What’s Inn Is Solitude

Wilmington--and most of Delaware--had been left behind as my husband and I drove north toward Pennsylvania that night. Our destination was Mendenhall, Pa., a hamlet near the state line where we had a reservation.

A cashier at a gasoline station looked blank when we asked directions. But a customer heard our query and said: “Follow me. I can save you 10 miles.”

He left the bright highway and cut west on a curving, pitch-black lane. There was no moon; only his headlights and ours punched holes in the dark and struck at the trunks of old trees. The wind began howling. The road dipped downward, as steep as a toboggan run.

No signs appeared, either for speed or direction. No mail boxes hinted of habitation. As we raced after the stranger, I remembered that Edgar Allan Poe wrote some of his horrific tales while living in Pennsylvania. Had he known these woods?

Finally we came to an intersection. It was Route 52. The local driver rolled down his window. I cracked mine an inch.

“Sorry if it was scary,” he called, “but it does save time. I turn left here. You turn right.” With a wave he disappeared.

Three miles beyond, we came to our destination: the Fairville Inn. It was after 9 p.m., but a porch light was on. The man at the desk of the 1820s house was kind. He showed us to a parlor with a glowing fire and offered cinnamon tea and homemade cookies. Life, once again, seemed cozy.

Our room (No. 3) was in the former carriage house, with a fireplace, cathedral ceiling and high-paned windows. The English country look of Laura Ashley was apparent in lace-trimmed pillow covers, a snow-white comforter and a billowy peach canopy over the queen-size bed.

With dawn we peeked out at the rolling fields, woods and ponds of this land that could be Sussex. We went for a walk before breakfast, passing white board fences and pastures of sleek horses.

That morning we met Rita Martelli, a cheery woman who bakes for the inn. She was responsible for the pumpkin and lemon bars, the moist macaroons and crunchy chocolate-chip cookies that had been served to us at bedtime.

The Fairville Inn is certifiably romantic, a bed and breakfast establishment that welcomes you warmly and then leaves you alone--no forced togetherness, no family tables, no hovering.

Its location on Route 52 is convenient for touring a number of area attractions, including: the 350-acre Longwood Gardens, at the former country estate of Pierre S. duPont, near Kennett Square, Pa.; the 200-room American furniture collection at the Winterthur estate of Henry Francis duPont, and the Wyeth family art--as well as other American masters--at the Brandywine River Museum in Chadds Ford.

Another winsome hideaway in Pennsylvania is Highland Farms, near Doylestown in Bucks County. This three-story, 18th-Century home was the country estate of the Broadway lyricist Oscar Hammerstein II. In its parlor, he wrote the memorable songs for “Oklahoma!,” “Carousel,” “The King and I,” “South Pacific” and “The Sound of Music.”

I drove up the farm lane at 70 East Road and innkeeper Mary Schnitzer came to the door. She wore a powder-blue warm-up suit and was in her stocking feet.

“Welcome,” she said with a grin. “It’s crazy this morning. As soon as our last guest checked out, we began stripping the music room floor.”

Schnitzer and her husband, John, bought Highland Farms four years ago, filled it with Hammerstein memorabilia and opened it for bed and breakfast. They are still refurbishing the last of the eight bedrooms.

Stephen Sondheim has been a guest, and James Michener--whogrew up in Doylestown--has stayed in the suite named South Pacific.

Beyond the dove-gray house, with its white pillars and black shutters, is a grape arbor (where, they say, Henry Fonda was married) and a pen of sheep (who, reportedly, have come to like beer and pretzels). A tennis court and swimming pool are artfully hidden on five tidy acres.

My only disappointment with Highland Farms was the fact that I discovered it on the morning that I had to leave Bucks County for New York City.

Worse, it was the morning after I had stayed--in tired desperation--at the Courthouse Motel in Doylestown, the only vacancy sign in town.

I slept restlessly and with good reason--the room was not clean, the air conditioning was noisy, the lights of the Coca-Cola machine shone through the window, and a woman yelled “rape!” in the night, then burst into laughter as footsteps pounded by our door.

It was a far cry from the old sweet songs of Rodgers and Hammerstein.

For more information: Fairville Inn, Route 52, Box 219, Mendenhall, Pa. 19357, (215) 388-5900; Highland Farms, 70 East Road, Doylestown, Pa. 18901, (215) 340-1354.