Sometimes the quietest things can speak the loudest.

We were driving the other day down Highway 63, and for a few minutes it seemed almost as if we had slipped into another world. If you don’t know 63, it’s a narrow two-lane road that meanders through Westmoreland and Chesterfield in southwest New Hampshire, connecting busy Highway 12 with even busier Highway 9. I suppose it could be a short cut, but I don’t think too many people use it for that. Instead, it’s the path through a series of lovely homes and farms, some small and others quite large, and bits of two villages. In that way, it’s nothing special, sort of like what you’ll find dotting the landscapes of New Hampshire and neighboring Vermont.

But on this trip, we seemed to to pay more attention to the road itself than usual. As it winds south around curves and up and down gentle hills, the highway becomes increasingly closed in by trees and low-lying shrubs, the houses get closer to the road, and you can feel yourself being hugged by what surrounds you. Mind you, it’s not a claustrophobic hug, but an easy embrace, like you might get from an old friend. And it feels friendly. It also look wonderful, at this time of year the leaves various hues, especially golds and browns, and they gather themselves along the side of the road, defining the edges with nature’s shifting colors. It’s simply breathtaking, and it goes on far longer than we could have hoped.

The only thing I can recall similarly is a stretch of road — I believe it’s Highway 7 — that runs between Charleston, SC and the once-small suburb of Summerville. It’s also a two-lane blacktop that is lined by trees laden with low-hanging Spanish moss that waves gently in the breeze of passing cars. And like 63, it gracefully embraces those who slow down a little to savor the landscape surrounding them. In this case the landscape includes several prominent 18th and 19th century plantation homes, part of the rich history that consumes and almost buried the Carolina Lowcountry generations ago. No question, however, it is gorgeous.

I’ve lived in both places, New England and South Carolina. Nobody is going to confuse the two. But in some ways meaningful and not there are connections that strike me; and driving down 63 the other day I was reminded of one of the most pleasant. Fall in New England and spring in South Carolina. Two peas in a pod, sort of.