Claysville, PA, is a quaint little village with some fine old buildings.
With October quickly waning, I felt the need to spend another day off exploring the lanes and hollows of the counties to the south.
The countryside was lovely under glowering gray skies, with frequent rain showers. This little farm, like two other houses along the side of this road, appears to have been bought by an energy company and emptied out.
The frackers and-coal diggers must be up to something sinister, altering our scenic rural landscapes forever.
A part of me does not believe that they will ever succeed at destroying all of it. The green rolling hills just stretch on and on for miles. But so many of the little lanes were closed to all but frack trucks. They've really rolled in and taken over.
There was something strangely sublime about driving down these little roads, looking at the old farms, searching for things to discover, while the skies above drizzled endlessly, and the car stereo sang the melancholy masses of Johannes Ockeghem and Josquin. It's dark music, serene and earthbound. It's low and delicate but with a sad, monotonous loveliness, like the Belgian plains that produced it. Of course, this place is nothing like Belgium, but the music really felt right here today.
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