I thought that I should share my travel experience with all you people from around the globe who may never have the chance to go there, but I warn you it is long.
Let me start. I left Sunday at 8:45 in the morning from a point in south-eastern Ontario, 1 ? hours later than I had planned. The sky was a brilliant cerulean blue, with just a few cotton balls here and there. It was already hot enough to turn the AC on in the car. Trees and fields were covered in every shade of fresh spring green and the traffic was sparse. I was singing ?It?s a wonderful world? at the top of my lungs, knowing that I would not insult anyones ears.
At 9:40 I hit the Kings Highway (401) and turned east and by 10:00 am I passed Port Hope to my left. There were wide stretches of wild Phlox in shades of purple and lilac along the highway. After a while the road become monotonous and I indulged in playing ?take the lead? with a little black Beamer. It was almost like a ballet in slow motion of two projectiles traveling at 130 km per hour. Oh, the wonder of technology. As we got close to Kingston and the traffic increased, I waved a mental fair well to the Beamer and started to drive like the ?mature woman? that I am supposed to be.
By 11:10 I passed Kingston on my left and here and there Lake Ontario or the beginning of the St. Lawrence River glinted and sparkled through the vegetation. At this point the road had to be blasted through the beginning of the Canadian Shield and one can view cubistic walls of cinnamon coloured granite rising on either side of the Highway. There are truly a thousand islands here; they are glacial boulders, covered by forest and they harbour some of the most expensive real estate around. At 12:00 noon I had passed the bridge into the US. I lied to the border patrol about my travels purpose, trying to keep a straight face. They wanted to know the name of my contact and I almost said ?Jane Doe?. Yikes!
The flora does not change at all, but after a while the farms retreat further and further from the highway until both sides are only mile after mile of forest and vegetation without any landmarks at all. Here the daisies are already blooming. Around 1:25 my bladder was screaming for relief and when Pulaski came into view I decided on a brief stop, a wilted salad and exercise for my gluteus maximus.
Back on the road and on toward Watertown and Syracuse. As the vegetation retreats, soft rolling hills to the east indicate that there are more hills to be found and the terrain is gradually rising toward the east. The traffic gets denser as I close in on Syracuse and since I am a ?gawker? by nature, more interested in the local architecture, nature and the beasts of burden in the fields, I promptly miss my exit onto the I90 and my connection to the east. I knew that I was going the wrong way and took the next exit. I ended up in the southern part of Syracuse, in a dreadfully poor area. The houses were without exception in need of TLC; with gaggles of kids roaming the streets. I tried to ask for direction but the young men I approached did not even look at me. The obvious social discrepancies brought to mind something I had read many years ago and goes something like this:
There may be frugality which is not economy.
A community that withholds the means of education
>From its children, withholds the bread of life, and starves their souls.
Finally I got back on and found my I90 exit. Next came a very long haul along the 90 (affectionately known as the Throughway) until I hit the town of Amsterdam and I got off to follow a secondary road (67) to Saratoga Springs. Saratoga is an elegant town with a 19th. century flair. It is a most beautiful area with hills and dales and the most spectacular examples of early, mid and late Victorian architecture. These old homes are huge with turrets and fretwork, porches and balconies and all of them clad in narrow wood siding and painted in every shade of white. I guess wood was a building material that was cheap and available in excess. The scenes invoked pictures of ladies in white lace twirling their parasols, sipping ice tea and nibbling on cucumber sandwiches.
The houses built around the turn of the century are usually much smaller and generally more non-descript. I found few brick or stone dwellings.
In Saratoga Springs I took the wrong turn again and a burly State Trooper pointed me in the right direction. By this time I had long given up jotting down times of arrival. I was getting tired and there was still a day?s trip ahead of me, according to my map.
