First, a little background. During the late 1800’s, distilleries in the area were abundant. The mountain geography provided secluded protection for hidden stills. Corn was plentiful and easily turned into whiskey – and making moonshine was profitable. And then Prohibition hit! Consensus thinking at the time was that it would inhibit drinking and the making of it. But, of course, that was nonsense. Binge drinking probably got its start during Prohibition.

The demand for illegal alcohol skyrocketed – and the Franklin County bootleggers were more than happy to oblige, developing sophisticated transportation routes to move liquor up and down the East Coast. It famously claimed to produce more illicit liquor than anywhere else in the U.S. during Prohibition, entitling them to the moniker of “Moonshine Capital of the world,” a label they remain proud of to this day. My recent visit to the area reinforced that impression. After all, there’s a museum devoted to the very idea – albeit with a slightly different orientation.

The Moonshine Explosion Museum is devoted to just that – a June 11, 1930 literal explosion of two over-heating Model T Fords that drove into a garage for repair. Why did they explode? Trunks full of illegal liquor also over-heated. Charred remains of the cars are still ensconced in the basement of the original building which was built in 1912, but they weren’t discovered until 2017 during basement renovations – although the story proliferated well before and after.

But despite the museum’s singular name, it also paints a much more complete picture of the still celebrated history of moonshine, which kept many an Appalachian family able to survive. The museum highlights the connection between “white lightning” (AKA Firewater, Hooch) and the community, fostering a sense of resilience and ingenuity – and, oh yes, a massive evasion of the law. Franklin County became known for its high-quality moonshine and the persistence of its moonshiners in resisting authorities.

And apparently, ramifications of that questionable ability exist today. Because many moonshiners modified cars to outrun law enforcement, the culture influenced early stock-car racing, and that tradition helped contribute to the origins of NASCAR. Not entirely sure how I feel about that particular legacy….

But back to bootlegging – and the notorious Great Moonshine Conspiracy Trial of 1935, the second longest trial in Virginia history. It involved a high-profile legal case involving 23 defendants accused of multiple large-scale moonshine operations. Many were convicted but the illegal operations continued to thrive.

A visit to Twin Creeks distillery underscores the appeal of the original moonshine. For starters, Twin Creeks owner and master distiller, Chris Prillman, is the grandson of Peg Hatcher, one of the kingpins convicted in the Great Moonshine Conspiracy of 1935. That’s one hell of a family legacy! As much as it sounds like an oxymoron, they serve legal moonshine – slightly less high-octane than the mountain variety and government-regulated. It’s the only establishment in the area to do so. And Chris continues to pay tribute to his grandfather by crafting spirits just as he did.

So when I say master distiller, I mean Chris is still making his “bathtub gin” – the colloquial term for stills that are large enough to be utilitarian and small enough to easily hide — at home. Whether he’s still using a bathtub, I don’t know. Back at the distillery, I sampled – okay, guzzled — a coffee moonshine made by a local coffee shop owner who still refuses to divulge his recipe that far and away surpasses any Expresso Martini I’ve ever had.

Flights of “cocktails” adorn the menu. Apparently, fancy cocktails were the norm during Prohibition as bartenders had to get creative in order to mask the taste of poor-quality liquor. Of course, Franklin County probably didn’t have any poor-quality hooch…..

More family legacy is carried on by Twin Creeks’ manager, Kathy, whose father owns three of the original moonshine cars that led to NASCAR, with enhanced power and extra-large trunks designed to transport the profitable product.

According to Steven Ray Tickle, another proud moonshining legacy and star of the surprisingly popular TV show Moonshiners, “People mistakenly think moonshiners just want to break the law, but that’s not true. They just want to carry on a tradition that’s part of the American heritage. They helped found and fund the Declaration of Independence….If you really love your country, you’re gonna have to love moonshine.”

So if you’re thinking that pretty much brings the story of moonshine to the current day, keep reading. On yet another modern-day front, Franklin County’s moonshine era may seem like a relic of Prohibition, but the legal arguments surrounding home distilling are still alive. More than a century after moonshiners in Virginia’s Blue Ridge battled federal liquor laws, the question of who can legally make whiskey — and under what authority the government can stop them — remains unsettled. In an unexpected twist, a debate that once played out on the ridges and hollows of Virginia’s moonshine country – very much still “The Moonshine Capital of the World” — may soon be argued before the U.S. Supreme Court. I’ll drink to that!

For more information, visit visitroanokeva.com; mainlymuseums.com; twincreeksdistillery.com.

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Story by Fyllis Hockman. Photos by Victor Block. Originally published on May 2013.

The endangered white rhino. The elusive silverback mountain gorilla. The rare tree-climbing lion. Hippos, elephants, crocodiles. The massive shoebill? Yup, him, too. These are just a few of the multitude of wildlife we cavorted with during our ElderTreks’s safari and trekking journey to southwestern Uganda. But the visit to the Kibale Chimpanzee National Forest to see the ever-playful chimps in the wild was one of the more delightful surprises.

A quick briefing introduced us to the chimps said to share 98.7% of their DNA with us humans. 98.7! Already feeling an affinity, we split into smaller groups with an assigned guide carrying her assigned rifle. Were our relatives in danger? It seems elephants and buffalo also roam these grounds and are more aggressive than those seen on game drives where the animals are more accustomed to people in vehicles. The guides, we were assured, shoot the rifles only if necessary to scare them away

Also armed, so to speak, with a number of rules governing our outing, we were told to stay 25′ away, if lucky enough to find them on low-lying branches, to be quiet so that the guides can listen to the calls and not to mimic the sounds of the chimps – as if that were even possible – because you don’t know what you might be saying. I couldn’t help but think the chimp would probably turn down a date if I made the mistake of coming on to him.

Finally we took off through very dense forest. Lots of tweets and trills, whistles and warbles, cries and caws produced a symphony of sound which accompanied our walk. I knew our guide recognized every note and was thankful she didn’t feel compelled to share all that information with us. I’m pretty sure the resident bird watcher in our group would have preferred otherwise.

