On a recent walk from the inn down to Main Street, past Lullie Lane and Smith Hill, I discovered the raspberry bushes that line the sidewalk along the way. Branches heavy with ripened fruit sagged nearly down to the ground. The morning air is cool and moist and the sunrise golden as pure mountain honey.
Heralding my approach from the top of a tall forgotten locust, the local birds chirp wildly, sounding the warning of an approaching stranger. Ahead I recognize a pyramid shaped rock – a miniature monument – perched deliberately upon another stack of rocks, placed there by another passerby.
Cross the tracks and past the Purple Onion, I drop my quarters into the coin slot – clink, clank – the door cranks open and I extract my copy of the daily news. Securely stuffed under my arm, I make my way back up the hill. Back to the inn, where happy guests munch on crunchy bits of bacon and Baked Apple French Toast.
Bob Dylan had it right when he said, “You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.” It is already a beautiful morning at The Oaks Bed and Breakfast and a splendid day to stroll down to Main Street.