Filed under: NORTH AMERICA, Pennsylvania, USA | Tags: Bed and breakfast, sun and cricket, bed and breakfast in pittsburgh, hotels in pittsburgh, sun and cricket bed and breakfast, countryside bed and breakfast
Straight out of a storybook, the Sun and Cricket bed and breakfast is tucked beneath crisp and colorful falling leaves on a private lane named after the owner, Tara. Tara stands outside of the carriage house with me at dusk detailing the development of the grounds over the years. Tara Lane lies on a recycled foundation. Her husband and co-owner, John, salvaged what he could use from the old Highway 80 while working in construction. And the couple’s pioneering resourcefulness doesn’t stop there. Tara motions to the tall white barn beside her black horses—a juxtaposing landscape imprinted in my memory. An Amish barn stood miles away years ago that provided the materials for this build. A dance hall for women, opened in the 1930’s, also contributes to the property’s structures where hand-collected rocks are woven together to form walls and libraries of audio books, evidence of Tara’s past life as an audio book reviewer, pop up frequently enough to make you wish you still had your old Walkman.
There are only two places to stay at Sun and Cricket: the fabulous log cabin suite, complete with a lofted bedroom, fireplace, and downstairs which can be rented for an additional fee or the cozy and charming carriage house suite at the far end of the grounds, also equipped with a fireplace.
There’s something uncharacteristically warm about Sun and Cricket, especially in an increasingly cold B&B industry wherein many B&Bs have become more concerned with achieving the stale hotel aesthetic than with continuing the long tradition of intimacy found only in a B&B. Feeling slightly under the weather, I wrapped myself up in the plush spare blankets on the carriage house bed, eating popcorn and sipping on hot chocolate—both of which are standard amenities to the room—along with dvds , audio books, wine glasses and dishware, and even a Checkers board with wooden red and green apple pieces (fitting since they have apple trees on the property).
In the morning, Tara does what I’ve yet to see at any other B&B: she offers a 3 course breakfast to guests, which comes at no additional cost. Sweet and spongy bread paired with coffee and cider prepared my senses for her mouth-watering baked Granny Smith apple which left me drooling just enough to ravenously devour her ‘Baked BLT’ when it was brought to the table (local bacon atop homemade bread with local eggs and cheese and homegrown tomatoes and herbs. One of the most delicious breakfast meals I have yet to try).
With 35 acres to its name, Sun and Cricket boasts hiking trails, horses for riding, an in-ground pool for use during warmer seasons, availability of a masseuse in room, beautiful countryside scenery—and all of this less than 20 miles outside of Pittsburgh’s boisterous downtown. Sun and Cricket is the perfect way to seclude yourself in nature while still in reach of the city.
By: Elizabeth Seward, Photos By: Ben Britz
Filed under: Caribbean, St. Maarten/St. Martin | Tags: artist in caribbean, caribbean artists, caribbean poets, ghosts in st. maarten, ghosts in st. martin, ghosts in the caribbean, haunted caribbean, hauntings in st. maarten, hauntings in st. martin, ruby bute, ruby painter, st. maarten artists, st. martin artists, story tellers in caribbean
I met Ruby Bute because I went to St. Maarten/St. Martin and started pressing locals for information on the island’s spooky side. I wanted to dig my claws into the island’s history and, as with any place, sometimes I feel this is better done by examining that which you’re not shown on the surface when visiting a new place. What is dark is usually buried deep in a culture’s history, with the exception of cities like New Orleans, of course. Some people asked some people who I think asked some people and the final conclusion was that I should make my way over to the French side of St. Martin and meet Ruby Bute, an island legend.
Here’s what I knew about Ruby going into this: she is an island resident who is well known for her exceptional art, poetry, and story telling. I conjured up an image in my mind of what this woman might look like, feel like, smell like. I was relieved to find out when I finally pulled up in her drive way that I wasn’t far off.
