Photographs can be made bigger.

A couple of people have said they would like to see enlargements of some of the pictures. Things like specific people, bike groups, and also photos of printed pages should be able to be seen as full screen by just double clicking on them and then using the arrow on the toolbar to return to the blog afterwards. If you want to print off, or save a copy, for personal use, I don't mind, but they are my photos and I would ask you not to publish them elsewhere. Thank you, Doc

Amish country

I didn’t have to dance around my camping stove or throw magic powder into the air, and the only incantations I made were to the effect of “Oh God, not more bloody rain!" It was probably the swearing and blaspheming that set it off properly, and I have learned my lesson.
In light drizzle, I shut up everything on the bike, and finished my coffee, jamming the empty cup on the pillion seat. It was only 9.45, and I would have sat up a bit longer, watching the fireflies around the trees and the lawned camping spots, but the cloud was settled in, there was an electric storm playing on the horizon, and there seemed no reason not to go to bed.
I was just getting of to sleep when an enormous flash of lightening illuminated the twin skin of the tent like daylight. It started to rain, the patter, on the leaves of the tree above me, first rustling and then soon dripping on to the tent. There was no thunder, just flashes for about 20 minutes and then it started to pour with rain, and I really mean pour. It was as though a firehose was being played on the tent walls and the fabric moved with the impact as though being hit by a wind. I put on the torch to check for leaks, all perfectly dry. The air turned cooler and a gentle breeze ran through the mosquito flaps of the tent lifting the humid atmosphere. Then the storm really started. At first the flashes and the bangs were about 15 seconds apart, but they got gradually shorter until they became simultaneous. The deluge persisted, and the crashes of thunder literally shook the ground under me. I am not usually worried in a thunder storm, but then I have not been through anything like this in a tent before. It was like been under mortar attack. I was concerned about flooding, concerned in case the big lump of metal, six feet away, may be struck, and concerned about the tree above me. It was so wet that, although I really wanted to witness this storm, I would have been drenched if had opened the flaps to watch. There was no sleeping in this. I laid awake, and times of childhood thunder storms returned to me, when Mother had taken the three of us children into the cupboard under the stairs. We sat on small stools and a folding chair that were kept in there for the purpose. She had experienced the Blitz in Birmingham during World War II and ever since had hated the loud thunder claps and the lightening. I suspect that she had howvere always been frightened of thunder storms, but this was her excuse for us hiding in our shelter. She would read to us or we would sing. It was not until I was about 12 that I actually stood at the kitchen window and watched a thunder storm, while Mother remonstrated with me to come back to the safety of the cupboard. Ever since, I have thought they were magnificent, but not to be out in you understand, and definitely not in a tent , under a tree with a big lightening attractor sat next to me. At about 12.15, there was one explosion which, had I been in bed, would almost certainly have thrown me out. I was sure the bike must have been hit, but I could see no flames or smell any smoke, so I still resisted the temptation to look out. The storm went on for 4 hours, and it was not until about 1.45, that the gap between the flashes and the bangs started to lengthen again. Finally, the slight rumble in the distance and the gentle patter on the roof of the tent, were overcome by my long awaited sleep, and I slept solidly until almost 9.00 in the morning. When I crawled out, the sun was out, the picnic table was dry and my bike and the tree were still in one piece. There was an area of flooded grassland about 50 yards away, but none closer, and the air was cooler and fresh. I went to the bike to get my wash bag. On the saddle, the polystyrene cup was full to within half and inch of the rim. We had had about 4inches of rain during the storm.
It was not long before friendly neighbouring campers came over to see how I had fared . Rod, came round first on his campground electric cart., and said that he was pleased that I seemed to have brought the rain. He felt sure the corn would recover after such a downpour. Then Dan, walking his dog, and Wes from the big RV over the way, and Earl from the next door pitch. All of them were immensely welcoming, friendly and kind. Wes asked me if I would like to go over for a beer that evening, and see his new van. So did Rob, a guy who had come with his family, but brought his motorcycle. Dan asked me over for a coffee. I started to get an engagement crisis! Rob asked if I would like to ride out with him over to Middlebury, where he had some business. He suggested that it was close to the Amish(pronounced "ar-mish") communities and I might like to go across. So after breakfast, we rode the 25 miles or so, north west to Middlebury, which was actually a nice ride but a very boring small town. It was neat and tidy and small, and like all the towns, had no real centre, and after a coffee and some breakfast at a pleasant enough restaurant on the main street, I headed off for Shipshewana, a town I had read of in The Rough Guide. Shipshewana was much more interesting, still the same boring centre, but a wide open main street running through the plains and on the left hand side was the great local agricultural auction house, where they were holding a horse sale. Wife and her friends at home would have loved this, and Happy, if you read this, you would have died for one of the fifth wheel animal trailers and rigs! “ Fifth Wheels” are like our HGV trailers, in that they mount on a large disk plate, but unlike HGVs, these plates are attached to the back of giant four wheel drive pick up trucks. They now make mobile homes, R.V.s in the same manner, so you have a full 6 seater, three and half ton, double rear axled pick up truck, with a six to eight litre engine, hauling a 15 ton camper or a ten ton animal trailer. Fantastic stuff, but with petrol at only £1.50 a gallon ( yes really….equivalent to just about 20 pence a litre!) you can easily run one of these, at 12 miles to the gallon. In amongst all the massive vehicles around Shipshewana, were numerous Amish “buggies” variably either fully closed in with fold up doors at the sides and shutters or open riding carriages. All fairly simple in design and construction and absolutely typical of what one imagines. The Amish men, all have beards, but not moustaches, and fairly long hair. They wear straw or felt round hats with square tops and trousers with built in material braces. The boys all wear the same, all with built in braces, and all presumably made by mother. The women all wear long dresses, some simple light long cotton, and some more elaborate heavy folded . All wear bonnets or small hats. Some ride bikes, but they don’t drive motorised vehicles and don’t like to have their photographs taken, so actual pictures of them are difficult, although it is allowed to picture them at a distance so that they are not identifiable, as in a portrait type of picture. You can see some Amish on the photographs I have taken at the horse.auction. The auction was a fascinating place. Not here a few mangy old nags looking for a paddock of half an acre, a shed and a 12 year old to ride them. These were serious horses, some of them absolutely stunning, riding horse, carriage horses, working horses and some that apparently were capable of all three activities. Most looked the expected Western type horse, the quarter horse, for the most part, about 15 hands in height. Their owners either lead them or rode them into the small selling ring at the front while the auctioneer almost sang his bids in a language that was so fast and so strange that it was very difficult to understand until you had listened to a dozen or so sales. The most amazing thing was that these horses were all selling for between about four and eight hundred dollars, two to four hundred pounds. In England, you would probably get the former for a meat price. But these, were not rubbish, many were superb horses in their prime, well broken and very useable. I left the auction room wanting a horse, and wandered round the stall outside that was selling saddles and harnesses, very different from our own. I talked with one of the sellers. He was a Mennonite, a much more liberal breakaway group from the strict Anabaptist Amish. He set a saddle on a stand for me to sit on. It was so strange, and totally enclosing. The high rear closed on your bottom and the “horn”, the pommel was attached to a sort of solid cross bridge which you could hold with your knees. It was almost like sitting on the Harley, but with a full bucket seat. I could feel how it would be easy to “squeeze and lean” ones way, and neck rein on a quarter horse, and holding firm on in a tight turn would not require much “sitting in”.
Close by, there was a supermarket with Amish buggies outside, almost all the stores have sheds or hitching posts and areas in their car parks reserved just for horses, buggies or bicycles. Next door was a carriage ride facility and I took a half hour ride around the farms and the countryside in an Amish buggy driven by an Amish man whose name was Harley, quite appropriate for a bike rider to use! We went about 3 or 4 miles, in surprising comfort and cool. The hot day kept out of the black carriage both by the colour, the windows at the front being open and the ability to draw to sides down if needed to shield from sun or bad weather. Fitted in the roof above the driver was a panel with a switch which operated a battery driven indicator signal on the back. The Amish will not use engines, but will generate electricity from windmills or water and will use batteries. Their houses are mostly lit by oil lamps or candles or battery lights, but they are clever enough usually, when building them, to fully fit them with electrical or gas connections, so that if they are ever sold to non Amish peoples in the future they can be connected up easily. We went past several houses where long rows of their strange looking clothes, the long dresses, braces trousers and bonnets were all drying outside on the washing lines. Many of the houses had buggies and horse drawn vehicles outside and horses in nearby corrals.
After my trip to Shipshewana, I returned back to the camp and after supper went for a beer with Wes and Hilda. Their new RV was here to go for a service. Many RVs are made locally, quite a lot by Amish workers, who work quality is prized. Later, I went on to join Rod and his brother in law Tom with their wives and families for a couple more. I had a good evening and for the first time experienced “lemon beer”, which is a blonde lager wheat beer, into the bottle neck of which is screwed a twist of fresh lemon. It was very refreshing and pleasant. I shall certainly drink those again. The following day, during the course of many more “drop by visits”, I wrote some blog, socialised and just chilled out in the sunshine. I was leaving the day after because, the owners, the Beamish family, had given me a free night,;it seems that I was a bit of an attraction on the site, and they kindly gave me this small perk!. I went for a barbeque supper with Dan and Nicky and their son Ty. This was a lovely evening. Nicky prepared a sort of special bean mixture, which was delicious and with a salad of giant tomatoes, and barbequed sausages, it was a good meal and we talked late into the evening.
In the early morning, Rod brought over a couple of small items which he had “whittled” to remember Pla-Mor by, and I wnet to say goodbye to Dan and Nicky and Ty and then to Rob and Tom. Unfortunately, it seems that Rob's wife had been taken seriously ill during the night and she was in hospital and he was there too of course. I was so sorry, and hope so much Rob, if you are reading this at all, that everything turned out O.K. Thanks for the advice on places to ride and the suggestion to ride Michigan State, about which, more in the next blog.
Thank you to all of you I met at Pla-Mor, I had a super 4 days with you all, you made me feel so welcome, and were all so generous with your hospitality and friendship. It was much appreciated. And I hope to keep in touch with some of you.
I rode out early on Sunday morning, 22nd July, headed north to Michigan State. The sun was out, I was rested, and the country, as I travelled slowly north towards Holland, was different and beautiful. Michigan looked like a good choice.

