I regarded the weather from two different angles: from the aspect of being, as they say, under-the-weather, and from the window of our car as we drove around the north country yesterday enjoying the clear cloudless day, warm temperature and glorious foliage.

At a picnic area by one of the Connecticut Lakes, which are almost as far north as you can get in New Hampshire, I saw near naked people sun bathing in their lawn chairs, so unseasonably warm was the weather. I, trying to recuperate from some strange ailment, went down to the shingle beach and lay there fully clothed in the sun, listening to the lap, slap, lapping of the water on the shore only inches from my feet. It was very relaxing, to say the least, and I didn’t have to worry about the tide coming in. My husband opted to nap in the car; he was doing the driving, and it is quite a distance to the Connecticut Lakes from our comparatively urban home in Haverhill, NH. He suggested nap time.

I did look up shingle beaches in the encyclopedia to see if I would be correct in using that term for those delightful, flattened shale stones that covered the shore to a possible depth of glacial scouring, and I think I am. The term usually refers to pebbly beaches, such as are found on the Riviera. Those shingle beaches are bumpy and impossible to walk on with bare feet, much less to lie on comfortably. The stones I lay upon lay so flat, being only a fraction of an inch thick, and each about the size of a quarter or half-dollar though not all round, some were oblong. They overlapped and underlapped each other in such a way that by only a minimum of vigorous and judicious squirming one could create a cozy nest for oneself.

I looked around to make sure no one was observing me, and did just that. In a few seconds I was firmly and comfortably supported by a smooth bed of millions of thin flat stones. I used my jacket for a pillow and hoped no one would wander by, especially with dogs, which are, as you know, prone to slobber on pronate and easy to reach victims. But I rested there, unmolested, for a good half hour. It was wonderful. Only the sun on its westward downward slope made me rise.

(It’s possible that these stones could be marketed as a sleep-aid and mattressed up for sale by some doughty entrepreneur, but think of the shipping cost.)

Leaving my bed of stones (those lucky Neanderthals), we then proceeded to Colebrook and to a boulangerie called Le Rendezvous. That was a delicious find. We bought fresh baked bread and a whole grain baguette. Some chocolate of course, it was French, after all. The owners of this boulangerie have an interesting story. Let’s see if I can remember to recount it for you in my next installment.

About Eleanor Ingbretson

Native New Yorker. Transplanted to New Hampshire years ago, but still considered a flatlander by the neighbors. Writer of fantasy and mystery and whatever else takes my fancy.

Posted on October 8, 2016, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.

  1. Eleanor Ingbretson

    It was an extremely pretty place and you may borrow it whenever you need it. I’m glad Oxbow, Woodbury and Poughke are all clustered together so we can appropriate settings from each other.


  2. You not only made me see what you saw, you made me want to go there. Good writing! May I steal this site for some future Oxbow novel?


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