We’d commissioned a friendly island taxi driver, Gilbert, to drive us to Ruby’s art gallery, which sits beside her home. As we neared her grounds, the neighborhoods became increasingly farther spread apart from each other and quieter by the mile. By the time we’d pulled into Ruby’s gallery, first having to get the gate opened, the land was far more wild than any I’d yet seen on the island; uninhabited by the urban constructions of downtown Phillipsburg. Cows roamed around freely and the landscape was growing unbarred.
Ruby slowly made her way out of her yellow one-story home. Step by step she hollered a “Hello” out to us and we greeted her eagerly, excitedly, absolutely unsure of what to expect. It took her a while to remember that we were the ‘writers from New York’ who’d requested a visit with her. She unlocked her art gallery and left us in there to inspect each piece of art carefully while she went back to her house to eat her lunch. By the time she came back to join us at the gallery, we’d already fallen in love with her. Each piece of artwork was colorful and expressive, haunting and hopeful simultaneously. When we flipped through her poetry book, we found wise and beautiful words printed on the pages that reminded me of Maya Angelou. We bought what we could afford and I had almost forgotten that I’d come to her home to hear about the island’s darker side. And with all of the flawless art around me, I was kind of embarrassed that I had.
When Ruby finally decided to grace us with the ghost stories we had come for, she leaned into me with an undeniable spook and intensity glossing over her eyes and said, in a strong Caribbean accent, “Who want the stories of the ghosts?”. She knew it was me, but did us the formality of asking, anyhow. I explained, casually so I thought, that ghost stories are an interesting way to dig into a culture and she waved us outside to her porch where her stories would be told. Before she locked her gallery door behind her, she grabbed a fist full of assorted hard candies, glued to their wrappers from the island heat, and handed them to me. I passed them out to Meghan, Michelle, and Gilbert.
We scooted our chairs in to the table and waited for Ruby to take her seat. She took her seat slowly and began.
“Every nation has a story” she said while interrupting herself to ask Gilbert to get a stick so that she might keep her black excited dog under better control. “It is a part of man to create the imagination”. The mosquitos were biting but we were already enthralled, just by her introductory lines. “It is the other side of God: Fearing. The unknown becomes mysterious. Those of us who are gifted to feel and see will feel and see.” She floats into her thoughts on St. Martin, specifically. “There are houses that the living cannot LIVE in.” She dives into the spirits that exist on the island thanks to the island’s history. “They derive from the days of piracy, conquerers, slaves, the middle passage, the suffering of the people brought over.”
The back yard of Ruby’s gallery is wild land. Overgrown with brush and inhabited by iguanas the size of an average adult, purple flowers blossom throughout the harsh landscape and there is no visible path to the ocean, although I could descry it over the branches that pertrude on the horizon. The land has been in Ruby’s family for generations upon generations. But there is a reason, she says, that her plot of land in Frier’s Bay has yet to be cultivated the way much of the rest of St. Martin has been. “This is virgin land. Buried treasures on this spot, slaves were here, working the fields, lashed and killed. The edge of our property is where slaves were brought in and this energy exists. Treasures were buried here. Pirates always had a slave who had to do the work. So the pirate has the slave’s head cut off so the head can stay with the treasure so he can watch over the treasure.”
Ruby’s grandfather was beckoned by a vision to dig up this treasure once. Ruby told us about the story she was given, that he was awakened by a vision telling him the exact day and time that he was to seek out the treasure. He told his family members but, alas, when he went to the spot he’d been instructed to go to, there was no treasure. Ruby explains to us that she won’t be doing any digging. She hopes the treasure is never found if it exists at all.
She goes on to tell us other spooky stories from the island and when Meghan, Michelle, and Gilbert are back in the van, she pulls me aside. “Why you so interested. Why you come here asking about the ghosts. You have got to focus on the positive, the negative will follow you when you start looking for it.”
And believe me, Ruby, I know, was all I could think.
