A Weekend to Remember
The other day I was listening to NPR. They were speaking about the history of Bretton Woods. I smiled to myself.
Peter loved to get on to the computer and discover interesting new places to go to or special places to dine. Being an attorney is sometimes intense and stressful, especially if you get too involved in the cases that you undertake, as Peter had a habit of doing. He was in need for a temporary break. Yes, at that point in time he definitely did. He pored over places we could go that were not too far from New York. He came across The Mount Washington Hotel at Bretton Woods in New Hampshire. He liked what he read and decided to book us for a long weekend there.
“Stella, how would you like go to New Hampshire for a long weekend?” he asked as he came out into the garden. I was sitting on my gardening stool in the middle of the flower beds with flats of seedlings that I intended to plant. I had never been a tidy gardener. No matter how hard I tried, I always seemed to end up being covered with mud and dirt. That day was no exception.
I looked up from what I was doing and asked, “Why?”
He took one look at my upturned face and grinned. “You look like such a sight! Why? Because we need a break and I found an interesting place to go. You’ll love it!”
That was not anything new. I loved everything we did together. So on the Friday morning of that weekend getaway he booked us for, we set off. It was the start of summer. The weather was delightfully pleasant. As we drove up into the mountains, I could feel him relaxing. There was a smile on his face, he hummed a tune. I joined in. Soon we were singing on top of our voices. The windows of the car were open. The air smelled of delicious, exhilarating mountain air, so different from the city air in New York. We sang and sang as we drove to our destination. Our voices drifted out of the window and travelled high into the mountains above us. Six or so hours later we arrived at our destination.
We loved the place from the first moment we set eyes on it. It was a vast castle like hotel on top of a hill. The tree lined winding road leading up to it seemed to rise to meet the hotel. The main building was surrounded with a columned wraparound porch. Each side of the building had a wing attached to it. The mountains framed it.
The story goes that this had been the home of an American heiress. She had married into British nobility. After her husband’s death she returned to New Hampshire and resided at Mount Washington to the end of her days. Several historical events occurred at Mount Washington. After WWII, Churchill and other world leaders met there to sign some important treaties. Other important dignitaries also visited Mount Washington Hotel as well. The building is filled with history and I love history!
We entered into a huge hall. At one corner was the reception desk. There was an elegant circular staircase that started as two staircases which turned into one as they descended to the grand centre hall.!On the ground floor there were several groupings of coffee tables, deeply cushioned armchairs and settees. Several tall French windows opened to a wraparound porch where more inviting seating arrangements were placed. The view was heady. Above us were the mountains. Below us was a sleepy little town that had never left the nineteenth century, nor even remotely entered the twentieth never mind the twenty first century.
There was a group of classical musicians who occupied another area of this big hall. That was the reason we were here at this time. This weekend the theme of the hotel was classical music . My thoughtful and kind and gentle Peter had planned this weekend just because of that. It was so perfect. As we breakfasted on the wraparound porch, the French windows were open and the divine music drifted out to soothe the senses. In the evening, we dined in the elegant dining room with more music. It felt blissful and wonderful. We walked about the grounds. We drove down to the village one rainy day. We parked and walked about arm in arm. The shops were quaint and old fashioned. They reminded me of the English villages of my youth. Nothing was modern. As we strolled about, we found a knitting shop. It was so many years since I saw a knitting shop! Nowadays you can’t find one for love or money. Usually I went to a handicraft store for my knitting needs. There was rarely anyone to ask for advice or suggestions, just busy sales people rushing about, saying, “If we have any, it would be in aisle x,” and quickly disappear around the corner before you had a chance to ask another question! Yet here we were in Bretton Woods in the perfect knitting boutique. I felt had gone back in time to thirty or so years ago. I looked at the woolen skeins of knitting wool arranged neatly in their cubby holes. Behind the counter stood a kind lady waiting patiently to serve me! I was delighted. I chose yarn for two projects. She suggested patterns. I turned to ask Peter what he thought of my choices. Peter was not like any other husband. He definitely had opinions about how I dressed and what I chose. Many were the times that I was in the dressing room of Lord and Taylor as he wandered through the floor, peering at the various clothes racks to pick dresses he thought would look good on me. He would bring them to the woman by the dressing room and ask her to have me try them on. Now, he smiled a pleased smile as he approved my choices. I remember once wearing a dress he had chosen. A lady commented at how beautiful it was. She spoke in Arabic. Peter always proclaimed that he understood not a word of the Arabic language, but there he was beaming with pleasure. ‘’Thank you,’’ he said proudly. ‘’I chose that dress for her myself!’’ he replied in English. Hah! So much for that proclamation!
It was relaxing walking about the village. We contemplated stopping by a tea shop but the rain became heavier. We headed to the car and drove back to the hotel. The musicians were still there. They were still playing classical music. Two comfy armchairs beckoned us to sink into them. We sighed a sigh of great contentment as we leaned back against them. I looked at Peter’s face. It was totally relaxed and on it was a look of utter sheer contentment. I smiled a pleased smile. This trip was such a good idea. A waiter passed by. We ordered two English teas. This was perfect! Perfect! We could hear the rain gently fall on the wraparound porch as we sat sipping our tea and nibbling at our pastries inside. The pitter patter of the raindrops companionably accompanied the music being played inside. As we sipped or tea and nibbled at our cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches, we felt a sense of serenity seep into our beings.
For the rest of that divine weekend, we listened to heavenly music, we walked about, we dined, but best of all we created more beautiful memories.
As we drove back home that Sunday afternoon, we were totally relaxed. Peter was once more ready for whatever problems the court room presented him with in the coming weeks.
All these years later, I sit at the kitchen table, and look out of the window. I am not seeing what is out there. I am looking back on that beautiful weekend at Bretton Woods. I smile to myself as I fondly recall those precious memories. I get up to pour myself another cup of tea…