Day 5 - 9 September 2008

Skunked. Rained out. No opportunity to indulge in our outdoor trekking passion. We had, of course, anticipated this day. Even before leaving on this week's trip we had checked out the long-range weather prognostications. Noted the 10-day weather forecast for the Waterville Valley. So we were forewarned, armed with the knowledge that we'd have at least one day of all-day rain. Which still left us a week of extremely good late-summer weather.

So, given the morning confirmation on the weather channel we expected a surfeit of rain for this day. But still harboured the hope there might be a slim window of opportunity, to squeeze in at least one short trail hike under, perhaps, a light rain - the forest canopy shielding us sufficiently to accomplish at the very least a half-hour trek. Not to be.

We woke to a heavily-overcast morning, and constant drips leading to continual downpours. An emphatic, awfully close clap of thunder heralded the first event, while I was in the shower. Then it broke, no suspense here, with an immediate deluge. Glad we'd taken Button and Riley out a mere 15 minutes earlier, into an already-drenched atmosphere.

We were cozy and comfortable in the cottage, watching the rain pelting everything, unable to see the mountain backdrop, hidden behind an opaque veil of water washing the dust and atmospheric particulates of the past several sunny days earthbound. The two little goats in the pen across the way were snug and dry in their straw-strewn shelter.

Button and Riley patiently awaited their morning treats, post-prandial dog biscuits and, sigh, a carefully shredded Johnson's maple-flavoured sausage, sharing in some minute portion, our breakfast. Which we took our sweet time enjoying in the comfort and security within; the outer gloom ignored for the time being.

Local cantaloupe, large ripe bananas, eggs, sausage, toast and tea/coffee. Reading and commenting to one another in respect of items featured in The New York Times of the day before. No particular hurry, after all. We'd enjoy our leisure and the pleasure of consuming good food, waiting out the rain.

The break we waited for simply did not materialize. Nature was incomprehensibly adamant; her rain-event took precedence over our desires and expectations. The lull we anticipated was not to be. Fine, we'd settle down to read, to talk and winkle out the story behind the story, to revel in our intimate companionship of vintage dimensions.

By noon it was clear that the rain would be unrelenting. We'd proceed to Plan B. This was the obvious opportunity to devote the afternoon hours to perusing and perambulating along Antique Alley, an ambitious drive from the cottage. Our way was clear; no time lost to lunch, for we never eat lunch, in any event.

We packed the few items we thought indispensable to the dogs' comfort; water, along with their carrying bags. A notebook and pen, rainjackets and a little sweater for Riley,and off we ventured. The car, in the process, gaining a primitive car wash, cleansing its outer skin of the previous day's accumulation of road-grime.

Both dogs, seasoned travellers, immediately assumed snooze positions. Rain clattered on the car roof, pummeled the landscape. Visibility was severely limited. And we wondered why it was that the U.S. never did get around to enacting vehicle legislation that would ensure American drivers could depend on all-time headlights, automatically turned on with the turn-over of the car engine, as a proven safety measure for all weather and driving conditions, as Canada does.

When visibility improved as we drove southerly, we could contemplate the billowing flumes of vapour rising in a steady-state of heavy mist from the mountain valleys seen from the highway. Vans, SUVs and commercial trucks sent up relentless sprays of fine aqua-essence in their wake, slathering our windshield. The misfortune of opting for an ordinary passenger vehicle rather than a gas-guzzling behemoth.

An impressive topography viewed through the watery lens of a heavy-rain event, the massive grandeur of the mountains appeared as ephemeral as though they represented a feverishly-imagined landscape of the mind. We wondered, idly, if any summiteers had got caught up there. Depending where they were, there were mountain-top huts with kitchens and bunk beds. We'd once got caught in a violent thunderstorm as we got to the top of Mount Moosilauke. You get wet, very wet, watch your footing with increased vigilance.

When we reached Concord we were within a short distance of our destination, a miles-long strip of haphazardly placed malls, each representing the livelihood of a collective group of purveyors of objects owing their allure to hand-made appeal, creative authenticity, superior materials and craftsmanship, and rarity - alongside pure aesthetic appeal. To qualify for inclusion in the collector-desired opinion and value-system, age and heritage round out the requisites.

Unfortunately, the reality is that most sellers of "antiques" know precious little of those qualifications. They tend to acquire and hoard for sale items they deem to be collectible, hoping for a quick turn-over in inventory and to realize a good profit. Most often these items exemplify 20th-Century junk, the flotsam of a disposable-oriented culture reflecting the inability of the greater population to recognize quality and originality of meritorious artistry.

Still, perusing the offerings affords us pleasant contact with invariably unpretentious and pleasant people, occasionally trade-knowledgeable. One vendor also sold blueberries he'd picked himself, and we availed ourselves of his generous pint for dessert, to round out this evening's menu. Our little dogs, each slung over our respective shoulders in their carrying bags, always elicit pet-lovers' comments and people speak fondly of their own pets, to us. Mostly dearly-departed.

We assess and occasionally admire paintings too pricey for our budget, when they appear on those rare and much-appreciated occasions. Glad we had the opportunity to admire them. Many American oils and watercolours we'd bought in the past, we later registered with the Smithsonian. As with porcelains, bronzes and other objects of intrinsic value; we're interested. We mentally shrug at the appearance of detritus among the valued objects.

After some initial enthusiasm and murmured exchanges between us, the decision went against committing to the European 19th-Century barnyard genre painting. Something; either the board it was painted on or that the canvass was adhered to, was warped, badly. I especially liked the brilliant colours; my husband, the art connoisseur, found fault with the technique; a pity.

The cold-painted Harlequin figure was attractive but a trifle clumsy, insufficiently articulated. But the netsuke, it was a fine piece, genuine to its period and a clear winner. The figure's kimono embellished minutely with infinite care dedicated to perfection of execution. It's that of a Buddha figure, albeit with a childlike bloom on its face; its beatific smile wishing all who look upon it peace and calm.

We had carefully scrutinized the contents of three group shops. The fourth was closed. In the past we'd bought excellent articles from all of them. I clutched the little ivory figure in my hand, as we drove back to the cottage. It felt smooth and cool, fit comfortably into my palm. The cherubicly chubby and bald head of the Buddha gently carved into its pacific attitude, right hand upright under its chin in prayer, left hand dangling a string of prayer beads.

The rain had stopped. The highway surface was beginning to dry. A Great Blue Heron lifted off from the Merrimack River, coasted across the highway, its long legs strung out behind.