Our tracker did point out a variety of monkeys in the trees above but they were so high as to be indistinguishable from the leaves unless the branch was moving – and then, of course, it was already too late. Clearly, I would not make a good tracker – or birder.

The troop of chimpanzees we were tracking numbered 120 but because it was the end of September, our guide lamented that the chimps were harder to find because much of their nearby food supply had been exhausted. You might want to check ahead of time to see when the fig trees are bearing the most fruit – that apparently determines how many chimps you’re likely to see.

Due to this added challenge, we were diverging from the more standard trails and were pretty much blazing new paths. It had been over an hour and we were no closer to finding chimps. I, on the other hand, was more worried we’d never find our way back.

The guide, unfazed, claimed to have found our sought-after prey though those of us less technically proficient in chimp tracking could not yet see any. Still, ten pairs of eyes looked eagerly toward the tree tops, seeming miles away, to catch some movement, any movement, to justify our presence. Suddenly a cry of “There he is” erupted, quickly followed by a disappointed sigh of “Maybe not.”

And then an ear-splitting onslaught of a barking/howling/screeching shriek indicated that yes, in fact, they were around. This gave us all hope but still, without any precise sightings. However, the periodic wailings breaking out in every direction were so loud and disconcerting as to be sufficiently exciting in themselves. When all of a sudden two chimps scrambled past within several feet of our group, we knew we had arrived. “Now that’s more like it,” someone declared!

We literally followed in their footsteps through the bush to find what our guide later insisted was a rare occurrence: an 18-year-old adolescent lying upon the ground in apparent repose, head resting on hand, taking time out to occasionally scratch and snort, totally ignoring our large semi-circle of astonished gawkers. We all forgot how frustrated we had been just moments before. Watching this young lad – whom the guide identified as Enfunzi – so close up did make me question a bit that 98.7 DNA statistic. Not that we don’t scratch…

Although our overall excursion took three hours, a number of very satisfied “wows” punctuated its end. And I was wrong about the tracker – she did indeed know the way back!

And if seeing the chimps in the wild only whetted your appetite for a little more chimp exposure, an hour-long boat ride to the Ngamba Island Chimpanzee Sanctuary near Entebbe just might do the trick. Home to 48 chimps rescued from a multitude of adverse conditions, whether as orphans, victims of illegal activities, or needy of medical attention, these guys roam free on 95% of the 95-acre forest. The other 5% is devoted to feeding the chimps and keeping them safe at night.

Our approach to view their 2 p.m. feeding was vociferously announced by loud guttural screeches, either as a chimp welcoming committee or an entreaty to leave – it was hard to tell. As it turns out, the greeting wasn’t for us at all but for the large alpha male approaching from the opposite direction. I was relieved we had not been the ones to elicit such a thunderous response.

Okay, you’re not seeing them in the wild exactly but you’re seeing a lot more a lot more openly – and they are indeed fun to watch. In between eagerly devouring their lunch of carrots, oranges and pineapples, they scratched themselves and each other, chased each other around, fought over food and generally entertained their human luncheon guests.

Another rowdy fracas erupted when a larger chimp stole food from a smaller companion who loudly called out to his friends for reinforcement – and they rapidly responded forcing the perpetrator to relent and give back the food. Hey, they’re just like people.

As soon as the guys had ingested a sufficient amount of munchables, they headed back to the forest to play, gambol about, climb the branches or rest free of human intrusion. And we got to leave with new respect for our closely aligned cousins with whom we share so much DNA – except, of course, for all that scratching… For more information, visit eldertreks.com which promotes “Exotic Adventures for Travelers 50 and Over.”

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Spas are ubiquitous – and most offer similar services: massages, facials, reflexology, hot coal treatments. I sought out the unusual.  

I’ve had several different massages over the years. A couple of facials. But they all had one thing in common. Tactile manipulation of various body parts. That and soft New Age-y music in the background to induce relaxation.

 Neither was true at SiSpa at the Palm Beach Marriott on Singer Island. My body remained untouched — at least by a masseuse — and the sounds more resemble bells– Tibetan bowls to be exact — which more reflect a spiritual journey — an affirmation of self —  that the usual relaxation escape.

 Every kind of sound — different tones and pitches, highs and lows, soft and loud, close and far away — I felt the reverberations throughout my body, a magical, musical symphony coursing through every organ.

 And there’s a theory underlining the enchanting experience. Mostly it’s based on aligning the chakras — apparently, there are seven of them, points along the spine said to represent energy sources in the body. Each is associated with physical, emotional and spiritual functions. ranging from the root chakra between your legs up to the crown chakra atop your head. There’s also heart, throat and solar plexus — and each chakra controls a different body part — and if the energy in any is blocked, it can have physical and emotional repercussions. 

Enter the Tibetan Bowls — a sort of sound therapy to entice your brain to incorporate relaxation and health and peace; to release tension in the body; to bring clarity, improved self-esteem and the healing of negativity. One bowl was placed on each chakra and emitted its own sound when struck. I know one bowl was on my solar plexus, which is related to survival, heart, and communication and another on my head, connected to prayer and intuition. I lost count after that.

 Elsa, a Reiki-trained master (a step-above my chakra-addled brain), encouraged me — in her soft voice in my dimly lit room — to be calm and listen to the sounds of the bowls, to close my eyes, breathe in and out and connect with the bowls, to focus on their message. Meditation was key.

 I did the best I could, while trying not to think about all these notes (paper ones, not musical) I should be taking. There’s a separate chant for each chakra which Elsa repeated while circling the table on which I was lying. Apparently, each chakra also has its own color but fortunately I didn’t have to concern myself with that.

 Different bowls were struck at different times, sometimes in conjunction with each other, other times in concert. The concert — I mean the treatment — ended with a grand finale (crescendo?) of all seven bowls playing in unison. It was mesmerizing. 

 I may not have understood it all; I may have been a tad preoccupied with trying to remember the experience for this article as opposed to just experiencing it. But it did feel somewhat mystical and magical — and I really didn’t want the session to end.

