Saturday afternoon we braved the flash flood warnings, the downpours, and the lightning strikes* to head south for the Brew Ridge Music Festival in Nellysford. We missed, by a week and my poor planning, the Blue Ridge Music Fest just up the mountain in Wintergreen, so to Brew Ridge we trailed instead.
The skies cleared as we drove. The birds sang. The ribs were barbecued. The brews were poured. It turned out to be a lovely afternoon, the clouds carrying our cares away. As an illustration of this, you should have seen my uncharacteristic trust in a shirtless hippie** who told me (read: waved his arms, pantomimed, and yelled) to park Koala "over there in the grass! Just watch out for a big hole. I think there's a big hole next to that truck." Oh great! Luckily, Koala met no holes. Brews were downed. Psychology was discussed. Some music was barely heard. And Koala made it out of that grassy mud pit before too long, just in time to forgive me.
The skies cleared as we drove. The birds sang. The ribs were barbecued. The brews were poured. It turned out to be a lovely afternoon, the clouds carrying our cares away. As an illustration of this, you should have seen my uncharacteristic trust in a shirtless hippie** who told me (read: waved his arms, pantomimed, and yelled) to park Koala "over there in the grass! Just watch out for a big hole. I think there's a big hole next to that truck." Oh great! Luckily, Koala met no holes. Brews were downed. Psychology was discussed. Some music was barely heard. And Koala made it out of that grassy mud pit before too long, just in time to forgive me.
After dinner at the Devil's Backbone Brewery, I played paparazzi; don't these two look like men on a mission here? I like to think of this photo as The Dudes Proceed.
Next time, we'll try to make it for the Blue Ridge fest. In the meantime, dinner at the Devil's Backbone never misses.* Upon our return to Glenmore, Brooklyn (our favorite guard) told us that two houses in the neighborhood were struck by lightning during the afternoon's storms, and the guard house was hit at least three times in the past week. Of course, we sort of knew this was coming; local National Park Service ranger Roy Sullivan holds the world record for number of personal lightning strikes (7), and the Glenmore association's July newsletter discussed the frequency of strikes on the gatehouse. Great!
** In reality, he was more like a hickie (hick meets hippie), and he shouldn't be used to give hippies a bad rap. This is especially true because, this week, we're marking the ten year anniversary of my fateful move-in day to Hippie University, one of the best places on earth. I love me some hippies. Just not in the form of aggressive, shirtless guy waving me or my beloved automobile toward hidden holes.
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