For the past four days we have been in the tiny village of Quirpon, New Foundland, a place I had never heard of, and probably none of you have heard of it either. We have loved it. We have driven the Viking Trail to L'Anse aux Meadows and heard the tales of the Vikings landing in North America.
We have driven the winding roads, up the hills and down the hills, and marveled at the sights we saw around each and every turn. We saw the ocean when it was grey and agitated, and we saw it again when it was the darkest saphire blue you can imagine. We drove the roads through the fog and through the rain, and today we were rewarded with the most beautiful sunny day we could have ever asked for. We bundled up against the cold wind blowing off the ocean, and we dripped sweat under the incredibly close northern sun. We put on many miles while out moose hunting, and even more out iceberg hunting. And we found both. The bergs in the picture below are miles away from us, and half way behind a hill, but you can imagine the size of them. There were no roads to get over to view them up close. We should have taken the boat tour.
But the scene I will carry in my mind is like the one below. Quiet, simple, little homesites, close to or even on the water, two or three tiny red buildings, a boat nearby, crab pots and fish nets crowding the little dock, and always the sparkling white laundry flapping on the line. Good bye New Foundland. Thank you for sharing your awesome beauty with me. I hope to return someday.