By: Elizabeth Seward
Filed under: Illinois, NORTH AMERICA, USA | Tags: coffee houses in chicago, coffee in Chicago, Ipsento, Ipsento coffee, Ispento in chicago
On a lazy Tuesday morning in Chicago, shortly after leaving a Mcdonald’s parking lot on foot, I wandered past a mechanic jacking my car up for repairs. I stood on the sidewalk sipping my Styrofoam-cupped coffee and watched as the mechanic sauntered around his shop for tools. It seemed my struts were broken. Driving too quickly on the interstate was a bad decision. Buying McDonald’s coffee was, conveniently, also a bad decision.
For a short time, I was worried. I felt puzzled and confused. I wasn’t sure what could be done with my car, where I was exactly in Chicago (road-trips with no destination will do that to you,) or where I would find breakfast. But further along the sidewalk, there it was: a bar/coffeehouse sign, wide-legged on the sidewalk. On its display area, someone drew in a massive, chalky question mark. It seemed to highlight my morning perfectly so I stepped inside.
What a place! It turns out I had wandered into Ipsento coffee, a diamond in the rough for the area of Chicago I was waiting in for my car. One of the baristas greeted me politely as I glanced at my surroundings. A small table sat to my right, couches with (readable) magazines to the left, and an in-house roaster (!) set to the side of the room. Along the left wall, the work of local artists and photographers hung alongside each other.
I surely felt like a jerk walking in with a McDonald’s coffee cup. Nonetheless, the staff was friendly and helpful in suggesting what I should have to eat. I was in love with their special menu of breakfast and lunch sandwiches: all named after well-known authors. I personally snacked on the Thoreau (egg, mushroom, onion, bell pepper, and goat cheese on a croissant,) but the other selections were just as great. There’s the Jane Austen (apple, cream cheese, and honey on a croissant,) the Hemingway (salmon, egg, cream cheese, and capers on a croissant,) and others just as wonderful. Their options for vegan/vegetarians was staggering. It seems they also offer free coffee on Friday mornings!
After paying, I sat down at my table and admired the shop. I charged my phone in one of their power outlets, perused their magazine selection, and read an advertisement on the wall that let me in on one of the most important aspects of Ipsento coffee. Ipsento is a socially-conscious coffee shop. They (or their partners) work personally with the farmers that grow the coffee beans they use. There are photographs of the farmers, a mission statement, and information about where the coffee is grown, who grows it, and what their relationship with Ipsento is.
I was further impressed while listening to a staff member discuss with a customer the finer intricacies of roasting, brewing, and general coffee-knowledge. I have to admit, I don’t even know what was going on. This man was an artist. If Darwin was still around, he’d be jealous of this guy’s encyclopedic knowledge of the bean. He knew more about coffee than I know about… anything.
All in all, I walked away from Ipsento with a seriously great sandwich, a new respect for coffee-making and coffee houses, and a fixed car waiting for me at the mechanic. And yes, I did go back later for the coffee. I grabbed an iced and wandered around in the sun. I decided something that morning: The sandwiches, the staff, and their mission are worth the trip alone but – there is no coffee but Ipsento’s.
By: Jon Boulier
Filed under: Uncategorized
I woke up this morning with “space shuttle to Venus” written on my forearm, and I have no idea what it means or how it ended up there.
I write messages to myself on my forearms pretty often. I find it much more effective than writing on your palm, which tends to wash off easily. Usually it’s a reminder to do something important. The only drawback is that it looks really dumb. In this case, I don’t think I was meaning to book a space shuttle to Venus, but I can’t be entirely convinced since I woke up with about a 10-hour memory lapse from my first night in Finland and my experience at a rock bar called Ruma.
The night started with a few drinks at my new Finnish friend Marjo’s new flat. Marjo lives in a beautiful studio apartment that overlooks Lake Nasijarri. She has a beautiful smile that she uses often and her entire flat seemed to be decadently themed “white” except for her room, which was largely composed of pink. Walking in, I felt like I should have been showing off a small homemade fruitcake and a baby blue cardigan sweater. I walked into the room as a complete stranger, but quickly introduced myself when Dimmu Borgir came on the party playlist. I asked Marjo why Dimmu Borgir was playing as I looked around at the various puppy themed ornaments in the kitchen and watched her friends eat ornamental strawberries dipped in yogurt. She said in broken English, that one of the guys probably put it on, all of whom were smoking cigarettes on balcony, meaning that Marjo and the rest of the attractive, blonde Finnish girls most of whom had brought some homemade pastry or dip to the quaint party, were listening to Dimmu Borgir at their own discretion. Finnish girls – 1, Everyone else – 0.
