CHAUNCY CREEK

 

A popular lobster restaurant is perched at the bottom of a cliff. Some of its patrons tie up at this dock. Most park in a crowded roadside lot above. Their oysters on the half shell, by the way, are unbeatable.
A popular lobster restaurant is perched at the bottom of a cliff. Some of its patrons tie up at this dock. Most park in a crowded roadside lot above. Their oysters on the half shell, by the way, are unbeatable.

This lovely tidal channel links Pepperell Cove to a town park called Seapoint and sets Fort Foster off on its own island.

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At low tide, the rafts can be sitting on the rocks. The tidal changes are impressive.
Just a few hours later ...
Just a few hours later …

 

 

GARDEN BED

100_8850The bed stand, salvaged from a roadside, holds forsythia back so the blueberry bushes may thrive. The netting in the foreground is actually on the blueberry bushes, to keep birds and squirrels from picking all the berries, rather than on the ground, where the bricks anchor the netting.

 

AVOIDING THE CROWDS IN SEASON

At the mouth of the Piscataqua River downstream from where I live, Fort Foster has long guarded the entrance to Portsmouth Harbor. It’s now a town park.

By purchasing a season pass each year, I’ve come to consider it my private patch on the ocean — one shared with some folks who’ve become sunny friends as we swim and then warm in the rays.

The rocky shoreline allows a fine introduction to tide pool life, while the pebble beaches have their own experience. There are also some sandy pocket beaches and a trail to meander while looking out over the cobalt Atlantic.

About as unspoiled as it gets.
About as unspoiled as it gets.
An observation bunker, from World War II, now has a picnic pavilion added for groups to use by reservation.
An observation bunker, from World War II, now has a picnic pavilion added for groups to use by reservation.

NOT MINE

New Hampshire has more than its share of vanity license plates, a practice that often provides amusement in the thick of traffic or parking lots. For a number of years, mine said QUAKER, which spurred some lively conversations — to say nothing of what happened when parked next to Bob McQuillen’s QUACKER plate. (His goes back to his days of teaching high school shop classes — the result of one day when a student I will not name accused him of sounding like a duck when he got angry.)

So we were driving through downtown the other day when we noticed this plate:

We need to talk.
We need to talk.

Only in the photo do I notice the second D rather than O — representing another variant on the root surname Hodgson. Still, it can be unsettling when you have a rather uncommon one to see another around.