I love to travel, but I always enter a black hole of self-doubt beforehand that turns me into Emma Woodhouse's father. Why am I leaving home at one of the prettiest times of year? Why subject myself to the stress and the complications? Why not sit in the dappled shade of my garden and be happy that I have a brief respite? Is it not true, as
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Comments 15
ETA: Vermont winters are great if you love snow and cabin-fever. And mucking out horse stalls when it's -10 inside the barn.
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My own preference for "small town with an arts community but with acres in walking distance" would be Shepherdstown West Virginia.
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