If we stay in one place too long, Lucinda gets restless and wants to go adventuring. So yesterday, as the sun sunk over the horizon, painting the treetops gold, we packed up and got in the car.
We drove down roads we’ve never traveled and found that treasures were hidden there. They always are, if you’re eyes are open.
First we found a little cemetery, on the sharp curve of a country road. Tucked away between the woods and fields, it crept up on us. In fact, we drove past it at first and turned back.
Many of the graves were overgrown, hidden in the treeline or overwhelmed by lillies. And the light. The light was glorious.
We kept driving, going nowhere in particular. I purposefully turned left where I would normally turn right, plunging us into the unknown.
We hadn’t gone far when I spotted a sign. It said “covered bridge 2.8 miles.” Of course we had to go.
We found the bridge laid over a bubbling stream on a dirt road. A nearby monument told us it was the Robyville Bridge, the oldest surviving example of a Long Truss system used in a Maine covered bridge. A single glance told us it was creepy.
Alongside the bridge we found simple picnic area, where we rested before moving on.
Before we left, we stopped to take a photo of a nearby barn, abandoned to the fading sun and the ravages of Maine Winters.
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