Quince forth

Sunday morning. Oneonta, NY.

We’re making an early start. I hurtle down to get a swim in before breakfast. The pool is locked. They don’t open it until 9am. But look, the gym next door with its weights and walking machines is open. I say, this is fitness discrimination.

I return to the room grumpily and shower and pack.

Breakfast is strange in the Clarion. There is a big, deserted library with polished wooden tables and chairs. It turns out to be table service breakfast and we are the only ones. It also seems that the one girl takes the orders and does the cooking. When some others arrive, she is going like the hammers. It is not the fastest. But it is cheap and hot and good. Despite the pool and the inadequate Internet facilities of the Clarion, we have loved it.

A heavy mist hangs over the mountains as we head towards Vermont. The roads are wet and deserted.

As we weave through valleys, the mists change character. Instead of hugging the mountain tops, they trail and and dangle in snowy white wisps down the green slopes. The lyrical beauty of this is quite breathtaking.

The forests are dense. Great undulations of deep green. The tips of towns peek from their leafy embrace. White church spires.

That would be the town of Princeton in that huge misty valley. We sigh at the beauty of nature around us. Those plumes and tendrils steaming from the wilderness, rising to meet the clouds.

Here comes the rain again. Firm at first and then fierce, angry, obliterating.

The windscreen wipers work like fury. The traffic slows right down. Only one or two fools whoosh past in blasts of splashing idiocy.

We turn up the music and surround ourselves with Crash Test Dummies.”God Shuffled His Feet” seems so apt in this deluge.

One of the brilliant things about American interstate highways is their service to the traveller. Just when the bladder is calling,

exits with conveniences turn up. In this case it is an official Service Centre providing refreshments and rest rooms. A happy loo stop. We scamper through the rain and find relief along with hot coffee.

Back on the road in the showers of car spray we see exits to Montreal and Albany. We take a toll ticket.

There’s an exit to Historic Prune House. The mind’s eye plays with the image. Cars are not exactly rushing to the exit.

Our exit is Troy. There’s an accident being dealt with on the verge into Troy, reminding us of how dangeorus are these stormy weather conditions.

Troy has its lights on beneath the gloom of the leaden sky. We see spires and high rises through the rain.

Troy was founded in 1789. It says it is “The Home of Uncle Sam”.

We’re back on country roads. Aaah. We sing along with Abba as we pass soggy corn fields.

Passing farmlets. One has a farmstand selling “honest grown” products.

Lots of expanses of beautifully mown grass. Handsome mansions with posh porticos set right back amid the smooth lawns. Charming wooden homes with shutters and flags. Oh, and Trump signs.

Deep woods with quaint little picture book houses tucked in.

A reservoir, covered in water hyacinths.

The rain is easing as we pass Boyntonville.

Mountains here wear shawls of cloud. It is a new prettiness. Valleys are crowned with a floss of steamy mist.

Passing through the village of Hoosick we see a mad explosion of antique stores. Antique everything.

Ah, look at those rows of Adirondak chairs in the rain. Just like ours.

Now it’s pastures, cows, rolling fields, fresh eggs for sale.

We make a right turn into a valley. It is bright with purple loosestrife, a beautiful pest.

Mown lawns, dense forest, silos…

Suddenly, it is Vermont, perhaps the most beautiful of all the US States.

But not the perfume. There’s skunk stink in the air. Yes, there is an edge of burning rubber to its pungent scent.

Here’s Bennington, tucked in the open arms of the Green Mountains, reaching skywards with its fierce, high war memorial spire.

It’s a town of three-storey mansions, white churches, and picket fences. There are towering old trees, an ancient cemetery, flags, and patriotic bunting… The theatre is playing Big River, the story of Huckleberry Finn.

There’s a giant, giant chair at the roadside. There are street clocks and hanging baskets. It is just the most charming New England town. We have to stop. We bring out brollies and raincoats and take a stroll.

A couple of bearded hikers with stout shoes, backpacks and tall walking sticks stride past us. Vermont is hiker, outdoorsy country. Even in the rain.

Most things are closed on a Sunday but we find a welcoming Vermont produce and souvenir shop and pop in. The shopkeeper is very chatty indeed, especially when Bruce mentions football. I buy some maple sweeties for the girls. Both of us use his loo. That is just so American, retail shops which also provide comfort for customers.

