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DSC02782-1280x853A gentle meander across some more pasture land where rolled up bales of hay laid in wait to be processed to storage. Barns were strewn across the landscape also. They are three storeys in height, constructed out of wood and rusted tin and we could imagine the owners saying, “It was my gran-papa’s barn; and his gran-papa’s barn before that”.

Even the one’s having self-imploded had beauty from age.

DSC02802-1280x853We stopped for a rest beside the Misssissagi River in Iron Bridge. Here, the first steel bridge was constructed in Ontario in 1886. It was dismantled due to it’s aging too as much as to make way for a two way bridge replacement. Discovering stuff like this along the route has been interesting and fun.

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DSC02811-1024x1536The dread-locked dark lady in the home handy man store in Blind River was just as entertaining when she made the comment that she loved the NZ accent. I asked her what she would like me to say just for hell of it and her response was, “Can I have a cup of tea please?” Her white teeth from the grin was my parting impression of her mimicing my accent till I was out of ear shot.

The chat Claire had with a total stranger because of our New Zealand endorsed cycle tops ended in an invitation to visit the family for a shower and feed in New Brunswick. We love our NZ cycle tops not for this, but for the fact we are proud to be Kiwi. The looks on peoples faces when they discover that we are from New Zealand and have ridden from Vancouver and heading for St Johns are priceless. It also distinguishes us from being asked if we are Australian.

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It was campground accommodation today downgrading to a cabin with only a bed in. At least it had electricity but another night off the wifi-grid.

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We had to break out the camping cookery utensils and cook a meal using the gas cooker. Microwaves in motels rooms have been our saviour up until this meal so purchasing the wrong gas cannister from old dread-locks earlier put the pressure on to ensure the bacon, eggs, sausages, spaghetti and mushrooms were eatable; and there was enough to boil water for a bedtime cuppa!

Fortunately there was, just.

There is just something about a runny fried egg yolk drip. You can certainly taste the sticky remnants long after you have licked the plate clean.

Mind you, taking a picture of us sitting on the swinging chair at our log cabin sitting in our long legged bike lycra, your would think we had chicken legs!

Should have eaten the plate as well!

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