One day soon, Britain will probably
complete its transformation into the new Borneo,
with sweaty Christmases, year-round temperatures
of 80 degrees, unpredictable flooding and
orang-utans in the trees of Sherwood Forest. Until
then — and, come to think of it, after then, too —
there will always be a case for taking a holiday
somewhere with temperate summer weather, beaches,
fine scenery and plenty of outdoor things to do.
On the American East Coast,
Maine continues, in its downbeat way, to offer a
modestly complete solution. If you like small
boats, rocky shorelines, clapboard houses, sunny
days, a few but not too many excursions, and,
above all, eating lobster pretty much every day,
you’d be pushed to find a better place.
Maine is not a fashionable or
designery kind of state. On Long Island, the
ordinary vista of potato fields and deciduous
trees is enlivened — for some — by the news that X
paid eight million dollars for that roadside
house. Martha’s Vineyard offers more chance of
meeting high-rollers from Boston and New York,
while the prices on little Nantucket operate as an
automatic chav-repellent. A fortnight in Maine
isn’t going to cause paroxysmal status envy in
your colleagues, but for most people it could be
the best bet left in New England holidays.
It will probably begin in Boston
— another advantage, in my book. Depending on your
arrival time, you may want to spend the night
there; package deals will try to push you out to a
suburban Holiday Inn, but it’s better to stay in
town. I’ve been to several hotels in Boston in the
past few years and the best without doubt is the
Four Seasons, with its alpha-star position on the
common and the entrance to the Cheers bar happily
visible from the higher floors.
However, if you’re not on
business and you have to pay your own bill, you
need to think again. This summer, I went to the
Marlowe, which is on the Cambridge/Harvard side of
the river, but only a short cab ride from downtown
Boston. I had a double room for $199, not that
cheap perhaps, but it’s a comfortable, stylish
hotel (the rooms have a sort of African safari
theme) and the brasserie makes the best chips I’ve
ever eaten — served in a cone with small bits of
fried sage and thyme.
This puts you in a good mood for
the drive up the coast. I was headed for Boothbay
Harbor, which is about three and a half hours
northeast of Boston up the interstate, past
various New Hampshire state liquor stores. I took
on a case of American wine, not sure what would be
on offer at the other end. On the way, you pass
Freeport, a kind of retail hell of cut-price
designer outlets. It does, on the other hand,
contain Maine’s most famous shop, LL Bean, a
specialist in outdoor clothes.
Your next stop should be Bath.
If you’re going from Boston to the midcoast area
of Maine, this is a natural lunch break. I first
came here in 1994 and was lucky enough to see a
USS navy destroyer being launched from the Bath
Iron Works. Such events happen about once a year
only, so a large crowd had gathered on the bridge
to watch. The man I stood next to had worked for
18 months on the vessel, and what he had to say —
like what he had had to do — was riveting.
Now you’re heading east, through
Wiscasset, a charming town whose large number of
antiques shops and narrow main street cause
traffic tailback. I’ve never been that clear on
the distinctions along the spectrum that runs from
antiques to junk, via brocante, second-hand, flea
market and boot sale, but whatever they are, this
part of Maine has the lot.
BOOTHBAY HARBOR is a relatively
prosperous holiday town at the tip of one of the
many jagged peninsulas. We had taken a house on
Southport, a heavily wooded island connected to
the outskirts of the town by a swing bridge. It
was here, between 1958 and 1962, that the
naturalist Rachel Carson worked in a fierce
seclusion on Silent Spring, her alarm call to the
new environmental movement.
Our house was down a track, off
a lane, miles from anywhere. When I left Boothbay,
I had to set the trip meter on the car at 2.7
miles for fear of missing the hidden turning into
the woods. My family would be arriving after me,
so I entered the eight-bed house alone. I suppose
being divorced must be a bit like this. Your wife
gets the children, the money and the home. You get
to spend a lot of time on your own.
The remoteness of the place
would have been right up Rachel Carson’s street, I
imagine, but I found that a night alone there
summoned visions of Stephen King novels and I was
glad to rise from my dreams of Kathy Bates
hobbling my ankles to make some toast with
wild-blueberry spread for breakfast on the sun
deck. Maine is big blueberry country, though I’m
afraid I was never quite man enough to tackle the
bottle of blueberry wine the owner had hospitably
provided.
Your first move here must be to
get a boat: a sailing boat if you know how, or a
little thing with an outboard motor if you don’t.
These can be hired quite easily and moored either
to the dock, if it’s deep enough there, or to a
buoy from which you row ashore in a smaller boat.
“Buoy” is pronounced locally as “boo-ey”, which
saves any misunderstanding with male children.
