The dawning day spoke of all the elements of atmospheric perfection. Full sun, warmth, a kindly breeze, and expectation on the second full day of surrender to freedom of ordinary daily concerns left behind however temporarily, in the week we dedicate yearly to the mutual gift of celebrating our marriage covenant. So, then, the spontaneity of 'what to do today?' becomes a post-breakfast challenge.

And this day it was why a relatively short trail walk was taken to spare more time for another enterprise entirely, and then it was: why not off to Antique Alley? and that's just what we did.

The Northern thrush taking its job seriously greeted us with its high notes as we entered the Waterville Valley trail at Smartsbrook, then faded out as we sauntered through a side trail at Pine Flats. Fragrantly green, plushily soft underfoot, and balm to the eyes, the pines and hemlocks, oaks and spruce, maples and dogwood with the fresh green of still-unfurling ferns and fading trilliums.

Later, the drive to Antique Alley seemed odd, for we usually leave that long drive to Northwoods for a rainy day, when we're shut out of a hike because the rainfall isn't of the variety that can be countered by rainjackets and forging through the forest hoping the canopy would afford some measure of protection.

This time, under a clear blue sky, the drive seemed shorter than usual as we passed small towns, colleges, graceful old 18th Century homes, some in disrepair and others proudly refurbished.

We stopped first, as usual, at Austins group shop where the grizzled old guy our age with whom we had passed many similar such conversations about weather, and weathering the weather throughout the long winter months, asked where our second dog was, obviously having forgotten he'd asked us that last year. He proudly called out from her bed under the counter a small darling-faced terrier-cross looking like a Yorkie, now three years old.

We perused the shop, marvelling as usual, at the trash folks believe has value, and valuing them to be priceless, tag them into the stratosphere. Any items we felt had inherent value in age, execution and aesthetic presentation was priced beyond its actual value as well. Although we'd bought items we now treasure in the past at this shop over the decades, this would not be one of the days we'd encounter such a treasure, we soon assessed as we ambled along the aisles, pointing out things to one another. For our purpose, however, pointlessly.

On our second, (and first full-day) in New Hampshire last week we woke to sunshine streaming into the cottage bedroom window, but a closer look revealed a heavily overcast sky. We went off to our favourite haunt, Smartsbrook in the Waterville Valley, wearing rainjackets against threat of rain. Just as well the atmosphere was cool, enabling the rainjackets without discomfort.

It usually is cool and windy there, at this time of year, and as such, perfect for a long hike in the woods. The site is lovely, the mountain stream thunderous as it rollicks over the streambed filled with boulders and rocks fallen from the mountain above. Some of the erratics are thickly moss-covered, host to ferns and tree saplings; a rocky nursery, appearing as a micro-forest within a macro-forest.

We saw dogwood in flower, though most had passed their best-before date; we had just missed the blooms by a week or so. There were ample ferns maturing, and some still unfurling, among them the very large specimens like ostrich ferns that loft their tall flowering brushes in late summer. Yellow Admirals were also there, in abundance, flittering and fluttering from tree to underbrush.

At one end of the circuit, pine, hemlock, spruce and fir, along with oak dominate the growing environment, while at the opposite  side, yellow birch and maple do. The common understory is dogwood and moose maple, among the bracken. The forest interior is unfailingly humid, though cool and tending toward a twilight atmosphere. The trail, as it progresses with upturns and downturns, tending to be dry, then muddy. Over the years this trail, popular with both locals and visitors alike, has begun to sport increasing numbers of stout, flat wood bridges interspersed over the boggy areas.

The two halves of the trail making up the three-mile circuit also divide between their tiny bloodsuckers; mosquitoes more prevalent on one side, blackflies on the other. Throughout the walk we randomly came across the delightful presence of Ladies Slippers, Painted Ladies, Straw lilies, Bunchberry, Mountain sorrel with their tiny white blossoms, purple violets, raspberry canes and wild strawberries.

We left Ottawa a week ago in a light rain. It was comfortable enough, not having to contend with bright sun blinkering us through the driving process. We experienced the usual agony driving through Montreal and along the Champlain Bridge, negotiating past tractor-trailers and a veritable mechanical horde of other rigs, making traffic a madhouse there.

Finally, we made our way through and had a good long run to the border, with traffic light after we'd cleared Montreal. We came across a decent and friendly young male border agent, a refreshing difference from some of the arrogant and belligerent personnel we've encountered in the past; very much appreciated indeed. We were happy enough to return his courtesy of wishing us a 'happy trip'. He was professional to a T, without sacrificing any of his humanity.

