Looking out from the Queen Room, in the softened light of a cloudless Saturday, you can experience the feeling of waking up in the suspended atmosphere of a secluded American province. As if the charm of a silent North American village was not a memorable morning by itself, imagine going down the creaky wooden stairs of the Post Office House, crossing the quiet North Branch Road, breathing fresh air, and entering the Main Inn House. Last night you sipped cider at the counter, then had a substantial late dinner and played bowling. Imagine filling a mug with freshly roasted coffee, a dish with apple and cinnamon tarts, and a bowl with granola and full-bodied farm milk. The smell of burned wood, of an outdoor Saturday, of woods. God bless America.