Today, we’d visit Randolph, a few dozen miles away, where nephew Jeremy had recently purchased an historic old home in town. He was quite pumped about the needed renovations and the unique architectural qualities of the place. Originally put up by a banker or judge or other equally robust city father back around 1880, it featured 12 foot ceilings, fireplaces, various stairways and escape routes for the hired help, a spooky old cobwebbed basement, and extremely flammable wiring,
First though, we had to get there. In Vermont, no matter how close some place may be to your current position, the actual paved road you need to get there is about seven times farther. To move the 8 miles from our base to Randolph, it was a 45 minute, 29 mile hike over hill and dale, mostly hill. First, we headed up over the nearest ridge, then down to the burg of Chelsea, where sister Helen had to make a bank deposit.
Leaving Chelsea behind, more over hill and dale ensued, until we reached Randolph, which seemed to be a cute little place. The sun was shining and the sky was blue, for a change. We toured the new digs, suitably impressed, and then the four of us went into town for some lunch at the local cafe, which had taken over the railroad station.
On the way home from Randolph, we passed by probably the best and most colorful landscapes so far on the trip as we crested one long ridge and found the far horizon finally with some color.
Helen wanted to show us Amanda’s house, and Melissa wanted to see the goats. We even saw the chickens. And Helen’s hubby Greg, AKA the Wild Man Of The Mountains