You can spend a whole day
chugging up the coast, from beach to small island
and back again, though the wind can rise suddenly.
I remember on our first visit being unsure whether
to steer into the waves or at right angles. I
opted for a compromise: a tumultuous diagonal that
made the deck bulge terrifyingly.
A larger, commercial, boat takes
you to Burnt Island for a kind of tableau
vivant re-creation of the life of the old
lighthouse keeper and his family. Kerosene lamps
have been replaced by remote electronic controls,
but enthusiastic local historians have kept the
story alive, and a short climb to the top of the
lighthouse gives a good view of the bay.
A new friend in town told me
that Boothbay also plays host to “miniature-golf
competitions at both national and international
level”. “Miniature golf?” I queried. “Is that like
crazy golf?” “Sure. With the little obstacles.” An
international competition in crazy golf? Well, I
remember that Woody Allen line — “My family was
broke. My father was working as a caddie at a
miniature-golf course” — but I’d thought it was a
joke.
There’s a playhouse, too, which
I managed to sidestep in favour of a lobster
dinner at Brown’s Wharf Restaurant on the
seafront. This has a giant plaster fisherman in
yellow oilskins and sou’wester outside, so it’s
hard to miss. Inside, it’s fish, in big
quantities, and a good choice of wine, too. We had
“steamers” (steamed clams) to begin with, and I
was instructed in how to remove the flesh from its
protective “sock”, then rinse it in broth before
dipping it in butter. The steamers didn’t quite
happen for me; I think it may have been something
to do with that word “sock”.
Then came lobster in the local way:
boiled, with “drawn” butter. No amount of hot
lobster will overcome my European prejudice that
the best way to eat it is cold, with home-made
mayonnaise, a sharp, green salad and brown bread
on the side. That is not the sort of reservation
you bring up, however, when being overwhelmed by
American hospitality, which — Bush, Iraq,
Guantanamo and other disasters notwithstanding —
is a humbling constant.
Unless you’re a vegan
thalassophobe, you’ll like Boothbay. And it also
provides a good base for further exploration. I
drove to the Phippsburg peninsula, the next one to
the west, and rambled round there for a day.
Popham Beach, long, dune-backed and sunny, is the
main attraction in the area and is usually full of
swimmers (though the water is not that warm),
canoeists and people just lying down eating
lobster rolls in the sun.
On the west side, by Casco Bay,
is the small fishing village of West Point. When I
last went, in 1994, it had two general stores, but
both have recently been converted into residential
houses. A single developer seems to have built up
a number of properties here, slightly out of scale
with the rest of the village, but the character of
the place has remained the same — laid-back,
slightly scruffy, with great views of the sea.
Typically Maine. The pleasant Sebasco Harbor
Resort, less than two miles away, has golf and a
swimming pool and all that stuff, but this is not
a place where things are really laid on for you;
in fact, a little planning is essential for
enjoying this coast.
That’s what I like about it. You
have to find a farmers’ market or
organic-vegetable shop, because the stuff in the
supermarkets tastes of nothing; but they exist, as
does decent wine if you sniff around. If you go to
the fish plant in the evening, you can get tuna
fresh from the sea and lobsters for less than $10
a go. Then all you have to do is sit back on your
deck and watch the dying sun cast shadows on the
sea.
Sebastian Faulks travelled
as a guest of New England Country Homes. His
latest book, Pistache, is published by Hutchinson
at £10.99. To buy a copy for the reduced price of
£9.89, with free p&p in the UK, call The Sunday
Times Books First on 0870 165 8585
Travel brief
Getting there:
Boston is 160 miles from Boothbay Harbor. Fly
there from Heathrow and Manchester with American
Airlines (0845 7789 789), and from Heathrow with
British Airways (0870 850 9850) and Virgin
Atlantic (0870 380 2007), all with spring fares
from £290. Aer Lingus (0818 365000) flies from
Dublin and Shannon from €463.
Getting around:
Opodo (0871 277 0090) has a week’s inclusive car
hire from £103. Or try Auto Europe (0800 358
1229).
Where to stay:
Boothbay Region Rental Properties (00 1 207 633
5471) has cottages from about £800 per week in
spring. For information on other companies, visit.
Packages:
New England Country Homes (0870 192 1037) offers a
range of Maine cottages, such as the one Sebastian
Faulks rented, the Cottage by the Sea (ref:
MC107), which sleeps up to six and has two sun
decks and its own pebble beach. It costs £1,563
for a week in spring, excluding flights and car
hire (or from £761pp, with flights and car hire,
based on six sharing and two cars). Or try North
America Travel Service (0113 243 0000).