After eating my fair share of popcorn and talking about skateboarding with everyone at the party who could speak English, we headed to a Finnish rock bar called Ruma. Now handsome reader, let me first tell you that Ruma isn’t your grandfather’s rock bar. In fact, your grandfather would imaginably be quite offended by the place. I walked up the stairs in search for some beverage service, but was interrupted immediately by an assault of visual stimulus in the form of a 40-foot table covered in pictures of the dirtiest porn that you’ve ever even heard of. Now I don’t want to delve into a commentary on what is or isn’t rock and roll. I’m sure you’ve had enough of that from the other travel blogs that you read. I must say though that when I said that Ruma wasn’t your grandfather’s rock bar, I meant that although Chuck Barry may be one of the fathers of rock and roll, he isn’t 1/10 as rock and roll as the Ruma porn table and the severed British telephone booths that lit it.
Although the larger purpose of this article is to tell you about my favorite place in Tampere Finland, I must also remind you that in writing this, I am also trying to piece together my jigsaw of a night and make sense of my forearm encryption.
I headed to the bar where I was informed that I should order a long island ice-tea. It came in a glass milk jug, which was a good deal, but considerably less rock and roll than one would expect in a place like Ruma. I innocently sipped away. While sitting at the porn table and watching my Finnish comrades drink out of a large milk glass jug, I realized the irony of the situation. Touché Ruma; I tip my cap at your clever acumen.
The obvious next step after 2 jug’s worth of Finnish Long Island IceTea-age is the dance floor. Unlike most clubs, Ruma doesn’t play with fancy lighting equipment. The dance floor was entirely lit by old Christmas lights that changed colors and fluctuated in brightness with the music, which varied from MGMT to Jimmy Eat World, to Muse, to Finnish pop music that I didn’t understand. The entire bar looked a bit like it was created out of the debris of a winter riot in London. The scene dramatically dulled my appreciation for nightclubs with green and red lasers; which is saying huge things, because I really appreciate lasers.
This is when my memories get murky. The next thing I know for certain is that I began to dance, which I imagine is probably where the shenanigans began. When I was younger, I was a very skilled Dance Dance Revolution competitor. This skill has ascended into my adulthood, but apparently only surfaces itself after no less than 2 glass milk jug of Long Island Ice tea, or the equivalent. Most people think that Dance Dance Revolution isn’t real dancing because you don’t use your arms, but I completely disagree. You use your arms to balance, which usually means they are flailing wildly, trying to catch up to your legs, which are moving at a completely unrealistic pace. I must have hit someone or knocked someone’s drink over because the next thing that I remember is retreating to the smoking area, covered in wet. At the time, the smoking box seemed like it was the universal safe zone, so I stood in a corner, and started to make attempted chit chat with the locals.
Well this was a bad idea, because all the smoking area is, is a glass box, and everyone could see me, including the bouncers, who are bigger than me. The next thing I remember is sitting on a bench outside of Hesburger/Fiesta, and feeling the urge to run off into an alleyway and speak some Norway, which is an English translation of a Finnish phrase that means barf everywhere. It’s probably my favorite English translation of a foreign colloquialism that I’ve ever heard.
Next, I remember is sitting in Hesburger talking to Marjo and her boyfriend about science.
