Vermont is my birthright. People there are happy and content. They belong to themselves, live within their income, and fear no man. —Calvin Coolidge
The town of Grafton, not far from the Connecticut River in southeastern Vermont, makes you wish you possessed a lexicon of "charm." A visitor trying to sum Grafton up is left helpless before the task of distinguishing between views equally lovely, antique houses equally graceful, church steeples equally eloquent against the star-shot night sky. Grafton is something of a handsome cliché, an archetype of the New England village. Yet it is no lavish fossil, like Williamsburg, Virginia. Real life goes on in Grafton. Real people live there (some 600 of them). Their ancestors are buried in the cemetery at one end of the village, and are remembered on the war memorial—which covers all the wars that this country has fought, from the Revolution to Vietnam—at the other. In between is The Old Tavern, a carefully restored early-nineteenth-century stagecoach inn that features a fine restaurant, charming (that word again) period-style rooms, and long verandas lined with green-wicker rocking chairs. There my wife and I fetched up, at the start of a recent visit, to lay plans about what to do in Grafton.
The Old Tavern (whose rates are $50-$120 for rooms in the main building and $105-$320 for entire houses nearby) makes provision for riding, biking, billiards, tennis, table tennis, platform tennis, hiking, swimming, shuffleboard, sledding, and (at its ski-touring center on the outskirts of town) cross-country skiing. Nine ski resorts are within an hour's drive. Chess and checkers are available against emergency. Yet this menu of distractions, rich and varied as it is, is somehow not the point of Grafton. "People who come up here asking what they can do are probably in the wrong place," one longtime resident told me. Grafton is a place to be. In the last two weeks of September and the first two weeks of October, the densely and deciduously wooded hills surrounding Grafton do their ineffable best to exceed the limits of the lexicon of beauty. While the eye feasts on the scene, the ear rests. There are only three paved roads in and out of Grafton—the others are gravel—and so there is little street noise. A dog barks, a screen door yawns open and shut, an old man on a wicker rocker sighs in his nap, and the quiet framed by these sounds is, to quote a townswoman, "as balm to the soul."
Our first evening in Grafton we liberally soothed our souls in the ambient balm. It worked wonders, and its effect was not a whit diminished by the generous dinner (a chutney spread and crackers, a delicious soup made of Grafton cheddar cheese, a superior pheasant, and a delicately sugared wedge of apple pie) and the several samples of the excellent local ale (Catamount, made in White River Junction) that we enjoyed under a copy of Reynolds's portrait of Samuel Johnson in the large dining room of the inn. After dinner we took a walk on the gas-lamp-lit main street, and it occurred to me that the people in the houses we passed must grow tired of the sight of middle-aged couples, the women in high heels, the men in city shoes, walking by their doorways holding hands. But romance is the subtext of Vermont, after all, and perhaps the locals take the general air of connubial contentment as recompense for winter. We got back from our walk just in time to hear one of the innkeepers give a recital of Renaissance lute music on his bulbous, beautiful instrument. It was exquisite, and the setting—the restored raw-timbered barn that, replete with a giant fireplace and a cozy bar, functions as the lounge—had a spectral, candle-lit appeal of its own.
The next morning we rented two wide-tire, soft-seat bikes and set off up Route 35 to the neighboring town of Chester, seven Vermont miles away. Grafton being in the cleft made by the narrow Saxtons River, the road out of town was steep going at first, but soon it leveled off, and for much of the remaining way we were in fact going downhill, sometimes at a speed that seemed to rival that of the rare passing car, which more often than not was a Saab, the state car of Vermont. The road is smooth, for the most part, and lined on either side with lush forests, rolling fields, and the purgatorial pastures—stump-riddled, rock-bordered—of the Vermont farmer. At the bottom of one very long hill we saw a dirt road off to the right. We pedaled up the road until a dog barked, and beheld a red-brick colonial farmhouse that, along with its pastoral setting, has probably not changed in two hundred years. It was an admirable example of what one writer has called "the social museum that is rural Vermont."
Chester boasts several art galleries, a large bookstore, a row of grand old houses, and a number of inns. With rain clouds threatening our progress, and the memory of Catamount ale still fresh on my lips, we decided to stop for lunch at the Inn at Long Last, which sits right in the center of town, just behind the narrow village green. The food—roast-chicken and fried-vegetable sandwiches—was delicious, the ale sustained the burgeoning reputation of Catamount, and the coffee was exceptionally flavorsome. The cavernous lobby of the inn was a good place to sit and read and listen to piped-in classical music while waiting for the rain to stop. It was in the lobby that we met the inn's most interesting feature—its owner, Jack Coleman.