Hackett Hill Road is two twisty, depopulated, uphill-and-down miles long. It is unpaved and seriously washboarded. If you didn't know for sure that it was a public thoroughfare, you might think that you had accidentally turned into someone's long driveway.
Most of our guests arrive from the South Road side of things, which is an easier passage. We're just .2 from South Roadm a much easier ride than the long route, off of Route 25. The GPS, which most people use nowadays, takes people the long way.
Directly adjacent to the graveyard, which is the only obvious remnant of the old community of West Bradford, lies our narrow driveway. It's inconspicuous and steep, but we've posted a wooden sign with our street number. The number is an innovation; we didn't have one until 9/11 -- nor did we need one, because there's no mail delivery on Hackett Hill. (We go to town to pick up mail; Muriel at the post office takes good care of our occasional packages and flyers and medical bills.)
Some friends, new to rural Vermont, traveling from Denver with their two teenage daughters, came to visit us the other day. They were a bit intimidated and possibly a little anxious as a consequence of their slow passage along Hackett Hill Road. Although they were carefully following Sheila, which is what they've named their GPS (ours is Dorcas) they missed our sign and overshot their mark. Sheila, the idiot-savant, nevertheless announced, "You have arrived at your destination, on left." On the left, of course, was only the cemetery with its lichen-encrusted marble gravestones. They were surprised and amused --their vehicle, I'm told, filled with hilarity -- but were poised enough to continue to the end of the road, make a U, and initiate a most pleasant visit.