Lit.

A Rose by any other name.

Newport, RI – Waves lap at the shore with the caress of a saxophone.

We’re spending the night at the historic Rose Island Lighthouse, and the Newport Jazz Festival is in full swing across the bay. I had never thought of Common as jazz.

Constructed in 1870, the lighthouse is part of a 17-acre island comprising the remains of Fort Hamilton, which was first built during the revolutionary war in the late 1700s. Throughout the years, its bunkers and bomb-proof barracks have also served as munition depots and as quarantine for cholera patients.

Today, many of the structures across the island are in disrepair and used as a refuge for the countless birds nesting nearby.

View from above.

Double-crested cormorants jackknife into the waves, resurfacing great distances away with silver squiggles trapped in their beaks. Seagulls the size of small dogs caw their pleasure at the musical accompaniment across the bay, while a canoe see-saws on the break after a speedboat passes.

The property, accessible only by boat, is a museum by day, but offers overnight stays.

With the day’s visitors gone, I climb the lighthouse tower, prying myself through the tiny door to the widow’s walk. There are no storms to watch today, just an opportunity to embrace the panorama – views of blue peppered by sailboats cutting into the sea breeze.

Night falls, and there are six of us alone on the island. In a lighthouse.

What an incredible experience.

History Rocks.

Thanksgiving.

Plymouth, MA – A pantheon stands by the water, concealing what is likely the best-known rock in America.

No, not the Beach Boys.

The year 1620 has been chiselled into what otherwise appears to be an ordinary boulder the size of a small bench. It sits in the mud, a gnarled scar from a previous attempt to move it snarling back at you.

Tourists gawk, peering over the railing as a ranger tells a version of a story of Plymouth Rock that directly contradicts the one on the sign not 10 feet away.

Such is often the way with lore.

Somehow, I had never been here. And yet, I think I may have been more excited by visiting Lobster Hut and finally getting a lobster roll.

Hop To It.

Aligned.

Worcester, MA – After a morning spent alternately dropping into, and climbing out of, New York’s green crevasses, we’ve fallen into a lineup that snakes around a parking lot.

Intentionally.

A constant stream of people toting flats of candy-coloured cans flows in the opposite direction. Many of the more ambitious have come prepared with trolleys – and apparently, deep pockets. They sport craft brewery t-shirts from around the world, seemingly trying to one-up each other with the most obscure, or the most sought-after.

Despite being an almost two-hour wait, it’s apparently actually a quiet day at Treehouse Brewing Company.

The only quiet spot at Treehouse that day.

As one of the top-rated breweries in the world – and one that doesn’t distribute beyond these lineups – I’d imagine they’ll also be selling many t-shirts, in addition to the coveted cans.

The sun is in full bloom against an utterly blue slate, so the minutes melt away.

Typical brewery aromas like wort blend with citrus notes, which makes sense given Treehouse is particularly known for its juicy, hoppy beers. The Adirondack chairs framing the garden sit empty, however, as it’s a can-only day.

There are too many people here for them to efficiently let the taproom flow.

An oddly efficient 90 minutes later, however, we have our own flat – a rattling rainbow of treats we carry past the hyphenated line of eager patrons still filling out their checklists.

It'll be worth their wait.

Vitals:

• Time: 12 hours
• Distance: 932 kms
• Weather: Sunny and hot
• Province/States: Ontario, New York, Massachusetts
• Wildlife: None

In Tune.

Time to Scituate (Mass.) yourself.

London, ON – The folk-rock sounds of Mumford & Sons echoed in our ears as we tucked into the thick blanket of fog that draped over Massachusetts this morning.

After a short visit to Beantown, and a night in Mansfield, we were back on the road.

Last night's power-packed concert showcased the band's new rock-oriented direction, which isn't to say banjos didn't still make cameo appearances, particularly for older songs. The stage show was far more refined than the last time we saw them, in Hamilton, ON in 2011. That was, however, only their second-ever stadium show.

The concert opened with a whisper as Marcus Mumford let the energy build, almost mumbling through the opener, Only Love. Sounds crested like waves, quietly building through the band's older material and new songs. The new direction brought a level of stadium-appropriate thrashing impossible with their older tunes.

People danced, insofar as they could when pressed elbow-to-elbow throughout the venue.

Parking at the Xfinity Center, however, was a tangled mess, as long threads of cars stood, engines off, for more than two hours before finally moving. Trying to get 12,000 people out three gates was, apparently, more than a small challenge. It's no wonder concertgoers experienced with the venue arrived with hibachi grills, games and plenty of food and beverage. The whole evening was a giant tailgate party.

Getting back to the hotel at 2 a.m., however, left us with only four hours of sleep.

