A Weekend in Ipswich

After our wedding, Ben and I were too wiped out to do much of any honeymooning. So instead of jetting off to New Zealand or Patagonia or the Adriatic, we took a couple of days and went to recuperate in Ipswich, at the Inn at Castle Hill. Set on a wooded hill emerging from a salt marsh, the landscape is unlike any other in New England; it’s hard to believe it’s only an hour from our home.

An ipswich salt marsh, seem from atop Castle Hill. Photo by Ben Carmichael.

An Ipswich salt marsh, seem from atop Castle Hill. Photo by Ben Carmichael.

The Inn itself is an old farm that the Crane family lived in while constructing their massive dream house, then turned into a guesthouse when the mansion was finished. Today, the B&B is a perfect blend of homey comforts and gracious hospitality. We spent most of our time simply sitting on the wide, jasmine-smothered front porch, drinking coffee in the mornings and rosé in the evenings and looking out at the marsh. It’s funny how when you slow down, two nights and three days can feel like a week.

The view from the veranda at the Inn at Castle Hill. Photo by Ben Carmichael.

The view from the veranda at the Inn at Castle Hill. Photo by Ben Carmichael.

We did venture out for a bit of exploration. We went to see Cogswell’s Grant, a colonial-era home maintained by Historic New England. But it’s not the house itself that people come to see — it’s the quirky and extensive collection of early American folk art inside.

We also had some amazing meals. The North Shore punches well above its weight in terms of culinary offerings. We had a fantastic dinner at Brine in Newburyport, and excellent lunches at The Deck in Salisbury and Salt Kitchen and Rum Bar in Ipswich.  Rum is a great old New England spirit, and I am glad to see it making a comeback among the hipster crowd — it’s time we stopped letting the beach bums and Parrotheads have all the fun.

But probably the best meal we had was at a little hidden gem in Annisquam, a tiny seafaring town I’d never even heard of before we stumbled into it. Overlooking Lobster Cove is a low key little spot called The Market Restaurant. It’s so low key, in fact, that when Siri triumphantly told us we’d arrived, we looked around in befuddlement. We didn’t see any restaurant; only a few shingled houses and an old grocery store. Finally, after driving around the peninsula again, we phoned them to ask for directions, only to be told we were sitting right out front. Walking around to the back of the apparently abandoned grocery store, we found the restaurant, leaning out over the water. The food, view, and wine list were all excellent.

And of course, we couldn’t leave before wandering over to the Crane Estate. One evening, we strolled from the Inn for cocktails — for a $30 cover charge, we got snacks, drinks, and the ability to wander freely around the house, as well as a chance to go up into the cupola and out onto the roof. Anyone who has ever toured the estate will tell you about the bathrooms — the Crane family made part of their considerable fortune in bathroom fittings, and the restrooms are appropriately luxe — but what really struck me was that the house felt like a house.

I’ve toured Hearst Castle, the Newport Mansions, and a seemingly infinite number stately homes in the UK, and in general they feel like museums. Like movie sets. This one felt different — not homey, exactly, but intimate in its way. You could imagine the Cranes arriving, relieved to be back in this beautiful spot. You could envision their two children taking the long walk through the woods and over the hot dunes to the four miles of white sand shoreline today known as Crane Beach. And you could imagine the parties spilling out from the house onto the lawn, the great sweep of grass rolling out to the cliffs over looking the sea. Maybe some of the young Cranes would drunkenly dare their friends to jump into the saltwater pool, or challenge them to a game of billiards in the poolhouse.

The Crane Estate on a midsummer night. Photo by Ben Carmichael.

The Crane Estate on a midsummer night. Photo by Ben Carmichael.

Today, though, the house does have a bit of an abandoned feeling. The Trustees of Reservations, the nonprofit charged with upkeep of the estate, could use a few more resources. With events like evening cocktails, concerts, specialized tours, and an end-of-summer Roaring Twenties lawn party, they’re clearly trying to get the money together to keep the old pile together. And, in a move I find particularly exciting, they’re beginning to renovate the gardens. While the grounds are evocative and a few treats remain — for instance, Mr. Crane had a massive stone mounted on a pivot, so that he could impress his guests by appearing to move it — the gardens are long gone. Peering into the rose garden, for instance, all you see is grass and a circle of broken columns, like a concrete Stonehenge. But this may soon be changing. The old Italianate garden had a backhoe in it when I was there, and I hear they’re trying to hire a couple of landscapers to bring it back to life. If and when that happens, you can bet we’ll be back.

