TRAVELING IN STYLE : Pastoral Perfect : Visiting Her Family in a Little-Traveled Corner of Connecticut, the Author Finds Impressionistic Landscapes and Ancestral Ghosts

IN CALIFORNIA, WE WORRY about earthquakes, mudslides and our uncertain futures. In Connecticut, rocks stay put, topsoil doesn’t wash away and a multilayered history seduces us into the past.

Connecticut is, in a sense, “unknown” New England. Massachusetts is in the history books; Vermont and Maine are colorfully present in every East Coast travel brochure. But Connecticut--especially its southeastern corner, where I have spent most summers of my life--is less known, less traveled and full of largely unheralded delights.

My family has owned land for many generations in the gentle highlands southeast of Hartford, near the coast of Long Island Sound. This is not the Connecticut of New York commuters, or the busy urban sprawl of Hartford. This is the calmer, less densely populated Connecticut of Middlesex and New London counties, stretching west from the Rhode Island border, across the Sound from Long Island’s North Fork.

The East Branch of the Eight Mile River, a clear coffee-colored stream, meanders through the valley that my family owns, eventually draining into the deep and dark Connecticut River. The hills above this stream are very old and blanketed with woods. Everything is softer here--the air, the hills, even the gardens; all have the glowing but blurred beauty of an Impressionist painting.

One day, late last summer, I stood at the edge of a road near the town of Salem, looking across a golden cornfield. A breeze slashed across the surface of a Prussian-blue pond in the distance, stippling it gray. It blew on to flash a row of maples silver, then dashed across the field to rouse a flock of red-winged blackbirds, which wheeled up and over the Mumford house, built in 1769. From here, the dilapidation of the house is not evident: It appears doll-like and perfect.

The ghosts of ancestors inhabit many of the old houses and inns in this area. But each modern-day inhabitant nods to his heritage in a different way. Some are content to plant rows of day lilies--a flower favored by the early settlers--which strike a burnt-orange flare along many a gray stone wall. Others strive for gussied-up replications of a varnished version of history: Petunias cascade out of window boxes, even in barns; back-yard meadows are scattered with gallons of wildflower seeds; ponds are dug to enhance views; cast iron crowds aluminum out of kitchens. (The inns in the area are particularly good at this, furnishing their rooms with genuine antiques and serving English high teas all winter.)

Still others stay closer to the bone. My Aunt Rose lives in the Mumford house. It may well be a crumbling relic, but, as with a giant pine felled in the forest, the very fact of its impending decay seems to evoke its ancient past. Aunt Rose serves me tea in her parlor. The view from her windows is obscured by wild roses; her straight-backed sofa has been re-covered with the help of a staple gun; the ceiling is oppressively low, the doorways even lower. Because she has lived in the house for nearly 50 years and rarely leaves the area, Aunt Rose takes comfort from a verse scratched into the flyspecked northeastern window of her parlor in 1815 by an earlier namesake of mine: “In a narrow sphere,/The Circle of Domestic Life,/I would be seen and loved./The world beyond is not for me.”

The Mumford house is not open to the public, but the Joshua and Nathaniel Hempstead houses in nearby New London are, and they afford a rare glimpse into the daily life of even earlier settlers. Joshua’s, built in 1678, is the oldest wooden house in New London, having survived Benedict Arnold’s burning of the town. His grandson Nathaniel’s, immediately next door, dates from 1759 and is one of only two mid-18th-Century cut-stone houses in the state. Both houses are open as museums, with rooms furnished much as they were when the Hempsteads lived there. An entire wall of the kitchen in Joshua’s house, for instance, is an open hearth, with room for two fires, one with a revolving rack for meat, the other for cast-iron pots. (Curiously enough, the house is insulated with seaweed.) Near the fire are a cradle and a tinderbox. Upstairs is evidence that, as a volunteer guide to the house puts it, “privacy as we know it today was just unheard of.” Children slept on trundle beds next to the grown-ups; widows, orphans and a steady stream of guests snoozed on pallets on the floor. When Grandma came to visit, she brought her own bedstead with her. Women also worked in their bedrooms, spinning their home-grown flax and weaving it into rough sheets and clothes. By the time girls were 7, they, too, spun, and bent over tiny stitched samplers.

