The New England Coast
I hereby award the prize for best station to Washington DC. What an immaculate building. The outside is similar to other public buildings in DC, in that its imposing, white and impressively large. Inside it's marble floors, columns, green foliage and good cafés and shops, has well staffed information desks and is very clean. How very different to London's Victoria station.
Travelling by train isn't really the done thing in America, as the distances are large and flights cheap. But as we'd be travelling in far too many flights on this trip, and because we wanted to see a little of the countryside (now whetted by the pretty drive through Virginia) we thought six hours on the train would be a good way to travel up to Boston. It was a pleasant journey via Pittsburgh and New York, though obviously you don't get to see the prettiest parts of a city by the railtrack. I did enjoy the approach to New York. I don't think any other city I've seen has the experience of travelling through rural areas with the distant skyline silhouetted with familiar shapes like the Empire State and Chrysler buildings. Approaching London, you just get gradually more urban until you're travelling through industrial areas and large but uninteresting buildings that block the view of the nicer bits that would be on the horizon. Between the cities we attractive towns, often on the mouths of rivers, but one problem with travelling by train is the lack of information telling you where you are, so I can't tell you the names of them.
We arrived in Boston bang on time, and headed off to find our hire car using the metro system, known locally as "the T". Boston's system is quite an old one, and one of the more confusing underground rail systems I've used. There's very little information around on the fares you're meant to pay, involves purchasing little tokens you drop in turn-styles and uses "inbound" and "outbound" inconsistently to indicate the direction of the trains. We made it onto the red line and switched to the green which is probably the cutest underground line around. The trains are old-fashioned single carriage trams with a driver you buy your ticket from at the front at the more rural stations. A number of these stand on the platform at any one time, and there are branches all over the line so you have to be careful to get the right one, but we navigated successfully to the Avis office by Symphony Hall.
I was quite excited about picking up the car. Driving round Virginia in Andy's Mustang was fun, and we'd discovered we could hire a convertible for about the amount we'd budgeted. I could see the car on the forecourt as we walked in - a Chrysler Sebring, a larger than necessary four-seater which would have been hell to park in a country where you'd be expected to parallel park on the street, but nice enough in the US. We then discovered why it was "cheap". Car hire prices in the US (at least in Massachusetts) do not include any insurance at all. This makes sense in a country that's so large that people leave their cars at home and fly around. They are often insured already so it would be a waste of money. But it meant our bargain car was considerably more expensive than we'd thought. We'd just have to root out those cheap motels we'd been reading about.
Various people we'd met had warned us about driving in Boston, saying it was horribly stressful with no information, madly busy, crazy one-way systems and other stressed out drivers doing unexpected manoeuvres. Well, we don't know what all the fuss was about. Admittedly I had a very good navigator in Esther (who utterly defies the stereotype about female map readers) but we got out of Boston without a single wrong turn. We were heading north along the coast towards Salem, famous for the witch trials, with no real plan, and no booked accommodation.
We were following signs to Salem quite happily on route 1A, and appeared to reach the town at the point the 1A became part of the town road grid with bits of one-way system complicating the issue. It needn't be complicated; a sign or two saying "Boston", "1A North" would have gone a long way, but no, we just went from crossroads to crossroads making uneducated guesses as to which way we should go. The car did have a compass in the rear-view mirror so we at least had some idea of where we were going. So it was somewhat baffling to find ourselves on a road a few minutes later having completely missed the historic centre heading south towards Boston again. Esther used her navigating skills to get us going the right direction again, and the second pass proved marginally more successful. We were going the right way this time, but still seemed to have missed the supposedly pretty bit we were trying to get to. We wrote it off, putting it down to some witches curse that protects the place from tourists.
Instead we pitched up in the town of Newburyport, a pretty place near the mouth of the Merrimack river. The place we found to stay wasn't quite the cheap motel we'd been assured we'd find but it was central so we could leave the car and walk into the pleasant town. We had a mediocre dinner in a restaurant overlooking the harbour, but the views easily made up for the food with a lovely sunset.
The next day we wandered around the marina and along the river front. There was a converted warehouse full of expensive looking delicatessens, and a fish shop selling lobster rolls, a local speciality we decided to try. We bought one (too expensive to get two) and some clam chowder from the Irishman working there (not much trace of an accent left. In general New Englanders seem very proud of their Irish connections). We decided to do something active, so after lunch we joined a group kayaking down the river. We spent a pleasant 3-4 hours on the river, shocking our American guide with our 7 month holiday (Americans don't seem to do career breaks, and often survive on a pitiful 20 days leave or less), visiting mussel beds, chatting about the area (apparently the river freezes up in winter which was hard to imagine on a warm sunny day like this) and generally relaxing while exercising.