 But there’s even more to the overall spa experience — to be explored at leisure either before your scheduled procedure or after. And yes, you can get all kinds of massages and facials you want. There’s a nail salon, a fitness room, a room with stone beds to lie on with cold cucumbers on your eyes (don’t ask — or at least don’t ask me….), a steam room, a relaxation room with tea, infused water, fruit and a Chex Mix assortment — and of course a jacuzzi. The actual treatment may be the least of the relaxation options. The Mimosa at the end satiates the only sense not yet gratified!

 For more information, visit SiSpa at Palm Beach  

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He was a smooth operator, this one – his silky body caressing mine in most provocative ways. But I knew we wouldn’t be leaving together as his home was a large sandbar he shared with several of his wingmen – very large wingmen actually – emphasis on wing….. Although we’re visiting their habitat in the wild, let’s be clear here. They know where their next squid meal is coming from.

But Midnight and I made close eye contact – and I mean close – his eyes were huge. We were so sympatico, as I held his huge slinky body in my outstretched arms, that I kissed him on the nose, which I later learned guaranteed me seven years of good luck. A totally unexpected bonus.

Such was my introduction to the seductive appeal of sting rays as part of Red Sail Sports Sting Ray City and Snorkeling excursion near Rum Point on Grand Cayman, where my husband and I were spending two weeks. As we sailed to our next adventure, just being out on the open water in a 65-foot catamaran full-speed ahead is its own exhilarating experience.

In vivid contrast to the expansive grayness of the world of sting rays is the added snorkeling outing, also offered by Red Sail Sports. The cacophony of color of the myriads of itinerant fish exploring their coral reef home is a memory you’ll return to over and over again – an experience words cannot adequately convey.

But the warnings before entering the water – Red Sail provides all the snorkeling equipment, including vests to keep you afloat, if necessary – to avoid any contact with the reef made me feel almost homicidal if I were to even come too close. Coral reefs are very fragile and die from human contact.

But the fish are a different story – not that there’s actually any fear of human contact. But they are glorious as they flit all around you – and I was told, if you get really lucky, you may even see a turtle or a huge grouper. I settled for a whole lot of blue and yellow darlings, among their other colorful brethren. To add to the fun, you can check the fish guide on board to help identify the denizens of the deep with whom you’ve just communed. And even more fun – there’s a bar on board to reward you for all your water-based efforts.

Later, lying on a wide cushiony chaise lounge that more resembles a bed than a beach chair at Kaibo Beach, staring up at lofty palm trees swaying in the breeze, my foot pumping to the reggae music gently piped in and sipping on a Pina Colada, my mind occasionally focused on the sub-freezing temperatures back home. Yup – I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else – except maybe sharing another intimate moment with Midnight.

For more information, visit https://redsailcayman.com/.

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There is so much going on at the First Annual Maker’s Faire at Axemann Brewery in Bellefonte, PA, covering multiple zones and floors, that it’s easy to get distracted from discovering all there is there to do and see. It’s a science fair, craft show and entertainment venue all rolled into one where makers and creators of – well, just about everything – showcase what they do, how they do it, why they do it – and then invite you to do it as well. Or at least interact with the products of their inventiveness.

Toy cars racing each other to their demise; numerous craft, coloring, and painting exhibits; model trains circling multiple tracks; lessons in throwing a boomerang. Wanna learn how to design a t-shirt, create stained glass, construct jewelry or pottery? Perhaps try your hand at woodworking, soldering or lacquering? Make a puppet and then watch it perform? Someone is there to help you craft your own masterpiece.

A dizzying amount of action and activity abounds at the Maker’s Faire in Happy Valley, PA.

An artist wearing a “Make Everything” t-shirt encapsulates the whole experience. If you can visualize it, build it, assemble it, interact with it, you’re in the right place. Of course, there are LEGO creations of every conceivable size and design. Kinetic toys ascend, descend and spin around copious mounds of tracks. And if you want to know how a pinball machine works, there are about a dozen with which to test your skills – and satiate your curiosity. Just be careful where you walk – you don’t want to trip over one of the roving robots with whom you may be sharing space. Not surprisingly, this was the first ever of what assuredly will now be an annual event.

From robots underfoot to alpacas in your face – begging for a neck rub. Welcome to the Bald Eagle Valley Alpaca Ranch. Also a donkey with a sign that says: “I’m cute but I bite.” A separate warning for the alpacas – they spit, though I unfortunately chose to ignore that caveat. The eleven sheep came without any cautionary preamble. But all were great fun to be around – and being able to pet a three-week-old, cuddly alpaca brings forth smiles usually reserved for human babies. I had to fight off a three-year-old actual small person. I’m not proud of that but there are priorities and at that moment, the baby alpaca won.

Ooohs and ahs proliferate at the Bald Eagle Valley Alpaca Ranch in Happy Valley, PA.

Owner Ann Taylor is very protective of her brood. She got bored teaching to test scores and started a new career caring for different kinds of kids – 12 alpacas, 11 sheep and 3 donkeys. And a very productive brood it is. All kinds of yarn of every color and texture come from the residents. Towels, shawls, caps, socks and even irresistible stuffed animals so soft I literally cuddled up with them on the spot.

All that intellectual stimulation at the Maker’s Faire and canoodling with furry animals at the Ranch calls for some refreshment of an equally unusual nature. Welcome to Big Spring Spirits – literally home to a big spring, designated as the best-tasting water in the state by the Pennsylvania Rural Water Association – and the only distillery that uses it. It is also the first distillery in Pennsylvania to be LEED certified, a bulwark of green sustainability, sourcing from local farmers and artisans, whenever possible.

Big Spring Spirits in Happy Valley, PA offers hand-made cocktails using purified water and locally sourced ingredients.

But that’s not why you visit Big Spring Spirits. You visit because they brew all their own cocktails – and they offer a taste of a house favorite as you sit down. And because they have flights of a wide variety of unrecognizable concoctions using vodka, gin, bourbon, whisky, tequila and rum. Multiple flavors of every liquor in inventive creations with tasting notes that read like a Pulitzer Prize-winning alcohol entry.

