Breaking out from COVID-19 Confinement

Despite the COVID-19 pandemic spreading rapidly across the US, I had to get out of the house for some fresh air. I've only been out to dinner with one friend in about 3 weeks and although I missed seeing my friends, the countryside was what I craved more. A photographer buddy had wanted to go out exploring but we would have had to travel in separate cars to retain the 'social distancing' the government is demanding, a phrase I'm beginning to loath. A day out in separate cars with someone who doesn't want to talk on the phone because he will only text did not appeal, and thankfully he failed to get out of bed on time, so I was spared the ordeal. But once I'd had breakfast and relaxed with the cats over a huge mug of tea I jumped into Stanley and headed for the mountains.
The roads were quiet, few people were out socializing or exercising in the Shenandoah valley. But Skyline Drive had opened the park for free, encouraging hoards of city folk to stampede our quiet little town, causing panic among the locals that these strangers would infect us with the virus which
is naturally spreading faster in the DC and suburbs areas. There were huge queues of vehicles waiting to go into the park, a mass of DC, MD and even PA plates, a throng of people who, with all the restrooms closed in the park, would be leaving a huge mess to be cleared up, as they have done in the past. I was sad that I wouldn't be able to use the park after seeing photos posted early of overflowing parking lots. So much for keeping apart for health reasons.

I was content to drive along rustic roads, the window down so the sweet smells of spring could waft into the car. It was chilly, the skies grey and metallic, but Mother Nature had obviously thrown off her winter cloak and was beginning to paint the landscape with color. Forsythia bushes were abundant, golden flowers cascading to the ground, dandelion flowers were untwisting from tight buds, and bright green leaves sprouted from the damp woodland floor. I stopped by a small creek, its crystal clear water tinkling over rocks, olive mosses softly wrapped around stones and new watercress was abundant in the shallow stream. I wished I'd brought some bags to take some home but contented myself with chewing on a few peppery leaves.
After driving over the mountains in George Washington National Forest I pulled over at a trail that led to the Woodstock Tower. I had hiked a lower trail a couple of years ago and looked up at the construction and now thought investigating it would be a good idea. As I pulled over on the side of the road a couple walked to their vehicle and drove away. Wonderful, I would have the trail to myself.

It was lovely to be outside, even with the brisk winds up here on the mountain. I passed a lone cherry blossom tree and was happy to see the pink blooms, happier to be here rather than down in DC where the cherry blossoms were more prolific but currently not a wise place to be visiting. I'd heard that despite the Corona Virus there were still many visitors walking about the blossoms, ignoring the call for social distancing. I was content to be isolated and admiring these few flowers on the trail.

The observation tower is a steel construction, used for recreation and fire spotting, and although solidly built, it is very open and the wind was cold as I climbed to the top. The handrails were freezing, the steps and sides allowing the cold to blow through. At the top the metal floor had been daubed with ugly graffiti and I spotted a few padlocks hanging on the fence, initials scratched onto their surface.
The valley below appeared completely empty, the bare mountains on one side and the seven bends of the Shenandoah weaving through fields on the other. The clouds were like a pack of cotton wool that had been unrolled. I stood with my hands thrust deep in my pockets, wishing I had a hat and scarf. It felt a little strange to be here on my own as I thought about the masses invading the Skyline Drive, and I was glad not to be among them. Looking down from the 2000ft mountain top, I could see for miles and stood enjoying the solitude for a few minutes before the frigid breezes drove me back down. Descending the steps was more daunting than climbing up. I was acutely aware that I could easily tumble over the edge or slip down the steps. The metal shrieked and rattled as I worked my way down, the structure trembling underneath from either the wind or my movement, I wasn't sure. I was glad to reach the bottom and walk the trail back to the car.

Although the trail at first appeared drab and dull, bereft of life, closer inspection as I walked slowly revealed small yellow spice bush flowers, and then further along, pink witch hazel. Tiny buds of green and pink were sprouting along the branches while green fingers of new leaves and grasses poked through the dusty brown leaves on the ground.
Just as I clambered into my warm car, rubbing my cold nose, another car pulled up and people climbed out. Great timing, we were avoiding contact. I drove down the mountain cautiously, the road in places dropping steeply on one side, tight horse shoe bends making me slow to almost a walking pace. Driving back through tiny towns with little activity I eventually returned home, and retired to my sanctuary, unsure of how many trips outside I'd be able to make before the government calls for a total lock down.

Strasburg and a Sty

I found myself driving through Strasburg on Sunday, a beautiful bright day, a little breezy, but sunny and warm. With my windows rolled down I admired some of the town's older and more attractive buildings. I miss the ancient stone residences with mullioned windows from England, built centuries ago, but there are still some interesting structures over here, even if only a couple of hundred years old.