Best wishes,

Doc


P.S. I have no incentives or inducements to recommend any of you to consider Pla-Mor as a vacation destination, but want to record, that it is one of the best sites I have seen in a long time, with excellent spacious and fully equipped sites, Wi-Fi access, natural entertainment and open leisure areas, golf range, putting, fishing swimming, walking, and a very attentive, and caring personal, family, input. Definitely a great place for families. Definitely a great place for a lone Brit biker!

Niagara Falls down

It was a morning’s ride to Niagara Falls, but I slept in a bit so did not leave the campsite at Taughannock Falls until about 11.00 on Monday morning. The first part of the ride, up the western edge of the Lake was pleasant enough and I went via Seneca Falls , where I thought to see another waterfall. I stopped in town outside a shell of a brick building, which to begin with I did not quite understand. There were the remains of some plain brick walls, around and over which, a new steel structure with a roof had been erected. Adjacent to it was a lawned area with a sunken mirror faced water feature along its full length. I went to the larger, in tact building alongside it and walked in to a hallway filled with statues of Victorian looking women in period dress, and approached a counter with a receptionist. I asked her where the falls were, to which she replied “ Oh, there are no falls, they went many years ago when they constructed the locks for the canal, but you can visit the locks, it’s a pretty walk” I didn’t want to see the locks, I wanted to see the pretty falls. I took one of the leaflets from her desk and glanced at it. I was in The Women’s Hall of Fame, a museum and monument to pioneering women and the American suffragettes. The building, which I had seen next door, was apparently the church meeting hall where these courageous women had stood and lectured for the female franchise, but of course, despite its huge significance, it had subsequently been used as a warehouse, and a store ( shop) and then fallen into disrepair, and finally after a fire had fallen down. All that remained of this once important landmark, in the history of less than 150 years ago, was a bit of old brick wall and a modern pagoda of girders and a tiled roof. (shades of the Hartwell House?)
The mirrored water feature listed the names of the suffragettes and female pioneers of democracy and abolishionism and the franchise. I am afraid that I was not in a bra burning mood, and despite the fact that I perhaps should have paid some suitable homage, I took my male chauvinist pig self back on my Hog and on down the road.
As you ride round the ring road of Buffalo, New York State, through Tonawanda to Niagara Falls, you get a sense that all is not well. Riding down the highway, alongside the most north easterly shore of Lake Erie, towards the Falls, there is a cloud on the skyline to your left and several large chimneys and soaring radio masts with flashing aircraft warning lights. Almost before you know it you are in Niagara Falls township, and I followed the signs to Goat Island. This is the island that splits the falls into their two main sections, the Horsehoe Falls and the American Falls, the former facing mostly north east and best visible from Canada I believe, and the American Falls, slightly smaller and less specatacular as they can only be seen front on from Canada or by a walkway that leads down to them. Here was the source of the skyline cloud, such a dense mist rising from the Horsehoe Falls that the actual falls themselves were virtually invisible. There is a well planned and nicely laid out walkway, in a terraced, lawned garden, which leads you to the viewing point on the US side. On the opposite bank, the view is not of forests or simply a viewing platform but of a whole skyscraper town, complete with a large toadstool of an observation tower with an outside lift and a massive ferris wheel. The US side is not much better with a small park area and car parking and a few tatty souvenir kiosks and, of course, the fast food outlet, though thank goodness, at least that there isn’t a giant Macdonalds sign, although it’s probably only a matter of time. The Falls themselves cry their millions of gallons of tears as the profiteers abominate what must be one of the natural wonders of the world. It is really such an anti-climax to see what one imagines to be a site of extraordinary natural beauty and awe, prostituted by the absence of any reverential planning law. This should be a place where there is no building in site, where development should be concealed and confined only to the essential items needed for the visitor. I can almost forgive the need for the hydroelectric plants, but the rest is quite frankly totally inexcusable. Both the Americans and Canadians should be ashamed that they have allowed such desecration of this world heritage. But, of course, neither of them will pay any attention to me or my blog, other than perhaps, if they read it, to stick me in Guantanamo as a radical. I hope to God there isn’t a Yogi Bear theme park at Yellowstone, but I suppose I was at least warned beforehand about Niagara if I’m honest. New Daughter told me, as she had been there, and my Father told me roughly what to expect because they had visited with the family one year when I was in medical school, forty years or so ago.
Then, of course, I was unfaithful to myself. Now I am here, I have to do one of the “things you do at Niagara.” I tossed up between The Cave of the Winds” or “The Maid of the Mist” The former won. ( Well, I could always do The Maid of the Mist from Canada at the end of my time in the States if I want to !!!)
The Cave of the Winds is the modern alternative to the original trip of the same name. The original one took you down a shaft to the river floor and then along a walkway which passed behind the American Falls. Until 1923, there was a vast overhand of rock which projected the American Falls well out from the rock face and the undercurrent of spray had cut a deep cavern behind the falls. In 1923, the overhang collapsed and the cavern was destroyed and there was no walkway, so each year, after the ice has melted, this new walkway is constructed which takes you to within about 12 feet of the southern edge of the American Falls. All decked out in plastic flip flop sandals and bright yellow bin liner bags with sleeves and hoods, nowadays, the tourist travels to the shoreline in a lift shaft and then along a concrete lined tunnel to trail along the wooden walkways. Along the shore here is a large colony of protected ring billed gulls, and several other sea birds nesting. The noise and the smell are both pretty powerful. The walkway culminates, for the foolhardy amongst us, in mounting “the hurricane platform” where the thunderous roar of the water, the spray, and the wind that accompanies the downward force, blows you almost off your feet and drenches you with water. Well, yes, OK, I did do it, and yes, OK, I did get someone to take my picture, and yes, OK, I AM a hypocrite, but it was fun, and it doesn’t really intrude on the environment or the atmosphere of the place like the concrete jungle above does.