This was definitely the scenic route, not to be taken if you are in a hurry. I cursed Google, but I mustn?t have set my parameters right, because there is indeed a faster route, as I discovered later. Anyway, the roads are well maintained, but they are up and down, curving from gentle to hair-pin 180 degrees. All I really wanted was to look intently at all the sights, but I had to keep my concentration and my nose on the road. Finally, around 7:20 I rolled into Castleton and the B & B I was booked into.
Even though I was damn near exhausted, I was nevertheless overwhelmed by the beauty of my home away from home. There was the original Cape Cod style home built in the 1740s, adjacent to which was the Confederate addition with high ceilings and another Cape Cod style addition dating to the turn of the 20th. Century. This again was joined by a breezeway to what is now a 2 car garage. The Confederate portion has a large covered porch off the sitting room . There is also what used to be a sizable driving shed and a huge horse barn at the back of the property. To the south one can enjoy a good size lap pool and pool house bordered by shrub roses. The grounds are generously planted with all sorts of perennials and everything is simply spic and span and a feast for the eye. The interior is painstakingly restored to its respective period and furnished accordingly. As a bonus, I was given lots of kisses, Hershey kisses by the bedside, dog kisses whenever I returned and finally a reserved lick by the black house cat.
And then I slept like a dead log.
The next day after a long swim in the pool with a big yellow retriever fretting over me, I went to explore the town. It is not very big, but boy, it has some impressive mansions along the main drag. Much money must have been made through mining and logging in the olden days. There is also a College in town and grand Churches everywhere.
One of the Churches had been converted to a Gallery/Home by a Sculptor by the name of Farrow. I was told that he is the brother of Mia Farrow, the actress. He produces beautifully whimsical figures and other critters. It is hard to believe that one can create such delicacy in steel, brass and bronze. His prices were definitely out of my league.
The landscape is reminiscent of the mountainous regions of Bavaria, Austria, France, Switzerland, Croatia and Costa Rica simultaneously, if that is at all possible. When one goes for a stroll along a country road, the nose is overwhelmed with the sweet fragrance of freshly cut hay, sweet clover and just an abundance of fresh air. The powers must have had an extremely good day when they created Vermont. The emerald green hills nearby are back-dropped by the hazy blue mountain ranges of the Adirondacks in the far distance.
One day I went to see the Marble Museum in Proctor, which is located slightly north-east of Rutland. I never knew that Vermont was and still is a huge producer of top quality marble in the US, and that marble in that region comes in a great variety of colours. This town has curbs of white marble and the local Cathedral is entirely made of white marble. It must be colder than hell in there in the winter. Over all it was really interesting and I spent more time than I had anticipated. They also have the largest collection of marble samples in the world and some of the marble is now extinct, meaning that the respective mines are empty.
That afternoon I also went to visit the Slate Museum in Granville. Unfortunately it was under construction, but I got the gist of the importance that slate played in the region. The majority of old homes still proudly show off their slate roofs and some of the old barns, although leaning and bent in the knee, still have almost undamaged roofs. Today it is perhaps the most expensive material to be used for roofing, which is understandable considering the amount of manual labour involved.
It was also interesting how intricately immigration of foreign labour was tied to the prosperity of these mines or pits and their Italian, Welsh, Jewish, Slavic and Irish descendents are still living in the area. The hardships must have been tremendous and I have nothing but respect for the waves of people braving everything in their pursuit of hope.
The last day I spend on the beautiful covered porch totally engrossed in a book. I had the whole house to myself and it was truly relaxing. Just think, no phone, no pager, no fax, no cooking, and washing, simply nothing to do but indulge my every whim. That felt soooooooooooo good.
My trip home was a heck of a lot shorter, once I was enlightened by the locals as to which route a sane person takes, when travelling a great distance.
All in all I put 2,021 kilometres on my little car and I must say that my Tibby simply loved taking curves in Vermont and I gave it an affectionate pat on the hood once I was home.
Now you can pull up Google and when you see the names on the map you will have a bit of an idea what the places look like.
Well, if you are still reading this, you deserve a medal.
