In the middle of the night the wind picked up, we heard rain on the old transom windows and the temperature dropped over twenty degrees. Phew. Linda sent us off in the morning with a fabulous breakfast of Eggs Benedict her way–two poached eggs over maple bacon on a croissant and covered in hollandaise sauce. Definitely one of the best on the road breakfasts I’ve had. With a three-hour drive ahead of us, we plugged in my I-phone and listened to a mix of upbeat rock and roll music—maybe a little reluctant to leave the vibe at Made Inn Vermont.
This was one of the most beautiful driving days, though the hills of Vermont and into the White Mountains in New Hampshire. With the increased altitude, we saw more color in the hills—splashes of gold and red at every turn. On one two-lane highway, the road work slowed us down long enough to see and stop at a maple syrup farm.
The proprietor at Goodrich Maple Farm was offering free tours but in the Fall there’s not much going on here. Their busy time is in the Spring when things start to thaw and the trees are tapped for their tasty sap. We learned that this part of Vermont has a fifth season called “Mudding” between Winter and Spring when the snow melts and the dirt roads turn to slippery mud on top of the frost still thick underground. He told us that there are more school days cancelled in Mudding than in Winter when the snow falls relentlessly. You can clear the snow from the streets but there’s nothing you can do about that slippery mud but wait. Proudly, he said, this place has been known to record the coldest temperatures in the country—as low as forty below zero. Brrrr.
After tasting three different strengths of syrup, we left with the amber style, not too light and not too dark. Just right. We bought some maple sugar for toast back at home and also some maple candies that we ate right then. Biting into them made my teeth hurt.
Down the road and just a few miles before the renowned Cancamangus Highway, we stopped at a local cafe where we ordered their homemade cockaleekie soup (chicken with local vegetables-who knew?) and half a chicken salad on freshly baked bread. Yum.
The highway was definitely beautiful but I’m not sure it was any more spectacular than the rest of our route through Vermont and into New Hampshire. We arrived in North Conway, New Hampshire with enough time to take a quick rest before exploring the town in search of another great New England dinner.
To call this forty-five acre property a museum seems misleading. It’s more like many museums spread out across the rolling hillside. There are thirty-nine buildings, twenty-five of which have been moved to the site, along with an old steamship, The Ticonderoga, which is dry docked on the lawn. The buildings are filled with a mind-boggling variety of art, Americana and collections. The guidebook tells me that its founder and brainchild was Electra Havemeyer Webb (1888-1960) who inherited a large collection of French Impressionist paintings from her mother and then got interested in collecting collections. Part of Webb’s inherited fine art collection is housed here on site in a Greek Revival building. This collection is extensive and includes paintings by Monet, Manet, Courbet and Mary Cassatt. Also notable is that the interior of this building is an exact reproduction of Webb’s Manhattan apartment which her children built as a memorial to their mother after her death. Weird, right?
After a great night in Lenox including an amazing dinner of duck breast in salted caramel sauce (right?) at the Alta Bistro and a comfy bed at the Birchwood Inn, we take a brief sojourn to the Norman Rockwell Museum. I’m not expecting much but the setting is gorgeous (miles of rolling hills) and there’s a special exhibit of Andy Warhol with Norman Rockwell. The juxtaposition of these two artists surprises me. They are contemporaries after all and more than once chose the same subjects: Jackie Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe to name just two. There’s also an exhibit of Andy Warhol’s nephew whose illustrations are playful and amusing—several show his family visits to his famous uncle in New York.
car for the main event: driving north into Vermont. Our destination for the next two days is Burlington— Vermont’s capitol, it’s largest city and home to the University of Vermont. The drive is again quite beautiful, rolling hills, leaves starting to turn from green to gold and red. It’s still hot and the air conditioning is still on high for this trip. We cross the border into Vermont and I’m struck by the welcoming roadside rest area. There’s green grass and Adirondack chairs and pots of geraniums still in bloom. I feel welcomed.
We arrive in Burlington and pull into the long driveway of an old Victorian house perched high on the hill up from Lake Champlain and several blocks from the center of town. This is Made Inn Vermont, the B & B where we have a booked a room for two nights. Our hostess greets us in the driveway with hands on hips and a huge smile like we’re her long lost friends. She doesn’t look like your average B & B proprietor. She’s dressed in a tight plunging black top over black pants, her black hair touches her shoulders and her red lipstick accentuates her clear pale skin. She is still beautiful and knows it. Her name is Linda and she’s excited to give us the tour of her old Victorian house. It really is something else—a kind of retro sixties throw back kind of place. There are old rock and roll posters, lots of vinyl records in the common areas and we hear Billy Joel’s upbeat piano plinking from the speakers. Old guitars line the hallways and fill the nooks. Linda shows us the hot tub in the back off the kitchen while offering to make us margaritas, pour us an ice cold local beer or glass of wine while her guy takes our bags up the stairs to our room. As it’s still ninety degrees in the shade, I go for the margarita and my husband takes a beer.
Our first stop out of Boston and off the beaten path is The Book Mill, 
a great used bookstore near Montague, Massachusetts. The old mill here has been transformed into a bookstore, an art store and a music store. There is also a cafe with seating along the river. It’s a record-breaking eighty-nine degrees when we arrive so we find a shady spot away from the river instead and are happy to sit and sip something cold. The local beers offered make my mouth water but we have more driving to do so we opt for the lemonade instead, along with a brie and apple Panini. While I wait for my sandwich to be prepared, I browse the book shop and see several books that I love featured on one shelf. I feel at home. I’m disappointed to leave without a new book and also pleased with my restraint. Lugging my bag up three flights of stairs in our Jamaica Plain, Boston Air BnB taught me something about packing light which I’m hoping to remember next time.
Our next stop and where we’ll spend the night is Lenox—famous for the Tanglewood Music Festival. In the summer the streets are jammed with tourists and the inns are crowded. In late September though, it is quiet and peaceful. Our first stop is The Mount, Edith Wharton’s summer home. I love poking around famous authors’ homes to see how they lived and maybe hear a story or two about how they wrote. I’m not disappointed. We take a guided tour of the house and I love how light-filled and open it feels. There are a lot of fabulous French touches—large Palladian windows and with brass knobs imported from France, high ceilings and light colors. I’m reminded by our guide that Wharton did not have a very happy marriage. Her husband suffered from mental 
illness(probably bi-polar disease) which meant that he did not treat her well. Wharton had one long-time close male friend whom she described as “the love of her life” and whose letters she destroyed after his death. I’m hoping that was happy. She also had a passionate affair with a man who turned out to be a notorious philanderer. But enough about that. What about her writing?
I couldn’t resist taking a photo of the view out Edith Wharton’s bedroom window for inspiration. Maybe I’ll print it for inspiration after I get home. The other tidbit that I learned was that even though the Whartons sent their sons to Yale, Edith was self-taught because, as a girl, formal schooling was not necessary. Sad. She did, apparently, have full access to her father’s extensive library.
