A mild autumn Sunday, an open afternoon, and a walk along a Reston path to the Washington and Old Dominion rails-to-trails line. Cyclists whizzed past as they do in these days of e-bikes. So I hatched a plan: return not the way we came but along a road I’ve only driven, never walked.

It was a gamble. I wasn’t sure of the distance and was concerned about the traffic. Hunter Station is an older road that has retained its charm and its lack of shoulders. Striding along it required some hopscotch maneuvers, sometimes jumping over to the other side of the road for visibility’s sake.

But the road was worth it: a cathedral of trees and hills with acorns crunching beneath our feet and the sharp scent of turning leaves. Every so often a lane would wind off to the left or right, inviting further exploration.

A walk down a road I’ve only driven before is like stepping through the looking glass. There were the familiar landmarks — the single-lane bridge, the curved hill — only in slow motion instead of fast. I could take my time, get a true sense of where I was. Which, at least yesterday, seemed like paradise.