There was, at last, a respite from the grey skies, so I decided, likewise, to have a respite from the knitting, take advantage of the sun and checkout the ‘tourist’ attractions in Newport. There weren’t many at this time of year and, with half the town boarded up, it didn’t take long.
I forgot my hat and scarf, something I bitterly regretted as soon as I stepped outside the car. There might have been sun but it certainly wasn’t warm and my fingers risked frostbite each time I took my glove off to take a photograph.
I strolled along the board walk on the lake front, being extra careful on the snow and ice, and over to the Waterfront Plaza, where I thawed out in the card shop, before gingerly stepping over to the supermarket. Then it was back to the Main Street, admiring the architecture of the houses and the view of the lake along the way, and into the health food shop cafe where I had a very healthy muffin (I wasn’t offered butter) and a very disappointing cup of coffee.
On my way back to the car, I stopped at the Art Gallery, which houses works by local craftpeople, such as potters, painters and textile artists. I was impressed by the standards and entertained by the overheard conversation (or rather, to be more accurate, the blatant listening in of the discussion) between three of the artists manning the shop for the day.
Newport is obviously not as vibrant as they would like it to be and they are hoping that the re-development is going to make a difference and bring more people to the town, as, currently, there is little to attract the likes of doctors and other professionals. This is a story that is not unfamiliar to me, having lived in a rural area in N.Z. The chat moved on to vacations in Florida (one being surprised that the other one wasn’t already there, as she usually was at this time of year) and their dogs, for whom salt on the sidewalk (pavement) is very bad and the unlikelihood of said animals keeping bootees on their feet is not great, the latter comment also being applicable to little made-to-measure jerseys. Obviously it is only show biz people and Parisian ladies who manage to achieve this with their dogs!
By the time I returned, Bubba, who disdains bootees and jerseys although is amenable to high viz vests, was overjoyed to see me and obviously thankful that he hadn’t been abandoned by the primary food supplier. It had also clouded over and we were back to the grey outlook I have come to associate with winter in Vermont. At least, it relieves me of the guilt I might otherwise feel at doing absolutely nothing!