posted on Thursday, October 13, 2016

St Johnsbury

Hectic night as you can imagine. Earplugs failed to cope with large trucks snoring up the hill. I woke up at dawn quickly packed my tent and shame and traced my way back to a campsite I had passed, determined to start the day on a high, with a nice hot shower. The sun was rising above Franconia Notch State Park and in the morning I could finally see what I could only get a glimpse of the previous evening. Mountains completely painted in all shadesof red, oranges, yellows and green. The inspector, stingy so far, dropped on his knees sang an hallelujah and awarded three Michelin leaves to Franconia, a hard act to follow.
The sadness of running out of Eggnog was overcome in Littleton where the local laundromat was put to good use and returned a chirpy and clean cyclist to the road. Following a local recommendation I ended up having the best burrito I have ever had.
Life was beautiful and birds singing loud.
Past More dam the excitement of a border crossing into Vermont loomed close, my third state so far. New Hampshire treated me and Bronte with great respect, we lived free therefore didn't die.
Cycling presidential polls, sadly in the end gave the state to trumpy by a small margin.
At 15:13 on a sunny afternoon we crossed into Vermont and its rather gentler moto 'Green mountains State'. Here of course life stopped at Bernie and all the signs are out as if he was still running for president. St Johnsbury welcomed me with a well meaning 'where rivers and people come together'. After last night shameful disaster I changed camping tactics. I found an ideal spot in a farm first and then asked permission to Anne, the owner who gently allowed me to set my tent with a warning; there is dog around that is large but kind and that if he finds me he'll jump on me but only out of affection and with the best of meanings... I quietly set up camp, ducking behind a bush so far successfully avoiding being spotted by the friendly beast. Good night.