But their life was not all toil. Particularly in the countryside, the early settlers had more in common with the hedonistic Virginians than they did with some of their more Spartan neighbors to the north. They had money to clear the rocky land, and they did so in an attempt to re-create the life of an English country squire. The Mumford house, like many of the other larger houses in the area, was a hub of social activity. In the late 18th and early 19th centuries, the 15-mile horseback ride from New London was considered a paltry distance, so the house often resounded with the joyful sounds of sleighing parties, weddings, dances and animated late-night suppers. The house was famous for its bountiful larder: Salted game and hams, cheeses, casks of West Indian rum, preserves, endless decanters of wine and an unlimited supply of cake were ever-ready for callers. Cousins lived at Woodbridge Farm, just up the hill, within sight. A red shawl draped out the window at the Mumford house meant an impromptu invitation to them for dinner.

The Shaw-Perkins Mansion in New London, a town rich from whaling and international commerce, was another famous local house, today maintained as a small museum. By the mid-18th Century, merchant Nathaniel Shaw--like other Americans--had rediscovered the world. His huge stone house is decorated with treasures that his ships brought back: mahogany furniture from the South Pacific, delftware from Holland, camphor chests from China. He built his house next to the wharves so that he could look out the windows and see the masts of his boats.

Shaw’s son, Nathaniel Jr., was a supply officer for George Washington’s somewhat bedraggled Revolutionary army, responsible for obtaining guns, ammunition and uniforms. But there was something of the pirate about him, too, and he used to crow at dinner parties about the time he raided an English merchant ship bearing household goods to the much-hated English Colonial governor. An ornate silver tea service from the raid still sits on a drop-leaf table in the Shaw-Perkins parlor.

NOWADAYS, NEW LONDON IS VAGUELY SHABBY, IN AN ATTRACtive sort of way. There are few tourists. Real life goes on. It is not a Disneyland town, where history is packaged like macaroni and cheese. But it does have a wonderful old-fashioned amusement park, equipped not only with the requisite water slide and video parlor but also with a wide boardwalk, graceful pavilion and a pristine beach beyond.

Sitting on the beach, I can see all the way to Fishers Island, despite the haze. Tugs and ferries dash back and forth out of the mouth of the Thames River. If it were June, I might see the sculls of Harvard and Yale practicing for their annual race. Close in, the water is clear and nicely cold for swimming on a humid day. Far off, in the sound, a schooner under full sail seems hardly to be moving--a toy boat, frozen into immobility by distance.

From the air, this part of Connecticut appears to be unbroken woodlands standing down to the sea. The Amazon may be losing forest; Connecticut is gaining it. The hardscrabble farms are dying out here, and most of the grand old estates are going to seed--so the forest is taking over, taking back the land it was driven from long ago. The woods are on the march, their black shadows looming at the edge of nearly every remaining field.

“When I was a kid,” says my Uncle Charles, who is in his 80s, “everything was open. You could walk everywhere. Now, it’s going to jungle.” Not everyone bemoans the loss of meadow, though. A cousin of mine, a passionate amateur ornithologist, points out that the overgrown hedgerows and second-growth woods support a huge variety of bird habitats.

At night, the woods make their presence known with the whispering of millions of leaves, the haunting cry of a whippoorwill. Foxes, illuminated by shafts of light from the passing cars, cross the road, peering calmly over their shoulders before sauntering off. Deer by the score bound out of the darkness over stone walls as if on springs. One night, while I was sleeping at my family’s summer house, a sucking sound wakened me: A huge raccoon had somehow gotten into the house and was slouched on the kitchen counter, its long tongue slurping around the insides of a sugar bowl.

