14000 miles, a carriage and two women

by Frances S. Howe

Before we got to Jefferson Highlands, we suddenly recognized a pleasant place where we camped several years ago, in a large open yard, facing the mountains. Once more we asked permission, which was cordially granted, with assurance we were remembered. In the hour and a half we were there, we kept watch of the clouds as we were writing in the buggy. They had threatened all the morning, and now we could distinctly follow the showers, as they passed along, hiding one mountain after another. They passed so rapidly, however, that by the time we were on our way again, the first ominous clouds had given way to blue sky, and before long the showers were out of sight, and the most distant peak of the Presidential range was sun-glinted. The bluish haze, which so marred the distant views, entranced the beauty of the outlines and varying shades, when so close to this wonderful range. Later in the afternoon the sun came out bright, and the “ridgepole” and clouds were forgotten, as once more we reveled in the beauty and grandeur of Mts. Washington, Adams, Jefferson and Madison, with the Randolph hills in the foreground. We know of no drive to compare with this drive from Jefferson to Gorham.

As we came into Gorham, we saw the first trolley since we left Fair Haven, Vermont, and had a glimpse of the Androscoggin River. The old Alpine House where we have always been was closed, but The Willis House proved a pleasant substitute.

Twenty miles from Gorham to Jackson, through Pinkham Notch, and we had forgotten the drive was so beautiful! Everything was freshened by the showers we watched the day before, and the mountains seemed nearer than ever. A river ran along with us over its rocky bed, the road was in fine condition, and we could only look, lacking words to express our enthusiasm. The little house in the Notch by the A. M. C. path to Mt. Washington summit, where the woman gave us milk and cookies, and the strange little girl had a “library,” was gone, not a vestige of anything left. We took our lunch there, however, as evidently many others had done. We had barely unharnessed, when a large touring car shot by, and we were glad the road was clear, for in many places it is too narrow to pass. We followed on later, and gathered wild strawberries, as we walked down the steep hills towards Jackson.

The showers evidently did not make the turn we made at Jackson for Glen Station, for here it was very dusty. We have stayed so many times in North Conway, that we proposed trying some one of those pleasant places we have often spoken of on the way. We drove by several, but when we came to Pequawket Inn, Intervale, we stopped with one accord. Somehow we know the right place when we come to it. This was another of those we note, and remember to make come in our “way” again. When we left in the morning our friendly hostess assured us that the lovely room facing Mt. Washington should always be “reserved” for us.

She gave us directions for Fryeburg, for having been by turn in Rhode Island, Connecticut, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Vermont and New Hampshire again, we wanted to complete the circuit of the New England States by driving into Maine. We left New Hampshire at Conway, and thought we took our mid-day rest in Maine, and remembering the hospitality of some years ago, were not surprised when a miss came from the house near by, and asked if we would not like a cup of tea. When we went later for a glass of water, we learned we were still in New Hampshire, and concluded hospitality was universal, and not affected by State lines.

We had not time to explore the “wilds” of Maine, but it was sufficiently wild and uninhabited where we did go. Many of the houses were deserted, and hotels were scarce. One night we had to ask to stay at a small country house. We knew they did not really want us, but when we told them how far we had driven, they quickly consented. Thinking we would appreciate it supper was served on china one hundred and twenty-five years old, after which a whole saw-mill was set in operation for our entertainment. Buried in the hills as we were, we could have “called-up” our friends in Boston, New York or elsewhere.

We were getting away from the mountains, but there were so many high hills, and one a mile long, that we did not miss them very much. We were in Maine; that was enough. The wooded roads were very pretty, too. We would walk up a steep hill, then get in the buggy, write a sentence or two, and out again for a walk down a pitch. In number, steepness and length of hills, Franconia, Crawford and Pinkham Notches do not compare with these drives. The roads being grass-grown for miles indicates that all tourists do not take our route. As we came into Springvale, we saw automobiles for the first time since we left North Conway.

As we drove on towards the coast, we were delighted to find it would come just right to spend a night at Green-Acre-on-the-Piscataqua, where we found so much of interest to us two years ago, and were greatly disappointed when we arrived at the inn, to find there was no possible way of caring for our horse, as the stable near the inn was closed. We did not want to go on to Portsmouth, and the manager of the inn assured us of good care for ourselves and horse, if we would go back to Mrs. Adlington’s cottage, which he pointed out to us on a hill up from the river. Before the evening ended we could have fancied ourselves on the piazzas of the inn, for the subjects that came up and were discussed by summer guests from New York, Philadelphia, Boston and Saco would have furnished a program for the entire season at the Eirenion. We were shown an ideal study in the cottage connected, where a book is to be written. Indeed, we seemed to be in an atmosphere of book-making, and again we were questioned until we confessed, and the “representative list” was materially increased.

Regrets for the inn were quite forgotten, and we felt we were leaving the Green Acre “Annex” when we said good morning to all the guests and went first to find Miss Ford in her summer study to secure a copy of her book, “Interwoven,” sure to interest us, after the enthusiastic comments.

We got our mail as we passed through Portsmouth, made a call at The Farragut, Rye Beach, and were invited to spend the night, but we had planned to go to Salisbury Beach, and thought best to go on. We took the boulevard, and were full of anticipation for the drive along the shore to Salisbury, via Boar’s Head and Hampton. Here we drove on the beach for a time, then returned to the boulevard, the beach flies becoming more and more troublesome, until our horse was nearly frantic. Our fine road changed to a hard sandy pull, and we were glad to get on the Hampton River Bridge. All went smoothly until we were nearly across the longest wooden bridge in the world, a mile, when obstructions loomed up, the trolley track being the only passable part. Workmen came forward, and said, rather than send us so many miles round, they would try to take us across. They unharnessed Nan, and led her along planks in the track, and put down extra planks for the buggy. We followed on over the loose boards. This difficulty surmounted, another soon presented itself. The boulevard ended, and the remaining two miles’ beach road to Salisbury was nothing but a rough track in the sand. We were advised to go round, though double the distance.