Pawtuckaway to Portsmouth: Hiking and Eating

Just about an hour and 15 minutes north of Boston, Pawtuckaway State Park in southern New Hampshire is the perfect middle-ground between leisurely woodland strolling and vigorous actual hiking. On a recent excursion, Ania and I chose the park’s longest loop trail, roughly 8 miles and passing over two peaks, as a way to break in our legs for a new hiking season. (Don’t get too excited; even the taller north peak was scarcely over 1,000 feet.)

A damn fine dam at Pawtuckaway State Park.

A damn fine dam at Pawtuckaway State Park.

Our path took us past all sorts of wildlife — or signs thereof — from the sparrow-sized mosquitoes that followed us most of the way (it being our first hike of the spring, we naturally both forgot to bring bug spray) to a massive beaver dam separating two large ponds. One has to wonder if the beavers look at the park’s rustic little wooden bridges and scoff. Or perhaps wonder how we manage to get the boards so flat using only our teeth.

We also tramped past rockclimbers belaying one another among the park’s house-high boulders, and startled some unidentifiable black birds who’d made a huge nest in a notch in the cliffs. If anyone knows of a cliff-dwelling bird whose cries sound like a buzz saw, let us know.

OM NOM NOM at Portsmouth's Black Trumpet Bistro.

OM NOM NOM at Portsmouth’s Black Trumpet Bistro.

Having completed our leisurely hike in about five hours, we were ready for some beer. Suddenly, the 45-minute drive to Portsmouth (or more specifically, the Portsmouth Brewery) seemed like NBD. We were there in a flash, a sampler spread out before us, ranging from the smokey stout “Chat Noir” to the pleasingly refreshing session “Petite Enffronte” to the stealthily strong (10% ABV, not that you could taste it) “Wheatwine.” At 5pm, the barkeep produced a plate of fries doused in bacon, feta, garlic, and chives, announcing that it was their free 5pm bar snacks. We ate most of the plate before we could stop ourselves, then tore ourselves away to stroll around the town.

We reasoned that the best way to miss the crush of weekenders returning from Maine to Boston on I-95 would be to have an amazing dinner at the Black Trumpet, a cozy bistro tucked into one of Portsmouth’s antique seaside buildings. We sat upstairs in the wine bar, which had a homey, casual ambiance, and faced the paralyzing indecision of the menu. Fortunately, in such a situation there are no bad choices — and plenty of excuses to go back.

A Weekend in Woods Hole

A typically stunning Cape Cod sunset as seen from near the Woods Hole ferry terminal.

A typically stunning Cape Cod sunset as seen from near the Woods Hole ferry terminal.

To most New Englanders, Woods Hole is the way station to Martha’s Vineyard — a quaint village we see in passing as we rush to hop on the ferry. But when my friend Susy got married in Woods Hole this September, Ben and I had the chance to slow down and savor this oft-overlooked little town.

We stayed at the Sands of Time Inn, which consists of an old-fashioned motor inn (the rooms have balconies overlooking the water) and a traditional harbor house with classic B&B furnishings. In the mornings, we’d stroll the seaside sidewalk into town, where we had breakfast at the Pie in the Sky bakery and cafe. With pastries the size of your head and breakfast sandwiches on Portuguese sweetbread with linguica, there was plenty to feed our post-wedding hangovers. I was happy just to sit for a while at a picnic table out front, enjoying the cool Cape Cod air and doing a crossword, watching the line expand and contract as ferries pulled in and out of the neighboring berth.

Another highlight: oysters and ocean views at the Landfall, a restaurant made famous to me by the bride. (She worked there for several consecutive summers.) Ben ordered a beer, and I got the rum runner — which came served in a pint glass. The waitress set it down and, with a certain amount of pride in her voice, described as “probably the most alcoholic drink we have.”

If you’re wondering why they call it “Woods Hole,” it’s so called because the tidal pond in the center of town — Eel Pond — was once entirely surrounded by woods. And, being round, it kind of looks like a hole. Hence… Woods Hole.

My only regret is that I did not try the tacos at Quick’s Hole. When Ben returned to Woods Hole for some saltwater fishing, he texted me an envy-inducing photo of their delicious fish taco.

However, we had plenty to keep us busy in not-so-sleepy Woods Hole and the environs, including a late night at Grumpy’s, a friendly local dive with live music, pool, and — my favorite — air hockey. And on our way out of town, we strolled around the prosperous shops of Falmouth before antiquing our way off the Cape. When you’re not rushing to catch a ferry, it turns out that there’s no need to hurry.