By day, the same woods are a paradise for walkers. Before I plunge into them, I always take a deep breath. Once I’m in their thrall, even by just a few yards, the outside world drops away, and everything is green. It’s like being underwater. Tiny spots of sunshine fleck my skin like warm drops of honey. Overhead, I hear the crunch of gypsy moths chewing leaves into scraggly lace. Shelves of lichen-scarred rock--some the size of tombstones, others as tall as cliffs--rise up in filtered light. I seize on woodland flowers, cupping their blossoms, but I never pick them. Deep in the woods, a matriarchal oak, 60 feet high, spreads her lower branches protectively over second-growth hickory and white oak. Two crumbling stone walls mark the edge of what once was pasture.

Half a mile farther on, I break out of the woods and into a lone meadow, maintained by a tenant who boards horses. It’s a golden place, full of sunshine, butterflies and black-eyed Susans, the open space all the more valued for its scarcity.

Not just the forests but the back roads--many of them following ancient Pequot and Nehantic Indian hunting trails--are marvelous. Having spent a summer here, I return sometimes in late September just to drive them--hiring a convertible, putting the top down, bundling up in wool and gliding through the countryside with yellow maples arching overhead, stone walls flashing past, the sky as blue as skies can get. Because Connecticut is slightly warmer than New Hampshire or Vermont, the fall foliage tends to last longer, usually through October--though each year is different, of course, depending on rains and frosts.

Water is everywhere in this region, from trickling rills to still ponds to rippling brooks. Swimming holes abound, but the best of all is Uncas Pond, hidden in Nehantic State Forest near Old Lyme. Its banks are wooded and deserted, its waters crisp and clear. One day, with my young daughter and two nephews, I swam nearly half a mile out into the middle. We floated spread-eagled, our hair in swirling tendrils, then dived down and stared at each other beneath the surface, encased in amber water. We popped back up into a sudden gust of wind and an alarming rush of sound from the trees along the banks: The black belly of a thundercloud loomed above us, and lightning slashed across the black. Thunder reverberated all around as if the pond were a kettledrum.

If the hair on the back of my neck hadn’t been wet, it would have crackled. My nephews’ eyes were big, my daughter’s bigger. It’s one thing to watch thunderstorms from the safety of a porch, a favorite Connecticut pastime in the late afternoons--but from the water? I wondered whether lightning, like sharks, would be attracted by splashing panic. We struck out for the nearest shore, the opposite side to our car and sanctuary. Wet and bedraggled, we hiked several bug-infested miles through the woods to a road, where we managed to hitch a ride back to our car--our adventure over.

OLD LYME IS ONE OF THOSE SMALL CONNECTICUT towns that strikes a fine balance between the glossy and the plain. On the banks of the Connecticut, near where it flows into the sound, Old Lyme is a grand old New England town, with the requisite steepled church, sleepy but choice antique stores, atmospheric inns with good food, a golf course and a set of dowager houses along the post road, each more graciously neoclassical than the last. Though today we tend to think of old New England houses as white, some of these early 19th-Century buildings are painted in the more authentic original colors--the subdued yet still vibrant tones of fall foliage after a serious rain.

Florence Griswold, born in 1850, lived all of her life in one of these houses, now another small museum. She came from a family that owned much of the land in the area, but to the horror of her more staid cousins, she opened her house to a group of artists who later came to be known as the American Impressionists. For room and board--it is said Miss Florence served four vegetables at every meal--painters such as Childe Hassam decorated the wooden panels of her dining room. The meadows, rivers, flowers and lace-dressed girls of Old Lyme parade around the room. The light from the vine-enshrouded porch sifts into the room; a painting of the same scene hangs in the hall.

There is something a bit Disneylandish about nearby Mystic Seaport--a handsome re-creation of an old whaling village, complete with hoops for children to roll and whaling ships on which to clamber. But an antique boat parade I happened upon here one afternoon captured my fancy. They were not practical working boats but shiny flights of mahogany folly--needle-nosed 20-foot two-seaters that demand boaters and white flannels, or slanted-stack commuters, 60 feet long or more, with sitting rooms and bathrooms, in one of which a robber baron used to shave and read the paper while gliding down the sound to Wall Street.

