While not an overly challenging time, in many ways good recent weeks, enough activities caught up with me to warrant a day to myself. My computer failed. I took it to a local shop with long reputation. They concluded that it had run out of memory, recommending a new computer with data from the dying one loaded onto it. Like many, I've become dependent on my laptop. The local public library has desktops for public use, so I can access the internet and use a flash drive for personal writing. I did, but it was not really My Space where I do my best work. The expected return date did not happen. Lacking a convenient computer, I thought I might do some house upgrades and garden enjoyment. My best herb pot underperformed, vegetables not thriving and flowers barely emerging. Rain did not help.
Each summer I make two trips to the state's beaches. If the rain lets up, I committed to doing that. A go from weather.com, a day off from my treadmill schedule, to which I have remained faithful. I offered my wife a chance to share the luxury of warm sand. She interpreted the weather report as hot sand but blazing sun, and too soon in the season for the water to lose its chill. I went myself.
Two sand chairs in the trunk. Sunscreen SPF 30 applied to face by finger, sprayed elsewhere. Canvas tote bag with my initial embroidered on the front and leather handles filled with all that I would need. Room left over for my street clothes.
My home state of Delaware has beachfront assigned to three state parks, which I visit preferentially. A shore runs for some twenty miles southward to the state line with Maryland. All has public access to the sand, but not public access to facilities. When my children were school age, like many families we would take a few days off from work, stay at a small hotel a few days, walk the five blocks to the beach each day, and enjoy the interesting town of Rehoboth Beach, dining at places different from what we would find at home. Now state parks work better, as I have an unlimited Senior Pass that affords me entry and changing facilities. I've been to all three. The middle park seems the most developed, with two bathhouses in different stretches. The southern park is most isolated but has the fewest parking spaces. I've never been closed out, but had to drive around for a bit at mid-day, seeking somebody vacating their space to go to lunch.
Sussex County, Delaware's southern county, has changed considerably over forty years. It used to be a pleasant drive, nearly toll-free, over an iconic road that stretched almost the north-south dimension of the state. The kids could look at farms and small business areas as we drive to our destination. Very pleasant to get to and to be at. Sea shell and t-shirt shops along the main street, little places to get breakfast in the morning and pizza for supper. People would vacation from Baltimore and DC as well as Wilmington. A wooden boardwalk with a small amusement section just right for grade schoolers preparing for their pilgrimage to the grander Hersheypark or Disney. Candy shop, ice cream places. One single realtor dominated. And a short drive, gave an afternoon at the Outlets, something less ubiquitous at the time, more bargains than now, and an escape from the rain when needed. The world changed. Those Federal Workers and lawyers from DC retired with pensions. Vacation with families became relocation for healthy seniors. Gays with substantial incomes and no college to save for found second homes and eventually retirement relocation. And with new money came businesses providing places to spend it and maintain elegant residences. The state built an expressway to connect its northern population center to the beach. Now a drive clogs about two miles north of Lewes, the northernmost beach. Every square cm of flat surface along the main thoroughfare now hosts places that year round residents need. Lowes, WaWa for gas and snacks, supermarkets with the same names that we find at home. Restaurants are now big, whether parts of chains or independent places funded with private equity. It's much like home, only farther away and with more traffic that does not let up until state land takes over south of the town of Dewey Beach, where families on vacation can still save up for a few days away.
To get to my chosen state park, I had to creep through the full milage of this economic growth. I had plenty of gas. I could use some lunch, not having eaten more than two cups of coffee at home and a small thermos more as I drove. WaWa has become my roadside destination. Hoagiefest week, $6 for a 10-inch customized roll. And a reliable, if not always immaculate, men's room. I pulled into the lot. Checked email, called wife. A few snags on my computer repair. They needed passwords that I didn't know existed so they could load my Microsoft products from the dying computer to the new one. I got my cheese hoagie, Swiss at the base, cheddar as the second cheese, some toppings, and some honey mustard. As I ate half and a few bites of the second half, I dealt with computer care. Once parked at the beach lot, they would send me a text allowing me to set a new password. I drove the last few miles, over a bridge, then followed some not entirely single interpretation signs to the beach entrance. I flashed my Senior Pass, waited for the attendant to nod, then drove to a distant but ample part of the lot. I called the computer repair tech back, waited for the text message, read him the access number, then gave him the new password. I wrote it down on a paper next to me, though I am likely to remember it as the one I use for sites that require a complex set of small letters, capital letters, numbers, and symbols.