Would I go again? Probably the answer to that is “Yes, but, I would want to see the classic view of the Horsehoe Falls from the Canadian side, and maybe I will do so when I am in Canada.” I hope that the view of the shore on the American side from Canada is less offensive than the view of the Canadian side from the US.
Overall score? 9/10 for the Falls, and 1/10 for the respective National sensitivities to this fabulous natural asset. Badly handled Canada and America, very badly handled. Thank goodness neither of you own any African game reserves or the Victoria Falls. I am told that the U.S. government has suggested that they may create exceptional special areas in their National Parks , so called wilderness areas, which would be left to remain entirely natural and be highly protected from visitors. Might I suggest that you might start here, tear up the buildings and the detractions from this wonder of the world, plant it with natural forest vegetation and return it to the world after nature has properly restored it for you? If this is the price of capitalist democracy, it is too high, and I say that as a British democratic conservative. Some things in the world are sacrosanct. They don’t belong to the country they are in, they belong to the world. This is surely one of them?
I left Buffalo with very mixed feelings, pleased that I had seen Niagara, but cheated, angry, and upset at the mess that surrounds it. I rode south and west on the 20, riding fast as the weather was changing once more. I was going to have to find a motel again as there were no campsites registering on the Satnav within100miles. It was getting dark when I stopped at a nameless grey motel on the highway, all one could say about it was that it was on the left, dull, and cheap but dry with a bed and a shower. I lay awake for several hours, possibly due to coffee, but also due to mulling over the disappointment of Niagara Falls for about 4 hours. Robert Louis Stevenson wrote, “…to travel hopefully, is better than to arrive”. I know now exactly what he meant.
The following morning, it was sunny again and I left room number 6 and continued west on 20. It was not long before I passed through about a five mile stretch, where it seemed as if it was a small reservation, with Indian life souvenir shops on both sides of the highway and advertisements for tax free tobacco everywhere. I was just contemplating whether to buy some cigarettes, when I was through it and couldn’t be bothered to turn back. Soon I entered Chautauqua County. That rang a bell. It was the old native American word that Robert M. Persig uses in his book, “Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance” to describe the writing which he puts in his chapters. A sort of mixture of a talk, self examination and self discussion and resolution with life. I didn’t know there was a county named that, so with some interest, I stopped as I passed through the small townships, and rather cheekily, called in at the town offices in Brocton, Portland, Westfield and Ripley to ask there ‘what was the meaning of the word’ after which their county was named. In Ripley, I got the answer that it was a meeting place of tribal talking, but in the others, I got dumb looks and comments that it was an old native word and they had no idea what it meant. They said that it was the name the Indians gave it, and I guess that may be true, but it’s a bit sad that the people who lived there and named it only 200 years ago are so ignored and minimalised as to not even have any significance left in their words.
I was glad I had read the book. I like the word, like Persig did., I realised that some of what I am experiencing now is a Chautauqua, and I felt pleased to feel a fuller understanding with him.
I have to say that the ride along the southern border of Lakes Ontario and Erie, especially on the roads I followed was particularly monotonous. The land is flat, sometimes farmed, sometimes small faceless townships, all the same, same lookalike buildings, same malls, same intersections and lights. I skirted Cleveland and then had three options, either to take the 90, which is the motorway to Toledo, or the 2 which runs alongside Lake Erie, or the 20 which runs inland. I opted for the 20, which, in retrospect was probably a lot more boring than the 2 would have been and a lot slower than the motorway. But gradually, this northern part of Ohio became more green and more acceptable and slightly undulating. I rode on into Indiana, and as evening drew on, I had come to Elkhart, and saw a sign for Amish Acres, a living museum and working farmship of the Amish.
I have to confess that my ideas of the Amish community are largely based on a National Geographic article I read years ago, and Harrison Ford in “Witness”! I thought this was a good opportunity to investigate a bit more of these picturesque and unique people, so I turned south and found myself in Nappanee. It was 8.30p.m. rapidly growing dark, and drizzling with rain, and I hit the Satnav for a campsite, and found one within 3 miles. Pla-Mor, did not immediately fill me with a lot of confidence, when I read it on the screen. I do not like American spellings at the best of times, and this was so naf! However, it was close, and a storm was brewing. I followed the signs and entered right, off the 6, to what seemed a lovely site. I was impressed the moment I went to the office. The greeting from the young girls behind the coffee counter was polite and enthusiastic and smiling, and equally from Nicky the receptionist. A few people were sat at the tables chatting, and most of them looked up or said good evening. One of them introduced himself as Dan. He turned out to be Nicky’s husband, waiting for her to finish her shift at 9.00pm. I booked in for two days. I needed the break, needed the savings, and wanted to see the Amish. It was a good idea to set up the tent for a couple of days, and this camp was also Wi-Fi equipped, so I could catch up some writing and try to get my photos loaded up. One of the men at the table showed me my campsite, but allowed me to park the bike up in a big barn as the rain started and I returned for a coffee in the café. Some time later, after recounting a little of where I had come from, I left, with my pint polystyrene cup of coffee in hand, and set up the tent. It was so simple and so quick. I off loaded a lot of my stuff inside and laid out my sleeping bag. Once in, there is just enough room to sit up and plenty of room to roll over. Rod, the man who had shown me my pitch, said that they needed rain. The corn was parched and they had had a drought. I was surprised. I thought now that I had escaped the rain, but it was definitely overcast and starting to drizzle. The U.K. is covered in floods and the rain has been incessant for almost eight weeks, the wettest summer on record. The fire and other emergency services have been pumping vast quantities of water out of homes and rescuing flood victims all over the country for weeks. And here, in northern Indiana, they want rain! That’s certainly not what I want, but it seemed I had brought it with me.
O.K., the rainmaker has arrived!

