Milk House Roastery (Marcellus, NY)

The proprietor described the confusion about where to enter, squeezing between two silos, as akin to going to a speakeasy. Milk House Roastery is a simply that, a roastery where fresh brewed coffee is available on the weekends - along with a few local items, such as honey and granola, available in the pantry. Located in rural Onondaga Country, this is one of those places where you have to want to find.

Shine Coffee Company (Liverpool, PA)

 

A bustling place to get coffee located across US 15 from the Susquehanna River in the small village of Liverpool, Pennsylvania. Once a general store (Shuler's Cash Store), today the coffee shop retains many of the great wood and brick features of the building as well as a great ambiance. We sampled the homemade apple cinnamon scone.  

Flatland Coffee (Slidell, LA)

 

A very interesting jalapeño-cheddar scone.

Presidents Coffee (Gettysburg, PA)

 

Located: 100 Chambersburg Street, Gettysburg, PA

Kisacafé (Dagsboro DE)

 

A Brief Stop in Poughkeepsie

 

Poughkeepsie Train Station

Another cloudy and cold day, and because I did not check the emails from Amtrak, we arrived at the train station two hours early. While walking in town, I heard the fragment of a conversation where one man said to another that afterhours he could spend a night somewhere, that he should not be sleeping outside in this weather. At least he would be warm and get some sleep. Several people I saw in town looked like they struggled with the basics.

There are hints that life in Poughkeepsie was once better. For instance, the Bardavon Theater, built in 1869, continues to screen movies – albeit classic films, rather than first-run features.

I stopped in at The Poughkeepsie Grind to get us a coffee and hot chocolate. Despite the bleak weather, and the state of the town, the people in the coffee shop were festive and happy. The holidays were approaching and there was a sense of relief and celebration among the patrons.

The Poughkeepsie Grind

The train station in Poughkeepsie was once a small-town treasure, it is still a nice a pleasant place to start an adventure although many are commuting from it for a day’s work. We sat across from a man who had missed an earlier train and was passing the time talking to a friend about movies and music. He noted that he had worked at a record store while in college and, therefore, had listened to a lot of bad music in the 1970s. My attention drifted as I was more attuned to my Poughkeepsie Grind coffee and the latest stories that purported to be news. His severe critique of the band America, their only hit in his estimation was “A Horse with No Name,” was emblematic of their entire catalog, suggesting that all their songs were with no name. It made me smile, and I returned to the news on my phone. The conversation continued with him thinking that “Dust in the Wind,” might have been one of their songs. Not meaning to interrupt, I instinctively shook my head no and he saw me. The tilt of his head and raised eyebrows inquired me. “Kansas,” I noted was the band instead I said apologetically, it was a popular song in my circle when I was a kid. Had he not been on the phone I would have added that the tendency to name bands after geographic locations, Kansas, American, Boston, meant that they were easily confused. After he ended the phone call and got ready to board his train, he looked at me and shook his head, “I listened to a lot of bad music in the seventies.”

Off the Rails Coffee Shop, adjacent to Queen Street Station (Glasgow)

 

A pleasant place to have a coffee while waiting for a train to the next destination. It has the aesthetic of a 1940s-1950s American coffeeshop, albeit with a heavy emphasis on British teas and treats. I enjoyed watching people walking in, having a coffee, perhaps a pastry, a check of their phone, or meeting someone before a journey. From Queen Street Station, trips can be a few minutes or several hours and this small coffee shop is where many of us are preparing for the day. As people get a takeaway coffee, or a sandwich, a woman next to me has a text conversation that brings a big smile to her face, maybe a grandchild or a long-lost friend. An elderly couple wander in, needing directions for how and what to order, as well as some assistance navigating the train system. There is communal help for the confused travelers before we all move on to our next task or adventure.

Pastisseria Ideal

 

Located on La Vila de Gràcia in Barcelona, walking into the café is to observe the intimate life of a small portion of Gràcia. I stopped in for a simple breakfast at 9:30, ordered my café americano and two croissants in my moderately passable Spanish, which was understood even if it was not Catalan.

Dating from 1919, the café is a long narrow space with a bar that runs its entire length, save for a small room at the back where four small tables were occupied by regulars. On the walls that hold up the bar, hooks allow patrons to hang their hats or purses, which are still regularly used.  Many mirrors that line the walls, the display shelves and virtually everywhere else gives the café an appearance of being much bigger than it is. 

The clientele is predominantly older people, but not exclusively. Since I was there rather late for breakfast, perhaps this was just a function of timing. The back room seemed informally reserved for regulars. I would occasionally take furtive glances to see what was going on. Most of the conversation took place in Catalan, so I am only catching a few words and had a general sense of the topic. One elderly woman sat and did a puzzle in the newspaper, and occasionally made comments into the more general conversation of the room. Meanwhile, a woman, sipping an expresso, sat at the bar, and listened attentively to a man who had finished his coffee long ago, talk about his recent travels. She would occasionally interject or ask a question, nodding knowingly about his adventures.