Next, I’m back in Ruma smoking another cigarette, which is unsettling, because this could mean that I am actually remembering things completely out of order, which is a new level of weekend disorientation for me. This is also the final memory I have before it is morning and I am staring at the ceiling in a completely different outfit than I started the night in, and “Space Shuttle to Venus” largely scrolled on my arm. I really wish that I remember what it meant, because it seems like it could imply something really amazing, but this jigsaw may just be lacking far too many pieces to see the entire picture. After asking around, my friends seem to think that I wrote it on my arm completely independent to any specific detail. I think they’re covering up for a much bigger secret, but only because I know that I very well may have written it on my arm for no reason whatsoever, and I’m just a really embarrassing drunk. If nothing else, it’s a bizarre and epic phrase that was inspired by a damn awesome Finnish Bar.
By: Ben Majoy
Filed under: Colorado, NORTH AMERICA, USA | Tags: aspens, Colorado, hotels in vail, oktoberfest in vail, resorts in vail, restaurants in vail, spas in vail, vail, vail cascade, vail colorado, vail in the fall, vail in the summer
Going to Vail, Colorado for the very first time in September is definitely something I would do–and I did.
It’s getting ready to rain atop Vail Mountain. I’ve just taken the Gondola up the steep mountainside. I shared it with a couple who were clearly visiting their twenty-something son who clearly just opened a Burton store in Vail. Or something like that. They shifted their eyes back and forth between him and the village below, as if to say they weren’t sure which was more frightening: the ascending ride or his “I Really Do Have My Shit Together, Guys” act.
The storm clouds are rolling in, painted in deep purples and grays. No one else up here seems to be as inconvenienced by the pending doom as I am, but I appear to be the only person wearing short sleeves. I quickly take the Gondola back down the mountain, making a point to get my own car (or however you refer to the seating on these things).
When I fell asleep in my hotel room that night, I took some time to think about how my day had gone. I’d woken up that morning to a sprawling much-more-than-continental breakfast at AtWater, a restaurant in Vail Cascade. I followed that with one of the deepest deep tissue massages I’ve ever received. I followed that with time in the hot tub. After my time in the hot tub, I took the Gondola up to the top of Vail Mountain and grabbed some breathtaking shots. I then went downtown to greet some old friends of mine who decided to drive out from Boulder and meet me in Vail for dinner and drinks. It just so happened to be Oktoberfest in Vail that evening. We dined at a great little bar/restaurant where we ordered bean burgers that, for once, did not suck and we drank beer out of steins in the city square while watching a toddler dance in circles to the live band. It hadn’t been a bad day at all.
Vail in the summertime is a vacation spot not yet announced to travelers at large. What would be $700 hotel rooms in December are $100 in August. What would be streets flooded with overzealous skiers in January are quaint and quiet outdoor cafes where you can grab a glass of wine in peace in June. What would be snow covered aspens in February are a palette of fall colors in October. See my point? You’re fooling yourself if you think Vail is only worth it in the winter.
By: Elizabeth Seward
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Antilles, Beach, Caribbean, Caribbean Island, Saint Martin, Sint Maarten, St. Maarten, St. Martin
By: Elizabeth Seward
Filed under: EUROPE, England | Tags: Buying Vinyl in London, Music Stores in London, Record Stores in England, Record Stores in London, Rough Trade, Rough Trade East, Rough Trade London
Most people who have spent any part of their teenage years invested in a subculture have a soft-place in their heart for the mythology of record stores. I say mythology because, I, like most of my peers, have pursued the love for the grime of alternative music through compact discs, iPods, and the internet, all while record stores become increasingly nonexistent.
When I walked into Rough Trade East in the Brick Lane in London, I felt like I was getting a true sense of what Record Stores originally embodied. In this old warehouse, which was probably once a textile factory, there are old video games, a live band, cute girls who grew up listening to Millencolin running the counter, coffee, comics, skateboards, and immense amounts of music. I felt like I was seeing an endangered species in the wilderness.
Now I don’t want to point a finger at the internet since I love it like a firstborn son, but the new venues for consuming music can be found almost exclusively online, where the more awesome amenities of a place like Rough Trade aren’t technologically possible. The Internet does provide the possible cute alternative looking girls to flirt with, but this could also be just a clever disguise for a retired vacuum cleaner salesman from Wisconsin. Rough Trade may be a beacon for kids with colorful shoes and skinny jeans, but so is MySpace, so as we approach a time where the easiest way to consume music is by not even leaving your house, Rough Trade and it’s cohorts seem to be defying odds.