You visit because yes, much to my surprise, the Peanut Butter and Jelly cocktail actually tastes like peanut butter and jelly! And don’t even get me started on the Salted caramel. And to add to the fun vibe permeating the tasting room are posters such as “Tequila – the only thing standing between me and a nervous breakdown,” and “When I read about the evils of drinking, I gave up reading.” Makes Happy Valley even that much happier – if that’s possible!

For more information, visit https://happyvalley.makerfaire.com; https://www.facebook.com/AnnCaruthersTaylor; https://www.bigspringspirits.com;

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Our first morning, Vaccination Card in hand, we left to explore Pernes-les-Fontaines, a 10-minute walk from our cozy, CDC-treated, 100-year-old, two-story farmhouse we had come to call home for two weeks. We had to move to the curb much more often to accommodate bicyclists than cars.

How different our Provence adventure was from the usual prescribed schedule offered by most tour companies. Such is the beauty of UNTOURS which puts you up in unusual accommodations in multiple cities in more than a dozen European countries – perhaps a castle, in a vineyard, or a delightful old house like ours to live like a local. Untours provides a car, inundates you with information, connects you with a local contact to answer questions, and sets you off to see what you want to see when you want to see it. Unencumbered by anyone else’s set schedule or preferences, it’s a much more socially distanced option than a tour bus.

Yes, there is a supermarket near Pernes, known for the 41 fountains which constitute its name (although none operational due to water as a precious commodity), but it’s so much more French to stop at the individual butcher, baker, cheese shop, produce store to buy provisions – and so we very smugly did.

Expect to get lost everywhere – and savor the adventure of doing so. No one has ever been inextricably lost, though the temptation to be so is great as you traverse streets spanning multiple centuries in an afternoon’s outing.

One day after building up a great thirst, we stopped for lunch and ordered a beer. When I balked at the choice of either Heinekens or Corona (Ou est les bieres Francaise?), I received a stern rebuke: We are French; we drink wine. Lesson learned.

Second surprise: how few people actually spoke any English, though very eager to help nonetheless. And in Covid September, when we were there, that was true for the tourists as well.

Our first Hill Town (which come by their name honestly), of which there are more than a dozen within an hour’s drive of Pernes, was Gordes, one of the 100 Most Beautiful Villages in France. As it first comes into view, perched high upon a hill (go figure!) – enveloped by stone walls overlooking stone buildings overlooking vast vineyards – you do not question that designation.

As much as I imagined anything called a Hill Town to be quaint and picturesque, I was not prepared for the exhilaration I felt upon entering. The awe at the walled surroundings, the sense of being transformed back to the 11th century, views that demand head-shaking wonderment, precarious walkways and narrow side streets whose sides you can touch with outstretched arms – all of which made it easy to dismiss the many cafes, shops and tourists which also abound. Take time to visit the 11th century Abbey. Its most recent renovations? The 18th century.

From Gordes, it’s an easy drive to Roussillion, a town shrouded in varying shades of ochre. Sort of a combination of red, maroon, orange, terra cotta and yellow. Who knew there were so many shades of a color I heretofore couldn’t have given a name to? Dramatic views of ochre cliffs give the town its unique coloration. Oh yes, it also has stone buildings.

The next town was more a nostalgic stop than anything else – that and the dozens of vineyards we passed enroute. Menerbes, the home town of Peter Mayle, author of the renowned My Year in Provence, which admittedly I wish I had read after the trip rather than before so that I could have related even more to his many Provincial adventures, is another of the 100 Most Beautiful Villages in France. The canopied entrance alone suggests that. And, of course, there is the de rigueur enthralling view.

Menerbes is quieter, more subdued than Gordes with wider streets. While dating back to the 14th century, there is less a visceral sense of the medieval influence. All of which contributed to its own personality and livable charm – and the fact that this is where Mr. Mayle did his shopping. A small garden for sitting and reflecting beckoned. This being our third hill town – hill being the operative word – we welcomed it! Just when we thought we had seen the most charming village, we came by another. Best to withhold judgment on charm quotients…

When visiting said charming small towns – which is mostly what you want to do – be sure to park in the lots outside of town. Don’t even think about driving in the towns themselves unless you’re on a bike. We did – not by choice – and not until we finally found a way out of the one way, very narrow miasma of traffic did our stomachs return to their designated place in our bodies.

A trip to the Saturday morning market in Pernes is – well, a trip itself. Unending supplies of flowers, fruit, furniture, food; also clothes, shoes, crafts, purses, jewelry, household items. And especially wine, cheeses and olives – and more varieties of ham than all the deli meats combined at a supermarket at home. And the people are as varied as are the perishables.

Sunday brought us back into town – this time to a ghost village. Hard to believe the two days co-exist within the same town. So much for our plan for afternoon wine at a café. But as we had learned, whatever the village, it’s always a good idea to walk off the main square to see where the people really live. So we found ourselves in a residential area, perusing 13th-century corridors with the sounds of everyday life emanating from apartment windows. A welcome sense of becoming acquainted with our hometown outside its more touristy main square. And a reminder that there was more life to the ghost town than we initially thought. Some time later, when visiting a favorite restaurant, our waiter smilingly led us to your usual table. Voila, we belonged. Thank you, Untours.

Avignon was a slightly different experience than our beloved Hill Towns. A big walled city from the 14th century. Here the operative word is big. Massive medieval monuments dominate the square – churches, palaces, municipal buildings, amphitheatres – dwarfing those straining their necks to take them all in. Take especial note of the Palais de la Pape because yes, Avignon was the center of the papacy in the early 14th century before it permanently moved back to Rome.

As always, the city center is a combination of ancient buildings and modern shops and everywhere the city walls, built three centuries before the first settlement in America. The past somehow feels both overwhelming and imminently present.

