On to Rockport

I thought I was planning a 70-mile trip, but it turned out to be 85 miles. (That's 170 miles round trip instead of 140.)

In Salisbury, Massachusetts, houses stacked three deep blocked our views of the water, which was probably just as well. We had to keep our eyes on the road to avoid hitting one of the plentiful potholes.

Our view from lunch in Newburyport. Apparently I cut off half of the elderly couple out for their midday stroll.

Then it was over the Merrimack River into Newburyport, with its historic brick buildings and brick sidewalks, small craft shops and pedestrian-friendly downtown. We found the waterfront park along the river, with an expansive lawn and boardwalk, parked our bikes and got out our lunch. Sitting on a wooden bench in the sun, eating our sandwiches of hummus and tomato sprinkled with garlic salt, we looked out over a harbor filled with luxury boats, watched the occasional mom with a stroller or elderly couple walk by. A gentle breeze cooled off our sweaty selves.

I looked at my odometer.

Rob asked, “How far have we gone?”

“Forty-five. I blew it. I must have forgotten about the 10 miles from Hampton Beach to here. I think we have another 35 to go. We’ll do at least 80.”

We wouldn’t have much extra time. Our sightseeing would have to be from our bicycle seats. But Rob didn’t seem to mind. His only response was, “Oh, well.” What’s another 10 miles?

Back on our bikes we passed tidal flats and organic farms with their scent of fresh manure, some fields turned over and ready for planting. Then more traffic, a detour onto a country road, traffic again, a stretch along a river, past marshes, and into Gloucester, where we stopped just before downtown to wait while a small drawbridge finished letting a boat through.

Gloucester was the last port of the Andrea Gail, the commercial fishing boat lost at sea during the “Perfect Storm” of 1991. Known as a working class fishing town, it has become more upscale recently with art galleries and coffee shops.

We needed rest and fuel. But the waterfront seemed to be mainly working piers, no quiet dockside coffee shop in sight. We pushed our bikes up the hill to the main street where we found an Italian bakery, its glass display case filled with pastries. Some had cream exploding out of them. I asked the woman behind the counter what they were, and she said they were filled with ricotta cheese. She pronounced ricotta with a real Italian accent.

“And what about those?” I pointed to something that looked similar.

“Those are baked ricotta,” she said.

“What’s the difference?”

She explained that one had the cream baked inside and the other didn’t.

I picked the one with the baked ricotta. Rob ordered an éclair and we grabbed lemonade drinks out of the cooler. We sat at a small metal table on the sidewalk in front of the bakery.

As I bit into my pastry, the flaky crust crackled and crumbs fell everywhere. This was the real thing. The dough had been carefully rolled out to paper-thin thickness and then wrapped around the ricotta filling and baked to a delicate crispness.

“How is it?” Rob asked.

“Great. I think I’m going to stop by tomorrow to pick one up for the ride home.”

The last 11 miles to Rockport were the best of the day. Quiet residential roads passed through neighborhoods of well-kept modest-sized homes with small front yards filled with colorful flowers. Then we came to a dramatic coastline, waves crashing against rocks piled along the shore. And on the hill on the other side of the road, beautiful Victorian houses close beside one another. I pictured myself sitting on one of their wooden porches with the surf a perfect backdrop to a good book, a cup of tea, and a pastry. Or some fine chocolate. I’d put my feet up on the railing and, hands cupped around my tea mug, just sit for a few minutes as I’d study the waves, watching the different ways they would break over the same rock.

I would be quite content to have a view like this from my front porch.

We arrived in Rockport shortly before 5 o’clock, and found the small peninsula known as Bearskin Neck. We’d ridden 85 miles.

Bearskin Neck Motor Lodge is about as low-budget as you can get in Rockport, but you can't beat the location and the view (on the other side of the building).

We had a room booked at the Bearskin Neck Motor Lodge, a small family-owned place at theend of the neck, every one of the seven rooms opening onto a common balcony that overlooked the ocean. The owner gave us the option of locking our bikes outside, behind the office, or bringing them up to our room on the second floor. I looked at the narrow wooden staircase at the side of the building. It would be easier to leave the bikes outside down here.

“What do you want to do?” I asked.

Rob said, “I’d feel better if we brought our bikes up to our room.”

We pulled the panniers off, leaving them for a second trip. I hoisted my bike over my shoulder and up the stairs, another couple watching us from the top, waiting to go down themselves, as we squeezed by them.

The room was nothing fancy, no cozy comforters or antique furniture, just a basic motel room in nondescript colors with two beds, a small fridge, a table and two chairs. The window opened onto the balcony and a screen door allowed us to welcome in even more of the ocean air. And there was enough room for two bicycles. It was perfect.

After a shower I settled into one of the plastic white chairs on the balcony with a book and a cup of hot tea. Maybe we didn’t own one of those historic Victorians we’d passed by, but I still felt rich, looking out on the ocean and blue sky stretching to infinity and listening to the surf rattling the rocks below. Rob joined me but he never sits and reads. He’s always watching, looking around.

“That guy is stealing stones off the wall,” he said. I looked over next door and saw a man taking a large stone, and then another, off the stone wall between the building and the water. When I want to tease Rob I call him Mrs. Kravits, that nosy neighbor from the old television show, Bewitched.

We didn’t sit long before heading out for a short walk and dinner. Unfortunately, we couldn’t check out the many colorful shops crowded onto this small spit of land. By the time we arrived everything was closing for the day, or still hadn’t opened for the season. 

We did walk to the end of the peninsula, just past our motel, where a granite bench had been donated by a resident on her 100^th birthday. I like that. Don’t wait until you die to have someone dedicate a bench to your memory. Just do it yourself. It does have more punch if you live to a hundred though.

Rockport
My home for over 100 years
Gertrude (Tarr) Reed
Given on My 100th Birtday
July 5, 1995
Sit Relax Enjoy

There were only a couple of restaurants within walking distance that were open for dinner, both serving seafood. We chose Roy Moore’s Fish Shack and waited for a table by the window. We were in no hurry.

Looking over our menus, Rob asked, “What are you thinking about getting?”

We ate lobster when we honeymooned on Cape Cod and Martha’s Vineyard.  Since this was our anniversary I knew that’s what he wanted, but I figured he was waiting for me to bring it up. I said, “If you order a lobster dinner then I’ll have to. I can’t sit here and watch you eat it.” We both ordered the lobster.

This restaurant may have started as a fish shack, but the food was fine dining. We shared a crab cake appetizer, loaded with flaky crab and delicate spices and fried to a gentle crispness, and a baby field greens salad with pecans and feta cheese.

Then our lobsters came. Growing up, Rob’s family never shared food when they went out to eat. When we were first married and I’d ask him for a taste of whatever he’d ordered, he had a hard time giving up even a small bite of his dinner. Now he usually offers before I even ask. (And, foodie that I am, I usually do ask). So when one of Rob’s claws came out looking like it had been struck by polio, all shriveled up, I thought it only fair to give him a chunk of one of mine, to even us up.

I once heard that back in the 1800s farmhands in Nova Scotia had it written in their contracts that they couldn’t be fed lobster more than twice a week. It was so plentiful it was considered a poor man’s dish. But I’m sure they didn’t have unlimited melted butter to drown it in. So now, sometimes I wonder, is it the lobster served with butter that I love, or the butter served with lobster?

While we waited for the check, we noticed a few raindrops falling outside. The forecast had called for a 50% chance of rain tomorrow. It looked like it was already starting.

“Think we can rent a car to get us home tomorrow?” Rob joked.

We could be looking at a wet ride back.