We stopped at the usual Vermont rest stop to have our brunch, admiring the Viburnum and dogwood in bloom.

The rain had given way to a heavy downpour as we approached Franconia Notch; it was heavily overcast, darkly so, with a wonderfully picturesque skyfull of dark-to-light cloud formations dressing up the mountain summits.

Not long afterward we drove onto the property of our hosts Donna and Byron O'Donnell, whose cottages we have rented for one or two weeks a year for the past dozen years and more. We shared enthusiastic greetings and hugs, and exchanged news of family, of the winter months impacting on both our families' lives and listened as they held forth, smitten with Ireland, on their first trip they had taken in the fall. Both would gladly emigrate, they claimed, to the homeland of their ancestors, but family will keep them here, we're fairly confident.

We embarked on a trip to Lincoln, the closest town to the cottage we'd rented, to stock up on food for our week's stay. We're certain that little Riley remembers the various cottages we've been in over the years from previous stays. We'd forgotten to take along one of his little beds, and found a suitable one in, of all places, the Family Dollar store sitting close by the supermarket.

Back at the cottage, we unpacked and settled in, bushed.

We were in need of rain and nature obliged yesterday. From dawn to mid-afternoon the rainclouds dumped their excess of moisture onto our landscape, and it was impressive on a number of counts. Not the least of which was the inundation's generous amount, leading to a sumptuous display of intense colour in the gardens with everything drenched and somewhat drooping, but the intensity of colour well magnified in the process.

It was far too hot and humid for us to wear raingear since the heat of the day before's 30.4-C temperature lingered with a vengeance. We knew our ravine walk would be replete with hungry mosquitoes, but neither of us used a pesticide; I covered up with a white light cotton pant-and-jacket set I'd bought almost 30 years ago at a flea market in Tokyo and that helped. Mosquitoes tend to zero in on my tender flesh, giving my husband and little Riley a bit of a pass.

The creek was swiftly running, muddy and as unattractive as it generally appears. Still, we were grateful for a lift in the rain, though we took along umbrellas just in case, though never needing them in the hour and more we were out.

The rain, and today's partial sun has given an extra incentive to the gardens and they're flourishing. The peonies have set their flower heads, the Heucheras their floral sprays, the bleeding hearts, phlox, bearded and Siberian irises, Cranesbill geranium and Mountain Bluet are in bloom.

Columbine and Ladies Mantle, in the rock garden at the sun-side of the house are ready to burst into bloom.

Everything is healthy and thriving. The climbing and shrub roses have set their buds and will present their usual spectacular show, as will the rhododendrons. The tomato vines have begun flowering nicely and we will expect a modest crop in the late summer.

The clematis vines are beginning to bud even as they climb and I've noticed a Morning Glory has reseeded itself at the bottom of the rock garden.

The splendid proliferation of our favourite garden plant, the varied and fascinating hostas, is in full flush.

The only bit of a sour note in the garden this year appears to be the hydrangea shrubs, for no matter where they appear in numerous places in the gardens, they have been stunted, there's die-back and they look quite miserable.

On the positive side, however, is the fact that yesterday I was able to snip ample amounts of parsley and chives to enliven the potato salad I prepared for dinner.

It's raining, it's pouring
the little old lady ain't snoring
she went to bed far too late
and got up late in the morning
but she doesn't mind since
the atmosphere's glorious
rain soaking garden colours
to proportions ferocious
sparkling and lovely, drenched
and fantastically bodacious
just another way to greet the day!

The interior gloom of an overcast day doesn't really cast a sober pall inside our house. What the dim morning light does, however, is accentuate the large numbers of stained glass windows in this house to marvellous shadings of colouration, brilliant enough to lift an otherwise-stifling appearance of darkness. Dispelled in a way even were the stained glass absent, thanks to the number of large windows in this house of ours.

Looking outdoors to the front gardens represents a brief mental journey to a world where gardens play their vital role in lifting our spirits and bringing us the joy of viewing nature's bounty, colourful and varied. A black squirrel hung from the bird feeder early this morning, determined to do its utmost to empty it of its contents. Nearby patiently awaiting his turn was the male cardinal. With the squirrel finally departed, even when torrents of rain gushed over the landscape, a tiny nuthatch sat on the bird feeder, taking its choice of what the mischievous squirrel had left.