As my husband’s eyes were beginning to glaze over at the thought of another Hill Town, we mixed up our days with a local hike, a day of errands and laundry, a visit to a Cezanne and Kandinsky exhibit at a museum in Les Baux (Can you handle yet another Most Beautiful Village?), and a festival in St. Remy (there is probably a festival every day somewhere in Provence…), a week-long homage to bulls in several iterations. At the bull ring, more than a dozen grown men were chasing after the bull – or maybe it was the other way around. It was a bizarre sport and I didn’t know whom I was supposed to root for – but it definitely made me better appreciate American football.

Fortunately there was also a bonus stop to view extensive Roman ruins dating back to the third century and a street adorned with reproductions of Van Gogh’s letters and paintings from when he lived in St. Remy – there is always a bonus in Provence.

At lunch in St. Remy, we sat at a table for two and ordered a steak to share. They then moved us to a larger one. Porquoi? It was needed to accommodate the size of the steak. Provence is also full of surprises.

Another memorable meal? Harder to name one that wasn’t. But this one a destination multi-course luncheon at an imposing hilltop chateau – Le Domaine du Castellas in Sivergues. If with a novice gear-shift driver (my husband), harrowing roads competed with breath-taking scenery, if you dared take your eyes off the road long enough to look at it. Sheer terror might overcome appreciation of your surroundings but these very surroundings and the narrow, winding hill towns that inhabit them are the very reason you come to Provence. Fortunately, we didn’t come upon a car going the other way – we’d still be there trying to figure out who could pass by where…. And the roosters and goats with whom we ended up sharing our outdoor repast – some of whom at other times might actually show up on the menu themselves – help mitigate the afore-mentioned terror.

All the more reason to appreciate picking up a fresh roasted chicken from the market, wave to shopkeepers we had befriended, sip yet another glass of wine and dine al fresco at our arbor-covered, garden-enclosed picnic table, contemplating tomorrow’s adventures. A perfect way to end the day. Yet one more reason to be thankful for Untour’s unique approach to travel. For more information, contact www.Untours.com.

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Built high atop a hill in Anacostia in southeast D.C., just 10 minutes from the Tidal Basin and overlooking the Washington Monument and the Capitol, Cedar Hill, the home of Frederick Douglass, matches the man in stature, eloquence and grandeur.

Douglass, who many consider “the most eminent and respected African American of the 19th century,” was a runaway slave in 1838 at the age of 20. By the time he was 60, when he moved with his wife, Anna, into the 1850s brick house that he called Cedar Hill, the former slave had distinguished himself as a renowned orator, fiery abolitionist, influential journalist and publisher, Ambassador to Haiti and outspoken advocate of voting rights for women. In his spare time, he served as advisor to five presidents: Abraham Lincoln, Andrew Johnson, Ulysses S. Grant, Rutherford B. Hayes and Benjamin Harrison.

The purchase of Cedar Hill by Douglass carries a sense of irony, yet at the same time, serves as a parable for his life’s work. Douglass once again triumphed over the obstacle of race – and did so by perpetual agitation, a concept he’d adopted as a mantra.

When John Van Hook, the original owner, was forced to sell the property due to bankruptcy, he established a covenant that stipulated that it not be sold to anyone of color, including immigrants, the Irish and Catholics. He didn’t expect that the financial institution which handled the sale would have Frederick Douglass as its president.

Still, the restrictions remained in effect for three years, while Douglass used his influence in Congress and elsewhere to maneuver around the covenant’s intention in order to buy the home for himself.

The 1877 purchase continued to be controversial because Douglass himself was fostering dissension in the community. Within 18 months after his beloved Anna died, Douglass married his secretary, Helen. That was bad enough. Throw in that she was 20 years younger…and white, and it’s clear why living at Cedar Hill, and the 15 acres on which it sat at the time, was not without its challenges. Nonetheless, Douglass happily resided there for the last 17 years of his life, and it was Helen who fought vigorously to preserve Cedar Hill as his memorial.

Because of her early efforts, 70% of the remaining furnishings and artifacts are original, very unusual in most renovated historic settings. Somehow you look that much closer at the picture of Abraham Lincoln in the study, knowing it was a personal gift from The Great Emancipator himself. And at the portrait of Elizabeth Cady Stanton, a present she gave Douglass in honor of the many years they spent together fighting for the women’s right to vote.

Despite its grand size – Douglass added 7 rooms to the original 14 – I felt comfortable immediately upon entering, as if I could move right in and be at home. I could visualize Douglass sitting at the small table in the family room where an unfinished game of checkers remains, the chair slightly askew as if had just walked away for a moment. Adding to the sense of his presence, the wood-carved board and pieces reputedly had been made by Douglass himself.

Nearby, the library, Douglass’ favorite room, appears eminently readable. Stocked with over 900 books, it’s clear how big a part books played in his life. Since his early years as a slave, when he secretly taught himself to read and write, he recognized that literacy “was the pathway from slavery to freedom.”

Among the many canes that Douglass collected are two especially of great personal significance. One, displayed in the library, was hand-crafted by a former slave/friend, with different events of Douglass’ life engraved into the wood. The other, an ivory-handled walking stick given him by Mary Todd Lincoln after her husband’s death – a reflection of the President’s high regard for Douglass — can be found in the Visitors Center, an important stop prior to the tour of the house. History buff that I am, the idea that both Lincoln and Douglass might have leaned upon that cane as each traveled his own rocky path into history brought me a chill.

Upstairs, in the master bedroom (so called because, unlike today, only the “master” slept there), try to picture the over six-foot Douglass in a bed only slightly larger than 5 feet. This required sleeping somewhat upright, akin to what a reading-in-bed position is now. Next to the bed stands the de rigueur chamber pot. Despite its function, I was very impressed with its elegant, intricate design ringed with gold trim.

A bed pillow, embroidered by Helen, reads, “Two is Company, Three’s a Crowd.” The tour guide claimed its meaning remains a mystery. Still, I entertained some fun fantasies. Subtle reference to a mistress, perhaps? Or to memories of her husband’s first wife, Anna, whom Helen may have felt still shared their bed? Or just commentary on dinner party preferences?