Best wishes,

Doc

Vassal of King Arthur in the County of Connecticut. (apologies to Mark Twain)

Hartford itself is a dreary place. It’s claim to fame nowadays is that it is the insurance capital of the USA, but that is probably about as indicative of the boring nature of the place as it would be to say that it was the accountancy centre of the USA! Mark Twain himself raved about the place, but when he moved there to the land on what was Nook Farm, no doubt it was a very beautiful rather rural and exclusive desirable area between Boston and New York. It must have been desirable because Harriet Beecher Stowe built a house next door on Nook Farm as well.
Mark Twain was, of course a most extraordinary man. I would venture to suggest that there are as many, if not more, witticisms and wisdoms quoted and attributed to Mark Twain, as to anybody in our Oxford Book of Quotations. There are illustrations of many of these all around the walls of the Visitor Centre behind his house. It made me wonder whether he had actually sat down and thought them all out and published them, or whether he had said or written them in the course of his normal writing and conversation, and others had picked up on them. He was such a capable author, editor and entrepreneur, that it is quite possible that he developed such wonderful one liners as self publicity, but wherever they came from, and however they became published, there is no doubt that most are as relevant today as they were in the late 19th century when he first wrote or uttered them. Samuel Clemens, his real name, adopted the pen name Mark Twain in about 1863. He had been an ill educated but intelligent and some would possibly say, pushy, child, and had done many menial tasks in his early years, but upon experiencing a trip on a paddlewheel river boat, he resolved to become a riverboat pilot, which he did for some years. His trips up and down the Mississippi, and his beliefs in abolitionism later brought about the stories of Tom Sawyer. It is thought that he took the name Mark Twain from a bo’sun on a river boat whose nickname it was, the term actually indicating the two fathom depth on a sounding rope used to check the depth of the river from the bow of the paddle steamers. (But of course, you all knew that and I am just being a bit patronising here for completeness sake…sorry!)
When Sam Clemens was a young man, he married a wealthy heiress, having blagged his way past her Father, who took a liking to the obviously ambitious young man. It seems reasonably fortunate that the old man died soon afterwards, since Sam and he had very differing views particularly on abolition and free philosophies. His wife inherited a large amount of money and she set about building them the family home at Nook Farm, employing an architect who used some elements of European houses, and some entirely original, to produce a house which is described as architecturally picturesque. It is a magnificent somewhat gothic style mansion of perfect proportions, in red brick, and it was built with all modern conveniences , far ahead of its time, and had warm air ducted central heating from a central boiler in the basement, and hot and cold running water, which worked on a warm water convection filling of a tank, from the back of the great kitchen range. Sam moaned constantly to the manufacturers of the furnace that it was never working properly . It even had flushing toilets. And was one of only four houses in Boston to have the newly developed telephone, which he also moaned about, complaining that the switchboard operators were always listening in. If they only had four lines to look after, it would have been surprising if they hadn’t. The décor was done by a young designer from New York, Louis Tiffany, who later became one of the great interior design and electric light designers and of course then was the founder of the great Tiffany’s of New York, a company renowned world wide even today. The décor is heavy and staggering, almost grotesque, but actually, in its setting intensely beautiful. The wood, much of it carved in India, and the Tiffany designed wall coverings and stencilled ceilings and upper wall dados are just magnificent. The house is probably not exactly as Sam had it in his day; he went bankrupt after a failed business venture and they had to sell all the furniture and their possessions, although they kept the house. After they had moved from there, they did not move back. They had lost one son there and their beloved daughter died there in their absence too, and she was buried before they were able to return from New York to see her. They could not feel happy there again. The upstairs billiard room where he wrote much of his work still does have his desk in the corner and some pieces seem to have been re-discovered and replaced. They had an amazingly loyal and sometimes efficient black butler named George, who used to have arguments almost every day with Sam’s wife and he was fired on many occasions, but always stayed on as he used to say that she couldn’t actually do without him, and it seems to have been fairly true as he always performed impeccably when the many guests arrived, although when the family was at home alone, he spent much of the time playing with the children or teasing or playing pranks on them, and the rest of the time being fairly idle! It seems possible that he may have been a model for Jim, the runaway slave who befriended Tom Sawyer.
The house is odd in that it is placed round the wrong way in relations to the road outside, that is the servants quarters are at the front and the family areas at the back, but this was because his wife had decided to allow the family the good views over the countryside at the back and access for all the services to be from the road at the front, which seems quite sensible when explained.
One of the many things that I certainly did not know about Mark Twain, was that he travelled quite extensively in Europe, although I believe he only came to London on one occasion. He wrote several travelogues, which I think may be interesting to read when I return, but in general, with his wit, he was pretty rude about our side of the pond, making comments concerning our living on the glories and the history of the past, but just read my blog, you old ghost, your side of the pond is pretty odd in many ways too! You’ve had to make your history, and a lot of that you have already ripped up or burned down. In your time you took virtually no notice of it, and now, thanks only to the current generation, you yourself are part of it! Our problems are that we have so damned much of it we don’t know where to put it all! Put that in your pipe and smoke it!
I did not have the time afterwards to visit the next door house of Harriet Beecher Stowe, but I have to confess, that although I know her name, and know that she wrote Uncle Tom’s Cabin, I know little else about her, which is probably dreadful, but there it is and I apologise to the classicists amongst you. ( I am still assuming that there are some blog readers out there, but I actually only know of four of you and none of those are likely to know much more about her than I do, so I feel a little vindicated!)

