Twin Farms will captivate you at the most unexpected turns.
I remember the exact moment. I had just left the steaming Furo, headed to the 220-year-old main farmhouse Sinclair Lewis used as a creative retreat.
It started to rain, like a cat tiptoeing down the hall. I closed my coat around my neck but didn’t flinch. Something about the way the air expanded my lungs and my skin, still pink from the baths, kept me outside. I wanted to savor the rain. A horse sculpted out of metal with a noble bronze rusted patina stood nearby.
An "Ahem" broke my reverie. A smiling woman in clogs stood behind. Her right hand held one green umbrella overhead. Her left extended a second.
“It was the perfect example of receiving a gift I hadn’t known I needed.”
“I thought you might want this,” she said. She came at the right time, as the magic of the downpour diluted into something more mundane. I didn’t want to have to change my socks before pancakes.
It was the perfect example of receiving a gift I hadn’t known I needed. Anticipatory. It echoed the evening before, when I sat before a grand fireplace and dined on rustic rye, forest mushrooms, and gnocchi in autumnal herbs.
I had spent the afternoon prior writing from a desk in the loft of the cottage where I was staying, a traditional Scandinavian gambrel with local stones and cedar shingles. Light from the cathedral windows illuminated the space. When I got home, the whiff of wood smoke lingered in my hair like some such memory of halcyon days afield.