Laura started archery camp this afternoon, at Old Trail School in Bath, on Ira Road, just over the river past Riverview Road. I’d not been there before; nice campus.
I haven’t been that way into the valley since taking Hamilton to and from church every Sunday, and occasionally spending the three hours between enjoying the valley, the river and the herons. Sad Hamilton couldn't be bothered to stay in touch with the men who would underwrite his mission. Like his father, I agree the structure and direction could only benefit him, as much as proselytizing turns my stomach. Now he wants sent to college, and his dad says “Get a job.” I suppose he’s waiting for a really good job for a summa cum laude high school graduate to come up the steps and knock.
Metro Parks has an archery range on the way to Old Trail, and we stopped there to show Laura what a range looks like. No targets were up; I suppose because the range wasn't booked for the afternoon. However, the posts the targets hang on are there and all the backstops.
As we left I said she’ll know what she’s looking at this afternoon. “Yes,” she replied, and I also know the string goes toward my nose!”
I dropped her off in a classroom; I bet they start with theory. “Only William Tell and Douglass Fairbanks shot arrows over the shoulder. The string goes toward your nose.”
I opted to wander the valley while I waited. When I picked her up I learned there is an up and down to a bow, and it’s necessary to bend the elbow of the arm holding the grip, else the string will thwang you on the forearm. I do recall that from gym classes in college. She will most certainly go back tomorrow.
I drove down Ira to the end, which is not the end, but where the road is closed because no one has enough money to put it back together again. Since the only landowner is the national park, it’s their problem.
In the order in which I took them:
Impatiens around a mail box
I'll be. Hale Farm. I'd forgotten it's on Ira Road, past Old Trail.
It's a sort of living history place now. Admission charged.
The Hale House, but you can bet not the "homestead." Took some money to put up such a house.
Ditch lilies, brown eyed Susans, and I think, phlox.
A barn at a private home on the way down Ira.
The Covered Bridge!
It was on our way to Aunt Laura and Uncle Frank when I was a child.
There was a sign with clearance over the cross beams.
Ira Road makes a sharp right under the bridge.
Drivers had to blow a horn to see if another driver might be in the bridge.
It's part of the Towpath Trail now; not a road.
Looking at these beams and timbers, I doubt it is the bridge of my childhood. Too new.
Part of the rewritten history of the valley, courtesy of the National Park.
On the other hand, another generation can look at and understand a covered bridge.
The river under the bridge and
the origin of one of Dad's favorite remarks as we passed through the bridge.
"Mary (an artist friend) sat in the river and painted the bridge."
"Did she have a ladder?"
"No. She sat in the river and painted the bridge."
Along the river bank.
On the way back up the road.
I cut off the openwork metal piece on top of the church.
On the Hale Farm property, one of the buildings moved to the site to emulate early 19th century life.
Must be private property.
I believe this barn and the next are on Old Trail School property.
Altogether too precious, and that's not a compliment.
Raspberries along the parking lot, waiting for Laura.
I left them for the birds.