The nuthatch can barely be seen in the photograph above, seated on the left platform of the feeder. Even bees go about their business unperturbed at the ferocity of the rain. And so will we.

Now, finally, all the work related to the springtime garden chores has been more or less completed. The grass has been re-seeded and is growing nicely, the clean-up in the garden beds has proceeded on plan, and the rewards are readily evident, with the irises and the bleeding hearts in bloom and the geraniums beginning their show-off period. At the side of the house, in the shade garden, the hostas are in full display and the lilies-of-the-valley are dangling their delicate little white bells perfuming the atmosphere.

Our Jack-in-the-Pulpits, trilliums and foamflower, transplanted years ago from the ravine are luxuriantly mature, far more so than any of the ravine specimens; they appear to have gloried in their new home, adjusting to it with great aplomb.

Now, all the work that has to be done is in the neat-and-tidy category, snipping here and there, tying back, pulling weeds, that kind of thing, a pleasure, no chore whatever. We're more than amply rewarded by the colour, texture and overall presentation of our planting, not regimented and tidy in itself, but haphazard and crowded the way we enjoy viewing our gardens. Already the peonies have sent up their generous flower buds, to take the place of the magnolia that has now lost almost all of its gorgeous pink blooms. But the ornamental crabs and the bridal-wreath spirea are nicely compensating, in full generous bloom.

Now, we can sit out on the front patio, an alternative to the covered deck sheltering us from the hot afternoon sun that makes a veritable steam-bath of the backyard with its very particular micro-climate. Sitting out the front has its own pleasures, since we can sit within the very embrace of a few garden beds. And any perambulating neighbours can amble over for a chat.

And we can watch as bold, tiny nuthatches and redpolls take advantage of the birdfeeder hanging nearby our seating area, oblivious to our presence, even with Riley sleeping peacefully beside me on the two-seater, reading the newspaper. Me reading the paper, that is, not Riley. He hasn't as great an interest in news as I have.

Deciding, as we have done on many previous occasions, to take advantage of the advance poll for the provincial election, we took ourselves along to the nearby community centre yesterday to do just that. The community centre is a large, sprawling complex that contains a very large wave pool, and it is where, when our granddaughter was four, we'd taken her for swimming lessons. It's where we staged her fifth birthday party, inviting her friends to an afternoon of swimming and to a reception room afterward where we served pizza and birthday cake.

It's also where the area library is contained. And where, yesterday, the advance poll opportunity was available. We'd get ahead of the crowds on voting day, we reasoned. There was a line-up, but it wasn't a very long one and it took little time to accomplish what we'd set out to do. Just ahead of us was an elderly couple whom I judged to be about our age. The man was tall, very white-haired and very annoyed. He'd found it difficult to locate just where the vote was taking place in the huge complex, whereas we came upon it immediately.

For him it must have been an additional nuisance because the woman whom we took to be his wife, a little overweight and clearly not moving with the grace of a teen, seemed to have some difficulty walking about. She confided to us that walking was not a problem so much for her, as standing. So my husband obligingly urged her to sit while she waited in line, pushing a nearby chair over for her to use, and she did just that.

To me, she said that they were there to vote early because they were about to embark on a family trip. Her brother-in-law had died the night before. Her siblings, in their 80s, she said in confidence, had died the year before, spaced a few months apart; a brother and two sisters. She laughed grimly and said to me that she thought her time had come as well, but there she was, still hanging on, the last of her generation, she said, and voting dutifully.

She was wearing light, colourful layers, very chic for a pleasantly warm day. Her hair had been recently done up professionally, and it was an almost-brassy bronze. Her makeup carefully applied over a face that was deeply lined in full ridges, because she was a large woman. She was wearing quite a lot of jewellery, among other things layers of bracelets and I wondered idly if she took them off herself and linked them anew each morning.

They had their turn preceding us and we laughed together that we had done our duty and went our separate ways. While she had been addressing me, her husband had been speaking with my husband. He seemed an aggrieved, aggressive type of personality, not the kind of person I would naturally turn to; my husband doesn't mind passing the time of day with anyone who behaves civilly.

We thought we'd take a walk over to the small 'office' where the Friends of the Library hold book sales, and there we became enthralled in the book offerings, scooping up each of us, the types of publications that have value to us, and feeling very good about it indeed.

My husband said to me, while we were browsing, Riley comfortably asleep in the pouch slung over my husband's shoulder, that the woman to whom I was speaking at the polling station was 93, and he had been speaking with her son.