Ready for the beach. The walk to the changing lockers are upslope. I had my tote and beach chair. My wife interpreted the heat index correctly. Still, I got changed into swim trunks and t-shirt, then took my time schlepping it all over the state's wooden boardwalk to the sand. I found a vacant spot at just the right distance from the last tide mark. After setting up the chair, I took out my cell phone. The midday sun and intense brightness made reading it unrealistic. I could not even see the numbers on the screen to enter the password. I rested a few minutes, then tested the water. It contained people, mostly kids. Having lost one pair of glasses in the surf two years previously, I wore a backup pair, and left those at the chair. It took about a minute to get to the water's edge and another minute to figure out that the ocean warms slowly as the summer progresses from June to August. Still too cold on July 1.
Back to my chair, basically unable to communicate, forgetting that for most of my life I could not communicate on a beach, I covered my head with a gray floppy hat, and sipped water from a very effective insulated bottle. I knew I would not stay very long, maybe another half hour. I set the time on my smart watch, which offered enough brightness to discern its numbers and settings. At the appointed time, I put everything back ot the tote bag, folded the chair, and schlepped back to the locker room. Once back in street clothes, I walked to the parking lot, put the chair in trunk and canvas bag in back seat. I noticed a few things from the parking space not appreciated before. At the end of the parking lot they have a pier. I did not see a lot of fishermen. They usually position themselves across the street on the other side of the suspension bridge near a series of rocks. I have fished there unsuccessfully once previously but remember the other anglers wishing me and others luck with hungry fish.
Destination two, the only winery in my state that I've not visited previously. I had been to their tasting room much closer to my home. Great experience. Waze told me I had sixty miles to get there, 1.5 h driving, considerably longer than anticipated. Delaware has two borders with Maryland, one that runs east-west and a longer one that runs north-south. This town, which borders the two states, sharing the name Marydel, sits about halfway on the north-south line. When I requested my GPS provide the route home from the winery, it was another 1.5 hours. Visiting would take me about 30 miles out of my way from the route home. I had enough time.
About half the distance covered the same route, including high traffic miles, that I would have taken anyway to get directly home. Then it veered west. I knew Delaware had its own agricultural presence, though a much smaller one than most other US states. I've driven past much of it. Poultry coops line the southern county which I drive past to get to Fenwick Island at our southeastern border or when my destination is the length of the Delmarva Peninsula to reach Virginia Beach. I have much less familiarity with our northern agricultural areas. However, two years of every three, I attend the State Fair which showcases my state's farmers. The route took me through some decidedly rural scenery. Some farmers apparently do very well, with impressive houses. More have prefab housing, either converted mobile homes or prefab one story foundation homes. There are schools, and an occasional child occupied a driveway or yard. Numbered roads have businesses, typically places to eat something, though not very many familiar chains other than gas stations with convenience stores. Roads with names rather than numbers only have isolated houses, fields, and some storage silos. I found that part of the drive relaxing, though I had to keep glancing at the Waze map as turns to local roads came frequently. While the vineyard may attract the most visitors that the town receives, no signs indicated directions, or even its presence.
I arrived. They had a semipaved parking area. I could see grape vines off to the side, though not many of them. When I visited their tasting room in Pennsylvania, another location not obvious from the road, the superb attendant had given me some background of the vineyard, its town, its history, its transition from purchasing grapes from other vineyards to bottling more recent wines exclusively with grapes grown on its own property. The winery shares its building with another enterprise of only minimal signage. I don't know what they do there, and maybe they don't want me to know. The right half of the building looked better maintained, with a banner at the door indicating open. I entered. To my left they had their bar. Nobody was at the bar, but two groups of about three each sat at round tables in an adjacent room.