From Hartford, I rode out south west, this time on the correct route, on the 84 headed as far as I could get before nightfall. Again I rode straight into bad weather before I had a chance to camp, and in increasing rain, pulled into a motel near Danbury on the western edge of Connecticut. Spirits were a bit low by this time, as over a week had gone by and I had only had two days of reasonable weather. My plans to camp were going awry and the cost of lodgings was escalating. I tried not to get despondent, and slept well, pleased to have the shower facilities at least and a comfortable enough bed, working out in my head the enormous cost if this should continue and trying to think out how long I would have to work for to pay off the VISA card bill. But eventually, I fell asleep after convincing myself that, at the very worst, with a motel every night, it would only take about four months to sort it all out again! (Actually not very accurate, but I had to accept that I was in for the whole journey now, and there was no going back on it all. I have ridden 1464 miles since I left Montreal.
On the following morning, Sunday 15th July, at 6.00o’clock, I set the Satnav for Niagara Falls. It told me I had 457 miles to ride. My itinerary had arrival there set for today, so I was a day behind due to the two day set back at the start. I was not concerned however, other than in regard to the weather which was still overcast and cloudy when looking westward, and the first part of the ride was in good weather as I entered New York State south.
The route was not really much different here from what I had seen already, following the Interstate and then smaller U.S. Routes, through small towns with their white wooden clad houses lining each side of the road with their large gardens. The American town seems strange to and Englishman. Very few have proper town centres. One enters past a messy conglomerate of eating houses and shopping areas, MacDonalds, Dunkin’Donut,,Wendy’s, Kentucky Fried Chicken and numerous other nameless fast food diners, interspersed with a petrol station or two and places such as Walmart, Dollar General, drive “thru” pharmacies and hardware stores. Around and behind some of these are “tire and muffler” shops, selling tyres and exhausts, and paint shops, which do bodywork repairs on trucks and automobiles. Then, one comes into the town, as described above, usually successions of crossroads, or “intersections” with traffic lights and pedestrian crossing lines at each one. It is hard to know when you are in the town centre (center?) but you know when you are leaving because you go through a similar sprawl of corporates and small trading places until you hit open country again. Almost every town looks the same, and although they vary a little in size, they are generally very clean, bright and white, with gardens and tree lined streets, a central office area, and then out again. The fields, when they are present grow maize, or corn as it is locally called and not far away are heavily forested rolling hills.
Gradually, I neared the Hudson River and crossed it, veering off at Newburgh for the 17k, a back road through towns such as Bullville, Bloomingburg, Wurtsboro and on via Monticello to White lake and on Hankins and Long Eddy. This road is through the southern tip of the Catskill Mountains, it’s twisty and forested and good to ride, with the small town interruptions for petrol and coffee stops. By noon I was nearing Binghampton. The weather was looking bad up ahead and I feared more heavy rain. It had been fine and dry, and intermittently sunny all the way so far, as the clouds stayed ahead of me, indeed my arms and legs were getting quite burned, but , then as I turned north on the 79 to by-pass Binghamton it started to drizzle. Through the woods it rained and then poured, and I got very wet in my shirt, shorts and socks. I cursed that I had not put on my rain gear. I descended from the hills to a sharp left hand bend at the bridge across the River at Chenango Forks. It was still pouring with rain, I was soaked and my helmet visor was covered in rain spots, as I turned onto the bridge and found to my horror, and with no prior warning, that the road surface of the bridge was actually nothing more solid than a heavy metal grill. Such surfaces are absolutely lethal to motorcyclists, they have no grip. It was too late to stop, the bridge was right on the turn. I rode the clutch and the throttle hard and back-braked gently to get more traction. The tyres took the grating and we juddered safely across the 50 yards or so of slippery, biker mincing, machinery. A third of any biker coming off on this bridge would have been minced (ground for American readers) beef for the fishes. (Take note Chenango County Highways department! It may make an excellent mountain road drain, and may make grip in the snow better, but it is potentially lethal to motorcyclists.) I was glad to still have three submariner’s turns left on my underpants. The experience was unnerving, and despite still having half a tank of petrol left, I pulled up at a “gas” station 200 yards after the bridge to fill up, and have a coffee and get out of the rain. But, of course, within a few minutes of stopping, and before I had finished my coffee, the sun was out again, the road steaming and, back on the bike again with 90 degree sun, I had dried out by the time I reached Whitney point at the intersection with the 81 North to Syracuse. I was hungry and pulled in for a sandwich at a café on the road side on the outskirts of Whitney Point. A bunch of bikers were pulled up on the forecourt and I pulled up a little away from them. Like so many people before, they were a friendly lot, and it was not long before one of them came over to ask me where I had come from because of the Union flag I was flying. Always a good starting point, the flag! They were the Salt City Riders. We chatted for a while as they waited to get all their group together before riding on., Just before they did so, we had a photo together, and afterwards, one of their members, Rick, came across to ask if I would have a photo taken with him by my bike. Rick Gary, gave me his card. It seems is the co-host of a morning breakfast local TV show, called Bridge Street with Rick and Julie, which I assume is very much like the Richard and Judy show with even more adverts! He said he wanted to put it on the Thursday morning show. Personally, I have my doubts whether anybody would be remotely interested in a photograph of him with a lone biking retired English G.P., but he seemed pleased. We said good-byes and they rode off and I had my much needed pee and a sandwich.
I had intended to make it to Niagara today, but after another hours riding felt really tired, and so, when I got to Ithaca, I sat in a park to contemplate where to stay and looked up campsites on the Satnav within easy distance. There was one within 10 miles at a place called Taughannock Falls, so I set off to find it. Taughannock Falls is on the West coast of Lake Cayuga, one of the eleven, so called “Finger Lakes” which run north-south from the southern shore of Lake Ontario. They themselves are pretty much as big as any we have in The Lake district at home, so it rather puts into perspective the comparative size of what Bill Bryson called, our “Small Island”. Taughannock Falls is a small State Park which runs up a wooded hillside from the south west shore of Lake Cayuga. At the top of the park are the falls, pretty high, but, despite what I felt was a lot of rain in the last week, with a fairly small single fall of water from the mountain valley atop. The campsite was in the woods below the falls, and I was soon setting up, using my small Microfast tent for the first time. It was an absolute cinch to do. A spiral, integral frame, sprung open a welcoming yellow inner with groundsheet over my sleeping roll. Four minutes later, and the outer cover was attached and pegged down. I unloaded some of the things from the bike and made a salad for supper which I had with some rather stupid fizzy cranberry drink I had got in a sudden weakness at Dollar General, and followed it with a “peach” yoghurt which had probably just about seen milk, but certainly hadn’t ever met peaches. I sat and started to write some blog. A couple drove into the slot next to me and started to set up camp. As before, very friendly. He introduced himself as Mike, and her as Sherri. Mike was an estate agent (sorry he was “in Real Estate”). Later that evening they gave me some sachets of coffee as well as making me a cup and Michael gave me a packet of “granola” a mixture of oats, and honey and Sesame seed oil with dried fruit, which he had made and which, after being baked in a slow oven is eaten as a breakfast cereal like muesli, but a lot better! I slept very well indeed in the woods that night and enjoyed my granola in the morning. They mad me another cup of coffee and gave me some more coffee sachets and another bag of granola to take with me. As yet, I have not been able to fill up my mountain stove with petrol, as the hole in the top of the flask is too small to fill from a petrol pump, so the hot coffee was welcome. Thank you Mike.
Now, I have written enough here, and I really should end up with an appropriate Mark Twain comment, and when I have time to crib one from the internet, I may do so, but, at the moment, after the experience on the bridge at Chenango Forks, I think the goodbye from the bikers of The Salt City Riders is more appropriate.
“Keep the rubber side down Man!”

Best wishes,
Doc.

P.S. If any of you can get to see the web site of News Channel 9, abc at WSYR. Syracuse, which is at http://www.bridgestreet@9wsyr.com/, you may see me on the telly! Wow! Fame at last1

"The British are coming!"