Asked by Lincoln to recruit Black soldiers for the 54th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry during the Civil War, Douglass did – including two of his sons. It was that regiment, and its last battle in which 80% of the soldiers died, that formed the basis for the award-winning film, “Glory.” The only reason Douglass didn’t lose both sons was because his younger boy was sick that day and unable to join the battle.
Indeed, the long and full life of Frederick Douglass is itself a glorious story – and his home on Cedar Hill reflects that in all its glory. Are you listening, Mr. President?

For more information CLICK HERE.

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Okay, is there anyone who actually made it through childhood without at least a cursory introduction to Peter Rabbit, Flopsy and Mopsy and that mean old farmer McGregor? Well, this is where they lived until Beatrix caught them and immortalized them forever in little 5″ by 4″-sized books.

Her books sold more than any other children’s stories ever although I suspect Pat the Bunny, Peter’s more tactile cousin, has since given him a run for his money…

So first, something about that Lake District which Beatrix Potter so loved. The countryside is so tantalizingly green the color needs a new more enchanting name.

Photo courtesy: Victor Block

Quintessentially English replete with requisite sheep, rolling hedgerows, low slung stone walls criss-crossing the landscape into checkerboard squares, slate-roofed stone houses, and hot pink, orange-gold and deep purple explosions of color so vibrant as to rival the most brightly lit of neon Nikes so popular today. And by contrast, in the middle of the district, craggy mountainous regions lend an even more dramatic flair. And, oh yes, then there are the lakes – 16 of them; ergo, the District’s name.

Photo courtesy: Victor Block

A world so clichely picturesque, with OMG moments at every turn, which serves to explain the many artists who flocked here to replicate its beauty on canvas. An entire expanse of visual wonderment extending for miles in every direction that makes scenic overlook signs ridiculously redundant. All of which is a walker’s wonderland with public footpaths as plentiful on every country road as Starbucks are on every street corner in the U.S. No wonder Beatrix Potter fell in love.

Photo courtesy: Victor Block

I saw so many rabbits scampering about as we hiked the countryside, I felt this was an open invitation – as it must have been for Beatrix – to follow them further into their world, even if that turned out to be a very commercial but wonderfully inventive, creative, interactive enterprise appropriately nicknamed The World of Peter Rabbit. But more on that later.

And splattered throughout the countryside are hilly historic towns with cobblestone streets and hidden alleyways that now sport shops, pubs and curbside cafes, with such lyrical names as Branthwaite Brow, All Hollows and Beast Bank Lane. And a lot more stone, this time on buildings, many from the 16th-18th centuries, evoking memories of Renaissance-era maidens and merchants plying their trade, oblivious to the KFC establishment right across the street.

But there is nothing modern about a visit to Hill Top, Beatrix Potter’s home for 38 years and the site of many of her creations’ adventures. Many homes reflect the personalities of their owners – and sometimes even their pets. But rarely is a home so filled with the immediacy of its owner’s creations as is Hill Top, first purchased in 1905, that they appear so alive as to permeate not only the house but the surrounding village and countryside, all of which became additional characters in what were soon to become a series of beloved children’s books. And once you enter the grounds and garden of Hill Top, with all its original furnishings, you are transported back to the world as it was until the day she died. Except for the occasional young visitor who has been known to ask the guides, “So is she Harry Potter’s granny?”

Photo courtesy: © National Trust Images

Photo courtesy: © National Trust Images

Pick up “A Tale of Samuel Whiskers” lying about as you walk in and follow the book’s tale as you see the holes where the mice lived that threatened Tom Kitten! You can accompany Pigland Bland as he wanders thru the village and seek to protect Jemima Puddle-Duck’s egg as it lays hidden in the rhubarb patch. You can almost hear the Two Bad Mice discussing the ham and cheese that don’t seem quite edible because they are, of course, from Beatrix’s doll house which is right in front of you in the parlor.

And not only her stories – but her life. Her desks contain letters she wrote, often illustrated with little cartoons and drawings; the first edition of Peter Rabbit, which started simply as a story written in letter form in September 1893 to cheer up a sick son of her former governess, is available for viewing.

Photo courtesy: © National Trust Images

The whole house becomes alive through the illustrations in her stories – or is it that the illustrations become alive because they re-create the reality of her home? The parlor contains a table with some partially eaten biscuits and some correspondence Beatrix was evidently in the process of completing – clearly she is expected to return at any moment…

So much of the house, the grounds and the village reflected in the books remain unchanged, you can relive the delightful tales of your youth in a way no perfunctory read in your own living room can provide.

And indeed every area shop seemingly sells some version of Peter Rabbit. memorabilia. Emblematic of how much he invades the neighborhood, when my husband and I stopped at a local pub for some requisite fish and chips, he asked about the soup of the day. When told by the bartender that it was carrot, he quipped: How appropriate. No doubt Peter Rabbit’s favorite…”

Photo courtesy: Victor Block

And remember the rabbits cavorting in the countryside? Well, here’s where their namesake really comes alive. In the downtown section of Bowness-on-Windermere there stands a very different testimonial to the creations of Beatrix Potter. More commercial perhaps but no less intriguing. The World of Beatrix Potter Attractions, unconnected with the National Trust preservation of Hill Top, offers an animated version of all 23 of Potter’s tales brought to life in an indoor re-creation of the Lake District countryside she loved and her lovable characters inhabited complete with sights, sounds and smells.

I mean how thrilling is it to find that Jemima Puddle-Duck was a real duck that lived at Hill Top whose efforts to hatch her own eggs, thwarted by a conniving fox nearby, were protected by Kep the collie, Beatrix’s favorite sheepdog. You can’t get more real life than that – and we’re talking cartoon characters!

Throughout the attraction are life-size dioramas of scenes from her books, sometimes comprising an entire forest, that it’s hard to imagine that they were once only illustrations in a book the size of 4×5 inches??? The whole exhibit replicates a stroll through Beatrix Potter’s home and garden.