Let me start. I left Sunday at 8:45 in the morning from a point in south-eastern Ontario, 1 ? hours later than I had planned. The sky was a brilliant cerulean blue, with just a few cotton balls here and there. It was already hot enough to turn the AC on in the car. Trees and fields were covered in every shade of fresh spring green and the traffic was sparse. I was singing ?It?s a wonderful world? at the top of my lungs, knowing that I would not insult anyones ears.
At 9:40 I hit the Kings Highway (401) and turned east and by 10:00 am I passed Port Hope to my left. There were wide stretches of wild Phlox in shades of purple and lilac along the highway. After a while the road become monotonous and I indulged in playing ?take the lead? with a little black Beamer. It was almost like a ballet in slow motion of two projectiles traveling at 130 km per hour. Oh, the wonder of technology. As we got close to Kingston and the traffic increased, I waved a mental fair well to the Beamer and started to drive like the ?mature woman? that I am supposed to be.
By 11:10 I passed Kingston on my left and here and there Lake Ontario or the beginning of the St. Lawrence River glinted and sparkled through the vegetation. At this point the road had to be blasted through the beginning of the Canadian Shield and one can view cubistic walls of cinnamon coloured granite rising on either side of the Highway. There are truly a thousand islands here; they are glacial boulders, covered by forest and they harbour some of the most expensive real estate around. At 12:00 noon I had passed the bridge into the US. I lied to the border patrol about my travels purpose, trying to keep a straight face. They wanted to know the name of my contact and I almost said ?Jane Doe?. Yikes!
The flora does not change at all, but after a while the farms retreat further and further from the highway until both sides are only mile after mile of forest and vegetation without any landmarks at all. Here the daisies are already blooming. Around 1:25 my bladder was screaming for relief and when Pulaski came into view I decided on a brief stop, a wilted salad and exercise for my gluteus maximus.
Back on the road and on toward Watertown and Syracuse. As the vegetation retreats, soft rolling hills to the east indicate that there are more hills to be found and the terrain is gradually rising toward the east. The traffic gets denser as I close in on Syracuse and since I am a ?gawker? by nature, more interested in the local architecture, nature and the beasts of burden in the fields, I promptly miss my exit onto the I90 and my connection to the east. I knew that I was going the wrong way and took the next exit. I ended up in the southern part of Syracuse, in a dreadfully poor area. The houses were without exception in need of TLC; with gaggles of kids roaming the streets. I tried to ask for direction but the young men I approached did not even look at me. The obvious social discrepancies brought to mind something I had read many years ago and goes something like this:
There may be frugality which is not economy.
A community that withholds the means of education
>From its children, withholds the bread of life, and starves their souls.
Horace Mann
An appeal to the Citizens of Massachusetts,
On Behalf of their Public Schools.
Anno Domini 1840
An appeal to the Citizens of Massachusetts,
On Behalf of their Public Schools.
Anno Domini 1840
Finally I got back on and found my I90 exit. Next came a very long haul along the 90 (affectionately known as the Throughway) until I hit the town of Amsterdam and I got off to follow a secondary road (67) to Saratoga Springs. Saratoga is an elegant town with a 19th. century flair. It is a most beautiful area with hills and dales and the most spectacular examples of early, mid and late Victorian architecture. These old homes are huge with turrets and fretwork, porches and balconies and all of them clad in narrow wood siding and painted in every shade of white. I guess wood was a building material that was cheap and available in excess. The scenes invoked pictures of ladies in white lace twirling their parasols, sipping ice tea and nibbling on cucumber sandwiches.
The houses built around the turn of the century are usually much smaller and generally more non-descript. I found few brick or stone dwellings.
In Saratoga Springs I took the wrong turn again and a burly State Trooper pointed me in the right direction. By this time I had long given up jotting down times of arrival. I was getting tired and there was still a day?s trip ahead of me, according to my map.
