JULY 21, 1936
PORTSMOUTH, N.H.—Eight o'clock found us on the road this morning and we made very good time. I had decided to try a new route and found it the best I have taken so far on the way to Campobello. We went up the regular Albany Post Road until about five miles out of Albany when we turned north to Troy and missing the business section of the town, struck Route #7 and then #9 which take one via Bennington to Keene. From a little placed called the Sky Line Tea House there is a most lovely view of the Green Mountains, and they are green and wooded and very beautiful. The whole drive with its lakes and woods is a lovely trip for when you leave the Green Mountains you skirt the southern end of the White Mountains on Routes #111 and 97, and suddenly find yourself on Route 110 running into the low scruby woods and stony fields which herald the approach to the ocean, just south of Little Boars Head, New Hampshire.
There were no big cities to go through and while there was a little construction and the roads are hilly with a good many curves, still you can make pretty good time and have an opportunity to see a few things on the way. I was amused at one sign pointing down a dirt road to my left "Proctors Field, Animal Cemetery." I can just imagine someone who was very fond of animals having donated that field and endowed it in the firm determination that at least the poor (dumb animals) of that vicinity should have decent burial.
About one o'clock it bagen to rain and I pulled into what looked like a rarely used wood road to enjoy the protection of the trees while we ate our luncheon. We chose well for a apparently nobody was disturbed by us until everything was packed away and then some one honked in a very annoyed manner and they had to back while I backed out and turned onto the road. I imagine they thought we were very cheeky trespassers! They should have been grateful to us, however, for I had refrained from throwing any of our luncheon papers out onto their driveway or into their woods which is one of the things some picnickers do.
About four-thirtyfive we reached my daughter-in-law, Mrs. James Roosevelt, Jr.'s house, and as I dictate this little Kate Roosevelt is sitting in my lap watching or rather listening to the typewriter with rapt attention. It is nice to have something to introduce you so pleasantly to your grandchild whom you haven't seen in some time. Both Sara and Kate look wonderfully well, and now we must go on and drive a little further before we stop for the night.