Photo courtesy: Victor Block

Each exhibit entreats the viewer to press a “Find out more” button which provides an explanation of what inspired Beatrix to write that particular story and how she developed those particular characters. Each larger-than-life display lifts the characters from the page to inhabit your consciousness in a way few fairy-tales – or for that matter, adult literary protagonists – ever will. There is so much background information about each character — and there are dozens – that it is almost impossible to absorb it all unless you are a very devoted Beatrix Potter aficionado. It’s a journey through a lifetime of literature.

Adele Wilson from Scotland, with nary a kid in tow was so obviously enthralled by the exhibits that I couldn’t resist asking why. “My granny used to read these books to me at night, and seeing these presentations brings it all back to life. I had forgotten how much I had loved all those stories.” She isn’t alone.

For more information, visit The Hill Top website and The World of Beatrix Potter™ Attraction.

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Article by Fyllis Hockman. Photos by Victor Block for TravelingBoy.com

Enjoying our first dinner during a group tour of Sicily, I turned to our guide and told him that the meal was excellent. This being Sicily, the reply was not all that surprising. “You can steal my money but don’t touch my food,” Alessio remarked. He followed that remark by claiming: “If lunch or dinner doesn’t have at least five courses, it’s just a snack.” I suspect the largesse ahead of us was a paltry morsel.

So yes, food plays an important role in the lifestyle of Italians. Very important. Portions often approach gargantuan in size. And growing, harvesting, cooking and eating hold a place of near reverence in their daily lives.

Of countless repasts I have enjoyed at home and abroad, several stand out because of what they demonstrate about the locale and the people who live there. They range from gourmet spreads set out in a romantic setting to everyday street fare consumed by local inhabitants. All linger in my memories, if no longer on my taste buds, because of what they taught me about the lifestyles of those who prepare and share local favorites.

Of the many meals I experienced in Sicily, from lavish lunches to picnics among Phoenician ruins, one that stands out was billed as A Day in the Life of a Sicilian Family. Because family is the only thing that equals food in importance in Italy.

The up-front instructions from Alessio were clear: relax, cook, set the table, sing, dance, and be open to being part of the family despite the language barrier. A tall order, despite Alessio’s efforts to teach us Italian — though admittedly his emphasis on hand gestures — which cover a multitude of sins — weren’t that effective. But considering the emphasis on food by Sicilians throughout the trip, a visit to a farm where they grow and make their own seemed appropriate. We were introduced to the family and their captivating history going back generations — both of the farm and of themselves — before trying our hand at preparing our meal from scratch.

Parents of both the owner, Jean, and his wife plus assorted aunts and cousins all took part in teaching us the finer techniques of kneading bread and rolling pasta, all of which we consumed with gusto. Part of what made the meal even more memorable was the connection with the extended family who helped us create it. One heart-warming story told by Jean’s mother about her first kiss with her soon-to-be husband below the property’s huge Mulberry tree at the age of 12, was one Jean sheepishly claimed he had never heard before. A wow moment — especially for Jean. It was that kind of day!

And from Sicilian farmhouse to island inn, a marked change in venue and recipes but no less memorable. I’m not accustomed to trussing up and skewering the night’s main course, a practice not for the faint-hearted, before it was spit-roasted on an open-air fire pit for eight hours. But so it is with the Wednesday night pig roast at the Hermitage Inn on the tiny Caribbean island of Nevis. A very large head-to-tail pig on a very large spit, to be exact.

Sitting in the Great Room awaiting its theatrical entrance, I couldn’t help but reconnect with the plantation owners and their guests of yore who feasted on roasted pig and its many local dishes over 300 years ago: Plantain and rabbit pie, Bar-B-Q chicken and curried chick peas, fish in cream sauce and tomato salad, with a special shout out to the Johnny Cakes, of course…

Such elegant fare was replaced by more traditional techniques as we prepared our own meal at the Village Restaurant in Thit Ael Pin, a tiny town inhabited by farmers and fishermen in Myanmar (also known as Burma). It’s home to the Danu people, one of 135 distinct ethnic groups that are officially recognized by that country’s government, each with its own customs, traditions and food preferences.

A chef presided over the activity, and we each had our own personal assistant who instructed, and helped, us to add the pre-prepared ingredients to the cooking pots. The nine-course luncheon began with vegetables tempura prepared in the local style, went on to steamed fish wrapped in cabbage leaves and tea leaf salad, and titillated our taste buds with a desert of crispy fried banana with honey. The food was paired with glasses of Myanmar-produced red and white wine which we found to be surprisingly good.

As immersed in everyday appreciation of all things culinary as are the Italians, nowhere in the world is fine food approached with more reverence than in France. A barge trip along a shallow canal in the Burgundy area of France sponsored by French Country Waterways epitomizes that tradition. All the senses are satiated, but taste and smell predominate, with wine and food the focus of the trip.

Sure, the tree-lined towpaths, medieval villages, stately chateaux, and rolling fields where magnificent, pure white Charolais cattle graze were also appealing, but we’re talking about French food here. Fresh breads and buttery croissants are brought on board each morning, still warm from the village bakery. Both lunch and dinner, exquisitely prepared and presented from products from the local farmers’ markets hurried on board to maintain freshness, are accompanied by a select red and white wine. The de rigueur Plat de Fromage, a selection of three different cheeses, is served up with as much reverence as the wine.

Each bottle of wine is tenderly caressed as its characteristics are lovingly described prior to serving. The table is hushed as it learns of the wine’s vintage, heritage, blush, fruity nose, supple taste, sweet aroma, lightness, elegance, finesse, its children, hobbies, indiscretions — whatever.

Comparable homage is paid to the cheese. There’s always your basic cow’s, goat’s and blue varieties, farm fresh, 5 months old, 2 weeks old, square curd, penicillin rind, pasteurized, unpasteurized, mild and nutty, light and fresh, tangy and robust — this is a cheese we’re talking about! But once I returned home, I found it hard to look at a glass of wine or wedge of cheese without wanting to know its entire history.
The French take their wine and their cheese very seriously. No doubt, if the barge were to sink, the crew would save the wine and the cheese first. Fortunately, this is not a concern in four feet of water.