Since the beginning of this little article, I’ve been trying to think of a proper analogy for what record stores seem to represent in a time when not only do most people not even own record players, but could get everything they could possibly want or need online. I came up with two. The first analogy involves animatronix. I’m not going to tell you about this one because I have a word limit and the whole explanation is confusing and not all that accurate of an analogy. The second analogy about how I feel about record stores and specifically Rough Trade in London (which, if you’ve understandably forgotten, is the point of this article) involves the future and flying cars; a promise we’re yet to receive.
Let’s say that it’s the year 2110, and we’re about 20 years into the age of flying cars, and each of them are filled with toys and assets far more interesting than any Philip K. Dick novel could have ever predicted. The fuel sources are very tiny nuclear reactors. The cabins have built in teleportation devices, oxygen chambers, and full four-dimensional movement (the fourth dimension being time of course). Since robots will be a common tool at this point, all cars will be equipped with a talking GPS robot that can and will have he ability to hold elaborate conversations with you when you are on long road trips. These cars will be staggering in their epic supremacy. Unfortunately, because the world’s kings are worried about the possibilities of having a nuclear reactor as the main fuel source inside the new flying automobiles, in the future, no one really owns their cars, but rather checks them out online and has them delivered. Either you drive it yourself to wherever it is that you are going, or the pilot who brought you the car acts as your chauffeur and takes you where you need to go. It’s a complicated system that I can’t be bothered describing to you because of the word limit.
Despite the fact that the new flying cars are no longer considered the wave of the future, but rather the standard, there are still small boutique car dealerships that lend out cars from the past century. These cars are about the same price as the flying cars (if not more), and are still required to be driven on highways, which at this point, aren’t in great shape since there is no longer a necessity to constantly repave them. Also, you still need a proper land-automobile driving license, which you can only find on eBay or at local flea markets and salvation armies. Yet, interesting youth hang out at these land-car boutiques and talk over coffee about anarchy, nihilism, and how the best car that Chevrolet ever produced was the 1973 El Caminos even though it was more experimental than the 1970 Chevelle.
The flying cars are clearly the easiest and most functional means of getting from A to B quickly, but the old Camrys that you can rent from Carl’s Land-Car Emporium and Café down the street from the church of Kraftwerk have character, which sometimes means more than the efficiency and ease of the flying cars. After all, you don’t see kids with skinny jeans and glow in the dark David bowie shirts hanging out at the flying car dealerships like you do at the Carl’s, and it’s certain that you won’t be able to flirt with the cute punk rock girl from behind the counter, since only robots hang out at the flying car drop off. Even though it’s the future and robots will have been liberated, it will still be a little weird and socially unacceptable to flirt with them.
Just in case you missed it, flying cars are like MP3’s and Carl’s Land-Car Emporium and Café is like Rough Trade East in London.
Rough Trade is not only a cool store for buying music and drinking tea, but is also an important part of a culture that could be slipping away with the arrival of the digital age. Granted, the digital age may not actually be killing anything and in some ways, making the scene better, but there’s no doubt that technology makes it more complicated. Sometimes, it just feels better to do it the simple way. It can get exhausting having to always adjust to the times. Sometimes it is just so much more exciting hearing the sound of a faulty and rusted engine instead of a perfect platinum body as it flies four dimensionally. Sometimes it feels better to have to look at every individual album as you thumb through artists alphabetically.
Rough Trade East
‘Dray Walk’
Old Truman Brewery
91 Brick Lane
London
E1 6QL
T: 0207 392 7788
By: Ben Majoy
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: beaches in Maine, Cliffhouse, Cliffhouse Resort, Cliffhouse Spa, Cliffhouse Spa and Resort, hotels in Maine, Maine Shore, maine vacations, spas in Maine, Wells Maine
I had visited every continental U.S. state, albeit Maine, until recently. How I can excuse having visited the out-of-the-way and seamlessly landscaped North Dakota before making the comparatively short drive (just around six hours) up the eastern coast to the land of rocky shores is beyond me. I’d been just 15 miles from the state’s borders before without ever pressing on to swallow whole what I now know to officially be one of the most gorgeous U.S. states. But to be fair, I’d heard the gleaming sentiments reported from reliable sources long before my own adventure presented to me the very same conclusion.