We drive on along more lovely, winding leafy roads. A couple more hikers are striding through the rain.

Wilmington appears. Another picture postcard Vermont village. Clapboard shops and houses in grey, white, yellow, blue… Tourists are everywhere. The traffic is tight. It is a narrow little township. Finally we find our way into a muddy parking lot behind the street and try for lunch in a rustic cafe called Jezebel's. It is warm and crowded but the waif-like waitress points to a perfect table for two and we settle down gratefully. As we wait for our food, and it is quite a wait, we watch the locals converging for lunch. It is clearly a popular place. They throw open the

door with proprietorial aplomb, greeting each other and finding their way through to another section. There are a few Harley Davidson tourists sitting near to us. Oldies, of course. They wear big baggy waterproof trousers.

The rain has made me want hot food. My bowl of chili is dense, pasty, intense, a mix of all manner of pulses. It comes with very fine corn crisps which are a bit too good. But I can’t finish the rich chili. Nor can Bruce, after his immensely thick club sandwich. We waddle back into the wet world.

A covered bridge! This is a classic Vermont sight. So quaint. So inexplicable. We don't cover roads, so why cover bridges? Ah, but it is charming. We rumble carefully through it.

Google Maps has to help us in the long and winding route to my friend, Nancy’s place.

This is not the first time we bless Google, tracing the blue dot which,

miraculously, is us. How did we cope without it?

Nancy's place is out of Newfane, another picture postcard New England village - historic white wooden shuttered buildings, white churches with high spires, a village green, towering old trees.

Nancy, a fellow member of the online community now known as BrainstormsMetaNetwork, lives in

the secret woodlands of Vermont where she is furiously engaged in establishing a quince empire. She makes brilliant quince pastes and an ever-growing range of products from marmalades to salsas.

We had not met and, in fact, are relatively new chums on BSMS, but Nancy offered hospitality and a meetup in Vermont and she is not the sort to whom one says no. Now much wiser about Nancy, I’d say you would never want to say no to this kind, hospitable soul. She is one of life’s treasures. Generous to a fault.

Nancy’s husband, the divine Dan, leads Bruce and our luggage to our cosy upstairs quarters where two quilted single beds are tucked in under the

eaves, with flyscreened open windows bringing in the zephyrs of fragrant country air. There is a huge map of the US drawn on the wall and we can gaze and marvel at our progress.

Nan has brought in an immense feast of Vermont goodies and also some of her close friends from nearby, along with fellow BSMNer, Pam Johnson, who lives in Massachusetts. We gather in her screened porch, drinking wine and endlessly grazing. Oh, those Vermont cheeses! Ah, Nan’s quince paste. Her friends brought yet more food to add to the salads and bakes Nan was turning out. I enjoy being a kitchen hand while

getting to know Nan and her world. The house, tucked away among the trees with a mountainside backdrop of virgin forest, is just dreamy. Pure, traditional Americana. I feel the stranger’s thrill of being invited in to its life, of being inside one of those houses I admire through the car window as a passing traveller.

I meet Johanna, Nan’s neighbour who keeps Alaskan sheep for meat and sometimes wool. She is of Norwegian background, a teacher of French and someone whom I like immediately. Nan’s friend, Kath, a kindred soul, and her friend Fran. There are others with whom I don't get a chance to have exchange. Bruce and Pam are head-to-head comparing notes about a common tech past in Nashua. What are the odds of that?

Oh, and there's Foster, the black and white fostered cat. An interesting old character who has been giving Dan a headache with his carpet scratching. A wonderful cat who has evaded bears and coyotes these many years in the woods outside. They had a bear in the garden just the other day, says Nan.

While I am there, fawns visit the lawn outside and,most importantly of all for me, hummingbirds are buzzing around the flowers in the garden beds. What sheer delight.

A small group of us talks on into the night, learning about each other and our worlds.

The rain has let up in the morning.

Nan drives me around the district, bumping over dirt roads in the farmlands, to get a better feel of the area. Newfane village blows me away again. It is just fairy story classic with those historic white buildings and handsome white spired church on the village green.

New England villages don’t come any prettier We pick Dan up from the garage where he is having his old jeep fixed. The garage is set away from the world, a big old shed, lights on inside with denim-clad old fellows wielding spanners and oil cans as if the year was still 1950. One of the things to love about Vermont, says Nancy. I agree.