Back on land, in a world far away, a famous chef visiting from New York City toils in a Pennsylvania kitchen several days a week. The three meals a day are scrumptiously prepared, visually appealing, enormously filling and, oh yes, so delicious you hear murmurs of appreciation at every sitting. Not unusual for any fine restaurant. But when the calorie count for all three meals ranges between 1200-1600 calories, if you factor in the two snacks available on a daily basis, the meals — every one of them — takes on new significance. Welcome to the Deerfield Health Retreat and Spa in East Stroudsburg, PA, where you may come for the exercise — virtually round the clock options — but you stay for the food. And for the very comfortable homey atmosphere where both the guests and the staff members return year after year.

After gallivanting and gourmet-dining around the world, we end with a tiny snack shack in the United States. The Pine Tree Frosty has been serving light bites and ice cream in the tiny western Maine town of Rangeley since 1964. My husband and I have a summer home there and tend to hang out a lot at the modest establishment.

The setting alone — perched at the edge of a small lake which is the seasonal home for several dozen ducks and an occasional loon — is worth a visit. But it’s what we rate as the best lobster rolls in Maine, where that tasty treat is a time-honored favorite, which keep calling our names.

For the uninitiated, the dish consists of a New England-style hot dog roll, which is split at the top instead of the side and has flat sides, filled with delectable lobster meat. At the Frosty, the rolls are buttered and toasted, and overflowing with 5 ounces of luscious lobster meat (more than the standard 3-4 ounces) dressed very lightly with a touch of mayonnaise. After gorging ourselves around the world, such a simple repast is especially appetizing.

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I recently was enjoying a leisurely stroll along a path that leads through a treasure-trove of various architectural styles, museum-quality displays of art and floral plantings which would make any gardener proud.

I was “Walking the High Line,” the elevated former railway which runs, 30 feet above street level, down the west side of Manhattan, New York. Along the way, it winds among a landscape of magnificent buildings that range from old to new, shabby to magnificent, uninspired to avant guard, and which serve industrial, commercial and residential purposes.

NEW YORK CITY’S HIGH LINE EVOLVED FROM DEATH AVENUE TO AN ART AND ARCHITECTURAL GEM

Given the beauty of the setting, many people are surprised to learn that the streets over which the High Line runs in the past was known by the less-than-appealing nickname of Death Avenue. For almost a century, trains of the New York Central Railroad plowed along Manhattan’s 10th and 11th Avenues crossing streets, interrupting traffic and maiming and killing pedestrians along the way. Those trains played in important role in feeding New Yorkers, delivering meat, groceries and dairy products.

A city ordinance passed in the 1850s stipulated that a person on horseback had to ride ahead of each train, waving a red flag and lantern to announce its approach, but the deaths continued. Finally, in 1929, the railroad reached an agreement to move the tracks above street level, the High Line opened in 1934 and it continued to carry train traffic until 1980.

Since then, the byway has served as a peaceful 1.5-mile linear park through which people walk, rest and admire the beauty surrounding them. The original tracks in places are punctuated by trees that have found them to be an unusual home for their roots.

NEW YORK’S HIGH LINE TRAVERSES FABULOUS FLORAL DISPLAYS . . .

From spring-to-fall, vibrant floral displays add to the scene. The names of some plants I spotted on identifying signs – Autumn Bride, Hairy Alumroot, Japanese Forest Grass – are as colorful as the blooms they describe.

. . . AND INTRIGUING NEIGHBORHOODS

Equally intriguing, and varied, are the neighborhoods through which the route leads, each of which has its own distinctive attractions. The Chelsea Arts District has been the city’s visual creation center for more than 130 years. It’s home to countless galleries that display a wide spectrum of works by both emerging and established artists.

Artwork also adorns the Chelsea Market building, which stands where Algonquin Native Americans once traded freshly-killed game and crops. Later, the High Line trains serviced the wholesale butchers who sold their meat along the streets beneath the tracks, and the stripped-down brick building that housed them remains to tell the story of that time.

ARCHITECTURE VIES FOR ATTENTION WITH ART ALONG NEW YORK CITY’S HIGH LINE

The IAC Building was designed by Frank Gehry, the world-famous architect known as a deconstructionist for his use of everyday materials to create complex, dynamic structures. It’s divided into vertical sections that resemble a ship’s sails, set against a facade which brings to mind an iceberg.

The imaginative architecture provides a fitting backdrop for the art that decorates some structures and is displayed along the High Line pathway. The surprisingly excellent, and eclectic, gathering of works scattered throughout the park transforms it into and a free outdoor gallery.

The sides of some buildings along the way serve as oversized painters’ palettes, exhibiting murals that cover a variety of genres and topics. One displays an oversized smiling mouth with pearl-like teeth. I came upon whimsical sculptures with names like Secondary Forest, Fossil Psychic Stone Mimicry and Birth of an Island.

A LITTLE ISLAND WITH BIG SURPRISES GREETS VISITORS TO THE HIGH LINE IN NEW YORK CITY

Speaking of an island, a welcome surprise to many traversing the High Line is a nearby park, visible from the train track path, which is set upon a man-made enclave. The elevated park is supported above the water of the Hudson River by 132 concrete pot-shaped structures called tulips. It offers walking paths, gentle hills, rolling lawns and a cornucopia of vegetation. That includes 35 species of trees, 65 kinds of shrubs and 270 different grasses and flowers that bloom at different times of the year. A “secret garden” is planted exclusively with white flora.

Adding to the allure is a surprisingly diverse list of other attractions which appeal to all ages. Visitors delight in the sounds of the Dance Chimes, are transfixed by the optical illusion of Spinning Discs located along the walkways and enjoy trying their hand at an Instrument for All. More active guests are delighted by the opportunity to roll around in a Spun Chair, or take their turn using a jump rope or hula hoop.
Rounding out the choice of things to do and see are a small stage, a large amphitheater which offers a selection of shows and two concession stands. An audio tour leads through the park and provides an immersion in the history of the island, the Hudson River waterfront and the nearby Meatpacking District.

For more information, log onto thehighline.org and littleisland.org.

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