Every summer there are polo matches in a former cow pasture near the Mumford house in Salem. Ponies, which seem polished as brightly as their riders’ boots, buck and swirl in their opening charge. After the first rash of chukkas, everyone is invited to leave the fluttering white spectators’ tent and push down the divots. From a distance, it looks like a high-stepping tribal dance, each person stamping in a prescribed circle. One spectator has rosy cheeks, steel-gray hair, many inches of superfluous silk in his bow tie and decorative red suspenders that hold his gray flannels just high enough to expose his ankles. He’s a Ralph Lauren ad come to life.

But Connecticut’s true appeal lies in things far simpler than polo matches: Roasting hot dogs on a beach while the moon rises over a turning tide. Swimming out to an island rock and spying, down through the icy green waters of the sound, a lobster waving its claws. Skating on the black ice of early winters. Cross-country skiing with a low sun casting lavender shadows through skeletal woods.

And when I trace my finger over a familiar name on a mossy tombstone or stumble over another lost wall in the woods, I feel grounded--rooted, if you will, in the land of our fathers. And then I know that I can face once more the slippery uncertainties of the future in California.

GUIDEBOOK: Unknown Connecticut

Getting there: USAir flies daily from Los Angeles to Groton-New London Airport via Philadelphia and nonstop to Groton-New London from New York’s La Guardia Airport. There are also daily connecting flights from Los Angeles to Bradley International Airport, serving Hartford and Springfield, Mass., on USAir and Delta. A rental car is highly recommended from Hartford or New London because so many of the pleasures of southeastern Connecticut are rural. It’s also possible to drive from New York City in about 2 1/2 hours.

Where to stay: Bee and Thistle Inn, 100 Lyme St., Old Lyme, (203) 434-1667. A family-run inn on the Lieutenant River, built in 1756, its restaurant was recently voted most romantic in the state. High tea is served in the parlor from November through April. Rates: $79-$115. (These and all other hotel rates are for a double room for one night.) Old Lyme Inn, 85 Lyme St., Old Lyme, (203) 434-2600. The inn dates from 1850 and is furnished with antiques. There is a formal dining room and a less formal grill room, both highly regarded. Rates: $95-$140, including breakfast. Griswold Inn, 36 Main St., Essex, (203) 767-1776. Built in 1776 and said to be the oldest continuously operated inn in America. The restaurant is well-known for prime rib. Rates: $80 for rooms, $85-$165 for suites.

Where to eat: Besides the aforementioned inn restaurants, try the Black Seal, 29 Main St., Essex, (203) 767-0233. It has a nautical atmosphere and a seafood menu. Or sample Fine Bouche, 18 Main St., Centerbrook, (203) 767-1277. It features such sophisticated dishes as a lobster gateaux with corn, spinach and chile vinaigrette.

What to do: Florence Griswold Museum, 96 Lyme St., Old Lyme, (203) 434-5542. Open 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. Tuesday through Saturday and 1 to 5 p.m. Sunday from June through October; open the same days from 1 to 5 p.m. the rest of the year, except during the Christmas season when it is open longer to showcase its Celebration of Holiday Trees. Admission: $3 for adults, children free. Shaw-Perkins Mansion, 11 Blinman St., New London, (203) 443-1209. Open 1 to 4 p.m. Wednesday through Friday, 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. Saturday. Closed in January. Admission: $2 for adults, $1.50 for senior citizens, 50 cents for children ages 5 to 12. Joshua and Nathaniel Hempstead houses, 11 Hempstead St., New London, (203) 443-7949. Open Tuesday through Sunday 1 to 5 p.m. from mid-May to mid-October; open by appointment the rest of the year. Admission: $3 for adults, $2 for children. Ocean Beach Amusement Park, New London, (203) 447-3031. Amusements open 8 a.m. to midnight daily from Memorial Day to Labor Day; park and beach open 8 a.m. to dusk daily all year. Admission Monday through Friday $7 a carload from 8 a.m. to 3 p.m., $3.50 a carload from 3 to 5 p.m., free after 5 p.m.; Saturday and Sunday, $9 a carload from 8 a.m. to 3 p.m., then as above. Uncas Pond, Nehantic State Forest, off State Highway 156 north of Old Lyme.