A Beautiful Weekend

One hundred and fifty years or so ago, along a rural stretch of the Delaware River, all by hand, men built a mill from stone, mortar and wood.

To them it was useful. To us now, it is beautiful.

Time has worn the mortar away. It's as if nature knew just what to take, to expose the rich colors that lay underneath.


I spent a perfect weekend here enjoying wine and hold hands with the kindest man. All the time, I kept wondering if we were in Pennsylvania or France.
Colors of copper, slate and deep red in a random pattern. If we could miniaturize it, wouldn't this be the perfect stone backsplash in a rustic kitchen? 


Can you picture the families who spent time along the canal, carting grain from the barges, and milling it to feed their families? Maybe 150 years ago, a man and a woman stood on this very spot, holding hands too.
Why do we all love exposed stone.  There is something romantic in knowing this is centuries old.

I see the colors of France in the worn black iron, and the soft chipped red paint. I can feel his hand holding mine as we strolled past the garden gate.

Trails run along the river,  past country homes and gardens, that appear lost in time. The owners seem to enjoy the travelers who peer into their backyards.

It was a perfectly beautiful weekend in every way.