After 25 years it might seem like there is not much new to discover in a small vacation town like Ogunquit, but like the subtly shifting shoreline, there are always new and different things to see, even if it’s just a matter of changing perspective and taking a new route to get to an old favored place. On our last full day in town, I found myself traversing an unfamiliar sidewalk leading off the bumper-to-bumper traffic crawl of Route 1. The slightly obscured walkway brought me up a little hill into a residential area I’d not yet frequented, thought it’s relatively close to our bed and breakfast.
A border of evergreens beckoned and guided me along the walkway, and around the first turn I was plummeted into a secret garden of dahlias. Great swaths of them still in full bloom, tall and swaying in the wind, bloomed into a chilly afternoon that reminded me we were very deep into fall already. Plate-sized blooms of radial beauty displayed shades of pink, yellow, orange, and red. Cream and white variations softened the more fiery hues, while stretches of colorful zinnias kept up and held their own.
Feeling as if I’d wandered into some forbidden private garden, I braced myself as a small woman walked toward me, a pair of long shears looking like some double sword in her hands.
I tried disarming her with a smile, and ventured timidly, “Can you tell me where I am?” She looked at me kindly, slightly puzzled. “I’m sorry,” I continued, “Is this your private property?” and I backed up sheepishly, ready to make a hasty retreat as needed or requested.
“Oh no, this is a public easement,” she said sweetly. “That’s my house right there,” she continued, pointing to a lovely home that I only then noticed. “The easement goes right through the garden.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, genuinely excited to meet the person behind such beautiful flowers. “These are your dahlias?!” I asked with perhaps too much enthusiasm. “They are beautiful!”
She proceeded to take me a little tour, showing the best blooms that remained this late in the season, and expressing a wish that I’d seen them just a week ago. Pausing at the many shades and shapes of a stretch of pink plants, I marveled continuously at the parade of prettiness before and behind us. We reached the top of the floriferous path and she pointed out a patch of plants across the street that wasn’t doing as well. “I use only my own compost, but that section doesn’t get as much.” I inquired whether she ever used manure, my go-to for getting plants to prosper, and she said no, only the compost. I told her I was so glad to meet her, saying that I only wanted to go on a pretty walk and she had provided that, then she pointed out several routes to continue on my way.
It was a lovely surprise ending to a weekend that had been filled with comforting traditions and good company. Until next May, Maine…
