I drove to Rockland, not for its huge contingent of media, but for the “Spring Auto & Antique Aeroplane Show” at the Owls Head Transportation Museum. A friend in the Cadillac and LaSalle Club had recommended the spot, “They fly old planes there and generally get a unique assortment of vintage cars.”
Sure enough, when I arrived, there were plenty of cool old cars to check out. A fabulous Nash Statesman, two 1938 Pontiacs, a 1986 Cadillac Fleetwood, a 1930 Ford Model A, and more than 30 others.
Plus, the crazy people at the Owls Head have a fantastic assortment of vintage airplanes, which the fly. Yes, fly. I watched this collection of toothpicks and aluminum foil take off:
Now that’s brave. But how cool is that? The museum has an eclectic assortment of planes, steam engines, and vintage automobiles. From a 1938 Packard to a 1904 Cadillac, a Stanley Steamer to an electric car, there’s a little something for everyone there. Plus, the museum store was crammed with neat things–like a vintage World War I plane propeller. You can’t get that at the mall. I highly recommend a visit.
Best Burger in New Hampshire
The Brougham seemed to be behaving after a week of struggles. Suddenly, in Maine, she began to run cooler and even the generator seems to be charging again. Did she heal herself? Who knows.
Today I decided to make tracks for Vermont, barnstorming New Hampshire with a short stop at the State Capital. It is indeed beautiful, with a lovely gold dome and lush plantings. Built in 1818, it’s as sturdy as the granite state itself.
If you visit (and especially if you’re running for president), a stop at The Barley House Restaurant & Tavern, which is across the street. It’s a casual tavern-like spot, but boasts one of the best hamburgers I’ve ever tasted. Truly. What a find.
I ordered the “Dublin Burger,” which came with a peppercorn sauce, fried onions, cheese, and sweet potato fries. Man. I ate the entire thing. Hoovered it down to the last peppercorn. Then I waddled out to the car and bid adieu to New Hampshire.
A Wrong Turn
No, I wasn’t lost, thankfully. But somewhere around the quaint city of Hopkinton, my stomach took a turn for the worse.
Having been a food critic for years, I know food poisoning. It’s an occupational hazard, that thankfully, I’ve only experienced three times. This wasn’t food poisoning.
Yet maybe those sweet potato fries were a bad idea with two more hours of driving in front of me. I stopped in Hopkinton to take a picture of the town’s Civil War Memorial. Being from the South, I’m used to seeing these with Confederates atop the pedestal, which is probably as jolting to visiting Northerners as this one was to me. Pretty park, though.
Vroom through Vermont
By now, caught in the fading twilight of a slightly chilly evening, my stomach was in full revolt, rumbling like the Brougham’s exhaust. Though I’d planned on lingering in Bennington, I decided the best course of action would be to prove that I’d been to Vermont, then head on to my final stop for the evening.
Here’s the obligatory Vermont shot, pulling into the Creamery Covered Bridge in Brattleboro. It’s 80-foot span was completed in 1879 and it’s just wide enough for a 1958 Cadillac.
After (just) making it through the bridge, I buried the accelerator for Massachusetts. Normally, I drive antique cars like there’s an egg under the gas pedal: carefully, gently, and with utmost respect. Caught in the wilds of the Northeast with a rumbly stomach, I started driving the Brougham like I stole it.
For a 51-year-old car, she handles pretty well. The suspension and steering felt firm. I zoomed up and over many mountain grades. The brakes didn’t fade or protest, despite some downhill runs that exceeded 8%. I promised myself, at the outset of this trip, that I wouldn’t break the speed limit. And though I didn’t break that promise, I did get pretty close.
What was that?
My wife’s brother and sister-in-law have a huge and gorgeous cabin in Hancock, Massachusetts. Jiminy Peak Resort is less than a mile away, and in winter, it’s one of the best ski resorts in New England. Summertime is a stunning time to visit, too. While I was here, the Weather Channel issued a frost advisory, which was nice for a guy from Alabama to experience in May.
Problem was, I didn’t quite remember which house was which. It was dark. My intestines were doing their own special hula dance. After bouncing the Brougham up two or three wrong dirt driveways, I called for directions (for men, calling for directions is far less upsetting than stopping for directions).
At last, I found the house. It was all I could do not to take the driveway at 50 mph and slide the old Cadillac into “home base” like a Derek Jeter at the bottom of the 9th. I dashed inside with a flashlight to guide me. Whew. Made it.
Then I realized that I was in a totally dark and unfamiliar house in the middle of the Berkshires. And everywhere I shined my flashlight, I spotted things that during the day, would be perfectly beautiful and appropriate for a cabin that looks like it’s straight from the pages of an L.L. Bean catalogue. At night, under the dim light of a flashlight, I kept seeing witches, wolves, and critters.
Don’t be such a baby, I thought. I resisted thinking about the graveyards I’d visited earlier in New Hampshire. Sheesh, I thought, I’m getting myself worked up like a junior-high kid telling ghost stories at Boy Scout camp. There was nobody around. No yelling couples, no bouncing toddlers, no noise of any kind. So this was the perfect spot to catch up on some sleep. A little Indian mojo would be good luck, anyway. I needed to be more “Dances with Wolves” and less “Hides under Blankie.”
At last, I drifted off into a deep slumber.
At 3:38 a.m., I was awakened by a loud pounding. What the devil? I thought. It took me a second to get my surroundings. Was I in Boston? New York? Maine? Oh, wait–I am by myself in a huge cabin in the woods. POUND, POUND, POUND!
What time is it?
POUND, POUND, POUND!
Is that someone at the front door?
POUND, POUND, POUND!
Or is that the house settling? I know old houses. I live in one. But this was a sharp rap, not an old creak. It’s either the police, wondering why there’s a 1958 Cadillac parked outside OR the cast of Deliverance, coming to disembowel the guy who is staying by himself.
I dashed to the hearth and grabbed my brother-in-law’s massive fireplace iron. Then I waited. Had anyone come through the door, I was ready: I’d poke the bejeasus out of them. Then I’d sweep up what was left with the other fireplace tools.
Hours later, the sun rose and lit up what was surely a hilarious sight: me, holding a fire iron, using a log as a pillow. And as the house heated up, sure enough, the loud pounds started again from the main log running across the expanse of the cabin. It was just the house settling all along. Whew. I felt silly.
The day was as lovely and crisp as one could wish. I washed clothes, relaxed, at a huge meal at Bob’s Country Kitchen, and watched a Memorial Day parade in true small-town fashion. The cabin proved to be the perfect escape for a couple of days.
(Still, the next evening, I vowed to have a little “nerve pill,” as my grandmother called her bourbons, before retiring for the night.)