My trip to Maine, after all of these traveling years, finally came at the hand of Cliffhouse Resort and Spa. The vacation destination had piqued my interest. A more or less secluded resort stretched along the rocky ocean shore, carefully arranged around a notably 100 foot steep cliff, boasting panoramic views of waves crashing, a full-fledged spa, a reportedly gourmet in-house restaurant, and a special pet-friendly lodging unit…and my travel companion had a lovely 2 year old Boxer, Cale, who was unable to be left behind.
I hopped on a disturbingly cheap Fung Wah bus from New York City’s Chinatown to Boston’s South Station. My friend met me with an adventure-ready Volvo and we headed up to Wells, Maine–taking back roads at every opportunity.
Once we arrived in Wells, we could smell the salty ocean. The low-traffic shoreline road hugged the beach’s sporadic curves and paved the path for us straight into the Cliffhouse parking lot.
While newer, bigger Cliffhouse suites would have been available to us for our stay had it not been for Cale, we were immediately enamored by Ledges–the lodging structure at the far north end of the property–clearly older and of a different architectural design than the rest of the Cliffhouse buildings. The ocean-facing wooden deck of the Ledges building seemed ours for the taking in the less popular branch of Cliffhouse. While we saw other happy vacationers all through the resort the three days we were there, Ledges was faceless–the perfect way to visit this Maine beach with the anti tourist spirit. The accommodations were that of any standard hotel at Ledges–not a bit disappointing. The ocean view, however, was to die for. We were in the room at the very end of this building, providing us with ocean views to the east as well as the north. The waves marched into the rocks, retreated and repeated, and we left the deck doors ajar of course; eager to be awakened by the orange glow of dawn and hum of fishing boats working hard to secure our next meal.
Having tried the salmon, halibut, swordfish, lobster, oysters, mussels, and crab, some fisherman somewhere was certainly catching the best of the best. Our meals were deliciously decadent and the view at the Cliffhouse restaurant cannot be beat. Tall windows make up the eastern wall, giving all diners the chance to eat in awe of the waters, particularly when they’re sparkling under the light of the full moon during the late dinner hours.
Fulfilling its name as a Spa, Cliffhouse skims on no edges with their relaxing treatments. I undressed and found myself in a soothing spa heaven when my appointment for a hot stone treatment followed by an espresso mud body wrap came to pass. The wonderfully lit room paired with the angelic touch of my masseuse made my two hours straight of treatments nothing short of divine. But I wasn’t the only one who was spoiled by the spa at Cliffhouse. Cale, yes, the Boxer, had himself a drool-inducing massage in our room at Ledges. Our masseuse came over and worked her magic until Cale finally jumped up on the bed and passed out.
The giant circular hot tub in front of the resort, at the cliff’s edge, overlooking the shimmering waters one evening, however, was probably my most peaceful moment during this heaven-sent trip to Maine. Clear night skies and utter silence aside from the roar of the waves might, in fact, make this particular hot tub one of my favorites ever.
Cliffhouse Resort and Spa is an easy escape for North easterners and if you take my advice and approach your lodging the anti tourist way, at Ledges, you’ll feel like you have this Maine coast all to yourself.
By: Elizabeth Seward
Filed under: NORTH AMERICA, New Hampshire | Tags: New Hampshire, New Hampshire coast, New Hampshire scenery
By: Elizabeth Seward
Filed under: CENTRAL AMERICA, Costa Rica | Tags: CENTRAL AMERICA, Costa Rica, Costa Rican travel, rainforest, travel in Costa Rica
Dave Pinke goes to Costa Rica and compiles a video to show you what a blast it was.