Back at the house, we sit in the screened porch and breakfast on toast, organic country tomatoes, divine Vermont cheeses and smoked salmon.

Nancy loads us up with Vermont goodies - quince jams and pastes and salsa, organic salad greens, tomatoes, leftover salad, tomato juice, basil sipping vinegar and fabulous black raspberries I'd never seen before...Much waving goodbye and blowing kisses as the overloaded olive green Rogue resumes our trip, pausing at the Vermont cheesery Nancy has recommended. We are pleased to see her quince products prominently displayed there. I sample some swooningly lovely cheeses. I think this outfit is Vermont’s answer to our Woodside cheese but not as big. I buy some aged cheddar and a heavenly brie.

Brattleboro is a gorgeous old town we planned to visit but there

has been an accident and there are jams and detours and sirens. The town centre is utterly blocked. We spend some time trying to find a way and then let go of the intention. We drive the backstreets admiring the sumptuous three storey clapboard villas.

Just a bit of tree-walled country road and we’re in New Hampshire. Our own New Hampshire. Our old home state, so to speak. Bruce worked here for the Oracle Corporation and I commuted to spend summers with him in Nashua. Ten summers, I do believe. We both are deeply attached to New Hampshire. We cheer as we cross the border.

We cruise through Keene, a characterful old university town. Classy. Wise. Then Dublin, established in 1752. Harrisville. Lake. Green, green, green, walls of trees. Is that a cranberry bog?

“Welcome to Our Town” says the sign to Peterborough. We love this town. It was an old favourite for Sunday brunch at its classic old diner. It was a ritual browse in the Toadstool Bookshop, one of my very fav bookshops, and then brunch at the diner. We park the car and retrace the sentimental steps. I buy a Toadstool book for my grandies and we cross the cement apron which divides the two places. I recall seeing the local Morris Dancers performing here, to, of all things, Waltzing Matilda. They are not here today.

The diner is not too busy. We get a

nice corner booth. I am going to order something trad like a tuna melt when I spot the special of the day written behind the counter. Scallop roll. Wow. I love scallops. What a concept. I order it with relish. Bruce orders hamburger soup, of all things. It comes, piping hot and surprisingly delicious, despite the fact that I insist it is made of leftovers. My scallop roll comes - a row of brown, deep-fried nuggets in a hot dog roll on a mountain of french fried potatoes.

No mayo. No nothing in the roll. Just these fried balls. I try one. It is cooked like a rock. I eat a couple of chips.They are delicious. Then Bruce points to the blobs of green mould on my roll. Ugh. The roll is spoiled. Disgusting. When the waitress reappears I beckon to her and point to the mouldy roll. The roll is bad, I say. Most disappointing. I speak softly, no anger. She snatches my plate and stalks off with it. I see her pushing it through the service window and saying something.Then she walks away. I call to her. Please, don’t order me another one. I didn’t, she snaps. You won’t be charged.

Huh? No offer of alternative food. No apology? I sit there gobsmacked. In America, such bad service is almost unthinkable. Waitresses are working for tips. They want happy customers. Well, not here, apparently. I’m stunned and hungry. Bruce offers some of his soup.

When we depart, I comment that I am leaving the diner hungry and I was appalled to have no apology for being served spoiled mouldy food, let alone no offer of other food. The waitress says, as if she had done me an immense favour, that she had not charged for the food.

I suspect this incident will be hard to beat in the abominable stakes.

I warn the world on Twitter and Yelp.

How sad to put a sour note on a town we have so loved.

Oh well, upwards and onwards.

We are nearly at our destination. Through Milford, a sensible workmanlike town with a handsome old courthouse in a proud town square.

We stop at a Shell service station for petrol and, almost before Bruce can pop the petrol cap, a perky young man is at the car providing that which I have not seen for decades - driveway service. He is a pump attendant.

Are you sitting down? A pump attendant! The dying species is not extinct. And, blow me down, he loves his job. He’s a gorgeous young fellow, well-groomed and charming. He offers to check under the bonnet. Water and oil OK? I want to take him home.

About 30 minutes later, the familiar old town of Nashua, is upon us.

We are, indeed, “home”.