I spent a very pleasant evening with my new found cousin K, and his son, N, in Lincoln. Although, it seems, my late uncle Eric, my Father’s brother, had known of their existence, and kept in touch, my Father, then 91, did not know about them at all until about 4 years ago, and he was astonished, because K’s father, a well loved cousin of Father’s, had died during the early part of the second world war and he never knew that he had a son, born after his death. K moved to the USA about 30 years ago and is a research professor in Massachusetts. He is astonishing for his age, being some 5 years older than me, but, certainly looks about 5 years younger He is still working, loves his job and seems to want to continue for as long as he can. Perhaps he too would have felt less enthusiastic had he worked for the British National Health Service! He kindly treated me to a meal out at a very nice Italian restaurant on the edge of Concord, and afterwards, despite it being dark, drove me quickly around the areas to see in the town. Rather stupidly, I had not realised that Concord was only a few miles outside Boston. There are so many places in the States with the same name, that I had assumed that the Concord, where Paul Revere reputedly rode out to was the Concord, where I had had the Harley fixed (or not!), in New Hampshire. I had thought, all the way down, what a hell of a ride it was, but then thought that it was rather like the one supposedly ridden, in similar times, by Dick Turpin from London to York on Black Bess. Here, in the beautiful wooded garden outside Lincoln that evening, I first saw fireflies. I thought for a minute that it was my eyes, when I noticed small flashes of light against the dark foliage of the trees. Then, soon, they were more apparent, and I watched fascinated as the small sparks illuminated all round to my accustomising sight. The following day I now resolved to visit Concord, and then to move on to Hartford. I slept well and well breakfasted, and read up from The Rough Guide, I said goodbye and left for Concord a few miles up the road.
In actual fact, Paul Revere did not ride alone, as Longfellow tells in his poem, and neither did he make it into Concord, because he himself was captured after warning Lexington, but before he arrived in Concord. He must have spun a heck of a good yarn though, because he was later released. Nowadays, he would probably have been slung into Guantanamo Bay indefinitely! Neither did he cry the reputed immortal words ”The British are coming”. It seems that some of the locals told him to stop making such a noise, and his actual response was “Noise? What noise? This is not such a noise as is coming!” His friend managed to ride on to warn Concord and to warn the Barrett Farmstead where the patriots has weapons stored.. By the time the Brits were on the way, they were long since gone. It seems we learned nothing much from this experience, even up to the more recent times of the hoarding of weapons in Northern Ireland. I parked up in the town centre and walked the mile out to The Old Manse, alongside which stands Minuteman Bridge, which is where the first shots of the war itself started. The wooden bridge, actually about the fifth since the event, crosses the river from town and leads to the Barrett Farm on the hillside. The Minutemen, the now well organised underground patriot army, whose soldiers could be “ready in a minute” had assembled about 70 troops on the far side, and the frontline emergency detachment of 700 British infanteers, sent ahead from Lexington marched four abreast over a hundred yard length, in their heavy red uniform to cross the bridge where they were confronted. It is not known who fired first, but it seems likely that, in British tradition, the commander would probably have read the equivalent of “the Riot Act” expecting the militia to disperse, but when they did not, firing started, and at the Bridge, 8 patriot militia and five British soldiers died, after what was know later as “The shot that was heard around the world” The British beat retreat and marched back down the country lane, now known as Battle Road, to wards Boston. All the way, patriots, arming from all the neighbouring townships and settlements followed them along the walls and woods engaging them in a constant running battle in which 73 British and 49 colonials died. The death toll apparently being relatively so small because the accuracy of the “Brown Bess” musket was very limited, the range being no more than about 100 yards, and for any great effect, it had to be fired in a volley into a crowd. Bayonets were fixed, but close contact was not easy and so the troops simply marched and tried to defend themselves. Seems almost like the similar story of the charge of the Light Brigade, really a 20 mile ambush, brilliantly executed by the colonial forces.
I walked on from the Minuteman Bridge up the fields to the Visitor Centre where I looked at the maps and documents and sat in the sun overlooking the bridge for a coffee. There were some beautiful trees in the grounds, and I summoned the cheek to ask a couple of ladies sat at the table next to me whether they knew what one was. They didn’t, but then we got to talking a little. I couldn’t work out the relationship, one seemed slightly in awe of the other, and they were both very polite and friendly. I gave them my touring card. The “leader” of the two returned me hers; Elaine Waidelich, National President of the National League of American Pen Women, (encouraging creative women in Art, Letters, and Music), from Washington DC. She invited me to call on her when I was in Washington, which I shall try to do. As they departed, her colleague, held back, and came close to my side.. “She’s a very influential woman”, she confided! Wow! Am I impressed? Well, yes, I suppose I am, but having realised who she represented, I was rather wishing I had not informed her that I am writing a blog! But then, neither of them could recognise a native tree, so I guess I’m not feeling too phased by our encounter after all. I wrote an e-mail to her later to say thank you for spending the time to talk, but the e-mail address was incorrect and it was returned undelivered! Maybe her spelling was wrong?
I returned to the Battle road and walked along the trail through the wooded landscape of the National Heritage site. In a field behind the walls, I spotted what I think was probably a wild turkey and chicks, and further down, sat on the top of the stones, a chipmunk! This was a really fun day! A bit further along the path, in a clearing, was a beautiful old wooden inn, The Hartwell Tavern, closed because it was now past visiting hours, but through the windows, a wonderful bare wooden scene with open hearths, wooden bar and tables and chairs, just as they might have been in the mid 18th century. It was silent all around the clearing and I could almost feel the Minutemen in the woods. A rather dull portrait of Paul Revere swung in the breeze on the signpost outside. A bit unlikely this, since it was not until Paul Revere himself publicised his part in the War and Henry Longfellow wrote about it that he was particularly well known. Much more likely that a portrait of Mr Hartwell was there, if any sign at all! But still, go with the flow here! Nearby, a sign directed to Major John Hancock's house and I walked the 200 yards to what looked like a wooden pagoda over a big chimney. Well, you just have to laugh, don’t you or you’d cry! As I said before, it has really been only in fairly recent times that the American seem to have realised they had any heritage to preserve. Now they push it everywhere, but here, sadly it was too late, destroyed by the American desire