Plymouth at Last!

I feel we are in a foreign land even though the road is still wide, the sky blue, the trees green. The number of cars has increased a hundred fold, freeways have turned to toll roads, the semis have dispersed and the roads are continually clogged. We chug along slowly. Because of more stops, an unplanned sit-down lunch, traffic jams, and construction, our planned arrival time stretches from 2:30 pm to the now projected 5 pm.  

It has been too many hours and too many miles, but luckily we are almost there. Just ten short minutes to go. They may be the most difficult yet. Rather than program Lisa and David’s address into our GPS I just said Plymouth. As I begin to reprogram Google Maps I see a text from Lisa with specifics, including pictures.

Driving through the once very tiny, very sleepy little town, I realize I barely remember Plymouth at all, at least not this one. It is bustling and busy and just the tiniest bit confusing. And it looks prosperous. The graying of America is retiring and taking advantage of their freedom to explore the world. It looks like tourism is on the upswing; at least an upswing compared to fifty years ago.

Michael drives down what at home we would call the main street of the historic district, turning left on Middle Street.  We nose into the public parking lot, see the indicated fence but no place to park.  I call Lisa. “I see the fence, but…”

A House the Captain Built

I look at Michael and say, “She’ll be right out.” And she is; directing us to the private parking area beyond the fence.

A friend walks by and Lisa stops to chat. Opening the door to the house she lets us know that a Saturday night dinner is arranged for the three of us plus the woman she just spoke to, and her husband — if that works for us. How could it not? Visiting a beautiful old home; letting us stay for the month while she will be away. And having built in friends? I’d call that perfection; which is just about what Lisa’s house is, I realize, as she takes us on the grand tour. 

It is old—and I adore old.  The home was built in the 1700s by a sea captain, for himself and his family. It has led many lives, housed many individuals in the last 200+ years, and survived with grace and dignity.

The wide plank flooring is imperfectly perfect. I count four fireplaces and am totally envious of the foot-high base board moldings and the substantial door moldings. I itch to transport them back to Texas. And the way the centuries old floor dips and rises in places makes me realize I am walking on history.

Still in the process of decorating and furnishing after ownership of barely a year, Lisa’s antiques, book collections — some rescued from an old barn — and art that hang on the walls create an atmosphere that says things have happened here. I have stories to tell. Listen.

This lovely old three story house, with a dungeon like basement (and friendly skeletons peering out the basement windows to the street, at foot level) is a dream realized for many people — including its present owner. And me!  I get to live here and pretend it is home, if just for awhile.

Rye Tavern

Dinner hour comes soon and we return to the car, heading out of town—not far out of town, but far enough that before we reach our destination a dirt road leads the way to the historic Rye Tavern. Originally called the Cornish Tavern when it was built in 1792, it is tucked away in the woods, and is one of the places John Adams came to rest his cold and journey wearied bones as he traveled from Washington to his home near Boston in Quincy, Massachusetts. He describes the evening in his journal entry below.

I stopped one night at a tavern….about forty miles from Boston, and as I was cold and wet, I sat down at a good fire in the bar-room to dry my great-coat and saddle bags, till a fire could be made up in my chamber.  There presently come in, one after another, half a dozen, or half a score of substantial yeomen of the neighborhood, who, sitting down to the fire after lighting their pipes, began a lively conversation on politics. As I believed I was unknown to all of them, I sat in total silence to hear them.

Rather than be seated immediately we pull out three tall stools and order a drink in the cozy bar area. Our chairs surround a small rectangular table attached to the wall near the door—the only table in the tiny space. The fireplace where John Adams warmed his hands is a bare 10 feet away. The fire, unlit.

Dinner

While Michael enjoys a New England made beer, Lisa and I indulge in a Maple Walnut Manhattan. Beautiful to look at, it tastes too good. I force myself to just sip, remembering the ten hours of travel we recently left behind and the exhaustion that is sure to take hold at some point—as soon as the exhilaration wears off, which may be never.

Dinner is creative and delicious; a new kind of tavern food. The salmon is perfectly cooked, with crispy skin and a moist interior. And even though the accompanying pool of pumpkin puree,  beluga lentils, and garlic arugula are healthy, they are also delicious.  For dessert the peanut butter cookies dunked in white chocolate soup literally melt in my mouth. Yummm!

It is 9 pm and the tavern patrons seem to be melting away like my cookies did. The thought of a soft bed is a welcome lure.

Morning Has Broken…

The pale dawn light streaks though the window, gently waking me in the morning; later when the sun shines its light brightening the day, I open the door to the narrow upstairs widow’s walk, step outside, and gaze across Cape Cod Bay. 

Good Morning Plymouth!