Our story of visiting Colonial Williamsburg is better told through photos, and it feels almost like poetry. I noticed one thing about my pictures that I hadn’t noticed till just now, one month after I was there; none of my photos have any people in them, yet it was bustling with tourists. There were kids running around after leather balls and wooden hoops while women dressed in colonial clothes taught them the history of the game. Over-heated mothers ran into fully restored houses to buy jumbo Pepsi’s and sugar cookies. Everywhere I looked there was history and beauty, yet there was the present trying to mix itself in.
Without even thinking I started aiming my camera at every place there wasn’t a tourist, and I found the most pure, untouched beauty that seemed to be laid out before me as if it hadn’t changed in hundreds of years. Right now, I don’t remember any of the faces that I saw or the people that I spoke to in passing, but I remember the scenery. Boy, do I remember the scenery.
Behind small cottages and just-large-enough gardens, narrow brick path ways connected neighboring yards. I would venture off the path of tourists to find peace in these hideaways.
Even though these are filled with flowers now, I imagine at one point someone grew vegetables specific to the season, ones that were heavily relied on to sustain a whole family. It was stifling on the day I took this picture, yet over a hundred years ago a woman covered head to toe in a scratchy, hot dress and boots would be tilling this dirt in the sun.
This serene little brook and hand made bridge were overlooked by everyone who passed by. I leaned over a wall and looked down to find a place that I would love to live in; hidden away, lush with green, quiet except for birds tweeting and the brook bubbling on its way.
What you don’t see in this picture is a group of people half-listening to the cobbler explain how he makes his shoes, while they text, tweet, talk and spill out of the crowded door into the street. They had to pay to get into the tiny little workshop, when I was able to peep through the window for free and come away with a memory that none of those kids may care to remember.
The instant I snapped this photo a herd of wild children screamed “I’ll race ya!” and bolted towards the building in the background, ruining any chance of getting a second shot. I did like this shot though; I’m a sucker for tree-lined places.
By far the most interesting part of this adventure was Bruton Parish Episcopal Church, a beautifully kept 300 year old church that still holds mass. The inside was cool and clean, with pure white marble and painted wood panels. The church was so old that flat grave markers became a part of the floor, their engravings worn away from 300 years of foot steps. Presidents attended mass their, and we sat in the same place they did all those years ago. There is a strange sadness in that fact.
My Road Trip Series continues next time with a scenic ride through Virginia and a night in the Outer Banks. Please feel free to subscribe to my blog to stay up to date with my posts. Thanks for reading!