I had the sun shining directly into my lens whenever I wanted to take a photo, so some points of interest I had to give up on, but I greatly admired this grand home, (top), on one of the back streets, built about 1910, and was amazed to find photos of its interior online. Take a look! Bit too big for me, but gloriously restored, it's gorgeous.
Dosh House, built after 1778, has also been preserved and is now under the able stewardship of the Strasburg Guards, Sons of Confederate Veterans, and looking very maintained. They open it to the public periodically, I'll have to watch out for that. As I was about to pull out on to Rte 55, my nose was suddenly assailed with the wondrous aroma of bacon. My mouth immediately began watering and I flipped my head from side to side to find out where this tantalizing fragrance was coming from. A tiny brightly painted caravan was perched in front of a restaurant, and I remembered reading about it recently, but knowing that it hasn't began business yet, it therefore wasn't cooking bacon. I didn't discover where the succulent scent came from but it did remind me to make a mental note to come back and try The Pancake Underground once their frying pans hit the burners

I went up and down the road a few times before I realized that this was the house I'd been looking for, Hupp House, the oldest home in Strasburg, dated 1755.It has a 1937 sign at the front telling that it had been used as a fort in Indian attacks and a newer sign, seen in the photo, which was completely illegible. Thankfully, I found a blog which explained its history.

 

The house was in dire need of repair and is evidently lived in, 3 or 4 baby strollers folded up at the porch, a huge ashtray overflowing with cigarette ends, and equally full trash bins by the road side. The decorative woodwork was crying out for a new paint job. I would have liked to walk around the back and explore further but respected the inhabitant's privacy and kept away, very happy to notice that their neighbor's home and garden was a different story, a pretty cottage scene, and definitely worthy of a photo. Watercress was mentioned on Allen's blog and I had spotted that behind the house. Many of the creeks in this county have this leafy green growing and on my next trip out here, I'll bring containers and a cooler to pick some. lovely in a salad or cheese sandwich!
I then began driving to a battlefield site, now a park, and approached the tiny village of Fisherville.

I spotted a river with a road running alongside it and made a detour, delighted to discover waterfalls, which I clambered down to, and sat for a while on the rocks, enjoying the warm sun and the splashing water as it thundered by me. the banks were carpeted with tiny blue and white veronica flowers, green buds sprouted from branches. Spring had sprung, and I hoped it was here to stay.
I entered the tiny picturesque village of Fisherville and stopped on the bridge to take in the pretty scenery. Old wooden buildings dotted the green slopes, a vintage truck leaned inside an old barn, while a bubbling creek tumbled over smooth rocks, and clumps of watercress emerald green bobbed on the crisp clear water.

I stopped by an old mill building to take some photos, loving a line of concrete ducks that had been dressed up in spring clothing in a front yard. As I bent down to stand one up that had fallen over, an elderly gentleman in a vintage Camero pulled over, a huge grin on his face, as he declared while waving an arm, "Take as many photos as you want, We own these buildings!" I thanked him and he pulled away with another cheery wave. Just a short way up the road I stopped again when I saw him parked by a small pond, admiring a couple of Canadian gooses enjoying the spring weather. We both sat in our cars for a few quiet contented minutes watching the birds, not wanting to exit our vehicles and disturb their peaceful moment.
Just further down the road I saw a huge hog by a gate set back from the road. I drove by but then braked, thinking that I should really go back and say hello. And I was glad I did.

Mr Hog was standing by a shady sty and looking very proud of himself. I was so enamored with his expression that it was a few seconds before I realized the source of his joy. Tiny squeals made me move over and look down so that, down by his feet, I could see five, and then six, tiny piglets. They had just been born, their umbilical cords still attached. Mom was lying on straw in the shade, likely feeling very tired and showing no interest in me whatsoever. But Dad was grinning from ear to ear. I swear if I had handed him a cigar he would have smoked it, he was one extremely satisfied father. He snuffled his babies after posing for a couple of photos, very pleased with his new family. I didn't stay long, not wanting to upset the mom or cause her anguish with my presence. I congratulated Dad and went on my way.

I arrived at Fisher's Hill Battlefield, discovering that I was the only one here. The wind had picked up, feeling cold in my ears, but I decided to see what the trails in this park were like. I crossed over a small creek and walked through a beautifully made entrance with a heavy kissing gate. This is a relatively new park area of 179 acres where Gen. Jubal A. Early's army, already beaten and wounded from the Third Battle of Winchester the day before, tried to strengthen their position here but lost, outnumbered by nearly three to one. "Our position was naturally strong but our army was too small to man it." - Confederate Capt. Samuel D. Buck.

There was only about a mile of trails here so I followed them all, crossing fields spattered with the dried trademarks of previous grazing cattle. Walking up Ramseur's Hill, named after one of Jubal Early's division commanders, I noticed a tree which made me stop and stare. It appeared to have a soldier standing on a bough, his rifle held on his shoulder as he aimed at something in the distance. Right in the middle, see it? I finished my hike and began the drive back towards Front Royal, where a lazy evening would be spent with Rosie Lee and Tricksie Treat before another week of work would begin.

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.