Driving around in a convertible is a good way to see New England. The speed limits are low and the sun was shining so we always had the top down which means you get to see a lot more of the town. The towns we drove through were immaculately kept, with freshly painted clap-board houses, normally large detached properties. Nothing was in disrepair and flags flew proudly. I guess it might have been a bit soulless, but you got the feeling there was a proper community spirit where people all knew each other. The Hamptons we passed through surely can't be the famous ones. This one was ugly as hell with amusement arcades all along the seafront separating tacky restaurants though the latter part was large detached houses on winding roads looking opulent enough for the richest of owners. It was a little strange passing lots of towns with familiar names; Plymouth, Ipswich, Gloucester, Reading. I contemplated phoning my mum to say I was in Exeter to see the reaction but it was a bit of a detour (I told her this later when phoning home, and she reckoned she'd have said "that's nice" which isn't really the reaction I'd hoped for). But we did reach Portsmouth the next evening.
Again we tried to find a cheap motel and failed, and instead stayed in the "Inn at Strawberrry Banke". Strawberry Banke is about a block of the town preserved as a museum, though the rest of the town looked pretty well preserved to me. I don't know if there were no new buildings or if they just always make them in the same style but it works nicely. The hotel was lovely; only a few rooms, sparsely but stylishly furnished at with a nice garden. And again walking distance to town.
As you might guess, Portsmouth is another town on the mouth of a river, and the harbour is a focal point in the town with elegant fishing vessels moored by the waterfront restaurants and bars. We found a French bistro-type establishment called Lindbergh Crossing that looked nice, dark wood, exposed brick walls, candles giving the place a warm glow. I'm very glad we went there as the place was superb. Everything about it was just right. It had been a long time since we'd seen such an interesting menu and we had difficulty choosing from the dishes. The waitress was knowledgeable without being intimidating and described the food enthusiastically. She suggested we ask the owner to recommend the wine, which he did with equal relish, suggesting wine that would compliment both my to-die-for duck dish and Esther's imaginative salmon marinated in smoky lapsong suchong tea.
While we were eating, a torrential downpour caused passers-by to run for cover so we took our time over dinner but eventually it was time to leave and we wondered which bar to visit. The trouble with American bars is that they invariably have a number of TVs on that draw the eye no matter how hard you try not to be distracted. Why they bother is beyond me, as the music is so loud you can't hear each other talk let alone hear the programme. So we decided to prolong our stay at Lindbergh Crossing and return to their wine bar upstairs. The only patrons other than ourselves were all employees of the restaurant or bar; the waitress was there, the chef, and the owners. They invited us to join them at the bar and insisted on buying us a drink (more of that highly recommended wine - well it would be if I'd had the foresight to write down the name). A nice end to a great evening. If you're ever in Portsmouth, make sure you go.
The overnight rain had cleared and we continued our tour of mixed-up English-named towns; Wells, Arundel, Biddeford, Dover. We were heading around the coast, through New Hampshire and onto Maine. By this time my lack of sunglasses was beginning to be a problem so we decided to stop at the Maine Mall to see if they had any. They certainly did. There must have been two to three pairs for every person in the state spread amongst the shops and stalls in the huge cathedral of commerce. I bought three for myself, guessing that should last me six weeks or so at my present rate of loss. We wandered the avenues wondering at the sheer size of the place. If I asked questions to any shop assistants I had to do so twice, as the first time they'd glaze over listening to the funny Englishman and not the words. "Gee, I just *love* that accent. Sorry, what was the question?".
That afternoon we succeeded in finding our first genuine American motel outside a place called Wincasset. Not as cheap as we hoped but sub-$100 which was a relief. We checked in then headed off for the unusually named Pemaquid, a peninsular which was home to a pretty lighthouse and rocky cliffs against which a rough Atlantic crashed sending walls of spray over the kids standing further down the hill. Despite the grey skies and light drizzle, it was a nice place to spend a while gazing out to sea. On the way back, we stopped at a random restaurant which looked popular and were fortunate to get a table. It was a lovely spot looking out over the lake and I'd love to have taken a photo but the view was blocked by a local who'd had a few too many and was determined to talk drunkenly to strangers and we were trying to avoid him. He was the sort who'd start to get abusive if you say the wrong thing.
