It was romance that sparked this trip. A wedding anniversary. It was the start of an adventure. It was a years-long dream to see the east coast in the fall. So they made reservations at the most idyllic little inn; mapped out the longest, windiest, most scenic routes to the place; and passed two days in misty meadows and gazing at leaves through fogged windows.
She was from Connecticut originally; and though she admittedly remembered very little of her childhood there, she still thought it was homey somehow. "Maybe," she said, "Those first years of my life are scrapbooked somewhere in my head." Whatever the reason, nostalgia crept in like the light fog that seeped through the trees and reflected a silvery light between the clouds. It accentuated greens that were as green as spring, saturated into neon by the damp air. Unexpected gaps in the trees offered prime views of valleys, showcasing patchwork forest tops and pastures, all divided up by stone walls, where they all donned wellies and set out for long walks, boots sinking down into the soft grass.
At the bed and breakfast where they stayed, there were gravel paths to the fields and trees out back; a cutting garden bursting with bright pinks and reds; pumpkins peeking out of hiding places in the rocked gates or set high atop the wall of chopped firewood--some of which would be used at breakfast in the morning. Hints of a storm shook leaves from the trees, sending them fluttering down to foreshadow the rains.
The town was filled with rolling land and secret roads; barns converted into almost anything else; antique shops and history museums. It was all new, so exciting; but settled and comforting. Then they happened upon a little farm, built by hand and toiled over in love, where chickens and geese roamed the fields by the pond and baby calves anxiously stuck their noses through the barn doors to be pet by little hands. There the giggly children rode around in old wooden carts and chose the pumpkins they liked best, the morning dew still wetting the ground beneath the endless rows.
It was like the weekend was a journey on to the pages of a storybook, fulfilling the dreams of children and adults alike, reminding them that the simplest things are truly the best.