This was definitely the scenic route, not to be taken if you are in a hurry. I cursed Google, but I mustn?t have set my parameters right, because there is indeed a faster route, as I discovered later. Anyway, the roads are well maintained, but they are up and down, curving from gentle to hair-pin 180 degrees. All I really wanted was to look intently at all the sights, but I had to keep my concentration and my nose on the road. Finally, around 7:20 I rolled into Castleton and the B & B I was booked into.
Even though I was damn near exhausted, I was nevertheless overwhelmed by the beauty of my home away from home. There was the original Cape Cod style home built in the 1740s, adjacent to which was the Confederate addition with high ceilings and another Cape Cod style addition dating to the turn of the 20th. Century. This again was joined by a breezeway to what is now a 2 car garage. The Confederate portion has a large covered porch off the sitting room . There is also what used to be a sizable driving shed and a huge horse barn at the back of the property. To the south one can enjoy a good size lap pool and pool house bordered by shrub roses. The grounds are generously planted with all sorts of perennials and everything is simply spic and span and a feast for the eye. The interior is painstakingly restored to its respective period and furnished accordingly. As a bonus, I was given lots of kisses, Hershey kisses by the bedside, dog kisses whenever I returned and finally a reserved lick by the black house cat.
And then I slept like a dead log.
The next day after a long swim in the pool with a big yellow retriever fretting over me, I went to explore the town. It is not very big, but boy, it has some impressive mansions along the main drag. Much money must have been made through mining and logging in the olden days. There is also a College in town and grand Churches everywhere.
One of the Churches had been converted to a Gallery/Home by a Sculptor by the name of Farrow. I was told that he is the brother of Mia Farrow, the actress. He produces beautifully whimsical figures and other critters. It is hard to believe that one can create such delicacy in steel, brass and bronze. His prices were definitely out of my league.
The landscape is reminiscent of the mountainous regions of Bavaria, Austria, France, Switzerland, Croatia and Costa Rica simultaneously, if that is at all possible. When one goes for a stroll along a country road, the nose is overwhelmed with the sweet fragrance of freshly cut hay, sweet clover and just an abundance of fresh air. The powers must have had an extremely good day when they created Vermont. The emerald green hills nearby are back-dropped by the hazy blue mountain ranges of the Adirondacks in the far distance.
One day I went to see the Marble Museum in Proctor, which is located slightly north-east of Rutland. I never knew that Vermont was and still is a huge producer of top quality marble in the US, and that marble in that region comes in a great variety of colours. This town has curbs of white marble and the local Cathedral is entirely made of white marble. It must be colder than hell in there in the winter. Over all it was really interesting and I spent more time than I had anticipated. They also have the largest collection of marble samples in the world and some of the marble is now extinct, meaning that the respective mines are empty.
That afternoon I also went to visit the Slate Museum in Granville. Unfortunately it was under construction, but I got the gist of the importance that slate played in the region. The majority of old homes still proudly show off their slate roofs and some of the old barns, although leaning and bent in the knee, still have almost undamaged roofs. Today it is perhaps the most expensive material to be used for roofing, which is understandable considering the amount of manual labour involved.
It was also interesting how intricately immigration of foreign labour was tied to the prosperity of these mines or pits and their Italian, Welsh, Jewish, Slavic and Irish descendents are still living in the area. The hardships must have been tremendous and I have nothing but respect for the waves of people braving everything in their pursuit of hope.
The last day I spend on the beautiful covered porch totally engrossed in a book. I had the whole house to myself and it was truly relaxing. Just think, no phone, no pager, no fax, no cooking, and washing, simply nothing to do but indulge my every whim. That felt soooooooooooo good.
My trip home was a heck of a lot shorter, once I was enlightened by the locals as to which route a sane person takes, when travelling a great distance.
All in all I put 2,021 kilometres on my little car and I must say that my Tibby simply loved taking curves in Vermont and I gave it an affectionate pat on the hood once I was home.
Now you can pull up Google and when you see the names on the map you will have a bit of an idea what the places look like.
Well, if you are still reading this, you deserve a medal.
ray:
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