for huge amounts of tacky food, this wonderful wooden 18th century historical site had been leased to a fast food restaurant and had burned to the ground in the early 1960’s, totally destroyed, except for the central brick chimney. The interest to me, however, after seeing the slightly sick but amusing side of the disaster, was the way the house had been constructed. It was really quite an immense procedure for its time, with a ten foot deep cellar being dug and then shored up all the way around with massive stonework. In one corner were steps leading down into it with what would have been a flat cellar door over the top on the outside of the threshold. In the centre was the huge stone chimney, but over a full through archway, with nooks and niches all around, a place for storage of food and brink and dry timber and then from the first floor, numerous fireplaces on each side which would have provide, not only individual fires in each room, but a central hot flue which would have been able to store heat and keep the interior warm in the winter. The pagoda structure had been put together to give an idea of how the timber frame of the building might have been erected on the stone walls of the cellar, all walls and floor and ceilings being made from the colonialists 23” planks of wood, anything over 24” being reserved for the King and for the manufacture of war ships for the British Navy. This house, if any good can be found out of its tragic destruction, in conjunction with the views of the outsides of others, enables a better understanding of the design and engineering skills with wood that they used. Indeed, it may be that with superior insulation, the central heating core is a good foundation to consider for modern ecological housing.
I walked from the back of the Hartwell House through the woods trail to the back of the Smith House. It was easy to see how the Colonists, with their superior backwoods skills managed to constantly outflank the regular soldiers and stay very well concealed. They were constantly within 50 to 100 yards of the Battle Road, yet able to stay quiet and concealed in the thickness of the trees and ground cover. The outside of the Smith House was again of interest, the back and sides being clad in wide heavy planks and the front decorated with fine overlap cladding. The heavy hand made iron nails with their beaten heads were still obvious.
It was lovely to be able to explore this area, out of visiting hours, with nobody bar the occasional mountain biker or jogger passing and non of the guided tours from the pantomime Colonialists which range the area. None of that was needed. It was a simple time warp, a travel back two and half centuries by myself into the wooded clearings, with the welcoming ghosts of the old boys enabling me to feel the atmosphere in the quiet. I felt quite sad inside for pointless loss of life that is war, and for the stupidity that our old Imperial past had shown both here and in other parts of the Empire. Had they treated everyone, both at home and abroad, with the human rights and dignity and freedoms that we have now come to expect, might not the world now have been a great deal closer and better place? Was it the greed of the monarchy, or would it have happened because every government is greedy and corruptible? Would our government of today have taxed them ‘til they bled dry? I guess so, human nature never changes.
After I had finished my personal tour and contemplations along Battle Road, I returned into town and was just in time to visit on the last tour of the day at the house of Louisa May Allcott, Orchard House. I was so pleased to see this place and to hear the story of her family and how closely related they all were to the great story she then wrote around them, Little Women. Much of her life was really quite sad, but they seemed to have had a loving and very close family and her father, a great reformer in terms of his thought about the rights of women, encouraged all his girls in things that they were accomplished at, Art, Literature and Music. They were, as girls, allowed a very free life for her time, and she was certainly a very accomplished emancipated and free-thinking woman. She based Jo on herself, always a slight rebel and perhaps in her way a bit of a tomboy, but she remained a spinster and it was only pressure from her publishers to get the girls married off that she finally turned the tables on them and married her heroine off to a much older man, who in reality was probably based on her Father. In the story, the girls Father was away at the War, but in truth this was not the case. Her Father was Amos Bronson Alcott, who together with many other philosophical thinkers of the day, including Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Henry David Thoreau, founded an Adult summer school, called the Concord School of Philosophy, based in a small sort of wooden chapel built in the hillside adjoining Orchard House. Here, he and his colleagues taught a sort of Platoism to adults at a summer school. It became a renowned school of philosophical thought, and no doubt, Louisa herself would have been influenced by it too. Inside, the rooms are preserved very much as they were with family portraits and many paintings by Louisa’s talented artist sister, May, who sadly died young, although her Father had sent her to study art in Europe and she exhibited as one of the first American women artists in European salons.
I must read Little Women again, perhaps not a book that would immediately appear to be a man’s story, but I am a big romantic inside and loved it when I read it as a teenager and even more so when it was wonderfully dramatised by the BBC sometime, I believe, in the late 1960’s. It is a book to make you laugh and make you cry, and one which I now think I would have deeper insight about for being in the author’s house and town.
From my trip to Concord, I went on to Lexington Green, although it was late, but I did not see very much here and the emotive feelings of Concord had gone.
I set the Satnav for Hartford. Now, rather stupidly, knowing that my next major destination was to be Niagara Falls, and that is in New York State, when the Satnav asked me to choose Hartford, I made the same sort of error I had with Concord. There’s a lot of Hartfords, and I hit on Hartford New York. It was not until I had done some 80 miles and found myself back in Brattleborough New Hampshire, that I released that I was travelling to Hartford which is near the western edge of Vermont and had travelled north west, rather than going to Hartford in Connecticut and travelled south west. I turned around sharpish (and sheepish!) and headed south on the 91, finally, at about 11.00p.m., camping out behind a church in the churchyard, somewhere about 30 miles north of Hartford. Churchyards seem a good place to sleep rough because nobody goes there at night! I feel safe there too because they are usually on the edge of a township, and unless there is movement underneath you, there is no need to get worried there!
I had hoped to see K’s other son in Hartford. He works as an emergency doctor at the hospital, but I was a day past the one he may have expected me and by the time I arrived there at about noon on Saturday afternoon, 14th July, it was a bit late to get in contact if I wanted to see Mark Twain’s House as I did. Perhaps I will make contact on the route back.
Well, I survived my visit to Colonial parts, but they need not have feared if it had been this Brit coming. The story would have had to be rewritten. I would almost certainly have marched my troops to Concord New Hampshire and they would probably have been picked off in similar fashion by Indians.

