The Trip

At noon, the doorbell rings.  I run to answer it; our driver is here to take us to the ranch—The Campo—I am beyond excited.  The ride is bumpy through town, then smooths as we leave the city.   We turn off the highway onto a road more cobbled than any inside San Miguel. If I were a kid, I’d love this jarring bumpy ride—I can imagine the squeals of delight—but I’m not a kid and am glad it is not my car.

“We are here,” says our driver as he pulls up to a stacked stone edifice and parks beside what at home could be called a well-house but is, in fact, a tiny arch-shaped shrine with hand-painted murals on the far wall.

Smiling a warm welcome, bubbling with energy, Kathy invites us into her home. The house, built by Kathy and Steve for Kathy’s mother, is only twenty years old but looks like it grew from the soil where it stands.  The views are glorious.  The covered terrace invites you to sit—forever. The inside tour is quick.  We are off to see the grounds and the ancient chapel from the 17^th century.

The Tour

We pass numerous raised beds of flowering plants—plants the horses won’t eat, and I am envious of their lushness, telling Michael, “See, this is what our society garlic is supposed to look like.” Alas, we have too much shade and not enough water.

Kathy points out the original house, a tiny stone structure, showing us where the restoration began.  There is a piece of wood on the porch that looks like an animal.  “A bull,” Kathy tells me.

Another older weathered piece of wood is an ancient saddle—for burros?  We wonder. I know it needs a lot of padding for me to sit astride its surface.

We head for the chapel, but what I want to do is find a spot somewhere in the middle of all this wonder and sit and absorb.  But my ordinary MO is denied me—our hosts have an appointment with friends in Dolores Hidalgo, so we must proceed.

The Chapel

Stepping onto the stone entry, worn smooth and deep by four hundred years of feet crossing the threshold, I am amazed that one individual can own a piece of history.  I want to sit on the floor of this wonderful old chapel and absorb it all, but instead, I settle for photographs to study later.

As we exit the centuries-old church, my thoughts become words, “Do you ever look around and ask, ‘Is this really mine?’ “

“I never take it for granted,” Kathy tells me.

I still want to sit and be, but we head for the pristine tack room and stables. There is a small guest house, several outdoor living areas, caretakers’ quarters, and more flowers. Steve shows off his horses to Michael.  I snap a picture.  The tour has been a joy, and what seems like minutes has actually been close to two hours.  Climbing into their car, we head back to San Miguel, making dinner plans together before we leave.