Historic Cooperstown boasts one major claim to fame that puts it on firmly on the map for one specific group of people. For this self-appointed 'Village of Museums' is the home of the National Baseball Hall of Fame (opened in 1939 by Stephen Carlton Clark who clearly had too much money after inheriting the Singer Sewing Machine fortune). But he spent it well, making the town, which had been badly hurt by the Depression, into a Mecca for millions of baseball fans. Amongst the first inductees was the legendary Babe Ruth. To this day, the sport dominates the town and attracts thousands of devotees every year. But there are other attractions too. The Farmers' Museum is also here. Then there's the Brewery Ommegang, which will particularly appeal to those who love Belgian beer. And the region has some great wine and interesting wine bars, which put it onto our itinerary, albeit for a one-night stopover. To be honest, if you do not fit into any of these 'fan' bases, that is quite long enough.
So we said a fond goodbye to the rolling hills of New York state. What was symbolically moving was to have been bid a somewhat haunting farewell, as we set off, from a defining Amish washing line of empty frocks and pants, waving gently as we drove past. We surmised that the usual occupants of these disembodied fashions had probably headed for the nearby forest hills for a special edition of Naked and Afraid and Amish.
The cats' outdoor lounge - their R & R retreat on one of several well-deserved breaks in the 6 hour road trip, the longest we ever embarked up. Usually we set the maximum at 2 hours before stopping for the night.
Our journey to our next stop was interrupted (for 20 minutes) by a herd of 700 cattle who crossed the narrow road in front of the bus, moving slowly from one field to another, each beast giving it and us a bemused glare as the parade went slowly by.
Next on our list was a place we had looked forward to visiting for a long, long time - Newport, Rhode Island. What a great town. Just as Cooperstown is a magnet for beer-loving baseball fans, Newport is the quintessential destination for wealthy, epicurean 'yachties' and the home of the 'America's Cup'.
The town has had a real boom-and-bust-and boom again history. Two hundred years ago it was far from what it is today. It was a vital, bustling commercial port, with everything from whale oil candles to lamentable slaves being decanted unceremoniously onto the harbourside and traded. But before long, Newport's fortunes changed as the wars destroyed its economic prosperity and military occupation eventually closed it off from any form of trade. However, a hundred years on, life in Newport was very different. It had become the fashionable coastal resort for New York's richest and most famous. Glittering summer dinner parties abounded as the Gilded Age took over these quaint, picturesque houses. The Vanderbilts and Astors, with their well-heeled social set in close attendance, flocked there in their droves. It became the place to be and to be seen. It is that affluent legacy that still seems to permeate this sublime town. Today, however, it is a dominated by the yachting, not life in the grand mansions (although many still exist). The summer seas packed packed with a bunting of sails, shining brightly in the sun. Yet the beautiful old-world cottages in the narrow streets give it a warm, English village feel. This place is just picture perfect. If you get the chance, treat yourself (it isn't the cheapest place!). There are some truly great restaurants on the seafront that reminded us of Port Grimaud and St Tropez, in the South of France, perfect place for a Sunday lunchtime lobster roll and Bloody Mary. Go on, splurge yourself!
Lobster roll and Bloody Mary. For the perfect Sunday morning.
On the waterfront of historic Newport
We must quickly give mention to the Old North Bridge in Concord, Massachusetts which we passed en route. It is the sort of place you must visit simply because it is there. However, it was slightly disappointing to learn that this is in fact a replica. Nevertheless, this is the very spot where the first shot of the Revolution was fired (and fatally hit a luckless British Redcoat). It was indeed 'the shot heard around the world' according to Ralph Waldo Emerson in his 1837 poem. This precious corner of America will always be revered as the place where the end of the English tenure in the New World was set in motion. Here, on April 19, 1775, 400 Minutemen took on the might of the Redcoats and the rest, as they say, is history.
