We haven’t used a road map in years. On this trip, MapQuest took us by Toledo instead of Cincinnati to Indiana. We returned by the same route.
This morning, just out of curiosity, I checked the Driving Directions and found that they would take us from Charleston, WV to Louisville, then up to Indianapolis. Was that because Google in the Sky keeps track and offers a variety or is it simply a crapshoot?
I-77 through Virginia and West By-Gawd Virginia may not be the best highway for the claustrophobic or agoraphobic because there are two l-o-o-o-n-g tunnels on the way. The state line is in the middle of one of them. You’re toolin’ along and all of a sudden you ’round a curve and there’s a massive mountain in front of you. You go right through that sucker.
Finally! Daylight ahead!
DB is not a sightseer, he’s a “Let’s get there-er” so we rarely do any sightseeing.
Part of our trip was on a state road, the Bob Evans highway. I wondered if it was the restaurant guy and whether the lovely, large New England style white frame farm house we passed might belong to the family. There was even a sign about a Bob Evans farm and museum. I didn’t press, since there remains in my husband’s past, an incident we refer to as The Bob Evans Saga.
Perhaps 25 years ago, on one of those cross-country drives with a sleepy wife, kids, dog, and the trusty Sears Turtle cartop luggage holder, he stopped at a Bob Evans Restaurant for coffee. Rather than take us inside for breakfast, he decided to run in and get something to-go. He came out juggling a bag of sausage biscuits and an assortment of juices, hot chocolates and coffees in a not-very-sturdy carrier. Just as he got to the car, the cardboard carrier collapsed and the contents of the cups soaked him.
He stood there a few seconds and then, completely out of character for him, he drop-kicked that bag of sausage biscuits across the parking lot. I still can’t believe he did that and probably, neither can he.
It has always seemed prudent to cross Bob Evans Restaurants off the list since then, so I didn’t press about a side trip to the farm.
Although we had thought about driving all the way back without stopping overnight, the foggy drive was wearing, so we stopped once again at the Brass Pineapple in Charleston, West Virginia. It is a Victorian residence, near the State Capitol building, with gracious hospitality, wonderfully snuggly beds, and delicious breakfasts. It is extremely quiet and restful.
DB had sent the B&B link to our son-in-law, who looked at the site and wanted to make sure that we stayed in The English Gentleman room, or, as he called it, The Man Room.
We didn’t. DB countered, however, that his manliness was intact, since we didn’t stay in The Hearts and Flowers Suite either.
If DB ever has a bout of insomnia, I’m driving him up there again, no matter which room is available. He slept like a rock, with no complaints about my snoring.
There were plenty of mountain ghosts along the route, which is what the icicles hanging from the mountain rocks look like to me.
DB even stopped at Tamarack on our return trip, a site featuring “the best of West Virginia.” It offers WV artisans a place to display and sell their work: an interesting assortment of furniture, quilting and knitting, paintings, carvings, books, basketry, canned goods, glassworks. . . all by West Virginians. It was neat to see their names and towns displayed on their works. One of the few “commercial” things on display was Fiestaware. Why?
Who knew it is made in West Virginia?
I hoped they had handspun yarn, but there were only finished knitted items, like this:
I loved this little pine needle basket with the little turquoise stone:
The Greenbrier supplies the food and it looked fabulous, but we were still full from the Brass Pineapple breakfast. We used the Tamarack’s bathroom facilities and bought only a couple of drinks for the road.
We may not have been big spenders, but at least we weren’t one of these: