I’ve just been to Montreal and back – on a train. The journey was over ten hours each way – and I loved it.
Seriously – I did.
It’s a great way to see a new country. And there was SO much to see.
The trip passed really quickly – well, apart from the time the man asleep in the seat across the aisle was snoring. And the hour long wait at the US-Canada border while officials checked out every passenger was a bit dull. Which was good. The last thing I want is an ‘interesting’ border crossing.
Anywhere.
Ever.
Leaving New York I was underground, or at least in a cutting most of the way. The gleaming towers of the city are hidden and I’m surrounded by dark, grease stained iron beams and bare concrete walls, liberally decorated with graffiti.
Twenty minutes later, the train is running along the Hudson River.
The cliffs that were brilliant with autumn foliage just a few weeks ago are now dark and bare, but the river is still beautiful.
The banks of the river are a study in contrasts.
Near the train tracks, I flash past dilapidated buildings, bare concrete and rusting metal. This must be the remains of the industries that once lined the river to trade with the ships on the Hudson. They ships are still there, but they bypass this now and head straight on to New York or beyond, and the warehouses and wharves are rotting.
On the other side of the river, I see beautiful houses with sweeping lawns. The rooms must have magnificent views of the river. There are some pretty impressive looking yachts in the marinas too.
I believe locations affect us – where we grow up, where we choose to live and work all play a part in becoming the person we are. And as I sit watching the world pass by… I start to wonder…
What sort of a woman might live alone in one of those big houses overlooking the river? The one with the big sweeping lawn and the white colonnades?
What sort of a man might take a job as watchman on one of the decaying industrial sties?
What might bring them together – and what, if anything, would make them fall in love….
What about the old man at the last station? The one smoking a cigarette on the platform. He barely even looked up as the train deposited its passengers and continued its journey. He just blew another cloud of smoke into the frosty air and stared into the distance.
And then there are my fellow travellers…
I feel another book coming on.
Some hours into the journey, the train moves away from the river which has been my constant companion. I am sad to say goodbye to the Hudson – but another great river lies ahead – the St Lawrence.
And in between, no end of fascinating tiny hamlets and isolated homes and wild places to stir the imagination.
I thought Lake Champlain was beautiful –
I had no idea of what was coming.
While I was on Montreal, 25 cm of snow fell and the temperatures dropped to well below freezing.
Everything had changed by the time I headed south again.
Being an Aussie, I’ve seen so little snow that I still think it’s rather fab
(OK – chilly and a bit damp, but FAB none the less!)
Look at the lake now.
The ice was thick enough for people to walk on.
I saw a man and a boy fishing through a hole in the ice.
The countryside I saw on the way up is totally changed.
The perfect white blanket has the ability to make even the rotting warehouses and the saddest small towns look like they belong in a fairy tale.(Or a book.)
The endless white fields are lovely, and here and there I glimpse a tiny frozen waterfall.
Surely there must be fairies there.
Or elves.
Or pixies … or at the very least a leprechaun or two.
It gets dark fairly early at this time of the year – but approaching New York, the lights are getting brighter and more frequent – and seem incredibly bright in the frosty air.
One of the things people often ask me is where do I get the ideas for the stories I write – maybe next time I’ll say ‘looking out the window of a long distance train’.