Lorn in Luray

The sun was out, warming up the chilly start to the day as I headed out towards Luray, who were hosting their first ever Mardi Gras celebrations.

I was amazed at how empty the roads were. Even though this isn't a busy part of the state, there are always a few cars tagging behind me or cruising in front, but today it was an open road with just me on the tarmac, leisurely rolling along while listening to the audio book, Thirteen Moons by Charles Frazier. I had to stop and take a photo of the beautiful Shenandoah, it's green water slowly flowing through a dormant landscape, bare trees that arching from the banks, and once again I was incredulous as I stopped the car, strolled to the bridge's parapet, and then got back in the car, all without seeing another vehicle. It was as though I had the world to myself, and a little disconcerting, although I did appreciate the complete silence as I peered through the camera viewfinder, the sun warm on my back and shoulders.
I continued my drive to Luray, stopping to pick up an elderly hitch hiker who had leaned his thumb into the road as I approached, about 2 miles from town. The acrid bitter stink of cigarettes filled the car, the smell permeating from his clothes and peppered grey hair and beard, but he was friendly and we chatted until I dropped him off outside his friend's apartment. Turning around I drove onto Main Street, once again astonished at the lack of people. There were no signs or banners proclaiming the celebration either, another surprise, but I suddenly spotted a black and white stilt walker and parked the car immediately in one of the many empty parking spaces, thankful to have found some action, however brief.

She was easily 8ft tall, her lithe legs extended by tall wooden stilts, her skill so apparent that it seemed the legs were all her own. She willingly posed for my camera then began gyrating, spinning a hoop around her waist. A couple of other store staff were also watching and we all applauded loudly, but there was no general public, no other spectators. I looked about wondering if maybe we'd got the date wrong.

This one little shop had made a token effort to show it was celebrating Mardi Gras, with some beads draped over a branch while an elderly gentleman sat, his chair in a sunny spot, bashed rhythmically on a wooden drum. I looked about, my eyes searching for a crowd, or posters, or anything purple, gold and green, but saw nothing. Only a couple of other people were walking Main Street. Where was everyone?
I walked up Main Street but saw only a couple of store windows that had a few Mardi Grass items on display, a couple of masks laid down on green felt, some beads overflowing from party cups, and a huge plastic German Shepherd wearing a mask with beads slung about his neck.But he even appeared a little doubtful. Only a couple of other pedestrians were on the sidewalk but I saw nobody in costume. I hadn't been expecting a full blown parade, but had assumed some colorful folk from the town would be exhibiting Mardi Gras outfits and had certainly hoped for some music.
I went back to my car, disappointed, and drove up towards the art gallery which was supposed to be celebrating this occasion. There was a small group of people outside and I thought I glimpsed a flash of a jester as I parked the car, and so walked across. It was a building I'd not visited before so was definitely worth a look around.

Inside I found my jester, laughing with a couple of friends, and he sat for a photo, emphatic that I got his socks in the picture. I was happy to oblige. But apart from his wonderful attire, I saw no reference to the holiday the town was supposed to be celebrating. But since I was here I walked about the art gallery, a large warehouse space filled with local art. Huge windows were open allowing in fresh air,  yet it was chilly so I didn't linger too long.

There were paintings in various mediums, with sculptures made from wood or other household products, including a skirt of Wonderbread wrappers. A couple of musicians played to a scant audience under a gas heater, which was a shame since they harmonized beautifully together. They deserved a bigger crowd. I walked over to Hawksbill Trading Company, again almost empty, and found a small workshop tucked away in a room upstairs, three people bent over a table, silently engrossed in making Mardi Gras masks from card, beads, glitter and paint. I stood in the doorway for a few seconds watching them absorbed in their work then decided against joining them, reluctant to break their concentration. I needed a beer. So, my last visit was to Hopkins Ordinary Ale Works, a small brewery in Sperryville. Another drive on empty roads over the mountain dropped me into the tiny town where, after stopping to photograph an isolated old car, I actually found a crowd of people enjoying pints in the basement brewery and their beer garden. A guy from Front Royal was serving, who along with a local couple at the bar, sparked up a long conversation with me. It was wonderful to finally be with a fun group, enjoying banter and laughs over some excellent beer. I left with my spirits lifted and a bottle of their superb Saison Noire.