After leaving Boston, we drive towards the Canadian border through the states of New Hampshire and Vermont. Although we are primarily travelling on freeways, the landscape changes subtly from large cities to the smaller towns that are synonymous with mountains. My ears pop as we gain altitude. The bus eventually leaves the highway and before long we are travelling along a tree-lined secondary road before entering the village of Woodstock, Vermont just in time for lunch. I hope we have time to have a look around because this is a beautiful and seemingly historic town. This is not, however, the location of the Woodstock music festival held in 1969, which was not even held in Woodstock, New York either. But that’s another story.
Quaint old houses and shops line the main road, and the large shady trees provide plenty of relief from the hot summer sun. We tumble out of the bus and follow Jeannette the short distance to the library. From the outside and indeed from the inside, the Norman Williams library looks like a converted church, but story behind it is quite sweet. Here is the shortened version. Norman Williams (1791-1868) was born in Woodstock, became a lawyer and set up a practice in his home town. He fought in the 1812 war with Canada and later became a politician before returning to Woodstock with his wife and seven children. In 1883 as the family homestead fell into disrepair, Williams’ third son, Edward, who was a physician, railroad executive, and philanthropist, ripped down the existing buildings and erected a library for the people of Woodstock in memory of his father.
We enter the library and since it’s not too busy, the librarian gives a little tour and talks about the history of Woodstock and tells the story of how the library came to be. The foyer displays decommissioned library books that are now for sale, which I am going to check out before we leave town. I need something to read.
As I step out of the library and look around from this central ‘village green’ location, I can almost imagine what this town would look like during each of the seasons. Of course, I can see with my own eyes the leafy green summer outlook, but I can imagine the fiery red, gold, and orange colours of Autumn, the stark, bare trees with snow piled on the branches with snow underfoot, a perfect winter wonderland, or better still, a scene from a corny Christmas movie, whilst the spring would bring forth fluffy pink and white blossoms that would litter the tidy streets. Yes, this town would be beautiful in all seasons.
I wander down to one of the town’s covered bridges, which are so important to ensure access during the heavy snows in winter. This one is right in the middle of town, and it crosses a small stream, which is bubbling its way over a rocky bed to wherever it is going. I’ve just enough time for lunch before I must return to the bus and find quite a nice café that serves proper coffee. Most of the group are inside, so I join them. Most speak English to a degree, but the three Texan teachers do a wonderful job with translating when necessary. I leave the café a few minutes early as I have one stop to make before catching the bus. Returning to the library foyer, I select some of the decommissioned books, which are being sold for a dollar each and return to the bus clutching my purchases.
We stop just before the land border. It is here that I learn that a number of passengers with certain passports had to remain in Boston and fly to Montreal because they are ineligible to cross the Canadian land border. Nobody thought to mention that until now, so hopefully mine will be OK. The Duty Free shop is open and whilst it stocks the usual touristy stuff, I am happy to find a bottle of French Brandy for $19.00.
I have crossed the US/Canadian land borders by bus between Alaska and Canada, and I have walked over the Rainbow Bridge at Niagara previously. Although generally speaking, it is a lot easier to go into Canada than into the United States of America, this crossing is different as it is the first time I have used an ETA non-visa waiver. We arrive at the border, tumble out of the bus and walk into the terminal whilst the bus is checked and allowed to pass through. The driver and Jeannette organise the luggage inspection, and I pass through security with the minimum of fuss.
We are now in Canada, and all the road signs are in both the French and English languages. After about an hour, the pastoral scenes give way to hustle and bustle of the city’s outskirts. It has taken just over an hour from the border to Montreal in the province of Quebec, where both French and English are spoken. Fortunately, our hotel for tonight is in the city centre and is close to restaurants, shops, and even Chinatown. Just around the corner from the Zero1 Hotel, where we are staying is a magnificent and very upmarket food court, where the mingled aromas of international fare make it almost impossible to choose exactly what I would like to eat. I finally select a Greek gyros meal, which rivals even our own in Eaton Mall. As darkness descends upon the city, and because I am travelling alone, I do not venture far from the hotel and instead decide to see whether any of the television stations include English programmes.
Tomorrow is going to be a long day; first a tour of Montreal with a local guide followed by a drive to Quebec City.
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