The lady who runs Kismet Farm asked if I would mind waiting until 6pm to arrive. No problem. I left Bancroft at 5:55 and within 10 minutes I was wending my way along a very narrow, very rough backroad (inexplicably lined with mansions) to a farm lane out in the middle of nowhere. The farmhouse looked like something from either a Nicholas Sparks or a Stephen King novel, dark wood, wooden porch, gingerbread scrollwork, uneven dormers (adorable or menacing, hard to say which). Then the owner Roz came out, looking like a cross between Hansel & Gretel’s witch and an aging flower child. She was absolutely lovely, but all this atmosphere, coupled with the fact that I had no internet, data, or telephone access up on this hillside, did make me a tad uncomfortable. I sent texts to my sister, knowing they wouldn’t go that evening, but telling her where, if she never heard from me again, I had spent this last night of my life. (She received them the next morning, and was relieved to hear my voice when I called her from Bancroft as soon as I could.)
Roz was lovely, as was her farm – I gave it a 5 star review in HH, and didn’t mention my irrational reaction to remote farm life. (As I said, the road was full of huge houses and in the morning there were school buses going by – I was just being silly.)