The attendant came over, explaining their tasting policy. For $15 I could choose four selections, two ounces each. She confirmed that all grapes had been grown on their property. Some of the wines had won awards. I picked two of those. In all, three reds and a white dessert wine. She instructed me to take a seat at a table in the large adjacent room. I chose one near the middle. As she indicated at the bar, she brought my selections to me, then disappeared to her post. Ordinarily, at wineries I prefer to remain at the tasting bar with the attendant. While the wine is their product, information on how they make it, history of the vineyard, sweeteners, conversations about the area I am visiting are all part of the visit's experience. I had been abandoned to taste what I wanted by myself.
A typical glass of wine ordered in a restaurant would be 5-6 oz. Most wineries that I visited in the past offer five one ounce samples, about the equivalent of a restaurant meal order. Each portion sipped and swirled. For a combination safety and experience, I did not want the full two ounces repeated four times, or 8 oz. The attendant did not bring me rinsing water or little cracker palate cleansers. Just four stemmed glasses with wine, each sitting on a disposable white paper strip with the name of the wine written in pen beneath each glass. I drank about half of each red, the full glass of dessert wine. That seemed enough. I felt more processed than welcome. I left with nothing else, not a bottle to take home, a logo glass, or a t-shirt from their small gift shop.
Waze set for home. The winery sits on Delaware's westernmost road. It was unclear which direction to turn on exiting the parking lot. The GPS had me make another right at the next intersection, which brought me to a road marked Maryland and at the next intersection a gas station named State Line. I turned right again, re-entering Delaware. While I had only been in a trivial part of rural Maryland, that section appeared more unkempt than the properties on the Delaware side. More rural roads, mostly named rather than numbered. Towns that I had heard of but never visited. Kenton, Hartly. Recognized from the exhibit signs at the State Fair. Attractive towns from the roadway, though I don't quite understand how people make a secure living there if not themselves farmers. A few more turns brought me to a much bigger place called Smyrna, which hosted the state's largest correctional center. Within commuting distance of Kenton, Hartley, and even Marydel. I assume some correctional workers, not lavishly salaried, would be willing to drive a bit to obtain lower-priced housing on a larger lot. Numbered highway the rest of the way home, most full speed. I had only been to Smyrna one time before, to the high school where my son participated in a math competition. This part of the town looked quite different, less isolated than their HS property, with a number of small businesses. Some served the surrounding agricultural areas. Signs and GPS direct me to the highway. I had entered north of the toll plaza, leaving only one bridge over the state's Canal to deduct a dollar from my EZ Pass transponder. I arrived home with drizzle the final few minutes, finishing what was left of my Hoagiefest cheese hoagie while still approaching Smyrna.
It did not take long to put my tote bag on the kitchen floor, then stretch out horizontal on the living room sofa. The day had been long. Elements of the day's travel took their toll. Beach time minimal. Driving time a lot. Phone with computer technician intrusive to what I thought would be a mini-vacation. Traffic near the beach within my capacity coped without resentment. Winery a great disappointment.
But like many of my travels, getting to the destinations offers more satisfaction than staying at the destinations. Beach not a great outing, marred by traffic and oppressive peak midday sunshine. I can avoid the traffic on future trips by going to the northern or southern state beach park. The hoagie was quite good, and a bargain at $6. My thermos kept the water refrigerator cold for the entire day, finishing the water shortly before arriving at the winery.
As much as I admired the winery's peripheral tasting room nearer my home, the on-site experience left much to be desired. I learned what I already knew. The experience of visiting a winery for me involves much more than taste. I insist on an interactive session, which is my usual encounter. The attendant pours, tells me about my selection, tells me about the winery, the grapes that enabled what I sip. Even the tastings at the big wine stores offer personal contact. The wine should be served in a stem glass with enough room for a nose and enought clarity for a swirl. The stores offer liquid, about 20 ml in a stemless plastic cup. That's distinguishes a liquor store wanting to sell you a bottle from a winery taking pride in what they produce. This time it fell short.
In exchange, though, I got to drive through parts of my home state that I've not visited before. Pretty parts of the state, no crowds, no traffic, few traffic signals. I learned that some farmers do quite well. The schools I drove past were regional ones more than local ones, about the same building sizes as where my children attended, but probably much smaller classes and teachers willing to sacrifice salary for a better lifestyle away from the state's population centers. The produce and the livestock displayed at the State Fair come from these farms. I got to see them and understand why the State Fair has an entire pavilion devoted to its farms. Yes, getting there sometimes overrides being there.
