When we concluded our June trip to New Hampshire, preparing to drive back home, we were delayed because of pelting rain leaving us the choice of loading up our possessions in the truck in the rain, or to wait out the torrent in the hope that it would decline sufficiently for us to pack everything in without getting completely soaked. If we only had several suitcases of clothing it would be no problem, and that's the way we used to travel. Nowadays we take literally just about everything but the kitchen sink, using our own kitchen utensils, tableware, and small appliances rather than what the cottage supplies. Silly, of course, but it's what we've accustomed ourselves to.

This time, when we left midweek, October first, there was no rain to detain us and even so we took our time. That, even while we have the impression that we're well organized, efficient and speedy enough. My husband had decided to get up at the crack of dawn once again to pre-prepare thermoses of tea and coffee and initiate the packing, so I got up too, but somewhat later, at 7:30, to shower then complete my portion of the packing-up ritual.

We were on our way around nine, not very early, but not too bad, either. The morning was cool, but pleasant, perfect for driving; cloudy but promising to clear. Mist and fog were what we encountered once again driving through the mountain passes. Sightlines were hugely reduced through Franconia Notch.

Our drive through the States of New Hampshire and Vermont was fairly swift and an uneventful one. My husband saw a large coyote cross the highway in front of us and alerted me, but I missed the sighting, to my great displeasure.

The drive, at the very least, was colourful with autumn change. We drove through fog and mist, and we drove through clearing skies. Once across the border we stopped at the gracious and verdant Quebec rest stop, a place of great natural beauty, and kindly convenience to us.

There the atmosphere was very cool, windy, the grass damp from heavy overnight dew. But there is where we enjoyed our packed brunch, then moved on, after giving Riley the opportunity to romp about a bit. A bit actually was all he was interested in. The bonus was that this time around driving through Montreal was a literal breeze.

We both heartily agreed, as we talked about our week away that it had been once again highly successful, meeting our expectations with a hike or modest climb daily in superb weather. On our drive to New Hampshire we had listened to The Mind's Eye, by Oliver Sacks, and on the return trip it was Simon Winchester's The Man Who Loved China. The latter more absorbing to us than the former. Each, however, instructively entertaining.

Once home, we revelled in the spectacle of everything in our home and about our home awaiting our return. We hurriedly unpacked in vast appreciation of being once more back to our familiar and valued surroundings. And then we launched ourselves into a ravine walk, finding to our dismay that a third bridge had been taken out, vastly compromising and complicating our daily route selections from routine to vexingly difficult.