The terrible thing about Maine - and by terrible, I mean heartbreakingly, spirit-crushingly terrible - is that we don't live here. As we drive through a town called York along the coast south of Portland, I declare that I want to live here. Right here. In fact, I have never visited a place that I have wanted to live in more. The sky is cloudless, it is tshirt warm. Every house is picture perfect, clapperboard reds, whites, greys and blues threaded through with this gently winding road that we're driving along. The grass is lush and rolls away from the road to where the Atlantic crashes against the black rocks and sweeps in across the white beach. We stop so E can take some photos and I get out to adjust S's car seat. The smell of freshly cut grass is in the air. Damn you York in Maine! If only you had smelled of old fishing nets or burnt hair the spell you had cast on me would have been broken. Instead, the careful gardener who plods through the public garden throws this king of smells in my face and I am hooked.
From there we drive on to a town called Ogunquit which E picked out of the Lonely Planet guide as we drove (side note: I love the mix of Anglo and Native American place names in this part of the world). There's a bakery there which sounds like the perfect spot for lunch. We drive into town and it is charming. The parades of shops line up around a junction where four little roads converge. We turn down one and park up at the beach. S is barefooted but so excited to be out of the car and see sand that she heads straight for the beach and takes off like a greyhound who's been let off its lead and there is glee in her face as she tears towards the ocean, then tears back with joyful fear and wonder. We roll up our trousers and wade in. It's freezing but bracing. We find Bread and Roses, the bakery E has read up on, and it doesn't disappoint. We eat our lunch on the beach and get back in the car and head off.
I'm driving a Jeep by the way. At the garage in Boston, the guy gives me an upgrade, possibly because I'm wearing my newly acquire Red Sox hat in which I look pretty awesome. So I opt for a Jeep. I can't give this one an ironic name like The Hog or The Road Warrior because, well, it is exactly those things. So we shall call it Bing, after the annoying cartoon bunny S keeps talking about in her sleep. Anyway, it's pretty exciting driving old Bing. E feels gangsta.
The inn we're staying at is called the Country Inn and is in a place called Camden, a destination we chose because, well, we like Camden in London and we had to pick somewhere. The hotel makes its own soap and has a line in gifts. It has a pool and a playground for kids. It also has book and DVD libraries. At check in, I ask the owner for a job. She laughs and moves on, oblivious to the genuine pleading in my eyes. E and S go up to the room. While I'm getting the bags out of the car, E throws open the doors to our balcony. 'Maine's winning!' she yells. 'Nice room?' I yell back. She gives me the thumbs up. Despite being the kind of scumbags who yell to each other out front of a nice hotel, we have ended up in a classy place. The room is huge, more of a suite. It's big enough to have two TVs. The bathroom is big too and stocked up on that home made soap. It's a perfect fit for the Maine we have already fallen in love with.
We take a trip out and walk around Camden as the sun is setting. It's beautiful. A mountain provides the backdrop to the town which centres around a picturesque little harbour. This noise keeps escaping from me, something between a whimper and a vomit. It happens every time I see something beautiful, so quite a lot. Maine is hurting me. How can anywhere else ever measure up? What's the point in ever being anywhere else?
We drive to Lobster Pound in Lincolnville, another of E's recommendations where she wants to treat me to lobster. We've never had it before so we tell the waiter, hoping for some tips. His name is Dillan and he's top. He brings the lobsters out and basically tells us to smash them up and eat the white meat. We go for it and I get what the fuss is about. It's really tasty and not like anything else I've ever eaten. Meaty, not fishy, almost sweet sometimes. S has fish and chips and canes the lot.
One of the downsides of eating lobster is that it's messy. In my particular case, this means that the dressing on my thumb has acquired a crustacean hum. I stop at a pharmacy on the way back to the hotel and by the necessary dressings to supplement those the hospital gave me and borrow the scissors from the hotel reception. Tonight I will change the dressing. I'm a little bit nervous. If I don't make it, I want my ashes scattered in Maine.
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