Seth Valley Cafe

 

The café is a comfortable little place with limited indoor and outdoor seating for a coffee or ice cream, or in my case for waiting out a passing rain shower. Not only does the café cater to people who walk on the trail, many locals meet there for socialization and conversation. People greeted one another happily As I sat outside watching the rain and nursing my americano, a man wobbled by to his personal motorized vehicle mumbling. I was unsure if his vocalizations were directed at me, or it was just a verbalized internal monologue. I continued to stare at the rain.

Seated below a bird box that I took for a decoration, “Home Sweet Home” painted in baby blue letters across the front, peeps began to emanate from hungry babies. Was my chosen location a deterrent to chicks getting their food? Did the people and dogs that frequented the café pose a threat to the mother bird? There were periods of quiet, which I assume meant feeding was occurring. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a small bird, darting away from the nest. Any concerns I might have had were allayed.

Walking the Royal Canal (Part 1)

Yellow Irises along the Royal Canal 

The Royal Canal is a 146-kilometer long canal, constructed between 1790 and 1817, running from Longford to Dublin. Built as competition for the Grand Canal, it was never particularly profitable and largely made redundant with the invention of locomotive transportation in the middle of the nineteenth century. Today, it is a greenway and popular walking and biking trail through the midlands of Ireland. I spent a bank holiday weekend in Mullingar, ostensibly to walk the Old Westmeath Rail Trail; however, after discovering the canal path I became enchanted and abandoned my original plans for an exploration of the canal. Life is often more interesting when you deviate from your plan to find something more interesting. 

On Saturday afternoon, I walked through town, on Pearse Street and Austin Friars Street to the Dublin Bridge that crosses the canal. Travelling east from Mullingar, the canal enters an area where there are not many houses but plenty of people on a warm late Saturday afternoon. I passed a group of five teenagers surreptitiously smoking cigarettes near Piper’s Boreen, a narrow country road. Several young fathers were walking children, many in strollers. A grandfatherly looking gentleman was pushing a little boy in a stroller, who from fifty yards away began to wave at me. I think he want to make sure I saw him and waved back.

Transportation on the canal was officially terminated in 1961; however, restorations, first private groups, then by the government, have allowed for the canal to be used for water recreation. Over the course of the weekend, I saw a handful of fishermen but no boats of any kind. A boat along the far side of the canal looks as if it has not been used in quite a while and given the growth of vegetation in and around the water, nor does it appear that the canal has been transverse recently either.

Although I have walked many trails and canal paths, each one is different. This is especially true on the Royal Canal: There is a sense of adventure when one is visiting for the first time. In Ireland, the birdsongs and flowers are unfamiliar. Iridescent dragonflies are nearly impossible to photograph and, therefore, to identify. An unseen horse neigh in the fields behind the trees; little did I know that there were fields there. On the distant shore, behind some trees, I heard two men talking to each other. The one man, who I had trouble understanding, asked a question to the other to which the reply was, “Huh?” He asked the same question again. This time the reply was, “Aye.” This sequence was repeated, asking two more questions twice, each respectively eliciting the same answer.

Mullingar, a small city of about 20,000 people, is an old market that still thrives today. Walking through town on a weekend evening, the smell of fried fish permeates the town. Nevertheless, I had dinner at a pub where the evening roast was turkey and ham, served over mashed potatoes, and a good helping of broccoli and carrots. Plain and uncomplicated, the dinner was a hearty anecdote to several days of travel and a long walk on the canal. The sun was still shining and most people in town had congregated at a pub outside just down the road. My chosen pub was largely empty, save two other tables: A nearby table with a French-speaking couple and their young adult daughter who thoroughly enjoyed an American-style brownie with ice cream for dessert; and, two drunk Irishmen, whose difference in age suggested that they could be father and son, but given the conversation were probably are not. At one point, the older of the two men, who I judged to be in his seventies, perhaps younger but the tolls of a hard live were showing, got up to pay for another pint and use the facilities. As he walked by my table, he listed and almost fell face-first into my table before recovering his equilibrium. I glanced over to the younger man who jumped up to offer assistance, yelling, “Are you alright there?” I glanced over to the French couple to see if they had a reaction to the display, but they were oblivious, enjoying their dessert. Soon after, a quarrelsome couple from British Columbia came to bar requesting meals that were not hamburgers and not vegetarian.

East of Mullingar

The next day was a beautiful June Sunday morning on a bank holiday weekend bringing many people out on the canal path; however, the further I got from Mullingar, the fewer people I saw. Early on, a man walking two small dogs acknowledged what a beautiful morning it was. Indeed, it was. Later, a man said to me that it was “a lovely day.” I replied that is was beautiful. As we continued to walk past each other, he recounted that it was 23 degrees (73°F). I thought to myself that his comment was a little specific, but I have come to realize that the Irish have a keen sense about the weather.

