like that.
This is at Bathurst station, where Harry thought for a minute about staying. But then he got back on.
Breakfast was lovely, but fleeting…
more later – joel