We live on the outskirts of a small Vermont town, Ripton. Ripton's main connection to the world is through a state road, 125, which runs through town, down the mountainside, and into the town of East Middlebury. That's the route we take to go to Middlebury proper for groceries, a library, and so on.
125 crosses a very old, very short bridge just before entering East Middlebury. The Sand Hill bridge probably needs repair or replacement; either way, it may be closed, forcing traffic into long and potentially dangerous detours.
Our household can make do with the North Branch Road, a very old, dirt, and damaged route which snakes along the mountain slope to East Middlebury. Each trip along it gnaws on the car, speeding its date with auto mechanics, thanks to rocks, hole, chewed-up verges, and endless hairpin turns.
We live on the end of a narrow connection to the world. Mentally, I feel more connected via the Web. But the experience of living up here is dominated by trees and wind, soil and snow; the world is a far-off, rare presence, like a distant relative who visits from time to time.