It is difficult to judge whether one should acknowledge their fellow wayfarers on the trails of Ireland. In the United States it is common, almost expected, to acknowledge someone when meeting on a walking path. The rules in Europe are somewhat different. On the continent, one should all but ignore fellow walkers. In seems that in Ireland that the older the traveler, the more one should acknowledge the person. Thus, the elderly walker should be spoken to first; do not even bothering looking at teenagers. Children are a crapshoot: There reactions will tell if you should offer a greeting.

Likewise, it is difficult to know which side of the path one should walk on and, specifically, how to decide how to pass an oncoming walker. Since Americans drive on the right-hand side of the road, typically when they walk they also inhabit the right side of the path. It would seem to make sense for those places that drive on the left-hand side of the road to do the same thing in reverse. I have come to notice, however, that things get muddled. Perhaps because there are so many travelers from the United States and the continent, Irish people have become used to the confusion. After observing people walking for many years, I have concluded that there is no single answer to which side of the path one should walk. When walking, people tend to spy each other from as far as a hundred yards apart and begin to discern and signal which side of the path they will be using, often without eye contact.  

On the western outskirts of Mullingar, there is a small cross commemorating the life of Mary Walker, a 32-year old woman who died in 1909. Mary, an employee at the local post office, had been on an afternoon walk along the canal, a popular pastime even in the early twentieth century. She was the victim of a sensational and violent murder. The story gripped Mullingar and Ireland for several months and even made national headlines. A local man was later tried and executed for her murder. 

Approximately 100 meters east from the Kilpatrick bridge, I spied a wooden cross located inside a stone wall on the opposite side of the canal. There was no immediate indication why this site was marked. I went to the bridge and crossed over to the other side. Walking back, at first, I did not see anything to suggest the meaning of the cross. I was getting ready to move on when at the last second, I saw a carved some sign set in the middle of the wall facing the canal. Plans, flowers and weeds had largely obscured it rendering it almost invisible from the path. The difficulty was that there was a substantial ravine between the path, perhaps four feet deep and two feet wide. A couple of the weeds had thorns on. Nevertheless, my curiosity compelled me to brave the ravine and have a look. Even at that it was difficult to hold my camera and simultaneously pull the plants back far enough to read the inscription. Finally, I worked out that the cross marked a cemetery where several victims of a cholera epidemic were buried. A minor discovery perhaps, but interesting. Then, I was confronted with the prospect of climbing out of the ravine to once again rejoin my walk. I struggled to crawl back up to the path just as a middle-aged woman on a white bike was passing. She slowed down and inquired, "Are you alright?" I thought to myself if I was not I am not sure she could have really helped me. Nevertheless, I cheerfully answered, "I am, thank you very much."

Harbour Bridge in Mullingar

The canal west of Mullingar contains a series of bridges, which give a wayfarer an opportunity for beautiful photographs. While it requires cyclists to dismount, the reflection of the bridges in the water, backed with the blue sky and greenery are beautiful sites that encourages me to keep walking. At Bellmount Bridge, I stopped to greet a West Highland Terrier whose owner seemed embarrassed that he had interrupted both of our walks.

I ended my outward bound western journey from Mullingar in the small village of Ballinea, which is not much more than a few houses and a local grocery along the side of the road. I went in to purchase a couple of biscuits (cookies) and a cup of coffee. The cashier told me that there was a table at the side of the shop “to take a load off” my feet for a while.  I shared the picnic table with a couple of cyclists, who looked to be in their mid-to-late thirties and were having a coffee and snacks as well. After a few minutes, we started chatting. They asked if I had walked out from Mullingar, which they estimated to be “a good walk.” They were postmen from Mullingar, one of them had a bike jersey from An Post, the Irish postal service, and had decided to have a ride that morning. I inquired about how far they intended to go that day. “Ah,” said the guy not wearing the An Post gear, “This is it.” Which meant, like me, they had traveled five kilometers (about 3.2 miles) out and were going back after their coffee. They had a good laugh and said, “Sometimes we just put on the gear and drive out, so we can have a cup of coffee.”

Best coffee?

I stopped for a restroom break in a New Jersey gas station that caters to long haul truck drivers, where in addition to restrooms, showers are also available by the half hour. Filling a giant cup of coffee, a rather large braggart, wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap, boldly proclaimed, "This coffee is better than getting married again." When a cashier scoffed, he retorted, although he was seemingly Incapable of the feat, "I'd climb Mt. Everest for this."

A discussion on the virtues of cats

Having a cup of coffee at Carson’s Store, the Noark, Connecticut diner that has been a general store and local institution since 1907, I listened as two elderly people, speaking very loudly to one another, have a wide-ranging conversation that ended with this point:

Female: “He does have his good points…he leaves me mice in my bed.”

Male: “Yes. That probably is his best point.” 

Scones and Coffee

Food and drink are important aspects of any travel experience. For me, a must when travelling in Scotland or Ireland is an afternoon coffee and scone, which often substitutes for lunch. The scone is even better when it is served with clotted cream and black currant jam. Having it in a coffee shop, where you can slow down a hectic day of travel, people watch and savor the treat is the preferred way to enjoy it.