Remote Rustic Ruins

After a stressful week at work, dealing with clients who possessed more chromosomes than brain cells, I decided some driving around back roads would, hopefully, prove to be therapeutic. I found myself out in WV, passing through small communities, and spotting more animals in fields than people on the streets. A sign outside a church reading, 'Most worries never happen', set me in a good mood, and I was nice and relaxed as I trundled small roads with very few vehicles passing me by. The sun was warm through my open window and a light breeze ruffled my hair. It was apparent that the farm animals were also enjoying this unexpected warm spell in February; I've never seen so many horses and cows laying down in their fields, evidently relishing the warmth, the horses were all on their sides, legs stretched out. I'd initially thought they were dead until I noticed more and more of them as the day passed.

 I found myself on a winding road and became a little concerned when I passed a rusting container in someone's front yard with 'Hatfields' daubed in black spray paint on the side. And then just a few yards further a road was named 'TNT Drive'. I was obviously in gun country and decided it would be best if I stayed in my car, despite not having seen a single person. Maybe they were all hiding behind hedges or abandoned vehicles guarding the road with shotguns, my imagination was running riot. But then I saw a beat up old store with wonderfully weathered Coke signs on the side and had to stop for a photo. I got out of the car, leaving my engine running, and strolled to the side of the building with my camera. Then I walked to the front for a shot of the porch. It wasn't until I got close to the step that I realized a single light bulb was burning inside the store that I had assumed had been long abandoned. And then I heard deep, gruff men's voices.I'm afraid West Virginia's stereotyped reputation, (although terribly incorrect) suddenly fired my imagination causing me to experience a sudden momentary tight sphincter lapse, and I backed away as quietly and quickly as possible. I wanted so badly to walk through the door and investigate the interior but lacked the courage, imagining a crowd of men glaring at me as I invaded their discussion on hunting or scalping wayward nosey parkers. I silently retreated to the car.

Some good ole country music on the radio restored my confidence and I was soon singing along as I meandered the roads once more, passing a very angry rooster on the grassy verge, who gave me a contemptuous side eye glare. Pausing at a bridge with some eye catching rustic buildings, I leaned over the parapet to watch the gushing river, swollen by the recent rains, and then strolled across to an interesting farmyard. It wasn't until I was looking through the viewfinder of my camera that I noticed a huge cow, possibly pregnant, staring right at me. She advanced a few feet but wouldn't come to be petted, preferring to gaze curiously at me from the safety of her cluttered paddock. It was evidently deep in mud so she likely couldn't be bothered to trudge through it to find me empty handed and lacking in treats.

A while later I came upon a small settlement, mostly abandoned. A few houses were slowly being pulled to the ground by brambles and vines that were draped over them, like fingers pulling in a fishing net. I didn't venture inside any of them, I could see by peering through the maws of broken windows and doorways that the buildings were empty inside. Bereft of life now, this was likely a close knit neighborhood at one time. While driving down another empty road a huge slice of rock stuck out from a steep slope, narrow and thin. It was strange as there was no continuation of strata on the other side of the road, it was like a pocket door emerging from the mountain, a dragon's head with scales on its back peering out from the trees. Note the house perched at the very top, what a grand view.

Driving through Timberville, VA, I had to stop when I spotted this circus on the side of the road. Behind the bus were two smaller trucks, with 'MY FAMILY' and 'BROTHERHOOD' written on the them. They had decided to park the charabanc next to some huge blue metal bins marked 'CLOTHING', the kind that you dump your unwanted wardrobe items into for donation. There were stalls selling Trump merchandise but only a couple of people were showing any interest. Obviously this town's folk are mostly intelligent given how many people were present. I stood chuckling for a bit but then moved on, anxious to not have my photo taken in front of this charade.

Back on the rural lanes I came across this beauty, standing defiantly against the overcast sky, its beaten weathered boards striking in the sun's glare. It's so sad to see these homes in such disrepair, especially when they're so well built compared to the cheaply made constructions that are being thrown up so quickly today. I would have loved to live here in its hey day, sitting on a rocker, drinking a beer, while watching eagles soar overhead, or listening to rain falling on the tin roof of the porch.

I stopped at another tumbledown home, its entrance not in these photos. It had evidently been abandoned for a while and wasn't that alluring from the front, but around the back was an amazing barn. Thick solid struts supported weather distressed boards in beautiful aged brown and grey hues. One whole side of the structure had been replaced by wooden cable spool ends, it was incredible and what a great idea. I only looked inside briefly, the home had been trashed, mainly broken housewares and ratty clothing littering the floors. but I did like the shelf of old videos and the way the light fell on them. It wasn't until I was home and processing the photos that I realized one of the videos was of a royal wedding, though I don't know which one. It led me to ponder whether the family member had been British or was simply a huge fan of the royal family who wanted to record this.
As I started to make my way towards home I came across a front yard that I had to stop and admire. A miniature town had been constructed, the name Millersville on an old millstone. There was a church, doubling as a school house, because I saw a globe through one of the windows, a country store and what appeared to be a car repair shop. Each building was filled with memorabilia and antiques, the fronts of each also adorned with collections that must have taken years to accrue. A rusty tractor and wooden windmill completed the scene. I would have loved to talk to the owner but nobody was about, despite me standing on their road and taking photos. But what a delightful find to complete my weekend of meandering.