Just what you want for a 10-hour driving day.

Vitals:

•     Time: 10 hours
•     Distance: 970.9 kms
•     Weather: Foggy, leading to thunderstorms, heavy rain
•     States/Province: Massachusetts, New York, Ontario
•     Wildlife: None

Camelot.

I sense your attention flagging.

Boston, MA – The glitz, the glamour.

The gilt, the grin.

The pageantry, the gowns, the boats, the gifts. The hand-annotated speeches, and recordings of those words spoken, resounding. Astounding.

Election posters, pins and bunting. History, encapsulated: the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum.

Papers from the Cuban Missile Crisis show a level of civility and diplomacy seemingly absent today. Khrushchev and Kennedy, firm, yet cordial as the world teeters on the verge of nuclear apocalypse.

Suddenly, a long, black hallway, darkened – lit only by five small televisions. Newsreels.

November 22, 1963.

The lump in my throat forms like the one in Walter Cronkite's as he reads the news bulletin.

"President Kennedy died at 1 p.m. central standard time, 2 o'clock eastern standard time – some 38 minutes ago."

I don't know why I tear.

But I do.

Whale of a Time.

Old State House, Boston massacre site.

Boston, MA – The sun glimmered off the tracks that stitched our path from Braintree into Boston this morning.

Given past experiences, I've refused to drive in this city. Really, where else puts exit signs after an exit on the highway? Compound that with a series of one-way streets and tunnels that bring GPS signals to a grinding halt, and we opted to stay in the 'burbs and ride the rails.

Along the way, spray paint bubbles shouted allegiances in eye-popping colour.

It would be a morning of following the lines, as we also hit the red bricks that mark the city's Freedom Trail. From Boston Common to the Old State House to Bunker Hill, we trekked the 2.5-mile path to 16 sites that mark the city's role in the American Revolution.

In the afternoon, we bounced over two-foot swells aboard the Aurora, in search of whales. Tourists took turns trying to face the force of the wind at the front of the boat and were repeatedly pushed aside. Wind selfies rapidly became 'a thing.' The cold gave me a headache, but shivers could not diminish my joy of being back on a boat.

But then, the main event.

Just a fluke.

A seal bobbed like a dog in the wake, likely pleased with having a meal churned up for it. And, with an abrupt huff and a spray, minke and humpback whales rose to the surface, seemingly languid (as much so as a 79,000-pound animal can do anything languidly), flashing their tails and melting back into the frigid sea.

We saw approximately a dozen whales, which come here in great numbers to feed after six winter months spent starving in the Dominican Republic.

They certainly put on a show.

A-Mass-ed.

On the road, with spirits, buoyed.

Braintree, MA – Like an early morning flashlight to the eyes, the bright orange ball crests over the highway, drawing us east. Apparently, we are back to 5:30 a.m. starts.

Sure, we crossed these roads just a couple weeks ago, but why not make an impromptu return to Massachusetts for a Mumford & Sons concert? And I’ve never spent substantive time in Boston.

It is, after all, a beautiful day for a drive.

The first coffee shop: closed. Bathrooms at the second: same.

Possibly feeling the cobwebs of the early morning, the server at the next Tim Hortons doesn't feel like counting. 32 Timbits for the price of 20.

Now, that’s a better start.

Vitals

• Time: 10 hours
• Distance: 974.6 kms
• Weather: Sunny
• Province/States: Ontario, New York, Massachusetts
• Wildlife: None

Fin.

Yes, in fact, we are out of the woods yet.

London, ON – Home: the end of another successful excursion to the coast.

Vitals:

• Time: Nine hours
• Distance: 790.2 kms
• Weather: Clear, getting hot as we headed west
• States/Province: Massachusetts, New York, Ontario
• Wildlife: None

Ketchup and Lick Her.

The blog's longest-running gag: I've still yet to see a moose.

Lee, MA – "Do flavours cost extra?" I asked the kid behind the counter as I ordered an iced coffee at McDonald's in Haverhill, Massachusetts.

He cast his eyes downward, turned his head and proceeded to lick his arm as would an iguana. He ignored the question.

The evening ended better, however, with a small bar tucked away in Lee, Massachusetts, called Moe's Tavern, which, amazingly, had the ever-elusive Kentucky Breakfast Stout by Founders. On tap.

With an excellent burrito (and some magnificent salsa) at Baja Charlie's, our little stop at the gateway to the Berkshires set us up nicely for the last leg home.

Vitals:

• Time: Nine hours
• Distance: 652.3 kms
• Weather: Smell of spring rain in Portland, ME, with some cloud breaking late in the day
• States: Maine, New Hampshire, Massachusetts
• Wildlife: None