I went to visit old neighbors.

I'd missed these guys. I'd missed our shared garden and our canning sessions, but mostly I missed the thoughtful, interesting, inspiring, adorable fact of their company. When two of your closest friends move from twenty-one steps to one-hundred-ninety-eight miles away, it takes some getting used to. I've spent most of the last month fastidiously saving up things to tell them like an eager rodent hoarding nuts, looking forward to sitting with them again.

Patrick stayed behind, to recuperate and clean up from Friday's shindig. (And he did a bang-up job. I swear I'd never seen so many empties in one place at one time.) When canning is on the agenda, Patrick fears not tread. It was okay. Lucky for him, I brought back cute cat photos. This is Taj, the fearless sneaker-wrestler.

Part of my visit (more than I expected) was spent secretively stalking around with my camera, snapping pictures of their beautiful new house. They moved out of our neighborhood-- and the gorgeous Victorian with the cavernous great room and chestnut molding-- and I knew the bar was pretty high for where they'd choose to relocate. I was happy to approve their decision, as only a friend can. The bookshelves, yes, the built-ins, yes, the closet in every room, yes. All of these things I approve.

Also on the agenda: a little antiquing. Another reason for Patrick staying away. We stumbled into possibly the most beautiful antiques store I've ever found, in Strasburg, PA. An old tobacco warehouse, three floors of goodness. I appropriated myself a treasure. You'll see.

And then, we drove.

This is Amish country. I can't describe the beauty. In most views, there's at least a half-dozen silos. In most views, there's a least a half-dozen different crops planted. Every farm has horses and mules (for buggy-pulling) and often sheep, chickens, or cows, as well. Farmland is my favorite thing to gaze at; I was in my element.

And did I mention the covered bridges?

We posed for a quick shadow-portrait and hauled butt into Lancaster for ice cream. Molasses ice cream, in a pretzel cone, to die for. And then rather quickly I was on my way, the miles spooling out behind me as I sped homeward through the mountains. As much as I wish they were still my neighbors (wishwishwish) it was great to make a little vacation out of visiting them. Things change. Life goes on.

I'm already planning my next trip. Or should I say, our next trip. With this many horses and mules and sheep and chickens and cats, Patrick's presence will be requested.