Friday, June 5th

Vacationland

The sun rose to a glorious morning. Just down the street from the hotel was Memorial Bridge, a pretty draw bridge not only across the Piscataqua River, but also across the state line to Maine. Beyond was Kittery, founded in 1647, proclaiming itself the oldest town of the state.

My plan was to follow the coast line north, but right away I experienced its flaw: the road was hilariously busy. Everyone seemed to have an infinite amount of time, too. Maine’s license plate slogan, ‘Vacationland,’ had been chosen very well.

Shortly after a empty stretch of woodland and river crossings, an alternate route was announced outside of York and I decided to give it a try. It first went into York proper, a village with a choice of two white wooden churches across from each other, one tall, one not so tall. Soon water appeared on the right. A few more bends and the road started to serve as sea front. There was one motel after another to its left, each with balconies towards road and, probably their real intention, sea. Then, suddenly, the motels stopped and homes took their place.

Away from the sea I went around yet another bend and arrived at an unsigned intersection. I gambled on turning right, but the road became rather dodgy looking making me doubt my choice. Still I continued and eventually a highway shield confirmed my decision. The little detour ended back at the main road. It had been quite lovely but also quite slow. At this speed, it would take me around twelve hours to arrive at today’s destination. Perhaps it was wise to skip such adventures for now.

The main road arrived in Ogunquit where altogether too many businesses had large signs with big gold lettering pronouncing their name and purpose. As the road was still running close to the shore, most were hotels or motels or resorts or inns. Some were restaurants, one offering a fantastic lobster mac ’n cheese. Even when a marsh forced the road into the hinterland, vacationland was dominating.

One town followed another in quick and indistinguishable fashion. There was the Norway Savings Bank, revealing where they had hidden all their oil money.

The twin city of Biddeford and Saco, separated by the Saco River, started the Portland area. Because of road works, a detour along Biddeford’s Main Street of red brick and trees became necessary. It then went down to the river and onto Factory Island, full of large old factory buildings and smoke stacks. The factories hadn’t been abandoned but rather reclaimed into event halls and shops and offices. Across the river and up the hill was Saco’s Main Street, slightly smaller and choking in the detour’s extra traffic.

Finally out, brightly coloured plastic pipes to the left of the road announced Funtown Splashtown USA, a roller coaster and a water slide park all rolled into one. There also was the Saco Drive-in movie theatre, a specimen of a once popular institution that had become rather rare, so your day was all laid out. The next intersection a That Ain’t Right moment by having a Tim Horton’s at the corner.

I gladly picked the motorway provided to cross Portland, Maine’s largest city, even though that didn’t mean all that much. From my fast vantage point, I got the see a lot of water and a lot of green. Since I had spent two hours for the first forty miles of the trip, I decided to stay on the motorway all the way to Bath and instead use my time to perhaps mosey around the coast beyond.

Quickly in Bath, I found not one but two giant bridges across the local river or inlet. The original bridge, a double decker drawbridge with the railway tracks in the lower and the highway on the upper deck was still there but had lost its highway access ramps. So there it was, entirely complete with even the street lights still present, yet the road started suddenly and out of nothing. I, meanwhile, crossed the water using the new concrete road bridge to its left, the final act of the motorway.

Beyond was a regular road and an endless queue of cars. As I rolled through woodland and marshes, I pondered alternatives. First Wiscasset, though, a village by yet another river crossing. A food stall by the road had attracted a long queue of punters and more people left the road’s queue to join them. I, meanwhile, crossed the river and hurried to Newcastle where I gladly turned off the main road.

I had decided to repeat my earlier adventure and follow a side road all the way to its end. It ventured through park land with tree branches overhanging the streets and blocking any view of water that surely must have been near. Suddenly there was some water but it only was a pond. I entered into South Bristol and finally there was a proper bay. The village’s centre was a tiny draw bridge, currently all construction site with traffic light. Across lay Rutherford Island where the road returned into hush trees. Occasionally it returned to water but suddenly and sadly deadended in front of a private property.

I returned north. There was a road that allowed the same experiment on the next peninsula to the east. This new road followed the fjord proper for a while before settling for the top of the land. It, too, arrived in a small village at land’s end, art gallery, pub and restaurant, and even a hotel. A sign pointed to the Pemaquid Point Lighthouse. It stood in a little park with a gatehouse demanding, but of course, two dollars. Regular readers will know of my quasi-religious refusal to pay for lighthouses. Yet again I turned north.

For a while, the road ran along the western shores of the peninsula and through a small village that had sprung up along it. This looked suspiciously like Norway, the stony shore line, the wooden houses—even though they were of the wrong colour and shape. It was all rather pretty even if slightly too densely settled. Although I was sure I could have found some quieter parts, I decided to stick with my preference of Chesapeake Bay for now.

Politely, the road returned inland to allow faster travel. It returned to the main highway, still unbearably busy, in Waldoboro. I took the next opportunity to leave it again, inland this time. The official excuse was that there was a string of cities ahead on the main road. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only traveller with that excuse and got stuck repeatedly behind slow vacationers with far away license plates. But my choice roads got smaller and smaller and at least for a few miles I found peace.

After having been away from rivers and fjords for a rather astonishingly long time, I returned to water and the main roads at Frankfort, a tiny community with a small white church and a railway bridge by the Penobscot River coming down from Bangor.

The world remained calm and quiet for a while but soon a large factory on the other side of the river proclaimed the return of the civilization. A sign announced Fort Knox—surely not that Fort Knox—and suddenly two giant pillars of a bridge appeared around a corner. It was a truly monumental structure. The roadway was strung to the two marble-white pillars by many equally white steel cables. The view from up top was fantastic. The factory, which also had a village attached to the left, undisturbed fjordland to the right.

Not far now to Ellsworth, nothing to report, and then south to Mount Desert Island, otherwise known as Acadia after the Acadia National Park. I duly (and dully) drove the final twenty odd miles and finally arrived at Bar Harbor, main town of the island and today’s destination. As far as towns go, it was’t anything to write home about. But then, people came here for nature not heritage. There were plenty of restaurants within walking distance from the hotel, though, something the wary traveller learns to appreciate.

Better yet, it had a sandbank, accessible only during low tide, from which to enjoy a sunset after a few local brews.