The sweet chill of fall had settled in. Trees were appropriately donning their golden shades. In response, the sun released its yellow haze upon our Sunday afternoon walk. Our neighbor spontaneously offered to show us the quarry of Quarryville. Apparently it existed and wasn't some myth that we had been told. This offer could not be refused. Back beyond the porches of lives we hardly see, we tramped up the road. Past the forgotten train cars and empty automobiles rusting in the shadows, we trekked by the ivy covered, dormant, mechanical statues.
Not heeding the "No Trespass Sign," we journeyed into Hobbiton, horses in green pastures and goats in grassy patches. Then, there it was. Covered with a glassy layer of water, the quarry, scooped out, curving down into the valley and onto the glistening corn covered farms. A memorial to a previous age, something that had been peacefully laid to rest and covered in the adorning brush of the countryside. Sunday evening was the right moment to meet the quiet quarry.