Castle Rising, Kings Lynn

Growing up, whenever my friends, family and I spotted people excitedly pointing and nattering over cows along the highways we’d break into giggles.

There’d be a car parked on the edge of the road and a group or pair of folks gawking at the livestock over the fence. Eyes would be wide, lips tapping out a frenzied speech and heads whipping side to side as the people glanced from their friends to the exotic beasts before them. Cameras were brought to bear to capture this explicit experience of authentic Canadian prairie wilderness.

Now I suppose I should retire passing judgment on cattle sightseers, since I collect stone churches myself.

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A Pair of Canadians Tackling Big Hills: Part 2

That hill was a journey in itself.

I remember seeing it for the first time. As we’d inched our way up an incline tailing the dozen before, this unassuming beast had risen from the crest of our latest achievement. My friend, pushing ahead, released an exasperated groan. I would soon echo it as I gawked at the climb ahead of us.

It was a country road. To a car the stretch would have been an effortless task—full of fresh country air and sweet sunshine—but for us each breathless push of the pedals led to a cycle that grew heavier. It was like winding up a spring. I glanced at my tires to make sure I hadn’t caught something in the brakes or chain, which could be adding friction.  It couldn’t be me could it? I didn’t feel tired. Where was the weight coming from? Was this the reality between physical strength and will?

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