Vikings and ice
Not for the first time while on this trip, we played the game of “Should we stay or should we go”? After a fortuitous meet with some other like-minded and more experienced bikers, the game was decided. To the northern tip, all sails set.
Of course that takes a promise of accommodation; after a series of negative replies, I found an inn with lodging for the likes of us, and we packed the car with good will and luggage. Off to see where the Vikings had left traces.
First, a map.
Next, a motivational poster.
The road north was visually pleasant and without contretemps; in early afternoon we parked at Anse aux Meadows, paid our head tax and joined the site tour under the enthusiastic eye of Jessica.
This is not a lawn mowing failure. Back in the ’60s (good musical memories for some, another century for others), some archeologists relying on local lore found what is (probably) the vestiges of a settlement by the Vikings during the last millennium. Perhaps even my beloved Leif The Lucky and Erik The Red from elementary school readers.
Once you get past the (disappointing) lumpy groundworks, the replica village has some good content. The young smith is the sort of lad that you might like to invite to an afternoon of storytelling and basic metallurgy.
By the end of the afternoon, I had enough inspiration to build my own sod hut and smelt some cheap iron. On to supper, someplace else.
In St. Anthony’s, the old lighthouse cottage has been recycled into a seafood restaurant (what else?). The view from the windows is a reminder of just how far north of the usual trail we’ve strayed. Multiple icebergs.
We stopped in to the coast guard radio station (VCM), where the duty op shared common background memories and we caught up on how much the trade has evolved. Morse is no more…
And finally, what do you do when you want a vegetable garden, and the only available soil is in the ditch? Improvise.
