We wolf down a Breakfast Bearrito at the Cub Market in Bearsville, then head north on the 9W toward Olana.  

At 11:15, my phone rings. I almost don’t answer it because it is only a number—no name—but I do.  It is the visitor’s center from Olana, making sure we will arrive on time for the noon tour. The tours are small; only twelve people are allowed on each.

Olana

We cross the Hudson River via the Rip Van Winkle Bridge, and in the middle of the bridge, I see it—Olana—sitting high on the top of a hill partially obscured by trees. We wind our way up from the valley, find a space to park, and descend to the old coach house to purchase tickets.

Our guide almost talks as if Olana is the artist and the famous man that created it, just a side note, but the docent is good. Very good. And Olana is a prize, a Persian dream rising out of the earth, unlike any house I have ever seen. A house conceived and built and nurtured, and treasured by the artist Frederic Edwin Church. His hand and eye are apparent in every room.  I try to discern what type of person he is by the furnishings within—everything original to the house, kept intact by his son and daughter-in-law till her death in 1964—and saved from dissolution and destruction by a group of concerned, illustrious citizens and the state of New York in 1966.

Frederick Church

Church is an artist with extreme natural talent—a student of Thomas Cole—and was the preeminent and most financially successful landscape painter of his time, outshining his instructor.

A lover of art. A lover of nature. A collector—of paintings and artifacts and sculpture and anything interesting—new. Different. He traveled. Studied. Read. He was a landscaper, molding the two-hundred-and-fifty acres that surrounded his home to his specifications; planting trees, creating grasslands, enhancing vistas. An idealist—a perfectionist. Determined. And I think he had quite an ego; and I guess, thinking about it, Olana is Frederic Church.

Olana’s Interior Furnishings

I love that he filled his house not only with his own paintings but with paintings of other artists as well; what I don’t love is that everything is roped off—I understand this—but I am unable to get nose-close to the paintings—or anything.  We walk through the middle or the edge. We are told that sometimes if Church thought the artist of one of his purchases did not treat a subject as well as he could have, he took his own brush to the painting—and fixed it!

His studio is an ode to his love of art; the beautiful, the unique, in all of its diversity of shapes and forms. I think I would have enjoyed getting to know Mr. Church.

Olana’s Grounds

After the sensory overload of Church’s amazing home, we slip away to explore the quiet beauty of Mother Nature while we wait for our last tour of the road always traveled. The circuitous path Church’s visitors took to get to his door, designed to inspire awe from below to all who visited.

A Prescription, Flu Shots, and Dinner

At 4 pm, we are released from our last tour—a walking tour of the carefully designed carriage route Church had his visitors take before finally arriving at his front door—and head south on the 9G toward Kingston.

I need to pick up a prescription.  Michael tells me we need to get flu shots.  The pharmacist tells us we need to eat at the Ship to Shore restaurant near the harbor. 

I look at Michael, “I had planned on fixing chicken pasta, but I could make a chicken salad for a picnic tomorrow instead. What do you think?”

Sitting at an outside table with a view of the water, I peruse the menu. Everything sounds delicious, but I am seduced by the appetizer menu and its offerings.

I choose a salad of watermelon, cucumber, and feta cheese drizzled with orange vinaigrette and a stacked yellowfin tuna and avocado appetizer for dinner—I don’t even know what Michael decided to order—I am in foodie heaven once my delicious choices are set before me!