A year! A year of riding around New England. Oh! The places I've been, and the things I have seen! And I know I've only touched the edges, and the bits and pieces. There's still a whole new world out there to go riding around in! Starting here. Here at the sugar house, here in the Raggedy Garden, here where I hang my hat. Here where my heart is.
Apple orchards, not yet blooming, not yet fruit filled. Curvy, slender, silver with years. With the grass greening up and the ancient stone walls rambling around them. They hold the future, the hope, the possibilities. Of new life and the circle of seasons.
Many a path, through many a woods. Enticing, luring, enchanting. What will I find, if I follow this curve of a pathway?
In this stony land, where the granite lives, one must build with stones. There is a living, beauty in them. Touch a great jumbled hunk of granite and you will feel it. All the years, and all the seasons, and all the snow, and wind and rain and sunshine. A granite step, in the sunshine, warm and gentle, strong and steady. What New England, and its people are made of.
Covered bridges. Some still in use. Some only for walking across.
Killed by a bear, Hundreds of years ago. But the legend lives on. The road is a dirt road. The woods are old, and quiet, filled with sun shine and shadow. We rocked through the ruts, and mud and stones, and we found him. Lest we forget.
All the old mill buildings. They were run by water power. They gave New England, and a lot of other places, all the things they needed to survive. Still standing. Still hearing the rushing water tumble by. Dreaming of the old times.
Between the Mountains Road. Some names are too delicious. This is a dirt road, also. Where we jostle and bump along between the mountains.
A lake, and a float plane. So many waters, reflecting the sky, surrounded by little camps and hardwood forests.
Huge, old abandoned chimneys. Crumbling and beautiful. All that is left of some ones hearth and home. The woods creep closer. The meadow is lush and filled with life around it. Not sad. Just real life.
Waterfalls, crashing and splashing through chunks of strewn granite.
The tracks, curving into the tunnel. Trains still go through here, over the bridge , across the river, and on down the line.
When the colors begin to show, and the tracks lead onward. Where will the road take me?
Ahh! The wood piles! In New England wood is a serious business.
This is a ski jump. At some time, some wild ones did this. It has not been used for ski jumping for awhile. But I know some later wild ones who climbed up it. Which is another story. It makes my stomach lurch.
The sun sets over the water, over the hills.
The dawn comes up, like thunder, out across Frenchmans Bay.
The mighty Atlantic Ocean crashes against the cliffs.
All the small, sweet churches. Steeples rising high above every town. Stained glass windows, beautiful doors, plain Quaker meeting houses with out any frills.
The smallest church that I've found, so far.
Pillsbury Flour started here. Who would've thought?
This road, too. Dirt road. Ruts and rocks and puddles. But the name is like music. I hope you enjoyed riding around New England with me last year! Who knows what we will discover in this new one!
