Wood’s Hole to Martha’s Vineyard ferry schedule appeared on
top of a stack of maps and museum rack cards that had amassed by the in-room
coffee machine, towards the end of our Boston city-break.
“I don’t want a crazed itinerary,” I’d clearly informed the
Italian husband prior to our departure from the West Coast, again, in similar
fashion during the cross-country flight and on several more humid easterly
occasions (in between harried sightseeing detours to a variety of bars for the
viewing of World Cup soccer games).
Anyone who knows him, even the slightest, would not be all
that surprised to learn that these sorts of announcements, short of being set
in stone (think Plymouth Rock) tend to go in one ear and out of the other –
hence an impromptu day trip from Boston to Martha’s Vineyard and back, via the
shortest Steamship Authority crossing from the Cape.
Still stuck on California mind-set when it comes to
traveling great distances along the scenic coastal Highway 101, the thought of
cramming in a mere teaser of a trip to the fabled Vineyard wasn’t high on this
year’s ‘Introduction to Massachusetts agenda’. There is something about
Martha’s Vineyard, the idea of this 23-mile long summer-home haven of the likes
of Presidents Clinton and Obama, Oprah, an annual slew of top-list movie stars
and the late Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis (whose son, John F Kennedy, Junior and
wife later perished after crashing his plane in the waters of Martha’s
Vineyard) that calls for an extended stay.
I’d long since harbored a fantasy of renting a discreet,
though sprawling gray-shingled beach house with views of the rocks and ponds
and sandy beaches overlooking Nantucket Sound. There would be ample rooms for
friends and family with bikes to transport teens into bustling Edgartown and
beyond. A week long island discovery, pretending, whilst pottering around on
the beach and independently owned ice cream stores and boutiques not to notice
vacationing actors and supermodels making the most of the Vineyard’s unspoken
code of rare privacy.
Briefly, I’d flirted with the idea of incorporating a few
nights’ stay on the Vineyard during this year’s inaugural visit to New England,
but the sticker shock of a peak-season July sleepover anywhere on the island
roused a rapid reconsideration and a pact with myself to save such a treat for
the future and eventual travels without the offspring.
And so it was that the Italian Husband’s short-term memory
loss regarding my wandering wish-list led to an about-turn in plans, a cheap
car rental (that enabled us to take in Concord and the North shores) and a
one-and-a-half-hour bee-line South down Highway 3 to the Cape and a quick turn
West down to Falmouth and Woods Hole ferries.
Take this affordable 45-minute, $15 (adult) ride to the
Vineyard and be prepared for parking several miles prior to arrival at the
harbor. We made the mistake of ignoring ‘Ferry Parking’ signs in Falmouth by
racing down to the boats for a noon crossing. Sent back to Falmouth with virtual
‘dunce’ signs stamped squarely on our foreheads, the sheer lack of parking
availability in this seasonally swollen region was a shocker for the West Coast
ferry aficionados!
Slicing an entire hour off an already slim timetable for a
visit to the Vineyard, the rigmarole of overflow parking lots and shuttle rides
back to the harbor could have been avoided if we’d taken more time in our
planning.
Still, the ferry ride was smooth and pleasurable, people
watching – with well-heeled moms and freckle faced kids toting summer luggage
and lacrosse sticks, skateboards and the family dogs.
A half hour walk around Vineyard Haven and an obligatory
lobster roll satiated the intrepid for a bus ride past the bright-colored
Victorian gingerbread houses of Oak Bluffs (surprisingly not unlike an American
version of sedate esplanades of East Coast English seaside towns) and around
the right side of the island to stately Edgartown.
Wandering tree-lined, shaded streets of impeccably-tended
white clapboard homes of former sea captains was more to my taste than the
bustling Black Dog t-shirt shops and pricey boutiques, though small, quality
business success of catering to some 100,000 island inhabitants at the peak of
the season has kept chain stores and Starbucks completely at bay.
Named after a 17th century British Explorer’s
daughter, Martha’s Vineyard is home to a mere 15,000 people once
September/October rolls around, some of whom are 13th generation
descendent's of original settlers. Fishermen, farmers, writers and artists make
this refreshingly low-key island their home year round.
Storm clouds were threatening by late afternoon to break the
region’s intense heat wave as we headed back to Vineyard Haven in pursuit of an
earlier evening ferry - avoiding an episode of potential thunder and lightening
with basically, no place to go. And break it did as a classic Cape Cod storm
hit the deck of the ferry after five minutes on board. From the sheltered
vantage of an overhang, white-sailed Schooners sailed as if above the sea in a
misted illusion of the Cape’s maritime heritage.
The Italian Husband’s penchant for uncovering quintessential
regional dining experiences in a newfound destination led to several turns of
Main Street, Falmouth after dark.
Wood in aptly named “The Quarterdeck” dates back to the late
1600s and local artist Joe Downs has created the feeling of being below deck of
an old New England sailing vessel in this pub-like restaurant packed to the
rafters with regular Falmouth residents and summer visitors to the Cape.
Despite a (unfounded in my opinion) reputation for being abrupt, New England wait
staff at The Quarterdeck were so genuinely friendly and accommodating that an outstanding
(post Martha’s Vineyard) dinner of blackened swordfish and seafood risotto in
Falmouth was one of the week’s culinary highlights.
The Quarterdeck Restaurant is located at 164 Main Street,
Falmouth, MA (508) 548 9900.
Finding Highway 3 from the Falmouth Islands by reverse
reading of a several country miles of complicated Google print out was about as
smart as ignoring early ferry overflow parking signs. Needless to say, the
return route to Boston via Plymouth involved a midnight mystery tour of the narrow
back roads of rural New England.
“Consider it a reconnaissance expedition,” said an exhausted Italian
Husband as we crawled into bed at our hotel in the early hours of the morning.
Next time, I’m spending a week at the Cape. I’m setting it in stone!
| | |
Comments