Yesterday began in a meadow filled with chicory and mullein and Queen Anne’s lace. I brushed spider webs off my face and trudged through rain-dampened grass. The sun lit up each drop of moisture on the juniper berries — but it had hidden by the time we took a longer stroll.

Still, the rain held off for a four-mile walk up and down Swover Creek Road. We saw 18-century houses, vegetable gardens bursting with produce, a herd of cattle and an ancient cemetery that’s lovingly cared for by the current homeowner.

It was one glimpse of beauty after another. It was a reminder of a slower pace and a more intimate scale, the scale of the village, of homes spaced a few-minutes walk apart.

The walk tired, calmed and comforted me all at once.