Travel TRIP INTO FALL

The thought of touring six states on a weekend is somewhat foreign to most Texans. But in New England it can be done, and it doesn’t have to be hectic, either. Of course, you won’t be able to inspect every maple leaf or photograph every church steeple, but in two autumn days you can sample one of the country’s most charming regions at its best.

New England is, of course, just beyond the side door of New York City. If you happen to be in the city on business, as I was, all the better. But with maple trees and covered bridges on my mind, what I wanted out of New York was just that, out of New York. Perhaps another time for the city, another mood.

I gave up driving in New York years ago, when I saw a traffic sign that said “Squeeze.” I could have handled “Look Out, Dammit,” but not “Squeeze.” So I taxied to Grand Central Station and caught the 3:05 on Friday afternoon for New Haven, Connecticut ($4). Port Chester, Greenwich, Darien, Fairfield, Milford – a leisurely view of the countryside, right? Wrong. I was dismayed to discover that nearly the whole train ride is spent underground or at the bottom of a deep ditch. At each stop our load was lightened by the departure of harried junior executives and theatrical types who hadn’t quite lasted the whole week. Then, the dumpy New Haven station, end of the line.

I phoned Budget Rent-A-Car from the station and was picked up in less than five minutes. The rate was $24.95 per day for a new Buick LeSabre, and there was no charge for mileage. After a quick tour of Yale, I was on the road to Old Say-brook for a browse through the town’s antique shops. Unfortunately, I didn’t arrive until after closing hours. Undaunted, I continued and just eastward encountered Old Lyme. Now, this was what 1 wanted Connecticut to look like: a towering white church steeple, freshly painted two story colonial houses nestled among the elms, and a gray stone village inn clinging to a grass covered hill. It was a hundred years from Grand Central Station.

After a drive-through sampling of 18th-century architecture down the road in New London, I bedded down at Howard Johnson’s in Mystic ($23.95). Downtown, I had a great pizza, with a chewy crust and the perfect blend of mushrooms and anchovies. You might prefer a “grinder,” the New England version of the submarine sandwich. (The tuna grinder seemed to be a hot item with the locals.)

Mystic was one of the main reasons I made the trip. Long addicted to tales of seafarers and great white whales, I was first in line for a Saturday morning visit to Mystic Seaport. This accumulation of vessels, relics and accessories dates from the mid-1800’s, when the city was a major ship building center. I strolled the deck of the Charles W.Morgan, a venerable wooden whaler that sailed the Big Seven from 1841 to 1921. Guides even let me go below to see where the blubber was once stored. I also turned up impressive scrimshaw and figurehead collections in dock-side museums.

Taking Highway 1 out of Mystic, I was well on my way to Newport, Rhode Island by mid-Saturday morning. The only intervening diversion was a two-mile detour to the birthplace of portraitist Gilbert Stuart in Saunderstown. The Stuart home is set in enchanting, isolated woods, just across a clear, gurgling stream from an old grist mill.

Once in Newport, I had a fabulous lunch of fried clams, oysters, shrimp and scallops at The Pier ($2.95), and then ventured out on famous Ocean Drive. Newport, a haven for 17th-century pirates, is now replete with summer cottages – as defined by the Astors and Vanderbilts: 50 to 70-room mansions accessible to sea breezes during the uncomfortable days of July and August. I selected Belcourt Castle for an interior tour because of its world-renowned collection of antiques and stained glass. You might prefer the 70-room Breakers, Cornelius Vanderbilt’s old pad, or for a glimpse of Victorian high society, the Chateau-sur-mer, with its mirrored ballroom. I found the guided tour (with memorized speech) an annoyance, but apparently unavoidable.

I hit Boston at 3:45, which should have been well before rush hour, but wasn’t. Boston is very accommodating to weekenders, though. They have laid out a mile-and-a-half long red brick path in the heart of town, linking famous revolutionary sites, such as Paul Revere’s grave and the Old South Meeting House.

I took Interstate 95 north out of Boston. The trees began to take on a distinctly different appearance – more variety, more fire. When I hit the southern tip of Maine, I exited to Highway 1, which traces the coastline. York is my favorite sea village, boasting numerous old wharf buildings (including one operated by John Hancock) and stack after stack of lobster traps. Lobster, the food of the gods. If not gods, then executive vice-presidents. But on Saturday night at the Ramada Inn in Portland ($24.95) I had two gigantic steamed lobsters for $5.95. It felt like stealing.

Early Sunday morning I pointed my borrowed LeSabre to the northwest on Highway 302. This route goes through the fringe of Thoreau’s Maine woods, heading for the White Mountains of New Hampshire. I stopped in Bridgton, look-ing for antiques. The proprietor of a houseful of bottles – the junk wouldn’t have moved at a Texas garage sale – asked me to pay a 25￠”browsing fee.” New England antiquing was a total loss.

The White Mountains, where Fall first touches New England, are tranquil rather than stark, with wadeable streams and birch trees reluctantly giving way to the whims of the wind. Just to the west, Highway 302 crosses the Connecticut River, the boundary between New Hampshire and Vermont. Each state has a highway running north and south parallel to the river. Whichever you take, you won’t go wrong: quiet villages (called “notches” in New Hampshire, “gaps” in Vermont), picturesque barns, little red schoolhouses, 18th-century farm houses, but most of all, trees. The fire engine red leaves of the sugar maples, contrasted with the golds, russets and browns of their woodland companions, make the Connecticut Valley one of America’s most beautiful autumn trails. To see a rickety covered bridge, detour a couple of miles at Union Village, Vermont. For a better preserved specimen, try downstate in Brattleboro. And as an interesting contrast to Yale, visit Dartmouth College in Hanover, New Hampshire, across the river from Norwich, Vermont.

From Southern Vermont it’s an easydrive on Interstate 91 to Bradley International Airport in Hartford, Connecticut,where you can turn in your car and catchan American Airlines night coach to D/FWAirport. For 660 miles of driving and lessthan $200 (plus air fare), this New Englandtour is a must for the Texas native whothinks leaves simply turn brown and dropoff during autumn.