Best wishes,
Doc

Paul revere, baked beans and anonymous

Now with technicolor! Updated with pictures.

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From the car park, it was just about a mile walk into Boston centre, up Columbus and past the east side of Boston Common. Those of you who know me, know that I have an excellent sense of direction, finding my way often quite easily through new places, but despite having a map in the Rough Guide, and finding the corner of Columbus and Arlington, I regret to say that I started confidently walking south on Columbus, out of Boston. I have no real excuse for this, other to suggest that it reflected the disturbing start I had made to the trip and in retrospect I found that Arlington crossed Columbus Avenue, and was not simply a turn off it.. I was enjoying the walk, looking at the new to me style of buildings in brown brick, but all the time expecting to see the Common come into view. When I found myself at a junction which certainly looked nothing like I was expecting, I stopped and asked, and was shown another road on the Y junction to return to the centre, so having walked a mile further out , I then had two miles to walk back, so apart from being well exercised, it was about 11-.30 when I finally made it to the centre. Approaching the centre the road was lined with large early 20th century residences, all with steps and side rails up to large front doors on the first floors. They were mostly in beautiful condition and impressive long terraces. The side streets were even more beautiful, many arranged around a central garden island in thickly tree lined streets and the sunshine brilliantly illuminating the greenery. I got an impression of the wealth of old Boston, and indeed the probably cost of living in one of these houses nowadays. Downtown, I also spotted this excellent piece of 20th century trompe l'oeil, which I wanted to show you, although I suspect that Boston City Council have not noticed it or appreciated how good it is, since a new building is about to obscure it forever. The centre of Boston is mostly tasteful eclectic mix of architecture from the late 19th and early 20th century buildings, mixed with moderate and quite attractive skyscrapers. Some of the old department stores and offices of the early 1900s were to me perhaps the most pleasing. Around the centre area of the city, is a red line, mostly in cobbles, etched into the pavements, which, when followed takes the traveller on the Heritage Trail around the major sites of the historic events in Boston. Boston had become a major trading centre rapidly after the early settlers arrived, and the natural harbour was the base for many warehouses and trading companies. The British governed the Colony for King George Vth, and had a large garrison based there. The problem arose because, instead of seeing what an asset the actual people and place was, the King imposed taxes which started to milk the businesses dry. Even a tax on paper was introduced, and this, on top of taxes on all businesses and property, started to inflame a mutinous resentment amongst the settlers. The taxes were collected ruthlessly and finally a law was issued which allowed the British troops to enter any property and search for goods and property upon which tax might be avoided. There was a natural tendency to try to avoid it with contraband. The start of the War of Independence can possibly be dated to the 5th March 1770, when an angry mob of traders and other settlers gathered outside the old State House and started to pelt the British soldiers with stone filled snowballs. Whether they were actually armed or not is debateable but the upshot was that eventually the troops fired into the crowd to dispel them and five settlers, thereafter known as patriots were killed including, interestingly a freed slave named Crispus Attucks, attributed to be the first black colonist to be killed in the War. Actually the War of Independence itself did not truly kick off until 1775, but the writing was on the wall, and there were further acts of resistance and no diplomatic measures put in place to resolve the situation. On December 16th 1773, a group of eminent businessmen plotted to deny the Crown of taxes due on a large shipment of tea, the new and highly desirable export from China to England. The ships were in the harbour waiting for the taxes to be paid before sailing for England, and these men organised quiet boarding parties to empty all the tea overboard into the harbour, so denying the Crown of enormous taxes. The Boston Tea Party, as it became known, caused a major stink with the governing British, and it is said, an equal smell of tea hanging in the harbour district for several days. It was fitting that it was from the balcony of the Old State House that, on July 18th 1776, the first reading was made of The Declaration of Independence after the War had been lost by the British.
The Old State house has a wonderful central wooden spiral staircase from its basement to the second floor, and I imagine, because it had been regarded as a place highly significant in British Colonial life, was largely neglected after Independence The Colonists tore down the lion and the unicorn and royal crest from the top of its eastern gable, and thereafter, in its lifetime it was variably a warehouse and shops. Thankfully, although it was almost demolished, and they actually built an underground metro under it, it was actually restored, and now is a museum. Following the Heritage trail, I went to Quincy Market, a beautiful Georgian stone building where markets have been held for over 250 years. Now, the inside, as I am coming to expect, is lined with about 80 fast food outlets, selling all kinds of delicatessen and many junk foods. I also saw Faneuil ( as Daniel) Hall, the large meeting place of revolutionaries and later the abolitionists, and then on to the Paul Revere House. This is actually the only surviving 16th century wooden house in Boston. Paul Revere only lived there for about 30 years, but managed to have 8 children by each of two wives. It was Paul Revere, famed from the poem by Longfellow, who rode from Boston to Concord, on the night of April 18th 1775, to warn the patriots of the British Army’s march northwards to search the Barrett farm for hidden weapons of the revolution. I will not repeat this story, but if you want to see it, look up Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem Paul Revere’s Ride. This is not believed to be entirely accurate as Revere was captured before he completed his entire mission, but not before he had successfully warned the patriot militia who immediately moved all the stashed weapons, and mobilised in wait for the soldiers. Revere was an interesting man, typical of the revolutionaries in that he was a successful businessman, a silversmith, and later became the owner of a foundry casting bells and also cannons and mortars which were used in the Civil War, and the steel plates which cover the hull of the USS Constitution, the oldest, still sailing, warship in the world. He must have been quite wealthy and put his life on the line for what they were doing.
He lived until he was in his early 80’s, quite an age for those times, although he saw his first wife die and several of his children.
Just down the road from the Revere house, is a small street of mid 18th century buildings in brick, beautifully preserved as they were and still trading, one as an Oyster restaurant and one as a gift shop selling items associated with “Beantown” an old nickname for Boston. It was here that, at least one recipe for baked beans started, though whether they were also developed elsewhere in the settlements too is debatable. See photo of a recipe if you want to try to make your own, but I think that the modern baked bean is made from a Haricot bean rather than a type of pea; maybe they are the same name things? Whatever, if the colonists ate much of that recipe, it would not just have been tea that was smelt around the harbour area, and cowboys always seemed to be eating a “plate of beans” with their coffee, so I guess the plains were pretty windy places as baked beans spread westward.
I left Boston easily, this time following the eastern edge of the attractive Boston Common, under the shadow of the great gilded dome of the present State House. To me, this is singularly brash, being the most shining gold dome I have ever seen, and is definitely a feature indicative of The New World taste, or lack of it, rather than the Old.. There is absolutely no way that one is going to camp in Boston, unless one is to sleep out with the homeless or drunks on the common or hide away down an alleyway in some building entrance. This would not be a sensible or safe idea, so I went south out of the centre to a Ramada hotel, which for its cost was actually a disappointment. It was full of rowdy schoolchildren and I had one of my Harley Davidson summer riding gloves stolen from the helmet on my bike.
The following morning, I headed to the West of Boston to Cambridge, to see the great Harvard University complex. Now, I don’t really know what I had expected, but, dare I say it, I think I had confused it with Yale, since I expected to see a sort of mini reproduction of Cambridge in England, but I was overall pretty disappointed, and frankly, it is hardly worth the effort to visit. The town itself is fairly bland, though pleasant to walk, and I sat in a café there for over an hour sipping a coffee and eating a cake while listening to an excellent young white blues singer on the pavement outside. He sang good original Leadbelly type blues and played an electronic 12 string guitar. I have to say that this was the highlight of my day there. The university campus, divided into an Old and New Yard, actually large lawned greens, is populated largely by brown brick rectangular buildings, of little architectural interest, except perhaps for the Memorial Hall, a gothic style structure with wooden vaulted ceilings, built in memory of those Harvardians who died serving the Union in the Civil War ( but not those who served in the Confederacy!) and which houses a large dining hall and lecture theatre, neither of which we were allowed to see. The dining hall was reported as being the one on which the dining hall at Hogwarts, in the Harry Potter films, was based. Nothing would surprise me about such claim, since Harry Potter seems to have stormed the USA and they have clearly adopted everything about him and his author as being American. I was told much the same about the cloisters at Gloucester Cathedral and the Castle at Alnwick in England, so what one believes seems to be an individual’s choice! On the basis of the popularity of Harry Potter in the US alone, it would seem that, not only need J.K. Rowling never work again, but Daniel Radcliffe may also live on royalties for the rest of his young life. The other building of note was the great Widener Library, which was erected by a millionairess in memory of her son who was a graduate at Harvard and was killed in the Civil War after spending a life collecting rare books from all over Europe. It cost $5million to build and was built with a caveat that no brick should ever be altered. This produced some problems, when as the need arose for it to expand they were faced with the problem of what to do. The brilliant Harvard legal minds came up with a plan which would suit the caveat, and they then proceeded to build five stories of underground library right under the original building. Apparently it contains at least one Lutheran bible and an original Shakespeare portfolio, but, of course, we were not allowed into the library either. Finally we were not allowed in to see the ugly modern science block, which apparently has its own water heating and cooling plant, an observatory, fully computerised lecture theatres and many other wonderful 21st century facilities, which I didn’t see, or the firestation, built on Harvard grounds with the proviso that it was built in keeping with the existing architecture of the university. I did however see the statue of John Harvard, which is actually not of John Harvard, because nobody knows exactly what he looked like. A story is told of how, John Harvard gave his entire collection of 250 wonderful books and an endowment to the University, and in gratitude they renamed it after him. Such a revered man, with his portraits and collection may have been expected to have been well preserved, but the story goes that all his collection of rare books and his papers and pictures were house in the original library. A student, working late there one night and referring to one of Harvard’s books for a thesis, was tempted when the library closed at night, to conceal the book and take it home to complete his thesis with some diligence; this was against all the library and university rules. He did so, but returning the next morning to replace the book, found the University Dean on his knees in the courtyard in front of a pile of ashes where there library had burned down in the night. All the books and papers and portraits were destroyed in the fire, so no record of what Harvard looked like remained. The student approached the sobbing Dean and proffered the book which he had concealed the night before, the last remaining tome of the Harvard collection. TheDean was overjoyed that one small piece was rescued, but immediately had the student sent down for breaking college rules. The statue was apparently sculpted after the son of one of the Harvard professors, who, it was mooted, looked something like they all believed John Harvard to have looked! So now, the bronze left toe of the Harvard bronze shines with the touch of thousands of undergraduates and tourists who stroke the graven image of this unknown for luck, and the poor John Harvard, remains anonymous. I resisted the temptation to massage his toe after being told that the undergraduates have a nasty habit of smearing very unpleasant things on it, and frankly, I’m grubby enough today without getting any worse stuff on me! All a bit of a giggle really I felt, and gradually as I moved on, other such silly tales of the American protection of their heritage will arise! It was really not until the 1960’s that they all seemed to realise that they had some heritage that needed protecting. I think this is because they are separate States, and there seems to be no major central National protection agency, like we have our National Trust and National Heritage Organisations.
On the way out on Brattle Street, I passed the yellow mansion at 105, that was the home of Longfellow, and then rode out west to Lincoln, close to Concord and Lexington, where I was going to meet my distant cousin Keith. I very nearly followed Paul Revere’s ride path, except that most of it is covered by highway and the rest is hidden on Battle Road in the woods. Wonder if we get baked beans for supper?

Best wishes,
Doc