Earlier this year … on my 33rd wedding anniversary to be exact… Him Indoors and I traveled to Colonial Williamsburg. I was on the roster for the annual garden conference. In my book, that has been, and remains, one of the highlights of the garden year, and I’m not just saying that for obvious reasons. They have always attracted top notch speakers (ahem…) and the focus is on practical gardening. But given the location, garden history gets a look in, too.Yay!
It was fab. The whole thing. We were staying at the Williamsburg Inn, which is the sinecure of homely elegance. Imagine please. You walk through the door and the staff (oh the staff!) say “Welcome home.” It may sound corny, but when you travel as much as I do, it’s terrific. The room was not palatial, but who needs palatial when there is room to kick your shoes off, read the paper, noodle on the internet and NOT have to do it from a supine position on the bed. The bathtub is 6 ft long. And nicely deep. Need I say more? I suppose the only gripe would be the food, which comes from central casting…or kitchen…with a few exceptions. But, when you get to sit on the Inn’s terrace and wallow in the peace and quiet. Who cares? We weren’t there for the grub. But I do recommend the Spa…
I won’t dwell on the excellence of the garden symposium: if you’ve been, you’ll know, and if you haven’t you ought. The thing was, as Him Indoors and I shambled around…we walked everywhere…we delighted in the tranquility. There was NO PIPED MUSIC on the street. I mean! Piped Musak in elevators is bad enough — trapped with the wailing of some godforsaken wannabe rock star — but to be bombarded by it as you walk along a public thoroughfare (okay, malls are privately owned, so they are fully responsible for this wretched noise pollution) is more than a body should have to bear. SHUT UP!
Time out. Deep cleansing breath.
No matter what your generation (or demographic), there is a music track for you. But, these days, when we are all so besotted by knowing where our food comes from and what noxious additives are going into our bodies, spare a thought for the old lugholes. Our auditory sense is being assaulted day in, day out.
Enough I say. Musication without representation! Time for a revolution, methinks.