The Composer and I were off on an overnight bat. We calculated that it had been seven years since we had gone off alone, (alone meaning without any children). Not counting one overnight where we ran a half-marathon, which wasn't romantic.
So for romance, we chose a straight-out-of-the-fifties motor inn which prided itself on its closeness to a nine-hole golf course. I loved that each of the twenty rooms had its own sitting bench on the walkway, so that every guest had the opportunity to sit and look at the golf course. We got out and played our nine holes the first evening, and the course was absolutely empty except for the bluebirds closing up shop for the night, flying back and forth over the greens.
I hadn't hit a golf ball in twenty years, but so what? It was quiet and beautiful and the fencerows were overgrown with reddening sumac.