From the high ground in Chester you can catch the Connecticut River through the trees, and down at the landing the little ferry crosses toward the castle on the far bluff. Up in the hills the soil is thin over ledge with Cockaponset's woods pressing in on every clearing, so a lawn here is something you keep on purpose. That means steady mowing, tight trimming around outcrops and stone, edges cut where grass meets gravel, mulch in the beds, and cleanups in spring and again after the oaks finish dropping. Fog fills the river valley on September mornings and burns off by nine, and a fresh-cut yard on a ridge above it is a genuinely fine sight. Chester rewards the patient version of this work — small properties, awkward corners, plenty of it done by hand where a machine will not fit.