We managed to miss our turning on the way home thanks to more unsignposted intersections but found our motel in the darkness and settled down in our surprisingly quiet cabin for the night.
Travelling by train isn't really the done thing in America, as the distances are large and flights cheap. But as we'd be travelling in far too many flights on this trip, and because we wanted to see a little of the countryside (now whetted by the pretty drive through Virginia) we thought six hours on the train would be a good way to travel up to Boston. It was a pleasant journey via Pittsburgh and New York, though obviously you don't get to see the prettiest parts of a city by the railtrack. I did enjoy the approach to New York. I don't think any other city I've seen has the experience of travelling through rural areas with the distant skyline silhouetted with familiar shapes like the Empire State and Chrysler buildings. Approaching London, you just get gradually more urban until you're travelling through industrial areas and large but uninteresting buildings that block the view of the nicer bits that would be on the horizon. Between the cities we attractive towns, often on the mouths of rivers, but one problem with travelling by train is the lack of information telling you where you are, so I can't tell you the names of them.
We arrived in Boston bang on time, and headed off to find our hire car using the metro system, known locally as "the T". Boston's system is quite an old one, and one of the more confusing underground rail systems I've used. There's very little information around on the fares you're meant to pay, involves purchasing little tokens you drop in turn-styles and uses "inbound" and "outbound" inconsistently to indicate the direction of the trains. We made it onto the red line and switched to the green which is probably the cutest underground line around. The trains are old-fashioned single carriage trams with a driver you buy your ticket from at the front at the more rural stations. A number of these stand on the platform at any one time, and there are branches all over the line so you have to be careful to get the right one, but we navigated successfully to the Avis office by Symphony Hall.
I was quite excited about picking up the car. Driving round Virginia in Andy's Mustang was fun, and we'd discovered we could hire a convertible for about the amount we'd budgeted. I could see the car on the forecourt as we walked in - a Chrysler Sebring, a larger than necessary four-seater which would have been hell to park in a country where you'd be expected to parallel park on the street, but nice enough in the US. We then discovered why it was "cheap". Car hire prices in the US (at least in Massachusetts) do not include any insurance at all. This makes sense in a country that's so large that people leave their cars at home and fly around. They are often insured already so it would be a waste of money. But it meant our bargain car was considerably more expensive than we'd thought. We'd just have to root out those cheap motels we'd been reading about.
Various people we'd met had warned us about driving in Boston, saying it was horribly stressful with no information, madly busy, crazy one-way systems and other stressed out drivers doing unexpected manoeuvres. Well, we don't know what all the fuss was about. Admittedly I had a very good navigator in Esther (who utterly defies the stereotype about female map readers) but we got out of Boston without a single wrong turn. We were heading north along the coast towards Salem, famous for the witch trials, with no real plan, and no booked accommodation.
We were following signs to Salem quite happily on route 1A, and appeared to reach the town at the point the 1A became part of the town road grid with bits of one-way system complicating the issue. It needn't be complicated; a sign or two saying "Boston", "1A North" would have gone a long way, but no, we just went from crossroads to crossroads making uneducated guesses as to which way we should go. The car did have a compass in the rear-view mirror so we at least had some idea of where we were going. So it was somewhat baffling to find ourselves on a road a few minutes later having completely missed the historic centre heading south towards Boston again. Esther used her navigating skills to get us going the right direction again, and the second pass proved marginally more successful. We were going the right way this time, but still seemed to have missed the supposedly pretty bit we were trying to get to. We wrote it off, putting it down to some witches curse that protects the place from tourists.
Instead we pitched up in the town of Newburyport, a pretty place near the mouth of the Merrimack river. The place we found to stay wasn't quite the cheap motel we'd been assured we'd find but it was central so we could leave the car and walk into the pleasant town. We had a mediocre dinner in a restaurant overlooking the harbour, but the views easily made up for the food with a lovely sunset.
The next day we wandered around the marina and along the river front. There was a converted warehouse full of expensive looking delicatessens, and a fish shop selling lobster rolls, a local speciality we decided to try. We bought one (too expensive to get two) and some clam chowder from the Irishman working there (not much trace of an accent left. In general New Englanders seem very proud of their Irish connections). We decided to do something active, so after lunch we joined a group kayaking down the river. We spent a pleasant 3-4 hours on the river, shocking our American guide with our 7 month holiday (Americans don't seem to do career breaks, and often survive on a pitiful 20 days leave or less), visiting mussel beds, chatting about the area (apparently the river freezes up in winter which was hard to imagine on a warm sunny day like this) and generally relaxing while exercising.
