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The Berkshires of Western Massachusetts are indeed dreamlike, and not on account of that frosting. We have fled the urban massif, barely escaping its gravitational field, and have flung ourselves into an elliptical orbit that has landed us in a place somewhere between heaven and earth. A snaking narrow highway leads upward into forest and meadow and towns of the Industrial Revolution, with small dark red brick buildings with water wheels on fast moving rivers. We climb, past a last lake, and through a portal into New England past, gracious and remote, shimmering grass and butterflies, up a gravel road to the Dreamaway Lodge, our concert and aboding destination.