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Stonington,
Conn.: A true find
Article
and photo by Marc H..
Finding a
great place by accident is one of the most exciting parts of
travelling. That is why I like to wander along back roads and
look on maps for small towns in interesting-looking locations.
One such town that I discovered is a small village in Southeastern
Connecticut named Stonington.
In the summer
of 2001, we decided to take a ride down to Mystic, Conn., and
see what it was like. I hadn't been there since I was a child,
so I didn't remember much about it, except for the fact that
it had a drawbridge and lots of boats. We headed out, happy that
it was one of the nicest days of the summer.
It took about
an hour and a half to reach Mystic from Boston. We parked on
the outskirts of town and walked toward the main street. Mystic
was a nice enough seaside town, but it was busy with tourists
looking for Bermuda shorts, cheap trinkets, and fast food. We
walked all over town but could not escape the crowds. Finally,
after an hour or so, we decided that this was not the place for
us. We headed back to the car.
It was still
early in the afternoon, so we looked at a map and saw a place
at the end of a peninsula next to Mystic called Stonington. Neither
one of us had really heard much about it, so we decided to check
it out.
The road
to Stonington became progressively more pleasant. Soon we saw
a sign pointing toward the village. We drove down a quiet road
for a couple of miles, admiring the old houses and picturesque
waterfront. Soon we crossed over a railroad bridge and saw a
sign that said, "Borough of Stonington." Now the word
"borough" instantly brought up thoughts of Brooklyn
or Queens, but we soon realized that this was a slightly more
peaceful place.
The first
thing I noticed about Stonington was the almost perfect downtown
area. Only in New England could you see a scene like this. The
narrow main street was lined with antique stores, seafood restaurants,
and beautiful old homes. We parked next to a public walkway that
led to a pavilion on the water. The pavilion faced the west toward
Long Island Sound. On one side was a weathered old cottage at
the end of a pier. This seemed as perfect a spot as I had seen
in a long time. Locals strolled to and from the pavilion to appreciate
the views, and occasionally, a tourist or two would show up,
in awe of the beauty of the place.
We continued
down the main road and, after a few more blocks, it ended at
a lighthouse and a beach. From here, we could see Rhode Island,
New York, and the Connecticut coast. We were getting hungry,
so we went back into town and had dinner at a terrific seafood
place called Noah's. Afterwards, we walked around some more,
finding a second main road that went parallel to the road that
we had been on. This street has got to be one of the great streets
in New England, with old homes and churches along both sides
for several blocks.
We did not
want to leave Stonington, but it was getting late and we had
promised ourselves to go to Foxwoods, a huge casino just north
of Mystic. The shock of being in a gambling place with thousands
of drunk, desperate, chain-smoking people after being in one
of the most peaceful places on earth was too much to bear. We
soon left Foxwoods and headed back to Boston.
I could not
get Stonington out for my mind. I had to see the place again
to make sure that it was as great as I thought it was. Thus,
over the next two weeks, I returned twice. The first time I went
with three others, and we explored more of the town. We wandered
into an old church, relaxed across the water from a huge mansion,
and spent time walking around the lighthouse and beach after
the sun went down. The following week I went there with my family,
who fell in love with the place. We spent a lot of time in the
pavilion, admiring the piers, the fine seaside townhouses, and
the calm waters of the Atlantic Ocean.
Later in
the fall, I was supposed to fly to San Diego, but the trip was
canceled partly because of the terrorist attack that had taken
place two months earlier. So here I was in Boston looking for
something, anything, to do. We took the day off from work and
decided to see more of the Connecticut shore. Much of it was
very nice; Essex, Old Lyme, Madison, Guilford, and Branford are
all nice old villages on or near the ocean. But none of them
had the same special feeling that Stonington had. So of course
we ended up back there at the end of the day.
Stonington
almost made up for my missed trip (although I still yearned for
the beaches of La Jolla, Del Mar, and Pacific Beach). The village
had an even slower pace to it in the late fall than it had in
the summer. Woodsmoke filled the air, warm light emanated from
the old whaling homes, and the smell of the sea drifted down
Main Street. This time, we did not go to Foxwoods; there was
no reason to be anywhere but in this utterly charming (and virtually
unknown) New England village.
For more
great articles and photographs by Marc H., please check out his
fine web
site .
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