It’s a nourishing moment. It is classic New Hampshire. It is one of things I am sad to leave. But, the road is calling. We are back on the move.
Well, we would be were it not for the traffic jams which impede our progress as we head through Massachusetts.
Stop, start. Creep. Stop.
Fuel wasting. Time wasting.
Traffic jams have become a very serious problem, not just in the big cities but all around them.
We are listening to the radio, wondering about the people in the other cars, where they are going and why, how they must be feeling, what are they late for, work? How much productivity must be lost in traffic jams? Has anyone done the stats? Donald Trump could win the election if his motto was “Make America Move Again”.
Oh, here we go, some movement.
Not great, but we are progressing.
Look, that huge, beautiful building. It is Trip Advisor! Who knew?
We’re off the clogged highways now, skimming along through walls of trees.
Colours of the road - green trees, green road signs, blue attraction signs, yellow lines, red brake lights…
Trees, trees, trees.
We stop at a McDonalds on the outskirts of Providence for lunch. It is the most immaculate Maccers. And it is featuring lobster rolls. That's why chose it. We order lobster rolls, side salads and coffee. The lobster is good and generous. The dressing is not overwhelming. It is good, dammit. Good.
Providence is pretty in its historic old parts. Grand, really. Some dignified major buildings. Some sad old mill buildings.
It’s heavily industrial on the outskirts. Rail lines and more rail lines. Lots of oil storage.
The Rhode Island roads are not as good as the Massachusetts roads.
Hah. You know you are in Rhode Island when the wide load on the road is not a moveable home but a massive, sleek black yacht.
We’re on the Jewish War Veterans’ Memorial Highway now.
The sky is closing in. Those bright little clouds have been replaced by big flat-bottomed beasts which herald weather.
We are still surrounded by trees, but they are different. They are broader, softer, lower.The land is rockier.
And suddenly, here comes Mystic sea port.
Around a bend and through some straggly commerce, we see a body of water upon which a vivid scatter of trainer yachts is scudding about.
There’s a plein-air artist on the shore line painting the scene. I can see the coloured sails on her canvas.
I wonder where the painting will end up. In some mediocre local artists’ show?
The first thing we encounter in Mystic is, wait for it, a traffic jam. Bruce is incredulous.
But it’s not so bad. It’s another drawbridge.
It is a very popular tourist destination. American tourists more than foreigners.
We are booked into Inn at Mystic which is away from the town centre and perched on a hillside. The view is fantastic and I am thrilled that my booking request for a river view room results in one of the best rooms in the Inn. We have a view of river to the side and river/sea to the
I unpack and spend some balcony time. I pull out a book to read on the balcony but, dammit, the view is alluring. There are boats out on the big river and beside us in the river inlet, there are interesting houses with little pontoons and there are even fellows in dinghies pulling up laden crab pots right in front of us.
There’s a restaurant right here in front of us,beside an outdoor pool surrounded by a white picket fence.
The scent of grilled seafood keeps wafting and stirring the appetite. I go over and ask to reserve a table for two for dinner - at a table with a good view, please. I note the restaurant features a large deck at the front.
Then Bruce and I walk into Mystic town both for exercise and for the ritual of visiting the little town properly.
We have been here before. Three times, two of which were overnighters. We point out the places where we have stayed. The little town has not changed much. Mystic Pizza is still there on the hill heading out the other side of the town. Bruce was sure it had moved. We went in to check. No, it has been there since 1998. There’s a picture of Julia Roberts on the wall. The movie was her big break to stardom.
Dear little movie. The girls running the hostess table seem very much in its perky, country character.
They say the pizzas are good.
We don’t try them. We meander off to check out the rest of the town. Not a lot to it, really.
A sign advertises the Mystic Psychic.
I think I should buy some postcards and perhaps a cap or tote bag or something of a Mystic souvenir nature. Odd. There is no dedicated souvenir shop in this little tourist mecca. There are some nice-looking Mystic caps on sale, some just saying MYS. But the price! What are they thinking? $28 for a baseball cap?
Not for this little black duck. No way.
I am shocked, disappointed, and alienated by
The only thing I buy in Mystic is a square of butter pecan fudge.
The bells are ringing for the drawbridge to be opened. Let’s sit on the riverside and watch. Look, it is a tall yacht loaded with sightseers waiting to come through. We find a bench and enjoy the spectacle. It’s a unusual drawbridge with massive concrete counterweights, It is not a
We walk back to the hotel, noting the wonderful Civil War memorial at the crossroads.
The Harbour Inn and Grill at the Mystic Inn does not look at all busy until we go inside - to find that it is humming away with local business. My requested good view table turns out to be a table not only inside but
I ask the waitress why it could not have been outside. Oh, we don’t reserve outside tables, she says and leads us to a plum table right at the front of the deck with a rock star view.
It’s a bit breezy but, oh, look at the view.
A very tall, bearded young waiter takes our order. Local scallops are the special and they also are a la carte. I order them grilled. I also order sizzled brussel sprouts. Bruce orders
So, we sit and enjoy the view. We watch the other people. We enjoy the view.
Forty-five minutes later, we are still enjoying the view.
The waiter assures us that the kitchen is working on our dinner. It won’t be long.
Eventually five scallops appear accompanied by a blob of mashed potato and some warm raw green beans.
The original waiter does not deliver
Bruce’s clam chowder is tiny. Maybe two tablespoons. He immediately comments to the delivery waiter that it looks like a pretty mean little serving. The waiter looks embarrassed and leaves quickly.
The chowder is nice, albeit too small. The scallops are nice, albeit mean and the veggies not too good. The sprouts never appear and nor does the original waiter who took the order. Bruce goes in search of him. Oh, he’ll get the sprouts now. He disappears again. We wonder if it may be another 45 minutes before he reappears. Ah, got him on a cameo appearance across the deck. Wave. Call. He comes. The kitchen is onto it. The printer didn’t print. There was a problem with the order. They are going to do it…..
Don’t worry, we say. We’ve been here so long we just want to go.
We don’t want Brussel sprouts as a dessert. We’ll take the check.
Oh, no. This is another slow process. We wait. Bruce is reducing the waiter’s tip by the minute at this stage. He brings the bill. Bruce puts his credit card on it and turns around. The waiter has gone.
He never does return to process our payment. We finally take it to the desk where the waiter runs up and intercepts us. Bruce, by then, has reduced his tip to $2. Unheard of.
We’ve been watching a clam shack down the hill. It has been doing a roaring trade all night.
The clam shack serves everything from oysters to lobster and has a steady queue. It also has very high prices for a roadside shack with a few picnic tables. Do we want to queue?
There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts next door.
Let’s have a cruller. We’ll share it.
But the crullers are gone. Of what is left at the end of the day, we choose
We amble back up the hill. The world is utterly beautiful in the late dusk light.
We turn on the telly, split the croissant donut and discover a fantastic new treat.
We return to the restaurant in the morning for the Inn’s complimentary continental breakfast.
It is explained to us that a continental breakfast is pastries and breads with tea or coffee.
We knew this. Others, to whom this is being explained, head off to find somewhere with eggs.
We think we’ll manage. We do. I have a piece of toast on which I put my trusty travelling Vegemite. Bruce has toast and pastry. A drab breakfast of carbs. Too bad.
The pool opens at 9am and I am right there. It is a fabulous pool with a proper 6ft deep end. I am in heaven.
There are just a couple of other mature travellers there at first and we enjoy some peace and some sun. When the young people turn up, they, too, are thoughtful.
Off we go. But, oh no. Another traffic jam? So soon?
Yep. The drawbridge is up again.
I remember Mystic. It looks like a great trip.
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