Driving around in a convertible is a good way to see New England. The speed limits are low and the sun was shining so we always had the top down which means you get to see a lot more of the town. The towns we drove through were immaculately kept, with freshly painted clap-board houses, normally large detached properties. Nothing was in disrepair and flags flew proudly. I guess it might have been a bit soulless, but you got the feeling there was a proper community spirit where people all knew each other. The Hamptons we passed through surely can't be the famous ones. This one was ugly as hell with amusement arcades all along the seafront separating tacky restaurants though the latter part was large detached houses on winding roads looking opulent enough for the richest of owners. It was a little strange passing lots of towns with familiar names; Plymouth, Ipswich, Gloucester, Reading. I contemplated phoning my mum to say I was in Exeter to see the reaction but it was a bit of a detour (I told her this later when phoning home, and she reckoned she'd have said "that's nice" which isn't really the reaction I'd hoped for). But we did reach Portsmouth the next evening.
Again we tried to find a cheap motel and failed, and instead stayed in the "Inn at Strawberrry Banke". Strawberry Banke is about a block of the town preserved as a museum, though the rest of the town looked pretty well preserved to me. I don't know if there were no new buildings or if they just always make them in the same style but it works nicely. The hotel was lovely; only a few rooms, sparsely but stylishly furnished at with a nice garden. And again walking distance to town.
As you might guess, Portsmouth is another town on the mouth of a river, and the harbour is a focal point in the town with elegant fishing vessels moored by the waterfront restaurants and bars. We found a French bistro-type establishment called Lindbergh Crossing that looked nice, dark wood, exposed brick walls, candles giving the place a warm glow. I'm very glad we went there as the place was superb. Everything about it was just right. It had been a long time since we'd seen such an interesting menu and we had difficulty choosing from the dishes. The waitress was knowledgeable without being intimidating and described the food enthusiastically. She suggested we ask the owner to recommend the wine, which he did with equal relish, suggesting wine that would compliment both my to-die-for duck dish and Esther's imaginative salmon marinated in smoky lapsong suchong tea.
While we were eating, a torrential downpour caused passers-by to run for cover so we took our time over dinner but eventually it was time to leave and we wondered which bar to visit. The trouble with American bars is that they invariably have a number of TVs on that draw the eye no matter how hard you try not to be distracted. Why they bother is beyond me, as the music is so loud you can't hear each other talk let alone hear the programme. So we decided to prolong our stay at Lindbergh Crossing and return to their wine bar upstairs. The only patrons other than ourselves were all employees of the restaurant or bar; the waitress was there, the chef, and the owners. They invited us to join them at the bar and insisted on buying us a drink (more of that highly recommended wine - well it would be if I'd had the foresight to write down the name). A nice end to a great evening. If you're ever in Portsmouth, make sure you go.
The overnight rain had cleared and we continued our tour of mixed-up English-named towns; Wells, Arundel, Biddeford, Dover. We were heading around the coast, through New Hampshire and onto Maine. By this time my lack of sunglasses was beginning to be a problem so we decided to stop at the Maine Mall to see if they had any. They certainly did. There must have been two to three pairs for every person in the state spread amongst the shops and stalls in the huge cathedral of commerce. I bought three for myself, guessing that should last me six weeks or so at my present rate of loss. We wandered the avenues wondering at the sheer size of the place. If I asked questions to any shop assistants I had to do so twice, as the first time they'd glaze over listening to the funny Englishman and not the words. "Gee, I just *love* that accent. Sorry, what was the question?".
That afternoon we succeeded in finding our first genuine American motel outside a place called Wincasset. Not as cheap as we hoped but sub-$100 which was a relief. We checked in then headed off for the unusually named Pemaquid, a peninsular which was home to a pretty lighthouse and rocky cliffs against which a rough Atlantic crashed sending walls of spray over the kids standing further down the hill. Despite the grey skies and light drizzle, it was a nice place to spend a while gazing out to sea. On the way back, we stopped at a random restaurant which looked popular and were fortunate to get a table. It was a lovely spot looking out over the lake and I'd love to have taken a photo but the view was blocked by a local who'd had a few too many and was determined to talk drunkenly to strangers and we were trying to avoid him. He was the sort who'd start to get abusive if you say the wrong thing.
We managed to miss our turning on the way home thanks to more unsignposted intersections but found our motel in the darkness and settled down in our surprisingly quiet cabin for the night.
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